How To Spend A Day Off

When I get days off as I do now, the weather outside may be outstanding like it was today, with just the right amount of sunlight, gentle spring breeze and the perfect number of clouds in the sky.

Being as inspiring a person as I am, I will spend it

in my room. Watching hours of Youtube. Reading a book. Snuggled up in bed. Afraid of sunlight. Playing the guitar. Singing love songs for no one. Eating unhealthy snacks. Not exercising.

I am not as cool as many people think that I am.

(I am, however, as cute as many people think that I am. Which is nobody at all.)

(and I can't bake 231 cupcakes.)

But then, once, in a long, long while, I will snap out of this funk, and I will do this.

I woke up about eleven a.m. today, and once again, someone had suggested the house needed spring cleaning. Somehow, I always end up doing it the moment someone else suggests it!

But today was a day well spent. I managed to clean the living room and kitchen area completely (ie. I redistributed the rubbish downstairs around the three bedrooms upstairs again!) and I went out with my housemate to lunch, did grocery shopping, visited the library, fixed the leaking washing machine, watched three episodes of Frasier, did the laundry, and refueled the car.

Which begs the question - what's there left to do tomorrow?

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For readers of my old blog, I had a trend of writing something current, and a flashback to the past. I was trying to do this in a chronological manner but I don't think it's working out. So, I'm just going to put it under the new heading as such:

Random Memories: 7 years old

Hands up if you've ever been rotaned in your primary school before! Since I was such a teachers' pet in primary school, I can only ever remember two incidents when I was caned.

I was seven when I walked into school one morning. A Malay boy, whose name was Hisham, and tall for his age, who decided that my name was too hard to pronounce, decided to call me gemuk (ie. fatty. fatty. boom. boom.) instead.

I took particular offense to this, and so I clambered on his back and pulled him to the ground.

In my little seven year old mind, this did not equal a fight. But some Indian boys who were about two or three years older than I was, and knew a fight when they saw one, hoisted me (which, if you saw how fat I was then, would have surprised you. Oh wait a minute. I was gemuk! Why did I take such insult to the Malay boy stating a fact?), and dragged me, literally kicking and screaming to the guru disiplin's office.

Discipline. Teacher. Who was like a teacher, you know. Soft spoken, eager to fill young minds with knowledge, loves children. But with a license to kill.

Our discipline teacher was a real bad ass, from his high receding hairline and shoulder length hair to his caterpillar-moustache. He looked like a police officer from whichever 1980s Malay movie you were watching.

I was thrust into his office by the Indian boys with the Malay kid being led by his elbow reluctantly behind me. Pleased with a morning's work well done, the Indian boys left the two of us to quake in front of Cikgu Inspector.

"Kenapa kamu gaduh dengan dia?" ("Why did you fight with him?")

"Dia panggil saya gemuk, cikgu." ("He called me a fatty, teacher.") I never looked up all this time, and peering over to my left, Hisham's head was bowed as well.

"Dia panggil kamu gemuk, kamu panggil lah dia balik! Tak payah lah gaduh!" he barked. ("He called you a fatty? Why didn't you just call him something in return? There's no need to fight!")

Andthenitranthroughmymind,whatamIsupposedtocallhimback?tinggi?(tall?)kurus?(skinny?)nothingwouldmatchthesheershameandpleasureofgemuk!(fatty!)

I remember being in his office, as each of us assumed the position. My head came up to see through the gaps in his windows, the other kids in assembly, singing Negaraku, oblivious, as the cane sang through the air and each of us earned our first primary school stripes.

We became really good friends after that, Hisham and I.