Milkshakes
Sun is three years old. He’ll be four soon. I last pumped milk for him when aruah mak was hospitalised for amputation. Yes, it has been THAT long.
With the arrival of little Ultraman Tiga Dyna, and me returning to work, I am now back to being my ehem, expressive self.
Back then, for Sun, I could express milk all day long. It is not like I had anything better to do. It was the Ice Age of my career. I was being frozen by the Boss From Hell. He gave me not just an office, but the whole floor all to myself. There were many rooms, some large enough to be turned into laboratories, I even had a reception area. For the whole floor, I was given one table, three chairs, and two lockers. I also had one huge fridge. Can you imagine how empty the place was? Sounds bounced off the walls. If I said hi to the wall, it would answer back to me. Hi, it said back in a voice that sounded very much like my own. Cuckoo, you said? Cuckoo, it answered back.
Fun? You bet it was. In an eerie way.
I was given absolutely no responsibility. But, he wasnt without kindness, thank God, he gave me a laptop. That was how I discovered Yahoo Messenger, and then MSN Messenger to finally stumbled into the world of blogs. In between blogging, I expressed milk. There was no one else on that floor, I was the phantom that haunted the place, I was the shadow that lurked in that vast emptiness, I did not exist, I did not matter. Blogging kept me company, it amused and entertained. For physical activity though, I pumped milk. And o-boy, I pumped loadsss of milk. I did not grew biceps and triceps from pumping iron, I grew them from pumping calcium.
Now I am back to pumping calcium. But circumstances have changed. I don’t have a floor to myself, I don’t even have a room. I share a cubicle with three other staff, the boss’s office is right behind me – thus limits my ym and blogging time. And I am kept busy too. When I get too sexy and need to ‘pump it up’, I cant do it in my cubicle, stating the obvious. Where to do it, I have three options.
First, the surau, the prayer room. It gives the privacy that i need, but I don’t feel quite comfortable doing it there. You see, the woman’s section is separated from the man’s by a mere curtain. I know male colleagues will not be peeking to the other side; I don’t worry about being seen. I worry about being heard. I don’t want the other side to hear the pump-pump-pump sound and have their concentration while praying affected. God forbids if they start having improper images in their head while doing the solat. Ugly images of me at it. Eeuww, gross. I don’t want to be the reason of their distraction.
Second, the toilet. To say I am not comfortable there for hygienic reason will be again, stating the obvious. Thing is, I make others uncomfortable too. I avoid making small talk in the toilet because I don’t want to make them feel even more awkward. Imagine me asking them questions like this:-
‘what did you eat last night? Let me guess’
‘havent been to the toilet for a while, have you?’
‘you shouldn’t eat too much dhall’
‘I think ginger will help you’ or
'PHEW!'
Third, the cleaners’ room. It is the best option of the three. The room is cleaner than the toilet, it is a no-man zone, therefore I can be as loud at it if I so need to. They have a little sink as well, and that’s a huge plus point. However, my grouch is this; they are always in the room. My pumping moment always coincide with their yakking time. So, whenever I do my thing, more often than not, all four of them will be present. And they will all sit in a circle facing me. Can you imagine just how much pressure-to-perform that can be? Conversation will always revolve around my activity. They will comment on volume versus size, or QC on the produce or effort put in as opposed to quantity. There will be many jokes passed around too. I tell you, to be called a cow is not funny. And the pump is NOT an aid to enlarge any body parts – not funny too.
Maybe I should consider doing it behind the photocopier machine.
With the arrival of little Ultraman Tiga Dyna, and me returning to work, I am now back to being my ehem, expressive self.
Back then, for Sun, I could express milk all day long. It is not like I had anything better to do. It was the Ice Age of my career. I was being frozen by the Boss From Hell. He gave me not just an office, but the whole floor all to myself. There were many rooms, some large enough to be turned into laboratories, I even had a reception area. For the whole floor, I was given one table, three chairs, and two lockers. I also had one huge fridge. Can you imagine how empty the place was? Sounds bounced off the walls. If I said hi to the wall, it would answer back to me. Hi, it said back in a voice that sounded very much like my own. Cuckoo, you said? Cuckoo, it answered back.
Fun? You bet it was. In an eerie way.
I was given absolutely no responsibility. But, he wasnt without kindness, thank God, he gave me a laptop. That was how I discovered Yahoo Messenger, and then MSN Messenger to finally stumbled into the world of blogs. In between blogging, I expressed milk. There was no one else on that floor, I was the phantom that haunted the place, I was the shadow that lurked in that vast emptiness, I did not exist, I did not matter. Blogging kept me company, it amused and entertained. For physical activity though, I pumped milk. And o-boy, I pumped loadsss of milk. I did not grew biceps and triceps from pumping iron, I grew them from pumping calcium.
Now I am back to pumping calcium. But circumstances have changed. I don’t have a floor to myself, I don’t even have a room. I share a cubicle with three other staff, the boss’s office is right behind me – thus limits my ym and blogging time. And I am kept busy too. When I get too sexy and need to ‘pump it up’, I cant do it in my cubicle, stating the obvious. Where to do it, I have three options.
First, the surau, the prayer room. It gives the privacy that i need, but I don’t feel quite comfortable doing it there. You see, the woman’s section is separated from the man’s by a mere curtain. I know male colleagues will not be peeking to the other side; I don’t worry about being seen. I worry about being heard. I don’t want the other side to hear the pump-pump-pump sound and have their concentration while praying affected. God forbids if they start having improper images in their head while doing the solat. Ugly images of me at it. Eeuww, gross. I don’t want to be the reason of their distraction.
Second, the toilet. To say I am not comfortable there for hygienic reason will be again, stating the obvious. Thing is, I make others uncomfortable too. I avoid making small talk in the toilet because I don’t want to make them feel even more awkward. Imagine me asking them questions like this:-
‘what did you eat last night? Let me guess’
‘havent been to the toilet for a while, have you?’
‘you shouldn’t eat too much dhall’
‘I think ginger will help you’ or
'PHEW!'
Third, the cleaners’ room. It is the best option of the three. The room is cleaner than the toilet, it is a no-man zone, therefore I can be as loud at it if I so need to. They have a little sink as well, and that’s a huge plus point. However, my grouch is this; they are always in the room. My pumping moment always coincide with their yakking time. So, whenever I do my thing, more often than not, all four of them will be present. And they will all sit in a circle facing me. Can you imagine just how much pressure-to-perform that can be? Conversation will always revolve around my activity. They will comment on volume versus size, or QC on the produce or effort put in as opposed to quantity. There will be many jokes passed around too. I tell you, to be called a cow is not funny. And the pump is NOT an aid to enlarge any body parts – not funny too.
Maybe I should consider doing it behind the photocopier machine.
posted by OOD at 9:48 PM
12 comments
