Exclamation

Cases of being technologically handicapped have been repeated over the past decade, and unlike myths and folklore, the narrative structures remain more or less firm.

What differs though, and is thus interesting, is how people react [to being technologically handicapped]. For my friend Lisa, who qualifies for the Trophy of Forgetfulness, if one existed, her day passes in a hungover state, and everything turns to a tragedy. The first time she left for work without her mobile phone, she left ten minutes later than her usual time, and found herself in a traffic jam that budged inches every few seconds. Still believing she could make it just in time, she reached for her phone, which she always kept in a specific pocket in her bag, incidentally designed for a mobile phone – in case of emergencies, which was always the case where using her mobile phone was concerned. Tomorrow was Friday night, may as well fire texts to Andy and Gina and make plans! A few more inches of budging later, her handbag contents were strewn over the passenger seat and panic struck.

An hour later, the overcast sky had decided to shower its contents on Lisa, who was waiting grumpily for a tow-truck to help get her car and herself safely back on the street. Lisa, in desperation, had jumped her way through two lanes of cranky, honking motorists, driven onto the grass patch divider and tried to turn back home. Except the wheels of her Honda had refused to be put through that pressure.

Looking grizzly and huffing her way through the office doors two hours later, the day wasn’t to be kind. End-of-week reports failed to print, forcing her to stay late, she spilled her lunch soup over her skirt and her book, and got into a tiffy with her co-workers, about which, to this day she has never spilled the beans. All you’ll get out of her is “oh, silly silly stuff! They just can’t cope!”

‘Neither can you’, I remind her, to which she crunches her nose and turns away with a knowing grin.

Neither can I, really.

My reactions are less dramatic. If I work close-enough to home, I will drive out at lunch and get my phone. Sometimes, I like to bask in a feeling of anticipation of what unexpected messages I’d have received when I get home at the end of the day – you know, maybe I’d be rewarded for my patience and rationality with an unexpected text from a long-distance friend! This anticipation is not always satisfied – or needed. Especially not when I am forced to wait it out till 5 p.m., then rush home, dashing through orange (no, never red! Not me!) lights and swerving like a mad-hatter to change lanes – all this if this was the one day that my communication with the outside world depended on this small wired-and-chipped box!

What I’ve done once before is email all my friends and get them to email me (or call the work landline) with anything – the latter a hopeless suggestion. The day I did that I neither received emails nor texts. Either no one had anything to say or plan, or everyone decided they’d laugh and make me wait till I met my beloved again; for sure enough, I got bombarded with texts that night and the following day.

And now we’ve moved to our new flat and are living with no internet or phone connection, and mobile reception is pretty much non-existent!

We’ve coped - just about.

It is now Generation Y taking over – as young as ten years of age. They might make our tales something of a myth, as their tales over-ride with melodrama and tragedy.

Silly, silly stuff indeed!

Signature Range Oringinal Snack Crackers

Writing out Christmas cards and posting overseas parcels two weeks instead of two days before Christmas makes me feel good – unlike my usual last-minute panic. So thankfully, this year’s cards have me lovingly scribbling “Merry X’Mas!” instead of I’MSOSORRYTHISCARDISLATE!!” Shows how dedicated I am to the festive season. Not that I’ve never been – tis’ my favourite festival of the year!

Ironically, this year’s dedication does not transition into excitement.

It starts with writing family Christmas cards. I have to write two separate cards for Mom and Dad this year, the first time I’ve ever had to do this. Dad has postponed his Christmas holiday to the New Year, and Mom is disappearing off on an overseas holiday (which she deserves). Ok so it doesn’t sound like such a big deal, but it’s a little sad. Especially seeing as New Years’ eve brings around their 25^th Wedding Anniversary.

This year, I’m also being more practical about gift giving and conscious about saving. No doubt, every time I walk into a store, the bright SALE signs threaten to hypnotise me, but I’ve managed to swerve past them while scoring a few bargains –being mindful of which sales score my moola! I’ve made myself proud.

Hopefully, I won’t let the pride slip on Boxing Day; I already have a list of things I need. That could dangerously turn into everything I don’t want!

Pre-new year resolution: learn to resist splashing into my money pool – step and float in it instead.

Funcrastination

Temping over the weekend as a tour guide in a Retirement Village brought me more than an extra buck. I unexpectedly got the chance to revive my sense of mischievous fun, despite personal ethics that dictate otherwise.

It was my first time as a tour guide here, but not Danny’s. No, he knew how the quiet times in these seven-hour days could bore your brains out of you, even if you brought along your favourite book, or could watch telly. We literally spent two of those seven hours on tours. Within two hours of me maintaining my professionalism and having run out of questions to ask my fellow tour guide about himself and his life thus far, I was itching for something to do. The book I’d brought along provided no solace, and I had absorbed the Weekend Herald like a sponge.

Danny uncannily seemed to capture my thoughts and within minutes, his phone-cum-iPod ignoring his pleas for entertainment, the first impressions I had formed of Danny – smartly presented in crème firmly-pressed trousers, matched with a stylish blue vest and croc shoes, who worked as a receptionist as a prestigious Advertising Agency – remained, but now took me on an amusing turn into his cheeky world.

He helped hasten my weekend of polite greetings and conversations with Generation W to one of tricks and laughs with this generation. As depleted as this may sound, it was a means to amuse our young, restless minds. And no doubt we will have Nana jokes spewing on us – if we ever get to that age, what with all the junk we soak our organs in these days!

It started with cutting out magazine prints of Fergie’s face – the magazine’s condition nearly as old as her, with the face of it crumbled and the leaves torn in half. This was followed by Danny scribbling blue ink into her dull-looking eyes, then some more gushing out of her partially-parted lipstick-ridden mouth. This image, altered only with amateur-applied blue ink, was transferred into such a ghastly sight, it threatened to haunt my sleep for nights to come! Nevertheless, it brought belly-giggles, with tears streaming down our now-red faces. My narrowed sense of fun was challenged by all that was to come.

Having achieved amusement with this ghastly-looking transformation, we decided to venture into the world of abstract art. We experimented by sticking this face on a painting of a pretty lass daintily sitting on a chair, looking solemn against dark drapes drawn in tight folds, with her head on a right-angle and dropping down ever so subtly. Her navy-blue velvet robe flowed seamlessly to cover the feet. And once again, what a transformation! Fergie’s photo-shopped dirty-blonde streaks a-shambles after a wild night on the London streets replaced the lass’s neat strawberry-blonde hair in what seemed a cruel manner. Our belly-giggles turned to belly-laughs, which soon turned to polite stone-faces when we were interrupted by retiring ‘tourists’ with apprehensive expectations.

This was refreshing in a way, for me at least, as it made me take time out from the utter madness of what I’d gotten into and to re-think if my sudden sense of crooked fun was innocent enough to not harbour guilt.

After more or less having sold a unit to a now relieved couple, I returned to see that Danny had jumped the ladder; with the ripped celebrity magazine no where to be seen, boredom had crept through him like a virus, plunging him into a fever of frantic antics. Fergie’s fermented face was now plastered on the Events board in the hallway and he had erased dates and times and replaced them. The 8.30 a.m. exercise that was being carried out by Banica, was now at 7.30 a.m. and being carried out by Manic. Other words were replaced with ones that would shock the daylights out of any granny, which I shall leave censored.

And so it went. Dining tables had name tags of where people sat everyday to have their meals. My simple suggestion, an hour before we took our leave, that they may get bored having to dine with the same people everyday got Danny to swap all the names. This brought suspicion to Annie, a resident and supposed president of the Retirement Community village, who is distracted by twirling her into conversation about her life – something everyone past 60 seems to love to chatter about. Having had a lovely convo with me – who she called ‘little love’ – she turned to Danny, who having done his cruel deed, was only too keen to get away from chatter with her. Yet he turned his sly smile to a sweet one (you couldn’t tell the difference if you did not know what he was up to), introduced himself as Richard and said he was at University studying Philosphy of Ethics. This greatly impressed Annie who trotted away happily, much to Danny’s relief. I, on the other hand, wanted to continue our convo of her days spent travelling as a Red District worker and then as a teacher (in Biology).

By Sunday, Danny had a dementia patient chasing him for turning light and fan switches on and off. Her complaints to nurses and the receptionist were ignored as Danny spun a story, blatantly lying that the only times he did turn switches on were to present the halls to our buying ‘tourists’ and then he’d turn them off. What an easy buy! His demeanour was as convincing as Eve’s apple and his pretty-looks deceived the staff like no tomorrow.

The picture Danny had stuck to the white-board was forgotten by him and was blamed on yet another dementia patient who cut magazine pictures of celebrities and glued them to his bedroom walls. It was now a communal fear that he was now slipping out at night to commit his deeds outside his room!

Did I not harbour a sense of guilt, you ask? a) Yes it did, but Danny had poisoned me with his antic virus and those belly-giggles surfaced again and erupted into belly-laughs. But b) although I was a keeper of these sly secrets, I was also Danny’s audience, not a partner in crime. I could have been easily, to me, I had crossed a line, and I wasn’t motivated to further my journey at that point. Admittedly, my ethics met my indulgent and somewhat crooked sense of humour half-way. Almost.

Meeting Danny helped turn a stone for me. My school-days saw me break rules and still be smart about it. Post-school saw an end to that. And Danny made me realise how much I miss that.

So, here’s to a New year resolution (and for the first time, I have a list. Also for the first time, I intend to see myself through a resolution): indulge a lot more in the lighter side of life! Hopefully that will not always mean crooked humour, but as the saying goes, if you abide by all the rules, you ain’t gonna have no fun!