FFF...AAAAA.....CK

For the first time in a long time, I got off work shortly after 6:00 tonight. Hopped on a cab to Taikooplace for a not-entirely-unnecessary visit to the dentist before they closed at 6:30.

The trip wasn’t necessary because I already went for my appointment last week. It was not entirely unnecessary because I had forgotten to get a record for my visit, which I need in order to claim the $400 dental scheme fee back from my company’s medical insurance plan.

Arrived at the clinic at 6:15 and, since I had called in advance to make the arrangements, I was outta there in 10 seconds.

One second I was walking out the door of Oxford House, the next second I was on the ground in excruciating pain. I don’t actually know what happened, but apparently I didn’t see the curb and had stepped off it, sprained my ankle and fell. I could barely get up from the ground. Thank God there were a couple of bystanders nice enough to help me up.

I sat on the curb right on the top of the slope where cars come charging up from the underground parking lot. Naturally, I caused a scene curled up in a ball on the side of the road while trying to think of the closest place I could go to for proper treatment. Before long, someone from the building management office attended to me. He was more attentive than the dream boyfriend. I mean, he had every reason to be nice to me considering the liability that could translate from my unfortunate incident. But he could’ve easily fooled me for being genuine and sincere.

He asked if I worked in one of the offices above, I told him I was only there for the dentist. Then it occurred to me the clinic I just came out of had an attending general practitioner (along with a Chinese medicine practitioner and a physiotherapist.) It was only a couple minutes before their scheduled closing time, so Mr Nice called the clinic and made sure they waited while he escorted me there.

I don’t know if it was the pain, or the adrenaline from the trauma, but I was so dizzy I almost passed out. So I caused another scene curled up in a ball on the lobby sofa for another few minutes before making my way to the third floor.

The doctor was ready for me soon as I filled out the patient’s info form. As ironic as I thought it was that I just happened to have painted my toenails yesterday to kill time in the middle of November which I consider way past sandals season, I was glad I did. Bless the doctor who had to miss his 6:30 off time to wait only to smell my stinky foot. He asked which way I sprained the ankle and I couldn’t tell him. The inside and the outside of the ankle throbbed about the same, and judging by the amount of pain I was feeling, I was pretty sure my foot had done a full 360, snapped off at the ankle and magically reattached itself all in that one second’s time. Dr Kwok said to me more than once that it’s rare for people get a fracture from a sprain. But I’m quite sure I’d be going back to prove him wrong two days from now.

Back to the lobby sofa was as far as I could get to unless I were to resort to crawling on my hands and knees. It’s starting to look like the $400 I expect to get reimbursed may not be able to cover the cab fares.

Uninspired

I'm turning 30 in two months and I don't think I've ever been this lost in my life.

I'm not worried about getting laid off. I'm not at a dead-end job. But I just don't like it, anymore. The economy's crap and no matter how good an opportunity looks, it's probably a bad idea to switch.

I'm making a comfortable living, but I'm not living. I spend my weekends catching up on sleep and Prison Break, recovering from one form of illness or another, and googling activities that might have the slightest chance of putting some meaning or at least passion in my life. I'm thinking dance lessons or volunteer work or something. With my weeknights I try to figure out how to fit some combination of these activities in my schedule and where to find the energy to follow through with them.

I'm in desperate need of a long vacation. But I've been told that this time of the year is off limits when it comes to taking leave from work.

The only things I'm looking forward to now is my year-end double pay, the opening of New York Fries in TST, and Will Ferrell's Cowbell skit in tonight's episode of "Best of SNL" coming up in 15 minutes. But with retailers all over town folding faster than you have time to pay last visits, New York Fries may be a long shot.

It's Cute, I Guess

J: There’s Transformers at IMAX!
Me: Really?
J: Yeah! I saw an ad in the paper today. Do you want to watch it?
Me: Sure.

***

J: Ke ke ku ku ke ke (Transformers noises)
Me: Oh, I almost forgot we were going to watch that.
J: Yeah! In 2D!
Me: You mean 3D.
J: 2D.
Me: It’s in 2D? As in the one we’ve already seen 20 times?
J: What? Wasn’t that 1D?
Me: …

The New Drama Queen

How bad is it that whenever my TV/computer starts buzzing from a nearby cell phone signal, I immediately find myself secretly hoping it's not a certain person calling me to tell me more about her problems.

I never use up the 1,000 minutes of talk time covered by my monthly mobile service package. I simply haven't liked talking on the phone since I left highschool. I'm not a talker. And I'm a very selective listener. Your drama is hardly ever worth my time. The only advice I have to give, if any, is probably not what you want to hear. Comforting words are not my thing; I'm really more the sarcastic comments kind of girl. Bottom line is: If I cared enough, I'd call you.

Maybe if you were a little less self-absorbed, you'd take a minute to note that I don't always have the time to hear you out, regardless of the power talking skills you flaunt, and that I have my own problems to deal with. Not that I'd tell you much though.

See You Next Tuesday

Who knew the first time I was called a "cxnt" would happen in Hong Kong? Although its Cantonese equivalent is commonly used as a curse word among ma-lud-los and teenagers, this English word is simply unheard of among the Chinese population. (Except for those cases where people mispronounce words like "account" in phrases like "Everybody needs account.")

Surely, I wasn’t being called “account”. A seemingly well-educated young Chinese man wearing suffocating cologne yelled “cxnt” in my ear in perfect American English, along with “fxcking bxtch” and something along the line of “If you don’t leave by the end of this movie I’ll send you to a fxcking morgue.” His bursting out was a clear indication that he was well aware that his talking (not whispering) was too loud and that his turning The Banquet into a Q&A session with his girlfriend was annoying the hell out of the rest of us. He just didn’t expect anyone to actually speak up and tell him, the almighty king, to keep it down.

Is this Hong Kong? I’ve come across too many rude people (not discourteous, but so outrageously rude it leaves me in disbelief) in the past few months to believe there’s still hope. It’s almost embarrassing to be part of this city.

Prisoner of War

For a good three years now, I'd been lucky enough to be hidden from our most notorious client. From the few glances I'd managed to take of her without making myself visible some time last year, I vaguely recall Ms Sung looking like a typical si lai, except from what I hear, she's single and desperate.

"Pleasant, but in a creepy way" is how my chief describes her. She has a mental record of practically everyone in our company, by name, job duty and seating arrangement. She never hesitates to ask for help, either over the phone or in person, with things that are far out of our service range.

I was surrendered as the newest prisoner of war a couple of days ago. My guess is that she originally called for my chief, but because he was unavailable, asked to talk to someone who presumably knew enough to answer her English questions—our CEO, who then conveniently referred her to me. She had a long list of words she wanted to know how to pronounce. Under normal circumstances, teaching someone, anyone, the pronunciation of a few words isn't too much to ask of me, even in times like now when I'm up to my eyebrows with urgent/overdue work. The problem was that Ms Sung now knows of my existence, which my more considerate colleagues have made a point of concealing from her all this time.

The chain reaction has already kicked in. Before I've even digested my breakfast this morning I got Ms Sung on line 3 with yet another list of words, which is so random that it can’t possibly have anything to do with her work. Today’s vocabulary included "omen" and "furious". It was too bad she hadn't asked for usage examples. "I knew getting stuck in traffic this morning was bad omen…I’m furious that my boss sold me out."

It's obvious that what Ms Sung needs isn't our trade promotion services, an electronic dictionary or phonetics lessons, but human interaction. I feel sorry for her, especially knowing that one of these days, she's going to call me at the worst possible time, and I'm going to do what none of my colleagues have had the guts to do—hang up.

Top This!

I’ve always believed that the effect of emotional pain far exceeds any physical pain. But as it turns out, the pulsing soreness and piercing twinge of a toothache provide just about the most effective distraction to everything else.

There’s a long list of dental surgeons at the dental center I go to, but I was lucky enough to be assigned to Dr Chan on my first visit and I’ve stuck with her ever since. Given how terrified I am of going to the dentist, I never would’ve thought anything could’ve comforted me. But Dr Chan proved to be a miracle worker with her gentleness. She’s like the tender mother I never had. There was one time when Dr Chan wasn’t available and I had to go to Dr Ng. Dr Ng is male, young, and quite good-looking (as far as I could tell from what his face-mask wasn’t covering anyway). So I was quite taken aback when I called to make an appointment a few days ago and the receptionist asked if I wanted to see Dr Ng. From the amount of pain I was experiencing I knew this visit would lead to the agonizing procedure of a root canal that would require multiple visits, and Dr Chan would be much needed by my side. And come on, the only thing more anxiety-inducing than getting a root canal is getting one with a young good-looking doctor staring at my cavities the whole time. What was the receptionist thinking?

For the most excruciating pain, you need a really caring dentist and lots of anesthetic. I’d say I have a pretty high tolerance for physical pain, but not when drilling is involved. They should highlight on my patient record that I need extra anesthetic so that I wouldn’t have to ask for it each time. I ended up getting enough to keep my tongue, chin, and the whole left side of my mouth completely numb for the rest of the evening, so much so that swallowing became a challenge. The tricky part is that the pain comes back quicker than the sensation. So by the time I needed pain medication I was still struggling to control my drooling.

The sound of the high-speed drill may give you the chills, but it’s the vibration of the low-speed drill that’s going to send the hairs on your big toes standing. I knew I had to do something to distract myself or I would’ve been overcome with an anxiety attack. So I retrieved from my memory what was handily stored from last week’s rerun on ATV, and found myself singing repeatedly in my head:

We're off to see the Wizard
The Wonderful Wizard of Oz
We hear he is a Whiz of a Wiz
If ever a Wiz there was
If ever, oh ever, a Wiz there was
The Wizard of Oz is one because
Because, because, because, because, because
Because of the wonderful things he does
We're off the see the Wizard
The Wonderful Wizard of Oz

We often hear anaolgies regarding toothaches, usually in the form of "I'd rather _____ than have a toothache." After these past few days, there's really not many things I wouldn't fill that blank with. I'm really grateful to be under the care of Dr Chan though. She might just be the whiz of the wiz. I’m sending her a gift basket when this is all over. And the gift basket will not contain Godiva chocolates.

The antecedent (Thanks M!)

Put to the Test

I was trying on some pants at a store yesterday, in a stall where there was a big curtain instead of a door. I was back in my own clothes and just looking in the mirror, dabbing on some lipgloss when I heard a big "shaaat" behind me. An obviously not-so-bright sales girl had yanked my curtain wide open. She stood there traumatized. I stared at her wide-eyed (as much as my China-doll eyelids would allow), half waiting for her to close the curtain, half expecting an apology. She did neither.

This is the kind of idiocy I complain about all the time.

After the initial three-second pause, the girl managed to put into words the obvious, that: 1) she thought nobody was in the stall; and 2) she was shocked upon seeing me inside the stall. It wasn't until I said "You scared ME" that she finally realized I probably wanted what little privacy I had left to finish glossing my upper lip, and closed the curtain.

I truly think she was really lucky that I was fully dressed the moment her head had lost blood circulation. If I had been so much as tying my shoelaces when she barged in, I know my inner angry bitch would've been released, and my inner angry bitch would've made a scene by chewing someone's head off. Little does this sales girl know that I have connections with the HR department in their chain's head office. Any complaint I was to file could've easily jumped the queue.

I stood in front of the mirror for another half a minute, contemplating whether I should still make the purchase. Under normal circumstances I would've stormed out of the store and not return to it for the next two months. But under normal circumstances any pants I have eyes for at a store like this wouldn't have fitted me so well. So I decided I'd just pay for the pants and get the hell out.

With that extra half minute, the not-so-bright sales girl had clearly contemplated over how to face me when I come out of the stall. Still, the idea of apologizing hadn't rung any bell in that size-zero head of hers, which I began to think I should've chewed off. Instead, she readily described to me how the mishap occurred. She explained that the usual practice of their staff is to open the curtain a tiny crack and peep inside to see if it's occupied, and that, apparently, it was my bad to have been standing at her blind spot in that 1m x 1m floor space. Before I could shoo her off with my signature whatever eyeroll, another sales girl came up and offered to help me with my purchase, giving her an I'll-handle-it wink.

The apology I was no longer expecting finally came, when I was standing in front of the storage room waiting for a new pair of pants. Finally, genuine embarrassment made its way on the face of the not-so-bright sales girl, who said sorry over and over again, almost bowing to me. My anger had already been taken over by impatience by then, but I couldn't bring myself to say "it's alright" to her, as it certain wasn't alright. So I just gave her a nod and turned away. That's just how stingy I am.

Trial Walker

There are some things you'd never consider trying.

There are some people who'd manage to persuade you into trying what you'd never considered.

There are some things that once you'd started you'd have a strong desire to complete well.

There are some things you know will either happen now or never.

There are some people who'd lure you into some things with them, then give up on you at the first sign of your weakness.

Then there are some people who, despite having nothing to do with the matter at hand, support you in the most practical ways.

There are some people who will feel your not taking part is a pity.

Then there are some who will applaud that for it marks the end to their burden.

God knows I tried.

Invasion of the Red Indian

How can something most people take for granted, or even loathe, be so unattainable for me?
 
Having lived as the organic white banana for so many years, I was determined to get a tan this summer. My chance finally came last weekend, at the company boat trip. While every other white-skin-fanatic female colleague put on her SPF 150 sunscreen, I go to my good old SPF 4.
 
There is simply nothing more stupid than leaving your sunscreen lotion on the boat while you spend the day on the beach. I spent four-plus hours trotting water under the partly cloudy sky. But God knows what little time it takes for seawater to wash out sunscreen.
 
As soon as the first swipe of a towel across my face, I knew I was in for at least four days of excruciating pain. My face and entire upper body was the color of burning charcoal, only leaving behind the perfect cut out of my bikini top.
 
For four days, my blister-covered back kept me from sleeping, strands of hair felt like razor blades brushing against my back, my left eyelid was double the thickness of my right, my cheeks and nose was at a constant tone of RGB 240/50/180, children cry and adults gasp for air at the sight of me.
 
Today is day 5. Before the healing, there's the peeling. The bits of dead skin cells hanging on my clothes give the impression that I suffer from a dandruff problem and the constant itching and (hence) scratching suggest that I must be carrying some kind of contagious skin disease. So, still, children cry and adults gasp for air at the sight of me.
 
But what the hell, for the first time in my life I'm tanned. I give it a week and a half before it fades. Yes, on the organic white banana, tans fade.

999

I was a kindie when I called 999 (Hong Kong's version of 911) for the first time. Two policemen came up to our home as a result, and, since that day, my mom hesitated at every attempt to go grocery shopping during my nap.

Twenty years later I took advantage of the free emergency calls service on my mobile and dialed the three-digit number to report a car accident.

It happened three days ago, right in front of me. A motorcyclist stamped on the brakes and barely missed killing a fourth grader crossing the street. The kid was in need of nothing more than post-trauma therapy while the motorcyclist seemed to have suffered from a few broken bones.

I'm not taking either side as I'm officially filed in the police records as a witness. But if anyone was wrong, it had to be the swarms of people hovering the scene of the accident. I understand that a car accident could be the most fascinating thing that would ever happen in a boring neighborhood such as Shau Kei Wan, but as if blocking traffic wasn't bad enough, some openly called the traumatized kid inhumane, while the others suggested all kinds of possibilities of how the accident occurred, most of them sounding as if they saw it in a documentary.

The amount of fascination that crowd had shown makes it obvious how the true idol will be a platinum seller. People just love to see extraordinary things happen to ordinary people.

Trial and Error

What does it mean when a red exclamation point in a circle lights up on your dashboard? It's really hard to tell when everything seems to be working just as they should and black smoke isn't coming from anywhere. And depending on the brand and model you're cruising in, the possibilities could just be endless.

I should have known. The amount of doubt I've had all along was too great to have been disregarded. It was definitely negative omen, a neon yellow arrow pointing the opposite direction.

In my opinion, 90 minutes of Ashtanga yoga is too hardcore to be offered as a trial session, for a beginner who only wants to take advantage of a freebie anyway. (Though for as many more times as I'd have to talk about this episode the rest of my life I'd remember to blame it on the lack of air circulation in the 30'x30' room with the aroma of perspiration off seven other people.) In everyone else's opinion, a person as physically retarded as I've proven to be should not be as headstrong as I try to be.

The preliminary yoga my religion teacher demonstrated in high school was no valid representation of the real stuff. Chanting "om" in the lotus position just doesn't begin to tell you the work involved in the to-be-Olympic sport.

Approximately 50 minutes into the session, in the midst of an attempt to have my chin touch my shin while sitting with my "left heel up against my anus" (I'm quoting the instructor here) and my disjointed arms locked behind my strained back, it happened. The red exclamation point in a circle flashed before my eyes, along with the Big Dipper. My fingertips began to tremble at 30 when they should have been at 90 degrees to the floor. My legs fell asleep four seconds into locking a lotus. My heart was beating at the rate an electronic toothbrush swivels. Every part of my body except my mind was telling me to stop.

I broke down at precisely the 89th minute of the 90-minute session. Not only were all warning lights on my dashboard lit and flashing. I could see a roadblock set right in front of me, and sirens were wailing in my head. And yes, black smoke came from the cracks of the hood. None of these went away for the next three and a half hours. Each and every part of my body was punishing me for not having stopped. I should have watched the rpm. I should have stopped for gas. I should not have made that last sharp turn.

I have yet to recover from this state of shock I'm still experiencing from the traumatic episode. I have officially had a close call. Should I give out the impression that yoga got me all Zen anytime in the near future, don't be fooled, I'm just dazed.