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The Madness of MokcikNab
Motives, movements and melodrama in the life of a thirty something mum.

Saturday, January 14, 2006

My dearest Sayang,
How are you today? It seems pointless, doesn't it, to send you an email when we call each other, like twenty times a day. It's pointless, really, since none of these -- neither words nor phone conversations - can remedy your absence. Nothing is a balm. I think I am officially sad and miserable.

Has it only been 14 days? Each day seems to add to my anguish. My resolve to cope well this time, is quickly dissolving. By next week, I'll be reduced to a sobbing mess.

Has it been easier for you? You seem cheerful enough on the phone,which you know, is exasperating. Why can't you sound as wretched as me? All right, I concede - calling twenty times a day may be proof that you do miss me, too -- but I'm not very good with identifying action with meaning. Tell me, for God's sakes. It will be worth the courage, I promise.

I've been sleeping with the radio on, and the other night, awoke to what I thought was the sound of your voice singing to Phil Collins' mawkish song, and you sang badly, as usual. Of course, you weren't here, the warmth that I thought was you was only Aiysha's posterior. I fell asleep with big, fat tears rolling down into my ears. It doesn't matter. I can't really sleep anyway. The four poster is strewn with children, books and magazines, and I let them amuse me, even if only half-heartedly.

Can't wait till next Friday, I'll be counting every hour. I know it'll be brief, but I'd rather see you for a short while than not see you at all. We'll do something nice that weekend, yes? Apart from that.

People reading this post : do accept my apologies. What's a blog if not indulgent, self-centred dirge? It's the only space where I'm allowed to wallow in cheesy, Light n' Easy sadness. To be honest, I'm not all that miserable, all the time. It's just nice to pile-on the drama for Saiffuddin, to elicit guilt, and hopefully gifts. I need a new handphone, anyway.

I have found that when my husband's away, I am able to better enjoy the other people in my life, particularly my children and my small coterie of friends. I can spend time listening to my children's stories and their numerous opinions; adjudicate their squabbles, and engage in general silliness like singing into the laptop and playing it back at twice the speed. I genuinely like Adam, Aiysha and Aliya, I'd like them even if they were not my own children, and even though they think I'm hopeless at parenting.

With Saiffuddin away, I have time to go on an all day eat-fest with Suhaimi and Papa Khalid : yesterday we had three (three!) plates of mussels baked in butter, nachos, chocolate dipped bananas, marshmallow s'mores, salmon in lemon sauce, basboussa, satay, rojak ayam and mutton curry. By all means, the fun wasn't limited to food : accounts of leather-shoes fetishists, prosthetic legs and a Confessional fantasy -- all of which shall not be repeated even under extreme duress -- ensured I had a belly ache from too much eating and laughing.

But don't tell my husband I'm even remotely enjoying myself, because I'm only remotely enjoying myself. At the back of my mind, there's always the knowledge that he's not home. My playlist at work is getting annoyingly sappy -- all songs of longing and heartbreak : Dear Friends by Queen, Cigarettes by Smithereens, Cannonball by Damien Rice, Les Coeurs Jumeaux by Concrete Blonde, In the Wee Small Hours by Sting and Chris Botti, good old fashioned Nat King Cole singing about cigarettes with lipstick traces and a tinkling piano in the next apartment, and plenty of Rufus Wainwright. I can feel gray matter slowly turning into gooey matter. I need Rancid and the Clash to set things right. I'm watching chick-flicks, for God's sakes! Last night I saw The Wedding Date -- the one where Debra Messing hires a male escort, to survive her sister's wedding. It's not very good escapism -- it just makes me miss Saiffuddin acutely, but you know, the sight of Dermot Mulroney's bare butt does alleviate the pain somewhat.

Perhaps I should rent Troy, next. Surely a naked Brad Pitt would be an excellent palliative.


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