Thriller.

“My job isn’t interesting!!” I said, while the bf looked taken aback and rather hurt by my statement.

“Don’t say that.” he said earnestly. He said it with the air of someone who has had a love and hate relationship with his job for a long time. He said it with the air of someone who was afraid that if innermost thoughts were spoken out loud and audibly those innermost thoughts would become too real for comfort.

Whether my assumptions were correct or not, there really was no need for him to worry.

“All I’m saying” I said, “is that there’s no story to tell. I love my job, I just can’t explain my fascination for it to other people in time to finish before they fall asleep.”

“John Grisham” he said, “told exciting thriller stories.”

“Of scandals in big firms. What if there are no scandals? What if people don’t get any more evil beyond just plain annoying?”

We fell silent for a while and started thinking of possible scandals to fabricate.

“Once upon a time…” I said slowly, “there lived a corporate lawyer who … found that her client’s maturity date had been unilaterally shifted by the creditor in violation of the facility terms.”

The bf dropped his head and snored.

The Plant Who (Apparently) Lives.

Do you see those little green perky nipples sprouting out of my cactus? They were not there before. The only possible explanation for these little funky tumors is that my cactus is growing. It's growing, people. Super yay!

And do you hear that? That was a big simultaneous sigh of relief from the 5 people who chipped in on the cactus.

The Plant Who Lived.

Once upon a time there lived a girl
Who made even the bravest men curl
with fear, for she had tendency to be cruel
And this was most decidedly un-cool
The saddest part about this tale
Is that she wasn’t always such a fail
In fact she was quite good inside
If only she had sense to hide
The fact that she did not possess
Any talent in the “caring” process
Because, you see, she fancied plants
(although she didn’t really fancy the ants)
But they always died under her care
The poor victims driven to despair
So she changed her tact, for she was cunning
Nobody ever saw this coming
She bought plants she need not cater
The amazing cactus! which needs no water!
The spiky things were very tricky
Their cute little bodies were quite prickly
She had them very prettily potted
But before very long they… sadly rotted
Her friends looked on and sympathized
They shook their heads and empathized
They said “enough!, this murder shall cease!”
“We can’t afford to handle more decease!”
So, they thought and thought and thought
And finally decided an item must be bought
To give her plants another lobby
(For she refused to give up her hobby)
So when she reached the age of twenty five
They bought her a cactus, green and alive
And underneath the cactus pot, oh look!
They bought her a how-to-care-for-your-cactus book!
Alas, this story has no ending yet, dear reader
For we know not whether it will be a survivor
But let’s just say that she fully believes
Cactus will be known as The Plant Who Lives.

The End (we hope).

?

In the end, is a person more often judged by what they consciously try to do, or what they unconsciously neglect to do?

Consider this a survey.

An Almost-Walk To Remember

At precisely 7pm I knock on my senior’s door and ask permission to leave the office for a couple of hours.

“You got a date yeah?”, he said smugly.
“No. Yoga class.” I say, pretending to look hurt by his suggestion. “I’ll be back by 9-ish.”

I exit the office lobby and was greeted by the sight of traffic. It was the day before Christmas eve, and the good citizens of Jakarta are unanimously in panic to make it home before traffic gets bad, which naturally makes traffic worse. I gave up hopes on finding a cab and walked instead to the nearest busway terminal. My gym is located at about 20 minutes walking distance from my office. In Singapore that would be like walking slowly from Wheelock Place to Paragon City. In New York that would be like walking from Bubba Gump to Macy’s. It would be common. In Jakarta it is unheard of to walk such a distance, unless you have absolutely no choice.

But I like the busway. Despite having been sandwiched between its doors once because of the idiocy of a certain busway driver, it is effective and remains the closest thing to a metro subway you can get. Plus, it still retains some exotic third world charms, e.g. people fighting to get inside always compete with the people fighting to get out. So I took the busway, and two busway stations later, I got out and found that it was raining hard. Very hard. I did not bring an umbrella, and was forced to huddle under the leaking roof of the terminal, 5 minutes walking distance shy from my gym. I felt sad, cold, impotent. Not to mention late for yoga. I contemplated making a run for it, but then remembered my gym was located on the 5th floor of a glitzy mall. I saw myself, wet and soaked and dripping, entering the mall’s marbled lobby, going past the disdainful security, and being greeted by an acquaintance from the neighbouring stock exchange building. The thought was unbearable. So I waited, sad cold and impotent.

Suddenly, amidst the crowd of cold pedestrians, motorcyclists, and miscellaneous beings huddled underneath the terminal, there came a shining beacon in the form of a woman wearing a biggish umbrella, leather handbag, and monochrome suit. Her outfit looked like it was heading for the stock exchange.

“Excuse me miss, are you heading the direction of the stock exchange?” I asked her, and she nodded like serendipity. I asked her if I could share her umbrella and she nodded again. So we became two strangers in the night, braving the storms and trudging through puddles together. If she had been a guy, the story would have ended with a wistful “I never got to know his name.”

As it was, I thanked her, whoever her name was, and made it to yoga class on time. Finished on time. Showered on time. Proceeded to find a cab back to the office, which would be easy as the mall and stock exchange are stock full of waiting cabs. But apparently, the taxi stands were empty tonight, and the taxi queue spelled doom. I waited 5, 10, 15 minutes, and then started to think the unthinkable: I might have to walk back to the office. And then, in a sudden burst of inspiration that is born from desperation, I remembered that bf works at the stock exchange building. And bf has car.

I dial his number and get a busy tone. I dial his other number. He picks up. I say, “Hi! Where are you?” and he says he’s driving and he already left the office.

“Oh.” I say, putting the whole weight of the world on the monosyllable.
“Why, what’s the matter?”
“I’m stuck at the stock exchange. I can’t get back to the office. There’s no cab. I’ve been waiting forever. I need a lift!” I almost sob.
“What? How long have you been waiting?”
“Like, half an hour!” I exaggerate.
“Okay wait, I’ll turn back”, he says.

10 minutes later, he shows up like a knight in shining umm.. car.. and I open the door and pronounce with sparkling eyes, “My savior!!”
I then proceeded to hug him throughout the entire journey back to my office. Which, by the way, lasted a full five minutes.

Mayhem

(a fiction)

I can’t say for sure whether the invisible ring around my finger is tight.
After all, it is invisible. Perhaps I merely imagined it. But that can’t be right.
Sometimes I see it glinting in the sunlight as I reach for my cup of coffee. Sometimes I accidentally leave it behind on the sink after I wash my hands. I would panic, and then feel relieved when I find that it is still there, on the sink, where I left it. Sometimes I twist it absent-mindedly, as I search for the right words to say. So you see, I can’t have been imagining things. Besides, it was given to me by a very special man.

I still remember the day he gave it. He was twirling his fork, absentmindedly I thought at the time, but now I know he must have been nervous. The spaghetti kept sliding off the end of it, and he finally put it down and said, “I’ve decided my primary ambition in life is to make you happy”. I smiled and felt that was the happiest moment of my life. He took my hand and there, right there between our enjoined palms, lay the cold metal smoothness of the invisible ring. It was beautiful. I’ve worn it ever since.

Ever since means about 3 years. But it feels a bit loose lately, as if my finger had lost weight. I weighed my body on the scales just to check, and sure enough, I had lost weight. I haven’t been in the mood to eat in recent weeks. I’m beginning to worry because the ring, it disappears sometimes. And when that happens I sit down and cry. One time I had to go down on all fours in my office to check whether it was on the carpet. I called in my secretary to help, and she couldn’t find it either. I then dialled his number and asked him whether I left it at his place, and he said, “What ring?”

But you see, I can’t have been imagining things. I’ve been wearing it for so long. I called up my friend and asked her if I had left it in her car the other night when we went out. She said she hadn’t seen anything. She said that by the way she had bumped into my man this afternoon and she thought his sister was really cute.

I said he doesn’t have a sister.

The Dictionary of Misunderstood Words

(inspired by Milan Kundera)

“Partnership”
He yearned for a relationship of equal partnership where the little responsibilities of life are shared together. Partnership was the foundation for a sustainable and understanding relationship. It was also a pre-requisite for commitment: when she was passive and did not play into her role as equal partner, he was afraid of committing himself to her.

She yearned for a relationship of equal partnership where the little responsibilities of life are shared together. But, for her partnership was the outcome of commitment. Afraid of selling herself short, she would hesitate from being proactive and full of initiative when she wasn’t sure of his commitment to her.

He needed proof of partnership to commit. She needed proof of commitment to partner.

“Friends”
He saw friends as a means to an end. They form interconnected dots which team up to become the network of his life. There is a reason for being, and that reason will manifest in the future. When he socialized, it was an act of investment for his future.

She saw friends as a moment. She did not know whether they would still be there in the future, she did not care whether they were ever in her past. Her friends form little moments in her life: happy and sad moments filled with different characters. She crystallized the little moments and collected them in her pocket to make herself rich.

He thought she forgot him when she was with her friends. She thought he didn’t enjoy being with her friends.

“Focus”
He saw focus as a means to arrive at your destination. She thought focus made you miss out on the scenery.

“Movies”
He liked watching movies and thought of it as a relaxing hobby. He enjoyed spending weekends with her going to the cinemas and discussing the movie with her afterwards.

She thought the perfect date was a night full of conversation in a cozy atmosphere over drinks. She thought the movies hampered conversation.

“Selfish”
He often thought of her as selfish. She would become absorbed in her work, she would rarely call or text to say hello. He would purposely wait to see if she missed him.

She often thought of him as selfish. He would become absorbed in his work, he would rarely call or text to say hello. She would purposely wait to see if he missed her.

L.

at the dusk of day when tired are limbs I turn to you

but tired you are too

at the dawn of night when cold is out I turn to you

and cold you are too

at the rise of tides when time is short I turn to you

but timed you are too

at the edge of brinks when tears are loved I turned to you

and loved you are, still.

meet the mom

I felt calm as we sped along to meet the bf’s birth-mom. Not the first time, but usually in crowded ocassions where in-depth conversations can be restricted by the various diversions one can always fabricate at social settings. This time it was a surprise visit, no ocassion, no crowd. Nonetheless, I felt confident that nothing could go wrong as the mom is a very sweet lady.

She immediately fussed and opened cupboards and tinkled glasses and bid the bf to make me some ice syrup, I overheard from the living room. Said the bf, “She doesn’t like syrup”.
Said the mom, “She doesn’t like syrup?”

Well, I don’t like syrup, nor sugar for that matter, except when it is dissolved in ice cream or chocolate. But apparently this is not a mainstream trait.

I then set about showing the mom the cookies I brought for her. You know, the traditional cookies that are bountiful during Ramadhan. She beamed at them and said, “Ah thank you… did you make these?”

I gave a shy sort of giggle and said haha… uh… No.

Apparently she is a skillful cook, which of course I knew, but did not really register fully until she brought out her own handmade batch of cookies which looked like the ones in magazine pictures. As we sat chatting and munching her fabulous cookies, she asked, “So what is your family cooking for Idul Fitri?”

My mind immediately flicked through the various honest answers I might give:
a) Nothing. We usually buy.
b) Well, we like to make salad and toast in the morning.
c) Lasagna.
d) Um, cookies?

My mind refused to graduate any of the above possible answers because, much as I adore mom’s homemade lasagna during Idul Fitri, what respectable Indonesian family would have lasagna and salad with croutons for Idul Fitri?

As I opened my mouth to give it my best shot, bf came to the rescue. Said the bf, “You know mom, her brother is an excellent cook.”
“Really?”, said the mom, beaming, “what does he cook?”
“He can cook anything.” said the bf vaguely, to which I nodded vigourously.

At that point the sister mentioned they were about to cook ketupat the next day. I cottoned on with enthusiasm. Armed with a vague memory of what my cousin once told me, I started to say things like, “ah yes, you trickle the rice grains through the gaps in the leaf pockets…”












Well, I didn’t get to finish my sentence because the mother suddenly showed me her unmade ketupat. But she did not bring out those empty leaf-pockets you buy at the market to fill with rice. She brought out long sheaths of leaves. She was going to friggin’ plait them into pockets herself. I don’t know anybody who still does that.

I felt new respect for her, as well as a slight panic for my own behalf. Luckily, bf soon made excuses for us to get going. In the car the bf said, “So, what are you cooking tonight?”

The smile left his lips as I fixed him with a murderous glare.

Oops.

With some trepidation, I approached the stainless steel weighing machine. My trainer fiddled around with some buttons, and the dash on the screen started blinking for an agonizingly long time. My bare feet felt cold against the metal scale and I twisted my little towel nervously between my hands. Finally, the screen gave us numbers. And this is the verdict:

you have gained 2% more body fat than the last time you were here.
you have gained 1.2 kilos more body weight than the last time you were here.

My trainer looked at me with an amused look on his face and said:

“What did you eat in Padang??”

Padang

Last week I went on a trip to Padang in West Sumatra. It was a semi-compulsory tour-guide trip, and everybody knows the worst kind of trip is the tour-guide trip where you are trapped in a bus dominated by souvenir-shopping, pocket-camera-wielding, bus-karaoke-singers. For 12 hours.

Of course, I am not without fault.

Fault No. 1: I forgot to bring my iPod. And ear plugs.
Fault No. 2: I forgot to bring a good book to read. The kind that makes you forget where you physically are.

However I also did a few things right, and deserve a little credit, if I may.

Credit No. 1: I brought my camera.
Credit No. 2: I brought a sense of humor and a big appetite.

Allow me to make sense of the miniscule results above, starting from the top moving left to right:

• The view from our hotel at Bukittinggi – local boys on their way to the mosque
• Juicy succulent satay Padang – crispy prawn fritters from sidewalk vendors
• Warm fragrant coconut pancakes called "bika bakar" – … and its amazing kitchen!
• Martabak Mesir (Egyptian pancakes, which have nothing to do with Egypt) filled to the brim with delicious beef rendang – hot steamed peanuts on a warm night
• Durian, durian – … ooh and more alcoholic durian! :)

Umm… Okay so they’re mostly food.

Those tour-guides do nasty things to your appetite.

Incentivity Complex

When I worked for the government, a lot of people would call in and I would say “how can I help you?” because I was educated to be helpful. Even if the job randomly entailed disgraceful things like drafting somebody’s recommendation letter for their school applications for my boss to sign. I liked to think that if we were helpful to others, our office would gain good reputation for being professional, which is an image the government could use more of. Then again whenever I needed help all I needed to say were the six magic words, “Hi this is the President’s office”, and the person on the other end of the phone line would be pleasantly obliging.

So that was then. Now, early on in my current job I called up a government department to ask clarification on a particular license procedure. The officer said:

“Which company is this?”
“Oh I’m a consultant ma’am, we are representing a client”
“Oh I see. Well it’s like this. I thought smart consultants should already know these things. Besides, you’re the one who gets paid in dollars, right? I should be getting some of those dollars for answering your question, right?”

I ignored this.

I said, “Well ma’am you see, the regulations are not very clear on this issue. It would be good if we could know how it is actually practiced in the ministry, or if you could point me to a specific regulation I may have missed.”

She said, “It’s all in the regulations, you can read it yourself.”

She practically rendered me speechless in disgust. Being an underpaid civil servant is hardly a justification for being unprofessional. To be fair some government institutions are very helpful and professional, such as the Capital Investment Supervisory Body and the tax directorate at the Ministry of Finance.

Steven D. Levitt, author of Freakonomics emphasized how any particular societal behaviour is fueled by a particular pin-pointable incentive. I wonder what could be the incentive for a professionalist culture? Remember those boring catchphrases they used to teach us in elementary school during the Old Order regime? “Let us develop a society that is flourishing with hard-working, money-saving people, who do not glorify short-cut methods of achieving goals.”

Well apparently the catchphrases didn’t work. In retrospect, I think what I should have told her was “Look, I happen to know your minister. Would you prefer I ask her instead?”

Mosaics.

"I want to live each day for itself like a string of coloured beads, and not kill the present by cutting it up in cruel little snippets to fit some desperate architectural draft for a taj mahal in the future."

Meet Sylvia Plath, who has been my muse since high school.

In times of need I pick up Sylvia Plath, for she would have an uncanny description of what I am going through that I had previously not realized I was going through. She casts a glittery pin on the translucent shifting object in the grey peripheries of my subconscious, and suddenly makes it visible. Though we perhaps differ in that she is depressed, whereas I am optimistically struggling.

My future taj mahal is in architectural limbo land. Perhaps I see a few turrets, a fragment of a window, but not a form in its entirety. I have not decided upon a colour, a shape, or a texture. My fancies flicker from one design to another. At times I see a uniform pattern, at other times I am not so sure.

But oh, I am so good at present moments and short term glories. The question is, will they add up or will they be just a string of mismatched coloured beads in a row?

The showers.

Saturday night at the gym locker-room finds you at a place filled with half-naked women dressing up for a night out. You look around (discreetly, from behind the half-wet hair that you are blowing dry) and wonder whether these girls have any more fat to lose on the treadmill. There was a girl with a bikini-bod strutting out of the shower actually looking happy. Couldn’t blame her, with that body she damn well should be happy. There was a girl squatting while she fumbled with her locker which reminded me of a scene from Striptease. There are rows of compact butts stuck out as their owner’s bend towards the mirror for last minute touch-ups. Other girls, thankfully, are kind enough (or embarrassed enough?) to cover up nicely with a towel.

It was in this fashion I discovered that the gym locker-room, instead of the gym itself, is perhaps what truly motivates you to lose that fat.

Sunday Night

We sat on the cozy wooden chairs on my terrace in the dark, holding cups of steaming black coffee. He needed the caffeine for the drive home from my place. The plants were breathing and a little breeze was playing with them. Sometimes we would talk, and sometimes we would stay silent, just savoring the absence of a necessity to move.

Tomorrow would be another Monday. The start of a week’s worth of occasional 5-minute phone calls and perhaps intermittent emails. A week’s worth of ambition. But on the weekend he watched my entire volley game and I loved that. And we did a bit of shopping at the Ranch Market and I loved that. And I drove his car while he slept in the passenger seat out of exhaustion, and I loved that.

So finally we come to this short little moment on my terrace, stretching out our legs.

“This is great coffee”, he said with a hint of surprise.

“Thanks! … … … Okay, alright, my mum made it”, I confess.

“Yeah… no wonder”, he replied slyly.


And I loved that too.

Finally Blonde

The least thing I would expect out of my career is this: I would be a cheerleader.

You see, the annual lawyer’s tournament is coming up and I will be competing in the volleyball, basketball, and futsal games. The depth of our dedication is worthy of medals (or similar bling, or a pay raise…), because every single week now there is always some sort of practice or friendly warm-up match with other firms, which involves sneaking out at 7 pm and, when unlucky, trudging back in to work at 10 pm.

I am all too happy to comply. The thought of a sedentary life frightens me pitifully, and chasing balls? I love chasing balls. Yesterday I chased down a volley ball like life depended on it. My team mate was busy guarding the net, she hadn’t seen the ball flying short of her back, and it was too late to warn her. It was too far and too late to run. I lunged over with my outstretched arm and minimum hope. I slipped my wrist beneath the ball, inches from the sand, swung my arm upwards and spun my body sideways to minimize impact. Sand was flying in all directions as I hit the ground and I felt the ball move too far sideways. I forced myself back on my feet, blinking the sand out of my eyes, and saw my teammate save the ball. It swung beautifully over the net, missing it by mere milimeters. The team scored and cheers surged in a sudden single chorus. I felt incredible!

*Pause*

I’m digressing. What has this got to do with cheerleading, you ask? Well, apparently there’s also a cheerleading tournament for the opening, and guess what? Yours truly gets to cheerlead.

Wearing tights.

And pom-poms.

And be lifted by the guys in the closing act. Because, the choreographer said, I’m the right size. I almost cried. I’m finally blonde! (at least for approx. 10 minutes).

Weekend

On Friday night after work I hung out with my friends at De Hooi, a pub down in Pondok Indah which I only just discovered. We sat on high little stools at a high little table while the waitress, cleavaged and mascara-ed, took our orders. In a small corner the DJ was churning out some really good progressive tunes, and the other customers were casual and unpretentious. Without needing to look my best or be visually assaulted by big-haired and blinged ladies-who-lunch (and dine), the focus was on our merry little group. We talked of scandals and future plans and gossip and nothing which connected with anything. I had entirely too much beer.

On Saturday night I went out with bf and together we went to Daiso, a Japanese thrift store in the middle of one the ugliest malls in Jakarta: Mall Artha Gading. We ignored everything else and made a straight beeline for the store, in conquest of a certain item: the prosperity cat. The Chinese have waving ones with cheap glittery-gold skin. The Japanese have pretty porcelain ones in different colours, but their paws can’t wave. We argued for a good half hour about whether it is absolutely crucial for their paws to wave at all. Fortunately, our arguments were drowned out by the storekeepers incessantly yelling at the top of their lungs: “IRASHAIMASE!! ONE PRICE KUDASAI!! 20.000 RUPIAH DES!!” Bf ended up buying a tie-rack. I ended up trying hard to come up with a reason to buy a vintage-ish Japanese gasoline can. Sadly, I couldn’t come up with any. We are still in conquest of a porcelain cat that can wave.

On Sunday morning I had breakfast with my brother at Bread ‘n Breakfast, an American Diner at Kemang. We went all the way down South from the North, because when a sandwich crave hits, it hits us really hard. The place was light and airy and the sandwiches (okay, we also had a burger… and a lot of potato wedges) were very decent. We spent the morning reading the available magazines (Harper’s Bazaar), and I discovered that: (1) My cousin’s girlfriend is a socialite, (2) My former junior in high school is now a beauty reporter for Bazaar, and (3) My ex-boss’ ex-wife is a Jean-Paul-Gaultier-launch-party-attending fashionista. I said to my bro:

“Omigod. I know (people who know) like a dozen people in here. That means I’m only two steps away from making it to the glossy pages.”

My brother solemnly nodded and said he was happy for me.

On Sunday afternoon I woke up after a long afternoon nap. I thought how, at this point, how perfectly balanced my life is. The thing is, that thought only comes on the weekends :(

Pause.

I can find no solace tonight
From the demons under my bed at night
I watch myself as I unwind
Outside myself I watch my mind

Will it be possible to sleep tonight?
Those demons noisy in a fight
I know I must be losing mind
Seeing myself turn slowly blind

Through sparks and shining dragons tonight
As I lie in bed with my head in tights
Turning cogs and screws of the kind
That make me hope that I can find

The answer to this mess tonight.
Before the sun starts shining bright.
Before I leave this all behind.
Before my youth I cannot find.

My Daily Struggle

I fear, I must confess,
I must get this off my chest,
For I have been the biggest fool,
When it comes to glorious food.

Noodles and burgers I think are the best,
Sushi and pasta I constantly quest,
Barbequed fish always makes me drool,
What’s worse, I’m always in the eating mood!

But the client pays, shouldn’t I care less?
I deserve to indulge, indeed, oh yes.
With all the work that I accrue,
A tasty meal would surely do?

This is indeed the ultimate test,
To stand my guard, to not digress,
For surely it would be uncool,
To carry 'baggage' like a mule.

moving along

Work is tiring! It is hard, but I asked for it so I can't complain. Not even when I'm working with the caffeinated sluggish intentness of a truck driver on a highway at midnight. Stay alert stay alert keep going. But most importantly a sense of satisfaction permeates the layers of exhaustion, and this is because (a) the more I learn the more I know that I do not know, and (b) the more I work the more I bill.

Can one imagine what it is like to be a civil servant in the lower levels of echelonhood behind a cluttered desk in a dilapidated department reading newspapers till lunchtime? I have seen and experienced it with my own eyes. They feel and act as if the world needs them, and therefore the world can wait for them. They work for bosses instead of leaders. They work according to an order instead of a system. The difference is this: bosses tell you what to do, leaders tell you what to achieve. Bosses order you around, leaders give you a sense of direction. It makes a world (and nation) of difference. Everybody needs a good reason to do a good job.

Oh the bittersweetness of this country throws my mind into a turmoil of sorts, and my emotions torn between patriotism and apathy. But you will not hear or see me throwing columns of self-righteous criticism against the government. If I find a brainwave solution I shall act upon it. If I don't I shall shut up and keep making money.