FUNNYACCENT

They Have Comfort Food, I Have Comfort Movie

The other day a woman at work asked me what was my comfort food. I don't have any. You're kidding she said. All of us have comfort food.
Not all of us. Yes, it is, she said.
Don't tell me you ask all the people their comfort food.
Well, most of the people I know have comfort food.
So, it's not all of us. It's all the people you know have comfort food.
She rolled her eyes.
What was that rolling eyes for?
You're making things more complicated she said.
Maybe I am, and you just see things from your point of view.
Our conversation went on and on for another ten minutes, until I said:
Never mind Laurie, my bad. I was wrong to make an assumption too.
Huh?
Never mind. Talk to you later.

Yes. I made a big mistake, a big mistake I've always tried to avoid. I made an assumption about Laurie. Laurie is majoring in English Literature at UMass. She likes to correct people grammar's, especially when she hears and individual whose English is a second language speakers like me.
Once she tried to correct a grammar mistake made by one of the Brazillian girls.
The girl went off. That didn't stop Laurie.
I think Laurie see her self as English language crusader, or whatever .......

I'm not being difficult. But I can't to keep my mouth shout when people say something stupid in my face. May be I am difficult. But that's how I am. I guess that's why I'd rather keep a very few selective friends who can see eye to eye with me. Friends who are willing for an open-ended discussion, friends who do not shut off their learning doors.

Once, a co-worker was fidgeting with his cell phone while we waiting for a train.
What kind of cell phone you got?
I ain't got one.
Get out of here. Everybody got one.
Well, I'm not everybody.
You know what I mean.
I know what you mean.

If our conversation did not take a different route, I would have told Laurie, I have a comfort movie though, and it's called Chocolat. As a matter of fact two nights ago I watched Chocolat again for the sixteenth times. Chocolat was the first movie that adaptred from Joanne Harris's first novel that I love. Most of the time I do not like movies adapted from books. The plots were ruined not to mention the dialogues were disaster, and when I see the The End word, I was disappointed. I expected more.
Like a movie Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistlestop Cafe. The movie was adapted from the book with the same title, authored by Fannie Flagg. I finished the book in two days, and days after I read it I thought I'd known all the characters all my life. The author dragged me along with their pain, joy and laughter. That's the kind of book I enjoy reading.

Buttersquash on My Mind

I had a baked butter squash again. I already had it twice. When I got to the supermarket this morning, butter squash was the first thing I picked up. With the store card I paid $0.75 /lb. I bought two of them. I was thinking to get acorn squash too, but I put it back. Maybe I'll make acorn soup in winter. That would be swell. I'll come up with new recipe. Mix with split peas. That would be double swells.

When I got home, I turned on the oven, cleaned the squash and cut it into half. I layered the pan with aluminium foil. Added a half cup of water into the pan. When the oven was hot, I put the squash, face down, covered it with foil. I baked it for an hour.

While waiting for my dinner in the oven I looked up into the internet about squash. I didn't know zucchini is in the winter squash family. That is interesting. How about that? I've learned something new today.

And the word luffa caught my eyes too. My mother grows luffa on her backyard. She doesn't eat much of the luffa instead let them turn old or matured and uses the fibrous interior as dishcloth or for body loofah scrub. Usually she gives away to the neighbors. When I went home three years ago, I managed to squeezed seven loofah into my cramped luggage. I'm using the last piece which I purposedly hold on to it as long as I could for sentimental value.

One hour later, I took out the pan and lifted the aluminium foil. The steam rose and blurred my glasses. I pressed the squash with a fork. The fork sank into the flesh. Sweeeeeet. Carefully I turned it over.
I scooped out the seeds before I transfered it to my dinner plate. The empty hollow space where the seeds used to resided, I placed a scoop of steam broccoli. B would wrinkle his nose everytime I place steamed broccoli in his baked squash, but he eats them anyway.
I sprinkled ground nutmeg and I was ready for my healthy dinner.

Current reading: The Fugitive by Pramoedya Ananta Toer Pak Pram at Fordham University

Ohhh Neighbor, Where Are Thou?

Who is in his right mind, getting up at 2:00 in the morning and decided to fix his broken chair? Yes,that's right you heard me,fixing his damnfreakingbroken chair at 2:oo in the morning. I thought I was dreaming when I heard Tuk.....tuk....tuk....tuk....., tuk....tuk....tuk...
It sound like from a distant but it got louder and closer. Tuk....tuk....tuk....Stop. Tuk....tuk
.....tuk....tuk....Stop. I opened my eyes hoping the tuk...tuk noise would go away.
Tuk....tuk.........tuk.......Stop. I looked around trying to find the source of the hammering sound. It was not actually loud, but it is when you are trying to control the noise when you hit something. And it came from the floor above. Damn him. What is wrong with that man? What is he up to at this hour? Doesn't he has a job to go in the morning? Oooppps..... Silly me.........That sob doesn't work. He lives on disability check with his eccentric mother.
I was hoping the hammering sound would stop, but I was wrong. It returned. That's it. I pushed my raggedy quilt comforter and got out of bed. Tuk...tuk...tuk...
I grabbed my baggy flannel shirt, put it on over my pajama and walked toward the front door. I heard the voices outside the door. I looked through the peekhole. Mr. Gonzales and Lyn the Irish lady were talking at once. Holly macaroni....., Lyn's frizzy red hair stood up in every direction. I've never seen Lyn in this state before. She is the kind of woman who never steps out of the front door without painting her face first. Everytime I see her, she looks like she just has an ultra makeover from Ricky Lake's show. Her hair is always swept up in a bun six inches on top of her head.
But this morning she looked like Isabela tornado has just left her apartment.

Mr. Gonzales has his gray Red Sox's tee shirt on. I wonder how many Red Sox's tee shirts he has? He goes everywhere with his Red Sox shirt. During winter he wears layers of tee shirts and flannel shirts underneatch his Red Sox sweat shirt. He is a die-hard Red Sox's fan.
The shirt has holes big and small on the front side. The right sleeve is ripped off, exposed his shoulder. It must be his favorite shirt.
I turned the latch and opened the door. They stopped talking and looked at me.
"Do you hear that?" said Mr. Gonzales. I nodded and rubbed my eyes.
"What is he up to this time, I thought I was dreaming."
"You're not dreaming, dear." Lyn snorted.
"You go back to sleep, me and Lyn will take care of this moron." Mr. Gonzales climbed up the stairs and Lyn trod behind him. Her wide back swung to left and right.
I waited outside the door. The knock on the door. The tuk...tuk... stopped.
"Mr Yee...........Mr. Yee." Mr. Gonzales's voice sliced through the quiet morning.
Silence. I heard the door opened. Mr. Yee must be at the door.
"Yes...yes..., solly, solly." I could see Mr. Yee nodded his head like a parrot and grinned to exposed his rotten teeth.
The door closed. The footsteps moved down the stairs.
"What is he doing?" I asked them before they got to the landing.
"He's fixing his chair." Mr. Gonzales walked toward his door.
"He's what?" Did I hear it right?
"I told him I'm going to report to the management." said Lyn, "they have no respect to others."
I wished Mr. Gonzales and Lyn goodnight, even it was already 2:30 in the morning.

When Dream Drifted Away

I don't know why I stopped writing after my first essay was published back in 1984. It was a one page essay written in Malay. I wrote in while I was at home unemployed for a year.It was the first time I was not working since I graduated from high school.My mother had an accident and broke her lower spine. She was in the hospital for 40 days. When she was discharged I knew I had to quit my job and came home to help her. Not having a steady income drove me crazy. I was trapped in a cage. Angry, disappointed and frustrated.

I don't know what made me wrote the essay, but I must have had a desired buried in my subconscious mind about being a writer. With one attempt, I submitted my essay. They sent me a letter two weeks later saying they were going to publish my essay.
The essay was handwritten and published in JELITA. It was one of the top woman magazines in Malaysia. They sent a check of $M30.00. I was beyond speechless. My speechless turned into mute for a long time. My brother offered me to cash the check. He had a friend who worked in the bank,so I didn't have to wait for three weeks.

I saw my brother's face when he came home a few hours later. I knew what it meant. I was not going to see my money.I had seen his welfare face before. All of us, my mother, my sister and I. All of us had been played by his wellknown welfare face. Everytime he came up with his welfare face, we lost our senses. We just handed our money into his hand. And it happenned again.

I never bother to write anything again after that day. It was like the lid was closed, and the box was pushed away out of my sight. But I did not give up reading, how could I? I have a passionate love affair with books since I was a kid.

The desire to write has surfaced, the box came out into the light, and the lid was snapped open. It's all started when I finished reading MOTHERLAND by Vineeta Vijayaraghavan. The language she used was simple and yet it captured my imagination. That was two years ago. I took up a creative writing workshop in my final semester at the community college. I read a bunch of writing instruction books and yet I'm still wondering what the hell is going on with my mind? What am I afraid of? What is the greatest fear that hold me from writing?

What am I afraid of? What is the worst could happen to me if I put it down on paper? I know what am I going to write about. As a matter of fact I've written here and there, this and that. I write everything that familiar with me, my anger and confusion during my adolescence, my questions about injustice toward woman in Islam, my hope and my shattered dream when I was in my 20 and not to forget my anger. Would it kill my mother? Is that what am I afraid of? Or am I trying to justify my cowardness?

THE DREAM OF WATER by kyoko mori

What Was I Thinking?

Everytime I look at the glossy picture of Dell Pentium Notebook I feel like to roll up the magazine I am reading, and smack my head. What was I thinking when I went out to get my second PC?
Two years ago, a day after my graduation day,I went to the city and bought me a HP desktop as graduation present. I was thinking of getting a laptop but when I saw a flat screen monitor, I lost my my mind. It was a beut.
My first PC was acting up continously, sometimes I had the urge to pick it up and throw it out of my window. Of cource if I did it I would have killed some kids playing hopscotch under my window. And their grieving mothers would have joined ventured and threw me out of the window or even worse.

My desire to write is strong but not strong enough to write the things that matter most to me. Fear of hurting persons I love, fear of embarassing them. Fear...fear...fear....freeeze my deisre.

I thought I always can write on notebooks or pad when I go out. But writing on the journal or not pad has a flaw. My mind couldn't catch up my flowing mind, flowing like Niagara Fall. That's it, like Niagara Falls. It rush, and by the time I finish the first paragraph, the waterfall becomes a stream drying up in the desert.

Wish of the day: MacG4 OS 10.2 Jaguar OS 9.2 OS X NoteBook/

Fall, Autumn or Whatever is Here

So today is officially fall. Damn............I still have my long wool winter jacket in the closet waiting to be dry-cleaned. I wanted to bring to the dry cleaner as soon as the last winter was over.
Am I the worst procastinator or what?
I procrast to write
I procrast to start on my comforter quilt
I procrast of mopping my living room floor
I procrast to pay my bills
I procrast to write- did I say that already?
I procrast to send a thank you note to Carolyn See.
I procrast to write to Vas.
I procrast to make a baby quilt for Wendy's twin babies- by the time I am done with the quilts for her babies, they probably too big for the babies quilts.

One thing I don't procrast is adding new books to my ever increasing library.

Baghdad Without a Map by tony horwitz

The maze We Create Ourselves Into

I woke up with an excruciating pain in my lower leg, a few inches behind my left knee. I cried in pain. I developed this pain four years ago. It happened in my sleep like I just had an hour ago. It went away after I went to see an accupuncturist. I casually mentioned it to Trisca at the gym one morning. She suggested me to get an acupuncture treatment. I liked the idea since I don't like taking any kind of drug to relief the pain. After the gym, we headed to Chinese World Trade Center in China Town. The office was on the third floor. I set up an appointment for the following week. After four treatments, the pain went away and I could run longer than I used to.

I've been neglecting my usual excercise too this summer, I suspect this is one of the reason. Besides my four times morning run, I stopped going to the gym altogether since January. As a matter of fact I had withdrawn my membership from Crunch. I liked it better when it was run by Planet Fitness. Most of the staffs were friendly, and helpful. Since they merged with Crunch, I noticed the regular staffs disappeared one by one. And one day they were all gone replaced by stiff, buffy trainers who walk with their noses stuck up in the air. When they walk past you they never look at you, let alone greet you like the Planet Fitness former staffs used to do. It is not fair to say all of them acted this way, but basically that is what they are. Snobbish.

I think I'll check out BSC in downtown next month. Today is the third day of fall. My long wool winter jacket is still waitng to be dry-cleaned and the winter is on the way. Damn..............Time sure flies away.
The pain is gone now, but I could feel the muscle twitches everytime I move my leg. I imped to the kitchen to brew my coffee. Getting old is no fun.

Speaking of old, I remember my chat with Rebecca the other day. We were having late breakfast at the cafe' outside Au Bon Pain. I was on the cashier line when someone tapped my shoulder. It was Rebecca. I was glad to see her. We were in the same two classes two semesters in a row at BHCC. The last time I saw her was during our graduation day two springs ago. Now she is full time student at Wheelock working a fulltime job at DSS office.

She was surprised when I told her I only have two classes this semester.
"I'd love to," I told her but "I can't afford it, besides I want to have more time for myself."
She laughs at my last statement.
"Ana, I wish I could have your attitude towards life," she sips her coffee and adds "You have an amazing way to respond to your life, always lay back and chill."
"And you always want to accomplish two or three things at the same time, and worry too much." I say to her.
"Yeah.....that's me. A worry-too-much-whore." We laughed out loud at her joke. Rebecca likes to refer as "whore this" or "whore that". The skinny as stick woman with platinum hair from the next table glared at us when she heard the word 'whore".

"I wish I could be like you, Anai, but I can't. I'm in my forties now. I want to get my master before I hit fifty. I wasted too much time when I was younger."

"Rebecca, don't forget we're in the same age department too, we got to concentrate our bachelors before we work on our masters. If we don't get our masters before we hit fifty, so what? We have come along way." I sipped the last drop of my coffee. "We passed our angry and confused adolescence years, our twenties were not much different groping in the dark not knowing what to do with our lives."

She nodded her head a few times but I know what I had just said didn't mean anything to her. She has layers of complicated issues, traps in the maze she weaves. She is one of the women I know feels more alive when they have more issues in their lives.

AAA Meeting

When I was in Addiction class at BHCC, the professor gave us ten field works through the semester. One of them was to attend an AAA meeting. We had to attend to three different meetings. Make an observation and write down the experiences.

I was told by one of the women in my class, most of AAA meetings were held in the church, usually in the basement. They were three meetings in one week in three locations. I decided to go over to the first location, the church on Chauncy Street. The meeting was held once a week. I returned to the church two days later on Wednesday evening ten minutes before the meeting began.

I went to the below level of the basement where the meeting would be held. I saw a sign on the wide door at the end of the corridor when I got to the bottom of the stairs. I pushed the door open. It was a big room probably could fill about 100 people. I entered and chose the nearest chair to the door. The steel chairs were arranged in four side facing each other. A big space about 7'x7' left empty in the middle. There was a mike in the center of the empty square.

A few minutes later, a slender man came in. He was medium height, wore his hair short like a crew cut. He had salt and pepper hair. Lines and cracks on his face must have seen a lot of actions in his life. wore a faded denim jeans and denim shirt.

"Hi there, how are you?". I introduced myself and told him my intention. I showed him an official letter from my professor. He read the letter folded the letter and handed it back to me, "It's okay as long as you don't take any picture or record anything on the tape." I assured him I had none of those.

"It's better if you sit near the podium," he added. He asked me to help myself at the refreshment table. I thanked him.

Insect and Creepy Creatures

What a long, boring day at work. It's worse when I got to work with a person I can't stand. I don't know what it is, but I don't feel like talking to Rac when ever he made an attempt to start a conversation. I think I already branded in my unconscious mind that I can't get along with arabic speaking men. Not only they have an authority attitude, they think they are always right even when the facts are put in their faces.

He'd just annoying me. Everytime he opens his mouth, his words are like nails scratching on the board. He likes a mosquito. Buzzing my ears. He is one of the people I ever work with I put in a Leech category.

"This country is only good to make money. You come here, work hard, save money and get out", he said with a smirk on his face as he had just crossed the Finishing Line in Boston Marathon. He folded his arms, waiting for my respond.

I didn't respond to his remark.

"So, what do you think?"

"About what?"

"About what I just said." His bushy connected eyebrows reminded me of one of the kids I used to play with when I was a kid. We teased him he would be married his next door neighbor when he grew up.

"I think you are a leech."

"A lich? What is dat?" His eyebrows climbing onto each other.

"I thought you said you know everything"

"Oh.......you know what I meant......." He tightened his folded arms.

He was in defensive mode.

"I don't know what you meant. You tell me. When a person says he knows everything, my antaena goes up. What I do is eliminate 80% of what he says," I looked full into his face. He was lost. And he was angry.

Me, a Granny?

While chatting with my sister KN this morning over the phone, she mentioned about Lat is a grandmother now. Lat and I were classmates when we were in fifth year in primary school. Her parents transferred her to a bigger and more prestigious school in town when the school opened for the final year. Her mother lectured my mother how important it was to send us to a school with a name for our futures sake. Our little school nearby was not good enough for her daughter.
My mother said I was doing great. Besides my mother wanted me to have a circle of friends at school. I had been to four different schools in six years of my primary school because the nature of my father's job.

During the high school years, I went to a boarding school and Lat attended an expensive school in town catered for students from Malay stream switching to English stream.
She never graduated from high school though. When she was in third year, her parents found out she was dating a young man six years older than her. That was it. They pulled her out from the schcool, which she enthusiastically accepted. She hated school, she told me when we ran into each other a few months back.
She married to her boyfriend few months before her sixteenth birthday. When she was seventeen, she had her first baby. The years followed she had another five children.
30 years later, like most of the girls in my class in those years, they are mothers of young women and men or grandmothers.
Wow................time sure zooming past me, past all of us.
34 years ago, everymorning Lat stopped by my house to school. She waited for me outside the gate and we walked together to school. Sometimes I waited for her when she was a little late. And now she is a grandmother.

Long after I talked to my sister, I kept thinking about Lat and all the girls I've known from my primary school years. I didn't have an opportunity to bond with any of them in my first four years at primary school. And when I was in high school I went to a boarding school, all the students came from different states. We took separates paths. We didn't keep in touch.
After I graduated, I moved in with my sister in Penang and worked in an electronic company. When ever I went back to my hometown to visit my parents, most of the girls from Standard Five and Six are married.I met a few of them, but we didn't have much to say. Some of them moved to another place to be with their husbands.

And for the boys from those two years, as far as I know, some of them are dead from drug abuse, eight of them I am sure are junkies. A few of them have been in and out from prison. Their crimes range from petty thiefs to drug posessions. Only four of them I met 12 years ago, are married and have children,and hold a decent jobs in our town.

Some of them I didn't see at all since we left the primary school. Probably they have become rich and run their own business, who knows? Life is like a wheel, sometimes we are on top and there are times we are at the bottom. But sometimes the wheels don't move at all.

The questions I've always have for the those girls are: Were they ready to get married when they got married at sixteen, seventeen or eighteen? Did they get married because that's what they wanted to? Or because that's what a young woman "supposed to do?"
Or they got married because they didn't want to be label as andartu as I was labeled when I was still single at 25?
Did they have a dream, like I did? Did they ever wondered what it was like to be able to travel, see places, meet new faces? I will never know.