28 August 2009
I'm in a rather foul mood right now.
Ohmygoodness, every tile and brick in this house is reeking of decaying fleas and bacteria (if bacteria decays at all). See, my brother's always paid to keep some random persons' dogs for months when they're too busy to attend to their own pups. And not a newly-born at that. Always a huge, hairy, 2-year-old puppy they have. And poor dog always being left alone, never unleashed, Ivo being his only companion .. Ivo who isn't exactly the most sociable dog in town, and doesn't bother with an attempt to be one gracious host because he knows those new tenants won't linger around permanently.
My brother couldn't have had more time to himself worrying about other people's dogs. So they take a bath as often as say .. oh, never. And that's it, they load on themselves a hoard of smelly, disgusting stuff. It's not the first time I'm blogging and furying over people's dogs. I'm not resenting your dogs, but don't call yourself a stinking master for shoving your responsibilities into our face. For God's sake, it's not like you're leaving them for days or weeks. You're ditching them for months; you're practically walking out on your dogs and I feel sorry for them.
Why did you even bother having one in the first place if time and hassles are of your concern. Don't say you didn't see that coming.
I feel like snaring your necks and tie you in your own gardens for 3 months and leave you smelling like a rotten meat, all you filthy irresponsible dog-owners. See how you'd like that, because I'm searing badly for your dogs inside.
Okay. I'm glad to have that out of my system.
Here's on a brighter note:
I'm a waitress.
Oh yes I am.
I've been in it for a week now and I do have much to say to it.
This sounds like I'm being a total nutcase, but I actually love being a waitress. It's not the most horrid job in the Universe, that much I can say. It's not the easiest one either, but I find much pleasure working as one.
I'm starting to think that I might've inherited my Mum's 'Live-to-Serve' gene policy. I didn't find it nice, considering the years that my Mum's lived through accommodating my quite-obnoxious grandma, who is indeed a very difficult person to please.
But waitressing is a whole new thing for me - I never knew what happens behind the counter and in the kitchen; I never knew what it feels like to serve instead of being served; I never knew it's such a backbreaking job. I'd worked 11:00-23:00 for 3 consecutive days. For each night and the mornings that I woke up to, my entire fibres had ached from bone to core. I dreaded getting my ass off my bed every morning; my feet hurt against the flat soles of my slippers and shoes when I trod; I felt asthmatic and short of breath on those journeys to the other end of Singapore, but all was gone the moment I doned on my waitressing gear. And consciously or subconsciously, I look forward to seeing new people walking through the door so I could pull out chairs for them, lay out napkins on their laps, place menu booklets in their hands, and finally ask if they'd like still water or sparkling water.
I enjoyed every minute of it, or maybe, just maybe, I have yet to see some nasty customers. But I find myself smiling so much that I doubt anyone would try not to be nice to me. hahahh.
Since I started working, I have never again looked at waiters and waitresses with the same pair of eyes. You know, I think everyone in the Universe ought to do this at least once in their lifetime.
It bothers me a little, though, that no one person in the two places I work in knows how to pronounce my name.
I had the pleasure of meeting some of my Primary School mates in Indonesia whom I've honestly and shamefully forgotten, if not for their familiar faces. We'd gone back to visit our Kindergarten and Primary School before I left them for good. I guess when I left then, I'd completely closed the chapters and ready to begin a new one. I was the bashful and the quiet lass, the shortest and the tiniest chip in class (though one of the cleverest too - lol), so there were few things out of the ordinary that worthed my rememberance.
And what I didn't remember was how my friends had called me.
So after almost 10 years of complete loss of contact, we've finally rekindled ourselves with our Kindergardten and Primary School days.
'Twas lovely. And boy was it funny too.
I never knew, or rather I can't seem to remember, that I had been called "Jo-Un" as in the Phonetic Alphabet "dƷoa:n" instead of, uh, "dƷoun". If that's even correct.
It's not even pronounced as "Jo-anne".
And I felt weird being called "Jo-Un".
Since then, I came back to Singapore and nobody has ever pronounced my name correctly. Suddenly, it's "Jo-anne" or "June" or "Joe".
Or for my Italian manager, I am "Ʒoa:n".
For once a moment I'd forgotten my name is simply Joan.
'Curtsied | 4:19 PM
Painted.Daisy
