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“Have you eaten?”

That’s how the cleaning lady in my office and I often start our conversation.  It’s not “How are you” but “Have you eaten”.  As though in the eyes of the older (Chinese?) generation, if one is well-fed, one is “I’m fine, thank you”.  Strange, isn’t?  This late morning, we got further.  Leveraging on my close to non-existence Mandarin and a pathetic meagre level of understanding in Hokkien, the cleaning lady asked me if I have eaten.  I was puzzled, looked at my watch, and she laughed, “It’s too early for you.  I have my lunch at eleven.”

I guess lunch hour would be the best time for her to work, while most of us are away.

When I lived in Paris with my uncle who has survived the Vietnam war, he always reminded me how precious food is, how hungry he was during the war, and after the war.  Perhaps those who have lived through tough time tend to equate well-fed with “How are you and I am fine, thank you”.

On the same day, I bumped into the man who services our drink vending machine.  It is quite a repetitive job I think: clean up the interior compartments, fill up the powder, and fill up the paper cups.  We came out from the same lift and I tried to overtake him and his trolley but he reached the machine before I did.

“Hi… do you mind if I grab a cup of coffee first?  I really need it,” I pleaded nicely.  He smiled and said, “Go ahead.”  While the drink was made, I had a quick chat with him and learned that he drops by our office twice a week.  And he services 23 vending machines a day, throughout the island.

Did you know that the Subway outlet at China Square has moved to Far East Square?  I miss the lady who was used to work at the previous location.  Since I order the same thing every time, she remembered my preference, and we used to talk about everything under the sun including her driving trips to Malaysia.  Where is she now?  I don’t know.  At the new Subway outlet, there is this old man at the counter.  He is the boss, a very friendly boss.  During my visits, we would chat and chat while his rather inexperience staff made my sandwich.  So I asked: why do you need to be around?  He answered: Ah, I have to be around till these staff of mine know what to do.  Before I left the counter, he said in all sincerity – as always – “thank you for choosing Subway”.  I like his attitude.

The guys in Fuwell – my favorite computer shop in Sim Lim Square – are nice people too.  My friend Sing Chyun recommended Fuwell to me donkey years ago and he loves their “one-for-one exchange within thirty days” policy.  In fact, this time when I had to lug my heavy brand new computer for a diagnosis, that triggered a piece of memory; years ago, I had to do the exact same thing.  Lucky for me, this time my problem was easily replicable.  In less than a minute, this muscular technician named William from Philippines removed all the components and handed me the defective motherboard.  I ran back to the main shop and got myself a new one.  Within 2 minutes and 45 seconds, he put it all back.  And it worked.  Wonderful!  I can understand why Fuwell employs such a muscular man as a technician; these machines are darn heavy to move around.  God knows how many he has to handle a day.

Ever since my friend Alex Ang recommended where I shall get my guitar cables, I have been visiting the Sim Lim Tower whenever I need some (the 2 photos in this blog entry were taken in around that area).  There is an old man siting outside the shop Electronics Enterprise making cables day in day out.  God knows why he likes to dye his hair gold, but he is (also) a very nice guy.  I left my order to him, paid the invoice, and I headed out for lunch.  When I returned, we talked about food while he was finishing up with my order.  I told him that I love fish soup and the famous one at Berseh Food Centre has closed down.  He told me that there is another famous one near by that are always very crowded (again, I didn’t quite get the Mandarin he said).  He continued: if you want to do takeaway, you have to bring your own container and help yourself!

The last character in this blog entry is a girl scout.  One morning, during a weekend, a door bell woke me up from my beauty sleep.  Time to pay the newspaper agent again?  I was in my PJ and I saw a little girl at my doorstep, with an uniform.  Uh-oh.  She asked in all earnestness: are there works for me to do?  I wish I had read a SOP Manual on “What to Do When a Girl Scout Shows up at Your Doorstep”.  I couldn’t think of any good responses so I said: Sorry, not at the moment (I was really sleepy).  She looked disappointed, started to turn away, and then came back and asked: would you like to donate?

OK, that I could do.

So, have you eaten?  I just had my Subway meal and feel darn full.  Oops, there are still cookies in the refrigerator.

Apart from the time we eat and pee, poo and sleep, we spend much time communicating with one another, misunderstanding each other.  It is staggering how many different ways one finite thought in our heads can be altered before it reaches its intended destination, or worse, unintended destinations.  That gets me thinking: is it that hard to, communicate?  Shouldn’t it be as simple as plus and minus, multiply and divide?

One evening, a friend and I visited a pub and she ordered a JD and a diet Coke.  I had no idea what a “JD” was and thought that it must be some sort of fanciful bottled beer or cocktail (I had a pint of diet Coke that night, don’t laugh!).  We drank and chatted, chatted and drank, staring at her half finished glass of diet Coke, just when I was about to ask if her “JD” was coming at all, something struck my mind.

Jack Daniel’s.

How would I know?  It was the first time I heard someone called it a “JD”.   How about a “CR” – my favorite whisky before I have become a teetotaller since January this year (Chivas Regal that is).

Second round, and my friend wanted something stronger.  A different waitress came to our table and my friend said, “JD and diet Coke … make it …”

There was a confused look in our waitress’s face and her reply didn’t sound too English to me.  So my friend repeated slowly, “I want a diet Coke … and Jack Daniel’s … and …”

The waitress still didn’t get it.  I chipped in and said very slowly, “Diet Coke, yes?”.  The young waitress nodded.  “Jack Daniel’s, yes?” my friend followed.  The same look of confusion and her eyes dashed between my friend and I as we took turn to explain JD in a million different ways.  Finally, we managed to get the message of “whisky” across and just before the poor young waitress left our table with a sigh of relief, my friend gently pulled her arm and said, “Make it a double please”.

We burst in laughter in unison.  But what was so comical?  We laughed because of our own helplessness, more than anything else.  Definitely not at the obvious fact that the waitress wouldn’t understand what a “double” was.  A single JD and diet Coke arrived within seconds (got to appraise the waitress’s efficiency in order delivery).  My friend took a gulp and asked another waitress to give her another shot of JD, in the same glass.

Language barrier and unfamiliar synonyms aside, I have this bad habit of wordplay.  At times when I am late for an appointment that I happen to take a train, I would blame the tunnel jam.  Of course, taking an underground train is by far the most reliable mode of transport in our city and almost instantaneously, every friend of mine know that I am joking and we just laugh about it.

Recently, I like to use the term lift jam (like traffic jam, like tunnel jam) to describe the excruciating lift ride from where my office’s floor is (37th) to the ground floor and vice versa.  Stopping almost at every floor, I can listen to a complete music track, read a few pages of today’s newspapers inside this 5 by 5-feet confinement.  So, at times when I am late, I would apologize and blame the lift jam.  One time, when the same friend whom I had a drink with received my lift jam text message, her immediate response was, “Are you OK?  Shall I call someone for help?”

Uh oh.

Since then, I stopped using the term lift jam.  Same lobby, same lateness, I always enjoy meeting this friend of mine who also happens to work in the same building as my JD friend.  She is like my syringe of liquid motivation, my little boost of self-worth on demand, and her everlasting energizer-bunny-like enthusiasm was just what I needed when my boss pulled me into an empty meeting room one morning and said, “By the way, I think you are a little bit soft”.

Those who have the un-privilege of working with me, lived under my constant hands of a tyrant – a Mr-oh-no-the-man-is-in-town-let’s-take-cover by day – you must have difficulty to reconcile the word “soft” and I.

But the fact is, empathy can be a curse.  People do change.  I can go, soft.

“You have got to be firm.  You have got to do it like a man.  You have got to … ” my friend paused and I found myself repeating every word she said with the same zest.  She continued, “… practice in front of a mirror and say: Look honey, this is NOT what I want”.  I attempted to copy the tone.  My friend frowned, shook her head, and said, “You have got to say it this way: Look honey …”

I tried again and she said better.  I tried harder to imitate and she said much better.  I pictured a mirror in front of me when delivering the same line and my friend screamed, “This is it!”

This is it!  I am so going to look-honey my colleagues.  I am going to picture a mirror in front of me, say the silence words of “look honey” and deliver the tough messages.  I am going to look-honey you, you, and you!

In fact, my look-honey worked so well in the office that I got a bit scared.  I got people around me a bit scared.  The next day, I met the same friend for lunch and I repeated the exact episodes on how I look-honey’ed my colleagues to her.

“[Look honey,] You.  Should.  Know.  About.  This!” I said.

My friend got scared, for real.

I felt really bad of my recent transformation.  Then one night, I read my friend’s blog on how she dealt with a less than enthusiastic worker when she was the manager-on-duty.  Somewhere in a hotel or service apartment in Vietnam.  With her permission to reproduce the exact words, here was what she wrote:

So I told her “Honey, if you want to work in a coffee joint at Raffles Place, you gotta work faster than this.”

OK.  Perhaps this is how it should be done.  Look-honey’ing people is the way to go.  Especially when …

Outside a meeting room, one colleague of mine said casually, “I think I am falling sick again.”  So I casually asked, “Why?”  He laughed with a hint of a perceived sarcasm and replied, “How the f**k do I know?”

Zomg!

Perhaps he dislike me; perhaps he thinks that I dislike him; perhaps he thought it was funny.

1145 is a magic number.  1145 is like being thirties for the single women (sorry, just an example).  If I can’t find a lunch partner by 11:45am, most likely I will be eating alone, which is not a bad idea at times.  But if I can catch up with some dear friends of mine, why not?

Early one morning, one old friend of mine sent me a text message for a lunch invite.  Too bad, I had something on and he asked if I would be available the next day.  After some exchange of text messages, I ended the conversation with, “Tomorrow it is then”.

Apparently, on the next day, I realized that my friend didn’t understand what I meant by “tomorrow it is then”.

Totally baffled, I sent the following message to some of my close friends whom I am quite sure that they won’t laugh at me as I genuinely wanted to do some reality check.

Quick question: if you ask me out for lunch but I can’t make it today.  You suggested tomorrow and I said, “Tomorrow it is then”.  What does that reply mean to you?

All of them got what I said and most thought that it was a test of some sort.  And I got to love my sister.  She thought it was a creative way for me to ask her out for lunch and she gently reminded me that she works at the other end of the island.

I so love my sister.  She replied, “Yes” and I was baffled.

Apart from the time we listen to our mp3 players and watch TV, running on the treadmills and writing blogs, we find ways to communicate with one another.  It is staggering how often miscommunication occurs.  This gets me thinking: is this an inherit problem of our genetic makeup or we have not been taught the right way on how to communicate yet (the “De Bono Code Book” is still far from the goal I think)?  Or perhaps miscommunication is simply part and puzzle of how we are meant to communicate?

Wait.  It’s part and parcel …