Ok folks, if it ain't obvious, I've changed sites. I'm now at www.singinggoat.blogspot.com.
So I quit my job today. And I found out that apparently Elton is earning a lot more than I thought. Or rather, I knew he was earning that amount, but I never fully grasped it until someone else pointed it out.
I didn't exactly go to work today with my letter all typed and my tu-lan-ness maxed out, ready for a dramatic hurling down of the envelope with a brazen declaration on my lips. I like the people enough that the two words would've been "I quit", rather than "fuck you", but it didn't matter, because it didn't work out that way anyway.
What did happen was a sit-down with my editors, meant more to prepare me for the upcoming appraisal meeting with the even bigger boss. And when they asked how I felt about working there, I figured that was about as good an opportunity as any to break the not-so-surprising news. The signs were all there. I'd already come very close to it a while back. I guess it just took me a while to come to terms with the fact that it just wasn't working out for me.
What do you do when you realise you're eyeball deep in shit with your mouth wide open? Do you try to get used to the situation or do you get out? Does it help when you look around and there are other people who you like in the exact same situation? I'm not saying that I was alone in my situation. Hell, I got the least of it, in a sense, since I was the newest member. But I look around for the more established members of the team and they've disappeared deep into the muck a long time ago. I just don't want that life. I envy them their passion, their sense of purpose, their commitment, and I know I lack all those things, and those qualities don't develop; they start off at a certain level and slowly wear away with each rewrite.
The truth is, working in the magazine industry is tough. It's a subjective business with erratic (read: long) hours and an unspoken deference to the wishes of our advertisers. It's especially tough in Singapore because the teams are tiny and each person has to do so much more in so short a time for so little money. One particular title has just two writers for the whole magazine. Two. Their overseas office wondered why these two writers seemed to come up with everything, and were shocked out of their minds when they found out what the situation was over here.
I didn't start off going into magazine writing because I knew it was all these things and I figured then that it wasn't for me. But I decided to try, with the hopes that I would have the passion to overcome all these shortcomings. Now, at least I know for a fact that these problems are deal breakers for me. If I am to give up my life for something, it has to at least make it worth the sacrifice. Glory and recognition and feeling like a big deal for working for a big title doesn't mean much to me. What I value is time away from work with the people I love and the freedom to do and write the things that I want to. If that means I can't hold down a job any more complicated than, say, a receptionist, so be it. Money doesn't have to be great, it never was that big of an issue for me, but time is.
I was leading a life that was sinking me into depression. I woke up at 7am, worked till 7 or 8pm regularly, went back home, had dinner, showered and slept by 11pm. Even with eight hours of sleep, I woke up groggy and disoriented with a permanent knot in my shoulders. By Friday night, I was dreading Monday mornings. Sleep was my solace as it made the time past faster, and I looked forward to an end of some kind to the weekly routine. A public holiday perhaps, or getting knocked down by a car. But this wasn't school, there are no holidays to look forward to. There are deadlines, like exams, and then more deadlines. And meetings, don't forget the meetings, all four of them per issue. I was starting to have entire days of catatonia, and it scared the hell out of me. For all that I didn't entirely enjoy my previous job, I never felt so bad because of it even towards the end.
So I tendered my resignation. My two-week notice was extended to a month, because they don't think they are able to find another person for the job. I can only hope that with a visible end in sight, it will be easier to bear.
The thing that got to me most was the time crunch. We had two weeks to work on this issue. Two weeks for me to finish nine articles. Why two weeks? Because it took a while to finalize what we would actually work on, and then there's time to be allocated for layouts and rewrites. Not edits, rewrites. I guess I should take comfort in the fact that I wasn't the only person who had to do them, except it's sort of like a Holocaust victim trying to cheer herself up because there were other people in the gas chamber with her. One of my colleagues told me she was spectacularly late for this issue because not a single one of her stories would be on time. And that it was normal to be late. It sounds a little like a sales job where the target is set high enough that you'll never hit it without some miracle.
So what's next? I have no clue. Again, I quit without a job offer. Again, I still have a comfortable cushion of savings to mooch off for a while. Apparently the in thing for ex-journalists is to go off to Turkey. Having been to Turkey, I doubt I'll find anything other than lecherous men and bad kebabs (how is it possible that the country they originated from serves such horrible ones?).
Again, it is a topic of great curiosity for some people. Some ask it out of concern, as a necessary follow up question. Some ask it with a touch of urgency, as though hoping to follow in my footsteps. Some ask it with a certain derision, as though what they really want to say is that I'm just some young stupid girl with no idea of how to plan for the future. Well, I guess I should be glad I have about (based on my current salary anyway) a year's pay socked away. I think that should buy me some time to think.
Someone I spoke to today mentioned The Life of Pi, apparently about a guy stuck on a boat in the ocean with a tiger. The story basically talks about people needing a challenge in their life to make their life worth living.
I think that way of looking at life is complete bull. Life is hard enough and short enough that purposely finding something to make your life difficult is like an ostrich sticking its head into the sand. This diversion will not change the fact that we all die and become worm food. If you found out you had a terminal disease and only had a month to live, would you still be doing exactly what you're doing? If the answer is no, perhaps you should start doing more of the things you would immerse yourself in for that last month.
So I lead a hedonistic life. I do the things that please me, fuck the consequences and what other people think. I know quitting after three months is going to draw a lot of derisive lunchtime conversation from my detractors about how they knew I couldn't hack it. So what? At least I have time to pursue what I want in life. Masochism was never something that turned me on.
If I led my life worrying about what other people might think, I suspect I'd be a much less happy person. The one time in my life I decided to stick something out for longer just so I wouldn't be seen as a weakling, it almost drove me mad. That would be about two weeks ago, actually. The fact that just deciding to quit allowed me to sleep like a baby, wake up without feeling exhausted and commute to work without dread was about a clear a sign as any that this was the right decision for me right now. Perhaps it's going to fuck up my CV. Perhaps it's going to fuck up my life. That's fine. Who knows how long I have here? I'd rather make sure I'm at least happy right now.
First off, I sincerely apologize. To the general public, I haven't blogged for quite a while; quite a massive departure from my lengthy once-a-night rants. To my good friends, whom I haven't seen in a while, and haven't been all there in the few times we've met up. To my family, whom I've ignored, since we live in the same house. To my boyfriend, who has asked me more than once to snap out of my depression. To all of you, I'm trying. In both senses of the word.
I'm not happy. My job is part of it. But beyond just whining about bitchy menopausal women killing me one snide comment at a time, there's also the fact that I'm starting to feel like life isn't worth living. I'm not about to off myself, but just sitting and staring into space seems like all I can bring myself to do nowadays. I'm forcing myself to blog because I'm hoping it'll jolt me into feeling something. But to be honest, I'm not even certain if the sentences coming out are coherent at all. Whether at the end of this I'll have said anything worth saying, or am I just once again putting up a show for everyone. Yes, I'm ok people, just go on with your happy lives and leave me be because I can't make myself smile anymore, and I don't want to have to explain myself.
It doesn't help that it's fucking Chinese New Year in about two days. Tomorrow's the reunion dinner, thankfully just my parents and I and Elton. I'm dreading meeting all my relatives because I don't want to have to answer the usual questions. I don't know when Elton and I will get married. I don't like my job. I don't know why I've grown fatter. I really would like to just stay in bed and do absolutely nothing. Can we all just pretend that I have some kind of violently contagious disease?
I don't fear the emptiness, mainly because I try not to think about it when I'm normal, and once it comes on, it numbs me and I don't feel anything anyway. Well, anything nice anyway. Andy came back from Vietnam with his girlfriend, Tin, and first thing I do when I see him is to start crying and think of the fact that he'll be going away again. Nice way to welcome a friend home.
I know it frustrates Elton, because he's not used to me being so dead. It isn't easy being with someone doesn't respond. You start taking it personally, like she's not smiling because she's angry at you. That's not the case. It feels a little like wearing a mask. You just can't seem to express yourself. It seems like such a colossal effort to just grunt.
Maybe I should do something meaningful with my life. Like go build schools in Cambodia, or volunteer at an orphanage. Maybe a bit of schadenfreude might give me purpose.
All I know is, I need something to happen fast. The dark days are getting longer. I'm not sure if I can return from the other side anymore.
Elton found himself a new best friend after busting one of his tyres recently. A quick call to the Automobile Association sent this mechanic with a really odd first name over to his place. Well, it wasn't so much odd as so mundane a name that you wouldn't really name someone or yourself that. Boy. What kind of a name is Boy? Like how many sisters must you have that your parents have either no clue what male names sound like or figure they'd just differentiate you by gender? More importantly, does that mean you have a sister named Girl?
But, strange name aside, Boy the mechanic seems to be excellent at his job. After the brief encounter they had over the tyre, Elton decided to pay him a visit at his workshop to get more of his car fixed.
So all in all, it set him back $900 to get everything fixed. His bumper, the leaking pipes, the engine, the works. Even added two fog lights in just in case all the street lights should ever go out and we have to drive by the illumination of his lights. Now, I feel a need to stress that last bit was at Elton's insistence.
What was impressive was how Boy took the time to explain, in detail, exactly what needed to be changed, why, what were the different grades of the parts available and whether it's worth it to skimp or better to splurge. He also gave a timeline for how long the whole thing would take (a grand total of two days), called to confirm on the day itself if the car would be finished, and gave Elton back a cleaner car than what he brought in. Even the floor mats were vacuumed. A black oil mark some other mechanic left inside the car was gone, though its more stubborn companions remained, somewhat diminished.
This is quite a drastic departure from the one other mechanic Elton dealt with, who was, sadly, his old classmate. Communication was limited at best, and there was no such detailed explanation. It was pretty much a don't-ask-don't-tell sort of situation. Good, in that you won't spend money on anything other than why you brought it in for. Bad, in that you have no clue what condition your car is really in. The car's been to that workshop a number of times already, but some chronic problems (like all three pipes were leaking, there was no freon left, which was why the aircon was not cold, the rubber on the windshield wipers had hardened, and the tyre pressures were all too low) were never identified, much less fixed. The worst part was not knowing when the car would be fixed, and it often took the better part of a week and much calling before you'd even find out what was going on.
So now the car seems to be purring along better now, and Elton was so incredibly pleased with his very detailed, itemized receipt that he showed it to me with all the pride of a kid with a glowing report card. Pretty obvious he'll be going back to Boy's workshop in the future. (I'm not paid for this, but hey, I'll take the good karma for it - Boy's workshop is at the Caltex Station along Lorong Chuan, just outside Serangoon Gardens. In case you're looking for a good mechanic.)
On the topic of service, my parents bemuse me. They're both sales people; Dad sells mattresses, Mom sells furniture. So you'd expect them to understand what annoys sales people on commission the most; making one guy do all the work, explaining all the details to you, then going somewhere else to buy the thing. Unfortunately, that seems like what they plan to do.
We're thinking of trading in our old massage chair. It's so old, it's of the generation where the rollers had fixed paths, and you'd better be 5'7" with broad shoulders or it'll hit you in all the wrong spots. Nowadays, all the chairs have adjustable rollers so it doesn't matter what size you are. We've been thinking of that since the new chairs came out, but trading in wasn't an option previously.
Now though, it's possible, and we can get a pretty good price for our old chair. The new one is still going to set us back by a few thousand dollars, but it's not so bad. Out of the generosity of my heart, I said I'd pay for the chair.
Since Dad bought the chair originally, we had to clear it with him because replacing anything he bought without getting permission first is just asking for a week, maybe two, of him glowering around the house. Good news was, he agreed. Bad news, he insisted on checking with the vendor at his workplace if they could give a better price.
It turns out we can get it for 10 percent less at his workplace, but only if we pay with a certain credit card that I don't own. Well, I used to, but I canceled it a long while back (what? I wasn't using it).
So now, the thing that bothers me the most is, I gave that sales person my word that if we were to get the chair, I'd get it from him. It's just not fair that he took all the time to explain everything to us and we just up and give his commission to some other dude. I know it doesn't benefit me in the least, but I've also lived in a household where my parents come home and complain about customers who do exactly that (sales people talk; don't think they don't know your sneaky ways). This guy may be just some stranger doing his job, but he's someone's son, probably someone's husband.
My hesitation to get the chair from Dad's workplace made Mom think I have no intention of changing the chair, transforming her into this gruff barking person. Whenever she's annoyed, it sounds like she's trying to imitate a big dog barking when she talks, with this bass, hollow quality to her short, antagonistic sentences.
Thing is, I want to change the chair. And I have no problems with paying $400 more (it's on zero percent installment anyway, the extra bump is not that painful when spread out like that), not that I'll be able to get the discount anyway, since I don't have the credit card. The issue is, a) it's stupid saying I'll pay for the chair, then get Dad to sign it on his card, paying him back subsequently, and b) I'm breaking my promise.
I don't like to go back on my word. I don't give it lightly, and I can be prone to cutting it very close (basically, if I start phrasing things very carefully, you know I'm just trying to weasel out of it), but once I do promise something I try my damndest to go through with it. I blame it on reading too many fairy tales, since the fey don't lie, although they'll bend the truth till it's a hair from breaking. But it makes me feel like a good person, and I'll try to keep it that way.
Which is why I'm quite concerned for Kym at the moment. Our new careers aren't exactly working out, but she seems to be having a more difficult time than I at adjusting to the new culture. Her industry is a lot more technical than mine with so much to learn. (Truly, it's not difficult being a journalist, but if you can't write, you can't write.) It doesn't help that there's one particularly nasty person in her workplace. On the bright side, they're on the same rank, so she doesn't have to take orders from the bitch or anything. Then again, you don't have to be outranked by a bitch to be terrorised by her.
Over speakerphone, she told Elton and I about her problems at work, and asked if we could think of an alternate career she'd be better at. As much as I'd like to give her an answer, the truth is I have no clue either. I mean, I supposedly got my dream job, but I'm still dreading going to work everyday. I'm still thinking about things in a temporary fashion.
But because I said I would think on it, I'm thinking on it. And I'm hoping somehow I can at least point out a job she would like to do and be good at doing.
It's a good thing I don't have that many friends, otherwise I'll never get anything done.
My new netbook makes me feel rather Carrie Bradshawish when I blog. I rather like that, actually, except that the strangely reflective screen shows me a Chinese girl with short hair and specs (what, I wear them at home) rather than a Caucasian woman with curly blonde locks.
But stilll, it makes me have this feeling like I can come up with these thought provoking posts about life, love and lust.
Well, I'll try. That's sort of why I switched on the little guy.
Recently I keep reading about women who put love on the backburner, if not in the freezer to be reheated when they should eventually find a need for it. First up was Sugarbabe, the Book That Screwed Me Over. It screwed with my head enough that I went around feeling really weird for a very long time. I mentioned it before, but for a quick refresher, it's the supposed auto-biography of some Australian woman who had an affair with a married man and quit her job to be his mistress, until his wife found out and ended it. Jobless, she decided to be a sugarbabe, posting an ad on the internet and sleeping with men for a stipend. She found it important to stress the fact that she was only sleeping with one man at a time. I'm not sure it makes her any less of a whore.
What? Is that not the technical term for someone who sleeps with someone else for money? Disguise it as much as you like with the idea that you're just acting like a counsellor with benefits, that you're just providing a service, but at the end of the day, that is your chosen profession, so please, don't make too much of a fuss or get all offended when people break it down and call a spade a spade.
The reason why that book bothered me so very much is because she basically stated that all men will eventually sleep around, and that all women should just accept it.
Oddly enough, that statement doesn't bother me the way you'd think it does. I do actually agree with that. We are not meant to be monogamous, basic physiology sort of determines that. But because we have all these social constructs and morality issues, we insist on exclusivity in a relationship, we expect loyalty, we bind our partners to us in a contract that demands nothing less that complete faithfulness. There's a reason why men freak out at the thought of marriage; it's not that they think it'll curtail their amazing pussy-getting ability (hell, some of them won't be getting any outside of the poor gullible women they managed to con into being with them), but more the idea that if they slip up, they are contractually in the wrong. If somehow, magically, they fell down and accidentally plunged their erect dicks into some random cunt that happened to be just lying there on the ground, a mob of morally outraged people comprising of their family, friends and random other moral authorities can rush out of the bushes and condemn him for it.
The best way to explain why the book bothered me would be to relate this one strange question someone asked me. Am I a jealous person? I took a moment to really think about it, then said no, but I am possessive.
What's the difference? What gets me riled up about a potential rival isn't so much that my partner might cheat on me, but that the skank has no right to barge in on my territory. I get more hyped up about defending my turf than questioning whether my boyfriend loves me. I have no issues with my guy checking someone else out. Stretching it further, it may be that I may be able to accept my guy having someone else on the side, but should I find out about it, I will definitely have the need to assert my dominance by introduce the new girl's face into the pavement a couple of times. And after enough genuflection on her side and her admittance that she is nothing more than a sperm receptacle and that I will always be number one and she will know her place and stay lower than it, Granted, I may be outweighed by most women, but I figure if my guy's going to cheat on me, it makes little sense that he'll go for a heifer, so I should be able to take this hypothetical slut down.
So, after having to deal with that major mind fuck, I came across an article about trophy wives and trophy husbands, these Gattaca-perfect married couples who came together to merge their wealth, qualifications and good looks together in a very businessy transaction.
I guess it's all well and good for them. Hell, it's not exactly anything new either; the old money families have been doing that for ages. The idea of a vapid trophy wife really only applies for older men who got sick of their equally well-moneyed, well-educated and strong wives. THAT'S when they go for a younger, dumber, subservient chick with big tits. They never marry someone like that upfront. That's the way of the world, the way it has always been, and I'm just amused they think it's something new. Like part of them really enjoys the fact that they are making such a grown up, business decision and they just landed this perfect life by putting love aside. They pretend to be all jaded, all resigned to fate, when they're just secretly so damned pleased with themselves.
At least, until their perfect husband has a little something something on the side, with someone who may not be as well educated, rich or perfect, but makes your robot husband feel passion like he never has before. Then they freak out, flip out, yank out the marriage certificate and demand loyalty. You are only supposed to fuck me! Me and my perfect pussy! Yeah right, sweetheart. Being the First Wife is your chosen profession, go suck on your giant solitaire diamond ring in your corner and face the facts; just because you two have no passion doesn't mean your rich, good-looking husband can't find someone who gets his blood heated.
I'm not saying that the First Wife has no right to get upset. I'm just saying that's the way it is. You enter a marriage as a business transaction, you can't even say that you love the man, much less that you enjoy sex with him, so can you really get on your high horse and be morally upset when he chooses to outsource the things you can't provide? Should you not, in fact, be sort of grateful that you don't have to deal with that part of his needs? Shouldn't you just be thankful if he manages to pick someone who doesn't push for anything more, like your position?
Things don't have to be that way. Really, they don't. That fairy tale marriage is not completely impossible, so long you stop thinking it has to fit the stereotypical fairy tale. I don't have the answers, but I believe a large part of it would be just to be realistic. Be the best you can be for the other person, and don't take it personally if that isn't good enough. Remember they have a choice of who they want to be with, and be glad if they choose to be with you. It's not easy, that's why we come up with conventions like marriage and monogamy to tie people down.
The Chinese value filial piety greatly. Turning back on your parents is something you go to hell for, and there's some appropriate punishment for it, something like being trapped in an old folks' home for all eternity until you learn to like it. I don't really know, I'm just guessing.
But what's particularly amusing is the supposedly inspirational stories we come up with to convince children to be good to their parents. And I'm telling you, that shit is just evidence that we had really dumb people in China once upon a time.
There's one about this boy who, in order to protect his dad from a swarm of marauding mosquitoes, took off all his clothes and let the little fuckers bite him all over, so that they would be sated on his blood and leave his father alone. Seriously, if I had a kid like that, I'd cry. With sheer disbelief that somehow none of my brain cells made the transition. I suppose it's sweet, but honestly, you couldn't come up with a better idea? Like closing the fucking door?
If that was bad, that's because you haven't heard of the other dude. The one who put on a deer pelt, snuck up to a female deer, and milked her. If your mom had a sudden craving for milk, what would make make you think that molesting deer would be a good way to get her some? What the fuck is wrong with cows? What the fuck is wrong with going out to buy her a quart?
In comparison, this other dude who washed his parents' shit off was a much better show of filial piety. Practical, an act of love and care, with good sense. Of course, this is probably where I find out something truly screwed up, like he did it with his tongue or something. It's not, but my faith is quite shaken right now.
I try to be filial to my parents, I do. Mom told me Dad was home sick today and I bought him a bowl fish noodles for dinner. Unfortunately, like the dumbass kids before me, I demonstrated sheer emotion and absolutely no brains and didn't call home to see if he wanted anything to eat first. I can't make a joke here, I'm worried because he didn't get up to eat it; he was that groggy. Hopefully it's just the medicine.
I've never been a daddy's girl. Our relationship has been, at best, civil. I love him, and I know he loves me, but we will remain stoically silent about it till the end. Ours is not the sort of heart-warming father-daughter relationship with profound moments of emotional closeness. At best, our attempts to convey our affection are almost cavemen-like; he'll present me with some odd trinket, I show up unannounced with fish noodles.
But it doesn't stop me from being worried sick that Dad is not himself. A few months back, he developed this strange habit of falling asleep all around the house. At the coffee table, on the couch, on the toilet bowl, while smoking, while eating peanuts, while reading the papers. It didn't bother us so much because we figured he was just being eccentric, or passive aggressively trying to get Mom to go to bed earlier.
Then he started to act a little weird. He'd wake with a start, see me and ask if I was going out, when I'd come home, showered, and was heading to bed. He fell off the bed when he was sleeping, not just once, but twice. Cracked his head against the cabinet on the way down and bashed his ribs against the wall. Thankfully, he had nothing but some bruises to show for it, but it still scared the crap out of me.
So tonight, seeing him with those sunken, listless eyes, I felt fear. He told me he had run out of the sleeping pills he has to take to sleep and hadn't had any shut eye for the past two weeks, which is why he'd run himself into the ground. It doesn't help that he'd been working full shifts, from 9am to 10pm, everyday for the past two weeks.
I'm praying it's just nothing more than that. That the horrible part of me that knows him all too well is right and that he's just playing things up to get attention. Please let that be it.
