Spot's Spot

Postscript Italy 07

2007-05-18T15:21:00.000+08:00

We'd walked and walked and walked all day. How proud I was of your geriatic knee.

A quiet, non-descript lane shaded from the heat of a dusty Roman afternoon. Perhaps a tad bit shabby, yet oddly dignified amidst the madness of the surrounding streets.

Cobblestones omnipresent. Of course they are.

Shaky iron table outside the neighbourhood bar. A simple plain tablecloth, the tiniest pot of ...some kind of foliage.

Is there danger of sneaky pigeon bombs?

Our dark-skinned waiter - all toothy smiles in his waistcoat, sleeves and apron.

A single bottle of peach tea. Two glasses - prego, prego! - he insists.

There's a flower shop across the street, on the corner. Pots and pots of gaily happy flowers. Even the blazing sun cannot but admire them, softening its blinding heat to a light, golden caress.

I take a picture of you - seated across from me at our little table, the flowers waving cheerily from behind you.

For just that moment, a glass of peach tea believes itself to be the finest of dessert wines.

And you smile at me.

By the time we got to Rome, the secret hope I didn't even know I had of recreating the magic of last year's trip this time round had pretty much gone into storage.

But you know what?

That single moment that afternoon, sitting out there with you, slowly sipping our pretend wine...it's gone and snuck into my heart like a kitten finding a comfortable spot on the windowsill.

With a caption underneath it that says:

"Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be..."

A falling star has a way of turning up when you're not looking for it.

So maybe having a pigeon poop on you that morning was lucky after all. After all, we surely had us a magic moment that afternoon. All for Euro 2.50. Score!

A perfect first anniversary. (never mind it that it was two days later)

To Be A Dervish

2007-04-02T23:43:00.000+08:00

Simply...because inside this sloth-like body, encased in a stone heart, hides the soul of a dreamer.

Every errant breeze needs an eye to centre it. A home to pull back to.

Snow On The Sahara
by Anggun

Only tell me that you still want me here
When you wander off out there
To those hills of dust and hard winds that blow
In the dry white ocean alone

Lost out in the desert
You are lost out in the desert

But to stand with you in a ring of fire
I'll forget the days gone by
I'll protect your body and guard your soul
From mirages in your sight

Lost out in the desert
You are lost out in the desert

If your hopes scatter like the dust across your track
I'll be the moon that shines on your path
The sun may blind our eyes, I'll pray the skies above
For snow to fall on the Sahara

If that's the only place where you can leave your doubts
I'll hold you up and be your way out
And if we burn away, I'll pray the skies above
For snow to fall on the Sahara

Just a wish and I will cover your shoulders
With veils of silk and gold
When the shadows come and darken your heart
Leaving you with regrets so cold

Lost out in the desert
You are lost out in the desert.

If your hopes scatter like the dust across your track
I'll be the moon that shines on your path
The sun may blind our eyes, I'll pray the skies above
For snow to fall on the Sahara

Yes. I do.

Thank you for being here everytime I return.

300 Questions

2007-03-14T18:22:00.000+08:00

Ok, fine I lied…just 10 then. Nobody likes a harpy.

1. Yes I realise it’s lifted from a comicbook, but surely speech balloons do not a screenplay/script make? Could the dialogue be any more like bumper sticker slogans?

2. Since when did Persian kings dress like Vegas lounge/Mardi Gras parade rejects or look like Dalhsim, that Indian Mr. Fantastic character from the original Street Fighter game? I’d totally understand if anyone expected Xerxes to bust out a drag rendition of Material Girl as he descended his golden palanquin.

Seriously…as if Iran isn’t pissed off enough already. It's a movie after all, why not call the invading army Transians? Or Priscillans?

3. What’s the deal with the freakazoid-filled Persian army???? If you’re going to use fantasy monsters, for Herodotus’s sake don’t also reference real places, real civilisations, real battles and real political structures and mislead the already history-ignorant majority of your audience into believing that that’s really what happened in the real Battle of Thermopylae.

After all, it’s called “300”. Really, what’s wrong with us assuming that the story’s about 300 Lost Chippendales Dancers Gone Fabulously Feral?

4. In what part of his superman cape or leather panties did Leonidas keep that apple?

5. If Spartan males spend their entire lives bathed in testosterone and abs-chiselling manliness whilst yelling awooah, awooah, AWOOOAGH!!! at each other…how did they manage to avoid getting their perfect white teeth bloodied and busted into a billion pieces?

Spartan male 1: AWOAAGH!!! SPARTAN!! YOUR LEATHER SPEEDO IS SEXIER THAN MINE!! I PUNCH YOU!!! AWOOOAGH!!!
Spartan male 2: AWOAGH…oh wait, not my mouth please … aim at my perfect abs instead…awoaagh!!!

6. Similarly, what’s Leonidas’ son doing running about all happy happy mischievous-like in a society where male children are trained from the time they learn to stand to be killing machines? Shouldn’t he be going around punching other children and indiscriminately jabbing spears into kittens for practice?

7. If you can be bothered to research the basics of historical detail…300 Spartans held of an advancing Persian army at the Hot Gates, the Spartan military tradition, Spartan laconicism, Spartan political system…why do a half-arsed job?

It wasn’t just 300 Spartans who blocked the Thermopylae pass. Several thousand soldiers drawn from all over the various city states of Greece were under Leonidas’ command. Only after the Persian army found out about the mountain path did 300 Spartans AND several hundred just as brave Thespians and Thebans stay behind to delay the Persian army whilst the other thousands retreated to Athens.

Spartans didn’t wear only undies and a cape in battle.

I’ll admit that I didn’t know the historical details either, before today …but the ridiculousness of how a phalanx-style fight (surely that wasn’t how a phalanx fought - Pushing??? Spartan men would make such enthusiastic midwives) was depicted in the face of such enormous numbers just launched me into a morning of frenzied googling to seek the truth. The Persians (the non-freakazoid, real civilisation that existed circa 400BC) would have been proud.

8. Isn’t it beyond stupid to waste thousands of sun-blocking arrows just to down ONE dying man? What if the arrows terkena Xerxes??

9. The Ephors were a bunch of melty-faced perverts who lived on top of spooky mountain, enjoying the equivalent of a whispery J’Adore perfume commercial performed in oracle-speak by a stylishly writhe-y girl? Being the top politician in Sparta rocks! Except for the melty-face part and the inconvenience of rock-climbing, I’d guess.

10. Just because the demi-god behind the graphic novel is Frank Miller I’m not entitled to laugh at this movie?

Pfft.

Having said all that though, it really was a cinematic experience. Very stylish visuals.

And waaaaaaaaay more entertaining than Troy.

Not That I've Nothing To Say

2007-02-28T12:08:00.000+08:00

...it's just that I can't be bothered.

I've been telling myself that everything boils down to me having a short attention span. But suspect that there's probably more to it than that.

Change job, start a side business, blog, attempt to write seriously... all good intentions and more than just a little spark of enthusiasm. Then once the momentum gets going...I seem to lose interest. Even when things are looking good.

I've secured a better-paying, better-prospects job. The order book for the business has been suprisingly good. I've had no shortage of affirmation of the quality of my writing and encouragement & support to take it up seriously.

Yet...I appear to be sluggishly mired in a bog of "meh".

Can't be bothered.

Seriously.

This is surely bad.

I wonder if it means I feel I'm without a purpose.

What does it mean though, to have a purpose? A general desire to have more than the present? How does it work?

Yech. I'm starting to sound like that monotonous "Look at my navel lint, it is so profound. Why is it here? Is mankind genetically adverse to hygiene?" voice-over at the start and end of every episode of Heroes. Niki rules, btw, since I'm on that subject!

Anyway. Simply....why am I so sien?

If only it weren't so frowned upon to be a hedonist.

But but but... if, having given a go at the things I thought I wanted, I still find the need to move on or just plain lose interest in them even when the going's good....doesn't that indicate that those things aren't/weren't what I want?

It's irritating. The logic is pissing me off.

At least though, I certainly know what I don't want.... ie a materialistic, fast-paced, career-oriented life.

As for what I want, though....I'm not so sure anymore.

I've been having this ongoing discussion with a close friend for the past few months. She's always acted on her desires, with generally happy outcomes. At the time. Several years down the line now though, she's come to the realisation that the life she thought she wanted...clearly isn't. And she wants the old life back.

So it takes a mistake to know what you don't want. Sounds logical. You don't know till you try.

But sometimes, the consequences of learning what you don't want is much too high. Other people get hurt. Because as much as we like to kid ourself that it's empowering to act on your beliefs, principles or whatever self-help mantras that turn you on, our lives are entwined with others. We're all a bunch of fish hooks in a bowl. Pulling one out inevitably drags a whole mess of other hooks along. Can you really rip yourself out of the entanglement without severely affecting another?

Sometimes, we just have to. For the sake of the long run. Hope for minimal damage.

After the dust and tears have settled and the wounds are bandaged though, on a philosophical level, the worst thing is that you may no longer trust yourself to know what you want.

Do you really want the old life back?

Sucks. Big time.

I look at her predicament and I'm grateful that all that's oozing from my pores is "meh" and not "I want to die".

The question remains. What do you do when you don't know what you want?

I can't answer that.

But I do know what I don't want. My friend knows what she doesn't want.

And knowing what you don't want, if one had to choose, is more important than knowing what you want. Because, as this very wise and funny girl says... it gives you perspective. And I for one, am very big on having perspective. It's the best gift you can give yourself.

Unfortunately for many, perspective comes at a very high cost.

I've deviated, I know.

but.... meh.

Reason No. 83713 for Resisting Change

2007-02-14T15:19:00.000+08:00

Dear Blogger,

You forced me to change to your enhanced version, with an assurance that everything will be the same, so easy, no fuss.

Backside lah.

Now comments can't go through.

Ni hai wor!

Pbllltttthh.

You Cheaterbug

2007-02-14T11:36:00.000+08:00

You bluff me.

I thought we decided that we weren't getting gifts this year.

Cheaterbug.

Thanks for reminding me again that I forgot the anniversary. Meh.

Hee. Pink & green stripes. I like. Suprising hor? Maybe I have a secret like for pink?? Eeee.

I saw you and I knew
chances just don't come round again
Not like this, first a laugh
Then a kiss.

I'm glad you took that chance.

Been A While

2007-02-13T10:17:00.000+08:00

Dear Tompok,

I'm sorry I haven't been paying much attention to you since... October, really.

I thought I'd replace my broken shoes before I'd update.

Thought wrong! Sigh. I continue to bring shame upon my father's house. As pleased as I am with my new "I'm-too-chicken-to-walk-around-looking-like-ronald-macdonald" Crocs that aren't bright red, I doubt HR would agree that they represent suitable work-attire.

So. Where was I?

October/November was taken up by a new venture...sorry old cow, but you know I can't mention any details of that here. Identity issues and all. Anyway, that's all more or less off and running already, so I should now have time to milk the udders, right?

Bleh.

Work has been supersuperbusy since November. Karmic payback for the 21-month honeymoon I was on, I suppose. But all said, and disregarding my own personal standards, it can't have been that I literally sat back and shake legs ... 'cos employers don't give you an above average bonus for nothing, eh?

All this extra work for 2006 sucks, then, especially since the payout was nowhwere near as good as for 2005. Ah well. Good fortune like that can only come once or twice in one's life I suppose. A bonus is a bonus is a bonus. NOT an entitlement.

Anyway. 2006 was a pretty big year for us eh?

The last days of cancer. How awful that a life, though fully lived, can be robbed of all dignity at its close. How difficult it must be to have to rely on others to tend to your personal hygiene. She weighed nothing in my arms, yet the cringe of her shame and despair was as powerfull as it was heartbreaking.

Before this I've never been afraid of death, apart from the vague dread of there possibly being some degree of pain involved in the process. Watching the curtain drop inch by agonising inch on her.... for the first time in my life, it hit me how helpless one would feel as the world slips away with the closing of one's eyes for the very last time.

What if at the final darkening, we're thinking, saying... or worse, screaming -

Not Yet.

Not Now.

2006 seemed to be a year of journeys - the starting points, the destinations and everything in between.

The year began with the ending of my search for identity. I haven't yet found the answer - identity being such a fragile concept - but it appears that I've reached a point where I'm comfortable enough to stop and say...well, here's where I am, I'm not quite sure where this is, but I'm ok with the view from here.

It's not the answer that's important I guess, but the peace that one makes along the way.

After years of procrastination and treading the quicksand of filial guilt, I finally put in my application for Australian PR. The application appears to be tangled up in bureaucratic tape for now, but hey. At least it’s in and I can forget about it for now.

My brother finally got married, making up for the 8 long years of dilly dallying by throwing a roadshow of a wedding. Singapore, Melaka, KL, Singapore (encore performance).

I went to the only place I'd ever wanted to visit other than Egypt. Italy was a dream that for two weeks, came blissfully true. That it was realised with the person with whom I now share all my life's paths, was surreal.

I grew up. And made a commitment I'd long (wrongly) assumed I was capable of.

You take for granted that your own convictions and philosophies will (of course!) meet the mark when put to the test. One day you find yourself standing at the scene of the crash and all you wanna do is run. And you do. Philosophies and convictions be damned...you just wanna get out while you can.

But I grew up. I understand commitment a little better now. It's not just pretty words said on happy days. Commitment is going ahead, despite having seen the baggage, having seen the inextricable ties...and not insisting that that legacy be left behind.

I found my heart. I don't know if it means I've really reached the point of really letting it go, but I think what's more important is to not be bitter about it. I hope that understanding makes me a better person.

At the close of the year, she called. We talked. She's forgiven me, it seems. But that's just step one. As I've told you before...I too have to forgive myself. And I can't. Not yet.

Will I ever?

It's ironic that it took her loss to teach me the meaning of commitment.

So Tompok. Here we are. I'm grateful to have had you to talk to. You've allowed me to look back and reflect on the conversations I've had with myself through you. I've gotten to know us a lot better. The good stuff and the bad stuff.

Things never stay the same. Our conversations here have done a good job of chronicling that process of things not staying the same.

A record of Change.

Thanks, Tompok. We really did have a pretty good year, all things considering.

Hush

2006-12-11T02:28:00.000+08:00

It's 2.50 am.

Regular like a heartbeat, thunder breaks the hush of darkness outside.

The sheets are rumpled, rolling across the emptiness of my bed.

It's disquieting.

On tv, animals of every description are having sex on Nat Geo. Oh look. A pair of sea slugs are fencing. Using their penises (penii?). The winning slug is the one that manages to penetrate the other, and gets the prize of being the male. You go...boy! The loser packs away his package and simpers into female submissiveness, giving up her (formerly his) eggs for insemination. Oh the shame.

I can imagine the nonsense conversation we'd have, if you were watching this too.

But you are at home. And I wonder if it's warm enough as you sleep on the diagonal. You looked cold when you left.

It's heartening that she's able now to say my name. Surely that's an upgrade from 'nemesis'! Heh. Baby crawls.

There is hope.

Credit Card Very Pain

2006-11-25T18:01:00.000+08:00

RM421 on books for myself, Snowie (birthday) and my brother (Christmas & birthday).

RM342 for fancy schmancy fine dining dinner at one of the KL International Gourmet Festival participating restaurants.

Happy Feet
Penguin Card
Non-stick Rolling Pin
Pig Stickers
Stuffed Pig
Milk Project Bag
Milk Project Notebook
Pig erasers
Mini Croissants for breakfast
Life-saving Limau Ais
SSF Butterfly blings
New Zealand Ice Cream

14 down, 21 more to go....

***

Public Announcement - Kino is having a 25% discount promo for certain books (two of which are 1001 Nights of Snowfall and Absolute Sandman) plus for every RM50 spent, you get a snowflake stamp. Collect 3 stamps to get a 20% discount voucher for next purchase. From 18th November for 50 days.

She Works Hard For Her Money

2006-11-14T19:07:00.001+08:00

The good ol' idle days are over, just like Disco Donna's heyday.
Consolation though...early bonus. Yay!

***
Don't know which is worse...a short attention span or sheer monosyllabic laziness?

***
Latest inspirations:

Fables, vol 1-3 by Bill Willingham.

Despite Our Differences by Indigo Girls

Fly away little bird,
The saddest song I ever heard
Is the one that I wrote you in my heart
That never made it to the world.

- Fly Away by Emily Saliers.

Frog Princess

2006-10-23T03:23:00.000+08:00

Once upon a time there lived a girl who married a guy from a land far far away.

He kissed her and called her froggie.

Quite fortunately for him, she didn't actually transform into one. That would have been rather disturbing. Not to mention totally disgusting at bed-time.

But it did give her clever, creative, thoughtful friend (who can be the same for you! Email me!) a smashing idea for what to make for her birthday cake this year.

And so, Froggie got frog cupcakes for her birthday and she squealed happily ever after.

The End.

~~~~~
Had a get-together on Saturday to celebrate (belatedly) Ame's birthday, since it also coincided with one of Local Expat's occasional trips back from Miri. It's not often that we are around in one place at the same time, so there was no better time than the present.

Froggie & her prince, Goat, Mr. Goat and Bunnygoat, Supersaleswoman Kiut, the Kiutlets and Mr. Kiut, WL&Debz (friends of Ame & Local Expat), Snowie & Me stormed Local Expat's house on Saturday for nasi lemak & sambal, babi pong teh & chicken rendang. And of course, frog & flower cupcakes!

Snowie the baking queen made the cupcakes and icing...I as usual, contributed only the concept, design & construction.

I particularly like this one....I call it - "The Class Photo". See the two chatting behind there? That's exactly what Ame/Froggie would have been doing in class, particularly during Physics lab.

T's a real pity Biow (in Singapore) and WS (in Hong Kong) missed it.

Dunno about everyone else, but I find that it's these people from those days long past that I'm most comfortable being around. Mainly cos I find that I (being probably the most anti-social of them all) don't have to make any effort to actually talk very much. We are all so different in terms of personalities, life-stages, interests and priorities, yet the bond has survived long after the fading of the school bell's ring. Funny how the familiarity of a shared moment in one's history can be so powerful.

Sure there may be insecurities, petty sensitivities, disgruntled cattiness and exasperating moments. But the point, I think, is that it all would be set aside in the next breath, whenever a genuine need for support and friendship arises.

So emo.

Basically what all that means is that I had a very nice Saturday.

Eight Things Meme

2006-10-17T17:45:00.000+08:00

Tagged by a Nut.

Eight Things About Myself

1. I like the idea of being organised but lack the will to follow through.

For example, I have a row of folders desperately crying out from their place on the shelf to be joined with the papers of my life that would fulfil their neatly be-labelled destinies - Housing Loan 1, Housing Loan 2, Property 1, Property 2, Credit Cards, Bank Accounts, etc.

Lying in growing stacks and bunches barely two feet from the shelf are several years' worth of said contents. All it would take is one afternoon and a force of will I’d much rather apply to my Warcraft dark elves.

2. I hate shopping for shoes.

I have brought shame upon my father’s house. For the past two months at least, I’ve been wearing broken shoes – the bottoms of both have huge splits in them and my feet go swimming when it rains. Eeee.

Then again, my father (and more importantly, my mother) doesn’t know, so I think the house can handle that shame.

3. I secretly like the colour red.

If you do too, don’t call me. Don’t buy me red things either, it’s supposed to be secret. Shhh.

4. I have a stuffed cow with a big soft nose who is the keeper of those of my heart's secrets that are so hopeless they can only be whispered when consciousness bleeds into darkness. She is infinitely patient and understands that my neck needs protection from vampires on nights when it’s just her and me.

5. I think I’m often two conscious thoughts away from collapsing into a screaming mess for no apparent reason.

6. Currently my theme song is this-

We keep falling into love
With no reason, no rhyme
We keep falling into love
’til our tired heart cries.

I don’t know you
And you don’t know me
Time has come to find
Different skies

The sun and the moon collide
One burning, one reflecting
One fired up in demon red
One pale and interesting
...

Time has come to find

A different sky,
A different place to shine
A different sky,
Without a reason why

Can’t tell is it heaven or hell
Can’t tell another lie
I can’t fool myself,
So I found myself
A different sky

The sky I choose
Is a myriad of ocean blues
And when I think of you
I like to think your sky is blue too

Fireworks and clouds have made us find
A different sky...

7. I will always, always wonder if and hope that her sky is blue too.

8. If I could have one hour with any one person in the world, it would be Emily Saliers. I would hold her hands in mine and thank her for giving me the strength when I was lost. Thank her for her words that gave wings to the cuckoos inside my heart, allowing them to fly away.

Working Weekend

2006-10-10T15:07:00.000+08:00

Lookit what we did over the weekend. When I say "we" though, I must credit the actual skill & brainpower to Snowie, cos I just did the maid thing.

Help me carry, so heavy
Ok

Measure this amount into that bowl
Ok

Line the muffin tins
Ok

Massage my legs, press my back
Yes m'am

You get the idea.

Before

That's 70 silver boxes, if you're counting

After

Lookit my beautiful cake platters. 50% from Metrojaya. Score!!!

Commentary to come later, in Snowie's blog, with individual pictures ...she's busy catching up with real work today.

Oh, and I also made this. It's Rohani Jelani's rendang recipe. Damn shyiok. Attended her class almost a year ago and it's the first time I've made it since. Just being in her arm-leg-&-first-born-sacrifice-inducing kitchen was already worth the fees; the mouthwateringly deliciousness of this rendang is a bonus.

I used chicken, the recipe works for beef as well. If you want the recipe, be prepared to wait...needs to be typed out and I'm lazy. Sorry.

Bits

2006-10-03T16:45:00.000+08:00

Sigh. I'm so behind/bummed. Haha, pun.

Behind bit.

Posts that are still in drafts inside my head:

1. Divorce. Easy way out? Staying for the right reasons and not bullshit excuses like "for the kids". Love alone isn't enough, but it is still the minimum requirement.

2. The Pope's speech. Firstly, that's not a real apology. Bad pope. Secondly, it's illogical to demand that he retract the statement - it's from the 14th Century. Doofi. Thirdly, to be fair, he should have also highlighted the words of Pope Urban II, the instigator of the Crusades. Fourthly, get a grip and look at the context. It was a speech made to theologians. In a dusty university. In long convulated sentences that would put any student to sleep, what more a crazed militant. Fifthly - an elderly catholic nun was shot soon after. Violent protests. Calls to kill the Pope. Property damange. Show and tell? More like tell and show. There should be a distinct taste of shoe in the mouths of moderates - forget the fundamentalists, boots are delicious to them by now.

3. Michael, the 4th person to pass in and out of my life. The biggest satisfaction in my life - International Fiesta.

4. The Thai coup. Where's a Thai general when you need one? It wasn't a set-back for democracy, form-over-substance-obsessed fools. If only we had a genuinely revered King, not some DYMM Sultan eer.. Who? who is loved only by a fictitious rakyat.

5. No review of the 1988 judicial crisis? Ah, Pak Lah, my faith is lost again. My fantasy debate would be Bill Clinton vs. Ex PM. Google the Clinton vs Chris Wallace transcript if you're bored and are in fear for your intellectual capacity. A president with a brain. How refreshing.

---

Bummed bit.

Ok, so I started the meal replacement weight loss thingy that my mother dictated I should try. I now have TWO canisters of fake-baked-goods-smelling sawdust that is to be my lunch for the next 44 days. It's delicious. My. Ass.

It's supposed to be a shake. So I shook it up with soya bean milk. Tastes fake. And the stupid powder doesn't dissolve. So it clumps and swims around inside my mouth like the way it feels to drink stubbornly-refusing-to-dissolve horlicks. Gluggy. I think it's really depressing.

On top of that, there's this concentrated Aloe Vera drink. It tastes like melted cosmetics with a hint of floor detergent. Coherent words are too scared to attempt describing it. BLLLEARGUUUGGGHHHGAAHHRARRRR! Herbalife has no such difficulty. The website says that it has a "delicious citrus twist". My stomach certainly does twist in response though. Herbalife also suggests that this wonderful drink is a good substitute for fizzy drinks.

Backside.

It's no Kickapoo, let me tell you.

Then there's some kind of lemon-hibiscus tea mix. Which is actually quite nice, so that's ok. I think it's supposed to make me crap green. So my mother reports. Of her own green, not mine.

The first day I had the shake with Oat Bran. It felt like hot glue puke. I needed 3 spring rolls and 2 karipap to comfort me in the evening.

Today was sans Oats. Got gastric by 3.30.

Sucks.

---

In happier news, Nik, the runner-up of ANTM (cycle 5) is HAWT. Drool. Yowz. Slobber. Ngggarrgh.

I had this fantasy...er...never mind.

Ignore the fact that she's got some serious high pants going on in the first photo.

Lesson Learnt

2006-09-29T14:11:00.000+08:00

Backup your template & posts every three months. Not once a year.

---

Had to reconstruct my sidebar after...well, don't actually know what happened. The whole template disappeared.

Bleh.

Work in progress.

---

Why does Johnson's Baby Shampoo makes my hair smell like a sweaty baby, IMMEDIATELY after washing? It's clean!! Just showered, for goodness sake.

Kumbaya'd Out

2006-09-25T13:56:00.000+08:00

What do the following have in common?

1) Salespeople

2) Benign (obviously excluding the militant kind) religious zealots

3) Corporate/Self-development Trainers

4) Multi-level marketing Promoters

They've got "Good News" to "share" with you.

Fall on your knees and receive news that will change your life on an earth-shaking level never known since the last divine cheerleading team shook their celestial pom poms to a chorus of allelujahs (boring actual earthquakes don’t count)!

News that will fill you to the cockles that you never knew existed in your heart with the desire to shout out your kumbayayas through all means possible, whether it be by saucer-eyed, breathless, crazy-grip-my-hands-as-tight-as-the-way-you-should-have-held-on-to-your-sanity face-to-face sharing or by lunch-hour long phone sermons to the hungry as they try to maintain a reasonable amount of rapturous listening whilst attempting to eat their rapidly congealing lunch. News so good that it's worth working out the meaning of 6-line-long sentences.

Oh joy! Oh wonder! Oh fats that will melt away in fear at the sheer power of goodness bubbling forth from a meal-replacement shake!

Wanna know another similarity?

Their product (I mean, let's call a spade a spade here - Product Pusher) is the Truth, the One, the only Kumbayaya-worthy.

And therein lies the quintessential problem that besets human endeavour. The legitimacy of the Truth/Good News is too often undermined by vested interests - The My Gang / Milkshake Is Better Than Yours mentality.

Thanks, but until you can take the element of self(yours)-interest and multiple hyphens out of the equation, you can keep your milk-shake - oh sorry, i mean meal-replacement, truly delicious, honest-to-goodness shake.

Oh…unless my mother has been converted over to your dark side and she in turn decrees that I am to "give it a try". Or should I say…share.

Clearly, blood is way thicker than your damn shake.

And so…umm…...kumbaya?

Math With Spot

2006-09-21T16:03:00.000+08:00

The frequency of leg shaking multiplied by the number of posts written at work equals to the sum total of written words required to be produced for the boss.

An ass-biting karma package. Oh woe.

My brain is currently out of commission, so I’ll borrow the best line to come out of America’s Next Top Model (Cycle 5) – yes, my current interests are that low-brow – courtesy of Lisa of The Perpetual Insobriety:-

Take a break.

Eat a cookie.

Oh Lisa, you were robbed.

Anyway, I’m having an oaty one right now, even though oats are for horses.

And a dieting pig, apparently.

Speaking of whom …

Go look at the pretty pictures. And get an idea of how fat we are in real life. On that subject, we recently met up with a friend who’s got a 16 week-old bun in her oven. As all newly pregged women are wont to do, Oven Girl was bemoaning about how huge her tummy had grown.

I told her that it looked normal to me.

Then Snowie said, “No, you can’t use ~~yours~~ ours as a benchmark. You’ve forgotten that normal tummies don’t look like ours. At least she has something useful in hers.

Ouch.

So. Oaty biscuits it is for me then.

Breaktime over. Back to work.

Moonlighting

2006-09-08T16:28:00.000+08:00

Just in case Snowie doesn't get her scholarship and I'm forced to sleep alone (so what if some folks do, I don't like to cos I'm scared of ghosts) for two years...

Right.

We're no David Tutera (Discovery Travel & Living...Saturdays I think), but I think we can do reasonably nice parties. Christmas is around the corner folks - think parties and presents!

This is from a party we did last Christmas. Candles, fairy lights, serviettes, deco etc. Finger food/desserts. You can have it too!

Give us a budget and a theme. Let us boss you around.

We will be the panadol to your party planning migrane.

But if you're into haggling and getting kiasu pricing, we're not right for you. Our pricing is already NOT marked up for profit. It's all about the aesthetics and looking fabulous, just so we're clear.

Here's a sampling of what we like to do. Small foods. Eye candy to boot.

Left, clockwise - Mini Shepherd's Pies,
Roast Chicken Drummettes,
Baby Potatoes stuffed with pea puree,
Grilled Veg Skewers,
Cream Cheese & Turkey Sandwiches,
Pasta & Mushroom Sauce.

No giant vats of curry chicken or mounds of fried mee. You're better off buying that from your favourite stalls/coffeeshop, really.

These are mini sausage rolls, aka pigs in blankets. And brownies decorated as requested to suit whatever occasion.

So.

Hoping to impress someone but can't pronounce hors douvres or canapes?

Want a romantic dinner for two in the comfort of your own home and rather let wild horses do the cha cha over your dead body than to pay the ridiculous prices outside?

Having a housewarming and rather spend your time grooming your fabulous self for the party?

With an oink and a moo and a cockledoodle doo..
Let us do the planning and cooking for you.

Celeb-bits

2006-09-06T16:01:00.000+08:00

I feel trashy.

In the tabloid sense, that is.

Here we go...

Coincidentally, two tiny tots who have had millions of people anxiously awaiting their arrival make their first appearance on the same day.

Well, only one of them actually popped out of a uterus today. The other one has been shrouded in conspiracy theory ever since she was born in April.

Hi future Emperor of Japan!

Poor Princess Aiko. It's always like that in Asian societies kiddo, boys are PRECIOUS. Maybe I'll have a word with your PM about continuing with the You-go-girl-empress constitutional debate. He and I are on same-hairstyle basis anyway.

Hi Suri Cruise! My, what bushy hair you have. ~~Google Image yourselves ppl, I lazy to find the tags for linking to the image.~~

EDIT: Ok, today I feel generous (and reluctant to work, but heck it's lunchtime anyway) so here's a picture of the impending Vanity Fair cover.

Vanity Fair presents - the TomKat baby. TomKitten!

Am I the only person who thinks that she looks like Bjork? Wouldn't a tiny swan outfit look SO cute on her?

Why is she stuffed into Tom's jacket?

Does he have pregnancy/seahorse fantasies?

Who wrote that crappy caption - Yes, Suri, She's our baby??? A tad defensive? Maybe it is reflective of TomKat's feelings. Snerk.

In other news, here's a bit of trivia for those following the frenzied media canonisation of the recently demised crazy blond guy in tiny tight shorts. His signature "crikey" is pronounced "croikee". I had a classmate whose speech patterns were almost exactly like his. Ocker or not, that really is how some Aussies speak.

It's funny how the cultural cringe that the Australian media quite happily shrugged at him before this has suddenly become a collective heaving of shoulders. As one journalist quite aptly (only a matter of time before this "pun" would surface) wondered...crocodile tears?

What was genuinely (and I'm sure unintentionally) poignant though, was the filler sequence thing that a lot of tv shows have, just before cutting to commercials, during last night's rebroadcast by Animal Planet of one of Steve Irwin's programmes. When they cut to commercials, the filler said -

"Crocodile Hunter will be back."

No he won't.

I won't say rest in peace Steve Irwin, cos that didn't seem to be in his nature. Better to think that somewhere in crocodile heaven where handbags are made of hands, Steve's either having a friendly wrestle or a cold beer with them beasties.

And I think he'd forgive the stingray.

I Can't Believe..

2006-09-05T18:36:00.000+08:00

1. I finally watched Chow Sing-Chi's Kung Fu Hustle (cos I was dying of boredom but I didn't want to get off the couch) and..really, really enjoyed it! Shockers. I usually can't stand the man's movies and his brand of humour.

It was a ingenious combination of styles - black&white-era kungfu movies, Pre-1950s Shanghai, MGM cartoons, Three Stooges slapstick, romantic drama, social commentary, The Matrix, American Westerns...mind-blowing, really. A tour of cinematic history.

Just goes to show. Book-cover-judging is so wrong, kids. Don't do it.

Was grateful for the BM sub-titles. Most helpful and essential to enjoyment to know that the landlady aunty's sonic scream is called Ngauman Singa, the world's ultimate kung-fu master is Dewa Awan Berapi, moves that are called Pukulan Buku Lima Buddha and 12 Tendangan Yang Tak Terhenti-henti. Oklah, I made the last one up. Can't remember what it was actually subtitled as...but close enough.

My favourite sequence is the one when the two blind assasins kill off 3 kung fu masters with their supercool umm...long horizontal chinese guitar...dunno what it's called lah (Snowie: bite me). Each drrrinngggggg of the strings unleashes cutting instruments of horrifying variety. Awesome.

2. I didn't keep Sunday's funnies section in the Star! AIEEEEEEEEE!!! It featured one of my all-time favourite Insanity Streak comic - a single panel: a mummy unicorn turns around and glares at her unicorn baby. She's got band-aids plastered all over her butt and is royally pissed-off with junior.

..."If I've told you once, I've told you a hundred times... STOP FOLLOWING MUMMY SO CLOSELY BEHIND!!!"

Oh, it's waaaaaaay better in picture. And in colour too!

And I forgot to cut it out...threw the paper away. Sob!

Keranamu Malaysia?

2006-09-01T15:33:00.000+08:00

So yesterday was Hari Kebangsaan.

Actually, I’m confused. That’s what I’ve always remembered it being called…apart from the shortened versions of Merdeka Day or even just plain ol’ Merdeka. But our independence day is also referred to as Hari Kemerdekaan...which I suppose is correct, since it’s a direct translation, unlike Hari Kebangsaan, which means “national day”. Which is it??

Meh. I’ll just use Merdeka, cos it’s shorter to type.

Merdeka began for us at midnight when the count-down party at The Curve/Ikano went beserk with the fireworks. The commotion woke us old fogeys up from our after-dinner nap. Wow, three whole hours.

Whatever are we going to do now?

Watch the last hour of Gandhi on non-Astro TV, that’s what. Ben Kingsley is so exotic. From Gandhi to Moses to Egyptian pharaoh. So muhibbah. Does a fast-to-the-death work anymore these days?

No fasting for us… it was off to Jalan Ipoh for dim sum. At 2 am. Kedai Kopi Mee Bon, if you must know. Their lor mai kai and pau are damn delicious. So cheap some more.

Infected Snowie with the Sudirman Merdeka song that goes… tanggal tiga puluh satu, bulan lapan lima puluh tujuh… now if only I had a muu muu-sized flag to wear like a butterfly baju. What do they really call those flappy, rectangular, batik-like print dresses anyway?

The highlight of the actual day onThursday for us was the luxury of having tea together on a weekday afternoon at Devi’s Corner in Bangsar. Thosai masala, roti pisang and teh tarik whilst watching the rain. Cendol by the roadside next to TMC. I had to wear a hat cos it was a bad hair day, but Snowie didn’t die of embarassment. Now that's love. :)

I hadn’t intended to write a Merdeka post. But yesterday, in between shovels (that’s exactly how I eat… by the shovel-full. Why waste mouth space?) of thosai, I said to Snowie…this is what I’ll miss when we’re over there.

Over there, being Australia, assuming I get my PR and Snowie gets a scholarship to do a Masters course. For those who remember, Snowie’s not going to Manila. She turned down the job because truck-loads of money and an impressive CV were lesser priorities for her.

We’re not going to have a lot of money, but we’ll have what makes us most happy. Life is unpredictable - you never know if you’ll be hit by a bus or stupidly choke to death on your own saliva tomorrow. Be happy while you can.

So. Why Australia?

1) The weather. I love autumn. I prefer to freeze than burn.

2) The quality of relatively cheap fresh food products is amazing.

3) Greater appreciation for just being alive and our place in the natural environment.

4) Less focus on material-gain-at-the-expense-of-all-else.

5) Better infrastructure. At least taxes, high as they are, seem to go somewhere useful.

6) The national psyche is less self-absorbed, hence greater appreciation for satire, wit and self-reflection (where people actually understand the difference between this and self-absorption).

7) Less dumb people in positions of power, therefore a greater likelihood of dealing with someone who understands logic.

8) Greater respect for books and general literacy.

9) A relatively intact check & balance system of government. A workable model for political shadow cabinets.

10) Parks. Accessible public spaces. Town planning as a viable concept actually exists.

There are a myriad reasons why not Malaysia. There are too many interconnected factors and it takes too long to explain. So just take the opposite of the above list.

Much has been said about the ungratefulness of those who choose to leave. It’s annoying how those arguments tend to tie the idea of gratitude to the country itself, like it was some kind of real live entity that consciously made choices for our betterment.

It’s as if we should be grateful for being spared the instability and destruction of bencana alam like typhoons, earthquakes and hurricanes because Malaysia, with single-minded intent, physically decided to plonk herself in an optimum geographical location.

As if Malaysia, like some kind of massive earthy mama goddess, gave birth to each and everyone of us, debated with herself over whether to name us Jaclyn, Daniel or Mawi (what a muhibbah coincidence) and nurtured us with the best bubur ikan bilis.

It's like because of that, we should be grateful to Malaysia, the living entity, for all her conscious decisions made specifically for our benefit. The way we are supposed to be eternally grateful to our mothers for having been popped out of a uterus.

Well. Malaysia happens to be shielded by the potato of Sumatra.

We avoided poor undeveloped country status because it just happens that we had a legacy of British-brought modern infrastructure to build from and Britain-educated personalities to drive development.

Call it divine micro-planning, or the nothing-better-to-do hand of fate, or a crumbly cookie, or family planning, nagging in-laws or a broken condom if you must. Whatever. We all just happen to be born here.

No. Malaysia didn’t specifically pick you and me out of a catalogue and place us, like carefully arranged chess pieces, into whichever state hospital we come from.

Which is why, just as there is no actual entity that owes me anything as a citizen, I similarly don’t owe the country a debt of gratitude compelling me to stay and … “make a difference”.

I am not leaving because of any perception of being treated as a “second-class citizen”. That’s victim mentality, the same mentality that these purported second-class citizens accuse the first-classers of having.

Technically, a citizen should be able to vote for what s/he wants the country to do for its citizens. Reality is, the modern concept of regulating a group of people within a geographic location is based on the idea that the majority rules. Policy planners and regulators, ie the government, are beholden to the majority. And if the majority thinks that the minority ought to be treated in a certain way…then unless you can actually do something about it, you just have to either find a way of making it work or just seek greener pastures.

That’s what I choose to do. The conditions here just aren’t conducive to me staying.

That doesn’t mean that I will necessarily stay in Australia forever. Life’s a continuous process of adjusting to circumstances beyond your control. Choosing how to adjust/react however, is entirely within our control.

What I will miss though…is the accessibility of food. Dim sum at 2 am. Mamak at any hour of the day.

I will miss the kaleidoscopic colours of cultural festivals, when racial politics, cultural prejudices and the social-economic divide are put aside for the common love of a good time and public holidays. I will miss the sounds of our collective culture…the bollywood tunes, the wedding kompang frenzy, the ear-splitting illegal firecrackers. The calls to prayer.

I am enriched for having been raised in an environment, despite the imperfections, that made multi-culturalism seem like just another aspect of everyday life. I feel that I am a better person for being the only non-Muslim in an eatery full of Muslims and thinking nothing of not digging in even though I can, five minutes before the hour for breaking fast.

I have been lucky to have the gift of a wider perspective.

But that doesn’t mean I’m obliged to stay.

3 Months Ago

2006-08-25T16:58:00.000+08:00

We had just returned from here.

Sigh.

5 days on an olive farm 20 minutes drive from the town of Bevagna, 10 minutes drive from the village of Bastardo.

We got lost in the middle of nowhere trying to find it. Driving on the wrong side of the road and a little old lady who spoke no English tried to give us directions. The only relevant Italian words we knew were for left, right and church. Thank goodness for the universal sign language for bumpy road. :)

Practically on our doorstep grew oregano, bay leaf, rosemary. Around the corner were sage and artichokes. We were free to pick whatever we needed.

The welcome pack was a lovely touch to the rustic cottage. Garlic, walnuts, onions,lemon, their own award-winning organic olive oil, their own honey, home-made jam. A bottle of excellent Montefalco red.

Each morning a loaf of bread and the morning's newspaper would be waiting for us on our porch.

We shopped in the villages, cooked up a storm for breakfast and dinner.

Snowie chased bees, trying to take their pictures.

Doc organised the cottage compulsively. Jackets were whisked away, shoes miraculously looked like shop displays.

Energizer Bunny chauffered us all over Umbria and Tuscany despite being ill (having caught my cold from the earlier leg of the trip), remaining lalala calm even as mad Italian drivers hurtled straight at us.

I saw a firefly and watched the moon bathed the olive trees in shimmering silver.

I realised that there wasn't a cuckoo clock in the neighbouring cottage after all...the soft little cuckoo, cuckoo sounds were coming from a real live bird.

My god, it was magic. Our home in Umbria. For just five days.

Work It, Bitches!

2006-08-16T17:10:00.000+08:00

Well ok Tyra, since you ask and generally look so frightening in your diva poses…

No prizes for guessing who’s been watching America’s Next Top Model.

The recent episode (Channel V, 8pm Mondays) was about ~~the awesomeness of Tyra~~ how schoolgirl it is to throw hissy fits when your He-Man Master of the Universe shoulders are singled out during competition or cry on national TV cos your boobies hurt. It’s a modelling competition, ladies. Also, how being clueless (or completely sloshed out of your brain) about your level of suckitude as perceived by others can only end in tears when the truth is scratched into your face in a frenzy of meows, claws and flying fur.

So the girls were told to identify and then accentuate those flaws in a positive manner. But the objective of the shoots was all weird and inconsistent and so we’ll just move on to the point of this post instead.

It often astounds me - though I don’t know why it still should, human nature considered - that people really have a problem with being honest about their faults. I don’t mean that sarcastic self-deprecation, you know, when someone goes “oh but what do I know, I’m just a dumb ho/housewife/lackey/civil servant/etc” when what they actually mean is I rock, bitch.

Neither do I mean those who just can’t help playing that bizarre mind game of pointing out imaginary/exaggerated flaws just so those around them feel obliged to coo and soothe – “No lah, where got” and throw flowers painstakingly spun with rapturous adoration at their feet.

Those people are the kind who don’t think that there’s really anything wrong with how they behave.

I’m talking about putting a mirror to the ugliness of your soul and being honest enough to see and therefore say – That was so unnecessary/mean/bitchy/stupid/intolerant/unfair/unreasonable of me.

I’ve grown up with a legacy of an uncontrollable, violent temper. I’ve felt its effects and I know I’m just as susceptible to being as out of control

I’ve watched my mother cast judgement on the inferior parenting skills of others and it’s all I can do to keep from crawling into fetal position and chanting “People who live in glass houses…”

She martyrs herself as this faultless, generous person who is taken advantage of by all…and it used to drive me insane (sometimes still does)…but I’ve since realised that underlying all that bravado runs the deepest, most crippling guilt and self-doubt.

In understanding that, I cannot condemn her. The guilt is harvest enough. And so I leave her to condemn others in order to feel better about herself.

Isn’t it healthier though, in the long run, to confront the Ugliness That Is You rather than for someone else to finally get through to you and you die of embarrassment or delusion-failure as a result?

Yes, life is already tough as it is and it’s even harder to recognise and admit to the true you. Too bad. It's gotta be done, because that’s what civilisation ought to mean…a constant process of self-examination, self-understanding and then taking the necessary steps to fix the problems. Or at least to mitigate them.

I’ve had the fortune and luxury of time to understand myself. And I’m happier for it because the reflection in the mirror is constant reminder to me to be a better person.

Mirror mirror on the wall, who deserves to face the wall?

I have a runaway temper. Once it sparks, it takes superlative effort not to let my mouth run away with the pointy spoon. I am genetically capable of ruining the mood of the moment by repeatedly pointing out the obvious. When in such rage, I have a vicious need to crush the inferior spirits of its object with the astoundingly glaring fact of said object’s stupidity and then force said object to admit said stupidity by scratching it out in a million lines, in said object’s own dwindling blood.

I am extremely impatient with

1) Illogic

Simply because it’s a waste of my time. If I can be bothered to rationalise my thoughts, you should too. If your illogic has been pointed out, don’t persist. It will be brutal.

2) Emotional paralysis

The time you spend wallowing in spilt/skim/sour/soy milk is inversely proportional to my esteem for you. This is because in such situations I believe myself to be the all-knowing god of impartiality and it’s past time for self-pity, wimp. You may hate me for my brutal assessment now but after the skyrocketing share price of whatever company makes your favourite brand of tissues comes back to normal and you’re laughing again, you’ll see that I was right.

When the above scenarios occur, I suck at diplomacy. Simply because you have failed to give me cause not to continue my love-affair with my opinions. I am therefore unlikely to care if you think that I’m a cold-hearted, arrogant bitch queen of the universe. With Masters of the Universe shoulders, if you must.

I am overly-confident in my ability to consider more than one source of information/perspective and to be impartial. As a result, I tend to think that I usually know best. That wonderful trait expresses itself in my turning into a bossy boots control freak with a tendency to lecture.

Another result of the above is my belief that the fact that we are friends will not deter me from being the first to say aloud “what the hell is wrong with you??” when everyone else is tip-toeing about or keeping quiet. I have a major saviour complex and that compels me to helpfully point out that the buck-naked Emperor has been conned by his tailors. The only consolation I can offer is that I am unlikely to hold my disagreement against you and will usually nag myself to refrain from saying “I told you so” later.

I know. Looks pretty bad. ~~Save Snowie!~~

But recognising the Step-Sister side of me allows for trying to do better. I think I’ve improved a bit with anger management. Baby steps lah. And I’m never shy to apologise if I’m mistaken or got my facts wrong. And I keep trying to remind myself not to lecture…but sometimes, after writing SO MUCH in a fit of indignant passion… very heartache to delete lah.

Anyway. I was talking to Snowie the other day about what my gift would be if I, as a fairy godmother (shaddab), could bestow a single trait in a newborn baby.

Kindness.

So emo hor? And out of character. You’d think I, who suffer fools badly, would value intelligence above all else.

The thing is, I’ve seen too many people believe it very cool or edgy or whatever to have a cause to rant on or be pissed off at. People who cannot get through a conversation without putting down another person teruk teruk. People who cannot tell the difference between describing a fact and getting personal. People who buy into the romanticising of the Angry Young Man or the Tough-as-Nails Chick.

See, you could be supersmart and do all kinds of maths but have no sense of social skills & etiquette or be a brat.

Or you could be supercool and know all kinds of great facts and have a razor mind sharper than sharp but we all know how often those kinds of people skim the line on the side of arrogance. And how much they’re hated.

However. You could be dumb as a dodo, but who's going to have ill-will towards a kind-hearted, good natured dunce?

If one were kind, there would naturally be no bone in one’s body of the prejudiced, intolerant, spiteful, mean, egotistical or selfish variety.

If I were kind, there wouldn’t be a list of flaws up there.

I’m bored now, so I won’t care if this all seemed a little incoherent and stop here.

Oh, and obviously I have a very short attention span. Save Snowie!

Stars, Stripes & ...Checks?

2006-08-10T18:08:00.000+08:00

Ok, I don't get it.

Stripes and checks are from the same family, no?

Without stripes there would be no checks. So logical.

Sometime during my day-out with Tigerlily and her family, I had the opportunity to witness one of the greatest feats of fatherhood.

Her husband single handedly changed both baby and toddler.

Let me digress here..I tell you ... this man is a gift from the heavens.

Not enough that we'd left him to watch the kids and feed the baby while we jalan jalan in One-Utama, he took super-daddyhood up a notch by changing both of them, fresh outfits, diaper, powder, baby-wipes - the works.

So there he was whipping off Baby O's pink pants and diaper with practically one hand while pulling out a new set of clothes from the bag.

"Must change her top too? But it looks clean" I whispered.

"Yeah, that's what I think too, but Tigerlily's not going to see it that way. Doesnt match" he mumbled.

Baby O was wearing a pink top with stripes.

The new outfit included green checked pants.

Nice wat?

No?

Stupidly, I asked her.

Wah. The look of horror she gave me, like as if I'd suggested putting Baby O in a giraffe outfit. Which would be rather cute, come to think of it...

I related the incident to Snowie, who joined us later.

NOT pretty!!! Checks! Stripes!! NOOOOO!

She and Tigerlily exchanged sympathetic I know!!! looks of long-suffering, obsessive compulsive sisterhood.

Green and red (pink is close enough) nice what, who doesn't like Christmas colours? So festive.

And checks and stripes don't go meh?

Really?

Hometown Blues

2006-08-04T17:22:00.000+08:00

Malaysia has been trying to get its “cities” of Malacca and Penang classified as a joint World Heritage site since 2001.

No, seriously.

Apparently, we didn’t get the memo on how the aim of identifying World Heritage sites via UNESCO is to “catalogue, name and preserve sites of outstanding cultural or natural importance to the common heritage of humankind.

Is it any wonder then, that five years down the road there is still no World Heritage listing in site?

Today, the Star reports that “Malaysia suspects that there are double standards when it comes to awarding World Heritage status to sites in Asian countries”.

Presumably sharing such suspicion, our Minister of Culture, Arts and Heritage concludes faster than a speeding bullet train from KL to Singapore that “Asian countries need their own benchmark to evaluate heritage sites”.

Typical. Your gang dowan to play with me, done, I make my own gang. Hmmph.

I know!! Kan??

For the record, there are 830 World Heritage Sites. Of that, the bulk are in Europe and North America (407), but the region with the next most sites is the Asia Pacific (175), followed by Latin America – Caribbean (116), Africa (70) and Arab states (62). It might be instructive to remember that Asia includes most of the ‘stan (Pakistan, Uzbekistan, etc) countries.

Of greater pertinence – There are only 197 cities in the world with World Heritage status. Neither London nor Lisbon is on that list. Nor any American city. Nor is Goa (although its churches and convents are), nor Beijing nor Athens. If you haven’t fulfilled your quota of useful trivia today, go here. Don’t point out to me that there is a contradiction in terms in this paragraph, unless you realise that it’s actually an oxymoron.

Doesn’t anyone in government read National Geographic magazine?? In fact, every parent willing to pay however much it is to send a child to Gymboree to crawl or for whatever extra-curricular class is deemed necessary to keep up with the Kiasus these days ought to just subscribe to NatGeo instead. It’s only RM145 per year. Teach your kid something about existing on this planet for once.

Sorry, off-tangent rant.

I’ve only been to one World Heritage city. Florence, in Italy. Of the many reasons why I love that city, the most relevant for this discussion explains exactly why I’ve grown to hate going back to Malacca, my hometown.

I won’t go into Penang, which, despite having a better track record in heritage preservation, I think would still not by itself qualify against the criteria. Which is probably why UNESCO suggested that a joint application be made.

Despite its antiquity, Florence manages to exist as a modern city. The impetus of urban development is balanced with the preservation and celebration of its rich history, culture and architecture. The pride that Florentines must have, and deservedly so, in their city is apparent by the focus of civic life in the city’s ancient piazzas. There are no multi-storey glass & steel office buildings. It’s amazingly difficult to find a supermarket. Instead, there are the tabacci, alimentari, forno, macelleria – tobacconist, grocers, bakeries and butchers. Daily life takes place literally on the streets, on foot.

Sure, there are throngs of tourists and locals at every turn but you never quite lose that sense of wonder of how it must have been like in the Middle Ages or at the height of the Roman Empire as you walk its cobblestone streets. Visiting its museums and civic buildings is like walking through time. It’s the birthplace of the Renaissance and it shows.

The historical character of Florence is without doubt central to the daily lives of Florentines; it’s the epitome of a living heritage.

That’s the kind of league in which Malaysia imagines itself capable of playing. Any concerns that UNESCO or even our own Badan Warisan may have to the contrary is dismissed with typical Malaysia Boleh chest-beating.

Back in reality where you and me and the rest of the world - but not some people:- the leaders of the US, UK, Germany and Israel (again, I digress) - like to live, I can only look at the mess that is Malacca and wonder…hello??

Have you been to Malacca in the last 5 years?

Heritage buildings painted in nursery school monotone cartoon colours, uncontrolled (and brainless) development, bad traffic planning, traditional traders forced out of heritage buildings and replaced with cheap-trinket shops, dusty understaffed (qualified) primary-school standard museum exhibits, heritage zones being turned into what amounts to a pasar malam, destruction of heritage architecture, man-made irrelevant “attractions”, chicken rice-ball shops proliferating virus-like. The list goes on.

Padang Pahlawan, where Tunku Abdul Rahman uttered the words that gave birth to Malaysia (and inspired the phenomenon of “patriotic songs”), is being developed into some kind of mega mall because Malacca doesn’t have enough public spaces for kutu masyarakat to lean aimlessly on or over railings and spread cancer via second-hand smoke.

We break here for a community service announcement. Please note the difference between sarcasm and fact lest I be accused of causing the "public to lose faith in the nation’s economic policies". Cintailah Malaysia, sebab Keranamu Malaysia saya dapat menikmati pelbagai keselesaan dan kemajuan yang tak terhingga. End of announcement.

During the course of the field’s excavation, structures of the Portuguese-constructed Malacca Fort, A’ Famosa, were found. You’d think that these finds would be of immense archaeological value, given that up till this discovery it was believed that Porta Santiago was the only remaining structure after the fort was destroyed in 1807.

Development of the mega mall continues unabated, with the authorities generously allowing a mere 10 feet of buffer between the finds and the mall’s foundation.

Malaysia Boleh!

The Malacca in my memories no longer exists in reality. Given the thinking that led to the recent production of an academic document (guidebook, textbook, does its form even matter??) containing an... alternative... perspective of our country’s history, I would not be surprised if Malacca’s historical role as a true cultural melting pot is eventually glossed over in the education system.

I’m reminded of one of my favourite stories - Neil Gaiman’s Ramadan, a comic-book story written just after the first Gulf War in 2001. It tells of how a great Caliph barters with the Lord of Dreams to take his Baghdad, at the height of its Golden Age, into the realm of dreams. That way, the dream of the magical city of Baghdad would live on forever in the imagination of man. The Caliph couldn't bear the thought of his beautiful city falling into decline after the Golden Age, or worse, being forgotten.

Well, whose imagination has not been enriched by the tales of the Arabian Nights? Good call, Caliph!

On the last few pages of Ramadan, we discover that the Caliph's story is told by a beggar to a disabled boy in the bombed-out rubble of present day (in 2001) Baghdad. It ends with the boy picking his way through the reality of his life with a smile on his face and a head filled with visions of "towers and jewels and djinn, carpets and rings and wild afreets, kings and princes and cities of brass."

Pure genius. And so true, especially given the state that Baghdad is in these days.

I’d like to think that there’s more than just a few of us who will always pronounce Tengkera as Tranquerah, refer to Newcome Road, First, Second and Third Cross Streets, Bailey Bridge, Wolferston Road and in whose memories live the stories of pelanduks, the court of Parameswara, the warriors –Hang Tuah, Hang Jebat (whom I think was right) and the lesser Hangs, the princess - Hang Li Poh, the wise vizier - Tun Perak, the ambassador - Laksamana Cheng Ho, the original Peranakans and the conqueror - Alfonso de Albuquerque.

For us and some of the next generation (I only have hope enough to take a chance on just one generation, forget about future ones), there is this. Cover pictured here. Poignantly beautiful. I saw it at MPH once and leafed through.

The pictures are only more heartbreaking when you realise that the bygone world of Malacca only exists when captured in still shots.

Kinder Surprise Thursday

2006-08-02T13:35:00.000+08:00

Two Thursdays ago I had what I’d consider an exceptionally happy day.

It started off in the morning at a job interview in town.

Following my lazy-ass whinge, Lady Luck apparently decided that her earplugs weren’t soundproof enough. A headhunter was despatched, armed with a job description so fitting it practically flashed cleavage as it tapped me on the shoulder and fell upon my lap.

It was the best interview I’d ever had because an hour and a half later, the interviewer couldn’t have been more clear about how I didn’t fit the type he wanted.

He was looking for a specialist, someone who’s been living, breathing and getting off on securities laws for the bulk of his/her career. Someone who could run with, not behind, him. And have staying power.

I have commitment issues. I’m in my 5th job in 7 ½ years. I’d more likely stroll off the path in a different direction, what more beside him.

But in spite of having rolled and rolled and gathered by conventional standards no moss (strange that the accumulation of skill/experience should be complimented in terms of fungal bloom), I must however have acquired skills good enough at each turn to be handsomely rewarded.

Boys and girls, if you’re going to have a rolling-stone resume, make sure your bonus record supports the idea that you were a champ of such awesome capabilities that it was your employer’s loss when you left. It gives you credibility. And the balls to outright declare I’m worth it in the same manner as Sean Connery would say - shaken, not shtirred.

That kept them interested.

As clockwork as how the fish dish signals the point in a wedding dinner where the bride changes into her more comfortable gown, that evergreen interview question was unleashed. Where do you see yourself in five years’?

Which is when this interview turned out to be a highly rewarding Kinder Surprise.

I knew the right answer – I hope to be able to have achieved the same successes that you have. Cue ass-kissing, winning smile.

But I chose instead to give the wrong one.

Honestly, I don’t know. Who can, really?
Cue game-over smile.

He asked if I would be interested in a position in the Compliance unit (I guess that's where they put the non-ambitious people?), as opposed to Legal.

In the few seconds it took me to consider, the Kinder split.

Surprise.

Like haiku, it came.

Clear though the mind speaks
Your heart – in silence observes.
The cube is its cage.

I make a lousy employee because I am, at heart, a consultant. Give me a problem, I’ll give you a big-picture solution. My control freak nature compels me also to tell you what concerns you need to address at micro level.

Just don’t ask me to micro-manage or set out detailed procedures. Don’t ask me either to revisit a file/issue/matter over and over and do the hamster-wheel jog of joyous repetition.

Don’t expect me to participate in office morale-&-camaraderie-building, hand-holding kumbayas.

Audit is my kryptonite. Rules and procedures, my Ritalin.

The cubicle is my cage.

I am so in the wrong line. Every month it’s the same thing. Check check check, pass.

It was almost impossible to continue; my heart was waxing Japanese poetry and the disturbing enormity of Mr. CouldabeenmyBoss’s head had become quite distracting.

So. It’s always nice to be able to close my folder, re-cap my pen and think moving right along… before the interviewer even begins to wind up the session.

I had enough left of the morning to put my car in for a service. Yay!

Driving to the service station, the epiphany continued.

The question I hate most in job interviews is -

“What are the highlights of your performance in each job?”

It’s a question I have never answered, until that morning, without copious shovels-full of bullshit. The fact of the matter is that I don’t consider anything to have been of an especially big deal. Now that’s a problematic answer because it gives the interviewer the impression that I don’t bring much to the table.

That’s where the bonus record again saves the day. Despite my lack of enthusiasm, I clearly must have done something right by my employer’s standards.

In the past I’ve been able to muster up enough shake in my dusty pompoms. But this cheerleader is now ready to give you an R!
And an E!
Oh look what the rest spell - TIRED .

Somewhere along Jalan Tun Razak the message that my heart had been SOS-ing finally crystalised in my mind. The reason why I don’t think my work performance is any big deal is because I just don’t have the heart for it. It may be good enough for my employers, but it doesn’t make me happy.

Doncha just love epiphanies? Like Kinder Surprises and haiku - we need more of these little capsules of clarity and simple joy in our lives.

So there you go.

That’s why when I migrate to Australia, I’m going to find a job as a cook’s assistant in a small diner/café. Maybe some temp-ing for family law practices. Go back to uni and do research on medical ethics or criminology or maybe an undergraduate degree in sociology.

I’d like to spend my 40s on a small farm (no livestock please, they’re stinky) in a two-bedroom house with a bright airy study and massive kitchen. Mediterranean weather, golden afternoons on a small porch, coffee, croissants and the papers for breakfast. Cool nights under an endless blanket of stars. Superfast, wireless Internet connection so that I can passively participate in non-face-to-face discourse. A diesel-efficient compact car (VW Golf rocks!). A 20-minute drive from civilisation.

I simply remember my favourite things…and then I won’t feel so bad.

Anyway, back to that Thursday.

Got my car serviced

Managed to rayu the RM100 parking fine down to RM30 by demonstrating a complete lack of shame at the MMPJ with my unnaturally sweet and fluffy bunny disposition

Confirmed that the MMPJ hasn’t yet threatened to confiscate my apartment despite my property assessment being two years overdue.

Super yay day or what? All by mid-afternoon. It just got better and better.

The royal icing on the cake? I spent the rest of the day up till 11pm with one of my favourite people in the whole wide world.

Oh…of course Snowie was there too.

My friend Tigerlily was back from Sydney with her husband and two children, one of whom is just 6 months’ old. Is it possible to top the pleasure of catching up with your favourite person after over a year?

Can the joy of an already yummy Kinder chocolate be outshone by its Surprise?

Yes.

OMAGAWD da baby!!!

Vulture-like (minus the bangkai-eating image. Think slightly less covetous but kindly aunty), I hung over her pram. What a beautiful, sweet-natured bundle of twinkly-eyed chubby cuteness. You should have seen me carrying her all over One-Utama, showing off. Heh.

We had waffles, went pretty dress shopping (Flower Girl in the connecting section between old and new Utama) for the baby, shoe shopping for her handsome brother, had dinner. I literally caught the baby’s puke before it hit the dress she was amiably modelling at Flower Girl. Snowie got chucked on later when the baby decided that half-digested pulped carrots would make a comfy cushion between her and Snowie’s chest.

It was without doubt, an exceptionally good day.

Bimbo Bubbles

2006-07-19T14:22:00.000+08:00

Oh where oh where has the passion gone?

Me: Eeee…your panties so frightening. Like Great White shark-skin. Or black pomfret.
Snowie: Meh.

Snowie: I’m frisky.
Me: zzzzzzzzzzz….
Snowie: hwek

******

I wish I really had a St. Bernard (geekchic, hereyago). I’d name him Rum. And he’d be friends with a Daschund named Raisin.

And because St. Bernards are massive, I’d be able to ride Rum to the minimarket. Raisin can carry the shopping.

I’d also like to have a pet crocodile just so I can name her Handbag.

******

Why does the sight of Jackie Chan with long hair piss me off unbelievably so?

******

As a former beauty queen (Miss Malacca Club 1979 or 80…who can keep track?) myself, I must seriously protest the fact that the Miss Universe pageant doesn’t include participants from the rest of the Universe.

Imagine Donald Trump crowning Miss Uranus.

Hilarity.

Trump: So, where are you from?
Ms. Uranus: Uranus
Trump: Wooargh. Dirty talk, I like. Where will you be after this.
Ms. Uranus: In Uranus.
Trump: All other contestants...you're fired! This is the new Miss Universe!
Miss Uranus: I, Miss Uranus?
Trump: Ooo baby. So soon?

Ummm... enough of that.

******

Oh my goodness the new Mandarin & Ginger flavoured Fisherman's Friend is SO delicious!!!

****

Postcard To The Dumps

2006-07-17T15:19:00.000+08:00

To Wandernut,
c/o Wisma Wandernut, No. 10 Jalan Wandernut Besar, Petaling Jaya.

Dear Wandernut,

We received your SOS from The Dumps.

Unfortunately, the helicopter is in the shop. Rotor problem lah, beb.

The St. Bernard we sent out to fetch you returned with no Nut hanging from his jaws. He did bring back a plastic pack of Teh Tarik kurang manis, though. I think he just wanted to be sent out again and flirt with Sunshine instead.

So here's the next best thing.

I name thee...Wandernut's Wandermisu.

Now, we already know that food is a sure-fire way of putting the wonder back into the Nut. The kicker here, is that this beauteous tiramisu is from YOUR recipe. :)

It was fabulous. All flabulousness resulting therefrom is entirely your fault.

Hope this drags you out of the dumps for today.

Lots of hooves and trotters,
Spot & Snowie.

p/s - t'was a pleasure meeting you and The Box. You both surpassed expectations. :)

For Sale

2006-07-12T11:51:00.000+08:00

Freehold condo unit at Menara Duta 2.
5 mins to Sri Hartamas and Mont Kiara.
15 mins to Ikea/1-Utama/Damansara Perdana because Penchala Link will set you free...
1,410 sqft - 4 rooms, 3 bathrooms, huge dry kitchen, generous wet kitchen/yard.
2 car parks.
2 aircons, 2 ceiling fans, 1 waterheater, lights.
Timber strip and laminate wood flooring.
Full kitchen cabinets (granite counters).
Maintenance/Service - 20c psft.

Currently tenanted until Dec 2006.

Send me an email if interested.

A Gratitude Fee will be given to anyone who introduces a concluded sale.

EDIT:

Since I don't check my emails regularly... here's the most important detail. And feel free to enquire in the comments instead.

Asking Price: RM290,000 negotiable (as every buyer expects).

Rich Man's World

2006-07-07T14:47:00.000+08:00

all the things I could do
if I had a little money,
it's a rich man's world.

Warren Buffet, the world's second richest man, is worth USD41 billion. Of that, he's giving away USD37.1 billion to charitable foundations.

Isn't it mind-boggling how so much wealth can be concentrated in one wrinkled old man, out of 6.5 billion people on the planet? If all that money was given to every single person in the world (including undeserving people like, let’s see - GW Bush, celebrities, Donald Trump, Mawi, the MP for Jasin, my parents, you, me) each person would get USD5.70.

Surely that's like a few months' income for at least two billion people?? What a difference five bucks would make.

But I guess the Sage of Omaha knows what he's doing. The bulk of the donation is going to the Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation, an organisation focussed on global-scale issues - vaccinations for Third World diseases, eradication of polio and treatment for children with HIV/AIDS. So, to all sensationalist media that ran the headline “2nd Richest Man gives fortune to World’s Richest Man” - just shut up.

That’s not the point of this post though, because I’m going to talk about Angelina Jolie (swoon, nggghrarrrh, pant pant…ahem) next, and who can be pointy-er than her? Yabadaba.

Ms. Jolie gives a third of her income towards charitable causes world-wide because she considers the quantum of what she gets as an actor as “stupid”.

Call that a self-promoting, self-aggrandising statement if you must (and I’ll call you shallow and intellectually-stunted in return), but the idea of a person being insanely overpaid for what they do is surely not so earth-moving. Hey, I think I’m overpaid for the little work I do*, compared to the molecular crumbs that “reward” the blood, sweat and tears of manual labourers and servants.

* Some might jump to the conclusion that I must be earning in 5 digits or something, in order to say that. Haha, no. It’s probably considered normal by industry standards, but I just think that these standards, as in corporate ones, are ridiculously generous the higher you go.

The thing that separates me from Ms. Jolie (aside from stupid Brad Pitt, a couple of oceans and ten million other things) though, is that whilst I think I’m overpaid, unlike her I don’t think I have enough to give away any meaningful fraction. Pocket change I could certainly afford, but here’s where Angelina ascends to the pedestal of awesome goddess-hood. A third of anyone’s income is hardly pocket change. A third of her income is probably the GDP of a small island nation. Yet she’s decided that she’s got enough for herself to give all that away, instead of say blowing it on a luxury car (MP for Jasin, I’m looking at you).

Ah. To be able to truly say - I have enough.

Recently, there’s been word of redeployment/reassignment at work. It’s been intimated that it would very likely mean a promotion for me and therefore more money.

Here’s the thing. My career so far has very consistently thrown out a pattern. When I left the first one in Melaka, I was offered partnership to stay (which was really stupid, Mr. O. I had like, what, all of at most 2 years’ experience?? What kind of business decision is that? No wonder your brother runs the family business while you flaff around in your Tai-Siew world). I didn’t.

When I left the second job because I had some personal issues to sort out, I was told to take a sabbatical for as long as I needed and come back to the job when I was ready, because my boss had big plans for me (and given our working relationship, I was pretty certain it wasn’t just an exploitative ploy/lip service). I declined and instead took another job at a significant paycut all for the sake of doing something new.

Somewhere along the way, I think in 2004, Mr. O offered to GIVE me his legal practice because he was retiring, together with support staff who agreed to stay provided I took over. Never mind that the obvious successor should have been the lawyer who’d worked for him since I left. Declined that.

When I resigned at the third job, I was given an immediate RM1k pay rise to prove my boss’s seriousness in wanting me to stay. I was the highest paid employee and had the most important perk (to me) – the luxury of sailing in at 9.45 a.m., much to her impotent chagrin. I left anyway.

Let us not speak of the fourth job because scumbags of the earth deserve no mention.

So what the Thing really is, is that while I have nowhere near the “I have enough, here, starving peoples of the world, take the rest of my riches and treats” level of wealth, I do, to a certain extent, have enough. As much as it would be soooo fine, I don’t need that plasma tv (I don’t I don’t I really don’t…. sniffle), the Magimix, the uber-cool notebook or a new digital camera. My blog as my witness.

Promotion/power/status comes at a price. And I’m not willing to give up my quality of life to suck at the Devil’s Teats of Corporate Bondage.

So here I am, left wondering how to save RM48,000 so that I can afford to be jobless and tenantless for 6 months in Adelaide, assuming that my Australian PR application is approved. This whole migration thing – the document-gathering, homework, math, projections – has kept me obsessed since we came back from Italy. Particularly the math/projection part, given that I’m a numbers bimbo. I can barely understand compound interest.

The obvious thing to do would be to accept the devil’s boobs and take a good long suck. Don’t tell me how that came out in so many kinds of wrong. Let’s focus here.

But apart from The Thing, there’s The Other Thing.

I’m really, and I seriously kid you not, really very lazy. Here’s how –

* A cheque in my favour had been sitting in my drawer since 22 June, waiting to be deposited. I work in a bank. I pass within 20 feet of the machine every day.

* Another cheque for about RM400 has been waiting for me upstairs at Claims since Monday. Just one floor up.

* I’ve been watching my nails grow like champions grow into dangerous weapons because I’m too lazy to find the nail-clipper.

* My hair is starting to curl girly-ly on my shoulders because I’m too lazy to drive to the salon. Appears that I’d rather have to use Snowie’s hairband and Hello Kitty-type clips than stop being lazy.

So what’s a lazy girl to do? (btw, I actually have no objections to being referred to as one, knicker-twisting gender perspective notwithstanding. Convenient mah.)

I honestly can’t be arsed to kiss butt (pun so intended), network, brainstorm and plan strategically. ~~But a plasma tv would look sooooo fine on my wall~~.

All said though, the above hand-wringing is probably academic. Fact is, I’m the only person with the qualifications required for the position that might be created, unless they look outside the organisation. And unless I start looking for another job, I don’t think I’ll be given much choice if might becomes “will”. That’s cue for The Other Thing to come bite me in the butt. I’m way too lazy to start looking for another job.

Anyway, there’s no point is there, if I won’t be here in a year’s time? But I’ll still be here in a year’s time if I don’t rustle up RM48k to feel secure enough to go. Sigh.

Money money money. It’s a rich man’s world.

This post was brought to you by the letter “M” and the Devil’s Teats, whose milkshakes are better than yours.

My Top 10 Life's Simplest Pleasures

2006-06-16T17:10:00.000+08:00

Cop-out. My will to write has been overwhelmed by the burdens of guilt (#$%@ tax) and unruly hair.

Meme to the rescue.

I've decided to list solitary activities because I think to even have THE ONE to do stuff with isn't a simple occurence at all. Simple pleasures are those where you don't need a tonne of money or super good fortune on your side.

So here we go...

Top 10 Life’s Simplest Pleasures

1. Singing, shoulder-shrugging ala Beyonce and crazy-pointing-in-an-arc (this nifty move is disguised by pretending to be turning the steering wheel with one hand) along with my MP3s whilst driving alone. Makes a pretty awesome sight.

2. Laughing at oneself. Very necessary to find pleasure in this, given no. 1 above.

3. Mashed potatoes and gravy. Rolled with crushed potato crisps.

4. Uninterrupted daydreaming.

5. Inhaling coffee fumes.

6. Making horns, beards, wigs, hats or mountains out of bath bubbles.

7. Lazing about in bed all day with stacks of gossipy magazines, comics, snacks and remote controls for the tv, Astro, fan and aircon within handy reach.

8. When a line from a book/movie/lyric plants a kiss in my heart/brain and leaves me speechless.

9. Hugging a bolster pillow whilst burrowing into the bed.

10. A good barbeque where there are insane amounts of fresh meat and nothing’s been bought in ready-to-eat packets.

Quiet Beach

2006-06-06T21:00:00.000+08:00

A hermit crab was tickling her toes.

She tried wiggling them but, of course, she could not.

The crab flicked a claw-full of sand at her. Cheekily, almost.

Sighing inside herself she settled into the baking sand, trying her best to ignore yet another of the endless little discomforts that her life had lately become composed of.

The family had not noticed the little hive of construction activity going on at her feet, so intensely focussed were they on the task of keeping her body from falling apart. Someone was packing on more sand, then water. She felt someone else – the second sister, most likely - carefully arrange what smelt like fresh seaweed on top of her head.

She smiled, hoping that the sister would feel her gratitude. How sad, that having nice hair seemed the height of dignity these days. If only her body would stop crumbling. The water they applied from their pails didn’t appear to be working.

Beyond her feet, she heard the sounds of the brother’s tireless battle.

Each day, he dug a trench in the sand.

Each day, he would plant himself in his trench and glare at the encroaching tide. Beating it back with the ferocity of his hope.

Each evening he stood guard, his face salt-stained. Like David, poised in defiance of the darkening sky and omnipresent waves.

Each day, her heart broke for him.

In this battle, Goliath was as unstoppable as the ocean was vast.

Inevitably, a particularly energetic wave would get past him. Bringing along a curious friend or two.

The waves would tease, washing over her feet like a blanket. And when the swath of water receded her feet would have disappeared! Just like in magic shows!

But the family would always rebuild her. Not letting her slip away. Not this time, no, not ever.

Time.

It had moved like quicksand at the start. Day after baking hot day had dragged on. Hours ticked by like the little insects that marched daily across her body. Still, she lay there as the world went on around her. She would know that it was daytime from the casual comings and goings of people on the beach. Just as the glow in her head would change from fiery crimson to gentle amber, the cheery voices of the family that had made her would gradually mute into hushed whispers. Nightfall.

And the sea would come back.

Always.

Like a patient lover who knows that all it takes is time.

The beach trembled as the sea crept steadily along. Pausing only for the briefest of moments as if in mock tribute to the lonely, flooded trench, the waves approached, bearing flowers of foam.

"And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon"

She felt the first, almost tentative touch. First her toes, then slowly caressing up her feet, legs, thighs. Stroking from hips to the gentle rise and fall of her belly.

Made of sand. Always content to sit by herself as the family bustled about her. Demanding nothing, fussed over nonetheless.

She settled into warm dark water around her, aware that the sand beneath her, from her, was slowly slipping away.

Precious pieces of her self. Drifting, carried off.

Vanishing.

Reclaimed.

****

Hail Mary full of grace, the Lord is with you
Blessed are you amongst women
and blessed is the fruit of your womb, Jesus
Holy Mary mother of God,
pray for us sinners now
and at the hour of our death
Amen.

In memoriam.

17th September 1945 - 6th June 2006

Be at peace, ever more.

***

Postscript - I was inspired to write this story, albeit with a less ...finite ending, a week or so ago. In the last days of her illness, my aunt was bedridden. Though her mind was fully aware, she had hardly the strength to speak. How lonely it must be, to be trapped inside the prison of your failing body.

I wanted to read to her, to provide some form of stimulation for her mind. But there was never any suitable reading material in her house. I tried reading from a booklet called "Meditations for the Terminally Ill" but ended up ad-libbing. Did she really need to be told to rejoice when the indignity of needing assistance to ease her bodily functions upset her so much? No.

With nothing else available at the time, I did the next best thing. I told her that Angelina Joile had finally given birth and no, they didn't name the baby Brangelina. She managed a laugh. I'd like to think humour is good.

I went home that day with the thought that I'd write her some short stories. The idea of the isolation of a sand-woman came soon after and with those seeds, I should have started writing it then, instead of yesterday morning.

Anyways. In case the afterlife happens to have lightning (literally)-speed connection or better yet, is the Internet, Ah Yee, this is for you. If not, I'll send it to you by burning. Please check your firebox.

Was that you, that moth on the wall on Monday?

No Updates

2006-06-06T09:33:00.000+08:00

because

1) lazy

2) department (i.e. me) being internally audited

3) very extended post holiday blues

4) feeling guilty from not having done my tax

5) holiday photo fatigue

6) need to gather documentation for 2nd stage (state approval) of PR application

7) need haircut - my hair is making me sleepy

More Food

2006-05-31T02:11:00.000+08:00

Clockwise from left - Tuna salad (massive, very fresh),

Trofie pasta with scampi (tasty sauce, scampi are very skinny prawns),

Roasted Swordfish with capers (best roast fish I've ever had),

mini clockwise from left - linguine with clams, fish ravioli (fabulous, very delicate flavour), fried seafood (best calamari EVER).

The ABSOLUTE best beef sandwich EVER. The bun is dipped in the broth in which the boiled beef has been stewed. Sliced beef, topped with parsley sauce and spicy red pepper sauce.

From the very popular Nerbone, a local favourite in Mercato Centrale, Florence. This was one of THE best things of my trip. Only Euro 2.3, value or WHAT!!?

Italian meals can be really huge. Start with antipasto (usually something like the proscuitto/salami & cheese or bruschetta), followed by a primi - the pasta dish. A secondi is the meat part of the meal and usually doesn't come with vegetables. That's a separate order. Below is a primi, secondi and veg, from an excellent restaurant (we went three times) a few steps from where we stayed (Instituto Gould) in Florence. Description to come.

More pasta!

Impressions of Italy (Part 3)

2006-05-26T16:50:00.000+08:00

Part 4: The Food of Italy

Taking a break from the scenery…let’s move on to food.

I went with my belly thrown wide open to what Italy had to offer. Generally, I wasn’t disappointed.

It begins almost from the moment you step into one of Rome’s main gateways – the Termini station, the hub for trains, busses and the airport shuttle.

I’ve heard a lot about Italy’s hot chocolate - cioccolato calda in Italian. At an ordinary cafe/bar place inside Termini (next to the bookshop), we stumbled upon the best one of our entire trip.

Looks like quicksand. The spoon pretty much sits on the surface, sinking only at snail's pace. Despite the apparent viscosity it's suprisingly light going down, with a hint of orange. Yummers!!!

Italians have, as the Europeans do, very light breakfasts. A capuccino and a brioche (a sweet pastry, often croissants, filled bun/horn thingy, flat mickey-mouse-head shaped crispy thing, tart etc) is standard.

The chocolate croissants in some places seem to have half a bottle of Nutella in them. Divine. Only eighty cents (euro)

Us Asians being used to nasi lemak as the day's starter, had sandwiches for our first breakfast.Missing from the pic is the giant coffee gelato we had immediately after. For breakfast. Oh yes.

Called panino(plural = panini) or tramezzini depending on the bread used, there's a huge variety of filling that revolve around pork. No, Italy is certainly not a very halal place, gastronomically speaking.

Babi, what do they call you, let me count the ways - pancetta, proscuito, parma, porchetta, arista, maiale, snowie...

Top picture: Ham and buffalo mozarella with rocket leaf. Good combo!

Bottom: Ham and melon. Surprisingly good combo.

Both eaten as starters. Further below there's a picture of a plateful of porky ribbons behind some pasta. Salumi mista, mixed salami. The pasta sauce is pesto, Ligurian/Genoese style. The pasta is called trofie and is the common form eaten in Liguria. Looks like worms.

One thing to be said about Italian pork products. VERY strong smell. Sometimes, it tastes as though you've just bit a live, unwashed pig.

Moving on to the definitive icon of Italian food, for non-Italians at least, the pizza.

It can be eaten whole as a meal or in slices as a snack. As snacks, you usually get the form that looks like the middle ground between the "Pan" pizzas and thin crust type we get in our part of the world. But despite it's "fluffiness" the pizza base is usually crispy (therefore "fat & crispy"??).

See the bottom right and top left pictures in the collage below. Toppings shown for bottom right are - (1)aubergine & tomato, (2)tomato & funghi and (3)zuchinni. For top left - (1)pesto and (2)tomato & basil.

The best pizza of the trip is at top right. This is from Da Baffeto, a tiny pizzeria on Via Governo Vecchio in Rome. Toppings - right to left, clockwise - (1)four cheeses (don't try if you hate blue cheese), (2) artichokes, onions, sausage, egg & funghi and (3)onions & funghi.

The place gets packed pretty quickly by locals as well as the type of tourists who don't come by the busload (those get dropped off at places with "tourist menus") nor follow moving flags around. Not only did we have to queue to get in, we waited an HOUR before our orders finally arrived, BOTH times we went. BUT by all that is tasty and fattening in this world, was it EVER worth the wait. The best wood-fired pizza I've ever eaten in my life (counting the gorgeous ones in Australia). The smoky crispness, the fresh ingredients, the bursting flavour...dare I say it...better than sex? *fans self*

As you can see, it's served unceremoniously on flat metal plates, much like those in our banana leaf/nasi kandar shops. Best eaten folded over and with bare hands, imo.

Coming in a close second is the pizza we had at a tiny town with a big name - Bastardo, in Umbria. The pizza pictured at bottom left is named after Mount Vesuvius, -the volcano that literally dusted Pompeii- presumably because of the runny egg yolk in the middle fields of ham and funghi. Another of the wood-fired variety; the only way that pizzas ought to be made, I'd say.

These are not all of the food pictures we took, obviously. But it'll do for now. Getting gastric just looking at it all again. :)

Impressions of Italy (Part 2)

2006-05-25T12:23:00.000+08:00

Part 3 - Landscapes of Liguria

Liguria is one of Italy's northern provinces and is known for its "Italian Riviera", lemon groves, anchovies, a very potent liquer known as limoncello and pesto sauce. Probably also for stacks more things, but that's the limit of my memory.

The lemon trees were like weeds, growing oh-so-ho-hum-just-minding-my-own-business from gardens to cliff sides. The ones in the place where we stayed were monstrously huge.

From our base in the town of Levanto, we were mere minutes away by train to the Cinque Terre ("Five Lands"), a string of five villages nestled in the cliffs overlooking the Ligurian sea.

Here's a shot of the park in Levanto's main piazza, a slow minute's walk from the beach.

Lots of old people sitting around yakking, young mothers yikkety-yakking (faster than oldies, so they get a yikkety) and kids playing. More gelato shops than you can shake a cone at.

Truly la dolce vita.

Cinque Terre is usually packed with American tourists in the spring/summer months, thanks to travel writer Rick Steves. Hence our choice of the lesser-known but very charming Levanto as home base.

The villages are accessible via train (abt two minutes btwn each town), road, boat (except Corniglia) or more popularly, by a marked hiking trail that can take btwn five hours for the whole stretch btwn Monterosso to Riomaggiore to however long your miserable stamina requires.

The best part about the hike are the views of the villages and the sea. We only did a short stretch, about 2 km, from Riomaggiore to Manarola so that Snowie's knee wouldn't be too taxed. Here's the view from the trail.

The next village after Manarola (heading west from east) is Corniglia, but since it's right on top of a very high cliff with no beach, we skipped it and took a train to Vernazza.

Vernazza is probably the most pretty of the villages, with a crystal-clear harbour (remember the pretty fish?) and colourful houses & boats neatly bookended by its church with an arabian-esque dome on one side and the look-out tower on the other.

Took this shot of the village, golden in the light of sunset, from the top of the tower.

On the way down, I passed a cafe which being tucked some way up amongst the crevices of the cliffs, offered a spectacular vantage point to get this picture.

I have no idea why it's so blue here, the side facing Corniglia when it was so golden on the Vernazza side. Probably the camera settings.

Imagine spending a breezy evening outside, under the deep blue sky, slowly sipping coffee with a plateful of bruschetta, looking at this.

Shiok.

Having spent quite a bit of time in Vernazza to make Snowie cry and to have dinner, we gave Monterosso a miss, especially since it had gotten really chilly, and trained back to Levanto.

Despite it having turned out to be only Tre Terre (three lands), it really was an experience of a lifetime to have watched the sun set over a breath-takingly beautiful region. Snowie loves the sea and I love mountains/cliffs, so yeah, this leg of the trip in particular goes straight to a special place in our hearts.

Impressions of Italy (Part 1)

2006-05-24T12:53:00.000+08:00

There are just too many pictures. And I'm too lazy to check out flickr.

Here's my personal "best of".

Note - The pictures don't look their best because I've resized for faster uploading.

Part 1 - Civilisation

We spent the first night in Rome before heading off to Cinque Terre on Day 2. This picture was taken from somewhere at the top of the Vittorio Emanuelle II monument when we returned to Rome for Days 12-15.

I like it cos it has the flag, the church domes, statues and traffic. Rome is nothing without its traffic!

Here's the facade of the Pantheon, formerly a pagan temple to all gods, now one of the endless supply of Santa Maria something churches.

Its dome is pretty spectacular, with a hole measuring 9m across at its apex, open to the sky. In the daytime the sunlight pours in, dramatically lighting up the interior. Nothing particularly exciting inside, other than the tombs of Rafael and some kings.

The Pantheon was about a minute's walk from our apartment, so we passed it everyday. From there, it's a two-minute walk to Piazza Navone and five minutes to the Trevi Fountain.

All roads lead to the Pantheon. Good memories.

We were in Florence from Days 4 - 7. I liked Florence way more than Rome. The weather and shopping were better and the city more compact (hence the sights are easily walkable within a grid). And best of all, there's the Mercato Centrale (central market) where the bestest, saliva-flowing boiled beef sandwiches are sold from a shop called *angelic violins swelling* ...
*heart* Nerbone *heart*

This shot was taken by Snowie from Piazza Michelangelo, capturing one of the classic Florence postcard scenes. Very laku with the tourists. The sun sets pretty late in spring...I think it was after 8pm when this was shot.

See the Ponte Vecchio on the left. So cantik.

The Duomo and its campanile (tower) on the right dominate the cityscape and are very useful for orienteering yourself when walking in the city. The other pointy thing in the middle is the Palazzo Vecchio, where the fake David is.

Speaking of fake David, here's some of his friends who keep him in nude company outside the palace (albeit positioned further away so as not to distract from his prima ~~donna~~ david status).

This amazing piece of statuary is called the Rape of the Sabine Women. A strange name, doesn't look like the two men and one woman are playing Twister? Pretty awesome though, the sinewy contortions, given that the statue is carved from marble.

Despite my repeated requests, my three fellow travellers have very unsportingly refused to recreate this pose for a photo. How rude.

Part 2 - Earthbound Divinity

No visit to Rome is complete without taking the opportunity to literally step into another country.

Vatican City, the seat of Catholicism and home of a less photogenic Pope (compared to his predecessor). Can you see why I was a huge lightning strike risk? Imagine the headlines - "Pelancung mati disambar kilat semasa berkunjung ke Itali"

This is the view of St. Peter's square from the top of the Basilica's dome. Taken by the Doc and the Energizer Bunny who are equipped with healthier knees and freakishly limitless stamina.

Note the shadow of the dome in the foreground. It's HUGE. The dome, that is. Everything's huge. Those huggy arm-like semi-circles surrounding the piazza are comprised of FOUR humongous columns. Click on the picture itself to get a better view.

Here's a shot of the Dome from the inside. It's one of my absolute favourites because of how the light streams in, and the geometric shapes.

Visiting the Vatican, actually, pretty much every church we went into in Italy, I could see why Catholicism has managed to entrench itself in political history and garners more followers than the other Christian denomination.

Catholic imagery, traditions and ritualism are profoundly reflected in the architecture of its houses of worship.

There is only one word to describe it. Majestic. Inspiring awe enough to make you feel like falling to your knees.

But this, is a wee bit scary lah.

Taken in the basilica of St. Rufino in Assisi. That's Moses and his rulebooks on the left. There's a bell next to him, with its rope hanging enticingly within reach of curious hands. The Doc wondered what would happen if she pulled it, then answered the question herself.

Mungkin kena macam tu, she whispered, nodding towards you-know-who.

Yeowch.

The Best Laid Plans..

2006-05-23T16:12:00.000+08:00

...of mice and men often go awry, as the saying goes.

I hadn't planned on climbing up steep stairs cut into a cliff and then on up a lookout tower, right before the big moment.

What I did plan, was to sing this to her -

Never knew, I could feel like this
Like I've never seen the sky before
Want to vanish inside your kiss
Every day I love you more and more

Listen to my heart
Can you hear it sing?
Telling me to give you everything

Seasons may change
Winter to spring
But I'll love you
Until the end of time

- Come What May, from Moulin Rouge

Super romance, right??

But by the time I got back down to where she was waiting (sitting out the climb because of a bad knee), I was out of breath.

Heaving like one's about to have a heartattack is so not the way to ber-romance.

Plus there were ten million tourists milling about.

My window of opportunity was closing as rapidly as the disappearing golden sunlight-setting I'd waited all day for.

Desperately, I lured her to the more secluded edge of the rocks, on the pretext of "Hey look, fish! See the pretty fish OVER THERE".

Cis. A stray tourist decided also to look at the pretty fish.

GO. AWAY. DUMBASS.

Fish, fish, pretty fish (stall stall stall)...wah, so nice. See, see, nice hor?

Like never see fish before.

Finally. Alone.

I made her sit down. Her elderly knee sure comes in handy as an excuse.

Then I got on one knee.

The look on her face. Heh. So terperanjat (that means "alarmed", Minty). Actually, as I found out later, she'd thought I tersangat lemah (totally weakened) from the cliff/tower climb.

My heart was pounding. Never knew I could feel like this, indeed.

All the romantic words I'd planned deserted me. Damn...I was about to cry! Cis!

I think I said "I love you (Snowie's real name) ... will you spend your life with me?" as I held her hand and opened mine with the ring in it.

When what I'd planned was "will you witness my life?"* because, you know, what actually did come out of my mouth is like ... so corny. Ah well. Mice and men.

I've always wondered whether women cry when proposed to in the movies/literature because it's a genuine feeling or only because that's what's expected. Like how couples pause to kiss all over the place in Italy.

Well, I sure got my answer. Total speechless shock quickly turned to all-out blubbing. Er..on her part, that is. Me, I just teared a tiny bit.

It was a moment to remember, love. Thank you for the surprise postcard to commemorate it - finding it in the mail when we got back, brought back the magic of that day.

I commit my life to you, to witness yours and to love you, with all that I can give.

* We need a witness to our lives. There's a billion people on the planet... I mean, what does any one life really mean? But in a marriage, you're promising to care about everything. The good things, the bad things, the terrible things, the mundane things... all of it, all of the time, every day. You're saying - Your life will not go unnoticed because I will notice it. Your life will not go un-witnessed because I will be your witness –

- Susan Sarandon's character in Shall We Dance

And Another Thing..

2006-05-04T14:30:00.000+08:00

Since she's unlikely to be going online btwn now and this Sunday when we will be here... --->

View of Vernazza in Cinque Terre, Liguria, Italy.

I'll let you all in on a surprise I've planned for our favourite little pink pig.

Aquamarine & baby diamonds.

It'd be too akward for her to explain why she's come back from Italy wearing a solitaire diamond otherwise, kan?

I couldn't get the macro setting to focus properly...was in a rush; making sure she'd be too busy to see what I was up to while she was packing.

So.

????

On a Jetplane

2006-05-04T12:20:00.000+08:00

Below is the cake we made for my friend Phoenix Heart, who's taking on a job in Miri (I've removed the logo of PH's new workplace, which was made from sugarpaste and placed in front of the plane's nose). It's a butter cake baked by Snowie, covered in sugarpaste made by Snowie. So what did I do? I had confidence in her baking skills, that's what!

Oklah, the concept, design and build were by me. Check out our deflated clouds. I thought candyfloss would have a nice fluffy effect. Melted wor!

Anyway, I'm going to use it here since we're going off on holiday at 11.55pm tonight.

Unlikely to be updating during our traipse through Italy...so, until at least the 22nd, be good everyone.

Oh, and happy travels to Geekchic, Wandernut and Jay's mum!

Everyone, meet Phoenix the aeroplane.

Tears Of The Moon

2006-05-03T10:16:00.000+08:00

Something inside me has been trying to come out for the longest time.

It sits in the dark with mute patience, as obvious as a great black cat with eyes as large as towers, flicking its tail and staring. Making not a sound.

I’ve tried to sing it, to shout it out.

I’ve tried tears, but it refuses to be flushed out.

I’ve offered it my fingers as a guide, to bridge the caverns of my heart and flow, like blood onto a page.

Still, the words don’t come.

I thought maybe if I went for this creative writing class, I’d be able to give it a voice.

If you’re stuck with a character and don’t know what she/he wants to say, try interviewing him/her. Think about the character before you go to sleep and see where the dream takes you.

said Sharon.

And so here I am.

The sky is a hazy grey, bled of colour as the veil of waking parts and I step into the plains of the dreaming. Strange, I’d have thought it would be the other way around.

I am standing on a path. The air is cool and smells faintly of candyfloss. All around me, the plains begin to shimmer, throwing up wavy images like reflections on the surface of a rippling lake.

I hear – no – feel the calling. If I concentrate with eyes closed, it feels like white noise and flashing crimson. A blood rush. I can almost taste the metallic earthiness of the pull, tugging at my skin, reaching into my flesh.

The path beneath me changes as I move forward.

Sometimes it’s a channel of waves, sometimes a bitumen road. Other times it’s a railroad track, oftentimes a nondescript dirt path.

I come upon a crossroads with a roundabout in the centre. A spotted cow is walking around the roundabout, followed by a small pink pig. Around and round they go, bopping up and down like a merry-go-round. The pink pig is wearing a blue ribbon with a tag on it that says “My ballgown”.

I smile at them and they wave their hooves and trotters at me.

“Where are you going”, the pig asks. The cow just stares with kindly sympathy in its large wet eyes.

“I don’t know. I think I’m looking for something, or someone, I don’t know what” I reply.

The pig blows me a kiss with her little pink trotter and says “Wherever you need to go, I love you.”

The path takes me into the traffic-choked streets of poorly planned cities. I pass through corporate boardrooms where identical people nod and yawn in unison. The chairman opens the door for me, and I step into a courtroom where angry people are fighting and the judge is sleeping. Don't they realise that there’s blood seeping out of their shoes, I wonder.

I walk into an abyss where a woman made of glass sits screaming inside a cage woven of betrayal and lies. With each keening wail the cracks in her skin grow wider, redder, angrier. I stare at her helplessly as she throws herself against the bars, splitting her glass surface into hundreds of tiny shards, held together by quivering rage. Each fragment is like a tiny mirror and I see happier times in them. “The crystal ball lied” she hisses. “Where there was two, there is now only me.”

I tell her that I am sorry, but I have to go. There is something I must find.

“GO, GO AWAY!!” she screams as the glass pieces shatter and fall like diamonds into the dust.

I walk on, feeling the call getting stronger as the road cuts through rows of houses in neat green and red boxes. I step from cloud to cloud over mountain plateaus, distant oceans and dusty red deserts. Sometimes the road takes me through country markets, then into featureless landscapes with only misshapen trees lining each side, bald of leaf, like bony fingers pointing an accusation at the sky.

“What are you looking for?” ask the ugly trees.

“I think I’ve lost my mittens” I hear me tell them.

“Try over there”, they reply, pointing helpfully at a heap of things that had fallen by the wayside, for even though they were ugly and misshapen, the trees are kindly by nature, just that nobody bothers to see that.

I bend down into the glittery dust and poke at the pile of Discarded Things, the Thrown Out, the Forgotten and Unloved. Amidst a few Hopes and too many Dreams, I find a faded old photograph.

A child sits alone, atop a dresser, in front of a mirror. A boy or a girl child? It is hard to tell. The child’s features are out of focus but I can make out curling hair and a chuckle of a smile. There is an imprint of square-rimmed spectacles on its face, as if someone had drawn them on, wanting to see what the child would look like, wearing glasses. Or maybe if behind the glasses was this child. Searching for the child in the mirror, perhaps?

The blood in my veins rise and ebb. Deep within the core of my being, tears shed by moonglow begin to wake from their slumber, like pearls forming on the seabed.

Blood calling to blood.

Ahead, standing on the path, is a little girl.

I walk towards her as she skips off the path and into …

…a school field. The children scamper across the grass as the fierce PE teacher barks out commands to first skip, then run, then skip again. The little girl struggles to keep up while tugging at the elastic band of her navy blue bloomers.

I realise that she is trying to hide the bright red welts, like lipstick marks, on the back of her thighs, just below the elastic band. My heart aches, those aren’t kisses. I can almost see, even though my eyes are shut tight, feathers flying as the feather duster whips through the air, slashing, cutting, stinging.

When I open my eyes, the little girl and I are alone on the playground. Everybody else has gone to class. She’s slowly swinging herself, not getting very high at all off the ground. She looks at me and smiles a brave smile, even though she can’t see from the tears running down her cheeks. There is chilli paste rubbed into her eyes and it's making her eyes water and sting.

I try to wipe away her tears but she stops me. “I need them to help me swallow my food. I’m really not hungry, I just can’t eat, but I have to swallow or else mummy will hit me again”. She gives me a fork and a spoon that have blood on them. I look at her stitches. “I fell down” she quickly says and runs back onto the path.

The road changes as I follow the child into the sepia-coloured road of a photograph, where colonial shop-houses line the street and the five-foot way is tiled with mosaic. Old-time tunes float from the record shop as flocks of swifts call to each other in the fading light.

I step into the back of one of the shops. It is dark and I have to feel my way along the wooden partitions. The child trudges slowly up the stairs to the In-Between Room. She turns back and looks at me.

“Don’t follow”, she whispers, closing the door behind her. “I’m being punished”.

I stand at the bottom of the stairs.

As if bound by roots.

The pounding in my ears is making me dizzy.

I climb, carefully and slowly. Like walking on glass. Each step creaks.

A cane, a clothes hanger, hard knuckles in a fist. Words that cut even deeper.

I open the door and she’s curled up in the dark on a musty old sofa. I stand in the wedge of light at the door, looking in. The child blinks, then rubs her eyes.

“Can I come out now?”

Unable to speak, I reach out to her.

She shook her head. “I can’t. I’m not supposed to come out until mummy says so because I’m being punished”

I move to flick the light switch.

“No please. I don’t deserve to have the light on because I’ve been bad”.

The tears of the moon crash onto the shore, washing the blood away.

I can't breathe.

“The door was never locked” I tell her as I hold out my hand. “All you had to do was open it and come out”.

She stares at me with eyes as large as towers. Then she smiles.

“Do you know what I’m looking for?” I ask her.

The child sits up and brushes her dress straight. Her hair hangs in damp curls around her face. She puts her hand into the little embroidered pocket in the front of her dress and slowly draws out a star so bright it makes my chest ache.

The light fills the room. I can hardly see, but it doesn’t matter.

“I’ve been keeping it safe for you, here in my pocket of happiness” the child says, holding her cupped hands out to me.

I hear the rustle of wings as feathers of light brush past, floating up into the night sky outside.

And then, it is morning.

Countdown

2006-04-26T00:52:00.000+08:00

Rome (Lazio)
Levanto, Cinque Terre (Liguria) / Venice (Veneto)
Florence (Tuscany)
Bologna (Emilia-Romagna)
Bevagna, Gualdo Cattaneo, Assisi, Spello, Montefalco, Spoleto, Gubbio (Umbria)
Montalcino (Tuscany)
Rome (Lazio)

14 full days
2 years' worth of planning
2 international driver's licences

1 apartment
1 religious institute
1 farmhouse (L'Acquaio)
1 hotel
2 beds & breakfasts

1 doctor with OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder)in search of a lavender bush as her future grave site

1 legal counsel with a bung knee and lousy sense of direction

1 lazyass bank employee hell-bent on eating way too much and in danger of not having enough clean clothes (inner AND outer) due to stubborn underpacking

1 marketing manager with alarming amounts of energy despite being on an Atkins diet

4 bellies
112 gelati (plural of gelato)

1 hairdryer

3 cameras
2.152 GB of memory

8 credit cards

Tick tock tick tock.

Test

2006-04-24T23:57:00.000+08:00

Problem with the comments system. Stupid spam attack.

After All

2006-04-24T13:43:00.000+08:00

Whew.

Now that that's over, I can hang up my nazi bossy boots and stop plaguing my brother with endless reminders of things-I-think-you-forgot-to-do-aha-I’m-right.

It turned out really well. The venue (Ciao, the Italian restaurant next to RHB Centre on Jalan Tun Razak) looked smashing, the food was yummy (not to mention filling, unlike most Chinese dinners after which supper at the nearest mamak or wantanmee stall is almost compulsory) and the bride and groom had a jolly good time.

The dinner was held in Ciao’s very spacious garden, under tent-like canopies fixed over concrete floors (unlike other outdoor settings where canopies are pitched directly on the grass – not a good idea if it rains beforehand and the grass gets wet and muddy, an open invitation for heels to get stuck and gowns to get splattered with mud). There was an initial problem with mozzies, but that was solved once the citronella torches were lit.

The only glitch thereafter was how very hot it was, despite the many ceiling fans suspended from the canopy. We had expected rain in the afternoon or early evening, but since it didn’t, the incredible heat from the day lingered on into the night. The perils of an outdoor dinner, you have no control over the elements.

A winding garden path, blazing torches, a backdrop of fairy lights, flowers streaming from tall pots, a fountain sparkling with tea-lights, light jazz in the background and waiters serving wine, sangria and juice. A very nice change from the traditional Chinese dinner we had for the relatives in Malacca.

The part I liked best was the couple’s entrance. Wonder if anyone realised the significance of the music he chose for the wedding march – “After All”by Peter Cetera and Cher. My heart swelled with the opening bars, as the French doors opened and they walked through, down the stairs, past the fountain. Two hearts, one life.

Well, here we are again;
I guess it must be fate.
We’ve tried it on our own,
But deep inside we’ve known
We’d be back to set things straight.

I still remember when
Your kiss was so brand new.
Every memory repeats,
Every step I take retreats,
Every journey always brings me back to you.

After all the stops and starts,
We keep coming back to these two hearts,
Two angels who’ve been rescued from the fall.
After all that we’ve been through,
It all comes down to me and you.

I guess it’s meant to be,
Forever you and me,
after all.

The context being a truly stupid, no-basis, time-wasting, short-lived break-up, courtesy of my prima donna brother, two years ago. Goodness, the times I’ve wondered why he wasn’t the one born a girl.

The bride was beautiful, and I’m not saying this because it’s the polite/romantic description for brides, reality notwithstanding. She truly is. As for my brother, well, it’s a good thing that he got all the good genetic stuff from my parents, in particular, Mum. Ok, maybe I’m biased, but it was truly such a lovely sight to watch them absolutely glow with the joy and significance of the moment.

So nice, so nice! And the music, so good, soooo goood!!!! My brother and I have loved After All for years and it’s bloody excellent therefore, strange as it may sound, that they did have that stupid split, just so that this song could be used so very appropriately.

At toast time, he worked the crowd with the ol’ family charm, without needing to refer to any planned speech. The family charm that's passed down the male line...that's how he keeps them falling in droves. I know for a fact that there were at least three, but I'm sure there were many more female hearts secretly singing "I went to your wedding, although I was dreading, the thought of losing you...my poor heart kept saying - your dreams, your dreams are through - " that night.

Anyway. To my surprise, after the thank yous to the parents and me, he even thanked Snowie for helping to set up the proposal! Snowie and I had concocted an elaborate plan in cahoots with my brother to lure the bride to a rose-petal strewn, candle-lit gazebo in the middle of a swimming pool set in resort-like surroundings; ie my condo, where a bucket of ice, chilled champagne and a long-stemmed rose awaited. Unfortunately the wind kept blowing the candles out, the cheap champagne glasses went “chunk” instead of “chink” and the petals were being blown into the pool where some condo residents were STILL swimming. So romance. Snowie sorted that out the swimmers by herding them into a darker corner of the pool.

After the actual proposal (he sang “That’s All” and got down on one knee), we went to his apartment (while they went for dinner), dumped the rest of the petals all over the floor and on the bed, and left a pathway of lit candles and petals from the door to the bed. Romance or what?? Heh.

I was mighty chuffed that he had quietly worked Snowie into the “family part” of the speech. I wuuv my brother…sniff.

And at the end of the evening when we were taking a family photo (one that included my uncles, aunts and cousins), Mum’s penchant for dragging unrelated persons into pictures worked in my favour…she insisted that Snowie join us. Heehee. If only you knew, Mum.

And the best part is…not only was my dress a hit, I actually felt quite comfortable wearing it and being who they expect me to be. That’s actually quite an accomplishment, given my history of self-loathing and insecurity.

For that, I have Snowie to thank. With much patience and perseverance, she’s quietly pushed the “This is going to make me look like a freak” thoughts out of my mind, always providing the reassurance that it’s what’s inside that matters. Giving me the self-confidence I’ve always lacked.

How very apt, on a night when unconditional love was honoured and celebrated.

Oh my speech turned out well too. I hadn’t finished with the writing by the time I was called, and I couldn’t read my own frantic scrawling either. So I ad-libbed. Some people, I was later told, had to keep tears in check, and some even came up later to say that they really liked it. I guess I did ok.

So, all in all, it was a pretty good night.

Going Through The Motions

2006-04-21T16:33:00.000+08:00

I’ve been making shows of trading blows
Just hoping no one knows
That I’ve been
Going through the motions
Walking through the part
Nothing seems to penetrate my heart

Will I stay this way forever
Sleepwalk through my life’s endeavor?

I don’t want to be
Going through the motions
Losing all my drive
I can’t even see if this is really me
And I just want to be...
Alive

- Going Through The Motions, Buffy the Vampire Slayer

My brother's wedding celebrations are dragging on as interminably as his engagement was (at least 6 years). Singapore, Malacca, KL, Singapore again, February to May. Whew.

I've got a speech to make tomorrow...so I better say this here and now. Cos it just won't do to have my subconscious take over my mouth then.

Imagine the main table at the main dinner last week. My family, including me, numbers 4. Sister-in-law's family numbers 2, including her. That's 6. Add in dad's brother and sister-in-law; total = 8. Another 2 seats; one for my cousin who's pretty much "adopted" by us as part of the family. Leaving only one more seat. But 2 more to be seated - mum's so-called "god-son" (Firstly, we're not christian. Secondly, it's only in theory, we hardly ever see him) and his mother.

So who has to make way?

Maybe I should be more outraged.

Particularly when "the family, please come to the stage for the toast" didn't include me.

Particularly when looking at the photos later on, the bride says "oh..actually you should have been there too".

Or when I had to explain that I wouldn't know how good the champagne tasted because I wasn't involved in the toast and they realised that there had only been enough for the main table. What was I supposed to do, grab a glass anyway?

Or how about when mum forgot that the natural person to kick off the younger-generation-pouring-tea-for-the-couple is... me. Duh. Remember? Your other child?

Whilst I'm on that rant...what about the fact that for 30 years, my parents didn't realise that the reason why I walk funny is because I have one shorter (about 2.5cm) leg? It was Snowie who noticed (and insisted on measuring!).

In a way, I can't blame them. I checked out on my family years ago. Metaphorically, that is. I've been consciously trying to make myself "invisible", not needing help, not asking for much. Not expecting much.

I sorted out tuition classes during secondary school, enrolment and student visas for Singapore and Australia, my career choices, my finances etc on my own. I've never needed a bail-out.

I choose most of your life goes on without me.

Physically I was there, I've been there. Playing the part, fulfilling the role of child, sibling. Being grateful, being filial. Going through the motions.

But in protecting my heart and keeping it safe elsewhere, I think perhaps my invisibility worked a bit too well.

There was a table set for six, but five were there.
I stood outside and kept my eyes upon that empty chair.
There was steam on the windows from the kitchen
Laughter like a language I once spoke with ease
But I'm made mute by the virtue of decision
And I choose most of your life goes on without me.

Oh the fear I've known
That I might reap the praise of strangers
And end up on my own.

- Language or The Kiss, Indigo Girls.

Blog Promotion

2006-04-18T15:14:00.000+08:00

Some of you may already be aware of this amazing talent from Singapore. It says on her profile that Stickgirl is only 23.

Stickgirl's blog posts consist entirely of cartoons drawn by her. Almost every piece is a very welcome reminder of how much power an image can wield in the hands of a keen observer.

I suggest that you go straight to the first post in August 2005 and work your way from there.

Stickgirl captures the essence of her heartbreak and loneliness with simple stick drawings. The stark lines of her pen strip away the protective armor of brave faces and thick skins and mutes the cacophanic drama of emotions.

In the resulting silence of this deconstruction, Stickgirl cuts open her heart and shows it to us, frame by black & white frame. Like a silent movie.

Her art is painfully poignant, its impact perhaps made all the more forceful with the clarity that hindsight brings.

She conveys raw honesty and just enough hope in her child-like depiction of the stickgirl to keep us rooting for her as she gamely continues on after each misfire by the Lousy Cupid. Waiting for the day that her heart will be healed.

If this review hasn't made you go take a look yet, here's a sample of Stickgirl's art, entitled "Falling in Love".

Dancing Queen

2006-04-13T17:39:00.000+08:00

There, completed the story I'd left hanging last week. I started writing it in response to my inner critic who insists that I can't write stories nor dialogue. The seeds of the story come from the play I've been working on and also a newspaper article I read last week about public toilets. I've also incorporated the central theme of the short story series I'm also dreaming of writing. So much to do, so lazy!

I'm quite pleased with how this turned out. I hope you will too. The second half pretty much wrote itself in one sitting this afternoon.

***

“Hello gorgeous.”

Jaime smiled at herself, gently teasing her hair into a studied casualness, as if the waves that framed her face had been genetically destined to worship at the glory of her forehead and cheekbones.

Makeup? Perfect. Thanks to the secret weapon that Wen had gifted her with last Christmas, shipped all the way from the US - MAC blusher in Pinch O’ Peach.

Fuck me, I look like I’ve just had sex on a sunny beach.

One last look at the mirror and she was bounding towards the door, grabbing her team scarf on her way out.

***

It had been hell getting into Bukit Jalil. A half hour spent crawling to the entrance of the National Hockey Stadium. Another fifteen minutes cruising the sprawling carpark, waiting for the sea of cars to miraculously part and reveal the ordinary man’s Holy Grail of Daily Life – a parking lot within ten feet of the exit/entrance.

But all that was forgotten now. It was worth it.

Three heart-stopping penalty corners later, here she was on her feet in the packed spectator stands, her favourite national player (What. A. Hunk) pounding across the pitch towards the D, three Pakistanis breathing down his neck in pursuit.

Crack!

The ball skimmed across the Astroturf, past a moving forest of rippling calf muscles in a single-minded charge at the goal. Jaime held her breath, willing the ball forwards with each beat of her heart (which apparently, had decided to keep her scarf company inside her mouth. The two of them had the beginnings of a conga line going in there).

“Ngmmmhhh…! ngggmmmmhhhh…! GOGOGOGOGNOOOOOOOOOO!!!!”

“MA HAIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEE!!!”

Jaime watched in disbelief as the ball ricocheted off the visiting goalkeeper’s stick. That was just …impossible, that inhuman lunge he had somehow accomplished despite having small mattresses strapped on his chest and legs.

“Wah… miss, you really like hockey eh? Got balls, got stick, sure you like…heh. Eheheh..”

The man whose stink of pig grease had been bugging Jaime from the moment she had settled into the seat next to his was looking, no, leering, at her. He had somehow edged so close during the course of the game that his breath was practically inside her the instant she turned to face him. Like taking a swig of sewage.

“See our boys get fuck by the Pakis…very exciting, eh?”

Jaime could feel the eyes of the other men around being drawn to her and Sewer Breath. The weight of their attention blocked out the roar of the crowd. Was that someone making that goddamn sucking noise that men seem to imagine as approximating kissing? No wonder they don’t get any.

“Yeah, so hot man. I see you’re sweating…you also must be so hot from looking at the boys. At least they got balls and sticks. Where’re yours?”

The men around her laughed. Sewer Breath merely blinked in confusion, his scrap of brain struggling to cope with processing a “none of the above, dumbass” response.

GOAAAAAL!

The crowd roared as the home team finally equalised with a brilliantly executed flick. The moment with Sewer Breath was swept away by the sort-of Mexican wave the ecstatic crowd had started up.

Thanks for the distraction, Azlan, she thought, consoling herself by mentally caressing the star player’s sweaty pecs in worshipful gratitude. Mmmm. Almost worth missing the goal. Almost.

Jaime slipped away from her seat.

***

She stood in the corridor outside the stadium’s public toilets, feeling the growing irritation prickle into her hair.

Need to pee. Need to pee.

“Shit. I already went before I got here! What man…” she tcherk-ed and huffed in frustration.

The familiar anxiety crept up her throat. Lower down, her bladder was stretching, insistent, like the skin of a balloon being slowly inflated, inch by agonising inch, beyond its natural capacity.

Jaime had always had problems with public restrooms. She blamed her old school days. If it wasn’t the lingering stench, it was the popular kids who hunted in packs, crowding the sinks and cutting you down not only with their cruel taunts but also with mere sidelong looks and caustic sneers.

Deep breath.

It’ll be ok. Half time’s over, there won’t be many people inside.

She looked around. The corridor was deserted and there were no sounds from the sinks or hand-dryer inside the toilets. She paused outside the ladies’, her hesitation an instinctive habit that she’d had no success in ridding herself of.

Shaking her head, Jaime went in.

***

The run on the lady’s stockings snaked and laddered past her knee as she lifted the wriggling child up to the gushing tap. Water sprayed everywhere - onto the grimy mirror, the granite countertop, her darkening face - as the child slapped his hands about in glee.

“No boy, don’t splash all over the place…I said… don’t…no…BOY!!”

“I said… stoppit” she snapped, her cold voice promising dire repercussions once they got home.

The child froze as Medusa’s angry reflection in the mirror clamped onto him as tightly as her tentacle grip under his chubby arms.

“Faster faster wash. Hurry up”

Jaime pretended not to notice, sparing the boy the shame of scene-making. The cubicles behind them were vacant – goody. Just as she decided on the least dodgy, the disco opening of Abba’s Dancing Queen started blasting from her handbag.

Wow, signal even down here? No kidding, Maxis.

…you can dance, you can jive…

That piano trill never fails to elicit the urge to burst into a hand-on–hip-shoulder-shrugging-finger-pointing-pouty-lipped move, Jaime smiled to herself as she scrambled for her mobile.

It was Wendy. Her best friend who always seemed to know when Jaime was in the toilet and therefore decide that she desperately, simply must speak to her right at that very moment. No voice mail or sms nonsense for Wen.

Wen, whom Jaime had not heard from since she went into hiding from the psycho-stalker boyfriend of the month.

“HEY SLUT!!!” Jaime screeched. Wen squealed in response from inside the mobile.

Within the wall-wide mirror, the long-lost, modern sister of the Gorgons turned her ball-freezing gaze on Jaime. The purple-tinged light from the fluorescent tube on the ceiling bathed her in menacing shadow.

Jaime’s free hand went reflexively to her throat as she nodded a grovelling bow towards Medusa. Unimpressed, the lady dragged her silent, frozen son out the door, throwing one final glare at Jaime.

“I thought you lost your handphone?? Or was it that you’re disconnecting this number…cannot keep up lah”

Jaime peered at herself in the mirror, inspecting her make-up as Wen gushed about her latest Prince Charming who had saved her from Psycho-Stalker’s attentions by introducing his face to the counter-top behind which Prince Charming tended bar at Lickit, Wen’s favourite hunting ground.

“The game? My god woman… it’s bloody fantastic I tell you!

“I’m…oi, shut up…shut UP bitch…I’m almost tempted to start playing again, but you knowlah, how that’s going to mess up my nails…of course Azlan’s playing today...aiyiyi…” Jaime fanned herself, eyes closed.

More shrieks emit from Jaime’s mobile.

“Seriously. Oh. My. God.”

“Ya, ya, that’s why …

“Excuse me… sir.”

Sir.

The word cut Jaime harder than when Raj from school shoved her onto the boys’ changing room floor after PE, pushing his dick into Jaime’s face when she struggled to get on her feet. How she had hated PE.

Bloody pondan. Wearing your mummy’s panties ah?

Come on, show lah. Scared to show your cock is it?

“Wen…Wendy…I gotta go. Call you back.”

The name-tag labelled the man standing behind Jaime as “Raja”. Stadium security.

Her mouth went dry. She stepped back, almost recoiling, as her stomach heaved. The purply shadows were making her dizzy. Hate hate hate fluorescent lights. Jaime caught her reflection in the mirror. Her blusher need touching up. Shadows everywhere, under her eyes, her cheeks…her throat.

“Sir.” He cleared his throat again, as if the word was choking him. “You can’t use this toilet. For women only.”

Fucking bitch. Ratted me out. Fuck. Boy, your nosy bitch mommy’s a fucking cunt. Good luck to you.

Raja stretched out a huge, hairy arm. The curly grey fuzz look like mold against his dark skin.

She stepped back. “Please. Don’t.”

Jaime pushed past him and stumbled out into the corridor.

It seemed blindingly bright outside after the cold dinginess of the toilets. Someone was entering the men’s a few feet away. Further down, a pair of legs in ratty jeans casually ground a cigarette butt into the floor beneath the public phone booth. The motorcycle helmet that dangled from hips to which said legs were attached swayed in time as the rest of the hidden body rocked and leaned deep into the wall booth.

Nobody noticed her …yet it seemed like the whole world was watching, with attendant spotlights. Too bright, too bright…please don’t look at me. Far away, in the stadium, Jaime could make out the faint rumble of the crowd.

She’s a man. She’s a man. She’s a man, they cheered.

Dude looks like a lady (tair-nek, tair-nek…) sang Wen, in Jaime’s mind. It ain’t so funny now darling, Jaime shushed her.

She felt the weight between her legs – the burden of her shame - pulling her down. Down onto her knees, where she belonged.

Sewer Breath turned the corner into the corridor.

From the secret, safe place in her heart to which she had retreated, Jaime watched as he stared, first at her, then at Raja a second later, emerging from the ladies’ toilet behind her. A dumb look settled with much comfortable familiarity onto Sewer Breath's face.

“The men’s toilet is over there... sir.” One couldn't but admire the security guy's single-minded persistence.

Jaime closed her eyes, wishing he would stop saying it in italics. The stadium spotlights followed, flashing through the crimson-orange glow behind her eyelids. It made her dizzier.

Sewer Breath was now barely two feet away when she looked up. It wasn’t too much of a strain on Jaime’s imagination to picture his knuckles touching the ground. The nearer he approached, the further back on the evolutionary scale her mind placed him.

His gaze fell upon her, heavy with predatory violence, reeking of lustful revulsion. He dropped his hand down to cup his crotch as he grinned at her, jerking his head towards the men’s.

Raja stood like a rock behind Jaime.

Between a rock and a hard (no - soft, more like…) place, noted Queen Jaime from the safety of her secret place, far, far away from Jaime’s reality.

…you can dance, you can jive…

“...having the time of my life” continued Jaime in a whisper as she stirred from her trance-like daze and fished for her phone. A lifeline.

“Wen!!…hold on…bad signal…” thankyouthankyouthankyouiloveyou. Jaime forced her voice, her spine, her feet to work and hurried down the corridor.

Away. Far, far away from the sewage of her life.

My IELTS Result

2006-04-06T17:43:00.000+08:00

So, I got my IELTS results back last weekend. Two week turnover. Not bad at all.

Because I am generous with tips, I shall first share my experience, in case anyone has nothing better to spend RM495 on and therefore decide to take the test.

Tip No. 1: don’t kena bluff like me and go there before 8am.

There I was, all sleepy-eyed and bushy-haired at 7.45am.

Yawn. Wait wait wait.

Yawn some more.

8 am: Everybody line up; boys this line, girls that line. Last call to weewee. So kindergarten.

We’re told to empty everything from our pockets into envelopes on which we are to write our names and deposit, sealed, into a locked cabinet. The only permissible item is IC/passport.

8.20 am: Still writing names because there are only 2 pens and at least 60 candidates.

8.30 am: Two candidates at a time are allowed to enter the examination room. Everyone has to be electronically frisked with those nifty airport scanner paddle things. Boy, those things sure are sensitive. The lump in the front of my jeans was eyed suspiciously. A chunk of snotty tissue only lah… you think what?

8.45 am: Waiting for someone who had to run home cos he forgot to bring his passport. Not a happy start if you can’t understand the 2 written reminders we get about not being allowed in if you don’t bring your passport/IC.

Some people appear to be having trouble understanding how to find their seats, from the verbal instructions being told to them. Not good. For them lah.

My goodness, is that a security guard taking this exam??

8.55am: Tip No. 2 - See, obviously one can still saunter in at this time and still be allowed to sit the test. Cis!

Head Invigilator starts reading out the instructions.

"Blah blah blah…please check you were candidate number..blah blah.."

Huh?

"Do not open you were booklets ang till I say you may…"

??!! What was that?? Gosh, am I that sleepy??

"You were time began now. You have ongly 30 minutes for this section."

...??

- drrr-ringgg -

You were = your.

Oh my.

Dear British Council. I think you were recruitment standards for IELTS invigilators need to be reviewed. Helpfully, Spot.

The first portion of the test is Listening. Fortunately, the questions are pre-recorded on CD, not read out by the invigilators. Imagine the disaster there.

Tip No. 3. WAKE UP!!! Despite the clarity of the CD Voice, I found myself losing concentration because…so sleepy!!

I think the Listening bit is engineered to make things very difficult for those who try to guess their way through.

CD Voice says “I love to eat chicken, but really, I can never resist when it comes to bacon”. Then the multiple choice question would be something like “What does Ah Chong like to eat best?”.

So sneaky hor?

The next portion is Reading. Objective being to answer questions on three passages. Three very long and boring passages. Topics: History of Timekeeping, Bullying in UK schools and Salinity Problems in Australian Agriculture.

Lovely. My attention span was zzzzzzzzzzzzz…

Lots of questions requiring you to pinpoint the paragraphs that contain the relevant info as required. Eg. One para said something like "Something-graphy, somethingelse-graphy and canggih-graphy are used in combination to deal with the problem".

So you’d get questions like - "Which paragraph describes the integrated use of technologies".

Wah - "integrated". I honestly don’t think that’s considered an easy question by many of the candidates, a lot of whom appeared to be from China.

Next, Writing. My handwriting was so CRAP!!! There were two questions. The first is the easier. I got a candlestick chart and was asked to write at least 150 words about the statistics. Zzzzzzzzzz. So hard. Didn't know what to say - this year how many, that year how many, wah that tall tall one got even more than this two small small ones. Sucked.

Second question is worth more marks, therefore harder. Gotta write at least 250 words. The one I got was to compare and contrast the arguments for teachers being responsible for making sure students become Mother Theresa. Something like that. Obviously I ranted about kids being brats these days. Tip No. 4 – avoid ranting because it tends to bring you off-topic!!!

Finally, the Speaking bit. So dumb. The questions were obviously more suitable for students, i.e. young people. I.e. not me.

"What do young people do for recreation?”
Beats me, I’d guess hump like rabbits but that’s probably not right.

“Tell me about one person in your family that you admire".
I admire none of them, so I had to bullshit.

“How often do you eat out?”
Not often at all, I’m cheap. Not as in easy, mind you.

“Well, if you do eat out, where do you eat at?”
You know TB Corner meh?

Couldn’t quite say that right?

Bleh.

Anyways.

The Listening, Reading and Writing bits take 3 hours. Speaking is about 10 minutes, not including waiting for your turn.

My score: 9 for Listening and for Reading and 8 for Writing and also Speaking.

Overall, 8.5. Yays.

April's Fools

2006-04-05T13:08:00.000+08:00

BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA…*wheeze*….AHAHAHAHAHAH!!!

*wipes tears*

Ehehehe…hehehe…BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAA!!!

Can you imagine…teeheehee…

Paris Hilton starring as Mother Teresa?

BAHAHAHAHAHAHA…HAHAHAHA…AHAHAHAHA… No.

Apparently, it’s not an April Fool’s joke.

So. What will the movie be called?

"A Simple Life in Calcutta"?

Excuse me while I bergolek-golek di atas lantai.

Come to think of it, the late Mother Teresa is probably bergolek-ing in her grave too.

Oh, oh…but that’s not all for today’s funnies.

How about Lindsay Lohan as Wonder Woman?

Ehehehehe…HAHAHAH!

Deluded child.

Seriously. Hello.

Wonder WOMAN.

Joss Whedon, have you forgotten about Lucy Lawless??!!

Who else could possibly pull off prancing around in star-spangled panties, deflecting speeding bullets with silver bracelets whilst doing the hand jive, all with the dignity of a self-respecting Amazon?

Wouldn’t the bad guys pee their pants and gladly offer up their dirty little secrets when trussed up in the magical Lasso of Truth if their interrogator was Xena, Warrior Princess?

Who else would look the least ridiculous flying an invisible plane? Psst – is anyone old enough to remember the cartoon Superfriends?

Ok, fine, if Lucy Lawless isn’t available, how about Catherine Zeta Jones?

At least get someone who looks like Lynda Carter lah.

Ah well.

Nothing beats the all-time total f**kup in casting –
- That midget Halle Berry as X-Men’s Storm.
*gag. barf*

Different Skies

2006-04-04T16:12:00.000+08:00

The sky pours out biblical rain
Then days so still,
the beauty gives you pain

- She's Saving Me by Indigo Girls

One of the little compensations of having to endure city traffic every workday evening is the cocoon of reverie that the long drive in my car affords.

It gives me the chance to do something that I wouldn’t otherwise find the time for – look at the evening sky.

At two points along the drive, the road morphs into a flyover, rising above the earthbound, crawling traffic. A momentary vista opens up across my windscreen, revealing an expanse of city skyline.

Down below, the metallic segments of the traffic millipede slowly inch on in an impotent whirl of wheels.

I love the serenity of an open sky. There’s a quiet dignity in its impassivity. One that is not lost even when its stage is alive with all manner of clouds busy impersonating chicken drumsticks, Mr. Potatohead or fluffy ballerina hippos.

It’s a solitary pleasure; watching the sky and its cast of clouds rising meringue-like from the city’s crust. No matter the level of white noise from humanity’s pulse, the sky remains indifferent to our petty squabbling and fishbowl posturing, save occasionally for an indignant change of hue whenever we spew too much of our crap into it.

You could be in the midst of a moving, hanky-soaked fairy garden wedding, and the massive ebony Tower-of-Doom clouds looming over, hell-bent on objecting, wouldn’t give a toss.

Twice in my life, I have had the good fortune to witness soul-numbingly, majestic skies.

At the Lake St. Clair National Park in Tasmania, I watched a silent parade as a pantheon of gods crossed the sky in gossamer wisps and cumulous gowns. I stood in the embrace, almost, of an ageless cradle of mountain, cloud and ice; savouring the icy silence of a pristine wilderness.

A moment forever etched in my memory.

Another time, halfway across a continent, how glad I was that I’d opted for the cheaper accommodation in the central desert of Australia.

The circle of khaki tents that looked so romantically British India in the copper sand transformed at night into a sheltering outpost around the flickering light of our campfire.

And oh, the view.

In the desert sands beneath Uluru, I lay on a canvas camp-bed watching star-fire burn cold diamonds into the onyx blanket of galactic sky.

Perspective.

That’s the gift that the sky offers you.

***

Return this man to Huma's breast
Beyond the wild, impartial skies;
Grant to him a warrior's rest
And set the last spark of his eyes
Free from the smothering clouds of wars
Upon the torches of stars.

Let the last surge of his breath
Take refuge in the cradling air
Above the dreams of ravens, where
Only the hawk remembers death.

Then let his shade to Huma rise,
Beyond the wild, impartial skies.

- Huma's Song, from the Dragonlance series

Public Service Announcement

2006-03-31T17:11:00.000+08:00

Given that it's Friday...

and the 31st...

Don't forget that you can get 31% off at Baskin Robbins today!

p/s - Handpacks only, don't say I bluff you.

Happy weekend people!

What's So Amazing About Really Deep Thoughts?

2006-03-29T18:00:00.000+08:00

So you found a girl who thinks really deep thoughts
what's so amazing about really deep thoughts?
Boy you best pray that I bleed real soon...
how's that thought for you?

- Silent All These Years - Tori Amos

My mental reply to the comments in the earlier post was chattering into an aria too loud for the comment box.

So here it is instead.

The melancholic tone probably mislead some of you into thinking that what I’m ONLY saying is that we should think deep thoughts on the pressing issues of the day.

That we should put on our metaphorical underwear over our clothes and leap tall buildings or don white and blue saris and go forth into the slums of Calcutta, all in the name of doing something, being pro-active about the ills of the world.

Pffft.

No lah.

What I was trying unsuccessfully to say, is -

The primary purpose for disengaging ourselves from being pre-occupied solely with our own little lives, is simply so that we better ourselves. Please don’t point out the possible irony of how this brings us back to being concerned with the self. Shhh.

Benefit No. 1 – Defining Yourself

Facing up to difficult issues forces you to think, to rationalise to yourself, what it is about the issue that makes you feel the way you do about it.

It’s easy enough to declare “I’m against the Iraq invasion” or “Suicide bombers are evil” or "Buddhism is not a religion” or “Brangelina were already co-joined before Brad split with Jen”. Far harder to justify your position with points based other than on “I just know-lah, trust me”.

I’m saying that in confronting difficult issues, you develop a better understanding of your core beliefs, principles and convictions.

Benefit No. 2 – The View from the Fence

Thinking critically about things that have very little to do with your life helps you develop the ability to look at things from unfamiliar perspectives. With no vested interests, you learn to be non-partisan.

When you can rationalise from both sides of the argument, you never run the risk of looking like a stubborn, close-minded, ego-centric fool.

Benefit No. 3 – Learning from Others

As much as I whinge about the immaturity, foolishness and shallowness of some people, I’ve still managed to learn a lot from them.

Some time back, one blogger in particular, let’s call her Tinypants, found instant stardom after being highlighted in the local newspaper. Her metamorphosis from run-of-the-mill young Malaysian with a voice on the Internet into Bitch Queen of PPS was most entertaining. It always amuses me how easily people fall into the delusions of grandeur and self-importance.

The sad thing about self-appointed Mean Girls (you know the species, those popular, I’m-so-bad-it’s-cool girls who don’t appreciate the very big difference between wry sarcasm and playground bullying) is that an inevitable bellyflop off the popularity scale is often just around the corner.

Well, the bellyflops, a succession of them in fact, did come. It was almost sad to see such a vicious stone-casting. But to my surprise, after a series of tantrums, Ms. Tinypants began to pick herself up and appeared to be re-assessing. And changing. Dunno if anyone else saw it, but I sure did.

Then one day, I left constructive criticism on her site and she surprised me again by taking it graciously, despite my having previously crossed swords with her, sans kid-gloves.

A short email exchange later, I realised that I’d learnt something from Tinypants, of all people. I’d written her off as an incorrigible brat but she in turn taught me something about human nature.

Whether it be from reading blogs or books or watching movies or following a case-study, there is so much to learn about human nature, if we would only take the time to analyse, to think further. Observing, while suspending judgement, ultimately leads to a better understanding of not only the inherent fallibility of man, but also of man's promise for redemption.

Benefit 4 – Compassion, Appreciation & Perspective

I totally understand how emotionally draining it is to think about all that is desperately wrong and bad in this world. But I’m not saying that we need to meditate on it, much less write to your MP.

If one were to consistently avoid having to think about the ugly and depressing aspects of life, whether by intentional ignorance or making a joke out of it, sooner or later, one becomes apathetic to the misfortunes of others. I don’t mean apathy as in not being pro-active, I mean not having compassion.

After all, compassion, in its truest sense, can only be triggered when you emotionally process a situation befitting such a response.

Similarly, appreciation. We never miss what we have. It always takes a comparison with another’s lack to be truly grateful for what we have.

Which leads me to perspective. When you open yourself to learning through observation of others, from experience, from seeking to understand, the result can only be the widening of your horizons.

It gives you perspective. You’re less likely to be surprised or flummoxed when Life throws a new-style curveball at you.

You’re less likely to be told to get a grip or hold your horses or such other grabby metaphors.

You basically, become a better person.

Benefit 5 - Time to Stand and Stare

No time to stop your daily routine, just to stand and stare? More important things to do, money to make, mouths to feed?

No one’s asking you to drop the baby or give up your job.

Just take a moment to stand outside of your life.

Take time to breathe. Find balance.

Put yourself in a zebra’s hoofs as it stands amidst a herd of horses. Would it feel like the belle of the ball, or would it be desperate to hoof it outta there?

Read a poem aloud. Savour each word. Think about what's going on behind the words.

Look at the pictures in any copy of National Geographic.

Pretend you’re a little piglet (or such other kosher animal) singing a very loud aria (google - Olivia, pig, very loud songs – if you’re wondering about the repeated reference).

A poor life this if, full of care, we have no time to stand and stare. - William Henry Davies

It was never solely about thinking deep thoughts only about serious issues.

The point is - to take time for things unconnected to our daily lives.

I think what I’m also saying is, by not focussing on the nitty-gritty routine of your daily life, you might actually find yourself.

Perhaps even a better version.

A Letter to (from?) My Soul

2006-03-28T17:52:00.000+08:00

"I'd pretend I was one of those deaf-mutes. That way I wouldn't have to have any goddam stupid useless conversations with anybody."

Holden Caulfield understands.

Recently, I was asked - Why do you write?

And my answer was – because I usually can’t stand talking to people.

There was nervous laughter around the table, the sort that politely disguises a hasty mental backing away towards the nearest exit.

A long time ago, I rambled on in my usual email conversation group about how the average person you meet is likely to have nothing to talk about beyond what goes on in their daily lives. A life revolving around the tiny world of career and immediate relationships.

I asked –

When's the last time you thought of something that didn't have anything to do with your work, family, routine, - pretty much anything unrelated to your own life?

I'm talking about the things that are unconnected to our daily lives, worlds apart from -

so-and-so was such a total bitch today

crap, I haven't done my taxes

I wonder if my partner/baby will do this-or-that today

gosh, I NEED sex

When's the last time you received a letter to your soul?

No response. Too deep, apparently.

I despair at the shallowness of the times we live in.

Just as phoniness was the scourge of Holden Caulfield’s world, shallowness is the bane of mine.

It’s not that I'm demanding high-brow, intellectual debates and such other like manner of snooty-toots.

It’s not that I'm insisting we sing 40 very loud arias about the ugly face of life.

Is it so much to ask for more than a superficial thought about worlds, lives beyond our own?

Edit - Train of thought continues here.

I suspect I’m a little depressed. And I’m not quite sure why.

Holden Caulfield ended up in a psychiatric ward.

He wanted to be the catcher in the rye. Save children from falling off the cliffs of their innocence. Save them from becoming phony adults.

I don’t want to be the catcher.

I want to be the reaper.

Swooping through the fields of the damned.

Child abusers, child molesters/rapists, sadists, paedophiles, rotten parents, deadbeat parents. The cruel, the psychotic, the sick.

All falling in the wrath of my justice. No mercy for the wicked.

No, these thoughts are not the demon spirits of any skeleton in my closet.

But I think my heart is depressed and I don’t quite know why. Maybe I have been watching too much Judging Amy.

The funny thing is … aside for a visual appreciation of that particular stage where they stumble and totter around like pint-sized drunks, doing that peculiar laugh-pant-cry that only toddlers can pull off, I don’t even particularly like children.

I hate that more and more kids are being practically born bratty.

I hate that the youth of today have the attention span of a one-winged fruit fly.

I hate that instant gratification, cheap laughs and shallow minds have become the cancer of the soul.

And because this is all Sharon's fault for telling me to let the words out - don’t stop to think - I'll have you know that this song is playing in my head.

If blood will flow when flesh and steel are one
Drying in the color of the evening sun
Tomorrow's rain will wash the stains away
But something in our minds will always stay

For all those born beneath an angry star
Lest we forget how fragile we are

On and on the rain will fall
Like tears from a star like tears from a star
On and on the rain will say
How fragile we are
How fragile we are
- Fragile by Sting

Ten years ago, just short of a month today, a massacre took place in the settlement of Port Arthur, Tasmania. Martin Bryant went psycho and pulled a shotgun on thirty five random people. Men, women, children. One hour away from Hobart, where I was based at the time.

A memorial service for the dead was held in Hobart several days later. The streets outside St. David’s Cathedral were packed. I’ve never before been in the presence of such an overpowering sense of collective grief. People were openly weeping as the bell tolled.

Thinking of Catcher in the Rye always brings me back to that day as I walked away from the traumatised city centre, towards St. David’s Park.

It was an overcast, slightly chilly day.

As I sat on a bench listening to the fading echoes of the bell, the laughter of a mother and child shook me from my melancholy.

The little girl was wearing fairy wings and a woollen hat. What a rollicking good time she was having as her mum tossed an armfull of leaves over her.

Fiery confetti and a child’s glee.

It’s one of my favourite moments of solitude; sitting on a bench, in the thick of Autumn’s fall. Wondering if my tears were for the tragedy of the time or the hope for innocence's survival in such times.

Sad beauty.

Like tears from a star.

For WS

2006-03-27T18:40:00.000+08:00

My good friend WS's dad passed away this morning from pneumonia-related complications.

WS, our deepest condolences. Our thoughts are with you, in this time of silent grief.

I'm Free
by Anon

Don't Grieve for me for now I'm free,
I'm following the path God has laid you see.
I took His hand when I heard Him call,
I turned my back and left it all.

I could not stay another day,
To laugh, to love, to work, to play.
Tasks left undone must stay that way,
I found that peace at the close of day.

If my parting has left a void,
Then fill it with remembered joys.
A friendship shared, a laugh, a kiss,
Oh, yes, these things I too will miss.

Be not burdened with times of sorrow.
I wish you the sunshine of tomorrow.
My life's been full, I've savored much,
Good friends, good times,
a loved one's touch.

Perhaps my time seemed all too brief,
Don't lengthen it now with undue grief.
Lift up your hearts and peace to thee,
God wanted me now,
He set me free.

In memoriam.

Ho Peng Cheong
19 October 1938 - 27 March 2006

Beloved husband, father and grandfather.
A simple man in life. A giant in the heart of his family.

TV/Tabloid Rage

2006-03-24T18:12:00.000+08:00

Today, I am particularly pissed off.

So…

I HATE YOU WENDY PEPPER!

Get thee behind my tv, you evil, mean, petty, sneaky, wannabe, green slimespawn evil monster bitch!

Austin, oh Austin!!!!! It’s a tragedy!! You were robbed! Your pretty things are too good for them.

Who dresses in head-to-toe orange? Frickin Nancy o-Dell, that’s who. She’s Fanta Orange coloured, after all. Birds of an orange feather…

Fine, if you absolutelymust wear orange, what about Kara Saun’s fabulous top??? I wasn’t crazy about the pants, but oh, the top! The texture, the earthy shades! Sexy!

Gaaah!

And still… riveted.

---

Oh Desiree! You looked so tired at the end. Who wouldn’t be, after four days of country-hopping while having to make sure your hyperactive, whacky and prone-to-freaking-out mother didn’t freak out?

Thanks a lot, So-not-a-fish called Wanda. The Race has practically only just begun, and you’ve deprived us of watching your really hot daughter for the next few weeks. And to top it off, you remind me of Teri Hatcher’s character on Desperate Housewives. An older, more haggard and a lot less hey-look-at-goofy-me-aren’t-I-adorable version.

---

Speaking of Ms. Hatcher.

Recently, Teri Hatcher revealed that she was molested by her uncle when she was five years old. In 2002, she discovered that a 15 year old girl who had also been abused by Teri’s uncle had committed suicide. Teri went to the police and her testimony got her uncle convicted.

It’s a horrible thing to go through and I really do feel bad for her.

BUT.

Her revelation of this incident was made to Vanity Fair.

Vanity Fair ran the story in their March issue, headlined “Teri Hatcher’s Desperate Secret” on the cover.

Naturally, she’s on the cover.

Freakily, she’s wearing only her pure white panties and clutching a white wrappy thing around her, with one bare shoulder exposed, hair a-tousled and with her mouth half-open, in that way. You know which way.

I’ll be honest. I can’t stand how pathetically attention-seeking Ms. Hatcher has been since Desperate Housewives became the phenomenal juggernaut that it now is. Oh, did I inadvertently say has-been? How serendipitous.

Did anyone notice how she squeezed her way to the front and was the only cast member to gush into the mike when the show won Best Comedy at the Golden Globes? Notice how she was the one clinging on to the award later?

Someone’s certainly thrown out her has-been supplements.

But.

That doesn’t mean I don’t feel really badly for what she went through as a child. Nobody should have to go through that.

What’s pissing me off, is the fact that Vanity Fair used that shot of her on its cover, given the subject matter that she deals with inside the issue.

What’s pissing me off is the fact that Teri allowed Vanity Fair to run the cover.

I have no problems with the cover per se. I am far from prudish.

It’s the inappropriate pairing of the cover and the subject matter that sickens me.

As enlightened and civilised as we’d like to imagine the world to be after 5000 years, I’m willing to bet my life that that goddamn cover is going to elicit snickers, jokes and downright lewd and sick statements that contain the words “uncle”, “panties” and “me” in less than clinical combinations.

Child molestation. Child sex abuse. Incest.

These are fucking serious issues.

Morons. I hope you fucking choke on your smirks and moronic comments.

She's a Meanie

2006-03-23T13:58:00.000+08:00

You can always count on the current US President to take the art of looking like an imbecile to greater heights within minutes of opening his mouth.

Some background. Helen Thomas is a legend amongst the American press. She’s made a career of terrorising US Presidents from the front row of the Washington press room. Yet her trademark “Thank you, Mr. President” at the close of each session is regarded as a ceremonial ritual.

A veteran of the Washington press corp, she’s had every president since JFK (that’s about eight) squirm under the onslaught of her truth-seeking laser.

With only, until a few days ago, one exception.

Baby Bush has studiously avoided taking any questions from Helen Thomas ever since he appointed himself Luke Skywalker of the Free World. He’s even banished her from her front row bastion right to the back of the room.

It might be useful to note that Helen Thomas is 86 years old and has been described as “just about the height of a hobbit”.

On Tuesday, Georgie the Invader finally took a question from the little old lady.

Here’s how it went.

LITTLE OLD LADY: I'd like to ask you, Mr. President, your decision to invade Iraq has caused the deaths of thousands of Americans and Iraqis, wounds of Americans and Iraqis for a lifetime. Every reason given, publicly at least, has turned out not to be true. My question is, why did you really want to go to war? From the moment you stepped into the White House, from your Cabinet -- your Cabinet officers, intelligence people, and so forth -- what was your real reason? You have said it wasn't oil -- quest for oil, it hasn't been Israel, or anything else. What was it?

THE MIGHTY LEADER OF THE FREE WORLD: I think your premise -- in all due respect to your question and to you as a lifelong journalist -- is that -- I didn't want war. To assume I wanted war is just flat wrong, Helen, in all due respect --

LITTLE OLD LADY: Everything --

MIGHTY LEADER: Hold on for a second, please.

LITTLE OLD LADY: -- everything I've heard --

MIGHTY LEADER: Excuse me, excuse me. No President wants war. Everything you may have heard is that, but it's just simply not true. My attitude about the defense of this country changed on September the 11th. We – when we got attacked, I vowed then and there to use every asset at my disposal to protect the American people. Our foreign policy changed on that day, Helen.

You know, we used to think we were secure because of oceans and previous diplomacy. But we realized on September the 11th, 2001, that killers could destroy innocent life. And I'm never going to forget it. And I'm never going to forget the vow I made to the American people that we will do everything in our power to protect our people. Part of that meant to make sure that we didn't allow people to provide safe haven to an enemy. And that's why I went into Iraq --

LITTLE OLD LADY: They didn't do anything to you, or to our country --

MIGHTY LEADER: -- hold on for a second -- let me --

LITTLE OLD LADY: ---

MIGHTY LEADER: Look -- excuse me for a second, please. Excuse me for a second. They did. The Taliban provided safe haven for al Qaeda. That's where al Qaeda trained and--

LITTLE OLD LADY: I'm talking about Iraq.

MIGHTY LEADER: Helen, excuse me. That's where -- that's where-- Afghanistan provided safe haven for al Qaeda. That's where they trained. That's where they plotted. That's where they planned the attacks that killed thousands of innocent Americans.

I also saw a threat in Iraq. I was hoping to solve this problem diplomatically. That's why I went to the Security Council; that's why it was important to pass 1441, which was unanimously passed. And the world said, disarm, disclose, or face serious consequences --

LITTLE OLD LADY: -- go to war --

MIGHTY LEADER: -- and therefore, we worked with the world, we worked to make sure that Saddam Hussein heard the message of the world. And when he chose to deny inspectors, when he chose not to disclose, then I had the difficult decision to make to remove him. And we did, and the world is safer for it.

---

As is to be expected, all the king's horses and all the king's men whipped out their superglue the next day and pretty much painted Helen Thomas as a meanie. Yes, that little old lady.

It’s a wonder, how a man so deficient in logic, basic English and knowledge of geography managed to get elected for a second term.

Clinton lied about his sex life. It cost him his job.

Baby Bush lied about …gosh, the list is endless, but let’s just start with Iraq, it being the flavour of the decade.

It was an invasion, NOT a (blech, gag, hiss, puke) "war on terror".

Resolution 1441 was passed only after Baby Bush convinced them that Saddam was hoarding WMDs.

Saddam Hussein did not deny the inspectors. The inspectors couldn’t find anything. No surprise there, since the WMDs were obviously so well hidden… inside Baby Bush’s mind.

The inspectors asked for more time to look. In Iraq, unfortunately. If they’d known that they should instead search inside Baby Bush’s mind, it would have been over in a blink. Said mind being so tiny, after all.

Baby Bush said no and ordered the inspectors out of Iraq.

And Iraq was invaded.

Apparently that makes the world a safer place.

The weapons inspectors have discredited the claim of Saddam intending to menace the world with his WMDs. Colin Powell has since distanced himself from the honking pile of baloney that Georgie still steadfastly clings to as his standard talking points.

Lies that cost tens of thousands of lives, hogged and continues to hog CNN and diverted political attention and resources away from managing a hurricane that destroyed one of America’s grandest old cities and displaced hundreds of thousands of impoverished people. The majority of whom, more half a year later, are still homeless.

Clinton lied about a blowjob and lost his presidency.

And this baboon remains the "Leader of the Free World".

Jobs I've Had

2006-03-21T17:39:00.000+08:00

This is a meme that I didn’t (hmph) get tagged with. My job history is nowhere near as exciting as those of these two, but I’m bored, so … in the spirit of self-amusement...

The Child Labour Days

1. ~~Nurse~~ Clinic Assistant

My parents evidently thought that there would be no violation of the relevant Geneva Conventions when they put me to work at Dad’s clinic for no salary. I suppose they assumed immunity from public outrage if the intent behind said child labour was to make sure I appreciated my life as a privileged kid.

It was a 9.30am (not my fault if the doctor, my ride, thought it fit to make patients wait) – 5.00pm job, during one stretch of school holiday.

All I did all day was:-

* sit on a stool in front of a glassed-in counter and dream,

* fill up patient-registration cards for the new ones;

* hunt for the cards of the existing ones,

* try not to curse those who forgot their card numbers (I guess being sick should be curse enough), resulting in me having to flick through pages and pages of handwritten (badly, I might add) index books,

* call out turns and hand Dad the patient cards and

* try not to laugh at sick people’s IC photos.

Occasionally, I got to fill the medication bottles.

I hope those patients are still alive.

The Australia Days.

I had part-time/ad-hoc jobs for three out of my four years at Uni. Didn’t actually have to, because Dad was ~~a convenient ATM~~ in a fortunate position to keep me in rich-privileged-kid comfort.

Maybe the early child labour served also to secretly brainwash me into having a conscience.

2. Clinic Cleaner

What was it with me and clinics?

In my first year, Tasmania’s most lemon-faced Malaysian osteopath paid me AUD$20 to clean her clinic and living room (their clinic and residence were in the same house). Once a week, she’d leave the money in an envelope in the living room for me, I’d let myself in and out while she and her also osteopath husband were away for the evening.

It wasn’t hard work at all. Even at my natural sloth’s pace, I’d be done in 90 minutes, but hey, since they were paying for 2 hours, I slowed down to the speed of a pregnant sloth in a mudbath.
For AUD$20, I hoovered, dusted, swept the basement, yard and porch and cleaned toilets, windows and the kitchen stove.

Initially, I was also asked to iron for another 2 hours a week but regretfully I had to kiss that extra AUD$20 goodbye because I absolutely sucked at ironing sheets, of which they had LOTS.

My lack of ironing skills was discovered soon after I decided to save time by ironing the sheets in the straight-out-of-the-dryer folded state I’d find them in. As in, I’d just iron the parts that were exposed, instead of opening the damn things out.

The doctors quickly decided I should just stick to cleaning. I thought so too.

It was my first-ever paying job and I was fiercely proud every time I slid that orange-coloured note into my pocket. As a treat, I’d buy a block of Cadbury’s from the mini-market on the walk back home. I’ve never in my life wanted for any material luxuries, thanks to Dad, but you’d never guess, from the way I’d hoard that chocolate, allowing myself only two pieces a day.

It was only Cadbury. But I’d earned the luxury by my own efforts.

3. Assistant Gardener

Jane Franklin Hall, the residential college that I lived in, had a policy of creating jobs for its students. You could be a residential assistant, academic tutor, kitchen hand, admin assistant or gardener. In my second year at Jane, I was an assistant gardener.

For AUD$20 per week (it was taken off our fees), I’d follow the College’s gardener around for two hours on a weekend. Greg, a champ of a man of almost no words would set me weeding and watering the College’s substantial flower beds, planting for spring, raking the autumn fall and making sure that the College goats were grazing in their usual spot.

Working alone, outdoors in often glorious weather, with the breath-taking view of Hobart’s hills and waterways always a short walk away. I was happy. It remains as the one job where I’ve ever found myself singing while working.

4. Traffic Data Collector

The advertisement on the Uni noticeboard said the job would pay AUD$100 for a couple of hours’ work. Ker-ching!

I was given a clipboard with 3 clicker-counter things attached to the top. For two hours on a freezing autumn morning, I stood on the corner of an intersection and clicked my clipboard. Cars going straight, click middle counter, cars going left, click left counter and so on.

An easy hundred bucks.

5. Candy-Floss Seller

I moved out of Jane in my third year and shared a house with two Aussies I’d met at Jane. Kate had an uncanny knack for finding interesting jobs, one of the more unusual being dressing up as a walking and unnecessarily tall peanut to promote Peanut King nuts at the mall. During her stint as Captain Hook to promote the visiting Disney on Ice Show, she pointed me to temp agency and I got hired to sell candy floss.

The job paid about AUD$25 per hour (it was a weekend) and I got to watch bits of the show for free, given that we were allowed to hang around in the corridors leading to the venue. There were two categories of sellers; those that sold at the fixed stands outside, and those that walked around the aisles during the intermissions. I got the interesting one, yay me.

T’was a bit unwieldy, trying to balance a huge pole on my hip, from which hung balloony bags of floss, while negotiating the steps between aisles.

A memory that I'll always carry from then was of a little girl (or boy?) who bounced up and proudly announced that she would like a bag please, dumping a little clutch of coins into my hand. Unfortunately, she was AUD$2 short. Her obviously tired mum walked up, trying not to lose her grip on another squirming infant, and upon hearing that it wasn’t enough, told the girl that she wouldn’t be having any candy floss. They didn’t have enough for it.

What else can you do when your heart is breaking?

Make up the balance, avoid the spoiling of a kid’s happy day and give a tired mum a break.

Made my day, and perhaps even my life, for just a tiny moment.

The other perk of the job was that we got to bring back as much leftover popcorn and candy as we liked. For a couple of nights, my housemates and I gorged ourselves stupid, deciding that the most efficient way was to wrap popcorn in a fist-full of candy floss and pop them sugarbombs into our mouths.

6. Academic Tutor

Since Jane hadn’t found a tutor for its students for Criminal Law, I applied and got it, despite having only barely passed the subject myself in second year. The fact that the students (most of whom were my fellow uni-mates) had told the College warden that they were desperate for a tutor must have been of enormous help.

Waddaya know, I may have sucked as a student, but I must have rocked as a teacher because over 90% passed, with a majority getting at least a credit grade. Ah, a teacher’s pride. Particularly when said teacher is Asian and the students are all Aussies.

This job paid the best. AUD$40 per hour. And I got it in cash. Whee.

The Adult Years

7. I became an everything-also-can-do lawyer, then a corporate lawyer, then a family lawyer, and then, finally a corporate finance lawyer. Life was boring.

Then I quit.

8. And became a faceless “manager” in a financial institution.

But life’s no longer so boring.

Why Why Tell Me Why

2006-03-16T16:31:00.000+08:00

This Saturday, I'll be taking the IELTS test at the British Council.

At frickin 8am.

On a Saturday.

At the cost of RM495.

Just to prove proficiency in English.

Never mind that I:-

1) got an A1 for 1119, way back before they made it so much easier;

2) got a C3 for SPM Literature, despite only attending half a year's classes for a 2-year subject (that was in 1991, current day, super-15-straight-As-scoring students need not bother comparing. It was much harder back then. Most things were. Really);

3) got an A for General Paper during A-Levels in Singapore;

4) was declared best speaker in a University law moot where every other "lawyer" was Caucasian; and

5) got distinctions in essay-assessed University subjects like Criminology and Ethics of Medicine.

And since by the utterly vainglorious spew above I've tempted karma to bite my ass, I'll probably be tested on my knowledge of pronouns, adverbs, past participles and such other grammatical arcana.

My lack of knowledge, more like.

wanpahtan

Actually, I wouldn't be such a bitch if the test wasn't being held at frickin 8am. And cost that much.

nabeh

So.

Has anyone taken IELTS? Do I need to study?? What's a past participle????

---

Why is my monitor blanking out when I try to play a game of Civilisation IV???

Had the same problem with Age of Empires III, but that was solved by changing the screen resolution.

My PC specs more than meet the minimum requirement. I think I'm running an Athlon, something in the gHz, 512 MB RAM and a Radeon 9200 SE graphic card.

So why lidat?????

cipet
bagero
mahkaikutthiu

Anybody?

Petnames

2006-03-14T17:56:00.000+08:00

I've never had a pet.

Ok, I lie. Sort of.

Long, long ago, back in the days when it was, inexplicably, quite the rage, my brother and I had coloured chicks. One was purple and the other, orange. Or maybe blue.

Mum gave them back to the auntie at the market, very soon after the novelty wore off.

Imagine how embarrased the poor chicks must have been.

Anyway, since that's the single memory I have of those things, I'll refuse to call them pets.

---

There once was a bird that regularly sang outside our shophouse everyday. Dad grew fond of it and named it Chee Chee Chao.

Which was really unfortunate, so that's all I'll say about that.

I mean, really.

Chee Chee Chao.

!!??
---

When I was in Australia, I wanted to keep goldfish.

One black and the other, orange.

Their names would have been Mully and Sculder.

And they would have had the wild rampant fish sex that Scully and Mulder should have.

But the thought of cleaning the bowl put me off, so that little fantasy never came to pass.

---

I'm more a cat person. Dogs are a bit too dumb in their trust. And their saliva stinks.

Unfortunately, not only am I severely allergic to cat fur, Snowie is scared of cats in the embarassing (for an adult), scream & cry kind of way.

Yes. Cats.

Which means I can never have cats and name them Tuna and Sardine. Sigh.

---

So, since I am denied of naming pets humorously, I shall henceforth call Snowie -

Porkchop.

Not original, but so damn farnee!!!

What's There To Say?

2006-03-09T17:05:00.000+08:00

Sometimes, when one has too many things to say, keeping silent is so much easier.

I will say something about freedom of speech though. Aside from the check and balance that is provided by defamation/libel and obscenity laws, I think that freedom of speech should not be legally subject to other considerations, particularly those of people's feelings.

We all know what finicky felines feelings are. (if you get nothing else out of this post, there's at least this nifty tongue twister)

What should make all the difference, in Man's pursuit of greater civilisation, is having the restraint to decline exercising such freedom, under certain circumstances.

Not because one is, or ought to be, responsible.

But simply, because one is civilised.

---

And, as for the 30 sen increase in petrol prices... well. Surely nobody disputes that an increase was inevitable. And necessary. It has to hurt in order for people to start making significant changes to their financial planning.

What's really just a roll of baloney the length of the Sepang race track, is the Government's assurance that the savings it's gained from reduced subsidies will be put towards improving public transportation.

What makes me want to laugh and point and then stab politicians in their nuts with a cactus is the photo, in yesterday's papers, of the Housing & Local Govt Minister riding the ERL and LRT (two trains! Spunky!) to attend a meeting in the city.

What I wonder, is how many people had to give up their privilige to make like sardines in a two-carriage train (the LRT, not the ERL. I quite like the ERL) just so that the "VIP Commuter" and his entourage could have a go at pretending to commute to work.

Speaking of ...errr...things that make me want to do violence... apparently, the Government's comprehensive response plan to deal with bird flu should it become an epidemic here, includes asking other countries how they deal with it. I'd quote verbatim, but the report was published several days or even weeks ago and I was too busy hmmph-ing at everything else in the papers that I forgot to keep it.

If I were an omnipotent being, I'd stick petrol nozzles up the butts of 90% of politicians and let them have their fill of it.

Let's see them use petrol wisely after that.

UPDATE - Last Friday there was a huge, traffic blocking protest march outside KLCC. It was about the price hike, but the guy who helpfully flashed his placard at the windshield appeared to be more concerned about people insulting his prophet.

It's amazing how people in this country never learn that street protests don't achieve anything, other than make other people wonder how they got out of being at work after 2pm.

Anyway. I hear that it's happening again today. Those of you stuck in the city, good luck. With the amount of petrol going to waste as your car crawls along the major roads, you might as well get out and join in.

Book Bug

2006-03-02T11:45:00.000+08:00

In the last two months, I've used my 20% discount voucher at Times Bookshop and rummaged through the aisles of the Times and MPH warehouse sales wielding the Devil’s most ingenious invention – plastic cards; credit and loyalty/membership.

The result. My booklist for the next month, in no particular order.

Julie & Julia - Julie Powell

The author chronicles her year-long project of cooking every single recipe in Julia Child's classic, Mastering the Art of French Cooking. Surprisingly slow reading, so far. Currently languishing in the loo with my National Geographics.

The Complete Chronicles of Narnia - C.S. Lewis

Got the leather-bound limited edition - freakishly heavy. Leaves a dent in my belly when reading in bed. Halfway through "The Boy and His Horse".

The Sea - John Banville

My attempt to get all literary before starting Sharon's class. Failed! Finding it very slow and too descriptive. I'd read reviews calling it a study of loss and memories - so far, it's been more a meditation for me. The back & forth of flashbacks threw me a bit at the start, but I shall plow on...soon. Or maybe not.

Close Range / Brokeback Mountain - Annie Proulx

I swear, I tried to find the original short story collection - "Close Range: Wyoming Stories" - but couldn't, so this movie tie-in edition will have to do. Had to restrain myself from immediately jumping into Brokeback. Started with "55 Miles to the Gas Pump", barely 2 pages long. Bizarro. Good start.

"Brokeback Mountain" - the narrative style is almost exactly how I imagine Heath Ledger's Ennis would tell the story. Abrupt. Stoic. Sparing.

Rough Guide to Italy, Sixth Edition

2 months' time! Rome, Cinque Terre, Florence, Bologna, Assisi, Gubbio, Bevagna, Spello, Montalcino. Wheee....

Neverwhere – Neil Gaiman

His first, and the only novel of his that I haven’t read. It’s set in an Alice In Wonderland version of London. Currently on the first chapter and it’s recalling "American Gods" for me.

One For My Baby - Tony Parsons

I really should buy his books in the proper order. "The Family Way" was excellent, so I have high hopes for this. Umm….are his books (apart from the Family Way) considered guy lit?

Poo: A Natural History of the Unmentionable – Nicola Davies

One of my birthday presents from Snowie! This is an EXCELLENT little book, hilariously sincere and umm…realistically illustrated. Shamefaced bunnies quietly scarfing down their poopy pellets as part of their daily supplements, wild boars catching up on the latest gossip at the communal dung pile – what’s not to like!

Paradise – Toni Morrison

I have no clue what this is about. I’ve always wanted to read "Beloved" but was always too cheap to get the book. This one was only RM8. Yay.

Elegy for Iris – John Bayley

Iris Murdoch was a prolific writer and philosopher who was disinclined towards personal hygiene. No, that’s not what the elegy says, just what I remember from having watched the movie version, starring two of Britain’s most versatile, great actors; Dame Judi Dench and Jim Broadbent. In this book, Iris’s husband records the loss of a brilliant mind to the twilight dreaming of Alzheimer’s Disease.

In Her Shoes – Jennifer Weiner

This is actually Snowie’s, recently acquired at the Times sale. I’ve seen most of the movie but having missed the beginning bits, I was quite happy to dive into the book. Rocketed through with a tenacity and deliberate disregard for aesthetics (powering through chic lit when reading "The Sea" feels like waltzing in molasses? Shhhh…) that would make a competitive power walker proud. Better than the movie in terms of storyline, but I must say that the screen casting for Rose and Maggie was absolutely spot-on.

---

Lots of books and not enough potty time to read them all.

What’s worse…

Times Bookshop members get 25% off storewide today, it being World Book Day and all.

I’ve got my wallet trained on two more books to add to my reading list -

Let Me Finish - Udo Grashoff

A collection of 45 suicide notes. Depressing, much. Can’t wait to start!

The Nimrod Flip-Out - Etgar Keret

His second collection of short stories, the first of which I was looking for, to no avail. The blurb for one of the stories, “Fatso” goes something like this - every night, a young man’s beautiful girlfriend turns into a fat little man who loves football.

Mr. 3 Technologies, I’ve got a feeling you’ll really like this book. :)

Psssst.....

2006-02-27T17:27:00.000+08:00

...am I the only adult who doesn't know how to skip?

I can't seem to get the co-ordination right.

Seriously. I just tried.
It helps when you're the only person in the department at the moment.

It comes out as a cross between a half-hearted hop and a limp.

Why am I trying to skip?

Someone on TV said that it's impossible to remain grumpy/pissed off if you skip.

So...

Skip to work.

Skip around the jam-packed aisles of Tesco on a weekend.

Skip out of your boss's office after a particularly trying meeting.

Skip to your chores; skippety skip as you hang out piles of wet laundry or iron never-ending wrinkly clothes or sweep/mop your heart out.

Get out of your car in barely crawling traffic and skip skip skip around the nearby cars.

Too bad I can't skip.

It sucks...

2006-02-21T12:41:00.000+08:00

...that the family photographs that will be taken at my brother's marriage registration tomorrow will not include Snowie.

...that we will be seated at different tables during the wedding dinner in April.

...that I have to be brave and reasonable and practical and restrain myself from hand-cuffing myself to Snowie's legs and beg her not to apply for that almost guaranteed job and relocate to Manila.

...that I can't just pack up and relocate to Manila as well without uncomfortable questions being asked by my parents.

...that Snowie refuses to be a sugar mummy even though she damn well would be able to afford it if she got the job!!! ~>(

...that I wouldn't be able to live with myself if she turned down an opportunity to work with a world agency and earn stackloads of $$ (USD, for the love of all that is good and monetary!! ka-ching! ka-ching! ka-ching!), just because of me.

...that actually, she doesn't wanna go, and it's me (who else) who's telling her to put emotions aside. So if we're pining in abject misery later on, it's my own fault, innit?

Can you at least buy me a Playstation before you go? :B

After all, "Do you like having sex? Don't get Nintendo."# would no longer be applicable if you went to bloody Manila would it??!

*grump. hrummph*

~~>(

# From the movie "Prime", starring Uma Thurman and Meryl Streep. Oh what a brilliant scene - where Uma, all long-legged loveliness and wearing ONLY a shirt, frustratedly asks "Are you coming to bed?!!!" as Bryan Greenberg twiddles his Nintendo joystick.

---

Can someone babysit me? For three years. :)

Another Year, Another One

2006-02-19T20:40:00.000+08:00

In One Paragraph

2006-02-15T13:33:00.000+08:00

During the day Ennis looked across a great gulf and sometimes saw Jack, a small dot moving across a high meadow as an insect moves across a tablecloth; Jack, in his dark camp, saw Ennis as night fire, a red spark on the huge black mass of mountain.

For those who have only seen the movie, do not give the book a miss.

Please.

---

Somewhere on Sharon's site (bibliobibuli - see link on sidebar), there's this quote.

Good short fiction requires the reader's time and attention. It relies not on explanation but asks for interpretation.

A brilliant example of this is Anne Hathaway's interpretation of the Lureen/Ennis telephone call. Goes to show the minefield of emotion that a single line can hint at.

"she was polite but the little voice was cold as snow"

Similarly, Michelle Williams'performance truly brings to life Alma's "misery voice".

I wasn't quite as impressed though, with the performances of the two leads, Heath Ledger and Jake GyllensomethingI'mtoolazytogooglefornow, as much as I was of Ennis' and Jack's story as told by Annie Proulx.

Still. Thank you, Ang Lee.

If only you had taken on Geisha as well.

Raincheck

2006-02-14T00:37:00.000+08:00

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Seminar all day
This'll just have to do.

What's the most unromantic thing you've ever received/gotten for Valentine's Day?

I gave Snowie a set of dark blue bedsheets the first year. For a single bed. :)

She like mah.

Here We Are, Still.

2006-02-09T17:46:00.000+08:00

Have I ever told you about the solitary pleasure I get from watching planes drift across the night sky? How many people on there are wishing they were somewhere else?

Brings to mind a jar of jellybeans, bobbing along with the ocean current. So insignificant in context, yet each jellybean is blissfully oblivious, defiantly offering a different experience of taste and triggers.

Remember when I talked about the meditative calm of sitting at Burger King at the Sg. Buloh jejantas, overlooking the highway below and the cars whizzing by into the gauzy dusk? Wondering what conversations are going on inside, words blown away by the wind as each pocket of humanity speeds away.

It was the same feeling again when I glanced out the window of my hotel room. Like flickering images on a bank of tiny, grimy TV screens, a human tapestry of the mundane unfurled before me, joyous sparkle and gritty pathos all interwoven within its greying edges.

It’s like watching a series of stages, neatly partitioned off from each other in a giant studio. Real life drama.

I wished you were there with me to see it.

Such irresistible voyeurism, to stand there watching the drama of lives played out behind the windows of their apartments.

You would have understood my appreciation of these things.

You would have appreciated the time taken to stand and simply stare. At the crowds of people, the streets, the ferries, the harbour. Appreciated the contrast of indifferent squalor against urgent modernity.

You would have recognised the cocoon of solitude around me as a sign of big, useless, pointless thoughts being nonetheless thought.

I missed you.

But you were there; on each street corner that I stopped to sms or call (and now we have a RM370 bill to contend with), in every cramped diner where I tasted something I thought you’d like, in every SaSa shop I saw (one practically every block, so really. Pretty much all the time).

You took the ferry with me. You were on the planes with me.

You were never far from me.

I realised this, only on the flight back. I was watching “In Her Shoes”, starring Toni Collete (she’s right up there with the likes of Frances McDormand, Joan Cusack and Felicity Huffman, in my opinion) and Cameron Diaz. Right at the end, Cameron Diaz’s character reads a poem by e.e. cummings.

My own words are poor; this day in particular, deserves the humility of choosing to borrow from the masters.

For the past three years and for those to come. With all that I can give you.

---
I carry your heart with me
by e. e. cummings

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
i fear
no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)
---

Psstt. Don't be anal. That's how the original was written. I had to restrain myself from adjusting the paragraphs.

Ten Tips About Hong Kong

2006-02-08T18:02:00.000+08:00

1. Eat stir-fried kailan. The prioritisation of this particular tip is indicative of how seriously I mean this. I generally would never ever voluntarily order it here, not even the species touted as being of HK parentage. Not my kind of vegetable. But my goodness, was I lucky that my friend WS ordered it when we met up for dinner last week. Damn delicious. Guess the HK-ers, being Chinese, keep the good stuff for local consumption and export the lesser grades. Either that, or the HK kailan we get here is actually Malaysian-grown. Scam!

2. If you are staying longer than a day and plan to use public transport (which I highly recommend) other than taxis, get what’s known as the Octopus card. Very handy because you can use it on the ferries, trains and buses at discounted fares and also in the Watsons chain of pharmacies and 7-11. You have to have at least HK$50 (HK$43 is refundable when you leave HK, $7 processing fee) on the card. The exchange rate for HK$ to RM is approximately half, btw. And about 1/5 for HK$ to SGD.

3. If you want a good, cheap and bloody excellent view of the HK harbour, stay at the Salisbury YMCA in Kowloon. Don’t let visions of scruffy backpackers and dormitories scare you…this is the Ritz Carlton of YMCAs, without giving you wallet-burn. It has the same harbour view as what you’d get at the Peninsula, one of HK’s premier hotels. They’re right next to each other.

4. If bargain shopping is your thing, stay on the Kowloon side, not on Hong Kong island. Two words - Factory outlets. The Esprit factory outlet was less than a minute’s walk around the corner of Kowloon hotel (where I stayed, and which is behind Peninsula Hotel). Oh my goodness. Esprit fans, prepare to flail at your chests in ululating despair. I picked up a corduroy jacket for RM105 and two t-shirts at RM19 a piece. I think denim jackets were going for around RM100 as well.

5. Go towards the end/beginning of seasons, ie Winter/Spring, Summer/Autumn. The sales give new meaning to the term fashion-conscious. You get good branded stuff at rock-bottom prices because darlings, last season, literal and figurative. Practically everything was discounted by at least 70%. Somewhere along Nathan Road, I scored ankle-high socks for RM3.40 a pair and polar fleece scarves at RM2.45 a piece. Adventure gear enthusiasts would know, polar fleece is THE outerwear material of choice; light, warm and NOT cheap.

6. For the love of all that is capitalistic, never pay full price. I was told that one should target for a third of the asking price. At the Ladies Market, a silk table runner was priced at HKD120. My hesitation (didn’t even have to say anything) brought it to HKD80. Turning away dropped the price to HKD60. Two steps out of the stall, it was HKD50. At another place, 3 silk fans were HKD35 for 3. Because I looked unimpressed, the shopowner asked me how much I’d be willing to pay. The question then becomes, exactly what’s the value??

You’d think that you can’t bargain at proper shops. Well. Mum was in a shop where a fake fur and silk top was marked as discounted from HKD5000 to HKD2500. Boldly asking for a further discount got a reply of HKD1200. Pooh-pooh-ing and walking out of the shop resulted in the price dropping to HKD800.

I got a set of four glass bottles with traditional river scenes and Chinese characters painted on the inside the bottle for the grand sum of RM38.

Says a lot about the price of labour in China, dunnit?

7. Dim sum are not made equal. Not even in restaurants packed with locals. Actually, with the floods of people from China entering HK legally these days, it’s hard to tell the locals from the motherlanders just by sight. Back to the dim sum. Unless you’re willing to pay a premium in the hotels or higher end restaurants on Hong Kong island, I’d say you get much better stuff in Singapore (Crystal Jade), Melbourne or Sydney.

8. In HK, they don’t say “ta pau” for take-away. That gives you away as a tourist. There’s another more formal word, but the one that amused me most was “hung kai”. As in “yat kor chow meen, hung kai” (one fried noodle, taking a walk). Roadside diners are generally good for all manner of noodles and rice dishes. Oh and try their rice! God, we’re really being scammed with rice over here in Malaysia (let's not forget the kailan!!). Even the lowest grade rice in HK is way better than a lot of the superior brands here. There’s an almost glutinous-like quality to theirs. Tasty goodness.

9. Take the Star ferry to cross between Kowloon and HK island. It costs HK$2.20 and takes about 10 minutes. Scenic, cheap and you get to cross a HK-must-do off the list. Compare that to HK$9 for a 2 minute ride between Tsim Sha Tsui station and Central in a train that goes under the water in an enclosed tunnel. I swear I could smell seawater when exiting the train at Central. Don’t even bother with taxis, there’s a HK$50 surcharge just to cross, apparently.

10. Coffee junkies, bring your own stash of instant coffee. The local variety sucks so bad. You know how the actors on HK dramas always seem to order “lai cha”, thereby implying that it doesn’t taste of dishwater? It does. Tea with milk never tasted so bad.

Kowloon hotel has pretty decent rooms. Don't expect enough room to do the waltz in, but it fits two single beds pretty snugly. With about a foot of space btwn them. And the Tv doubles as an LCD monitor. Real multi-function space savers, these HK-ers.

I have pictures, but they’re mainly of the squalor (very interesting, hence their 60% starring role on my camera) of those pigeonholes they call apartments above rather modern shopfronts. I’ve been too lazy to download them though, so this will have to do.

Now Where's That Clown Suit...

2006-01-27T14:31:00.000+08:00

And so it begins... the exodus in response to the call of filial piety.

Tomorrow is the eve of Chinese New Year.

You can imagine the traffic heading out of Kuala Lumpur. World peace be damned, my one desperate wish right now is for the gift of teleportation. Sigh.

What are the chances of nobody else thinking that leaving KL at 7am tomorrow will guarantee a smooth sail down the North-South Highway to Malacca? Slimmer than Chicken Little's legs, I'll bet.

I suck at time-management. It’s the eve of the Eve and I still haven’t:-

1. Had a haircut.
2. Bank in my claims cheque.
3. Drop off the cheque for this month’s loan instalment.
4. Made my EPF nomination.
5. Made my will, to be used in a whole-family-wiped-out scenario.
6. Packed for a week-long trip that covers Malacca, Singapore and Hong Kong.

I did manage to shop for pretty clothes though, it being a cultural tradition and all.

Not just one, but TWO pretty things. Voluntarily. Heh. The circus is definitely hitting town in a big way this year.

My parents will be so proud. :D

The haircut. Well, I have not one, not two, but THREE curl patterns on my scalp. Unruly is too kind a description. My last haircut was in November and I’m starting to look like the Japanese Prime Minister again.

My claims cheque. I work in a bank. I pass the machines every day. The cheque’s been sitting in my drawer for over a week. Let us not speak of it.

My office is on Jalan Tun Razak. ING, where my loan instalment cheques have to go, is, upon consultating a KL street map today, merely two little boxes away. I blame the traffic and healthy distrust for the postal system.

Items 4, 5 and 6. On Sunday, my parents, brother and I are heading for Singapore where the very-soon-to-be-inlaws-for-real will join us for a 4-day trip to Hong Kong starting on Monday. We. Are. Family.

As you’ll know if you click here, I hate flying. I spend way too much time in the weeks before a scheduled flight AND the entire flight time thinking morbid thoughts. I think that’s all I need to say to explain items 4 & 5.

And so, other than the armrest of my seat, I’ll be clutching two other things so hard as to permanently imprint their outlines onto my palms during the flight. My safe passage Celtic charm and my mobile phone, with my thumb glued to the power switch and Snowie’s number set on the most convenient speed dial.

Come to think of it (and morbid thoughts aside), my mobile phone and that speed dial are going to be the most important things to me for the entirety of this week-long trip. An oasis for refuge, a lifeline to sanity preservation in the midst of the overly-loud voices and drama that almost always provide the soundtrack to and backdrop for family time. Oh the joy of family reunions.

At some point during this next week, mum is going to have a chat with the mum-in-law-to-be about the meaning of marriage. How it would be unusual, to say the least, for a wife to continue spending most of her time in Singapore after the wedding because her mum can’t let her go, while the husband has to accept the absurdity of having his wife “visit” him in KL.

Boredom is certainly not going to feature much this coming week.

Seeya in the second week of February. Safe travels and good rest.

Tarts and Cavewomen

2006-01-23T19:15:00.000+08:00

Tis’ the season of Milo tins pregnant with buttery goodness, fizzy F&N Orange the colour of a gay goldfish in Vegas and yellow packets of chrysanthemum tea that always find a way to stay half full (and wasted) after the guests have left.

Let us not speak of the accompanying heatwave, traffic snarls, sweat-soaked everything, precocious brats, nosy cringe-machine relatives and the flash of red & gold paper that flags off a barrage of stickybeak questions before the cash is dispensed into your hot little hands.

Xing nien tau, indeed.

On to prettier things…

If I had to pick one generic icon of Chinese New Year, it would be the pineapple tart. How convenient then, to showcase one of Snowie’s latest baking projects.

These was made from scratch. Fresh pineapples met determined and eventually sore, knife wielding fingers. My contribution was to stir the jam (and complain) for almost two hours whilst secretly deriving a masochistic pleasure at the slow but amazing transformation of yellow-orange gloop into a deep, spicy amber.

Damn if they aren’t labour intensive. Tasty enough to reward the effort though.

But if you think that’s pretty…check this out.

Can you believe the kuasa-ness? If the intricacy doesn’t drop your jaw, how about this? – The exquisite attention and submissive domesticity behind this little marvel are illustrative of the characteristics that snared the baker a million dollar diamond engagement ring.

How many women these days are willing to whip up curry puffs from scratch upon her lord’s late night supper request? Certainly less than the number of men who still harbour me-caveman-you-cavewoman-lie down-me-pull-hair-go-cave fantasies.

One good thing about being close friends with very old money, is the opportunity for us common folk to partake of the remnant fruits of great seduction. One man can only eat so much, I guess.

Speaking of more common cavefolk…one morning, with one foot out the door (I leave for work earlier than Snowie)…

(Blah blah blah)
Because sometimes, I’m a caveman…deal with it, woman.

Bleh. I’m not your cavewoman.

And why not?

Because cavewomen don’t prepare bekal for their cavemen. Cavemen go out and hunt their own snack and eat it raw. That’s what makes them so objectionable.

A snack-sized container of tarts is plonked into my hands just before the door shuts in my face.

What a woman.

GAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!! #*&%@

2006-01-20T17:04:00.000+08:00

Words cannot describe how much I hate when people can't sort out their own pampered lives and I have to be Big Bossy Pants and give them #*&%$@& point-form notes on reality and their goddamn options.

I'd bitchslap all of them off the planet BUT because they are family and family-to-be and it would be kinda nice to have them around sometimes, I'll have to try to limit the destination to Inner Mongolia. Or Siberia.

Chinese New Year Greetings 2006

2006-01-17T16:11:00.001+08:00

Continuing a "tradition" from last year -

I've gotten better at it. Heh. :)

Haikus for 2006
This year’s a Dog Year
Mum turns sixty – big birthday!
Better start planning.

Gong Xi ah Gong Xi!
Keep your comments AND angpow.
No (girl)boyfriend. Not desperate.

----

Updates will be sporadic...what's new...got stuff to do before the CNY holidays in two weeks time.

Have a good holiday all!

(One week just with a one-day leave for us KL-ites! Yahoozes!)

Is That An Itch?

2006-01-17T15:39:00.000+08:00

I got an SMS from my “internet boyfriend” a few days ago:

You mean you’re too lazy to 2 make an effort 2 b my lover?”

Actually, I meant I’m too lazy to engage in anything that requires activity beyond using my fingers. To type.

It’s truly remarkable how much freedom technology has given us. Offline, I’d never have got to know Internet Boyfriend (let’s call him Rolf instead because…really… all manner of things start rolling at that thought) as well as I do. Rolf moves in corporate circles high enough to induce nosebleeds. Me, I think it’s perfectly acceptable to attend meetings with a Harry Potter band-aid on my finger.

A couple of years ago I was looking through the Music section of the online classifieds for a second-hand violin.

There his ad was.

Innocently offering use of an organ.

And digital accessories.

The double-entendre, shockingly placed in the Victorian-like conservatism of the “Music” section, instead of in “Services” along with the other dubious service ads, amused me no end. I was compelled to “respond” by email. I’ll say it again - the beauty of the Internet lies in its gift of freedom to fearlessly poke a sleeping mad dog. Fortunately, with Rolf, I didn’t need a tetanus shot.

The email exchanges that followed were sparkling, on his side at least. It was months before we met in person one afternoon for drinks at Secret Recipe. All innocence, but with our venue providing the requisite tongue-in-cheek.

Suffice to say, we met again only once after that initial time, and no services have ever been exchanged. It’s never been the point of our “relationship”.

It’s weird to even call it a friendship, because it’s not as if I regard Rolf as a friend. For me at least, it’s all about the conversation. Indeed, that's on a different orbit altogether from what I’m used to. It certainly has a lot to do with the perspective that age (his) imparts. But largely because of the impersonal yet strangely intimate nature of written communication. We interact as equals. Stripped of titles, age, history, physical proximity – all of which lead to expectation - we can afford to be more candid than we’d ever be in real life.

So what do we talk about? Politics, morality, ethics, life, living, literature. And yes, even sex. As a subject matter and not an activity for mutual participation, mind you. Though he does sometimes try to steer from ribald to proposition; witness said SMS. He really does know better, yet there it is.

It’s all about the conversation, without emotional attachments. The intellectual equivalent of illicit sex, I guess – it means nothing, I swear!. Heh.

By my utilitarian philosophy, the value of every experience is in its potential to offer intellectual and emotional growth. In Rolf, I value the intellectual growth that our conversations inspire. I have no need for any emotional context that may be available.

Needs. Therein lies the point of contention.

I fully believe that one person alone cannot satisfy all your needs.

Am I intellectually cheating on Snowie?

Now, before any of you mentally prepares to do battle on behalf of Snowie (who by the way, greatly appreciates the goodwill that’s been flowing to her from this spot), take a minute to think about the logic of that statement, in the context of the real world.

Marriage (and all other species of intimate relationships) in itself does not automatically create a magic force field that keeps ~~Angelina Jolie~~ temptation at bay. It is as easy to distrust as it is to lay down rules like -

I don’t want you to ever have any contact with your ex

Don’t you dare have one-on-one lunches with colleagues of the opposite sex

The much harder thing to do - but surely this must be the point of marriage - is to trust. And to commit.

To trust that commitment will keep human fallibility in check.

One person alone cannot satisfy all your needs. Like it or not, that’s a fact. Divorce wouldn’t be so popular otherwise.

The factor that distinguishes a union from transience is - commitment.

Being committed to making your union work is being willing to forgo the satisfaction of one, or some, of your needs, some or all of the time. Applicable to BOTH parties.

And the pre-requisite for commitment? Respect.

So…back to Snowie and me. I personally don’t even think it’s cheating. For one, ummm…Rolf’s a MAN. But fundamentals aside, he does appear to want to get in my pants despite being fully aware of Snowie. Let’s not trot out that particular male fantasy. Not gonna happen.

Anyway. Not only is there no emotional intimacy, there’s unlikely to be any body parts straining to get out. I for one am too lazy to bother.

Lastly, as much as I enjoy the conversation with Rolf, we both can quite easily do without it. It’s not a need. And even if it were a need, I’m quite sure that Snowie doesn’t even mind.

So why even go into all this here?

Because human emotions are like pests. They buzz about, niggling and naggling. And even after you’ve slapped them away, sometimes, an itch of doubt remains.

This, is my offering of mopiko/applicable generic brand of hydrocortisone.

Which is why if Snowie ever does mind, it's into the trash can you go, Rolf.

Because emotions make me embressed...

2006-01-06T15:47:00.000+08:00

(snowie babe, see I told you one day I'd pronounce 'embarrass' this way in public. all your fault)

... let's move on to other things...

Today is Nigella's birthday!

I refuse to enlighten the culinarily-starved amongst us as to who I'm talking about. Nigella belongs to that select club of no-surname-required icons; namely Oprah, Kylie and Madonna<-- sorry baby Jesus, I don't mean your mommy.

Here's what someone (lisa aka exiledcal) on her forum wrote - it's too good not to share.

There once was a girl called Nigella
Named after her father, that fella (his name is Nigel. duh)
To cook up a feast
She butchered a beast
And grilled it beneath an umbrella.

A spatula and magi-whisk salute to the fabulous domestic goddess herself!

Oh. And.. mmmrrowwwllllll....

Growing Up

2006-01-04T17:47:00.000+08:00

Light a candle

I started this blog a year ago on a whim.

I was bored, my friend had one, it looked like an excellent way to pass time ~~at the office~~ and provided an opportunity to indulge my inner voice.

There was never really a conscious decision at the time as to what face my online persona would wear. A month later, I’d decided that there would be no masks.

Pictureless, nameless, genderless. In these words I seek clarity. In these words I hope to find the language of my heart.

My little spot of internet real estate has allowed me to strip away all the covers by which people judge books.

Herein lie the words that form my book. The language of my heart.

I have for the most part been having a very involved conversation. With myself, as a mildly fluffy ego is wont to do. Somewhere along the way though, you stopped by to chat.

Aside from the handful of personal friends who’ve dropped by, those of you with whom I’ve had the pleasure of conversation through Spot, have had nothing but mere words by which to bridge the chasm of geography and construct a mental image of me. I’m guessing that my stress-relief squeeze-cow-thing helps in the construction. Good ol’ Mooriel.

I’ve always admitted to being a procrastinator. But my goodness, this kinda takes the cake. Today, I’ve come almost full circle by continuing a post that was written in February 2005.

Bring Out The Cake

I’ve never specifically mentioned whether or not I’m a boy or a girl. Some of you assume that I’m male, likely from the presence of Snowie. Others have never even considered that I might be anything other than female.

And some of you have since revised your initial assumption.

The writing on the wall is always clearer with the benefit of retrospect. “When Life Gives You Lemons” and the recent posts on transgenderism ought to pretty much paint the colour of my birth blanket for the discerning reader.

I hope that it doesn’t matter to most of you, either way. For those who somehow feel misled, well. C’est la vie. It was never intentional.

When I was younger, I’d often wish that I could disappear from my life, BUT leaving a clone in my stead so that my family wouldn’t even know that I was gone. Suicide wasn’t an option because I’d be so guilty for causing the grief (never mind that the grief would no longer be my problem, being dead and all).

Why the drama?- you might ask. Well. Being gay can’t be easy for most; being transgendered without understanding the concept, however, is far, far worse. Especially when you’re under 12. I can’t quite remember when I “knew” myself to be different, suffice to say that it was in primary school.

Sometimes I think that I must be the only person who has issues about this..er..issue. Rarely have I come across anyone writing about dealing with self-identity from this particular aspect. Perhaps I over-think. What else would you call wondering whether one is a homophobic, homosexual man trapped in the wrong body (don’t bother trying to work that out…I can’t quite myself)? How else to explain being unnerved by lesbians?

Thank god for the invention of the word “transgendered”.

Send In The Clowns

Yes, it remains a big issue for me. Self-loathing is no fun. Self-loathing is exactly what’s behind my unfortunate contempt for “fat butches”. Not because I’m one myself, but what that description represents to me. An object of “normal” people’s ridicule.

Being told at a young age that “something’s wrong in your head” just because I don’t like dressing stereotypically couldn’t but leave a scar that despite having faded with time, continues to haunt the psyche with its memory.

Being who they expect me to be used to make me feel like the circus had rocked into town, and I was the major freakshow. Today, I gamely put on the bells and whistles. It pays to know which battles to choose.

Being partial to masochism, I’ve only ever been attracted to straight women. Fill in the blanks – “what do you expect me to do, **** air?”.

I pretend to myself that I’ve gotten over that.

It chokes me even now.

The first relationship (if you could call it that) left me with doubts as to what I could ever offer. I couldn't trust the next person not to renege on any assurance that it doesn't matter.

The second, whilst dispelling the earlier doubt, left me wondering if I would have left so easily had it been possible for us to be legally married. I couldn't trust myself.

Which brings me to Snowdrop. Poor Snowie. It must be hard to breathe, with all that baggage crowding the space between us.

The biggest difference between her and the earlier two, is that I’d never have in a bazillion years considered myself to be anywhere good enough to play in the league in which she was available as the prize. It’s like buying a made-in-China, imitation Hotwheels from Tesco while the other guy plonks down for a Ferrari. In cash.

And worse. She’s got ex-boyfriends. Boys. Ooooer.

Goes to show. You fall in love with a person…not a body.

Nevertheless, imagine the waves of physical self-doubt in this relationship. Heh.

Whatever. We’re still left with the fact that Snowie’s mum would rather turn hermit in Tibet than to acknowledge my existence. Thus we have curfews. And ridiculous commuting.

One night when I was staying over (before the exact nature of our relationship was confirmed to her and my existence wiped from her universe by sheer force of willpower) at their place and didn’t have a fresh shirt for the next day, Snowie’s mum offered me her own. At the time, I thought, hey, she actually likes me. Turns out, as we were later told, she just didn’t want me to wear anything of her precious princess’s and sacrificed her own instead.

Yeowch.

I don’t know which was the bigger insult to my humanity - that awful comment by No.1, or that gesture.

Sometimes though, I wonder if I can really blame her for thinking that all her hard work to raise a dancing, singing prized ham shouldn't be wasted on the likes of me?

Blowing out the Candle

Sounds like a bad day-time soap, innit?

But I’ve come a long way. It’s easier to recover from hurt feelings or self-doubt when you approach life with a philosophy of making lemon meringue pie (and so many fabulous treats, thanks to Nigella and Martha Stewart) out of Life’s lemons. You do the best with what you’re given that can’t be changed.

Half a year ago, I felt that if I took off that virtual mask that had given me gender anonymity here, I’d lose some readers. Obviously, I’d forgotten the primary function of this blog - a conversation with myself.

So what am I?

I’m not really sure myself. But I don’t think finding the answer matters that much to me anymore.

If only, though, I believed it enough to tell my parents.

The Close Of The Year

2005-12-31T23:59:00.000+08:00

The fantastic thing about a journal is the opportunity it offers to go back in time. This was meant to be written on 31st December 2005 (since I was ~~working~~ at work that day), but as usual, I was too lazy and it was less effort to do Italy-research.

A click here, a clack there on the keyboard…voila!

Wooo….your eyes are feeling woozy…you are believing that this post was written at the close of the year 2005…wooo…

*puts magic wand away*

It appears to be traditional to indulge in vaseline-smeared-lense-like reminiscence when standing at the threshold of January.

Ah, but that’s what this blog was partly started for…to serve as a record for the things that would otherwise have taken up residence in the prime real estate of my ever-shrinking brain.

Why work up a sweat trying to recall (and thus tempting nostalgia-induced, you-wish-lah embellishment) what happened, when there are archives in a nifty drop-down menu?

Blogger, I love you long time!

Overall, 2005 didn’t stand out as a particularly trying year. It must therefore have been good. So much so that I’ve begun to think that it may not be such a bad idea after all to be stuck here, given that I’ve been fortunate to have:

1) hardly worked all year, earn a pretty decent salary and still get an appraisal result of “Exceeds Requirements”;

2) the tenancy of my other apartment renewed for 2006. Boys and girls, again, I must reiterate. DO NOT buy jointly with someone you haven’t yet committed both your heart AND mind to;

3) a home that I’ve custom-built to my selfish needs;

4) enough savings at this moment to cover Italy 2006 in May;

5) if fortune holds, enough disposable income to save as a buffer for rainy days and for the day that we really can pack up for the place that continues to beckon despite the quiet of contentment; and

6) grown up sufficiently to commit as a meaningful witness to someone else’s life.

I don’t believe in living life by checklist. Time and Chance/Fate can easily blow that checklist away in a blink - then whatcha gonna do about it?

That’s why I never bother with resolutions, five-year plans or ambitions.

Instead, whenever I find myself adrift, I tell myself this -

The best you can do in life is to be flexible. To bend without breaking each time a spanner hits your wheel, or each time the road curves so sharply as to spin you off-course. And never allow yourself to be unhappy for long.

Never be afraid to laugh at the times you find yourself having taken an almighty belly flop onto the floor all by your very own doing. Always have the humour to admit that it looked absolutely silly.

That being said, 2005 closed with a shadow of grey for my family. My aunt’s short struggle with cancer is nearing its end and these past weeks have seen her calmly making gifts for remembrance, clearing her liabilities and sorting out her will.

I tend to be clinical about these things, wholly approving of putting practicality above emotions. So it was with some detached shock that I noted an overwhelming urge to bawl a few days ago when my possible appointment as one of her trustees was being discussed.

How fragile we are.

And so I proceed into 2006 with the practical widsom of Emily Saliers as my guide.

So we must love, while these moments are still called today
Take part in the pain of this passion play
Stretching our youth as we must
Until we are ashes to dust
Until time makes history of us.

Here's to endings as well as beginnings.

Happy New Year to all.

May we weather whatever storms that come our way with dignity and grace and celebrate each cause for smiling with due merriment.

Season's Greetings

2005-12-21T16:44:00.000+08:00

Priorities

2005-12-12T11:56:00.000+08:00

No time to blog because:

1) Appraisal time! It's taking me forever to fill in the forms. Why can't they just give me the money? I'm worth it dammit!
*deletes blog url from history folder*

2) Researching two major trips planned for next year.

3) Micro-planning a pre-Christmas party.

4) Playing with snowie. See below.

Love is in the air: GingerBoy meets GingerGirl.
See GingerGirl's pretty dress.

GingerBoy and GingerGirl head for the forest.
Yoohoo, where are youuuuu?

Gingerboy discovers GingerGirl's dark side.
Apparently, GingerGirl prefers bikinis and group loving.

Shards: Piece 2

2005-12-05T17:04:00.000+08:00

The shiny logo on the latest addition to their growing garage preened, gleaming at her.

All the trappings of desire and power poured into fluid curves of leather and steel.

Just another gift from him.

A crumpled heap at the bottom of the backseat caught her eye. Ah. The little one’s sweater. She had had to turn the house inside out all morning, searching. All that tantrum and tears for nothing.

She took in the rich mahogany of the instrument panel. Shadowing the wake of her gaze as she lingered over the deep, smoky wood, a silent montage of images flickered to life in her heart.

Staring, she retreated into the welcome theatre of memory. Her mother’s house. Golden sunlight tinting the aged timber doorframe. The old water buffalo plodding down the field. And just the faintest scent of fresh earth. All so far away…yet always so near in her heart.

She blinked.

The letters of the logo demanded to be adored.

B… M… W

Yanti!

The logo slipped from focus.

Yantiiiiiiii!

Reflexively, she cringed. In a heartbeat, the rag in her hand was yanked away and snapped into her face.

YANTI!!!!

I suruh you pegi cuci kreta, you buat apa?

Diri situ termenung saja. Bodoh!

She hit her head on the car’s side mirror in her haste to retrieve the rag from the pail.

Cepat! CEPAT!

Manyak BODOH lah you.

It would be late evening by the time she heard the last of this. Then, he would be back and his wife would have to stop shouting and put on her pretty face instead.

Such lives these people lived.

She turned to the driver’s-side window.

With a wave of the soapy rag, she wiped away the tears from her reflection.

---

Reference:

Story Arc

Piece 1

Billet Doux

2005-11-30T10:15:00.000+08:00

"'Cause I love you..
Whether it's wrong or right
And though I can't be with you tonight
You know my heart is by your side"

There ya go, love.

---

Isn't it stupidly ridiculous that a grown 30 something-year-old is still too chicken to sleep alone WITHOUT A LIGHT ON??? Don't write in...it's rhetorical.

---

One of the nicer things about being in a relationship is getting a sleepkiss (in the manner of sleepwalk) planted on your back, despite you only having arms for your bolster.

---

Movies

2005-11-29T16:57:00.000+08:00

(That serious topic is going to have to wait...I got bored actually writing it, so I dare not imagine what it's going to do to readers)

Two movies I'm interested to actually watch at the cinema -

Perhaps Love, starring Jacky Cheung, Takeshi Kaneshiro and some China chick. The recent interview in the Star makes no mention about the obvious comparison with Baz Luhrmann's Moulin Rouge.

Come on, who are you trying to kid? It SO screams out "Moulin Rouge". No amount of playing "Ai...mei yo... Hem(n?)...mei yo" is going to suggest otherwise.

Memoirs of A Geisha, starring Zhang Ziyi, Gong Li and *mock gasp* our very own DATUK Michelle Yeoh. Damn HSBC and its promo billboards. Unless you're going to give me, your loyal cardholder and enslaved loan-servicer, a hefty discount to watch, don't bother promoting a movie that's only premiering in January 2006 lah. How rude! Yes, wingedman, I not only steal your line but copy the picture. Nah, here's some traffic in return.

"I shiau destwoy you" says someone on the trailer. Dunno who, but I suspect it's Zhang Ziyi. But it cracks me up all the time, so I have to mention it here.

<-- Aiiii....Kelemumur (dandruff)! I shiau destwoy you...

Michelle Yeoh plays a mamasan. But how can her horseface even approximate a Japanese geisha? Don't bluff.

I'll place bets though, that she'll be the one with the most nuanced performance, if not Gong Li.

Turkeys

In the spirit of Thanksgiving, I watched a couple of turkeys recently.

Troy, starring Brad Pitt and Eric Bana.

It sucked balls. But wait...some of my readers might actually think that's a positive thing. Let me put it another way...Pout pout, pose pose....Hector, Hector, I shiau destwoy you...pout-pose.

I imagine that Brad's surfer dude Achilles would send Angelina Jolie's Lara Croft into unbecoming fits of convulsive snorts and laughter. Long hair is so unflattering on the man. I cite Legends of The Fall in irrefutable support.

Helen, the face that launched a thousand faces, was played by someone with a face not worth writing home to Troy about, much less making the effort to whisk her off thereto.

The Trojans, apparently, were wild about tie-dye. Fancy that.

Homer must be turning in his grave at the association of his epic Iliad with this honking turkey.

The only person worth watching was Eric Bana and his portrayal of Hector. What a man's man! A vast improvement from his Bruce Banner in ...

The Hulk, directed by Ang Lee

The tale of a very un-jolly green giant. NGGGARRGGH...HULK ANGRY...HULK SHIAU DESTWOY YOU...

Has anyone ever wondered why, despite busting out of his human clothes when he turns into Hulk, his underpants don't similarly rip apart?

I didn't even finish watching it. Bad. Acting. And See-My-Nifty-Comicbook-simulating-Multiframe-Camerawork just doesn't translate well into moving pictures. Bleh.

Primer: Part Mezzanine

2005-11-25T17:36:00.000+08:00

This is a continuation of Primer: Transgenderism and Its Legal Implications in Malaysia and is not quite Part 2. Yet.

PART MEZZANINE: MORE SEX BITS

Connecting The Dots/Blocks

I lost my plot somewhere towards the end of Part One.

I’ve said that it’s important that we define the nature of relationships. Isn't this obviously counter to the argument that problems arise precisely when we insist on definitions?

I’ll clarify.

Labelling is important. Fundamental to our very nature as rational beings is the need to investigate and make sense of our world. Where we see dots, we need to draw lines through to connect them. Definitions are the product of that process.

Where we go horribly wrong is our insistence that every describable object/phenomenon must fit into the limited moulds that exist within our comprehension, instead of considering additional moulds.

Most of us are familiar with this particular toy from babyhood – a plastic hollow ball into which blocks of different shapes and sizes are inserted, via correspondingly sized/shaped holes. That’s our very first lesson in pigeonholing. How many children have been gently but firmly reprimanded for not putting the correct blocks into the corresponding holes?

What the child is probably thinking is -

“This yellow”

“Yellow go in ball with other yellow”

What adults ingrain into the child is this -

“This is a square yellow block”

“A square yellow block can join other yellow blocks ONLY IF it goes in via the square hole”

Then there are those astute children who, deciding that they can’t fit the square block into the round hole, just pry open the ball and dump the block in. There is hope yet.

Just because a block can’t fit into the pre-set holes doesn’t mean that it doesn’t belong with the other blocks in the ball. We have to understand that the qualities that make the block irregular do not - MUST NOT - detract from the fact that the yellow block is nevertheless a yellow block. In order to understand, we must confront the nature of those qualities, instead of discarding the block solely on the basis of its being irregular.

Sexual Identity In Three Easy Steps

To recap, I think that there are three major components to a person’s sexual identity. There may be more, but that will require further thought and research. For the moment -

Sexual Identity is a combination of biological sex and sexuality.

Biological Sex being the first component, Sexuality provides the other two; 2) Gender Expression (your expressed acceptance of your mind and body as a whole) and 3) Genital Preference (what kind of genitals attract you sexually).

Your birth certificate records your Biological Sex at the time of birth based on the little bits down there. For most people, this very first label in a lifetime’s worth of pigeonholing will not be a big deal. One is either “male” or “female”. Fixed at birth.

What does one do with an intersex baby? Parents and doctors choose which sex THEY think is best for the baby. Either male or female. No lain-lain business here.

Society then takes over and determines your place on the playground of life. The type and colour of the clothes you wear, the toys you get, the way you play, the kids you play with. Your socialisation depends on whether or not you’re a little boy or a little girl. Enter the second component - Gender Expression.

Masculinity and femininity are expressions of gender expression. Socially, we’ve come to base gender on biological sex to the point that both concepts have become interchangeable. Sex = Gender = Male. Gender expression for equation must therefore be Masculine.

The limitations inherent in the dichotomy of biological sex becomes apparent when gender expressions are inconsistent with the Sex = Gender pairing.

Sex = Male. Gender also assumed = Male.
But he’s a sissy! --> Gender expression = Feminine

Sex = Female. Gender also assumed = Female.
But she’s such a tomboy! --> Gender expression = Masculine

Obviously, masculinity and femininity are expressions of a variable scale. The more the slider shifts towards the opposite gender expression from one’s biological sex, the more likely to be called effeminate or butch. Gender expression is therefore fluid.

(Off-tangent – notice how “Mummy’s Boy” is often given a negative connotation whereas “Daddy’s Girl” has an almost indulgent affection to it? Coincides with how male-ness is prized over female-ness).

Baby's all grown up. Ready for sex. And here's where the third component of sexual identity comes in - Genital Preference.

Take this scenario. You walk into a room. A couple are having sex. Oh, looky, there’s a penis. And over there - no penis. Aha! Hetero! Must be a man and a woman under those sheets.

Discretely you exit the room. Later, the door opens and out come XY, in a fabulous dress, and her equally stunningly be-dressed wife.

Oik? Mak datuk, lesbians pulak!?

Buhbuhbut… I saw…???

Penis + Vagina = Heterosexual. Same-Bits + Same-Bits = Homosexual. Right?

XY is a biological man. By living and dressing as a woman and choosing to be referred to as she, her, Ms, XY expresses one aspect of her gender as feminine. In choosing not to deny her maleness by declining to amputate her penis or to reconstruct her chest and to take female hormones, XY expresses her gender and sexuality as also masculine.

XY transcends both genders, denying their dichotomy whilst embracing them both.

Assuming that XY isn’t sexually attracted to men, is she heterosexual, since she has a penis and likes to have a vagina on receiving end? But she presents herself and lives as a woman. Is her wife therefore homosexual?

Clearly, XY challenges society’s practice of classifying homo/hetero sexuality as a personal characteristic. My submission is that this classification is flawed.

I believe that society in general has lost the plot by associating genitals with sexuality, to the exclusion of gender expression.

1) Sex = Genitals = Gender

2) Sexuality = Gender = Sex = Genitals

As I pointed out at the beginning, my formula differs as follows-

1) Sex = Anatomy

2) Gender = Gender Expression = expressed behaviour as personality emerges and consolidates

3) Sexual Identity = Sex + Sexuality

where

Sexuality = Genital Preference + Gender Expression

Therefore:-

Gender Expression = Sexuality (in terms of your acceptance of your mind’s and body’s sex) MINUS Genital Preference.

Whether you see yourself as male or female, or both, or a little bit here, a little bit there and a little bit country, the fact is - your gender expression does not dictate what kind of sex you like. Just because the two do happily coincide most of the time doesn't necessarily mean that they can't as easily not.

The terms homosexual and heterosexual is therefore only useful as a description of your Genital Preference as a reflection of ONE aspect of your sexual identity.

Phew. I hope that's clarification. I’ll amend Part One of this primer as necessary in view of the above, later.

Part Two, the law bits, will again have to wait because the muse in my brain got my mental knickers in twists during the coffee break.

Lady's Getting Older

2005-11-23T18:14:00.000+08:00

It's Snowie's birthday today.

The best present you could give yourself on your birthday is to take leave from work. So that's what we're doing today. Yay!

Breakfast in bed.

Rosti with Scrambled Eggs and:
Bacon, and
Grilled Mushroom.

Mango Lassi

Grilled Tomato

Opera Chocolate

Birthday Gifts!

Nothing fancy - Card, Rose and Perfume.

So typical hor?

Had intended to get daisy-looking flowers, but decided at last minute that it looked too much like prayer flowers.

Anyway, I had only RM3 in my wallet at the time!

Lunch

Surf & Turf:

Grilled Bacon, Prawns, Pineapple & Red Pepper skewers

Potato Salad

Primer: Transgenderism and Its Legal Implications in Malaysia

2005-11-22T17:42:00.000+08:00

Notice and Copyright –

1. This post is intended as a preliminary draft of and lays the foundation for my intended article to be submitted for publication in the local law journals.

2. Obviously, submission’s not going to happen until I sort out issues with regards to consequent disclosure of my identity. Notwithstanding my doubt that any of Spot’s visitors are members of the Malaysian Bar, it’s still a factor I have to consider.

3. Spot will try to keep the inner academic in check when writing this. Nevertheless, the shallow and those with short-attention spans might like to click elsewhere now. I recommend this for today’s entertainment.

Flavour of the Month

For those who quite understandably shun the local news as a temper/sanity-preservation measure, here’s the nutshell. Local girl Jessie was born a biological man but has since undergone gender-reassignment surgery to “become” a woman.

Her recent wedding to a man was splashed all over the local media. This prompted all manner of know-it-alls to helpfully label her union as a same-sex marriage and declare the marriage invalid, illegal, sensational etc.

Well-meaning parties have discussed her situation with a primary focus on homosexuality - implying that either Jessie or her husband, or both, are gay.

Like. HEllo? SHUT UP!!

Seriously folks, you’re not helping. The ignorance is already crippling, let’s not encourage paralysis.

I, on the other hand, am clever. So listen to me.

Note to self – Do NOT forget to remove that line in the final article

PART ONE: THE SEX BITS

1. The majority of transsexuals are NOT homosexual.

Most gay people don’t actually want to physically BE the opposite sex. Their preoccupation with physical appearance is more a matter of achieving beauty than one of expressing gender identity. They are men who love men, women who love women.(Actually, I'd replace "love" with "like to have sex with")

How it’s different for transsexuals is that their gender expression (how they feel “on the inside”) is the opposite gender from their biological sex (what’s on the outside, their anatomy). To oversimplify, it’s X being trapped in Y’s body. The misery of pre-operative transsexuals is a life led as mismatched halves, and surgery is the only way to psychologically and physically unify the whole.

What’s really interesting is that it is very common for transsexuals to themselves be homophobic. Brandon Teena, whose transgendered life as a pre-operative transsexual was the subject of the movie Boys Don’t Cry, was reported to have angrily denied that he was a dyke.

2. A transgendered person is not necessarily a transsexual

The term “transgender” is the umbrella group that includes transsexualism as one of many subgroups. The most accepted definition of transgender is -

People who were assigned a gender, usually at birth and based on their genitals, but who feel that this is a false or incomplete description of themselves.

Notice that the definition itself begs further definition.

Jessie is transgendered because she was born with male anatomy, but felt that the male gender was a false description of who she was. Specifically, Jessie is transsexual.

Martine Rothblatt is an American lawyer and author of The Apartheid of Sex. She was born Martin, married a woman but subsequently lived full-time as a woman together with her wife and their biological children, who call her Dad. Ms. Rothblatt does not desire to change sex and thinks of herself as both man and woman. SO not a transsexual.

Neither is she intersexual or what is more colourfully known as a hermaphrodite. Her biological anatomy is purely male, it’s her gender identity that is both male and female.

Quite simply, in view of the complexity of definition, she is transgendered.

3. Transvestism is NOT the same as transsexualism

Transvestism is classified (whether fairly or not) as a sexual disorder. A transvestite is a person who doesn’t actually want to be the other sex, identifies as the birth sex but gets sexual gratification from wearing the opposite sex’s clothing. This fetish usually extends to being sexual with persons of the same sex.

Cross-dressing is not the same as transvestism. Cross-dressing is more an issue of psychological identity as opposed to the purely sexual nature of transvestism. The point that clothing makes for one is to express one's gender identity; for the other, is for sexual gratification/seduction.

4. Homosexuals – Plain Vanilla?

Yawn.

So what’s it like to be a horse in a herd of zebra? In view of the spectrum of gender identity we just went through, it seems so much easier to be just plain ol’ gay.

Gays are men who love men, women who love women. Right?

Not quite.

Leslie Feinberg’s largely autobiographical Stone Butch Blues tells of the life of Jess, who was born female and came out in her youth as a butch only to discover later that it wasn’t the same as being a lesbian. In fact lesbians shunned him. He then thought her problems would be solved if she lived as a man, with the help of hormone therapy but stopping short of full gender-reassignment surgery. (The mixing of “he” and “she” here is deliberate)

Eventually, Jess realises that in living as a “he-she”, he had lost herself. The book’s close sees Jess living as a cross-dressing, masculine, transgendered lesbian who doesn’t mind whether or not people refer to him as “she” or “he”. Whatever you’re comfortable with.

Voyeurs that we are, the reader will not be able to restrain from analysing Jess’s relationship with Ruth at the end of the book. Ruth is your typical drag queen. A cross-dressing man with no aspirations for re-assignment. As their friendship deepens, Jess and Ruth start to have sexual feelings for each other. But how is this possible? Both had assumed themselves to be homosexual. But here there were, one looking like a man but actually a woman, the other looking like a woman but actually a man.

So. What are they? Gay? Straight? Confused? I sure as heck was. And so were poor Jess and Ruth.

Another example.

Loren Cameron is a photographer who was born a woman and is now…well... Again, words are poor servants of definition. Loren refers to himself as "he".

In his groundbreaking published collection of photographs, Body Alchemy, Loren’s self-portraits are mind-boggling. Born a woman, he’s undergone a double mastectomy, takes male hormones and has a physique that would launch a thousand gym memberships. As for his face, he looks like a bearded Gary Oldman.

And as if the visual contrast between his musculature and his yes, vagina, weren’t stunning enough, imagine the pictures of him and his lover - Kayt. Kayt appears to be a hardcore duracell bunny of the gym world, and looks like what Ralph Macchio’s Karate Kid could have been had he chugged a few gallons of testosterone before filming. The book quotes Kayt as follows -

I don't feel comfortable just saying that I'm with a man. Yet it's such a complex thing to go into when someone simply asks if I have a girlfriend.

Again. What are they? More importantly, what do you call their relationship?

So it really isn't as simple as saying "I'm gay", because sometimes, that just isn't true, despite what's happening between two physical bodies with the same genitals (whether original, or a product of surgery).

5. The inadequacies of a dichotomous language

It should be clear by now that the biggest obstacle in the way of tackling and understanding transgender issues is language. With regards to English, at least. It is less of a problem in the case of Bahasa Malaysia/Indonesia and all the Chinese dialects. There is no “he” or “she” equivalent.

The English language has limited the ways of being to just two categories in most cases.

Male/Man vs Female/Woman.

Homosexual vs Heterosexual.

Pink vs Blue.

Complexity is time-consuming; understanding - too hard. So much easier to accept surface-level, over-simplified, “back and white” ideas.

The language spanner also becomes highly apparent when trying to distinguish between sex and gender. Obviously, they’re not the same things.

For me, sex refers to biological anatomy and chromosomal composition, i.e. the body’s sex.

Gender is the expression of the mind/heart/soul’s sex, and manifests as where you are on the masculine-feminine spectrum.

As far as I’ve researched, a person’s sexual identity is primarily discussed within a framework that revolves around biological sex and gender expression.

6. Moving Beyond Dichotomies

I feel that in order for us to fully comprehend transgenderism and overcome the limitations of language, further parameters need to be added to the framework. As society begins to realise that there’s more to homo, hetero and bi than once thought, the general idea of transgender becomes very useful almost as a catch-all for the grey ones that we can’t quite get out words around.

Never mind, too difficult, let’s just call them “others”. Lain-lain.

But if most people turn out to be in that grey area (if they can come to accept themselves as such), do the words homosexual and heterosexual become meaningless? Are Jess and Ruth heterosexual? I’m willing to bet that most straights would be very hesitant to say yes.

What about Loren and Kayt? I’m not sure, but let’s assume that Kayt has a surgically attached penis. Penis + vagina = heterosexual? Looking at their very respectively male presentation, I don't think the heteros would agree. On the other hand I doubt that the gay community would be comfortable calling them “people like us” either.

What about Joshua, Jessie's husband? Since Jessie was once a man (chromosomally she still is), is Joshua therefore having homosexual sex with her? I must stress that this is a rhetorical question. I am not in the least bit interested to know, personally.

The examples of Jessie, Joshua, Martine, Jess, Ruth, Loren and Kayt clearly challenge the limitations in the concepts of homosexual and heterosexual when we try to describe the nature of their intimate relationships.

Don’t avoid the issue by sniffing – why should we bother defining it anyway?

We MUST, because those relationships are a fundamental expression of sexuality. Without examining the nature of the relationships, we will never understand sexual identity. Without understanding, compassion will never take root.

If you don't understand, how do you truly accept their humanity?

Sexuality has two components. Firstly, it’s how one perceives one’s self as a sexual being. That perception is intrinsically linked to one’s genitals. This is why transsexuals are compelled to surgically match their anatomy to their gender. It’s the only way to feel complete in terms of sexual capacity.

The second component is the act of intercourse itself. Obviously. But what needs to be emphasised is that where the first component is focussed on the individual’s sense of being, this second component is very dependent on the characteristics of that person’s sex partner.

It’s about how you like your sex. Specifically, what sort of genitals you’re attracted to and which you’d prefer being mashed up against you during sexual activity. If both sets of genitals are of the same variety, you’re in a homosexual relationship. If they’re different, you’re in a heterosexual relationship.

And that’s what I think the terms homosexual and heterosexual should be limited to; as a description of the nature of the relationship as a reflection of sexuality. Not the persons.

A person’s gender is either male, female or transgender. Your biological sex is fixed at birth. That's history. What ought to be given a second chance of classification is gender. And the only person who can determine your gender is yourself. Not the doctor who spanks your butt at birth. Not the colour of the blanket swaddling your newborn self.

Which brings to me to Part 2: The Law Bits.

But that's for another day.

Taking Stock

2005-11-18T17:49:00.000+08:00

How time has flown.

Yesterday marked a full year since I changed industries after 6 years of legal practice.

I used to have my own sizeable room in the office, with my name on the door and a secretary (albeit shared with a colleague) to screen calls and see to admin housekeeping.

I now sit in a kindergarten-coloured cubicle in full view of the Boss, in a department that has no clerical nor administrative staff.

The drive from work home used to be a 12 minute breeze. Yesterday, I crawled home in 1 hour 15 minutes.

The work used to follow me home and stayed through the weekends. The trollop. Now, it doesn’t even make an appearance for days.

One of the many unwritten tasks of my job function is to receive, file and draw claims for the department’s newspaper subscription. Imagine my parents’ glowing pride. Heh.

But if I’d stayed on, this spot would never have existed.

And the part of my brain most important to me would have withered away.

Bummed / Weather

2005-11-15T16:43:00.000+08:00

Poor man's copyright.

I have a list of whimsical products that I'm too lazy to even try to get off the ground. One of which is:-

A small box of rat's asses.

Seriously.

Imagine sitting at your desk with one of these boxes multi-functionally serving as a paperweight.

Someone rushes in, all frantic and yapping

a) someone's getting fired today!

b) aren't you going for the company's Hari Raya Open House?

c) it's almost review time, why you still blogging?

d) there's a blog war going on...ya, another one!! Eh no, bluff one.

Calmly, disinterestedly, you fish a rat's ass out of the box by its tail.

Look directly into Yapper's eyes, almost but not quite dangling the ass in his face.

Yawn.

Toss the rat's ass back into the box and say:-

I couldn't give a rat's ass.

Clever, no?

-----

In other news, it's 16 degrees in Hobart, Tasmania.

*hugs own heart*

Snorfle.

A (Long) Review: Girl From Ipoh

2005-11-15T12:51:00.000+08:00

I finally dragged myself to a Malaysian play last Thursday, after years of bored-ly saying no to anyone who asks “have you been to Actor’s Studio/Istana Budaya etc”.

Yes, there are multiple levels of obnoxiousness in that statement, but hey. Deal with it.

The KL Performing Arts Centre was pretty impressive, of itself. Located deep inside Sentul West (so that’s where that is), the design of the building is the kind I like when it comes to depositories of the arts – industrial, with a high, vertical open plan and unfinished surfaces.

Girl From Ipoh is a play by Low Ngai Yuen, with music by local a cappella group LiT Performers. I won’t overexert my precious few brain cells in reciting the specs - they’re all here.

Good thing I’d read up on the pre-publicity to see what it’s (or supposed to be) about. The director’s publicity write-up was quoted in The Star as such-

“The play explores an issue that plagues many – when is a Chinese person not Chinese enough? Does speaking English without sounding Chinese make them a traitor to their culture? Or does speaking mat salleh sounding Chinese make them an abomination to the race? Does liking everything Western mean a degradation of everything that is Asian?”

Interesting. If only the actual play had lived up to its premise.

Wong Mei Lee is the girl from Ipoh. Her father runs a noodle stall. Mei Lee refuses to speak Cantonese, her father’s dialect, and is instead, enamoured with Western culture as depicted in the movies. Adopting a Western name – Holly (as in Golightly) – she moves to KL where the lion’s share of the play takes place. In KL, Holly stumbles around with her naïve concept of love, hence, presumably, the play’s tag line – A Chinese Make Love Story. Things turn out badly, there’s a bun in the oven and Mei Lee returns to her father in Ipoh. Tamat.

The show kicked off with the LiT Performers singing Simon & Garfunkle’s Sound of Silence in the semi-darkness. Given LiT’s role as Mei Lee’s inner voice, I think this opening sequence was intended to place the audience inside the environment of her head.

Unfortunately, LiT’s rendition of the song was simply awful, to the point of distraction. I can understand the need to be original but to open a show with a performance akin to that of an amateur beer garden karaoke songstress? Teeth-gritting.

That was the only bad song of the night, though. Perhaps it was just opening jitters. The suck-o-meter remained silent thereafter.

Carmen Soo, in the leading role, was mostly cute. Her monologues were a little too fast (understandably, given the typical Malaysian audience’s uneasiness with prolonged silence) and spoken in a little-girl, breathy voice that teetered dangerously close to being irritating, but never quite crossing the line. She did have a few good moments though, particularly in the scene where she presents her father with a Christmas gift only to be cruelly rebuked.

Despite an unfathomable fringe (reminded me of a skanky Bai Ling… ummm, ignore the redundancy) and boofy costumes (NOT a good impression, Melinda Looi) Carmen still looked really pretty. Yum. We left the play wondering if the fringe was actually the end bits of her hair, flopped over her forehead. It was that weird looking.

Lee Swee Keong as Mei Lee’s father was a standout. Perfectly timed performance and devoid of over-acting, despite the ripe opportunity that his 99% Cantonese-only dialogue presented.

Not much to say about Season Chee (what a name) and Tony Eusoff, who played Mei Lee’s love interests, other than they do comedy really well, Tony more so.

The overall story was a let-down. It started off well enough with an old-time coffee shop setting (complete with smoke steaming from the noodle pot) in which the pivotal rejection of the Cantonese dialect by Mei Lee in favour of English is played out.

"I go to a Malay school. I don't speak Chinese. Am I still Chinese?" wonders Mei Lee.

The script then bizarrely turns into Ally McBeal meets Buffy the Musical meets Phua Chu Kang. In Petaling Jaya.

Naïve girl shacks up with a cad and gets her heart broken. The voices in her head sing consoling songs. The only thing Chinese about that theme is that it’s frequently the subject of Hong Kong drama serials. Without the singing voices.

What someone should have done for director and scriptwriter Low during her writing process is what I’ll do for you here right now. Say it with me…the premise of this play is an exploration of -

“when is a Chinese person not Chinese enough?”

What’s love got to do, got to do with it?

Wah, I’m adding my own music soundtrack to this review. Heh.

We are shown that Mei Lee’s father speaks to her in Cantonese and she replies in English.

And…that’s all, folks.

Focussing on the rejection of the Chinese language in favour of English as Mei Lee’s main (if not only) crime, Low barely breaks the skin of the language issue, much less even touch on the essence of what it means to be Chinese.

What about the scorn that complete strangers, what more one’s own relatives, pour upon a non-Chinese-speaking person? I remember my friend, a doctor of Peranakan heritage but officially Chinese, being almost sick with anxiety at being posted to small villages with predominantly Chinese communities. Her fear stemmed from having been scolded by several of her patients for the disgrace of being Chinese yet not knowing how to speak or understand the language.

The element of shame, in respect of family, race and community, was most unfortunately not explored.

On a positive note, I did like the device that Low utilised with regards to the Cantonese-English dialogue. In the scene where Mei Lee’s dad berates her over her language deficiency, simultaneous English translation was provided by one of the LiT Performers. A whole spiel of typically florid Cantonese lecturing was translated as “errr… he’s upset”.

Another LiT singer, representing the voice of a non-Chinese speaker, then questions the accuracy of the translation – he said so many things, why does all that translate into just two words? The frustration surely found echoes in the thoughts of those in the audience who don’t understand Cantonese. For those of us who do, it should underscore how much nuance and cultural colour gets lost without the benefit of contextual comprehension.

Having said that though, being Chinese isn’t just about language. In our multicultural society, it’s inevitable to find people of other races who can speak better Mandarin/Hokkien/Cantonese than a Chinese person. Obviously though, that doesn’t make them Chinese. It merely gives them a communication edge.

The modern age’s Banana Person phenomenon – literally white on the inside, yellow on the outside – presents a fruit crate of material that Low has clearly failed to partake of. Language, customs, values – there’s a whole fruit cake in there. And it’s called culture.

Being Chinese, as an issue of identity, is fundamentally about culture and cultural pride.

Sure, we're treated to Mei Lee's blind obsession with the bells and whistles of Western culture. She adopts Christmas gift-giving, her inner soundtrack is in English and she’s enthralled by Hollywood movies and Bridget Jones-style self-help books.

But what about the aspects of Chinese culture thereby rejected, in contrast?

I personally feel that the dilemma of preserving a Chinese identity is characterised by the erosion of cultural appreciation and observance.

The bulldozer of modernity and convenience continually pushes customs such as honouring one’s ancestors (the “worship” tag is its downfall) and having the Chinese New Year reunion dinner at home into the growing heap of the old-fashioned and inconvenient.

Handshakes and kisses replace the serving of tea or “soja” to one’s parents and elder relatives on the first morning of Chinese New Year. Forks and spoons are easier to use than chopsticks and bowls. Recipes for traditional foods follow the older generation into the grave. Wearing black is ok. Traditional cultural clothing/patterns/accoutrements are only worn on formal occasions.

All said, it’s not my place to get on that cultural high horse. I see the same erosion in myself. Recognition is the first step, or the very least one can do.

I’ve digressed.

Basically, the play absolutely failed to live up to its publicity write-ups. How does the ending, where Mei Lee’s father reluctantly welcomes her and the bun in her oven back to Ipoh, at all support the conclusion that she’s redeemed her Chinese roots?

What we did get though, was light comedy and a very enjoyable a cappella performance. LiT Performers so very saved the show.

The sounds produced by these 8 women were amazing. Colleen Daphne (I think) must have been an electric guitar in a previous life. As for the songs, the best was the sequence that contrasted Mei Lee’s Western daydreams with the reality of her father’s Chinese coffeeshop surroundings. In the background, LiT switched seamlessly back and forth between Under The Boardwalk and a Chinese (folk?) song, complete with doo-wop finger clicks and that unmistakably Chinese arm swish, as appropriate.

The best singers, imo, were Fang Chyi and er…Angie Teoh (I think that’s her name. The small one in satin blouse). Can’t remember what they sang as a duet, but it was perfect. Special mention goes to LiT’s director, Penny Low, for having copious amounts of saliva. I’d think that would be a pre-requisite for being a human beat box.

The closing segment was excellent. All the cast members came out for a vigorous rendition of Doncha Wish Your Hor Fun Was As Hot As Me and a brilliant weaving of Barbie Girl with Cantonese rap.

We were lucky that we chose Thursday’s performance. Apparently the bulk of Friday’s crowd weren’t even interested in an encore. The encore we got provided a feel-good bang to carry with us out of KLPac. Definitely needed, after what was overall, a rather mediocre storyline.

Simple Pleasures

2005-11-09T12:00:00.000+08:00

My first roast chicken.

Seasoned with lemon juice, parsley, oregano and olive oil, served with roast potatoes.

Use an oven bag and voila! Fuss-free, lazy Sunday lunch.

I'm so proud. :)

Over here, we have gazpacho, also a first-try for me.

I've always been slightly grossed out by the thought of a chilled soup, one ingredient of which is raw garlic. Imagine. Ek.

Turned out really tasty, actually. Primary ingredients - tomatoes, cucumber, red capsicum, lemon juice and bread.

Serving it in cucumber shot glasses is a tip from Surreal Gourmet, the show with the guy who drives around in a toaster-shaped van.

There is just no better incentive to eat in.

Other than saving money. But of course.

Muhibbah

2005-11-07T15:56:00.000+08:00

Last Tuesday was Deepavali and then Thursday/Friday was Hari Raya Aidilfitri. Hence the long public holiday bonanza.

To be more precise (but less Malaysian), the Hindus and Muslims celebrated Diwali and Eid ul-Fitr respectively last week. I’d put links for educational purposes, but am too lazy, so google them yourself.

As I did absolutely nothing vaguely inter-racial or of an inter-faith nature on those days, here are some belated thoughts in the spirit of memupuk-ing semangat muhibbah.

I wish the kolam (or rangoli, depending on which half of India you’re taking your perspective from) played a bigger part in the brand of Malaysian culture that we pony up to tourists in the ads and touristy cultural programmes. Why not, it incorporates spectacularly vibrant colours and is so very decorative.

But most importantly, the creation of a kolam is a participatory event.

Imagine all those Ali-Ah Chong-Ramasamy-muhibbahly-inviting-the-dumb-matsalleh-to-make-kolam photo ops. With a couple of head wobbles thrown in to please the stereotype slapstick-inclined.

But seriously. A kolam can be such an amazingly breath-taking work of art. Wonder if anyone else was as awed by the gigantic peacock at Ikano Powercentre last year. Pity that the original geometric designs aren’t as popular here.

Oh how can I forget - I LOVE Indian food. Kanna Curry House or Annalakshmi anyone?

Moving on.

I like the sound of the Muslims’ call to prayer – the azan. Specifically at dawn and dusk.

A lone voice that rises above the bustle of commerce and daily living. An aural anchor, echoing across cultures, race, nations, centuries.

Of course, anyone living across from a mosque is probably going to go “feh” or “mou kau chor” at the naive romanticism. I guess I’d sympathise too, in such circumstance, particularly with the advent of amplifiers and multiple mosques in one neighbourhood.

Nevertheless, the infection of technology and ingrained racist sentiments aside, I can’t think of a more likely element that one might come across abroad which would evoke a reminiscence of home. Not so much in a nationalistic sense (I am SO not a patriot), but more a sense of childhood familiarity.

Outsiders or not, we grew up with the azan.

It broke the cool silence of dawn and drowned out the damn cockerel as we woke to school uniforms and blanco’ed shoes. Why there was a cockerel on the main street of town where I grew up, I don’t know.

It preceded the evening news on RTM 2, signalling the small break between the 7.30 sitcoms and dinnertime in which one had to lay the table and "scoop rice".

It’s piped over the PA system of some offices at lunch and tea times.

It’s carried with the evening flight of swifts as we fight our way through the pasar malam in our respective tamans.

How’s that for a Tourism Malaysia ad?

Unlikely. Too secular.

But there you go. The best way to breed tolerance is to look at things from a non-invested perspective and appreciate beauty for beauty’s sake.

---

Having said all that, which dumbass packaged that stupid hand-over-heart gesture as the Malaysian greeting thing? You tell me WHO does that in real life other than some kena-forced-to people in the tourism industry?

Where got? Where got??

Cis.

Post Holiday Blues

2005-11-07T13:41:00.000+08:00

Evil = having to come back to work after a 6 ½ day break.

Evil = having a bad flu for 4 ½ days of said break.

Evil = having to drink half a litre of something that smells like feral rotting vegetables & stewed old socks, brewed by a tyrant mother and touted as a sure-cure for the flu-induced scratchy throat

Evil = having to still love one’s tyrant mother even though stupid sucky stinky disgusting brew didn’t work. As expected. I can't eye-roll enough.

Evil = losing sense of taste, due to said flu. Feed me sawdust bricks instead of rendang and I wouldn’t know the difference.

Evil = losing sense of smell, due to said flu, when one is a smell monster.

Never realised how essential my sense of smell is to me until last night when -

1) I couldn’t appreciate my newly-opened bar of Dettol Cool soap; and

2) it hit me that I couldn’t smell Snowdrop and hadn’t in a week!

No wonder I’ve been feeling as if we’ve been apart all week despite, like... not.

Bai dose iz dill glogged up.

Boo... Hiss.

Notes From the Beginning: 2

2005-10-27T10:30:00.000+08:00

Over on the e-mail train with a group of old friends, I'd recently categorised my short story project as a "dream" that I haven't been taking seriously. I have, after all, been gloriously lazy.

It was hence with some surprise that I found myself a little piqued at a friend's comment that my dream was therefore an "angan-angan". A mere whimsy with no great purpose or likelihood of achievement, unlike, say, realising a dream of visiting Spain.

That's a good sign, being miffed. What better catalyst than a bruise to the ego. Heh.

I think I'm marginally more serious this time round though. Since posting Notes From the Beginnning, I've made enquiries and found the right resources. Invaluably, little embers have been coming through the email from a guide better than any I could ever hope for. Brush was a very lucky cat.

I am orienteered. I am stoked. Go me!

So here's a couple more seeds for the project. Came across this piece by the writer, Jackie Kay, at Bibliobibuli (link on sidebar). Sharon got it from Leon(loved his post titled "Haiku variations: Kiss"), who's kindly highlighted the good bits for those of us with attention deficits.

It shares something with the novel in its use of the camera lens and use of narrative voice. It shares something with poetry in its love of language, its economy, its use of metaphor and voice. It is a lovely hybrid form, a cross between a poem and a novel. It catches people at crucial moments of their lives and snaps them. The short story allows us in a short space of time to understand huge things, huge dilemmas. . . .

A short story is a small moment of belief. . . If the novel sometimes spoon feeds the reader, the short story asks her to feed herself. A story asks the reader to continue it after it has finished or to begin it before it began. There is space for the reader to come in and imagine and create. There is space for the reader to think for ages, to mull the impact of a story over, to try and recover from it! ...

. . .The story often makes a reader aware of what she is not being told. What doesn’t happen in a short story is as important as what does. Like pauses in music; it is impossible to think about the short story without also thinking of its mysterious silences.

Perhaps the thing I love about stories most is that they give the appearance of space of length, so that when you return to them you are amazed at how the writer has created that effect. A whole life in a few pages. . . .

The short story is brilliant at taking the single emblematic moment that captures the whole, … The voice of the story catches the reader and claims her. A story should stay with you long after you have put it down. A good story should change the way you see things, the way you think. It should help you know yourself better.

Bad Press For Piccolo Mondo

2005-10-26T15:36:00.000+08:00

Since Snowie and I got together, I’ve successfully weaned her of her pre-me habit of eating out and having what I consider as desperate-times snackfoods as a meal. We now eat in most nights of the week, damn well and for half the cost.

The unfortunate thing is, all that in-eating has caused me to lose touch with reality. I find myself grumbling that for how much it’d cost me to eat out with friends, I’d be able to feed us all at home. With bigger portions! And no tax!

I’ve got to say that it’s kinda unbecoming of me to gripe about the cost of eating out, given my and Snowie’s considerable combined incomes. I am also a firm believer in getting what you pay for, hence I have no qualms about splurging, provided the price matches the quality.

Nevertheless there I’ll be, having a heart seizure whilst scanning an unfamiliar menu.

So as not to lose whatever remains of our – ok, MY – grip on reality, we’ve been making it a point to eat at proper restaurants (i.e. places in which the total bill exceeds RM40. Yes, I am THAT kiamsiap.) at least once a fortnight.

Two nights ago, during one such reality-touching exercise at the Midvalley Megamall branch of Piccolo Mondo, I had the worst calamari in my entire squid-eating life. So that’s what chewing rubber feels like. The ravioli wasn't too far off the suck mark either; felt like it’d popped out of the freezer a couple of minutes prior to serving. Given the quality of the mains, we promptly cancelled the panna cotta we'd pre-ordered.

Feeling most bohkamguan that I’d have to pay for the crap I’d nevertheless forced down (kiasu mah), I decided to complain – my forte!

Noting that there was a tableful of customers within earshot of me should I voice my complaint at my table, I went over to a manager-looking person at the payment counter and asked for my bill. I then told him, with no words minced, what I thought about the food.

Then he really pissed me off. He abruptly interrupted me mid-complaint, mumbling something about bringing the bill over. In a fit of self-righteous arrogance, I told him that if I could have the courtesy and consideration not to make a scene at my table in front of the other customers and come over to him instead, he should damn well listen to my complaint in all its hissy glory.

He mumbled some more about the bill, avoided eye contact and fled.

An eternity later, he scuttled over and announced that we were getting an on-the-house tiramisu. I told him not to bother, I want my bill now.

On another planet, life forms evolved. The bill still didn’t come.

Suddenly, the unwanted tiramisu was presented, in all its unappreciated glory (I was sorely tempted to eat the chocolate stick though). Would it not have been more sensible to give me a panna cotta instead, given its obvious choice as my pre-ordered and subsequently cancelled dessert? Anyway.

Already aggravated by his earlier fobbing-off and the fact that alien life forms had time to evolve as we spoke, I told him thanks, but no thanks, that’s so not the point. I WANT MY BILL. NOW.

Undaunted, he sent over a man in a ridiculously pointy hat. The cook, no doubt.

I told him that the food sucked, thank you for your tiramisu, but that's not the point. The calamari was really, really amateurish. Weakly, he replied -

”Oh, I think maybe it was overcooked”.

Ya think?

Don’t these people have brains? My meal had turned out completely dismal, why would you think that giving me more of your handiwork would make me change my mind? And what if I were allergic to tiramisu? Did I ask for a discount? No. Did I ask for a fresh dish? No. I did however, ask for the bill.

Another eternity passed. The tiramisu sobbed disconsolately all over the plate, scarred for life. The life forms on that other planet invented space-crafts. Finally, the bill arrived.

It was the wrong bill.

It’s a miracle, given my genetic predisposition towards erupting into an unstoppable raging demon tyrant at the slightest provocation, that I hadn’t started screaming by that point.

We finally got the correct bill, delivered by a lowly minion this time - the manager appeared to be in hiding.

The advanced life forms stood poised to attack, hovering just outside our solar system. The spaceship slowly turned back. It wasn't worth being taken to our leader.

Cavemen spent hours trying to decipher the wonders of my credit card before I finally got it back. The manager never showed his face.

The innocent victim of this story, the poor rejected tiramisu, its self-confidence forever shattered, sat untouched in a pool of its embarrassment as we left the restaurant.

I’d like to think that as much as I would have loved to throw the most massive hissy fit ever, that lonely tiramisu sitting on the empty table made a more effective point.

Or should I have written to the holder of the Piccolo Mondo franchise? Or called the media? Or lodged a police report? Heh. Ignore this very event-specific last paragraph.

Holiday No. 4/05 - Part Ipoh

2005-10-25T15:12:00.000+08:00

This is going to be a short one, as Ipoh was really just a hit and run.

The original plan had been to catch up with Boobjuicer, but seeing as she had a 2-hour appointment to be wrapped in chilli and baked under a heat blanket, we were on our own.

It’s an easy 1 ½ hour drive from Penang to Ipoh. Entering from the Ipoh Selatan toll, we ended up on a long straight road with Jaya Jusco on the left. At an intersection with Pantai Puteri Hospital on the left, turned right and drove and drove until we got to a roundabout.

I don’t know what happened after that. We just followed "Pusat Bandaraya" (it's weird that Ipoh, and Malacca for that matter, is considered a city) signboards until we hit towny civilisation, whereupon our simply tembak senses took over.

We were there for 2 things. First, Aun Kheng Lim salted chicken. We first stumbled upon this shop during the Secret Holiday. Didn’t know it at the time, but it’s apparently famous. One does kind of get that idea upon stepping into the shop, what with skyscrapers of cardboard boxes taking up 80% of the floorspace.

What do you get: a whole chicken stuffed with chinese herbs, wrapped in paper and baked in a salt-filled wok. One chicken per box, no halves. No worries about not being able to finish, the chickens are of the Nando’s variety. Tall, giraffe-gened lean chickens. Oh, you also get a piece of gizzard per box, thrown in almost as an afterthought. RM15 for a box of heaven.

Best part is; even if you’re mute, or if all you can speak is Swahili, you’d still be able to order, since all it takes is to indicate how many. You know you’re on to something good when the shop’s operating hours are stated as "from 10 am". Truly while stocks last.

Where is this place? Err… dunno the name of the street. We basically drove straight into town from that roundabout until it started to feel like we’d teleported into the centre of Muar (yes, the town in Johor), and turned right when it "felt right". Rest assured that I’m acutely aware of how unhelpful those directions are. I’ll mitigate by adding that I noted a Jalan Raja Musa Aziz signboard just before we parked.

3 boxes of still warm chicken safely tucked in the car, we started on our second purpose. To eat at Ong Kee Taugeh Chicken restaurant. It’s within walking distance from the salted chicken shop, on Jalan Yau Tet Shin. We’d been instructed by a friend not to be tempted to eat at Lou Wong, its competitor just across the street. Why? Dunno.

We arrived at OKTC at 4.30pm. The chicken chopping man informed us that they only open at 5pm and if we couldn’t wait, we should cross the street and go to their "head office" located next to Lou Wong and which would be open at the time. Bizarre. Couldn’t wait, so obediently, we trotted over.

Ordered a huge plate of steamed chicken for two (it had enough for 3), a dinner plate-sized mound of taugeh, two bowls of soupy noodles and a bowl of pork meatballs, all of which took up half the table. Heaven. The taugeh sauce tasted like caramel! What’s IN Ipoh water, really? The noodles and taugeh are really in a class of their own. All that came up to RM15.

Sorry, forgot to take photos. I blame gluttony.

While we were waiting for the food, I noticed the poster on the wall right in front of me. It was an endorsement of the shop by my Singaporean celebrity cousin. Given the popularity of his TV show with a certain demographic, I spared a pitying thought for Ipoh. It’s no fun having your town invaded by bargain-hunting Singaporeans.

5pm marked the end of our little hit and run. Tapau’ed some meatballs. I think them meatballs must be quite popular, the seller packed them in shower cap-looking handbaggy plastic bags that seemed custom-made for the purpose.

It was a happy-bellied drive back to KL, arriving at 8pm. Along the way Snowie decided to chronicle her past holidays and all our past and future vacations in - travel diaries. Real life things that have turnable pages and in which you’d have to physically write. Yeah. Whatever turns you on, baby.

Mindful that we forgot to take pictures in Ipoh, here’s a consolation. It’s also an indication of how much food we’d stuffed ourselves with over the 3 days.

Snowdrop: Hwaaaa, I feel heavier after all that food!

Spot: Me too. *Snowie's really gotten HUGE!!*

Snowdrop: Surely you're not thinking of starting on the chicken now??

Spot: Can wan!

Snowdrop: *Don't listen to me summorelah. Padan*
Spot? Can you breathe?
Are you ok?

Spot: Blek

The whole 2N/3D trip took us approximately 800-odd kilometres, at the cost of RM90 for petrol, RM90 for toll charges, RM346 for the suite and RM60 for meals, not counting the extras for bringing back to KL and the shopping.

Unless we do more minor trips in between, the next major write-up will be next year, when we finally go on that long awaited (and planned!) adventure - 2 weeks in Italy, May 2006.

Can’t wait.

Holiday No. 4/05 - Part Penang

2005-10-22T12:02:00.000+08:00

Early this year, Snowie and I decided that we should try to get away for a major vacation each year. We’d just done Sydney-Hobart-Melbourne in April/May 2004. This year, the original plan was to spend a couple of days at Pangkor Laut. Unfortunately, the Great Singapore Sale beckoned in June and given the kind of shopping we were expecting, we decided to cushion the pocket by splitting the annual vacation into a few local getaways.

First holiday was to Cherating in May, followed by Singapore in June. In July, we went on the Secret Holiday in Ipoh.

Last weekend, we unleashed ourselves on Penang and Ipoh (again!).

Friday, 14th October
11.30 pm.

Tomorrow we take our time lah, no rush, right. It’s only a 4 hour drive anyway.
*starts up Age of Mythology game*

Saturday, 15th October
5.30 am.

@!#$%@! screwed up game Artificial Intelligence. Easy is too easy, but Medium is !%#$%@# unplayable. #&&^@$!!!…..zzzzzz.

10.50 am. Wakes to a patiently waiting Snowie.

zzz…zzzkktzzkttt…*#@!!! Why didn’t you wake me earlier??

12.45pm. We’re off from Jalan Duta toll.

Checked into The Northam in Penang slightly after 5pm. HSBC offers a promo rate of RM173 nett per night in a Studio Suite.

Our suite was on the 35th floor, which turned out to be one of the smoking floors. Decided that it shouldn’t be that big a deal and didn’t object. The crows of omen circled lazily above.

The Northam is just literally a stone’s throw (unless you have weak arm muscles) from Gurney Drive. Best thing about being in a studio suite on such a high floor is the wall-width bay windows looking out over the water. Forgot to take a photo.

Jeng Jeng Jeng. Snowie discovers a welcome gift in the 2nd bathroom (having a 2nd bathroom in a studio is truly a baffling waste of space. Although useful, if one wanted to poop discretely). The toilet seat was splattered with dried-up, aging urine. Waytago, housekeeping! Not.

Hissy fit on the phone to housekeeping ensues. Toilet gets cleaned.

Headed out to Penang Road for dinner. First stop, the famous Teochew cendol located in a lane with the street name starting with K. You must understand that our navigation of Penang streets was agreed to be by way of “simply tembak”.

So…for cheap (RM1.30) and yummy cendol in Penang, look for Lorong Kheng Kwee, off Penang Road. The coffeeshop at the side of which the stall stands also has very good Penang Laksa. The fish paste in the laksa is thick enough to stand your chopsticks upright in, and the hae ko is menacingly black and gooey. Feel slightly sick thinking about it. Right next to the stall is an aunty who sells all manner of typical Penang “phneah”<-- why it’s spelt that way I don’t know. Wouldn’t “peah” suffice? Anyway, her kacang tumbuk and heong phneah are damn good.

Next stop, Lebuh Kimberly for hawker food. If you’re not familiar with Penang and aren’t insane enough to simply tembak, I’d suggest parking the car and walking to these places. We weren’t really in the mood for internal organ porridge, char kuey teow or kuey teow thng, and had no clue which were the good stalls. As all good travel guides should tell you, when in doubt, observe where the locals go. We picked a ramshackle stall set in a lane with great potential as a Shangri-La for rats. A group of we-are-SO-merchant-bankers guys were already seated alongside a stripey shorts & t-shirt uncle and his beer. Outside, a girl in a motorbike helmet waited with the zen calmness of one who knows the worthiness of a damn good tapau. A capri panted, huge handbagged aunty arrived soon after to place her order and chatted pleasantries with Bike Girl. We were set. It had begun to drizzle, so we ordered our noodles to go. This gave us a good view of the plating-up process. Err…surely that’s not it…3 slices of char siu and a honking piece of liver? Bleugh.

Turns out that the secret (as with the rest of the ingredients) is in the sauce. Given the portion size and quality, RM3 per person was terrific value. Wandered around the little sidelanes and ended up on Campbell St. Mall where I took this picture. It was just after the breaking of fast for the Muslims, and the atmosphere on the street had a nice, established OLD small town feel.

On the way back to the car we chanced upon a packed tim sum shop at the end of Lebuh C-something. Near Chowrasta Market. Tim sum! At night! Yayzes! Made mental note to revisit.

Back in the hotel, we ate, napped and woke up just in time for supper. By which time, my nose felt like an ashtray and we reeked of smoke. I whipped out my imaginary FBG (BG being Big Gun and you can imagine the rest) and took out the goddamn omenous crows.

Hissy fit ensues in lobby. We get upgraded to a Junior Suite for both nights. Go me!

The difference between a Studio and a Junior is that there is a sliding door btwn the bed and the living area. Everything else is exactly the same. Not worth the extra RM30-40. Here’s some pictures of the Junior. Clockwise from left - Work desk to justify classification as a Business hotel (sofa & armchair hidden in foreground), view of bedroom from bathroom (note the jacuzzi!), view of bathroom from bedroom, view of water from living area window.

So midnight finds us heading to Song River Restaurant, which really, is yet another collection of hawker stalls only a 1-minute walk from Evergreen Laurel Hotel on Gurney Drive. I've never seen any other place selling not just roast chicken wings, but massive roast chicken thighs too. I think one of the more popular things to eat is lala and other double kiap shellfish 'cos there were piles of shells on every other table. Blek. Anyway, the mission was to get Roti Babi! It's basically minced pork-stuffed deep fried french toast, to be eaten with a 5-spice & cili padi dipping sauce. YEE-UUMMMM. RM2.50 per piece (there are 2 pieces in this photo).

Back at the hotel by 1 am and we ran the jacuzzi to play. Sadly, by "play" I mean nothing of the carnal sort. You know how dogs will hump a pillow or any available human leg, but not its dependable toy; the comfortable old shoe? Yeah. Old shoes. That's what we are. Heh.

Note about using bubble bath in a Jacuzzi. Do not use more than half of what you’d usually need for a normal bath, unless you want to be swept, naked and shivering, out of your bathroom by a monster tidal wave of foam. Am convinced that movie scenes of people reading whilst serenely sipping champagne with an artfully arranged towel on their head are nothing but a big honking lie!

In reality, Snowie’s towel turban kept falling off, we were busy trying not to lose buttock-grip with the bottom of the tub and avoid drowning and it was impossible to have foam/bubble-free hands to hold a book with. So apart from turning into water-soaked prunes, what else is there to do in a bubble-filled tub? Play. Here’s how -->

You have no idea how long that bubble hat stayed intact on my head. Amazing stuff.

Sunday, 16th October

Having chomped on phneah and played scrabble until 5 am, the next day began only at 11am. So much for tim sum in the morning, my friend, the Oracle of Penang, was due to pick us up for lunch at 12.30 pm. Lunch being chicken rice, fried kuey teow and lotus root soup at Toh Yuen coffee shop next to the Woo Hing Rolex shop on Campbell Street.

The Oracle is a Penangite lawyer who knows almost everybody on the island, as evidenced by the fact that she's always acknowledging someone the moment she walks into every establishment I've been to with her. A walking food index, you name it - coffeeshops, hawkers, nasi kandar (in front of Hotel Merlin), bak chang, apom (on Burma Road), which waiter at Thirty Two (excellent set lunch) is gay - she knows.

Our Roti Babi hang-out was pooh-poohed. Apparently Penangites don't eat the commercially available version cos it ain't made correctly. Real Roti Babi filling is made of crab meat and minced pork, kononya. I am admonished for not giving her advance notice, otherwise her mum would have whipped up the real McBabi.

"You KL people will eat anything", the Oracle pronounced, sadly shaking her head. Off she whisked us to the best place for daytime char kuey teow - in a Pulau Tikus (misnomer - no islands or rats in sight) coffeeshop in front of the market (opposite Tucky, another Penang coffeeshop landmark). Conveniently, around the corner from said coffeeshop is Poh Seong, the crockery wholesaler from whom we could get a replacement for the bowl Snowie broke. She then showed us a jam-free route to get off the island on Monday - the Oracle was on a roll!

Left to our own devices after lunch, we headed for Tean Ean, a one-stop shop for local products (read tourist trap) across the road from the hotel. Mission: stock up on their housebrand of minyak urut. Forget nutmeg oil, their medicated oil smells way better (like sarsaparilla! Imagine smelling like Sarsi) and works wonders for our elderly aches and pains.

Next stop, Zurina’s boutique. This little shop on Jalan Chow Thye, just behind the Northam, is one of the Oracle’s best recommendations, a must-do on every Penang trip I’ve made. Back when I still needed the uniform, I’d get perfectly cut, crisp, white Brooks Brothers shirts from Zurina’s for RM60. Here’s a secret – the factory that makes Made-In-Malaysia but international standard Brooks Brothers is located in Penang. Zurina also stocks other brands like Esprit, Nautica and Burberry for men and women, but with a focus on men’s clothes, all at factory outlet prices. She also has cut-price branded fragrances. Kaa-ching kaa-ching!

Three shirts (Esprit, Burberry & some unfamous brand), 75ml of Elizabeth Arden’s Fifth Avenue (RM165), 120ml of Polo Blue (RM180 – that’s the RRP for 75ml!) and RM555 poorer, we left the shop and headed to town for another cendol fix. Then on to dinner at a hawker centre in Pulau Tikus, where we had a char kuey teow, a kuey teow thng, 2 popiahs and a prawn mee between the two of us for about RM12 total. Happy bellies!

Sadly, there was to be no Roti Babi for supper again, ‘cos we got there just as the stall closed. Entertained thoughts of knocking on the Oracle’s door at midnight and begging for a fix.

Monday, 17th October

The most important thing to do the moment you wake up on a day on which you’ve taken leave from work, is to spare a thought for your working colleagues, then cackle maniacally as you roll around the bed making pillow angels.

We checked out at 12.30 and headed to Pulau Tikus for lunch at the Oracle-approved coffee-shop. RM3 per plate of CKT, with prawns and squid. A definite must-come-back, the noodles were surprisingly light (unlike the usual heavy, greasy feel that Oracle-poohed CKT have) and didn’t leave a garlic plantation aftertaste. On to Poh Seong where Snowie got a porcelain vase and my replacement bowl (which turned out to be one size too small. Tcherk .).

Left Penang at 2pm with these thoughts –

Penang is an excellent combination of Singapore and Malacca. Being from Malacca, it’s always been a sore issue with me on what an embarrassment Malacca has become, in terms of heritage. It sends me into minor fits to see how the old Peranakan shophouses and heritage buildings from the time of the Dutch and Portuguese occupation have been massacred variously by crass commercialism, neglect or garishly cartoony colours (neon pink, toxic orange and Buncho blue).

The old trades of the rent-controlled buildings at the heart of Georgetown appear to have been relatively preserved, and walking through the narrow, albeit traffic-congested, streets, I get the feel of what Malacca was like in the early eighties.

What I love about Penang, is the way multi-storeyed living has been embraced. You see tall condos and low-rise walk-ups scattered all over the inner suburbs amongst stately bungalows, mostly in unique designs, unlike the high-rise clusters of rectangular, garish-monotoned blocks you get in KL. I like the colonial street names and the leafy avenues. The combination, together with the old bungalows, brings to mind what I imagine New Orleans to be like (from Anne Rice’s books!). The only thing I can say about where Malacca went wrong, is that it fell into the wrong hands. Another factor? Penang is old - Chinese - money. What a difference that makes.

Last note. I hate having a lousy navigator when I’m driving. It drives me nuts if you can’t read a map properly or fast enough for me. We’ve stumbled upon the best compromise. I navigate and Snowie drives. She doesn’t fly into a raging fit when accidentally navigated into a wrong turn. And I’m better at translating maps into actual directions. Perfect.

I like the little reasons for falling in love all over again. And it’s always the side-excursions of life that give rise to these occasions.

Thanks love, for making the trip what it was.

Continued: Part Ipoh

When TV Sucks

2005-10-21T16:58:00.000+08:00

ST!!NKKKK!!!

Donald Trump is a walking hard-on. Read embarassing stiff prick in need of constant stroking.

Boy was I mad after last night's Apprentice. Angie, the older candidate with the stripey hair, got bestowed with the finger gunshot and lampshade-lipped "Yor FIEyed" by He With The Dubious Hair in the most unfair firing since Pamela from last season. Why should she be fired when all Alex, as project manager, appeared to do was talk about the designs and decide how a belt buckle should be fixed? And Psycho Chris was just wasting time standing insanely and psychotically around in a shop.

Sad thing is, there's lots of Trump-style corporate men out there who think that women over 35 without boobs capable of leaping out into their faces are worthless and ought to be consigned to secretarial duties. Silly children. Smart older women are like..yowz.

Sigh.

Watched bits of the repeat broadcast of the Prime Minister's late wife's funeral. The commentator should resign in shame.

- this is not in verbatim, i can't remember the exact words, which aren't quite important anyway -

"aahh...ok...skarang ni, errr..ah..
van yang membawa (blahblahblah) sedang tiba. ok...ya...

GIANT PAUSE

err ok...ya..van itu datang..

MINI PAUSE

Ok ok..kalau tak salah saya...err, Perdana Menteri juga berada di dalam van tu. Ahh..err...
ok, ah..ok, skrang nampaknya...err..ok..."

I watched the rest of the van's approach with the mute button firmly pressed.

Also shown was a gaggle of reporters surrounding the PM's son, thrusting microphones in his face as they grilled him about his late mother's last words, what did she say, how is your father taking it, were all the family present... are you sad, no really, aren't you really really sad, dammnit why can't you shed a few tears for our cameras...

Good god, people.

I checked the newspapers this morning to see if anyone published this shocking comment that the ex-PM said to the reporters, ON TV!!! Of course not.

Again, can't remember the exact words, but it was to the effect that "she was going to die anyway". No doubt it was said in the context of death easing her suffering, but still. Poor choice of...apanama...words.

Yesterday was a really bad tv night.