Know them well

The problem of not being able to memorise faces could be disastrous sometimes. Last night, during the completion of the first part of the Thursday Vigil, I stood in the church’s courtyard waiting for my friends. We were supposed to head home together. From the church’s doors, a familiar figure stepped out. He was wearing a batik shirt and looked utterly familiar.

I said to a friend who was looking elsewhere, ”He looked familiar…I’ve seen him around the church.”

My friend nodded politely, but continued her animated conversation with a lady next to her. “No, really.”

Finally it dawned to me and I exclaimed loudly to her, “He’s the Bishop!” just as the Bishop (who was also the Cardinal) stood in front of me.

It was one of the oddest moments as I stuttered and shook his hands, “Good evening, Mister… uh… Sir… Father… uh… Monseigneur… uh…”

But he was nice enough to pat me on my head and smiled as if to say, “You silly, silly woman.”

Never again.

The Rituals of Palm Sunday

So, earlier this morning we stood in our pews and waited for the holy water to be dispensed (vigorously shook out) from the aspergillum and land on our palm fronds. This year, the whole ritual went without much glitch. A few years ago, too vigorous shaking sent the end of the aspergillus flying toward an unsuspecting church-goer, who really tried his best not to panic and maintain a calm, contemplative dignity as demanded by such a solemn procession.

“Our church isn’t a very big one, right,” a friend said as we sat under a sawo kecik tree after the mass. “So, I guess it wouldn’t be hard to shake an aspergillus about. But I wonder how strong a shake should be done in Vatican… I mean, it’s a large place.”

But obviously not one of us have been to Vatican or have seen a Palm Sunday service in the St. Peter’s. So, there were much shrugging and shaking of heads. And there was a short period of silence.

“Maybe they used a holy waterhose, or a holy watercannon,” a helpful friend piped up to break the silence.

Until now, I can’t quite reconcile the image of a priest walking around blessing coils of waterhoses or lines of watercannons placed strategically around Vatican.

Or the fact that one video-gaming nut friend pondered how a Holy Waterhose could be, “a name of a secret and very powerful weapon alongside the Holy Sword or the Holy Polearm…” you know, like Castlevania or Final Fantasy of sorts.

I hope that the Big Guy upstairs is in one of His forgiving mood and decided that I would not be spared and not smitten by a bolt of lightning where I stand.

When life handed you lemons

Of course there’d be people who, instead of making lemonades and selling them a dime a cup, would rather engineer it and somehow make whole lemon groves in their small backyard.

In an environmentally friendly way, of course. Organically, most definitely.

Laptop-buying protocols

“I found this really wonderful laptop case,” she said, quickly delving into a whole essay on beautiful and wonderful.

“Great,” was the only word we managed to slip into the entire stream of one-sided conversation.

“So,” finally she said, “I was thinking,” which could only mean disaster, “I should go buy a laptop to go into it…”

And midway a whole travel-catalogue worth of plans to visit the ‘computer place’ we knew that it would be easy. There’s supposed to be a standard governing the perfect symbiosis between laptops and their bags.

Grocery shopping with St. Valentine’s

Or “What not to shop during Valentine’s Week”.

13 February 2008, Valentine’s Eve. I was told by my mother to round up her Free Gift with Point Redemption which turned out to be a Royal VKB Chef Knife (she was aiming for the cleaver, but the fell 10 points or so short of the target). After handing me an additional grocery list (which was thankfully short), she sent me forth to… buy.

The redemption counter was next to the entrance so I went there, got my gleaming knife, and made for the supermarket proper, which promptly sent me back to the door. Valentine’s Eve meant that the teenage/besotted-people population of the supermarket tripled the triplicate; chattering and giggling crowds spilling out from the chocolate/confectionery section onto the next ten aisles to the east and west.

So I ducked into the nearest empty aisle which was the household chemicals aisle, and grabbed the largest can of mosquito repellent available (yes, rainy season equals annoying buzzing sounds morning, noon and night).

Deciding that mum could do without her groceries for a day, I stepped onto the paying line. I placed the chemical on the cashier’s table, only to belatedly realise that it rose up above and was completely surrounded stacks of chocolates and other valentine accoutrements belonging to groups of assorted females and males.

The next mistake was to engage the groups of valentine hopefuls in a prolonged eye contact. Their eyes visibly travelled from mine, to the insect-killing grade A chemical in its tin can, to the gleaming 8″ blade in my hand. It was the oddest thing ever as dozens of men and women around me blatantly stared, as if it was open season on my psych.

Oh well, what the heck. Might as well.

“Yeah, he could be such a bastard.”