Update: Work

May was an awful month for work. My two favourite co-workers had put in notice, and while I knew it was coming, it was still a shock. One was leaving to work her dream job as a Funeral Director, and the other had gone to work for a Podiatrist. There's your usual bureaucratic bullshit, but it is a poncy surgery in a poncy suburb with poncy overheads and it was only a matter of time before the staff started asking the right questions... all of a sudden, there's an exodus.

Funero started her job at my current place of employment the day before me, and she became my partner in crime. It was pure happenstance that I was nearest when she found out she was possibly facing Cancer, when she found out she was both blessed and cursed to be able to cure it with invasive surgery, when her marriage started crumbling.

She needed to be near someone who didn't know her to empathise, just as I needed when my relationship at the time had fallen apart. She laughed with me when The Kid declined an offer of a crucifix from her Kid, not knowing what it was. She took me to Church when I was too proud to ask Funero for her religious company, if for a different angle. She made no fuss when I admitted that even though I was thankful for the experience, though I really believed that I needed to try it again, I was pretty pissed when I didn't feel the Jesus coursing through my veins. She sent me internal mail of cheesy lyrics from her courtship days, testing me. We would laugh about how she met her husband, and how their first date consisted of Romper Stomper-like delinquency, except it was towards skateboarders rather than anything racially motivated.

I would get in trouble for serenading her at her desk, which was nearly often accompanied with inappropriately close crumping/hip thrusting or my obscenely tender elbow-cupping that would stick even as she got up to walk away from me. She would get in trouble for cackling too loudly, for breaking the peace and tranquility that our surgery tries so hard to maintain. We covered for each other with work mistakes. She hid my sugar and coffee on top of the fridge so I couldn't see, nor reach. I would hide her patient files under the photocopier, where she couldn't see, nor reach. Each week, I would find random pictures of Lionel Richie (heart!), Scott Bakula, or Flock Of Seagulls. She would also leave me ridiculous weekly secret ingredients for Iron Chef. She was ridiculous with me because she couldn’t be anywhere else, and that was fine by me.


Footmo was a surprise. Of Filipino heritage, she was a banana just like me. You know, yellow on the outside, white on the inside. We would discuss the inherent psychopathy of Filipina women, Old Testament maternal terrorism, and how we are trying to break the cycle ourselves, with our children. Her eldest of three (her only daughter, seventeen years of age), was pretty much who I was when I was twelve - a screaming trainwreck that had just left the station, with nothing but a brick wall waiting at the end.

I listened quietly when she vented about all the separate marriage counselling she and her lawyer husband were having. I shook my head when she explained that her husband’s business partner was found for corrupt activity, which caused a massive investigation that still looms. When she needed validation on hypotheticals or just someone to offload on, I was there. Even though I couldn't understand why she never took the first tangible steps to get anything going, she was always asking me what I would do. Or more precisely, how I did it. As a token of her gratitude, she would bring home-cooked soul food for me. Before Footmo, I hadn't had Filipino food since I had lived at home, one of the few things I truly miss about that time in my life.

Perhaps it's cruel, but I admit that I needed to be there for myself just as they needed me. They're making their way in this world, fumbling just as I am. They've both been on this Earth almost twice as long as me but they're blind, too. Granted, I think I’ve spoken more intimately on my many blogs (God help me, that’s lame), but I was able to whinge about the... safer things. I’m easily the weirdest person in the office, but I’m also a hard-workin’, tax-payin’, single parent who is trying to figure out who she is. I don’t have the courage to open up completely to myself, let alone to co-workers, but at least I’m comfortable enough to let off some steam, which is far better than where I was a few years ago.

This is how it works. We will all sincerely try to keep in touch, but life will get in the way. It always does. I will sincerely hope that I will remember them like this for a long time, as they will become fond memories. But fond memories get fuzzy. I will sincerely try to remember, but I will forget. They will help me make decisions later on in life even after we've lost each other's numbers and addresses, and I will curse myself for not keeping in touch.

Does it make me a bad person to admit that I don't have the energy to keep up with anyone? I never have, and I doubt I ever will. It's not like I go out of my way (anymore) to disappear, but explaining your absence takes more effort than I can muster. People, like food, go off. I think that says more about me than anyone else, but I can deal with that. I am thankful for the time I had with them, but life goes on. I have to look after mine, first and foremost.

Right?