Spelling Shame

Having to frequently reserve plane tickets by phone, I have to spell my own name using military code so that the ticketing officer I happen to speak with won't mispell my considerably peculiar nun-like name. Foxtrot-Romeo-Alpha-November-Sierra-India-Sierra-Kilo-Alpha. Space. Alpha-November-Double Golf-Romeo-Alpha-India-November-India.

I can only fluently spell mine, for frankly speaking, I don't really bother memorizing all the 26 alphabeth in the military code.

Problems arose when I dated foreign lads having even more weird names than mine and we planned to get away on a vacation somewhere. I would be the one who was in charge for making all the reservations needed since they didn't speak the language.

When I was seeing a guy having "Van" for a surname, my mind was totally blocked when I was to spell the letter 'v' during an attempt to book a flight. After forcing my little brain to think of something that could replace the letter to no avail, I finally burst out in a weak, half embarrassed voice:"'V' as in vagina."

"Excuse me?" The ticketing officer queried in a high-pitched voice. He either couldn't hear what I just said or couldn't believe what he just heard.

"'V'... as in ... vagina," Vanishing my shame all at once, I repeated it in an even weaker voice.

"You mean 'v' as in victory?"

"Oh yes, I meant that!"

Since that on, I then printed out all the 26 alphabeth in military code from the Internet and stuck it on my desk, that next time I had to make reservations for people with names other than Foxtrot-Romeo-Alpha-November-Sierra-India-Sierra-Kilo-Alpha. Space. Alpha-November-Double Golf-Romeo-Alpha-India-November-India, I wouldn't have to make fool of myself again.

Another Letter To J

I might have told both people and myself how I actually never liked you as a person. But you know what, I did miss you when I was out on the open sea. Especially when I realized there was nobody to encourage me anymore to jump into the water and snorkel. Let alone taking a 3-day diving course. I did need that kind of encouragement, especially when I had signed myself up for a snorkeling but then turned out to not have enough guts once I saw a sea snake from the small boat I was on.

Not only your words of encouragement I missed. I missed your helping me with my snorkeling gears so I could just easily wear them. And I also missed sharing a cigarette with you after you finished diving and I finished snorkeling. As puffing either your Marlboro or my Sampoerna, we would exchange stories of what we had seen down there in open water. Then I would envy you so much when you told me you just saw a stingray manta or a hammerhead shark while diving. And you would tell me to stop green envying you by start taking a diving course. "So we can dive and see the mantas or sharks together," that's what you would usually say, which I would usually reply: "But I fear the sea snakes!" You would then call me sissy and usually that would be the end of our to-or-not-to-take-diving-course argument, which was to be continued in our next diving-snorkeling session.

The sea was never the same without you.

Even the fish market I went to afterwards was so different without you. I could vividly imagine how you must have enjoyed seeing all the abundant fresh fish and seafood. I saw baby sharks and how the vendors cold-bloodedly cut the fins out of the poor things. They make good money out of the fins for sure. And I bet you can't imagine how surprisingly inexpensive tuna was there! You still like tuna, don't you? I still can't cook but I could imagine myself clumsily thin slicing the tuna I just bought to make you sashimi. Yes, the setting would be in our little kitchen of our house located by the sea.

On a more brutally honest note, one of my Bali trip purposes was to forget my chapter with you so that I could move on to another. But once I set my foot on the island, all I wanted to do was keep all the good memories I had with you. Why should I not, right?

I missed you. The worse thing is, I don't know anymore if I should put the past or present tense for the verb "miss".

Waiting In Vain

It took me one hour alone, which included 5 times of restarting my lap top, countless times of moving the USB cable from one port to another, and not to mention uncountable swearing words, just to connect to the Internet.

As if it hadn't been enough, then I had to get through another hour just to upload the last holiday pictures to some free photo album site. Twenty pictures at once. Twenty pictures in an hour. "It's a free service," I kept telling myself to keep me from banging a hammer into a piece of portable machine which sadly, I haven't even finished paying.

While waiting for the pictures to finish uploaded, I went to the kitchen to make myself some coffee. Caffeine should've done me good, so I thought. Little did I remember that due to constant traveling for the past one month, I hadn't done any grocerie shopping that I practically ran out of everything for my daily survival needs. No coffee left, I thought I would be content sipping a cup of green tea. But when I turned on the stove, no fire came out, which was a sure-fire sign that it was running out of gas.

Boy, was I patient enough for a mortal?

Having done lots of waiting practice, and if practice does make perfect, it shouldn't get on my nerves how someone, who has been showering me with the L word for the past 2 months along with a sound-convincing promise to hold my hand, suddenly just disappeared on me for almost a week now. I should just wait patiently till he reappears and feeds my hungry soul with the sugar-coated L word again. Just like I patiently waited for my Internet to get connected or my holiday pictures to get uploaded. It should be as simple as that.

Besides he could be lying unconsciously while treading the thin line between life and death in an Intensive Care Unit room. Or he could also be lying black and blue with dried wounds all over his body in some public hospitals' morgue. I do hope he's in a morgue, though. Someone's car or folded knife should hit him first or I would come up to him and stab him all over myself.

A Letter To J

Dear J,

No, I'm not gonna ask you how many women you've slept with after me or where did you sleep last night. I don't wanna know, really. I just wanted to tell you that the other day, well it's actually quite a while ago actually, about 2 or 3 weeks ago, I saw somebody exactly looked like you when I was waiting for a movie at a cinema. He even had your grey hair, your way of walking and all.

The only difference was that guy I saw was pushing a baby cart. I don't think you need all the information how the unexpected scene got my knees weak.

It would be good, though, to see you pushing a baby cart. You, who confessed to me the minute we landed on that paradise island how afraid you were of commitment. I just faintly hope that if ever you'll really push your own baby cart, please don't use the name Abigail. You hated the name so much for a girl, remember? If we had given away the dream of ever pushing a baby cart together, at least allow me to someday use the name without knowing you'll use it too.

Life really is funny, don't you think J?