Have you ever found yourself in one of those situations that just seem to spiral out of control and murphy’s law takes over? I’m not talking about a whole day where everything seems to be going wrong, but more like one absolutely crazy span of a couple hours where you can’t even believe that this happens in real life and not just on scripted sitcoms. Well, I am the queen of these things. Once after a particularly ridiculous incident involving a post-snowstorm carwash run, a dead cell phone and missing wallet, my dad admitted that I really should write a book; that’s how often I find myself in these scenarios.
Anyway, yesterday was the first time I’ve had one in a long time, probably since my adventure with Herman the security guard in Bali. To give you a bit of backstory, our owner is coming to see the boat for the very first time on friday so these past few weeks have been frantic trying to make it absolutely pristine (and not like we’ve been using it as our home since April…which we have). This is no easy task considering the rain in Singapore leaves a black residue all over the boat’s white paint so instead of making any real progress we just continue to wash the boat over and over and over and… you get it. I’ve started helping out in the interior as it’s really crunch time now and yesterday we even broke out the white gloves to handle the fine china and crystal. I felt like a butler (you may call me ‘Jeeves’). Since we’ve fully cleaned and detailed the galleys we decided to order take out until the owner arrives so we don’t make further mess. After a long day of cleaning and detailing, I had scheduled a six o’clock hair appointment since I’m flying home for a visit in two weeks (more on that later…) and was thus volunteered to pick up dinner afterward, even though it was going to be slightly later than our usual 7/7:30 dinner time. Before I left I collected everyones orders, was handed the boat’s credit card (muahaha) and even had permission to pay for a cab ride back to the boat with dinner (the shopping center, VivoCity is about a 15-20 minute walk).
The hair appointment started out like any other; “wow you have a lot of hair”, “yes, yes I know it’s a pain”. The woman doing my color had someone training helping her and of course with my luck, the trainee took over. At the pace of a snail on valium. I kid you not. I appreciate the effort and that you aren’t trying to make my hair look like a dalmatian’s coat, but please PLEASE pick up the pace. After about 2 hours (yes, you read that right), I finally made it to the shampoo stage and was left with a conditioner treatment (or really who knows what) and was told I would be left for a couple minutes. This turned into almost 20. This is the point where I began frantically checking the time on my phone and sent the first “dinner might be a bit later than planned…” text. It was already past eight.
Finally, the trainee returned and finished washing and they asked if I wanted some other leave-in conditioner. After I asked how long it would take, I was told that it was just applied with no process time, just left in (does that make sense?). Anyway, I reluctantly agreed as to not make a fuss and of course, was left with the trainee again, going even slower than before if it’s possible. Anxiety symptoms were beginning to set in and I was getting more texts/messages because of course, we all were out of credit so a text message would be followed by facebook message, but no real information was getting through because no one could check one or the other and respond. Oh, and of course, my phone had about 10% battery left. At this point I had been there almost three hours.
Finally I said that I didn’t need a blow-dry, I would just leave with my hair wait, no problem. I think I said this three times but apparently my opinion didn’t count so three, THREE people broke out the hairdryers and went at it. When it was all said and done, I think I got up and paid and ran down to the restaurant to order dinner in less than a minute.
Ordering dinner seemed to be going smoothly (what? something going right?) until they told me it would take about 20 minutes, but I guess that’s a normal waiting time. The screen on my phone: 8:57, 6% battery. More texts and messages, no way of responding. I hand the cashier my credit card after pleading for them to rush the order and he swipes. Then he swipes again. and again. and again. You have GOT to be kidding me. “Ma’am I’m sorry, this isn’t working”. Dear god please keep trying, if after all this I can’t even bring dinner back, I might as well never come back. With our captain’s Singapore cell number on the screen ready to dial, it finally goes through. Major crisis averted.
I sit down in a corner, not sure how I am going to sit still and wait for 20 minutes, especially without a valium. I’m not exaggerating when I say that my hands were shaking and I was having to stop myself from hyperventilating. I even did this weird thing that I picked up years ago (I’m pretty sure from an episode of MTV’s “True Life”. I’m not a real person.) and tapped my “third eye” 21 times to calm myself down. I’m 100% positive it doesn’t really work, but I still do it.
The captain calls, surprisingly in an upbeat mood despite being ravenous and exhausted after a long day of work. For some reason I have just enough credit and battery power to answer and give the briefest of brief updates.
9:15- Still no food in sight. I can see the cooks hardly moving. Having worked in restaurants for years and seeing cooks at work, this makes my blood boil.
9:20- More texts and messages.
9:25- I see the food coming out in bags and run up to the counter. They ask me to wait while they double and triple bag them. I could scream.
I finally race out of the restaurant, having already been told where the taxi stand was and upon exiting the building, I see the taxi queue and want to die. It’s quite possible that every citizen (and visiting tourists) were all lined up waiting for taxis. People were even spread out all along the curb dialing taxi hotlines. I go back into the mall and try to find another exit or taxi stand with no luck. Tears start to well up, but I don’t have the will to let them fall. Only one option left, and that was to sprint back to the marina. So, I begin running. At 9:30 at night, past strangers stares and laughs. I discover that my shorts are a size too big as my underwear is hanging out for all to see, and mid-run I try to strip off my cardigan while swapping the bags of food from one hand to the other and keep my purse from falling off my shoulder. I’m also pretty sure that I’m in the background of at least two photographs, pants falling down, bags all over the place and bra beginning to show (apparently, none of my clothes fit me. I should do something about that…). Sweating, panting, and completely disheveled, I arrive at the marina and wouldn’t you know, it was a new security guard at the entrance. Every day it’s one of the same three guards, but tonight of all nights, it’s Mr. “Excuse me, may I see your member pass?”. Actually, no, you may not, because I don’t carry it with me and WHO THE HELL ARE YOU. I think he could sense the urgency (and see my state of un-wellbeing) so he lets me pass. I break the rules and sprint down the dock, past all of the local boys who work on the smaller fishing boats and charter catamarans who see me every day and find it completely hysterical.
But finally, at 9:45 I arrive to the boat. It was over.
FYI, my dinner consisted of no food, but it did consist of three glasses of wine.
And I think it’s pretty evident why this post has no pictures.