Saturday, February 04, 2006
Flushed
Text from Eve at 2030 hours last night: Leaving house now. See you there! A smile on my face. I wore a black lacy baby doll blouse, paired with a dark pair of Levi’s “Eve”. Put on Otto’s official favorite shoes of the moment - blue snake skin boots - looked at my reflection in the mirror and decided on wearing the other pair of boots instead. Love the new boots I got from Thailand. Love, love, love them! Drove approximately ten minutes to the restaurant. We, girls, have a tradition of starting Friday evenings with a nice meal in this restaurant, then proceeding for drinks after drinks after drinks, till we are warm and tingling all the way to our favorite weekend spots. Those were the carefree days when without fail, each of us will turn up at the restaurant every Friday at 2000 hours. We were there so often, we knew the staff by name and the cook could come out for small chats when his duties were done. These days, with more commitments (read: relationships) and less time, we cherish nights when we can laugh till we wipe tears of joy from the corners of our well mascara-ed eyes. Would You Like Some Chicken Fillet? “You know your duty,” E said, pointing to PY, as if to remind her of a life or death situation. PY merely nodded. What duty, I thought to myself as E looked down her bosom and adjusted her black dress. PY laughed when I asked, “Eh are you wearing a bra or one of those chicken fillets?” What do you call those rubberized stick-on bras that you slap on your lady lumps? You know, the two bra cups made of flesh colored rubber, with its inner cups being sticky? You stick your boobs into them – or stuck them to your boobs. I am not sure what is the name of this product but it sure hell looks like chicken fillets to me! So no more nights that are spent hanging perilously by the edge of your strapless bra. Now with the super stick-on rubberized bras, you can be sure to look perky in your tube dress or backless blouses. So I called these sticky and strapless bras “chicken fillets”. PY laughed. I looked at her and instantly a few drips of Long Island Tea dribbled through the corner of my mouth. E laughed, at the stupid comment and my little dribbles. Laughter was only contained a few minutes later, after wiping tears from my watery eyes (I hate rhinitis), after E cussing that she’d ruined her eyewear, after PY buried her face in her folded left hand on the table and most certainly long after a few unsuccessful tries of distracting ourselves by observing some other tables. The Mother Of All The mother of all horror stories involving these chicken fillets of a bra would be the time when a female friend (friend of Nikki’s) who chanced upon her ex-lover in a pub. Female friend was feeling rather good inside for once, after months of crying over her break-up with two tubs of Hagen Daaz’s Cookies and Cream. She sized up the competition – she was sitting and laughing with a group of friends, with some male companions keen interest in her while her ex-lover was sat merely with some blokes. She got up and confidently walked towards him. I am so going to show you what you have been missing, she thought in her heart. She made a beeline towards him, only to trip over something. She stood up as elegantly as possible and proceeded to arrange herself. Pub was hush as she discretely pushed a chicken fillet into her tube. The right side of her sticky bra apparently fell out of her tube in the commotion. The Thud “I am telling you,” I said, “we are going to dance. I can’t do the talk-chat crap while looking cool thing. If you guys want to fucking catch up, we can just skip the pubs and head for the mamak stalls”. Grimaced and remembered the first day of Chinese New Year with high school mates, who split themselves into cliques. Not much have changed, even after all these years. Did not enjoy that evening because everyone was trotting about everywhere and no one was dancing! I had great determination that it would not be the same tonight. Went there, found three classmates, joined their table. It was not happening. So not happening. I frowned. I grumbled. I sulked. It was just not happening. Time to call for the back-ups, I thought to myself. So I walked a block to my car and got my mobile out. Called some friends to liven the table. Quick. I took my mobile along with me, something that I never do whenever I went out for drinks. But desperate times called for desperate measures and I was not going to spend another evening, just punishing myself by standing for hours, doing nothing but pretending to understand what my friends mumbled into my ears. Securing the troops, I walked to Lola and had a little concoction whispered into the bar tender’s ear. “One shot of Vodka Vanilla with Sprite. A slice of lime in a tumbler,” I said. She nodded. Had three of those and everything seemed so much more pleasant. Danced to the beat, between E and PY. Classmates came and went. The troops arrived at 0100 hours and things went smoothly then after. “I want to wee wee,” PY said. I walked behind her, as we made our way to the girl’s room. I unzipped my trousers and slowly pushed it down. Thud-thud. I gently slapped my eyes and slowly peeked through the little gap between my middle and ring fingers. Looked around the cubicle. I do not understand why the dance and bar area is lit up so bright, as if a fire engine just drove pass while the cubicles were pitch dark. At that instant, I knew my mobile, barely five months old, was at the very bottom of the toilet bowl. It was so deep that I could not even see it. I sighed. Stomped on my feet a few times. Gritted my teeth. I opened the door, to let some light into the cubicle. Naadaa. Nothing. Zero. Nothing but some tissue strewn near the toilet bowl. Am so upset with myself. I hate the thud-thud sound. Last night was one costly drinking session. Damn it, damn mobile, damn everything. Cussing as as eloquently as Fuckstress would be therapeutic this instant. I shook my head in disbelief and walked out of the cubicle a empty pocket person. “Dropped my mobile in the fucking bowl,” I grumbled to PY. Being a sweetie, she walked towards the cubicle and wanted to reach out for the mobile, lost somewhere in the darkness of the mouth of the pipe, hoping that she could fish for it. I shook my head and pulled her away. I resigned to the fact that I will have to fork some ang pow money out to purchase a damn mobile. I hated the image I had in my mind, firemen breaking the toilet bowl because I had my hand firmly stuck in it. Or PY's. Flushed “You are flushed,” a guy commented. He was the younger brother of a friend and he was adorable looking. Fresh out college with those twinkling eyes that only young hopefuls could possess. He tipped his bottle against my tumbler. I smiled and drank up the remainder of my third glass. Signaled for another. Chatted until PY came over and stood next to me. “Dog year bad for us,” PY said. That was her version of consoling me over the lost. Apparently according to some popular Feng Shui experts in Malaysia, the year of the Dog will prove itself to be a challenging year for those born in the same year as E, PY and I. Be careful of investments because loses tend to occur, so they said. ”So you flushed away your bad luck lor,” PY said, “the mobile is like your sacrifice for the bad luck. Dropped, you flushed, then bad luck all down the drain.” Consequently to usher in my good luck and to celebrate the flushing away of the bad, PY, E and I went to the cubicle and flushed three more times. Imagine stumbling into three girls who flushed the toilet three times and laughed like mad people released from Tampoi…. Hands In My Pocket Slept at 0600 hours this morning and got up three hours later. Damn horny birds at my windowsill. Great service at Maxis. Did not even manage to warm my seat while being served. If only more companies emphasized customer service the same way Maxis does! Now shopping for a mobile phone. Then a little mobile shopping with PY till lunch time and five hours later, here I am writing this entry to you. Any kind soul out there wants to treat this little struggling soon to be writer a mobile phone? |
