My mother

Dear reader,






Are you aware that it's Mother's Day today? Or at least it will be for another...one hour.


I was eating French toast with peanut butter and apricot jam just now, while simultaneously surfing the net and trying not to drip anything onto my ludicrously expensive Fujitsu-baby. An advert came on TV--yes, I was watching TV as well...who says I can't multi-task? I think it was for Prudential or something. It was this mother talking in an extremely annoying tone to her kid; like, "I love you, you're the best thing that's ever happened to me, I'll protect you and always keep you safe." I don't know, the way she enunciates gets on my nerves.


My mother was there with me, and I told her I hated that advert. Then she asked me, "Well, how would you talk to your child? Do you ever think of yourself as a mother?" I replied by first snorting, then shaking my head emphatically. She said when she was younger, her older sister (my aunt) never thought she'd be a good mother. "But now look at me. Mothering is all I seem to be doing."


She has four real children, and a score of 'adopted' children, from former students to my sister's boyfriend. You know those adults who just seem to understand young people without needing to try too hard? Yeah, my mum is one of them. She said it's funny how she was such a dysfunctional kid growing up, but now is seen as the 'motherly' type by all the young people we know. And when she says dysfunctional, she's not exaggerating. Her childhood was seriously dysfunctional. We keep telling her to write a memoir or something. I'd definitely read it. There was this one incident involving her older brother, hippies, a nudist camp, and tea. Yup. Remind me to tell you the story sometime.


Anyway, I wasn't really planning on posting much here. Just the token Mother's Day post. Happy Mother's Day, everyone. 

Oh, and by the way, the word 'mother' isn't just defined by a biological link. A mother can be anyone who guides you when you don't know what to do, who manages to teach you things by just being herself, who's not afraid to scold and rebuke you when you cross the line, and who's always there when you need her. A mother is a phenomenal woman, who just happens to care about you enough to look after you and love you.


Phenomenal Woman
by Maya Angelou
Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman

Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I adore Maya Angelou, don't you? So off you go, dear reader, and strive to become a phenomenal woman. Unless, of course, you are in fact male. In which case, I'm sorry to say, striving to become a phenomenal woman may not be the wisest course of action for you. Become a phenomenal man, then. I'm sure the world could use a lot more of those.

And so, with my token Mother's Day post done, I bid you adieu, dear reader. Til next time, I remain...


Yours,

Figgy the (Not At The Moment, But Future) Phenomenal Woman

This just in...

Dear Reader,

Just a quick post to say, "How're you doing?"; "Oh, I'm fine, thank you"; "What's new with you?"; and "Guess what! Guess what! I just uploaded a story onto DA!"

There are times when one simply must express one's feelings, or one would inevitably suffer from an emotional meltdown. Fortunately, this is not one of those times. I just thought it would be nice to inform you, dear reader, that my career as a fledgling author has now officially begun. You know, just give you a little heads up before you see my face plastered all over buses and bookstore display windows and TV screens. What? A girl can dream, can't she?

Anyway, like I said, I have just uploaded my first story onto DA. A truly exciting experience, if you must know. I actually have a few short stories from my old essay-writing days, all archived and organized neatly in my little pen drive. The reason I held back uploading them for so long was because I was afraid. Afraid of story thieves. Art thieves are bad enough, but story thieves...they're the absolute worst! The little plagiarisers!

Although DA does provide some sort of copyright law and story licence thingy that protects your stuff from being stolen by unimaginative dumbies who can't even make up a decent story by themselves, so they resort to pilfering and pillaging other people's blood, sweat and tears and passing it off as their own--wait, what was I saying again? Oh, right, copyright blah-blah-blah. But I still wasn't fully convinced, and I wasn't about to risk all my hard work on something that I wasn't 100% sure of. And then, last night, I finally decided to stop living in fear. No guts, no glory. No pain, no gain. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. And so on and so forth.

Also, as an extra precaution, the story I submitted wasn't one of my best ones anyway. So, even if--God forbid--someone really does steal it, I won't be totally devastated. Severely annoyed, probably. Livid, perhaps. But not, like, in a homicidal fit of rage or anything.

Okay, I said this would be a quick post, so I should probably go now. See you later, dear reader. Til next time, I remain...

Yours,

Figgy the Fledgling

or Authoress-in-Training

P/S: Click this! You know you want to!

A Random Story...

Dear Reader,





Would you like to hear a random story? For I am in a random-story-telling mood. Well, here goes...



Have you ever been approached by an individual with short-cropped hair, wearing a white shirt, plain tie and immaculately pressed trousers, often accompanied by at least one other, almost identically attired individual? Well, I have. Kind of.



Let me start from the beginning.





It was a perfectly normal day; the only remarkable occurrence being that almost the entire family [including me] was outside in the yard, enjoying the sunshine. My younger brother, Nethaniel, shirtless and perspiring heavily, was rambunctiously playing with the dogs. I was sitting on a rattan chair, situated directly in front of the side door, just in case the whole furry, panting group descended upon me and I needed to beat a hasty retreat.




My cousin, Linda--or Lini, as we all tend to call her--was pottering about the garden, doing something to the chilli plants, I believe. Or maybe she was starting a fire for us to roast marsh-mellows over, later in the evening. I don't quite remember that detail, but it isn't really relevant to this story. Moving on.



Our Indonesian maid, Julia, was near the front of our yard, collecting wood or sweeping leaves off the driveway, or some such thing. An industrious, bustling being, is Julia. She always seems to be busily employed doing something, but, to this day, I haven't managed to figure out just what that something is. Anyway, as I was saying, Julia was in the front part of the yard, and therefore she was the closest one to the Big Gate.




I espied the two aforementioned gentlemen from my rattan chair, which was quite a long way off from the Big Gate, actually. They were both carrying backpacks--though, to my everlasting regret, I didn't notice whether they were carrying them on the same shoulder or not--and were both about the same height and build, and they were both white...Caucasian, I believe, is the politically correct term.



My house is situated on a hill. Yes, very picturesque and interesting, my sentimental reader. But not if you're on foot, climbing your way to the top in the afternoon heat, hatless and in a long-sleeved dress shirt. There was a light breeze that day, though, if I recall correctly. So, it probably wasn't that bad for them. Oh, yes, I seem to remember their matching ties fluttering slightly in synchronization; or perhaps it's just my lively imagination at work.



However it was, I was fortunate enough to detect their impending arrival as they were still on the crown of the hill, ascending slowly, each holding what looked like a book in their hands. They were obviously from some religious group, bent on spreading their doctrine to all corners of the globe, on a mission to enlighten every unlucky native and heathen that they came across--or pursued, rather.



Without further hesitation, I jumped from my chair and proceeded to hide behind our car. The car, a Pajero, succeeded in shielding me from their otherwise penetrating gaze. I could still peek out from behind the fender without being seen, though. So I happily stayed where I was, leaving everything to Julia's capable hands.



The two strangers accosted Julia, and called her to come up to the Big Gate, which, incidentally, is kept closed at all times, for obvious reasons. Six reasons, actually. All of which came racing down the driveway at full speed, yapping and barking for all they were worth.



My cousin and brother, only now noticing the two closely-shaved gentlemen in earnest conversation with Julia, joined me behind the Pajero, giggling and 'shushing' each other like a couple of 8-year-old schoolgirls.



My younger sister, Daniella, was inside the house, and had come out to see what all the barking was about. We each gesticulated violently at her to keep quiet and to come join us in hiding. When she failed to comprehend our chaotic miming, I dragged her bodily towards the car and whisperingly updated her on our present condition.



Although we could see what was happening clearly enough, we were too far away to hear what was being said. Then, Julia suddenly turned around and called out each of our names in turn, her shrill voice almost drowned out by the incessant barking.



"Kak Lini!" A slight pause as she waited for a reply.

"Kak Bethany!" Again, no response.

"Daniella!" Yeah.

"Boy!" As a last resort.



That remote method of communication proving ineffective, she made her way up the driveway to seek us out, probably a bit puzzled by our sudden disappearance. As she came up to the side door, she saw the four of us crouching behind the Pajero. Using various gestures and hand signals, with liberal lifting of eyebrows and mouthing out of indistinguishable words, we managed to make her understand that we didn't want to meet these two strangers, and that we wanted her to make them go away. Julia dutifully walked back to the Big Gate to get rid of the two gentlemen, in the politest manner possible, of course.



After a short and, for the audience hiding behind the Pajero, muted conversation, the two gentlemen departed as suddenly as they appeared, apparently meaning to harass--I mean, enlighten our neighbours as soon as possible.



Later we asked Julia how she managed to dispatch them so expediently. She said she had informed them that they could not preach their doctrine here, as it was a Malay household. We all looked at her in disbelief. We thought perhaps she was making a joke. Surely they didn't fall such an obvious lie. Why, the entire time they were at the gate, there were six dogs barking at them. A Malay household indeed! At first we were incredulous. Then, when Julia assured us she wasn't making a joke, the funny side of the whole thing kicked in. I haven't laughed so hard in a long time.



Alright, if you aren't a Malaysian, you're probably a bit in the dark here. You see, my international reader, Malays are prohibited by their religion to come into contact with dogs. That means they can't even touch dogs, let alone keep one for a pet. Let alone six.



And so, there it is. My [mostly] true story. With a few literary embellishments here and there. Poetic licence, and all that.

I sincerely hope my little anecdote manages to cheer you up, dear reader. It certainly cheered me up, just by remembering it.

Well, it's that time again, my dear reader. Until next time; parting is such sweet sorrow...or whatever.







Yours,



Figgy the Storyteller