The Scribbly One

Me: “…and so I thought I couldn’t be PMS-ing, because PMS comes before, not during!”

Friend: “But I do notice I get mood swings during that time. I never had bad cramps—”

Me: “Me neither!”

Friend: “—not like my sisters. Some women even have such bad cramps that they have to call in sick to work. Maybe we are stronger physically but weaker emotionally.”

Friend: “You’re a good female Charlie Brown.”

Me: “Thank you for saying I’m a doormat!”

Friend: “Hey, I said no such thing!”

Me: “Charlie Brown is a doormat. People walk all over him and abuse him all the time!”

Friend: “Charlie Brown is an idealist. He’s a good boy who believes the best of people; he’s sincere, genuine and full of hope. And he has a great dog. The comparison was never intended to be taken that far.”

Me : “I don’t have a dog, and I don’t like dogs.”

‘Lie’ is such a stark and uncompromising word, like ‘death’. Adding ‘white’ to it doesn’t quite do the job of whitewashing, so we choose to say ‘fib’, which, in contrast, sounds relatively innocuous.

I fibbed to get out of doing something I don’t want to do. Funny, though, using the word ‘fib’ doesn’t make me feel any less duplicitous.

I am confused between what I want to do, what would be the right thing to do, what she wants me to do, what society says I ought to do, what acceptable thing I could do, and what I think I should do.

I hadn’t even gotten out of bed today when I managed to get myself into a muddle. A surprise call from a friend I haven’t heard from in a long time had me agreeing to attend her wedding dinner. I’m scheduled to attend another wedding dinner out of town on the same weekend, but that is on a Friday and this one would be on a Sunday.

After putting down the phone, two things hit me: Firstly, why the hell would I want to attend this friend’s wedding dinner when I’ve never been close to her? In fact, I’m surprised she invited me in the first place! - and, secondly, my goodness, attending the dinner would mean dishing out an ang pow, a cash gift to the tune of RM100. Due to a recent change in circumstances, my financial situation is not such that I can blithely spare RM100 to attend an event I’m not at all sure I want to be attending.

Besides, back-to-back with the other wedding dinner? And having to rush back from out of town? What was I thinking when I agreed?!

So I rang her back and un-confirmed my attendance, but of course now I feel hung over with guilt.

I am having an ear-ache that I’m trying to ignore. One part of my body or another is usually hurting, so I am pretty used to dealing with some minor level of discomfort. Sometimes I even wonder whether I have self-mutilation tendencies as I peel the scabs off my wounds the minute the scabs manage to form. Or perhaps I just have restless hands.

The ear-ache is affecting my jaw. I can’t stretch my jaw - hopefully I won’t have to yawn anytime soon - and could barely chew my lunch. I might have to eat - gasp - porridge for dinner! Like a toothless, wizened little old lady bent double over her walking stick!

Ear-ache + tiredness + not wanting to work = very bad combination.

On the bus back from Penang the other day, there was a couple with a small child sitting across the aisle from me. The young one was perhaps three or four years old; I’m terrible at estimating children’s ages. He was the most well-behaved and adorable little boy, not at all one of those noisy, shouting-at-the-top-of-his-lungs, I-want-this-and-I-want-it-now types who seem to be taking over the earth. My first thought? This is one very secure little boy.

The affection between parents and child was obvious. What captured my attention, though, was the way his father, especially, laughed with him, played with him, talked with him. And I thought, I want a man who will be that kind of father to our children. Strong, yet tender. Affectionate and openly loving.

Today I read something which gave me the same kind of feeling.

“Tell the Tree Story, Daddy!” the Brownie cried, who was still pink-cheeked and ebullient at the idea of having picked the tree that was now on our roof.

“Well, you know we used to go up on the hill to get our tree,” I said.

“No, tell about the time you were poor and had to sell the trees for Christmas moneys,” the Brownie insisted. “And how the truck broke down, and about the hat, and the brook, and how your weiner fell off–”

“Okay!” I agreed, just a couple of words too late.

Her Lovely Self gave me one of those oh-boy-here-we-go-again looks…

I want a man who will tell stories to our children. Family stories are a kind of heritage and should have a special place in each person’s childhood memories. My father is a taciturn man, self-contained, stern. I got all my stories from fairytales, and, later, Enid Blyton books. Till today, the number of stories I have from my parents are pitifully few. Perhaps that’s the reason I blog - to store up my stories, so that I’ll be reminded of the stories I have to tell.