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Friday, March 18, 2005

This is the new shit

The only thing worse than losing your job is having lost your job while still having to mark a giant pile of test papers, or more specifically literature test papers that take forever to grade properly. Of course, I am so so tempted to throw responsbility (and the unmarked test scripts) to the four winds. But as nasty and as tactless as I know myself to be, I am sure that's just my PMS talking. And the thought of a hapless NIE trainee handling my Normal Tech classes makes me smugly gleeful, in a schadenfreude kinda way.

Curiously, it seems that before every class outing, I lose my job. I hope this tradition doesn't carry on. I would have to dread class reunions when I'm into my thirties for fear of losing my rice bowl. My numerous scholarship applications also appear to be having a severely demoralising effect. Today should be the deadline. But it looks so bleak that I can't bring myself to be too concerned.

Circumstances are sure making it hard for me to be happy!

And we are still uncertain whether there are still termites in the cupboards. A few days ago, after my Grandmama was done washing up the dirt-encrusted china and cutlery, her fingers (already swollen hard and knobbly from generations of housework and cleaning - most of her finger nails now look as if they were stuck in as an afterthought) started hurting from the large amounts of detergent used. Past experience has already taught me that the elderly can be mightily tough - such as the time when my Grandmama accidentally sliced off the tip of her index finger using a large pair of scissors and started bleeding all over the floor (while still managing to scold me for my incompetence and inefficiency). She quite plainly noted how it looked worse than her usual cuts because she could see the tiny red holes in her flesh, her capillaries. For those who've read Plath's Cut: I sure wouldn't be waxing philosophical if my sliced open finger was refusing to clot!

To dampen the throbbing pain in her swollen fingers, Grandmama instructs me to get the flask of hot water and pour it into a metal basin. The next step seemed logical enough. At times like this, the whole schbang about we being a pampered generation, turned soft and spoilt rings loud and true. Without hesitation or flinching, my Grandmama puts both her hands into the hot water, soaking and rubbing them as though temperature didn't mean a difference.

I wondered how hot the water really was... Although I wouldn't want to find out for myself.

en at 11:00 am