Hink Honks

Has grown up.. is still growing up

2009-04-24T11:55:00.006+08:00

As I am about to enter work life soon (should I be able to find employment), and enter a lifestage that involves me getting closely associated with another family, the stakes of privacy increase. The public character of Facebook and blogs has also evolved so much that it seems increasingly important to be careful of what gets put up, and what can get misinterpreted or misused. With the adult demands of having to be politically correct, I believe I should leave evidences of my life, opinions and prejudices out of public sight. (=

I have hardly updated my blog and am unsure of there are any left in this blog's following. Nonetheless, for those who have still faithfully come on once in a while, here's my final post and a quick update.

I started this blog when I was 17 and in Junior College. I am now 24. So much has changed. Besides my skin and hair getting drier with age, and the transition from one educational institution to another, so much more has changed within me.

As I read some of my old entries, I feel embarrassed now that I am able to see my prejudices, idealism and naivity in clearer view. It is a lot easier to identify them now, thankfully because I hold less of them. (but unfortunately and probably, caught on to some new ones too.)

Biggest changes that I am proud I have acheived in the last few years:

A decline of fundamentalism - mostly religious, but also universal. I am now more tolerant of differences in behaviour, modes of thinking and values. This has also allowed me to accept, not just others, but myself more.
A more stable and happy me. Because I no longer strive to fit in a mold I had so tightly carved for everyone else, and myself, I am freer to pursue what I really want.

My apologies to those whom I have stepped on in my years of fundamentalism and self-righteousness.

Thank you all for reading the musings of the Honking Hink.

*Close family and friends will still have access to my irreverant thoughts at your risk.

Email from an Old Student I Taught 4 Years Ago

2008-09-29T22:41:00.003+08:00

from: Dollie Dollie <___________@gmail.com>
to: Miss Chen <____________@gmail.com>

date: Sat, Sep 27, 2008 at 7:30 AM
subject: Re: I change my email again..

Dear Miss Chen,
How are you? Are you in Singapore? Haha! I changed my email again! It's my birthday again! Yay!
Have you graduated? Can you send me some of you pictures? I kinda of forgot how you look like..hehe
Next year would be a tough year for me..P6! PSLE...Please reply me as soon as possible..Thx

Regards,
Delphina(Your beloved student)
'I will never ever forget You!'

Hubris is...

2008-08-17T12:50:00.004+08:00

Individuals willingly training for more than a year to perform with unbelievably un-human-like synchrony at the Beijing Olympics opening.

Visually replacing the pudgy crooked-teethed young singer with a lip-synching symmetrically sweet girl.

Allocating national funds, dedicating one's entire body and life for a sport and subjecting the self to so much stress -- all to get a medal worth hardly $5 symbolising global recognition.

A retired Chinese citizen learning English at his own cost in order to pass an entire battery of tests to give him the eligibility to volunteer hosting the exodus of Olympics tourists.(Watch "Mad about English" for more on the Chinese spirit.)

___________________

All aren't necessarily bad. But I find the lengths that people would go for the human pride simply amazing. Rationality and pragmatism have no say when pride is at stake.

An Attempt at An Update After 6 Months

2008-01-17T09:21:00.000+08:00

(= Thanks to your you-haven't-been-blogging-in-a-while-and-yes-we-actually-do-go-check-your-blog-every-now-and-then, Edmond and Dale, I shall start blogging again (though I'm not sure whether my next blogging hiatus would come immediately after this entry, or a few days or months later).

I was thinking of theatre-movie-show blogging as a new year's resolution. I watch so many shows a year -- an average of one per month, 2-3 times a month if you count movies. It is a pity not to put my impression and thoughts of it down some where, which would aid in solidifying my memory of it and also helping to promote good art.

I have not blogged or written in my diary for so long that I am verbally a little dry and hesitant now. (Yes, I actually do keep a written diary. Don't you dare laugh at me -- sometimes it is what keeps me sane when there isn't anyone to hear me sort my thoughts out aloud.) It is now almost a challenge not to write sentences with the same structure,
"I (verb) (descriptive phrase)."
or
"It is (descriptive phrase in the passive voice)."

Just check out the first few sentences above this.

Ooh, congratulate me! Yey, I've just completed two sentences without that structure. Oh sheesh, I just broke that chain with the previous sentence ("Yey" is not an excuse).

Oh dear me, I am rambling.

Speaking of rambling and losing focus in thought, I have noticed my Mum entering the early stages of that zone as she ages. She turns 60 this year and still enjoys her work as a lawyer, dealing largely with conveyancing (the kind of lawyer who does not do those sensational court cases, but tonnes of paper work involving the transaction of private property).
.
.
.

In writing/blogging, time does not run real time, so I was chatting for the last 2 hours in between the last paragraph and this.

I wanted to talk about the latest show I watched, "Beauty World (cha cha cha!)" by Wild Rice held @ the Esplanade this January, but I am already tired out. Till the next entry then.

Ice cream

2007-06-13T10:46:00.000+08:00

I had ice-cream alone yesterday.

)=

Ice-cream is a social food. Social foods are usually relatively expensive in comparison to its nutritional content or benefits, unhealthy and extravagant. That's why it takes the high-inducing company of others to put one's good sense at bay -- long enough to make a usually-considered-irrational decision to go for ice-cream, potato chips, popcorn, nachos, pao pao cha, chocolate, cakes, and other desserts/snacky food.

I had ice-cream alone yesterday because a new gelato shop in Novena Square caught my eye. I am a sucker for good gelato, and I have been disappointed with the gelato I have been getting in Singapore ever since my favourite shop in Bugis closed down. (Oh, Scoopz is not too a substitute.) So I had to try this new shop out.

The gelato shop attendant was a young boy of about 16. Very boyish, very cute smile.

I wondered how long this shop had been in Novena Square since I had never seen it before. As the obviously older woman in this setting, I did the aunty thing, pointed to the shop sign and asked the young lad, "How long have you been here?"

He looked stunned, took a moment, then replied, "Oh. I've only been here for a week." Then he grinned at me with his boyish eyes, boyband hair, and charming smile.

Die. I was flushed with embarrassment as I realised that the young lad had thought I was asking him about how long he had been working here.

The boy then mustered up whatever little pubescent muscle he had to scoop up a ball of my Ferrero Rocher gelato. (Tip: Good gelato shouldn't be that hard to scoop.)

Meanwhile, I pondered about how I could salvage the embarrassing situation and emerge with my dignity unscathed.

"Wah, this is hard work. No wonder they need a boy at this shop." I mentally remarked aloud.

Darn. I really need to stop my mouth sometimes.

Neh-mind. I just continued playing my Aunty role.

"You want cup or cone?" he blinked at me.

"Hm.. cone lah. Cup cannot eat, cone can eat right?" I auntily replied.

After a full agonising minute-and-a-half of digging and scooping, he handed me my gelato on a cone. I passed him a ten-dollar note and he returned my change with that same I'm-going-to-melt-you smile.

I held my head high and calmly walked away, but mentally, I was scurrying off as fast as I could respectably do so.

Nice boy, I thought. But it was the most inauthentic gelato by the way.

I'm Home

2007-06-06T07:58:00.000+08:00

I'm home!!!

I thought I'd be afraid to return, that I would have problems reintergrating after being in the "bigger" world. But no, home will always be home. (=

I'm happy.

The 20-hour plane journey back was arduous though. I was sandwiched right in the middle of the plane between two families of four, and had a bad bout of watery and bubbly diarrhoea. The poor parents on both sides of me were so exhausted from caring for their young ones but I had to interrupt their sleep every half an hour to get out of my seat.

My surge of blissful happiness began when I boarded the SIA plane. The Straits' Times Sunday Times greeted me at the entrance of the plane. Oh... to see my local paper again.... There was a pro-family article featuring Dr Vivian Balakrishnan -- my favourite minister (he's a sensitive new age guy, very diplomatic and principled, good-looking too). I don't care if the Singapore government is perceived as paternalistic and propagandanistic -- all governments are for goodness' sake (just less visably than ours) -- but at least they promote good social values. I love my government and my country despite their flaws.

I had a great team stewards/stewardesses on my flight. It was so nice listening to them bantering with each other in their thick Singaporean accents. They spoke clearly without any pretentious attempt to fake another accent. They weren't the best looking of the SIA crew, but they had a genuine warmness about them that I've never experienced on any flight before.

My first meal in Singapore at 3AM on the night I returned -- prawned flavoured Maggi Mee with an egg.

My first drink: Milo.
The Milo I got in Berkeley was made in China and it's got a thin consistency unlike the Australian-made one that we can get in Singapore. Shiok!

My family, especially my sister, made sure everything was perfect for my return. The usually cluttered boot of the car was cleared for my luggage that weighed as much as its owner. My sister cleaned the house and changed my bedsheets. My Mum bought me a new bulky pillow. I had a wonderful sleep on my firm mattress with my solid pillow and shiokalicious bolster!

Right now, I'm still having extremely strong adverse reactions towards memories of my experiences between March and mid-May. My body reacts adversely and I get nauseous when seafood, rich food, restaurant food, American food is mentioned or brought before my eyes, or when I smell something that reminds me of International House or cooked oil.

I've been ill since the two days before my departure and am still a little under the weather, but the homely air and love is aiding my recuperation from my upset stomach and the psychological and emotional trauma of the last few months. There were so many times while I was in Berkeley when things were so awful I felt I couldn't live another day. I was on the verge of insanity and clung on desperately, tightly to anything that gave me motivation to survive even till the next day. I almost thought I'd never make it home.

But God has been good.

Photos! Happy Times While on my Exchange Programme..

2007-05-12T08:14:00.000+08:00

Hey dear friends and faithful readers.
I know I've been moody for way too long. Here's something more cheerful. Nice bright pictures of happy smiley people and pretty things.
I promise no more angsty, moody stuff for a while.

JANUARY

My very first ride on the "F" bus to San Francisco. Hair was short, eyes were wider, much more clueless.
Photo taken by Andy - talented achitecture graduate student and photographer. (You'll find a picture of him a few photos down this entry.)

FEBRUARY

Berwine my dear friend whom I grew up with since my green-uniform-donning days at Tanjong Katong Girls' dropped a visit at Berkeley during Chinese New Year. She's from NUS and on an exchange programme too, but in UC Santa Barbara, a 7 hour drive south of Berkeley.

MARCH

Here's Grace and Aunty Grace (I call my church friends' mum Aunty my-friend's-name) when I met up with them in San Francisco. We rendezvous-ed at Union Square.

Look what I found in San Francisco! A Banana Republic t-shirt made in one of those third world countries.

A FEW PHOTOS FROM THE SPRING BREAK SPENT IN MEXICO

We 4 girls in our hotel room after a "wild" evening spent on a touristy boat with music and dance.

The beach in Acapulco. Honestly, I don't see how different beaches can get across the world and how exceptional the same universal sun can be in a tourist beach... but well. Here's a nice shot of Sara, a sweet girl from China, and me.

Lionel and me! We went on a water motorbike (I can't recall the proper term for that vehicle now). Too bad no one tooked any photos of that! Lionel's one hell of a speedster. Hahaha.. I was clinging onto him for dear life, but it was fun going at such high speeds in water for a change.

There are more photos of Mexico, but I was not thinkingly selective enough and chose the people shots rather than the place shots. Here's a very happy Lionel and Ivan, our Mexican/American (well, he's got dual citizenship) tour guide and companion, at the Daly City airport having a fantastic meal of meat while in transit from Mexico back to San Francisco.. glorious pork ribs. Boy does Lionel love meat.. ;p We Singaporeans (sans Lionel from Stanford) met Ivan from our interactions at the International House (where we pay US$1300 per month in rent each for a small double room). He offered to bring us to his home country. (= I'm glad we had him there. We wouldn't have survived without his help in the almost completely Spanish-speaking country.

Here's Andy, my I House neighbour, who has been very much a big brother to me. He's a nice young married man from New Zealand/China (the people in I House seem to have confusing international roots) with a wife and baby back home. While we were holidaying in Mexico during the Spring Break, he was in New Orleans for an Achitecture rebuilding project. That's the state of the Hurricane-Katrina-stricken city.

This photo was taken in Febuary (by Andy too) in my favourite (and only) pair of flies-eyes sunglasses.

Taken in at the end of March - Check out how my chin has disappeared from my over consumption of American food.
Anyway, here's Grace, Matt, Lionel and I.
I still think I look best in those cooool shades! ;p

We wanted to have a BBQ at Point Reyes, another nice beach. But alas, it was windier than expected. We survived for about 5 minutes to take a quick shot since Lionel had driven us all the way there already, and dashed back to the shelter and warmth of the car.

We scooted off to a less windy park and still had our BBQ. (=

APRIL
PITTSBURGH - Lionel and I pontanged (skipped) two days of classes to fly across the North American continent to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. That was where Lionel did his undergraduate degree in Carnegie Mellon. He was visiting some old friends -- I simply tagged happily when he offered to take me with him.

It was the annual Spring Festival. Carnegie Mellon celebrates it with students building booths. It is more or less a 6 month project for the various fraternities/sororities/kaypoh student groups -- from the conceptualising to the construction of the entire display structure which is solid enough for families to bring their kids into.

Lionel and his gang seems to love BBQs. I have no complaints. BBQs in this cool and non-humid weather is enjoyable. And of course, having the guys take charge as usual, makes it even sweeter. (=

We had brunch at a chichi social club. This was the Pittsbirgh Athletic Association. The elderly couple are from the church Lionel attended at Pittsburgh. They "took care" of him while he was in Carnegie Mellon.

We went white-water rafting! I didn't dare tell my mum before I went. The Singaporeans here went skydiving and one of our friends told his mum only after the whole thing was over, "so that she wouldn't worry". Thoughtful right? I thought I'd do the same.
It wasn't that dangerous afterall. We did the Grade 3-4 rapids. (They have up to 7-8). We went in a group of boy scouts. A couple of the pocket-size prepubescent 12-year-olds got thrown overboard. One of them got washed up a big rock, but he seemed to be having fun.

I got myself involved in this volunteer tutoring programme called OASES. It stands for the Oakland Asian Students Educational Services. It's a huge association where most of the volunteers come from the Berkeley student body.
I'm not quite allowed to put up photos of the children, but here's one taken by my "tutee" (that's what they call them at OASES) at the playground during their recess. They spend a couple of hours with a different day-of-the-week tutor every afternoon. I was a Thursday tutor for a couple of fourth graders (9-year-olds).

MAY

Lionel brought me to Monterey Bay. It's a couple of hours drive south of Berkeley. This is coincidentally the place where one could go whale-watching. Amazing huh? The things those ang mohs do.. I've never heard of whale-watching. I'd like to try it some day -- to see those sea giants migrate and have my Pinnochio scene of the whale that housed his father Gepetto come to life.
Anyway, we were supposed to go kayaking but apparently, the sea was so rough that day that 9 kayaks overturned with one huge wave. They were not going to take any more risk by sending out more people to sea.

Well, we caught the sunset at the beach. I have watched hundreds of sunsets, but I've never actually sat to wait upon a sunset. That's what you get to do a lot here in California and big countries in general with many nature spots and not much contrived entertainment. Lots of space, lots of time.
Oh, that's the shadow of my hand on Lionel's face.

Well, here's one of the tens of photos I took of the sunset. Sunset photos aren't exactly interesting if they aren't outstanding. I chose this one because it best shows a rocket's exhaust tail. We saw that fella slowly moving vertically up the stratosphere as the sun set. It must have departed from the NASA campus in California, pretty near from where we were.
Update: Lionel says that according to the NASA website, no rockets were due to launch during that time. So it could be some military stuff... or some secret mission... or both..

Here are a couple of photos to show the trees experiencing the seasonal change from winter to spring... Not the best comparitive photos, but yes, it's of the same place. Notice the green gate in both pictures. That's Sather gate.

Taken in January.

Taken in May.

And finally, I had one of the most pleasant meals here with nice people. Grace, Matt and Lionel again. We had dinner at Palo Alto. We had dinner a couple of nights ago at a New-Orleans-style restaurant. I wanted to take a picture of the food, but forgot. So here's us happily contented with the food in our bellies. Thereafter, we had gelato (Italian ice-cream) which was gooood.. Lionel really drives us far, just for food. Thanks Lionel!

Just scared. Afraid of everything.

2007-05-11T01:10:00.000+08:00

I really want to go home, but I'm afraid of going home too.

I want to escape from this place of confusion. Social dynamics are so weird here. To me at least. In fact, because it seems weird only to me that it is alll sooo weird...

I feel so uncomfortable. I don't know what to expect of people, I don't know what people mean. I don't know what they interpret from my words or actions. I can't understand people's responses anymore. I don't know what is expected of me. I can't seem to use the understanding of my own social patterns and norms here. I'm not sure if the intelligent academics here are just plain weird -- high IQ and low EQ -- or whether I am really a social oddball.

I feel like I'm living in a different plain of reality altogether. It's as if the law of social physics are totally different. I feel out of this world -- literally.

People are at times so warm, and the next instant so cold I wonder if I've said something wrong. Sometimes they are overfriendly, and I wonder if they thought I was flirting with them.

I seem to be interacting with machines here. Very good-looking, impressive and intellectually capable machines. However, most of them seem to have a bug in their programme that makes them socially incoherent and inconsistent.

This is how I feel, of course. I'm not saying that they really behave like machines. It's just that nothing seems to be making coherent sense to me here.

I was just looking through some old photos, particularly of Ly. In a way, I suddenly wish I could feel all that feelings of familiarity and warmth all over again. The thing is, even though I can remember how I was truly truly happy then, I can't see myself in those photos. Maybe I've put on so much weight now that I can't identify that girl in the picture as me. But somehow, she feels like someone so foreign.

That's why I am afraid of going home too. I can run from this place where I feel so unstable and in a way.. abstract... like I'm subliming -- in between solid and gas states, yet not liquid. I can run home. But when I run home, and if I still feel so out of place, I don't know of any other place to run to where I can find some sense of familiarity and comfort once again.

Things are better now

2007-04-26T01:38:00.000+08:00

Mum is out of the hospital.

I have decided to remove myself from an oppressive narrow-minded social group that made me feel so deviant just by being me. I don't hate them; I'm not angry with them either because I was once like that myself. And in many others ways, I probably still am close-minded. It's not a crime being blind, but it's a sad thing to be, and even sadder thing not to realise it.

I've realised the cause of my instability and volatility during the last few months..

Durkheim saw man as Homoduplex -- as an individual and a socialised personality sharing the same body. Man only becomes fully human in and through society. Hence, true moral action lies in the sacrifice of certain individual desires for the service of groups and society.

I have never realised how large my social being was in relation to my self-self. Being away from home, my stable society, and living here where I live in multiple social realities that are so different from what I have been accustomed to, shifted my centre of gravity me so greatly. I mistakenly kept tuning myself and hence compromising things I've always held fast to, to the little societies I got myself involved in here. Against my own grain, I tried hard to integrate, to assimilate my ways of thought and behaviour to each group. And it happened that the social groups I lived in here not only contradicted each other, but also the society I grew up in. I found myself oscillating from one extreme to the other because I had unwittingly placed too much value and trust in what others espoused and expressed. Not surprisingly, I thus never found my place, never found my balance. I was beginning to lose myself in all this.

The same events are still happening, but now I'm in control of how I feel, because I know the self within me is the most constant amidst these external variables with regard to my own life. And this self is regaining its position in my homoduplex body and regulating the effects this dynamic and unstable external environment has on me.

Biology students call this homeostasis. ;)

I am still a very social being and I will never deny that. Social control can at times be oppressive and unkind. However, just as much as I hate it, I am very much, too, a part of it. People and relationships still matter a lot to me, and this will remain the case for me, even if it means subjecting myself to the possibility of being stifled, or being hurt. The right people and relationships in my life will bring out the essence of my human spirit in the most joyous way. (=

To those who have faithfully kept up with my life through my blog even while I am so far away and out of constant contact with you, thanks.

Need to grow up

2007-04-19T02:30:00.000+08:00

My Mum has just gotten admitted into a hospital in Singapore for the same unknown symptom that leaves her with painful stomach spasms and stiffens her body.
I don't know what's going on. I don't know how bad the situation is. I don't know whether the situation will demand my premature return to Singapore. It's scary.
I can't seem to contact anyone at home, perhaps because it's past midnight in Singapore now.

I'm stuck in a loveless place here at Berkeley where I am judged and toyed with, where I've learnt to regret trusting people.
I've got no more boyfriend who will love me foolishly and unconditionally. I don't blame him. If there's anything I am guilty of, it's him. I can't expect him to be my crutch anymore when I know I can't love him the way he loves me. It's pure cruelty.

I'm flying off to Pittsburgh in 9 hours time.
I thought it'd be a respite from the mess I am in here at Berkeley, but I just realised I'm entering another danger zone.

I've got myself in so much mess here in Berkeley it's unspeakable. My heart's a mess, my mind's incoherent. I can't trust myself anymore.

I've got no one to turn to now.
No one to trust.
Relationships are so fleeting, so unpredictable right now.

I'm neither here nor there.
Not American enough, no longer completely Asian.
Neither side can understand me, neither side can accept me.

My only relief is in tears.
I want to sleep. I want to get high. I want to vacate my mind.
I know it'd all be over soon, God's in all of this, but as of now, it's excruciating just living day by day.

I don't know who I'm pouring this out to.
I don't know if I'd regret publicising my life in a moment of impulsive disorientation.
It suddenly seeems so much easier to talk to strangers than people I think, I thought I could trust, and people I expect love and understanding would come from. These expectations just murder me, they kill me in the most painful way.

I just can't think anymore. Forgive me, and love me if you can.

After 3 months.. I'm ready to go home now..

2007-04-18T01:21:00.000+08:00

America degrades the tenderness of the human soul in the way sex is portrayed. The crude and indiscriminate way it is talked about here and portrayed pictorially make me uncomfortable. It twists my understanding of physical intimacy and sex in a way most unnatural to me. It robs the sanctity of lovemaking and what I have known all my life about human intimacy in physical exchanges.

Women sell their bodies here indiscriminately. There is barely any exclusivity or discretion. I walk down the street to school everyday and I am swarmed by oceans of breasts and cleavages. Breasts are no longer private. Girls here are hot; they certainly know how to play up their sexuality.
Sexuality is a very openly acknowledged and well understood thing here, and both guys and girls show their awareness in the way they dress and behave.

The Daily Californian, an independent Berkeley student tabloid-like publication even has a column called "Sex on Tuesdays". The following three images are taken from this daily newspaper.

(Click on the images to enlarge them to readable size)

The thing about all this awareness is that there is no turning back. It's innocence lost. Perhaps there is a way out, but I don't see at this point how the exclusivity, the sacredness of sex can return to this modern American society.

I believe in exclusivity when it comes to physical intimacy. But I guess I cannot be so imposing as to assume the same value should apply to everyone.

Perhaps I am close-minded, having come from a relatively conservative Asian society and even more conservative Christian society. One may argue that sex, virginity and the works are overrated. Humans were made creative and freedom is essential to allowing one's humanness to emerge. And that the church is the main body responsible for reigning people's minds and making them feel guilty about doing what is only absolutely natural. Social control runs against the natural grain of man. As a student of Sociology, I cannot disagree with how the church and conservative society controls the individual. In fact, I agree with that, and at times, I too, find it an oppressive tool.

But why is social control bad? Because it goes against the freedom of the individual?
Is pure individual freedom really all that great?

When social regulations break down, the controlling influence of society on individual propensities is no longer effective and individuals are left to their own devices. The sociologist, Emile Durkheim calls this state of affairs anomie, a term that refers to a condition of relative normlessness in society. It is a condition in which individual desires are no longer regulated by common norms and where, as a consequence, individuals are left without moral guidance in the pursuit of their goals.

I love social control. I am a proponent of social control. I thrive under conditions of control. Liberty and freedom? That, to me, is what I call overrated. It's a nice excuse not to be accountable to anyone. It's a great way not to feel guilty about anything. It discharges people from ever having to consider others -- afterall, we're all individuals in our own right, you live your life and I live mine, why should you allow me to affect you? This, to me, is the artificial construct that denies the bonds, the inter-connectedness between and among humans. It's selfish.

I don't think I have argued my case thoroughly or even logically. This is perhaps the most politically incorrect piece I have put up on my blog. Yes, apparently, I do feel strongly about this. Perhaps I'll update this entry again when I think of more coherent and elaborative points.

Or perhaps I'll leave it this way. Take me as I am, or leave me. I have rights to my opinion and to be naive. I can be self-righteous and egocentric because I'm my individual and I'm not infringing on another's freedom.. or so they don't say.

After 2 Months..

2007-03-07T12:37:00.000+08:00

Home - The International House

Hi dear friends,

I'm better. I should not have left the previous post on for so long. I don't quite know what to say nowadays as the novelty of being away ebbs. There are still many things I learn each day, but more often these days, they reinforce my existing thoughts rather than challenge old ones.

And lately, I have been distracted. My mind's all over the place and I can't focus, so much so I can't even blog.

Nevertheless, I am more or less fine. On the weekends, I have a nice dose of bubble tea (what they call milk tea with "tapioca". The word "tapioca" just removes all the fun from "bubble tea"). I attend church, but am increasingly removed from the doctrines because I have so little Christian affirmation and reinforcements while I live here, and I am not exactly taking an active approach to seek it either.

Oh, some interesting things I just thought of..

I've experienced two earthquakes here! Both were jolts that lasted less than a couple of seconds. The first one had me running out of my room in panic and the second one was experienced while watching "Letters from Iwo Jima" (which is a lousy Hollywood attempt anyway). The movie theatre was pretty grand with 500 seats in it and initially, I didn't realise it was the quake because of that movie-effect of engrossing all your senses. I absent-mindedly thought it was part of the surround sound, surround everything effect, until I realised theatres aren't that advanced.

That was pretty cool. Well, at least for the naive Singaporean who lives in a quake free zone. Anyway, quakes are pretty common here. Many buildings have signs on the outside that carries a disclaimer stating that the building isn't quake ready enter-at-your-own-risk kind of tone. One of these signs can be found at the entrance of the International House where I live. (=

My friend got punched in front of the I House last Sunday at 9.30PM. Three males randomly came up to him, asked him whether they could ride his bike, and before he knew it, his glasses were off his face. There were still people around, so perhaps that why his bike was not stolen nor was he beaten any further. The guys just ran off when he screamed, hm.. shouted.. (scream doesn't sound like the genderly-correct word here).

I've seen policemen making arrests with handcuffs here. Once at the lobby of the I House and another on school grounds.

My Singaporean friend who got sent to the hospital for about 5 hours after she had heart palpitations during yoga class had a US$1400 medical bill sent to her. And if I am not wrong, that doesn't include the fees for the ambulance and fire engine. According to her, it's US$200 each. These two vehicles come in pairs when 911 is dialed, even if the distress call is for someone with heart palpitations.

People actually like the Singaporean accent. A Korean and two Americans have told me that. I'm beginning to like it a lot too. It's an inescapable sound that allows all from Singapore and Malaysia to identify one another the instance an "ah" is sounded from his mouth. It's nice to randomly bump into similar sounding people here at Berkeley. And for the first time, we Singaporeans get really friendly talking to others who would otherwise be considered strangers in our home country setting.

OK, something visual for your pleasure.

The girls' gym/swimming pool shower area

Yes, there are no doors. In the entire shower area, there are 4 miserable curtained cubicles, which I believe they created to cater to more reserved Asians like moi, and which I appreciated. But alas, to my horror, there were no hooks within those cubicles for my towel. The nearest hook was a 2 metre walk. So I waterproofed my clothes and towel in a big plastic bag, tied it up and kept one hand up in the air, holding the bag away from the direct blast of the shower as I had the chlorine washed off my body.

Part of the huge girls' locker room.

People usually change here. Yes, full monty; they go commando; the birthday suit -- whichever phrase you understand better. Young ones, pretty ones, slim ones, fat ones, old ones, gravitationally-challenged ones.. International nipples of all colours, shapes and sizes. I generally try to do in Rome what the Romans do -- that's the best way to experience a culture in most aspects, I believe. However, the most I've gone so far is having at least 2 garments (a combination of inner and outer) on me at any one point. I shall challenge myself further to go American in the locker room. I shall conquer my inhibitions within the next 3 months! Muahahahhahaha!

Not on top of the world..

2007-02-11T12:53:00.000+08:00

I'm feeling blue on a sad rainy Saturday night.

Maybe the first pangs of unpleasant feelings of being away from home are beginning to set in after a month here.

I usually love the rain back in Singapore, but it just seems so miserable when it rains here. The rainy season has come; we've had rain for the last 3 days consecutive. Can't-leave-home-without-an-umbrella kind of rain.

The food here never seem satisfying enough. They are no-kick foods.. Too oily, too tasteless, too salty, too American.. And American price too for really poor quality food. I don't like beef and that's what they seem to have in abundance here too.

I walked in to the International House cafetaria (all residents have to subscribe to the meal plan here). I had a look at the food and my stomach decided that not one of those earthy toned food could go down. It was the first time I couldn't eat. They had burritos from lunch today, mash potatoes from dinner yesterday, beef in tomatoey sauce, cold rice.. I don't know. Just not my day for food I guess. I don't usually complain.

.sigh.

Someone drop me a nice word from home? That can fill my stomach too.

Pictures pictures!

2007-01-20T06:51:00.000+08:00

The maple trees in Berkeley stood out to me immediately as I started walking down the streets. The trees are all in different stages of shading, which make them so beautiful. Some are in the shade of red, some bare, and some maple crowns have gradient hues from red to yellow.

The white building with the dome on top is International House. This is where I am currently residing and paying about US$1000/month for. It's a lovely place in terms of its social culture. There are 600 students from all over the world here.

Our dining plan is compulsory to get the residents to sit down with each other. Everyone complains about the food, that it is awful, not authentic and always the same. But I love the international fare I get for the three meals a day here and appreciate the effort that has gone in to include food from so many countries. They even have chok (they call it 'juk' here) at breakfast every morning, condiments like tau you (soya sauce) and sweet and sour pork. People think I'm weird and naive for being so in loved with the food. They tell me it gets worst as the semester goes on. It was through this food issue that I found out that Singaporeans weren't the only ones who loved complaining. There are some human traits that cross all borders.

There are many free and subsidised activities organised for us. For example, there are free coffee hours on Wednesdays from 9-10pm where people just hang out and meet new people, free salsa classes on Mondays, free Yoga classes on Mondays and Wednesdays and many others that I can't list out from the top of my head now.

This is my regular double room (the cheapest available at I House) and that is my Korean roommate, Sylvia (or rather, Eun Ha). In I House, almost all double rooms hold members of different nationalities. One thing I did notice is that the room allocation stuff seem to put Asians together. I guess this is to help minimise culture shock, but even then there are still new things to learn about the other Asian... Perhaps I'll have another entry on the roommates themselves.

I sleep on the top bunk simply because I moved in later than my roommate. She got to choose the lower bunk, all the top shelves and drawers, the table lamp that isn't spoilt and the chair that doesn't rock. The first couple of nights sleeping 2 metres above ground level was frightful, but I'm pretty used to it now.

Here's my bagged lunch! I pack this during breakfast. I scan my meal card for a bagged lunch and they give me that brown paper bag where I put in a sandwich. It's a bit like Subway where you can choose your meat, cheese, veggie toppings, sauce etc. Then I am entitled to a fruit (banana, apple or pear), a small carton of milk and even a cookie!!! The cookie was yummie. I took this picture in the middle of my lunch today.. The cookie should have come after my sandwich, but I couldn't wait.

Check out the funky trees. The white gate in the centre is Sather Gate, more or less the central area of UC Berkeley where all the major events take place, I believe. I walk this route everyday. Those trees are specially pruned to give them those stumps with no leaves. The guy in sunglasses facing the group is a member of the student council who was bringing us foreign students on a tour. He is a Singaporean who has sold his Singapore accent for the American slang.. Quite a put off, considering that he has only been here for a couple of years. He didn't even switch codes when he was talking to us Singaporeans alone. One of the West-worshippers, I guess.

This is a photo of the same area, but during term time. It's bustling with activity. All the CCA booths are out and there are mini protests going on too.. something about saving the oaks and seeking justice for a staff hired to help handicapped students who recently had been fired.

A couple of police officers lurk near the area too (front, left).

This is the Harry Potter-like main library. Pardon the poor lighting. You can click on any of these photos for a blown up version.

I went for an I House residents' retreat at a creek. It got close to zero celcius at night. They actually have a functioning fire place! These guys were huddled around the fire place roasting marshmellows and s'mores after our night session.

There really are Washington apples!

Yes, I know I'll never make it to become a troupe member of Crazy Horse, but these leggings that I wear under my jeans really hold those fats in place. Hahaha... It gets quite cold here at Berkeley and most of the Singaporeans here (5 of us + 2 China Chinese students from NUS) are quite ill prepared for the cold. I bought this pair in desperation on my way back from my second day of school.

Ah.. those funky trees against the setting sun.

It's not quite safe to walk alone at night. Berkeley actually has a "Bearwalk" (I don't know where the Bear fits into Berkeley, but it's part of the brand name of Berkeley. The university websites are called bearfacts, telebears, calbears etc.)service where you call a number to get some uniformed volunteer with the local police to walk you home from wherever you are within a 5 mile radius of the campus after dark.

It's finally the weekend. I'll be heading to San Francisco city tomorrow (Saturday), less than an hour away. Till the next time I start bursting with things to comment on!

Greetings from UC Berkeley!

2007-01-18T06:00:00.000+08:00

I'm having a really good meal now of ang moh poh piah -- a burrito. I don't know what's inside, but even if it's dog meat, it tastes real good because I'm eating it HOT and in my own space. I can gobble and make all sorts of digestive noises I want. It is about two in the afternoon now and this is a rare time that I get my own personal space in this room at International House which I share with a Korean roommate. I have class at 4pm but I thought it was worth the hike back up slope to savour some peace with my dear left-behind self.

I apologise for not updating everyone earlier. It's my second week here at the University of California, Berkeley, and have not had much time to myself. Lessons just started this week too.

My mind is in a flurry right now so forgive my incoherence.

I am beginning to feel very overwhelmed. Although I technically don't have much on for my day activities besides going for classes, I am kept on my feet all the time as I feel my way around. I have to concentrate so hard in everything I do that I am exhausted when night falls. I feel like an infant all over again in this strange foreign system. That may sound cliche and may not help you understand my plight here so allow me to elaborate.

I am so outspoken back in Singapore. I can be loud and outstanding, or just weird. But over here, I am a mouse. The students here really speak out in class. They ask questions all the time. There is no fear of that loss of face thing we have back in our Asian society.

Yes, suddenly, it's not just Singapore society, but Asian society as a large. It's like us black-haired short-legged creatures against those big ang mohs. In my current foreign situation, I think I am mentally rounding up all those on my side. Singaporeans whom I'd never have spoken to in Singapore have suddenly become my best companions. Even Chinese nationals, whom I have never directly interacted with in Singapore because of my chino-phobia and basic language handicap, have become a joy to be around with.

Berkeley is so truly multi-racial that it's almost like a zoo. There are so many varieties of skin, hair colour, languages, dressing, accents, proportion of facial and of other bodily features. For e.g. the ang mohs have their eyebrows so close to their eyes while I look like a goldfish with puffy upper eyelids and eyebrows 2km away from my eyeballs. The Koreans have squarish jaw lines and fierce eyes. The blacks are really distinct in their accent and how they look (I kind of like them so far though. They are like the Malays of Singapore. Very relak and fun-loving). The Scandinavians are so pale-skinned and have translucent blue-green eyes. The Australians are often Billabong poster-boy quality with their surfer dude look. The Singaporeans, well, most of us just dress badly, mainly because we come from a non-winter wear country so our winter clothes are nothing close to fashionable.

The racial groups here are barely what I would call minorities. From the back of the lecture theatre, half of the heads are black-haired (i.e. Asians from China, India, Korea, Vietnam, you name it). I don't stick out in such a group. Most people don't notice me because of how I look like the way I stick out when I, as a small minority, tour a foreign country.

The greatest culture shock so far has been, ironically, the Asians, in particular, the Americanised Asians. It's scary and throws me off balance because they look so much like me, but they are truly so so different in how they speak, think and behave. I thought I was loud and bold, but these guys make me look like a mouse next to elephants.

Back to that infant analogy, I just don't know where I stand in such a society. The adjectives I would use to describe myself or the way I value myself as an individual doesn't apply here. I would say I can sing fairly decently in Singapore, but here, I won't dare make such a claim. As I mentioned, I thought I was loud, open and outspoken, but that all changes here again. When we discussed BGR issues, our small group of Singaporeans is well aware that we should keep our volumes down less the ang mohs hear our conservative values and find it a joke.

I speak relatively well in Singapore and teach English, but I wouldn't dare publicly admit that here (even though I know that I probably write better, having been brought up in British Singapore, than most Americans. I'm not being culturally chauvinistic here, but it has been observed and proven that Singaporeans' standard of English is even higher than that of British public schools).

Basically, I don't know what I am relative to everyone else here. It's not a matter of academic competition or moral self-righteousness, but simply knowing my place, where I belong, what people see me as.

I feel comfortable, naturally, with the Asian Asians because we speak a common language and we have similar backgrounds. It's funny how, by placing people in an even more foreign situation, previously differentiated groups can come together.

There is just so much to do here. I want to get a part-time job (it pays on average about US$10-15/h) for the experience and for a little surplus cash. Yet I am intimidated that I can't handle the locals and local knowledge, and I know I have so limited time here to do many other things. For example, spend more time interacting with people at mealtimes, truly master French enough to pass (I'm doing a level 2 French module which completely swept me off my feet on the first day of class because no one seemed to mind that the entire class was conducted in French from Bonjour to Au revoir). By the way, I found out today that my French teacher is my immediate neighbour at I House (we share the same wall).

The campus is very vibrant with all the CCA booths (of course they don't call them CCA here, but I haven't found out the equivalent term yet) and all the sororities coming after me. There are free dance and yoga classes practically any day of the week. I want to go swimming (yes, in this blistering cold). I want to go for a jog. I want to venture around and outside Berkeley. I want to take more modules (the lecturers whom I have encountered so far really know their stuff and they have an different perspective of things). I want to spend more time talking to other nationalities at mealtime (I live at the International House where there are 600 residents from all over the world).

I was feeling upset somehow earlier today as I spun around Berkeley campus not knowing who I was here or what I wanted to do. But my nice burrito and even nicer experience with the Filipino shop owner who had asked me where I was from (no one outside I House had ever asked me that since they probably assume I must be an American-Born Chinese or an Asian-language-speaking, funny-accented foreign student who's hard to communicate with). Just the short exchange with that man made my day. It sure helped that he had a dashing nice smile and a nice warm hand to shake my white-with-cold hands. ;p

But really, I am beginning to feel some loneliness creeping up on me. I am trying not to pay it too much attention less it get the better of me, but drop me a nice familiar note from a friend when you come by ok?

Lea Salonga Gets Married

2006-11-30T12:33:00.000+08:00

As some of you may know, Lea Salonga (from the Miss Saigon fame) is my most worshipped vocal goddess. She recently got married and had a baby.

I love this one. The vocal recording has been integrated with the video taken from her wedding.

I always tear when I watch this (about 10 times). I think it's the strategic way the violin is arranged into this piece along with Rob Chien (her husband) crying as she walks down the aisle. I have a penchant for crying men.. ;p

Let me know if you like it too. I have always wondered whether I have an acquired taste, or Lea Salonga is plain international.

A Happy Entry Finally!

2006-11-29T21:29:00.000+08:00

The BF has gone overseas.. literally.. he took a boat, crossed over the sea, and is now in Batam rara-ing with the church camp that I would have loved to be part of but can't because of my university exams.

But I have a date tomorrow night! Scandalous.. muahahhaa...

I'm going to watch a play tomorrow evening, "Secret Bridesmaids' Business", a play to fulfil my Theatre Studies module exam requirement, and frankly, a break from studying. 2nd year studying doesn't seem all that fun anymore.

My date.. is a girl friend! Yey! I have not watched a show with a female companion (besides Mum and Sis) for eons because I watch all my shows with the BF. I'm really excited. I'm sorry if you don't feel the same euphoria I'm experiencing now... Hahaha.. I'm jubilant!

I'm really excited.. We're going to catch dinner too. =)))))

We had a really high-frequency girly nice conversation in the middle of my dreary night of studying. It really cheered me up. Had been feeling melancholic today.

The thing about girl friends is that there are so little expectations (compared to BFs) between us. And there's a certain craziness that comes about from being in an all-girl environment.

Yey!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! =D

I feel jumpy...

News! News! Updates!

2006-11-06T22:30:00.000+08:00

Hi guys,

Just visited my blog since a long time ago. The last few entries have been very angsty and tiring to read. My apologies. I'll try to write when I'm in better spirits. It's not that I haven't been, but I guess when I'm in the dumps and feel like I have no where else to go, this blog is my lastest of last resorts.

By the fact that I am here again means things aren't that fine and dandy, but I shan't brood.

I have some good news though. I'm going to the University of California, Berkeley next semester (probably departing on 6 January 07 on a non-SIA flight). It's a student exchange programme for one semester (no $ and guts to apply for a whole year there).

Oh, and I am moving house somewhere in this month. Mum just got the keys to our new place at Dover. Yes, it's a farcry from living in the east. My Mum has got this itchy backside syndrome -- this is my 7th home, and Mum's on the way to getting her 13th car (one car after the other, not the concurrent ownership of 13 cars).

It's a two-bedroom apartment for our family of 3 (Dad's a part-time feature). Cui can wake up 15 minutes before school starts. I think Mum is trying to chase me out of the house -- my sister and I are going to have a problem with wardrobe space. We currently have 2 cupboards each.. Now it'd be halved.

I'll still live in hall since I won't quite have the privacy of a bedroom to myself there and both my sister and I are quite bulky creatures. Ah.. but it'd be nice to know that family is just 10minutes away compared to 40minutes now.

These transitions seem quite exciting..

I'm really excited about Berkeley. Everyday a new thrill comes to me:

I'll get to eat all the salad to my heart's content (it'd probably be more decently priced in America than here in Singapore).

I'll get to use a laptop (I don't own one now, but I'll have to get one specially for this overseas stint), mobile information technology.

I'll have to stop using Singlish and slow down my erratic-speeded speech. I won't form the racial majority. I may not be the most outspoken in class anymore.

I'll have a new hostel and a new community to live with.

I'll get to go shopping in a new fashion area. I can probably buy kids' sizes. Pants may finally fit my non-Asian 36" ass.

I'll get to attend a new church and observe a different style of churchiness.

End-of-the-Week Blues..

2006-10-05T20:30:00.000+08:00

I feel very lonely tonight.

It’s the end of the week (I have a 4-day school week) and I have work to do, but I also have time. That means I have the opportunity to go into myself (basically, get in touch with me), and right now, I long for some intimate conversation and some loving attention.

I get conversation in hall at meal times, but the satisfaction I get from these social exchanges is often determined by where I happen to sit, or rather, whom I sit with, along the long dining table. As you can probably guess, today’s conversation mate wasn’t quite engaging, so I’m left with this social void in me.

Ly’s at Aikido tonight, so for the first time this week, when I finally have got the time and truly want to talk to him, I can’t because he isn’t available.

I play my French feel-good MP3’s or turn on my radio (radio is slightly better because there’s a DJ that makes the audio a little more humanly interactive), but I don’t think I can completely drown out this loneliness in me.

Come to think of it, I wonder what it’s like being overseas with no one close and dear near and accessible to me. Yet, I think perhaps being overseas (for a short while) might actually not see me experiencing this awful feeling now. It’s the knowledge of having people near me, yet not accessible, that gives me this disappointed and needy feeling.

Oh boy, I sound so angsty, so secondary-school.

There was an invited guest speaker from AWARE in place of my lecturer this afternoon. The topic was domestic violence. The speaker broadened the concept of abuse to many of the non-physical aspects (e.g intimidation that includes reckless driving, threat of violence, blackmail, blame and denial, isolating the victim from her sources of social support etc.).

It was an emotionally difficult lecture for me and I found myself trying to conceal the dabbing away of my tears by blowing my nose. Luckily, Eugene (curly hair), who was next to me, was too engrossed in the lecture to notice me. I had this ex-boyfriend guy sitting in front of me and I can’t remember if he knows anything of my family background. He did turn back, but I wasn’t sure if he noticed my tears. Ah.. it doesn’t matter I guess.

I’m sorry, dear reader, if I’m just going on and on.. Just allow me to be a little self-indulgent for a while. I told you I needed conversation right? A monologue’s about half of that.

I know I should be praying and doing my quiet time now that I’ve got some time and I’ve got this void in me, but these feelings are just so distracting.

Eugene (Curly Hair) -- My Sexless Friend

2006-07-28T17:11:00.000+08:00

Eugene (curly hair) is Eugene (curly hair) because there is one too many Eugenes in my phone contact list.

He is as sexless as an amoeba.

To be sociologically correct (afterall, Sociology is what both Eugene and I study in NUS), he is *genderless with respect to me.

Eugene (curly hair) is currently my favourite male friend. He makes me feel more human than woman. Gender is a complicated thing, something which has given me much trouble recently in my relationship. So it was nice being with my "agender" (to the tune of 'apathy' and 'apolitical')friend yesterday afternoon. We went shopping together at Raffles City. I am honestly no fan of shopping; I don't take too well with parting with my money over obviously-overpriced merchandise (which is basically almost everything in Singapore malls). Yet, his company not only relieved me of the moodiness I have been experiencing the last couple of weeks, but also made my shopping experience therapeutic.

He gives me attention, but not because I am female. He isn't lecherous in the way he looks at me; he doesn't focus on my physical attributes in his gaze or comments. Neither does he try hard to be a 'man' in my presence. Simply said, my feminine side isn't self-conscious when I am with Eugene (curly hair). I am purely human, untainted by gender.

I admit I was in a vulnerable state yesterday, but this very decent guy took no advantage of that. He advised me totally as a friend with my best interests at heart.

I trust him so much that I know if I were wasted (which I have never been, and doubt I would be in the near future), I could trust him to take me home safely.

Thanks for a wonderful time yesterday, Eugene (curly hair).

*Sex is a physical attribute; Eugene (curly hair) definitely has a penis (not that I've seen or felt it, but I believe it exists somewhere, some size under that zipper). Gender, on the other hand, is a social construct. Gender is what makes men feel compelled to take care of women, pay for their drinks and conquer them, and what makes women wear ridiculousy uncomfortable apparel to be feminine, expect men to be decisive, are attracted to men physically larger etc. Gender is such a powerful social construct that we never notice how corporate women in pants often command more respect and power than women in flowery skirts (i.e. because it is still very much a man's world and feminism is regarded a symbol of weakness).

The morning after: On hindsight, Eugene does practise gender. He opened the door for me and sent me home in a cab that night. Perhaps at the end of the day, sex and gender aside, what I got from Eugene was simply his care, respect and regard for me as a human, as a friend.

Hollywood 1: Hink 0

2006-07-27T10:12:00.000+08:00

I don't trust men.

I thought I had gone past that stage, looked beyond my own upbringing, when I found myself trusting my happiness to Ly. But on second thought, it's probably just him -- his inability to lie and his simpleness. How many men are truly like this?

If this relationship does not work out, I'll probably not love again. I still want my kids, I think. So I'll adopt. One, maybe two. Be a single mum. It's ok. My mum did it, and did it well too. Who needs a father anyway? Of course, he'll be nice to have, but not a necessity.

I might date to pass time, but I'll never commit and I'd reject love all the way until I'm in my late 30s or 40s when the fear of loneliness outweighs the risk of getting hurt. At that point, I might be at the peak of my career (yes, I'll work on my career then since there isn't anyone left to invest my energies in); a seemingly confident, self-sufficient woman.

He'll probably be someone who has been through something similar too, but years of hardening and lovelesssness have made him forget what it was like to be hurt and those self-protective jaded feelings would by then have given way to a stronger yearning for a loving companionship.
He'll resurrect my insecurities (women don't forget as easily as men) and then gently settle them. He'll do something ridiculously romantic -- Hollywoodish -- and I'll fall hopelessly prey to him. He'll take care of my children like they were his too. I might have that kind of romance and a wedding with an aging bride and groom. My kids would like him and would be happy for Mummy.

Ah.. Stupid Hollywood. Why does that money-churning industry leave its stupid dreams in my mind? Stupid dreams that never get fulfilled and leave me wanting. I am a sucker.

Cramps

2006-07-18T18:05:00.000+08:00

And a sore below is the penalty for wasting yet another one of my precious eggs in the prime of my life -- by not allowing it to fuse with a sperm and reproduce myself. My poor egg got dispelled in a mess of tissue and blood. No good came out of it. Couldn't even make an omelette out of it.

This daughter has died.

2006-07-07T11:45:00.000+08:00

The last tear for my father fell today.

None of my heart will go to this man anymore.

I've tried for more than a decade to work things out between us. Mum always told me not to try talking sense to him, not to hope that I can change him. She knows him best, she would say. "He can't change. You can't reason with a child. You are no hero, don't think you can do anything about him. I've tried for years and I have long given up because I know what he is capable of. Just leave it to God."

There came that point when I started questioning the source of authority and love that brought me up. Could she be wrong? Is he that hopeless and unchangeable as Mum claims? Is he that unreasonable? I tried. I really did. Sometimes, it seemed I broke through and things improved, communication channels opened. Then in the middle of good times, just when I begin to feel that I have a father, he erupts, spewing threats and violence. And I wonder.

Once all things are well again, the cycle starts. We build things up again and they go up in flames several months later.

I am 21 now. I have been fighting with him since my eyes were opened to the injustice plaguing my household. That man sleeps with and hurts dozens of women and gambles till he is a bankrupt -- but the worst of his sins is his pride. He bullies and uses my mother because he can't get to me. If I say something unpleasing to his ears, she gets the brunt of it. She'll come to me the next day, scold me, coax me and at the end of the day, I'll have to apologise to that animal. Put on on act. Pretend to take in all that he says. Pretend that I am indeed that rude, unfilial daughter whom the church has not been able to change. Yes, he blames the church too. Anything.

I should be jaded now. That is my only self-defense. As long as I continue to hope, I will keep trying to talk with him -- and that often means disagreeing with him, which he sees as disrespect and the lack of filial piety no matter how well-intentioned and polite I am. So I cannot afford to bear hope that anything will change. Not on earth anyway. Not by my own strength. I have to swallow my own pride and leave it to God. For the sake of my mother, for the sake of our sanity and safety.

I am defenseless; I am powerless against this demon. I was a fool to think I could turn things around.

I am coming to accept this. Gradually.

No space for hope, besides that in God. Honour your parents. I suppose that, in my case, means submitting. By submitting to this earthly demon and submission to the Creator, I can conquer the Devil and whoever he places in my life.

There is still hurt, spite and anger at the injustice in me as I write this out. I am human as much as I am Christian. I don't deny these feelings. Give me time, give me grace and they will fade.

Daniel Goh calls Idols' parents "Uncle & Aunty"

2006-06-30T09:32:00.000+08:00

On Singapore Idol's Wildcard Results show last night, Daniel Goh interviewed the contestents' parents, addressing them as "Uncles" and "Aunties".

So Singaporean right?

Can you imagine Ryan Seacrest doing the same?

I love it. I love this culture where I have grown up in. It's Asian, it's Singaporean where our elders are regarded with respect.

McDonald's employees in most parts of the world consists of the marginal members of the workforce -- the lowly educated, the disabled, the ethnically marginal, housewives, the transient non-committed student employees and most of all, senior citizens. They are paid the minimum wage. Yet I believe that the elder workers are treated with respect most of the time here in Asia, or at least Singapore. Up to now, I still say, "Thank you, Aunty," when my table is cleared.

Isn't it such a nice society? Yes, I know we have all the kiasuism, bad service, lousy courtesy and other social ills, but respect for the elders are one of the few nuggets of grace we still have.

A Healthy Homemaker

2006-05-24T12:23:00.000+08:00

I spend my days now in the luxury of having time on my side.

In the past week, I had a game of badminton and tennis, a swim and two jogs. Filling time around these activities would be housework:

Mopping the floor in instalments -- filling up the bucket with water and leaving it till a couple of hours later when I feel in the mood to begin mopping.

Doing the laundry -- I'm beginning to find this very therapeutic . I like watching the water fill the tumbling drum and in the middle of the washing, I'll open up the lid to watch the clothes being spun about in the water (which would have turned a little darkish by then) to appreciate the cleaning effect. I like watching the clothes swirl with each forceful twist of the washing drum, stopping for a brief moment before getting swished the other way.

I like hanging up the clothes in the balcony in angles that would maximise its sun-exposed surface area. I love taking down clothes which have been sun-dried, not just wind-dried. These clothes are crispy and they smell better. Interestingly, they seem cleaner too.

My right arm muscles are getting tauter with all the racquet games. My complexion and stamina has been improving. I'm feeling happy and pretty. I think the next sign of health is a ferocious libido. I think doing sports releases those hormornes. Those footballers seem to alternate sex with their matches.

YouTube "Les Miserables"

2006-05-19T17:43:00.000+08:00

I caught on to YouTube a little behind our time, but in the last two days, I've been spending several hours watching videos of my favourite musicals..

Yesterday, it was "Jekyll & Hyde". Today it's "Les Miserables".

I sat in front of the monitor and speakers, and cried and cried.

Even the bad video quality can't mask the overwhelming effect of these two musicals.

Here's Eponine's (Lea Salonga) "On My Own"

This happens to be my favourite audition piece too. I used this for the "Memories of a Red Autumn" audition last year.

Jekyll & Hyde

2006-05-18T17:19:00.000+08:00

From Jekyll & Hyde the musical. I have never watched the musical, but I love the soundtrack. I was overwhelmed by this YouTube video. The lady in white is so captivating. I can't understand why I cry watching good performances.

link

An Inconsequential Entry

2006-05-09T17:03:00.000+08:00

The exams are over. My 3-month holiday has begun.

I woke up in my bed in my own home today, on my own body's natural alarm at 9AM. The sound of traffic didn't wake me up this time, unlike at hostel where my room faces the main road. The manual taxis and super buses "vroom-vroom" (I can't remembe the proper English term for it.. 'ralf' or something like that) their engines up the slope from 7.30AM.

Using a straight tip screwdriver, I popped out all the keys from my two keyboards today and cleaned up the insides. You'd be amazed at what lies under those keypads. I have no idea where all that grime comes from. Try it yourself!

I watched "Desperate Housewives" live last night with Ly. Usually, we catch taped episodes (2-3 at a time) when I return from hostel over the weekend. It was so enjoyable sitting through the Peugeot and Lee Hwa Jewellery advertisements (instead of fast-forwarding them). Hahaha.. Cheap thrill. Ly and I spent the advertisement break figuring out the catches on my ancient CPU so that he could install the new DVD driver he bought me for my birthday (a guy's practical sense of gift-giving.. last Christmas it was a red Microsoft ergonomic mouse.. this year for no apparent occasion, he got me a second-hand LCD monitor to replace the CRT I use in hostel).

I vacuumed the entire house too and put my hostel blanket into the wash.

I applied a face mask and sat on my throne naked (didn't want the goo all over my clothes) while waiting for the ingredients to have its promised effects on my skin. I finished the excreting activity in an unexpectedly prompt 5 minutes and washed everything off in 7 minutes. I really have no patience for these beauty products that require sitting and waiting.

That's all I did. It's already 6PM. Nine to six -- a full-working day for most and that's all I did. I love the lavish amount of time I have now and the sinfully luxurious way I spend it. (But this joy in the abundance of time won't last long. I'll get itchy for activity again and overcommit myself.)

Know Thy Enemy

2006-04-27T21:03:00.000+08:00

I fear the day my sister finds a boyfriend. Just like what she is already experiencing from me, I'd get less of her. Her boyfriend would be my enemy -- at least in terms of getting her attention, and if he makes her cry.

She said she likes Malaysian guys (from whatever interactions she has had with Malaysian scholars I believe).

Over dinner in hall with a bunch of nice wholesome Malaysian boys one evening last week, I picked one out and told him I'd like him to meet my sister. Sean's a really pleasant fellow. He's got this SNAG element. In a our group conversations, he seems to always be the most respectful one and he treats me with all seriousness (even at this half-joke). He is actually looking forward to meeting my sister. Hahaha! He is serious, but he isn't desperate. I like that about him.

Yes, I am possibly hastening the pace of my sister getting hitched into some relationship, but at least I know my enemy... (=

Sugardaddy Me?

2006-03-15T11:00:00.000+08:00

I'm hitting my 21st year of existence in 10 days time..

In case you feel obliged (be it lovingly and dotingly, if you're a chee-ko-pek who happened to enter my blog, or simply because you know I expect you to know it's my birthday), I shall hlep to make things easier for you nice people. ;p Here's a simple What-You-Can-Get-Me List:

1) Fruits that I don't usually buy for myself:
- Cherries
- Strawberries
- Mangoes
- Peaches
- Cranberries

2) Big haversack for school to throw in my Malay dictionary, files, water bottle, tissue packets, a snack, notes, swimming costume and towel (oh wait, I just bought that for myself last weekend)

3) A manicure voucher (I just want someone to help me clear my cuticles.. I don't know how to do it myself. Don't quite need the full colour and polishing package)

4) Movie vouchers (that's one thing I surely won't throw away :)

5) Scotts Toilet Rolls (the kind with the flower embossments on them) - Currently I use whatever my Dad steals from hotels, ships and planes. I love tissues that treat skin like the most delicate thing in the world.. even if it's the skin on my ass..

6) A non-fabric wrist support pad for my (computer) mouse (the one I bought in China is leaking water, but plugged temporarily by bluetack)

7) Bluetack that isn't blue (I am a sucker for colours)

8) T-shirts that I can go braless in when I am bumming in my hostel room..

9) Shorts (I only have FBTs now)

10) An eyeliner - I don't quite see the need for one yet, but I had a bit of fun with it during production and I won't mind a new toy

11) A set of neat ring binder files to file the coming-of-age important documents that come my way (e.g. insurance statements, bank statements, CPF statements, university documents, certificates, letters to and from important possibly-life-changing organisations, letters from special people etc.)

12) ONE below-$20 middle-size soft toy (approximately the 3/4 the size of an infant), preferbly with limbs so I can imagine it to be my baby, non-furry (it's scary what that synthetic fur can trap), the Mogu-imitation kind of texture would be nice.. I just need one fellow for my bed.

Aiya.. very practical and affordable stuff lah... I am a very easy to please girl. (= Will update the list if I think of more...

By the way, If you're really a sugar daddy:

1) a 15" LCD monitor for my desktop in hostel

2) a bicycle with good suspension and crotch support

3) a pair of tickets to "Grease"

4) a supplementary credit card

Old Memories

2006-02-22T20:55:00.000+08:00

Oh guys, I'm feeling so lonely here in hostel. I can't believe I stupidly dragged myself here, waking up at 6AM this morning to hitch a ride to hall, in spite of the fact that it's the one-week mid-term break now and hall is a dead place. And my threshold for loneliness is almost non-existent.

I had both lunch and dinner alone today. Ahh!! That's torturous. I can't believe I actually ta-powed dinner up today, watched BBC on my PC and ate my nasi briyani. I feel so alone here.

It seems to be a trend. Being part of a production never fails to make me feel so lonely all over again. I always thought it was because I had a small role, but no, it's really just me. Even playing the star in this show did not socialise me. I am just plain anti-social when it comes to these rara events. By the last few days of production, I was feeling so lonely in the dressing room as everyone went around taking photos and playing cards. I don't know what inhibits me from joining the reverie. Perhaps it is a lack of meaningful relationships.

Anyway, I was looking through some old photos and guess what? Look at what I unearthed!

2004: The Necessary Stage's Theatre For Youth Ensemble M1 Youth Connection "Secrets From My Room" with Chong Tze Chien (who has gone on to a better life with The Finger Players)

3 layers of latex on my face to achieve this aged effect.

In the end, I did not join the old team, but became the smooth moon-face with the environmentally-unfriendly tonne of white hairspray.

Look! This is the one photo I am most excited about.

Looking at who was there with me on my 19th birthday and performance in 2004 and comparing it with those who came again for my show 2 years later. Mike, Michelle, Tengren, Hongsheng, Gracie (albeit from afar this time), Sweets, my dear sister and Mum!

Production's Over!

2006-02-20T14:34:00.000+08:00

I can't believe it. It's finally over. It's really over.

2.5 months of intensive rehearsals,

Late nights & missing hall breakfasts,

Falling in love all over again,

making out, kissing and slapping,

Learning to play a woman & a girl (my first truly feminine role),

getting hurt by people,

but seeing the beauty of many others,

growing in myself,

cold stays in the UCC (University Cultural Centre),

heavy make-up, killer hairspray and mic-up,

2 Nights @ the UCC with more than 40 close friends and relatives who made me matter,

Mum & her Aunty gang,

Cui's unceasing support,

flowers,

cards,

chocolates,

late-night supper,

Ly delivering Vitagen, a superb egg-mayo sandwich & transporting me,

lesions on my chest from the repeated application & removal of double-sided tape (to prevent me from zhao-genging).

Some photos. I didn't take many. I intend to go kapo photos from everyone else in production. Photos of friends and family who came are on film, and aren't developed yet.

This update entry is specially for you, Gracie. Thanks for your support even though you're so far away in Long Island.

Publicity Poster @ The Arts Canteen

2 weeks before Production dates

The Girls of the Pearl & their Hum-Sup Patrons

Thank you everyone who made the effort to come. Your presence really means the world to me. You made production meaningful and worthwhile. Thank you for showing me that I matter to you.

Berwine and Chelsea - You've been with me since my first performance in 1999..

Yi Ting - I can't believe you're still with me after all these years. Thank you Ting for making the effort to keep in touch and to keep a place in your heart for me.. mMuack!

Michelle, Mike & Tengren - I can really count on you guys! Even after coming for my awful performance with The Necessary Stage in March 2005, you guys still have faith!

Justin - Yes, despite all...

Yes, there are others too, but they don't visit my blog so I've found other means to thank them. ;p

More photos..

2006-02-20T14:30:00.000+08:00

The ensemble girls. Look at the black band round Lishi's (in cobalt blue) thigh. That's the mic receiver (I don't know the exact technical jargon for it). While mine was strapped around my waist, the ensemble girls decided to put theirs around their thighs. I thought it looked like a great alternative to the garters that we couldn't afford to buy.

This is Sebestian, who plays Jing, my love interest. He apparently wasn't too keen on posing with me. Nevertheless, this is the only image I have of him, besides the ubiquitous posters. This was taken on the first night. Our hair wasn't done in the most flattering way. I looked like a drowned sotong with my thin hair plastered down my egg-shaped head.

A slightly better shot. This was my hairdo for the 2nd night. Next to me is Elvin, who plays the comedic pimp and close friend to my character, En.

"Memories of A Red Autumn" Memorabilia: 2 publicity posters, the programme, a sweet letter from my sister with a hand-made badge "Wei the Star", a card and chocolates from Grace, another sweetie levelmate, and her boyfriend, flowers in the background..

What's Been Keeping Me

2006-01-15T15:45:00.000+08:00

Hi Everyone!

It's been about 3 months since I updated this blog. This is what has been keeping through the whole of December and all the way till mid-Feb.

I personally think it's a most unflattering photo of me, but regardless of how I feel, it's probably going to be splashed on pillars and noticeboards campus-wide in a week or two's time.

I'm happier now (compared to my last entry). I know I shoudn't have left that entry being the greeting one for the last 3 months. Such a misguided impression of my life. I apologise. My life at this point is fairly exciting. I am doing what I love.

Rehearsals with the instrumentalist.. working with the vocal coach..

The photos on the link aren't great. Really. Taking them past 2AM after a full night of rehearsals is very visually unflattering.

The Blah Entry

2005-09-28T19:40:00.000+08:00

I am feeling totally lost. I don't know what to do. This unprecedented state of mind came immediately after I completed a bad day of mid-term tests (I had a Sociology essay and French test, along with a Philosophy paper due today). I believe I screwed them all up, but I have decided not to think about them and upset myself.

I feel so stupid. I should just get married, believe my husband when he says I'm clever, have lots of babies, and be one sexy mummy with her prenatal figure by the time my child hits his first year (I want daughters, but I suspect God will give me sons).

I want to do things that I thought I wanted to do while in the midst of preparing for this mid-term. But now that they are almost over, I don't know what I want to do anymore. Do I want to watch TV? Read the papers? Go to the movies? Chat online? Clean my room? Talk to everyone on my floor?

I don't know. I just don't feel like doing anything.

This has got to be the most spontaneous blog entry. I am writing it as instantaneously as these thoughts enter my mind. It's a mindless and trivial blog entry, what many bloggers write anyway.

I didn't feel like eating dinner today, so I exchanged my dinner coupon for 4 apples. I know if I don't eat dinner, I will get hungry later. But I didn't feel force-feeding myself at dinner. I forced-fed myself 3 times today simply for the same reason -- that if I didn't eat at that point, I would eventually be hungry and by that time, I won't be able to have access to food because I'm either sitting for my French or Soci test.

I don't like how I'm writing. I don't like seeing myself use "don't" instead of "do not". I don't like seeing my writing with "But's" as the first word of my sentences.

This is just reflective of my unprecedented mood. I just don't know what to do with myself. I have one last Malay test to study for tonight, but I can't bring myself to lift a productive finger.

I auditioned and got into hall production, but I'm not excited. I wish I was.

I'm talking too much and I don't like it.

I don't know what to do with myself.

My Hostel

2005-09-26T11:00:00.000+08:00

This is how my the new K ent R idge Hall looks like. This is actually a photo of S heares Hall -- that's what my block toilet overlooks, but the two halls look the same anyway. Rather condo-like right? Nice.. :)

The corridor on my level..

I just realised I shouldn't put this photo up. It completely reveals where I live, but at the point that I am writing this, I am having my period and feeling both irrational and insensitive to logic.

This is how my cosy room looks like. I love the blue board. My rubbish bin is a big good-quality paper bag with a yellow plastic bag in it.

What I wear to bed (I had not got my blanket yet, so this was the best I could do when I went to sleep):

Finally, the life of my room.. :)
I was absolutely ecstatic when I had guestS in my new weekday home! It was a great house-warming with 6 of us cramped in my room.

Pak-Tor-ing @ MacRitchie

2005-07-20T17:00:00.000+08:00

Ly, who wisely decided to complete his last 3 months of National Service during this university break before going on to his fourth and final year at NIE, cleared his leave last week and we went for a nature date @ MacRitchie. Our purpose in making the journey there was to see the newly-opened and recently-hyped-about Treetop Walk -- a suspension kind of bridge in the canopy of MacRitchie.

Typical of me, I started our journey by feeding us plums.

(Yes, not the most glamourous shots of the two of us, but I guarantee you we are as sweet as the plums.)

See what I mean?

I have only been to MacRitchie briefly once in my life for a torturous "cross-country" run while in JC that left me barely conscious to take in my surroundings. So here I am, finding everything I see, brand new.

The dam!

A boat in the middle of the reservoir!

Big Terrapin!

We begin on our trail...

So Singaporean -- before you enter the sacred ground, the welcoming signboard warns the obedient people that thou shalt not commit the act of.. blah blah blah (x4)..

Walk, walk, walk.. But here are some of the highlights of the 5km walk there (don't forget that meant +5km walk back too).

Check out this plant's defence system.. I bet this is a female plant..

Fungified leaf

Funky fushroom -- It looks like fungi growing on fungi

Peculiar leaves - like paper cut-outs..

Digitally-enhanced, but this really is the work of nature. (Click for enlargement) The three twines/air roots/branches/whatever actually meet together to form a Mercedes logo!

I would not have dared to get this close to the yellow bug. My Olympus camera's zoom is deceptive.

After about 2 hours of mundane trekking, we finally arrived at what seemed like the entrance of the much-awaited and much-sweated-for Treetop Walk. As you can see, I was rather exhausted by this point. The final stretch had been an unpleasant uphill climb.

The friendly Treetop man.

Tadaa!

I've conquered the bridge! Yey!!!

Can you see the depth? (Actually, it's not that fascinating lah, quite disappointing actually.)

Gotcha! Digitally-enhanced, or rather digitally-transformed photo of an ugly and badly-taken tree:

A PRC helped us take our one and only photo together (without the close-up-ness of self-holding the camera).

All sweaty and really gross-looking, we ended the trip (halfway at least) the same way we started it -- with another bite. Ly had lovingly prepared these egg-tomato sandwiches prior to our venture. The white squares on my face are the censored portions where I had gotten my mayonaise all over. Embarassing. Ly didn't tell me I had those tell-tale spots of my greed -- he must have been too tired to give me another romantic gaze I guess (but frankly, I'm in a mess here).

For the background details, we really were a soft and pathetic pair (or perhaps I had influenced him to pamper me). For starters, Ly had driven us to MacRitchie in cool air-con luxury. We thought we were having a good workout trekking up and panting, but two groups of retirees overtook us with ease while we advanced towards the goal. After we emerged triumphant (and beaten) from the Treetop trail, we took a degrading shortcut. Instead of returning the same way we came, we walked about half a kilometre to Singapore Something Country Club and called for a cab which took us in comfort to where Ly had parked his Mazda.

Nevertheless, this was the first time I had been on a nature trek, just with my Sweetheart. It was really quite romantic actually... I kept ranting about how happy I was through the 3 hours we were there. I had never quite been alone with him and doing something. If it was a movie, shopping, strolling, cycling, badmintoning or eating, there always were people of the public around.

Hence, the conclusion of the matter (of this long blog entry): This double date with Ly and nature was thoroughly fulfilling. :)

Peanuts

2005-07-20T15:00:00.000+08:00

I am not sure if it is the landed property edge that Ly has and I do not, that has Singapore Press Holdings sending him Today along with his copy of The Straits Times while I get my Straits Times -- period.

Anyway, for those who are deprived of the tabloid paper (because you don't have Today delivered to your doorstep, or you don't join the early morning MRT rush where you can pick up your free copy in the yellow stand), you probably would have missed this NKF saga article by mr brown, a very famous non-adolescent blogger by now.

Presenting the Mr Brown Fund.

By the way, speaking of NKF & the peanuts comment, I thought Mr Goh Chok Tong was really loving (although somewhat patronising) when he defended Mrs Goh Chok Tong.

Senior Minister Goh Chok Tong said his wife, who is the former patron of NKF, regretted saying that the charity's ex-CEO Mr TT Durai's annual pay package of some S$600,000 was "peanuts".
Mr Goh spoke to the media about the issue at a school celebration on Saturday.
Mrs Goh's remark on Mr Durai's annual salary on Tuesday raised many eyebrows and upset many more.
Senior Minister Goh said his wife now regretted making that comment.
He added: "When she told me what she said at home, I told her immediately, you're in trouble. There'll be negative reaction and sure enough the next day, Singaporeans reacted generally quite critically to her remarks and it's understandable because NKF is a charity and Singaporeans contribute to the NKF and they don't earn much."
Mr Goh added that he shared the public's sentiments and showed Mrs Goh several emails and letters he had received about her remarks.
Mr Goh said: "To educate her I showed her the letters and emails and now I think she understands better what she said was not quite in order but she explains why she said it. She told me that she was thinking of the organisation, she said that if you look at the organisation, the right person must be paid the right wage, but of course she put it across that way, the rest is history."

Nevertheless, Ah Goh is still my man.

Outgoing & Sociable, But Alone

2005-07-04T22:00:00.000+08:00

A guy from Arts Orientation Camp rang me up late one night. I enjoyed chatting with him till he found out I was attached at which point he said, "Oh my gosh, I feel so embarrassed now."

I laughed. I did not think there was anything to be embarrassed about, but apparently I could hear him turn pink over the phone. Anyway, we continued talking until I eventually succumbed to fatigue. His parting line was, "Wow, my impression of you has changed over this phone call."

Of course, taking the cue, I probed further.

" I thought you were very wild -- ok, let me rephrase that -- outgoing, but after tonight, I am wondering which convent you came from. You're quite scary actually."

Basically, I feel so different from all my peers. I have not found any one within 5 years of my age who has thought/is thinking of settling down.

I am quite sure that those of you reading this also do not share my sentiments.

Yes, I want to settle down young. I want to have 2 kids before I hit 30; the final number being three. I cannot wait to build up my nest, shop for furniture from IKEA, make sure my dear husband does not allow our home to turn into a dumping yard, laze around on Sunday afternoon after church in our air-con master room with the curtains drawn and him leaning over me as we read some lifestyle magazine together then have afternoon weekend sex before he takes us out for supermarket shopping in the evening.

I want to tender my resignation, or at least long-term no-pay-leave application when my babies arrive. I want to plan our dinner menu, try to master boiling some soup favourites, get rid of my fear of peeling prawns (their legs remind me of cockroaches -- the sea version), be rid of my strong hesitance to fry fish and dirty the kitchen, cook for my husband, sing hymns to my children..

I do not understand why I feel these urges so strongly raging within me while on the other hand, I have peers swearing that they will not get married till at least 30 so they can experience life in her full glory first. I shan't go down to being moralistic, self-righteous or the last bit trend-analysing. Whichever is the "right" feeling to feel at this age, why is it I don't conform with the mindset of the rest? Have I been a hermit, an anti-social recluse, a radical, living in my own bubble, socially insensitive all this while? Did I grow up in a different air? Or is it simply because I have found The One? The One whom I can plan and imagine living that life with?

This is what makes me feel so set apart from my peers. This issue crops up (again) because I am entering a new social phase of my life. I am possibly going to be staying in hostel, full of promiscuous young adults, wild and free, unbounded by an relationship of plans for the future. I am going to be interacting once again with people my age (a year teaching at a government school did not leave me with many friendly social engages with the like-age). I tremble with eager anticipation at returning to young life, yet a tad fearful that I won't find a group who can accept me the way I am, or a group I can accept.

Please, if there is even one person who shares my
sentiments,
please sound yourself out,
let me hear you and take comfort
that I am not alone.

If there aren't any, then lend me some words of consolation, assurance that I will find my place in university among real friends despite who I am.

An Assortment of Photos From Long Ago

2005-07-01T15:00:00.000+08:00

See what I got from the Great Singapore Sale! 5 tubs of Body Butter in assorted flavours for my year's supply till the next Great Singapore Sale. I love Body Butter. I have not found anything better than it so far. Yes, it's sticky and all, but it lasts for about 2 days each time I apply it. Originally $24.90, I manage to buy each at only $10.90. On top of that, I even got a $10 Body Shop cash voucher, no strings attached. I've been really waiting for my favourite product to go on sale since last year. Hee... Now you see the shopping girl in me.

Can you remember my Bu Dao Ong clock? I smashed it to smitherins by accident one day. =( Anyway, there's something interesting in the background of this photo too -- my Old Chang Kee currypuff! I absolutely love these... When I am out at Bugis or Tampines, I'll make sure I get my dose for breakfast (microwave, then gently toasted to regain that crispy crust), but usually end up eating half of it before the next morning.

I have been intending to put this photo up for ages. This was taken somewhere during the rainy season this year. That's more than a couple of months ago. Anyway, this is the longkang view from my bedroom. The tree with bright orange leaves just stood out so beautifully. My camera could not catch the full beauty of this scene. About a week later, the leaves fell and fresh bright green leaves sprouted.. absolutely lovely. Fall and Spring in Bedok Reservoir. (=

Please click for enlargement. I wanted to put this up 6 months ago, after my Penang trip. I caught this sleazy Classifieds page off the local newspapers.

Torture Device 2005(beta) Edition

2005-06-07T13:00:00.000+08:00

My poor 16-year-old sister has just had this torture contraption installed into her mouth. Apparently, her jaw is too narrow and that is affecting her spine. (I don't know how those two are related.)

On a daily basis, she will insert a thin metal tool to turn the screw which is right in the middle on the contraption) in order to increase the width of the metal device. Yes, it does hurt. Each round she turns the screw, her jaw gets pushed apart a quarter of a millimetre.

She sounds like Darth Vader when she tries to suck out the food that gets stuck in between the contraption and her upper palete.

Everybody say "Aw!'

School

2005-05-13T18:30:00.000+08:00

I'm feeling happy.

Before I left school on this lovely Friday, I cleared my work, my backlog of marking (most of at it at least) and my bowels.

The Semestral Assessment has just ended with me not having been assigned any marking, so you bet it has been a real good break this week for me. I spend half the day from Monday to Wednesday stoning while looking fierce invigilating examinations.

There's a ghost in my school. I am quite certain of it because I don't think Primary 2's can coordinate a lie well.

During recess, a number of P2's went to an uluated toilet on the fourth level. When they returned, they were all raving about the ghost. After the excitement and brahaha, I finally got the girls who actually saw the ghost to stand up. I had three of those girls -- innocent and reliable girls who gave the same account of the apparition.

"Got long hair.

"Don't know whether boy or girl."

"Stand like a ghost. (and agreed when I made a jiang-xi pose)"

"Got blood from the side of the heads (pointing towards somewhere slightly below the temples)

I told them, just as a teacher is supposed to, that they shouldn't have been on the 4th floor in the first place, especially during recess. Then I told them not to talk about it anymore and not to spread the rumours. I quickly changed the point of interest and returned their Mathematics examination papers. But to be frank, my hair stood on their ends as the girls related the experience.

Later, my serious, no-nonsense collegue seated next to me talked about how she questioned another two girls from another P2 class about a similar encounter. The description given by the pale girls was:

shoulder-length hair, bulging eyeballs, blood coming from the eyes, it flew and finally..
"don't know whether it's a boy or woman"

I am normally not a believer in these supernatural things, but how can I not believe these girls?

As I am typing this blog, I just realised it's Friday the 13th.

Playing In The Rain

2005-05-05T16:30:00.000+08:00

I was caught umbrellaless when a mini storm came; heavy rain, but not enough to give me 100% pleasure.

Anyway, I didn't want to be stranded at the bus-stop without an umbrella and being so near yet so far from home. So I garang-garangly sacrificed my own bag and put it on top of my Watson's $2 fabric briefcase which contained an endless supply of marking material.. and dashed across the road.

After that life-endangering stunt, I decided I should stroll because I was beginning to enjoy the rain on me. My happy 'disburdening' walk was pleasantly interrupted by a girl who offerred to share her umbrella. (Apparently, she is a teacher too.) I politely told her that she can just drop me off at the nearest block, afterwhich I can take the underground tunnel which happens to house cars. Thankfully she obliged.

As I continued my journey in the rain, but hoping Miss Kind Umbrella Teacher would not see me, I was beginning to wonder why I had previously been so afraid of the rain. While holding an umbrella, I would try to physically shrink to prevent the acid rain from touching me. Today, I embraced the heavenly water/water that comes from above boldly and lovingly.

After dumping my things at home, I decided I should go out again and take in the rain.

I went down, half-drenched already, and chose a seat on the sit-up equipment at the fitness corner. I put my legs up, in spite of my skirt, and watched the rain gently falling on my skin. For a brief moment, I could have mistaken my skin for plastic. I realised then why our skin needs to be waterproof. Imagine how Spongebob would do his 2.4km in the rain. He'd get heavier and soggier.. haha.. Wait, that doesn't quite make sense. Isn't he already soaking in water in the sea? Ah.. whatever.

I am just annoyed by my 2.5h stay at Tan Tock Seng Hospital today which was unnecessary but resultant of an inflexible administration/payment counter. Nevermind me... blah Blah BLAH!

My bra is soaking wet; my tiny protrusions swimming about uncomfortably in it.

NTU Discretionary Interview

2005-04-27T19:01:00.000+08:00

I went for an interview with NTU a couple of weeks ago. It was a discretionary admissions interview (I applied through drama -- my stint at The Necessary Stage. (Can you believe the interview was on a Sunday?)

Those bespectacled professors asked me about theatre, teaching, psychology, theatre and teaching, teaching and psychology, psychology and theatre and Kuo Pao Kun.
"Tell us, how much do you know about Kuo Pao Kun?"

"Hm.. He wrote 'The Coffin Is Too Big For The Hole', 'No Parking On Odd Days'... And he's dead."

Although I looked about five times more confident than the other contenders, I think I flopped it.

The Birthday Gift Flown All The Way From New York!

2005-04-19T22:30:00.000+08:00

Very unglamourous pictures of me right after my shower. This is what Gracie Baby (a naughty girl who's closer to my sister's age than mine..) sent me for my birthday all the way from Long Island. I love packages! (=

Opening it...... Really excited...

Taking a peek!

Tadaa!!! A two-piece! Trust kinky and naughty Grace to send me this!

Hi Grace! Thankew!!!

Hmm... Do you think Ly will like it?

My breastless breast.

Dare I put the last one up? It's me clad in the tiny pieces of material.. hahahaa... probably not!

I almost forgot my blog username and password.

2005-04-10T23:30:00.000+08:00

I have just finished reading last Sunday's Lifestyle.
Those papers had been sitting on my table for an entire week. (Sunday papers are a must-read for me.)

I keep thinking that and expecting the next week to be a better week than the one before.
The parents-teachers meeting where I had student portfolios and comments to write took place the last two Saturdays (so much for the 5-day week). The upper ranks of my school think that Howard Gardner's 8 intelligences theory is an innovative format to base our comments on each child on. They have dreams to show this never-done-before idea during the annual congregation of MOE schools at Suntec. The main point is I had to write about all my 33 children's 8 different intelligences -- whether they have them or not. The 8 intelligences are:
1) Verbal/Linguistic i.e. English oral and written
2) Mathematical/Logical i.e. aptitude for Maths and ability to reason
3) Visual/Spacial i.e. I easily commented on their Art for this one
4) Musical/Rhythmic i.e. Tone-deaf or not
5) Kinesthetic i.e. Can run and bounce a ball? Walks about and figits in class?
6) Interpersonal i.e. Getting along with friends and teachers
7) Intrapersonal i.e. Self-confidence? Self-reflection?
8) Naturalist This beats me too. So far, I've shallowly and in desperation limited my comments to the child's interest in nature and care for her environment, although I'm sure it is more than just that.

The UpperLevel wants to have every single bubble filled because it is believed that all children have all 8 intelligences, even if it is to varying degrees (e.g. negligible). I have been told to write comments positively and am banned from writing "Not observable" in any section.

Can you imagine how difficult this is: to observe 33 kids through the term, document your observations, to have every section filled (it is akin to squeezing blood out of a dry rock) and euphemistically and politically-correctly phrase my not-necessarily-accurate observations. Now you know why those letters have been going to the press about the strain of teaching.

I love the kids; I love teaching. It is what happens after the dismissal bell rings that taxes me.

I promise to resurrect my blog properly. Expect more (I'm putting on pressure on myself to deliver..) pictures too. Hopefully some naughty ones can get published..

The Shoe Salesman Who Swept Me Off My Feet

2005-02-07T21:30:00.000+08:00

I just got a new pair of New Balance shoes from the Parkway World of Sports branch.

The design, make and comfort of the shoes is not as important as the man who led me to buy it.

I'm so happy with his service -- professional, non-obliging, not too friendly, very helpful and oblivious to his existence as a big help.

I was so happy I wanted to buy him flowers.

His name is Victor. He is tall and not that handsome, but decent-looking. Quite a nerd actually, but his service was pleasurable to me...

I have come to realise that good-looking guys don't appeal to me as much as the male machoness of an average-looking Joe. I find a man's pair of hands on a steering wheel absolutely sexy. I get a big kick from seeing men at work, especially of the physically labourious nature. I love to observe men concentrate as they make decisions -- that process where they take charge and are fully aware of the responsibilities entrusted to them. I think men who are in their late twenties or thirties have an attractive charm about them that comes with age, which is most of the time indicative of the cumulation of wisdom from their life experiences.

Am I some sick pervert? I love men.

2005-01-30T18:41:00.000+08:00

The bu4-dao3-ong1 clock.

The pretty box.

And the metal case, a very simple, but original gift, and very much appreciated with its sincerity and amusement.

My Belated Update On Xmas 2004 & School (Teaching)

2005-01-30T18:30:00.001+08:00

Ok, not really Christmas in its entirety, but the gift highlights I loved. Thank you to all my church friends for your gifts. I think we should continue to do this -- to feel obligated to go gift-shopping during the festive period for each other. I was worrying my head off about what to get for everyone and I almost hated the feeling, but at the end of the day, I loved seeing faces lighting up when they receive a little parcel. (= I must never get too old for Christmas presents (both giving and receiving).

Here's a bu4-dao3-ong1 basketball see-through clock that my sister got for me. I have plonked it on my teacher's desk to help me keep track of the end of recess (10:25Am) where I have to stop my marking in the comforts of the air-con staff room and go out to get my Primary 2 class in line before I walk them up to our second floor classroom.

A gift box from Desmond! It contained a black T-shirt (Desmond got a few of us the same T-shirt, but in different colours) that was a tad too small, but nevertheless, I love the box! I love boxes.

And from a darling Ren, a Tweety metallic pencil-case containing 4 whiteboard markers and a very personalised handwritten note. I have been carrying this in a basket that I bring everywhere I go in school. Guess what I put inside them? Markers, of course! Ren had mentioned in that note that he was inspired to get me this gift because he had a school teacher who carried a similar metal container around for lessons (he must have really liked that teacher).

There was a CCA Carnival -- well, sort of. I was in-charged of the Drama display. The other teacher-in-charge came up with face-paint as an easy and quick way out of planning some elaborate dramatic display (which was near impossible to achieve given that we were only 2 weeks into the new year of school and no CCA had official started). Although all the students were allowed to roam around freely to explore all CCAs in the different venues, the majority of my Primary 2 babies stayed with me in the AVA room and enjoyed the face-painting. I tried to offer a hand. I had completely no prior experience using face-paint. Taking an easy way out, I shouted, "Who wants to be an Incredible?"
Not too surprisingly, I had 3 willing and eager girls who allowed me to smudge black stuff around their eyes.
The second Haiggy in this line-up is a Channel 8 actress. She stars in the 9PM show, "My Lucky Charm" as Chew Chor Meng's character's daughter.

I was forced to resurrect my sad art skills when all Primary 3 art teachers were entrusted the task of getting a life-size doll up for the school's coming arts festival (themed: "Dolls On Wheels" -- basically art forms from all over the world). Who would expect Primary 3s to produce a head for the wire-mesh cone-structure skeleton that we were all provided with? Thus, the teacher has no choice but to do a quick one or face the consequences of going tardy on the deadline.
Any woman will know that this botak doll head's artist has absolutely close to zero experience with applying make-up.

A Blood-Sucking Experience

2005-01-06T22:15:00.000+08:00

I cannot believe I cried uncontrollably today when the petite and benign-looking nurse of Tan Tock Seng was extracting my blood for my thyroid blood test.

I don't recall having ever cried because of a needle before. I believe it was her fault for not propping my arm in the correct position prior to piercing my skin, hence creating the tension in my muscles which prevented the blood from flowing freely. When she the needle drew little blood, she pulled the vacuum syringe harder and readjusted the direction and depth of the needle while it was still in my skin. I bet I have multiple punctures in that single vein now.

I had decided to play it brave today and face the needle as it punctured my skin (I usually don't look until I know the needle is well inside and the blood is flowing satisfactorily into the hungry vacuum syringe). Although I had some premonition that I would regret witnessing the skin-bursting process, I paid no heed to my natural psychological logic.

When she drew tears instead of blood, she decided to try my other arm. Even as she was working on my other arm, the previous trauma was too great and my tears persisted. I was sobbing like a self-pitying child.

It was awful. My eyes and nose were all red. There was I in my teaching/working clothes and crying over a needle while three children half my height were playing just outside of the open room I was in.

The nurse consoled me, gave me two super-strong serviettes to soak my tears and consoled me again. Her pacifying consolation tone only made me cry even more. It made me feel so child-like and vulnerable. She suggested that I remained in her room for another 5-10 minutes to calm myself down first -- an offer I gladly accepted since I didn't want to walk out into the waiting area with two plasters on my arms and an obviously post-crying face.

First To BATA, Then To School

2004-12-31T23:59:00.000+08:00

It's the last day of the year. In the new year, I shall be back to the same school, but with a brand new class to call my own.

Humans exchange the better part of their life for the dream to indulge their thereafter beaten bodies in the seemingly-well-deserved material luxuries.

Yet thankfully, there are some who seek justification for celebration and partying – such as the eves of Christmas or New Year’s Day. The eves have the greatest people-gathering, adrenalin-fuelling and according to the papers today, hormone-energizing effect because of that celebrated countdown from one moment to the next which seems oh so significant because the first second of the following day has been made special to the people both by tradition and commerce.

Sans the cynicism, I rejoice in the existence of a New Year’s Day. A holiday is a great way to open a new year. I suppose we all need markings in time. The title “new year” pushes for some kind of new beginning: whether it be a financial one (e.g. fiscal year, paying the year’s income tax, annual insurance premiums etc.), a new year by status (e.g. going from Primary 1 to 2) or usually more significantly, an occasion for reflection on the past 12 months and a reason to embark on what should have been done in the instant the decision to have it done was made. (e.g. it doesn’t take a new year to allow someone to discard rotten habits).
The concept of having “new” year resolutions is necessary to humans. It is something like religion. I think it was Nietzsche or one of those wise guys who said, “If there wasn’t a God, it would be necessary to create one.”

Anyway, I don’t have any. Actually I do have one, but it is too embarrassing and private to discuss openly. Come to think of it, though I say I don’t have any new year resolutions, in actual fact I do have some inkling of it. While I don’t have my list in black and white, or even a semblance of a single resolution in my head, I have unwittingly joined the human masses in celebrating a new beginning, albeit quietly.

It's the last day of the year. In the new year, I shall be back to the same
school, but with a brand new class to call my own.

Penang - Food, Shopping & A Wedding

2004-12-17T18:00:00.000+08:00

I apologise for having appeared to be on a blog vacation for so long. During the month of December, I was in 3 different parts of Malaysia in 3 separate trips for 3 different reasons. The first trip to KL was strictly for retail therapy, the next one to Kulai (somewhere off Johor) was for my church's family retreat and the final one to Penang (a turtle-shape island) was for my cousin's wedding.

In between the 3 trips were a couple of weekdays which I spent unpacking and rushing the clothes for wash, repacking, vacuuming and mopping the week's worth of dirt and grime on the floor and catching up with Ly (for the two trips he wasn't with me).

I think I've chased away my readers with my unbecoming long lulls of inactivity. Come back, come back! I finally have something blogworthy.

I hope these photos don't take forever to load. I was at Xiaxue's blog and half her photos did not appear on my screen even after 5 minutes.

I am feeling insecure. I can't quite remember how to write anymore. Being out of school (as a student) for too long has made my writing and analytical skills take a backseat. Having a routine life once again in school (now teaching) doesn't give me very much to talk about either. Having a steady boyfriend whom I, with all my heart, think I'm going to marry (a very embarrassing happy-ever-after dream) doesn't give me crushes, flings, all-girl wild parties and boredom to talk about either. I feel like I've settled down to soon. Ah, what am I blabbering about? I'll be back studying in no time. July 2005 to be precise, at NIE -- on the same campus with my baby. Somehow, that previous statement just doesn't sound me. Ahh.. Identity crisis!

Anyway, back to Penang.

Like all trips overseas, the story must begin with some journey to the destination (whether by way of air, road, sea or imagination). Did I mention I love plane rides? However, I only have a penchant for the short (preferbly about 4 hours) ones. These short journeys give me enough time to enjoy the take-off, half an hour to reminisce the take-off, another half hour to acknowledge and appreciate the constraints of the aeroplane, a couple of hours to enjoy one in-flight movie (usually the airlines offer a recently released movie -- that saves me $8.50/7.50/6.50), a cumulative half hour to enjoy the sanitary provisions of the small toilet cubicles playing with the loud vacuum flush, using the "Specially packaged for _______ Airlines" moisturiser and aftershave and finding the secret catch to open the cabinet holding the extra sanitary pad and facial tissue supplies.

Where was I? Oh yes, So here's the pictorial representation of my descend onto the turtle-shape island of Penang. The centre of the island, which is hilly, is so filled with dense vegetation that from the bird's eye view that I had, Penang looked like a giant broccoli on a sand-coloured plate.

My sister finally persuaded my Mum to let us go on the trishaw while Grandma (Mama), Grandma's Sis (E-Poh) and Mum (Mum) took a taxi to one of our shopping destinations (shopping was just by the way for this Penang trip, although we did spend more than RM2000 on shopping alone).

It appears that every Malaysian taxi I have seen has the driver's name displayed on the external body of the vehicle.
When we went to a taxi stand and asked the driver (who was relaxing outside his car) who was to our greatest geographical convenience to take us to our destination, I was stunned when he so nicely called another driver to serve us. To me it was either "wow, what laziness" or "wow, what generosity". Apparently, I was wrong on both exclamations.
In Penang, the taxis don't run on meter and taxis don't form a queue. Instead, there's a general fixed price for a trip depending on distance and time (e.g. peak traffic hours) and the taxi drivers themselves queue out of their vehicles. The taxi drivers join a few taxi associations; each association entitles them to pick up passengers from a particular taxi stand. While the taxis can pick passengers off the road, they are not allowed to service passengers from official stands that they are not members of.

Here's the coffeeshop outside our hotel. The drinkstall was very classic Malaysian to me (because that's how I remember the KL coffeeshops look). Have a look at the drinks price board.

You can click on the photo to have it magnified on a separate browser window, wait for it to fully load, then move your mouse about the bottom right corner of the picture to find the magnification tool and click on it.

Our staple food during the four days:

Penang Char Kway Teow: The kway teow here is narrower and softer, while the prawns have a fresh crunch and the taogeh is served in generous portions (versus in Singapore where after much pleading with the hawker for more beansprouts, he grouchily throws in a few skinny strands here)

Penang Hei Mee (Prawn Noodles): This was absolutely fantastic. The small serving of beehoon was doused in a bowl of soup reddish with chilly and prawn stock, but not overly spicy, rich in flavour. They even a have a slice of my favourite food -- egg.

These two dishes were my personal favourites.

Ok, now for the wedding part. My distant cousin (ok, immediate cousin, but geographically and sentimentally far away), Colin and his bride, Ashley (everyone calls her Ju Yan, but she used her christian name probably for aesthetic reasons on the wedding invitation, church wedding programme and at the Shangri-la banquet):

I love her bouquet of flowers. Pretty unique; I'd want that for my own wedding, I thought. But on second thought, my sister and I agreed that if she would to toss her bridal bouquet in the traditional "which-unmarried-maiden-is-going-to-be-next-to-walk-down-the-aisle", the bunch of celery sticks would probably kill that poor maiden before she could say "I do".

Will you believe my tomboy sister wore a skirt -- and pink? Doesn't she look lovely? It was her first time wearing a skirt (other than her school skirt) -- and pink.

The mafia looking scene above comprises of (from left) the groom's sister, Charmaine (affectionately known as Ahchar) , her angmoh husband (now separated on amicable terms), Mark, and the groom's brother, Chris. Charmaine wore a polo T-shirt and jeans to her own brother's wedding, while Mark wore an unsophisticated black vest as he was the cameraman for the wedding. No wonder they weren't offered the church ceremony programme at the entrance.

The wedding dinner at Shangri-la:

(I'm not being narcissistic here, but the photo with the bride and groom at the dinner table refuses to appear on my blog, so the next best feature of the evening is me!)

Mum made me fully get my money's worth on my prom-night gown. I outdressed the bride, who came in a badly-cut bareback black dress which revealed an unsexy beige underwear and a middle-age spread (she's 32 and he's 29). It was quite embarrassing, in my opinion, when the relatives (during the dinner itself and in the next 2 days) expressed their disgust at the bride's choice of an inauspicious black along with an unflattering design and exclaimed in Hokkien, "Wei Wei's dress was prettier than hers!"

Doesn't my sister, for those of you who know her, look a on the prettier and feminine side when dressed up?

E-Poh, Mama and my Malaysian baby-face cousin, Adrian, who is now struggling in Singapore with the bad food (in comparison to Malaysia's quality hawker fare) now so that he can get his bar (some cert which entitles him to practice law in Singapore).

This aunty came late (which is expected from her). She had no time to pose for a photo with the waiter lurking around our table eager to remove this plate to make space for the next. As such, her main priority at this point was to transfer the yummy contents of the cold dish onto her plate before the evil waiter got to it first.

Late aunty's (I mean tardy aunty's) bulky 13-year-old baby experimenting static electricity with the helium-filled balloons he stole from the wedding entrance decorations. This is him rubbing the balloon against his hair. What is not shown is how he went round our table to find out whose hair would get attracted to the balloon's static electricity forces.

Of course, what is a trip all the way to Penang for a ceremonial church wedding and a social obligation of a dinner follow-up without us far-travelling relatives meeting the actual bride and groom? Two days after the wedding, an entourage of Cousin-Babyface's family and mine barged into the home of the parents-of-the-groom's home for tea. Our ringing of the bell was responded to by a very sleepy aunty in the midst of her siesta and housecoat. Anyway, 15 minutes later, the unsuspecting and dazed groom walked into his parent's house (he lives in the unit next door) for tea and became the unfortunate victim of my photo-blogging.

And in tow 5 minutes later was his wife, Ju Yan, whose name her hard-of-hearing father-in-law (visit his hobby Penang website which the Penang tourism board has recently began to fund) still believes to be Joanne.

Now that you have participated in my evil sharing of my family and their horrible side, the wedding narrative has come to an end.

We had three solid days of shopping nevertheless and here's my Mum posing in her new suit in the toilet. She bought a pretty pink blouse and a pair of beaded olive green jeans on the second day of shopping which she bravely wore out on the third.

Penang's airport should be given an award for having the most apt service in an airport -- massage chairs that charge RM2 for $5 of sensual pleasure. Here's my sister digging two RM1 coins for my mother's enjoyment -- she who waits in such eager anticipation for a holiday from the 3 holidays.

A Quick Visual Update On My Life

2004-11-30T17:42:00.000+08:00

My new mini HiFi -- what I've been longing for since SAJC days.
This (the cheapest I could find at $129 @ Harvey Normon) mini comes with a digital tuner, FM alarm (I wake up to the voices of The Flying Dutchman, Rod Monteiro & Glenn Ong every morning) and a better sound system!

I'm growing up... I've got my CPF letter.. Boo hoo hoo! I've barely started adulthood and the government is already planning my retirement funds.. Btw, Check out my funky pair of branded scissors (I bought them on a happy impulse when Ly so willingly driving me to Parkway Parade from school one afternoon)

Look what I won in school! This trophy sure beats the ugly cheap bronze ones I got from my TKGS East Zone competition days... (Btw, no parent turned up)
I wonder if my Mum is proud of me...

Free Lunch Anyone?

2004-11-18T22:00:00.000+08:00

There is a fantastic group of people in the teachers’ staff room that adds to the quality and joy of my experience in this school.

This is the group of Chinese teachers (who happen to be seated all together in the staff room since all the mother tongue teachers are seated according to the languages they teach – which, in my opinion, is so close to Raffles’ style of town planning and inconsistent with today’s racial harmony efforts in Singapore). On an almost weekly basis, the team of Chinese teachers would initiate preparing lunch in the staff lounge. They would take turns cooking plain or pumpkin porridge in a rice cooker (brought by one of them for the day). The rest of the team would contribute add-ons. We have had olive leaves in olive oil (with a wonderful fragrant taste that I was surprised to find myself liking), yong tau foo, chicken, mushrooms, vegetables, pickles and smelly decomposed tofu.

They would always provide for more than themselves, and invite the other teachers to join in. This has become the regular practice, such that there isn’t any standing on ceremony from the non-Chinese teachers, like me. We feel part of this warm community. Whenever we sit and have lunch together in the staff lounge, I feel so lightened and blissfully happy to find such simple and sincere people in my colleagues. In a way, it is very church-like.

I will not say that their small effort goes a long way, simply because this is no small feat. Someone has to bring the rice cooker, buy the rice, wash the rice and set it to cook (amidst the full duties of being a teacher) such that when the bell rings at 1PM and the staff room is re-populated, the porridge is just about done. The lunches are not sponsored by some welfare or fellowshipping board; neither do those who partake of the meal make a monthly contribution to the lunch fund. And at the end of the meal, the team even washes up the common cutlery too.

In the past week, we have also had Hari Raya in the lounge. Our Malay teachers brought their biscuits and kuehs, a lot of which are homemade. They leave Tupperwares of these sweet things on the common table.

There is always food on the table in this school.

The Day I Started A Fashion Trend

2004-11-09T13:30:00.000+08:00

It was a wet and rainy morning. (This is how most unimaginative boys begin their essays -- very into-your-face descriptions.)

The clammy air was heavy and imposing with moisture. Both road and intellectual traffic was slow.

My attire for the school day had no relation to the weather since I, in consideration of my fickle clothes-pickiness and the fact that I the teacher cannot afford to be late for school, inflexibly choose what I am going to wear for school the night before. Thus with the unfortunate non-application of obvious signs that a chilly day lay ahead, I entered the world that lay outside the cosiness of my home, in a sleeveless black blouse.

I draped my cardigan over my rather bare shoulders when I went to class and was greeted with the usual "Yey! Miss Chen!" (contrary to the law of "Familiarity causes a gravitation of enthusiasm towards dull expectation", the girls have not tired of me yet). I wrote something on the board. When I turned around, one of my darlings came up to me and requested that I helped her drape her jacket around her shoulders "like yours, Miss Chen". After I entertained her request, I looked up to find that three other girls, who were blessed with mothers who pack brightly-coloured cartoony jackets into the girls' trolley bags to protect their darlings from the cold morning, had done the same too.

Blogstipation + Depression = BLOGDEPRESTITATION?

2004-10-26T21:30:00.000+08:00

I am depressed. This depression is blog-related; I have had nothing to blog about the last few weeks. Implicatively, that means my life (and what other life do I have besides in teaching?) has no more highlights or “kick”. Do not get me wrong – I am happy when I am teaching, but once outside that, I find no teenage (I am still one right?) thrill. It is as if that wild youngster in me is suddenly, and quite long overdue, rearing its head with a wild sparkle in her eyes, seeking adventure and excitement.

It sounds likes the late-night pubbing, handphone-gossiping, made-up, flighty, irresponsible, unattached Mango-fashion-parading Orchardian that I have never been. In some way, I want to be that carefree young modern girl that I have so much contempt for.

Perhaps I need some young hormone-driven NS-serving boyfriend who challenges me with his ignorant freshness, inexperience in relationships and life in general. In other words, he would drain me emotionally by our constant arguments on his lack of maturity and my domineering superiority. Yet, we would sneak out because my Mum probably would not approve of this youngster as my boyfriend. And because we have to lie and manoeuvre a way just to be with each other, we would appreciate every minute of our time together. The last moment parting at the lift-landing would be of such sweet sorrow. And I would be all giggly pink with and sometimes irritated at the attention he bathes me in. I would never get awfully awfully upset with him because I do not expect much from this boyfriend who probably is still umbilical-cordily dependent on his mother. What a fantasy! So 15-year-old, yet – and hence – so innocently thrilling.

Not that I have much to complain about Ly. He is so grown-up. He is quite an adult in our relationship. We don’t do silly things like misbehaving in public, sneaking a smooch during a movie or even lying to parents. No more cheap thrills with this adult, I guess. This is the price of the steady security I now experience.

My girls keep me happy in school. They really do, but cannot go on blog-eons about my darling girls. There has to be some other thing in my life. Or is this the beginning of the decline of my blogxistence? The papers quote that among the tens of thousands of Singaporean bloggers, the bulk are students. I am not one anymore. It seems that the working life does not offer very much excitement, hence the inclination of the blogging demography towards students.

Here is my little, but worthy-of-mention thrill in the recent weeks:
I have been fully enjoying the facilities of the squat toilet and bidet (the little shower head found next to toilet bowls for the convenient quick rinsing of your liquid/solid/blended-waste-excreting contrivances) in the school’s staff toilet.
Have I mentioned before that I love defecating in the conventional squat position? Ly begs to differ, arguing that the excretor’s intimate proximity with the excreted is a major mood-killer.
Nevertheless, I have not lost any love for the position which so naturally pries my exit point at its widest, allowing for prompt and clean delivery. Another plus is that in the usage of the squatter, the backsplash (of diluted piss and essence of brown waste) that the more popular cousin (the seated toilet bowl) blesses the victim’s bottom with, is unmistakably absent.

Wish List

2004-10-05T22:00:00.000+08:00

A Primary 1 girl wrote me a question on her little white board (every student owns a mini whiteboard, which the teacher uses periodically to get an immediate visual response from the class), “Why do you come to school?”

That was quite a provoking question, I thought. It got me thinking. I was not sure whether she was trying to challenge me, was unsure of my role/purpose in her class (I am co-teaching by the way, but her form teacher still does not quite incorporate me into the actual teaching – old habits die hard, I guess) or was truly questioning me on my reasons for taking up teaching.

My class (or rather, one of my four classes) was made to write/draw a wish list for the coming year. One highly distracted girl submitted a comic strip featuring a girl with a speech bubble going “grrhoor”. When asked what that unpronounceable word was, she made a sucking snorting/snoring sound. She wrote below the comic strip, “I wish I can grrhoor everyday.” Total nonsense, even if taken in the most creative sense. However, after I told her to do up something proper, she changed the sentence to, “I wish my parents were bake (back) together again.”

Another girl, Pearl, wrote, “I wish my P.E. teacher, Mr. Quek, will be my boyfriend.” (By the way, this Mr. Quek is really quite good-looking. He really fits the bill of tall, dark and handsome – the mould of an Outward Bound School instructor.)
Totally amused and curious at the same time, I asked her what does it mean to have a boyfriend. She whispered, “Sleep with him lor.”
For a moment I was taken aback, until I remembered that she, as an 8-year-old, probably only understood that statement in its literal sense (i.e. physically sleeping in his arms or next to him).
In her wish list, she also wrote, “I wish all my close friends in class are my brothers and sisters so we can sleep together.”
I inferred that she must be a very lonely child without the physical affection and assurances that a girl at her age longs for, but does not understand.
Later, she told me in a benign manner that her grandma was half-paralysed and her aunty has to take care of her grandma now. That meant that Pearl had to return to the care of her mother (which apparently was not the common practice). She continued child-likely, “I don’t like living in my Mummy’s house. I always get scolded.”
The specific phrase “Mummy’s house” caught my attention and I further inquired in an effortful manner to be as casual as she was with me, “So where’s your father?”
“Oh, he go back to Tampines to sleep lah,” she replied very matter-of-factly.

I am unsure whether it is more due to the family culture of affluent Katongers or the general increasing trend of broken families that has resulted in the apparently unusually huge proportion of children in my classes who come from such homes.

I feel so awful for these children who suffer without knowing it, knowing why or knowing whom to blame. I can tell they lack the warm and cushiony human love at home, but I don’t think they know it themselves. Perhaps I am overreacting.

If these children do not know their suffering, are they suffering?

I guess this question has a vague similarity to the philosophical “If a tree fell, but nobody saw or heard it, did the tree fall?”

I wish I could mother these children and give them all the attention and love that every child deserves. I’ll give Pearl all the physical affection she needs and ice-cream girl Maya (who, after being treated to ice-cream for Children’s Day, ravenously used her hands to wipe the ice-cream tub cover clean and licked her fingers and palms clean, gleefully oblivious to her classmates laughing at her, because she was so engrossed in the luxury she could not afford).

Anyway, the answer to the thought-provoking "Why do you come to school?" question came from the questioner herself, "Because school doesn't come to you."

A Friendly Letter

2004-09-24T19:30:00.000+08:00

[enlarge by clicking to view a legible size]

I didn't realise how I had impacted this Primary 2 girl. I was in her class for only one lesson, observing a teacher I would be co-teaching with. I walked around as they were doing their work and gave a few casual words of praise to some of them on their work; this Mridula was one of them. Later in her classroom assignment (writing a letter), she wrote one to me.

The girls, especially the younger ones, absolutely adore their teachers. While I was eating at the teachers' table in the canteen, a row of girls stood about 3 metres away, entertained and fulfilled just watching me eat.

Once, when I was having a baby bowl of hei-mee (prawn noodles) alone, this Primary 5 girl from one my 'observing' classes, came up to my table and made herself comfortable. Students are not allowed to seat at the teachers' table, so she conveniently bent over the table, plonked her elbows at the corner, rested her chin in her hands and watched me eat while ranting a monologue on how she finds her form teacher "cute" (the word at which I choked on my hei-mee). The Indian girl's name is Chua Kai Ying.

During the teachers' photo-taking session in the foyer after school, the girls in the canteen nearby area ceased their activity to come watch us being arranged by the photographer and having the flashlights at us. At the end of the 10-minute sport, the girls applauded.

The Rest of My Shanghai Experience

2004-09-19T16:50:00.000+08:00

My family at Yu Yuan (A man called Yu built the lovely place for his beloved mother dragon years ago, but it has been defiled by the communist-claimed-but-capitalist-minded Chinese and made into a commercial tourist trap).

Can you see my father flagging his right arm irritatedly? He was complaining about and trying to stop the oblivious/rude people of China (many of the tourists in Shanghai are actually domestic tourists) from cutting across our photo-taking path. We had to do this shot 3 times.

The queue for the infamous Shanghai Xiao Long Bao! My father did his manly act by offering to join the queue as the 39th in line. But frankly, the Xiao Long Bao at Singapore's own Crystal Jade is of a much better quality.

What a young salesgirl, I thought. She's barely hit puberty, but nevertheless very persistent and business-wise, just like the other pre-pubescent salesboy (right of photo). I really pity these children. They come from the rural areas to Shanghai to work, and have barely an education. In this respect, China's really behind time. It's current literacy level is possibly that of our Singaporean grandparents. By the time I have my own children, I would think their peers would be able to speak English. However, in the case of China, I think there would still be many with low levels of education in the next generation.

Gigolo undies. It's got a money/condom pouch in front.

An innovative mop made of the skeleton of an old mop with old socks to add body to head. This was found in the Zhou Zhuang, a rather well-preserved village. Although tourist shops have sprung up through this Venice of China, the people are still simple and traditional.

Rows of tu-kar..

...left on display for who knows how many days and coated with caramel, or some illegal dye to preserve it's appearance.

I combined these two pictures thinking that the statue on the left was Guanyinma (which is correct) and that the words on the right read Guan Yin. Pardon me, my Chinese is that rusty. Those two words were part of a sign that probably read, "Joss-sticks for common use".

I love these photos, especially the one with the old beggar woman. She's so old with her sinewy skin stretched over her face and so oblivious that she wasn't aware that my father had put money in her hands.

The one with the beggar man looks quite supernatural eh?

The waterways of China's Venice, Zhou Zhuang.

We got invited into one of the locals' home, and I sneaked a few shots. In the year 2004, this home looks like a display set-up we are more likely to find in our heritage museum.

I've never seen a weaving machine before, much less a traditional one. That old woman next seating at the wooden machine wanted me to pay her for taking the photo. I feigned ignorance and walked away quickly.

I took the photo of the fishing birds (at first, I thought they were vultures) from across the the waterway, but the owners (seated) saw me and shouted at me. They wanted money too, but too bad, they were too old and did not attempt to make it across to get to me.

What a crafty enterprising group of people!

Mum complained that she never did like scenaries from China because they were all grey. I agree about the grey part, but look at how colourful they made this photo!

Pretty? I don't know what to comment on for this photo.

A traditional Chinese theatre.

A wishtree in the temple grounds, where wishers probably have to buy the red ribbons from the commercialised shop in the temple itself.

Mum and Cui tired out, seating in front of a closed shop. They stare at the little Chinese girl that trots by. She's the daughter of one of the shop owners and trying to occupy herself walking from one shop to another.

I've never sat in a trishaw before! We got this chance from the touts in Zhou Zhuang -- a ten minute ride to the heart of the village for only 5RMB (S$1) per trishaw.

The touts are very cunning. They attracted us first with such a low trishaw rate when we first got off the coach, but later tried to be our guides (these guides would then collect their commissions from whichever shop we purchased items from while under their care). Thankfully, my father was experienced enough with the money-making culture here and dismissed them with a 10RMB note to be split between the two trishaw riders.

Something local in Shanghai! Do you know Breadtalk even has its own shares on the stock market? I'm so proud of Breadtalk!

Unlike Singapore's family package of 4 (Family packages in Malaysia's come in 5's), China's one is clearly 3.

Those unscrupulous Chinese sell probably illegally farmed or stolen baby animals in the train stations.

The government housing found in Shanghai.

Everytime we passed this building (it was on the way to town from the villa), Lauretta raved about this being Soviet-built during the communist era.

The colonial gang probably left their mark in every city, China not spared.

Admittedly, I don't have very much respect for the modern Chinese culture (not history). However, this 4-tier highway impressed me greatly.

Earning money with a TV attached to his back, this man walks slowly along the shopping street, stops and faces the wall for the rest of his hours.

Check out the Chinese attempts at English (warning: Chinese-bashing):

Muahahahaha....!

Muahahahaha again! Pardon me..
I have one more that is even more _________(fill in the blank), but Blogger doesn't want to upload that for me.

The rubbish bins at the airport caught my eye. The left one collects "inorganic garbage" while the one on the right does the "organic garbage".

Guess who we met on our way back at the Shanghai airport? Donna from church! She was on the way home alone after covering some opening event in Shanghai for Her World.

Shanghai - The Homestay (Graphic Descriptions)

2004-09-19T16:30:00.000+08:00

While in Shanghai, our family of 4 put up at Lauretta's (Mum's taitai expatriate friend) place -- a luxurious villa. Look at the garden! It's my dream to have soft unblemished carpet grass within my convenient reach...

The sexy man of the house (you'll see him later) bought this place and designed it. Check out the designer staircase. It was the centrepiece of the first level, in my opinion.

The shower area (guest room only). I didn't manage to get a picture of the master room toilet's jacuzzi shower.

Matching vanity top.. all designer stuff eh?

Another vanity top.. I felt like I was living in a hotel.

Their hall. In the first hour we were at her villa, Taitai Laurette was discussing the itinerary she had planned out for us.

The man of the house prepared dinner of chicken rice and chilli crab. My sis and I were swooning over this manly man who can cook.

Shanghai - The Homestay (Part 2 - Meet The Rest)

2004-09-19T16:20:00.002+08:00

The 10-year-old young master of the house. Lovable (and patriotic) isn't he?

Meet sweet sweet Xiao Hong -- the resident maid of this house. She's 18 and yes, that is her uniform. In the first photo, she was trying out some of the paper folds I taught her. In the first few mornings, she would fry us our "zha dan" (fried egg). I was craving for eggs and they were still in abundance there. Laurette told us that she only bought foreign-imported eggs because she once saw a news report with a spy camera showing how workers in an egg farm illegally injected dye into the yolk to give it a stronger colour -- these eggs sell better because Chinese love their yolks with a strong orange.

Here's the gardener..

[I apologise the pic doesn't want to load despite my umpteen attempts)]

..and Laurette's personally hired young handsome driver. His first day happened to be on the day of our arrival. The 25-year-old Xiao Hou (Little Monkey) didn't quite impress the Missus with his lack of familiarity with the Shanghai roads. The poor nervous boy even beat the red light and got booked on his first day. It was quite an experience -- the cop found out Xiao Hou didn't have with him the proper driving license documents with him and told us that he could officially confiscate the car. My father, in his gruff but sly Chineseness and his thick-lip smile, got out of the car to help the young inexperienced boy sort things out. After a good 10 minutes, the cop finally let us go with a 100RMB fine (approximately S$20).

2004-09-13T22:22:00.000+08:00

More to come from the Shanghai collection..

The Singapore Fan

2004-08-30T15:30:00.000+08:00

The Singapore Fan

I had a classmate in SAJC who was a born cynic of any government or any semblance of authority for that matter. He would make out every leader – Bush, the PAP, and the school principal – as Satan reincarnate. While I admired his critical way of thinking at some rare points when his extremism did not come forth through his comments, I nevertheless remained a committed supporter of the Singapore government.

His main line of argument always seemed to lie in the Singapore government aims being to brainwash the contemptible masses, cruelly but quietly suppress the opposition and limit our psychological freewill. His extreme one-sidedness was such a turn off that it made it almost impossible to even attempt to seek some truth in his words. Having not been in contact with him since SAJC and hence being more mentally objective now, I may agree to a negligible extent that what he said has some faint trace of truth.

Nevertheless, my faith in the Singapore Government has been reaffirmed with our new Prime Minister Lee Hsien Loong’s debut National Day Speech.

It is in a big way a blessing that we do not vote for our leader (or as that classmate would probably have phrased, “that the PAP does not allow the people to choose their leader and simply, in a seemingly natural manner, assure continuance of the party”) because that saves a lot on campaigning funds, political bitching, and most importantly, selfish political agendas to gain favour from the masses by playing the popularity card and making promises not based on the objective good of the state.

On LSL’s Fatherly Character

“…as parents, I think we have to let go a little.

“Take some risk as parents so that the children can learn, take some knocks, take some risks, grow up.

“It's okay for children to get hurt. They fall down, bruise their knee, knock themselves, a few scrapes, can't be helped, that's part of growing up. If you grow up with no scars anywhere, you've never fallen off a bicycle, I think you are a different sort of person.”

What struck me was how he brought in his own parenting style and sincerely but casually advised Singaporean parents not to fret over having their children getting injured while playing because it is simply part of growing up.
I absolutely love this enlightened and westernised attitude towards bringing up children, because I have seen how detrimental it is for parents to be over-protective of their precious (which does imply that I hold the belief that most of my generation are softies). While working in the preschool, I wish I could tell the parents that too, with the way they express disproportionate concern and wag the accusing finger at the caregivers, over a small cut or knock their child brings back from the play session.
When my father was around more often during my earlier childhood, he used to give hell to the maid when my sister and I cried, fell down or even when we got a mosquito bite.
Thankfully, my mother was the enlightened one, and she was the one who did our entire upbringing – with an ecosystem perfect balance too.

On the Too-Good-To-Be-True Pro-Family Package
He definitely pleased the crowd with the jokes he collected from the Singapore community and more than pleased many with his family-friendly policy package. I was one of those who applauded the extended maternity leave (that would also be borne by the Government to ensure the employability of women), the reduced maid levy, the extra parental days off to “bring your child to the zoo on a Monday” and the 5-day workweek.

Yet, I do not suspect Junior Lee of attempting to curry favour with his new charge. I honestly believe he is bringing in his own style, and being very sincere about it.

On The Future Of Singapore
I am at this point quite assured that Singapore has been transferred to yet another pair of capable hands.

Sometimes, Singapore really spoils us too much with the unfailing security and decently good life she gives that we pampered babies take for granted.

I cannot decide whether the demographic, natural and circumstantial aspects of Singapore, or the leaders’ ingenious political moves and approaches have made the Government’s job relatively smooth-sailing (with regard to having the people’s support, or at least the lack of dissension) and successful.

One thing I do notice is how the Singapore government has always chosen the moderate path. It is very much the Singaporean character to me – not very daring, playing it safe. The leaders here avoid taking sides, but when required to, are very careful to downplay their stand on international or contentious matters.

My political apathy, and probably that of most of my generation, is a good sign that this government is doing a terrific job. Elsewhere, people get themselves involved in politics because there are things they want changed and government stands on issues they do not agree with. It is hard to get Singaporeans interested in local politics because there is not much to complain about, and hence, little to contend with, hardly anything to take it out with the Government.

Housewife In Distress

2004-08-24T14:30:00.000+08:00

In the past two weeks, the main activity of my day at home has been mopping the floor. The pre-school stint changed my understanding of mopping being a backbreaking job that did not proportionately produce the same amount of cleanliness for the effort put in.
Upon quitting the playschool, I bought a mop and pail-on-wheels that weekend, and have since religiously run the mop over the floor every morning.

Today, I was attempting to stir fry my cold and hardened duck/seoh-bak rice with the brine from a can of mushrooms and a few pieces of canned pork ribs. My gas supply did a fast one on me. I know I have a spare tank, but I simply am not macho enough to handle exchanging the two tanks by my single feminine self (or at least I did not want to be that capable – I still need to leave some things for the men to do right?). I naturally called the all-knowing Mum, in my dependent-daughterly instinct, who provided me with a simple way out – microwave. Not that difficult, really, I thought to myself. A couple of weeks having my brain under-utilised with so much free time certainly has dire retardation effects on my everyday problem-solving abilities.

My average day during this pre-posting-to-a-primary-school and post-hectic-12-hour-days period begins after a luxuriously sinful 8-hour beauty sleep. I wake up with the first thing on my mind being mopping: should I vacuum instead, do both, use the terrazzo-treatment cleaner or give mopping a miss today? Difficult decision to make first thing in the morning.
If I am feeling motivated or desperate enough to maintain my 48kg frame with non-meeting upper thighs, then the first thing I would do is go for a 15- to 20-minute jog round Aquarius.
Feeling soaked and achieved (immediately feeling energised after a jog is a downright lie), and refreshed with my Gatorade, I would indulge myself in the newspapers, reading leisurely while having my breakfast.
By the end of this cooling down activity, I would be ready for my Big Mop, part two of the day’s workout, before I realise I have to rush for lunch and my bath if I wanted to get to tuition on time.

One of the little joys I get in my day is squeezing an online session while having lunch and finding a personal mail among a daily portion of “Farm Girls”-“Lonely Grannies”-“Prom Nights”-“Chicks With Dicks”-“Her First Time!”-“Paris Hilton”-“Meaty Sausages” spam mail. Another would be having a friend-to-friend chat with my Mum over the phone, or with Ly when we eventually have a common break in our day.

I realised my life has been reduced to a companion-yearning, activity-seeking one. I would have my hopes all high when I finally get to talk to Ly and awfully disappointed when the conversation isn’t fulfilling. I get all excited planning what to wear just to watch a movie with my Mum and sister. I thumb through my handphone’s phonebook to find someone to call out. I have nothing to write in my blog.

I understand now why housewives in Tampines Mall (a mere heartland mall) on weekends overdress (donning on the full regalia of a woman – sexy clothes, heels and cosmetics), and why housewives nag their husbands when their men return.

What these women need is activity outside their menial mundane indoor jobs, a
chance to dress up and feel beautiful, words of appreciation, emotional intimacy
and sometimes, simply human interaction.

Friday the 13th

2004-08-15T20:30:00.000+08:00

Friday the 13th of August was the day I passed my driving test, graduated from Comfort Driving Centre and bought my overpriced P-plate (those people at the 3M company really know how to capitalise on the unthinking state which the euphoria of getting that much-coveted license in Singapore brings about).

I can legally drive now – 6 months after getting into a driver’s seat for the first time and after one unsuccessful and traumatising test a month ago that reduced me to tears.

My first tester chastised me so severely that I felt as though I had been brought back to the days in my SAP primary school and getting a good admonishment from my Chinese teacher or the Chinese-speaking discipline master. With all seriousness and graveness of death, Foo Shou Way slowly passed his judgement, “Tsk tsk tsk, you’re a VERY dangerous driver,” slowly pronouncing each word clearly to make sure it sunk right to the back of my youthful and seemingly reckless face, into my head.

Then I went to the toilet and cried. It was only a test that some people I am aware of attempted more than 10 times. Yet, I could not help myself. Things were looking awful for me then too, with me failing everything I put myself into (screwing up my A Levels, not being able to get into a local university, having failed both my basic and final theory once each and being a wreck teaching Sunday school). But I had to stop myself from crying in the cubicle because I desperately needed to pee too and I had run out of tissue. My last bit of unsoiled tissue went to my face again when I emerged from the toilet and caught my red face in the mirror. So that meant that I could neither cry nor pee anymore. And that had made me want to cry more.

Anyway, back to Friday the 13th.

Friday the 13th’s tester was a precious Malay. There are only two Malay testers at the centre, and it is pretty well-known that the Malay testers are the nice ones. He was dozing off as I took my test. He took me on a heavily modified and very shortened Route 3. I was probably the first to finish my test. In spite of my temporal loss of time awareness during the tense procedure, I believe I was barely on the road for six minutes.

I thanked him excessively when he told me with a deadpan face, “OK, you passed your test.” At that point, I was simply thankful that I did not have to wait with uncertainty and plan for another test date at least a month from now; in a month’s time, I would have already been posted to a school and would have great difficulty trying to get time out to take do the retest. The gratitude was probably also a misrepresentation of the elation of simply passing the test.

Upon reflection, I truly had something to be thankful for. Mr Malay had not just closed two eyes to my mistakes; he had been both forgiving (probably taking into account the malfunctioning of my psychomotor skills under test conditions, and accepting that as a young driver, I am bound to make seemingly-unforgivable-by-the-Traffic-Police’s-standard mistakes which I will correct in due time if given the opportunity to practise) and accommodating (by appearing, whether deliberately by his kind nature or as a result of a heavy lunch on his alertness at 2PM, groggily unaware, as well as not updating his score sheet as I drive). The previous tester had furiously begun marking his score sheet as soon as I inched my car out of the parking lot to begin the test.

(I have bolded the two key words as I am fully aware that my long parentheses and multiple-conjunctions sentence structure tend to leave my readers, and myself included, lost in the original sentence.) (Do my entries make a very tiring read?)
Since then, I have driven to tuition in Tampines, to church and back home. I have also almost got into a nasty accident involving a taxi (it’s always the taxi), almost mounted the kerb in the middle of a straight stretch of road and driven my mother halfway to a state of hypertension since.

The Pre-Employment Medical Check-Up

2004-08-02T20:30:00.000+08:00

MOE sent me on a medical check-up at Raffles Hospital yesterday.

First, I had to collect my own pee. I have never ever done that before, and even more so in a tiny approximately 3cm-diameter plastic container. I don’t have a kuku, so I can’t with my visual sense immediately take aim. So there I was in the one-cubicle toilet and figuring things out while my grandmother stood outside politely and probably over-genially informing those in the queue that I was “still” inside. I finally took a horse stance position, letting some pee out first so that it would disclose the position of my peehole, and then placed the vial under the estimated position (parallax error and all) and doing it. I still got my hand a little messy; blame the unpredictable stream.

The thin transparent plastic container lucidly exposed the strong shade of yellow my urine was. I regretted not drinking more water prior to the check-up. To deposit the vial in the designated place, I had to make my way there in front of the waiting area. Thankfully, Mama served as a convenient distraction as she walked by my “public” side to Location X.

Later, I had to get my chest X-ray. I was told to exchange my shirt and bra in exchange for a flimsy shower robe. Being braless was not the worst part (after all, I am rather accustomed to that). It was the waiting in the robe that threatened to reveal whatever was, or wasn’t, underneath, and in a common waiting area among men who did not have to undergo the same treatment, which made me extremely uncomfortable. A youthfully attractive boy in the white gown called me in for the X-ray. He was going to ask me to disrobe and place my whatevers against that cold metal plate while sharing the same room with only him – or at least that was the worst that I thought could happen. Thankfully, I just had to get into a constipated chicken position: head sticking awkwardly upwards to stretch my spine, chest pressed forward and arms hugging the metal plate, palms facing out, with the purple robe on.

While queuing up to change, an Indian nurse in distress asked me for the simplest favour – tell the two PRC girls there with her what they have to do with their clothes and robes. I readily agreed, then after a moment of processing what exactly I had to say, I hastily told her I did not think I could do so. How do you translate bra into Chinese? Anyway, I stuttered a barely cohesive set of instructions that included “nei4 yi1” and a lot of wild gestures. My sign language probably got the message across.

Then, there was the breast examination. I thought the female doctor would subtly slip her hands under my shirt. But no, perhaps because I was wearing a sports bra, I was laid flat while she lifted both my shirt and elastic inner garment up and in the bright fluorescent light, felt and stared blatantly. We were chatting throughout the examination, but when it came to that private moment, only an awkward silence was exchanged. Since there are visibly no mounds on my chest, I wondered whether she could feel any hint of a lump, besides potentially cancerous ones, at all.

Anyway, I cleared my medical.

Jaden The Crying Jedi

2004-07-30T19:30:00.000+08:00

I have this 20-month-old Jaden who has been gifted with an exorbitant amount of energy, as well as huge tear and mucus ducts. I am both envious and exasperated by how he can wail for the full two hours that he is dumped at the centre. He is a new boy, and probably the youngest too – perhaps that explains his unwavering persistence to “teacher, teacher, open door, open door” every time he grabs hold of my skirt. When he does so, he concurrently leaves some of his goo on my clothes and arms. When I wipe up the goo that has dripped onto the Dettol-mopped floor, he can even disrupt his crying for a while to help me point out the glob of goo that I missed out.

I have mastered how to sneak in short periods of audio relief – lock him in the classroom with me as I sweep the biscuits dribbled with saliva on the floor before the next classroom session begins. I try to do and extend doing all sorts of mundane tasks in order to keep Jaden darling’s “open door” focus at bay. He has helped me to wipe the tables, sweep the floor, rearrange furniture and throw away the soiled tissue I use to clean his face.

When I finally got him to sit down quietly and observe a class with Mrs Rajan singing tone-deafly and flashing alphabet/number cards, he placed his hand – four times smaller than mine – so casually and unknowingly on my thigh, the way Ly does when we sit next to each other.

My First Encounter With The Little, Male Peeing Contraption

2004-07-29T22:30:00.000+08:00

Having urine from more than 20 bladders, homogeneously mixed, splashed on my face, sweeping and mopping floors and cleaning mucus are included in the unwritten job scope of the noble profession of teaching. Pre-nursery children that is.

Recently, I took on a part-time relief-teaching job. Feeling economically under-utilised, no thanks to the uncertainty of my near future due to MOE’s slow processing of applications, I went on a Classifieds job-seeking and/or skill-developing course rampage. Classifieds became the most utilised component of The Straits Times during those 2 weeks.

Anyway, my first day at one of the company’s (whose name I shall not disclose publicly for reasons you shall see later) three child-development centres (they are not the equivalent of kindergartens; these centres take children from 18 months to about 4 years old) began with the Indian-national teacher telling me to clear up a cockroach corpse and remove another live one, wiggling its 6 insect legs on its back, from the classroom before the children came in. I did not know how to refuse her instructions on my first day. I was wondering, though, whether she was simply taking advantage of me, and whether I should succumb to that exploitation simply because it was my first day.

(To give you some idea of my fear of roaches, Ly would probably tell you about how I cried hysterically when a tree cockroach landed on my arm several months ago.)

Well, thankfully, either by virtue of sympathy or impatience at my obvious hesitation, Sungetha did it herself.

Shortly after, the tiny humans entered in a steady stream. There were three 2-hour sessions in all. From my first day alone, the racial behavioural pattern among that age group was already obvious. The Chinese toddlers were the uninteresting, forgettable “teacher teacher” ones, the Malay girls were extremely non-participative and reserved and the Indian ones were what made the classes both memorable and backbreaking. There was quite a huge Indian population among the students at this centre (probably because Sungetha the authentic Indian was there). The Indian children were often the ones who were hard to manage, but equally endearing with their eyeball-sized eyes and natural Indian curls.

Sungetha asked me to bring one boy to the toilet. I was stunned. I had totally no idea at which age little boys had any sense of their water hose.

Apparently, this one didn’t. Sungetha relieved me by holding his mini-he through the entire performance.

I watched and learned.

By the second 2-hour session, Sungetha was telling the children, “Teacher is very tired ah. Head paining, back paining, stomach paining. Everywhere paining.”

She sang some songs too. One of them was (to the tune of “One Little Duck Went Out One Day”), “One elephant went out one day, climbing a spider web to play. He had such e-nor-mo-rous fun, that he called another elephant to come.”

Exactly a week later, I was to take on another relief job at a different centre. Carol, my interviewer, supervisor of the centre and teacher I would eventually relieve for a 3-week stint, made the second experience so much more enjoyable. This centre was definitely way better-equipped and had more semblance to a children’s playschool then the first one. This one had play mats, a huge variety and amount of toys, clean floors, no cockroaches and three separate rooms. The first was only one single small room with two tables, no floor space and no toys.

This week opens the 3-week stint I’ll have at the better-equipped centre. I’m working with another Indian teacher, Mrs Rajan, on a daily basis from 9am to 3pm (my usual tuition sessions from 3.30pm onwards). Here, it’s a morning 3-hour session with 30-odd mini humans, and another 3-hour afternoon session with a smaller but more energy-draining group.

I have never seen so many little dongs, or dongs alone, in my life than I did in twenty minutes.

I did not know they could vary so much in size, proportion and shape. There is even one boy with a badly-situated hose that grows downwards, parallel to his legs instead of at a slight angle away from the crotch. He keeps peeing all over his legs because I cannot get the potty under his thing before he releases the warm liquid down my hands.

I’m usually a hygiene freak, but the casual lip service paid to hygiene standards here have made me unwittingly compromise my own standards for the sake of my happiness and sanity.

There isn’t a toilet attached to this centre (which is an appropriately-furbished room on the top floor of a community centre). That means we bring the children to the backyard among the air-conditioning units to find relief in two colour-coded (blue for boys and red for girls) potties. Mrs Rajan cannot be bothered about the colours. She lifts the potty up to the boys’ wee-wees and the girls sit on the same half-filled potty, with boys’ pee around the edges, to “pass urine” (as we very properly tell the children).

At the end of the day, I have two dangerously half-filled potties to empty. Once, I jerked as I was carrying one potty to be emptied. The yellow liquid made a little splash onto my cheek. Thankfully, children’s pee does not seem, at least in my adaptable and sanity-preserving mind, that revolting as the adult version.

Before each session’s snack break, we wash their hands with water from a pail. The back-torturing process ends with spraying anti-bacterial sanitisers on their hands, but that is not before we dry the hands with a piece of rag used for 50 children and which I have never seen being washed since I began on Monday.

We stop the children from eating off the floor, but we serve them biscuits on used plastic and paper plates. These plates with oil-markings are, if Mrs Rajan has the time, given a wipe before being stacked and stored in the refrigerator till the next use.

I had considered quitting upon the fatigue that suddenly overtook me at the end of my first day (since the hourly rate of $5 was closer to an allowance than a pay for such a job scope and my MOE letter of appointment had arrived). Unbecoming of my usual self, I actually decided to stay on for the sake of experience. What convinced me was the experience I would gain by working with this age group (for both knowledge’s sake and my possible future as a mother), having a hands-on with what goes on in a child-development centre and to actually serve the obligations of being employed (even on a temporary basis). Furthermore, the tasks I have to do on the job being sometimes so menial and demeaning for a teacher, is also humbling and eye-opening to my youthful pride and ignorance. Thus, I thought, as long as it does not kill me, I shall continue.

Another Storm: Not My Romantic Kind

2004-05-26T18:00:00.000+08:00

This time round, it was a freezing storm. Clad in a sleeveless top and knee-length skirt, goosebumps popped out all over my skin in a diseased manner.

I was feeling vulnerable, cold and pathetic as I stood at the bus-stop, heading home from tuition in Tampines.

Hugging my bare arms and balancing the warming the fats with the full-length umbrella, I walked to the end of the bus-stop where the main crowd of public-transport-dependants huddled, hoping that the few bodies there could raise the surrounding area’s temperature even by the slightest centigrade.

It was to no avail. Those bodies were as cold as mine.

I spied the warm-looking lit Coke vending machine and hugged it. Anything that runs on electricity (and more so produces light) must produce heat, I reasoned.

That disappointing vending machine offered me no hint of warmth.

I was hoping some chivalrous young lad would offer me his coat (well, it’s still Singapore, so forget the coat idea. Next!), or arm of warmth.

A golden-haired bespectacled (fashion oxymoron – golden hair doesn’t quite go with glasses) Ah Beng stood near me. I caught his eye apparently in my pathetic/feeling-pathetic state.

I was so desperate for warmth, I was even fantasising Golden Boy coming to my rescue, “Eh Xiao Jie, yao borrow wo de shou ma?”

The frightfulness of whether I would say “yes” or reject him politely didn’t occur to me at that point, so I continued drifting in my little fantasy.

Well, Golden Boy went up the same bus I did, got off the same stop I did, and walked the same way I did all the way to the security post of Aquarius, where I live. In our own respective space under our huge umbrellas, Golden Boy approached me with a wide grin, “Excuse me, are you a teacher?”

Imagine my surprise. I guess I’ve slowly evolved into the teacher mould.

Anyway, Golden Boy did his little chat thing, asked for my number, which I, in a too polite fashion, declined to give. His smile and confidence level was unaffected. Instead, he offered his name. It was this calm demeanour that left a good parting impression of him on me. I returned his offer. Anyway, I probably won’t be bumping into Edwin again, to Ly’s great relief I’m sure.

2 Girls In KL City

2004-05-24T13:00:00.000+08:00

Among several other aspects, the 3-day shopping trip to KL did the most to my confidence as a capable female. It was my first out-of-Singapore trip without my Mum or a school being accountable for me.

While it was my Mum who handled the buying of train tickets and Ee Ee (my 4th aunt) whose penthouse we put up at for 2 nights, little things like taking a cab in KL (where most cab drivers speak only Malay – a language neither one of us were conversant in), finding our way around the monorail and LRT system there and walking around unsafe shopping complexes (sex and abduction crimes are so common even locals don’t feel safe in their own country) on our own did a boost to my confidence level vis-à-vis as a young independent capable female.

Perhaps I’m overrating the experience.

The shopping wasn’t as eventful. I didn’t fall head over heels in love with any particular piece of clothing that I bought. The round of shopping didn’t give me that “kick”. However, it was a fairly pleasant and nice break, lazing around for half the day at home and interacting with Ee Ee’s family, followed by a packed walking session in the selected mall for the day.

Shanci, my female companion, definitely did not get her shopping’s worth in KL (boy is she one fussy shopper). Unexpectedly, for both of us, what turned out to be the enjoyable and memorable element of the trip was the company of my relatives.

My fantabulously tolerant (of my aunties – their wives) and warm uncles ferried us to shopping malls and brought us around town.

Shan was more awed by and appreciative of these generous gestures because she does not have such encounters with relatives at home and also because, as a guest, it was her first experience of their hospitality. Looking through her eyes, I realized how I had taken this for granted and was reminded to appreciate them too. It made me remember how much family ties mean to me.

Shanci spent a lot of time with my grandma too. Mama, proficient in English, captivated Shan with her liveliness, stories and gossip.

Liberation From The Bra

2004-05-17T17:12:00.000+08:00

The weather has been quite erratic the past couple of weeks, with mad sunshine accompanied with saturated humidity on one day, and huge rainstorms the next. I don't mind the storms, but the heat makes travelling and teaching unbearable.

I've resorted to shamelessly travelling around Tampines and going for tuition without a bra. Of course, I wear a dark-coloured opaque T-shirt to avoid visual indecency. Ly, being a guy and being the kind of person he is in addition to being who he is to me, protests my recent act of desperation brought about by the heat.

This is possibly a contentious blog entry, but anyhow, since I am already halfway through it, I might as well finish up what I have to say. (In terms of logic, this doesn't make perfect sound sense; in fact, it has no sense at all despite being masked in a logic-phrase sentence.)

To finish what I have to say, this is yet another perk of being flat-chested.

Pregnant

2004-05-11T15:40:00.000+08:00

I like impregnated women, impregnated cats and impregnated clouds. Mums-to-be and rain-bearing clouds give me that warm smiley feeling in my face and chest.

But I don’t like the process of impregnation. The procedure still frightens me. The concept seems disgusting – making a concoction of two persons’ bodily fluids (and from there too) in order to breed life.

My little Lina giggly wrote me a pregnant capital “B” in her assessment book this morning.

My Idea Of A Romantic Date: Getting Caught In A Storm

2004-04-30T12:57:00.000+08:00

The sky began pouring without much warning late yesterday afternoon. It was a storm, complete with drenching amounts of water, lightning flashes, thunders that echoed across the large expanse of sky and a shadow across the land.

I was travelling by bus to Comfort Driving Centre for my Final Theory test as the storm grew darker, wetter and noisier. In spite of having my Pokemon umbrella sheltering me, half my knee-length Bermudas was soaked by the time I arrived at the centre.

As I was traveling, amidst the discomforts of having soggy soles, I was thinking about how the sudden change of weather was rather romantic. Instead of focusing on the soil-viruses-contaminated puddles, couples huddled under shared umbrellas caught my eye and smiles more. There was even an umbrellaless foolhardy boyfriend who cycled out to the bus-stop to pick up his pink-umbrella-wielding girlfriend. She held the umbrella for both her and her drenched boyfriend, and sat sideways on the beam between her darling and the hand bars, as he cycled them both home. She smiled at the tender attention she had from her man, while he beamed with the male pride of protecting his female partner... The joys of stupidity that come with youthful love (with no condescending implications whatsoever).

Just as I was getting unusually contented and comfortable in the weather, boys and men caught without their umbrellas ran past me in a frantic manner to reach the driving school on time for their 7PM session. Bursts of sudden strong light from the multiple flashes of lightning cast eerie sporadic clarity to my surroundings. Shortly following those flashes was menacing loud thunder that conjured up the image of some angry and vindictive sky god. The plain volume of it would shake even the calmest man for a moment. I began to shudder because of the cold as I walked against the chilly, wet wind and also because of the images invoked by my sudden exposure to the elements from the moment I got off my second bus.

In the most damsel fashion, I wished Ly was there with me at that very point, holding both the umbrella up above our huddled heads, and me close to him as we walk with unnatural but comforting proximity.

Help Needed

2004-04-27T21:48:00.000+08:00

I’m having a dilemma.

Should I begin my term in one of the universities, I’ll have to drop some of my students. I’ve decided to keep the higher paying ones (such as my rude Sec 2 boy) and those I have a larger responsibility to (such as my autistic PSLE boy). The ones I had planned to drop were terrible-agency-rates Primary 2 temperamental boy, lazy Simei-residing (relatively out of the way) Sec 1 and the two lovely girls (Pri 1 & 4) who adore me.

I made casual mention to Primary 1 Lina, during our morning session today, that I may be teaching in a school. Immediately, she asked me whether that meant that I would stop teaching her sister and her. Later, in my afternoon session with her Primary 4 sister, Emily, their Mum asked me about it.

(Both the sisters are in the same school but in different sessions. Lina’s in the afternoon session, while Emily is in the morning one. I teach them both on the same day, but I return home for lunch in between sessions. It was amusing and shocking when Emily told me what I had told Lina in the morning tuition session.
I asked Emily, “Oh, you met Lina just now?”
“No,” came the reply, “My mum told me.”)

Just before I left from the afternoon session with Emily, the girls’ mum brought up my possible (or rather, likely) future teaching career in a school (or more accurately, going to Uni) – basically the likelihood of me leaving them. She blackmailed me emotionally (not that I’m accusing her of being unscrupulous) by telling me how much her girls like me (they really do, I know, and I too find them and the family absolutely charming), and how they have improved in their work since I came along.

That doorway conversation with her Mum pulled my heart in both directions – joy and satisfaction, in opposition to impending guilt and dilemma.

Can I initiate a discussion here? Help me make a decision on whom to let go:

P2 Daryl [2 x 1.5h]: Bad $, bad temper, lazy, frightening Mum – sure to go

P1 Lina [1.5h] & P4 Emily [2h]: Worst $, Case study as above and in previous blog entries (16 Feb, 2004: “Happy Loving Day” and 22 Mar: “Expiring”)

P2 Jing Xiong & P6 Jing Rong [Combine 2h]: Good $, PSLE boy involved, nice Mum, but no particularly close bond

P6 Jun Jie [2 x 1.5h]: Moderate $, autistic PSLE boy who’s grown accustomed to me, often difficult to teach, future progress almost negligible

Sec1 Guan Hui [2h]: Good $, relatively out of the way Simei resident, too long a session for the boy, over-dependent on me, lack-of-initiative in studying, little improvement in work, fairly fond of me in comparison to his past >10 tutors, Mum who gives me pineapple tarts and fried rice and recently started working part-time in order to pay for her children’s tuition fees

Sec 2 Zhen Ling [2 x 1.5h]: Best $, streaming year, good progress with me, rude and possibly unappreciative, but one I’m the most comfortable with and the student I’ve had the most number of sessions with since I started this round of tuition – I’ve more or less decided to keep him

This reminds me of that choose-6-out-f-10-people-to-save-from-a-sinking-boat interactive, discussive, secondary schoolish, analytical, decision-making activity.

Never Underestimate The Importance of Girl Friends

2004-04-21T12:57:00.000+08:00

I had a date with my TKGS-classmate girl friend, Berwine, yesterday evening.

Berwine’s not the typical girl, but maybe that’s why her character cliques pretty well with mine. Barely physically conscious (vain) and virtually oblivious to males around her, practical, often awkwardly clumsy as an ox, with a smirking grin and hairy arms, Ber Dar is quite a darling to me. Most of those descriptive phrases were more characteristic of her in secondary school.

Every once-in-a-few-months meeting with her always enthrals and surprises me because of the physical and outlook changes in her. This time around, it was her straightened and (albeit mild) highlighted hair, as well as being clad in a skirt and a sleeveless blouse (external features none of my secondary school classmates would ever have imagined tomboyish Berwine bearing).

However, some things never change, like those hairy arms. No offence, Berwine; those arms are really one of my affectionate favourites.

We had a fantastic time at Raffles City, just us two girls. For the first time, it felt like a girl friend outing with her. She’s grown into a girl, and our relationship now is so girl-friendish, which I love (not that I had any qualms about our previous friendship which wasn’t defined by our gender). We had the cheapest Subway sandwich, which was by itself yummy and unbelievably pleasing, but further enhanced by good hungry company. Next, we adjourned to New Zealand Ice-Cream where we each had a Chillo (some ice-blended chocolate-related whipped-cream-topped, overpriced drink) – another terrific part of the night.

Of course, the main element in the outing last night was the conversation. We discussed each other, how we were getting along in life, boyfriends in general and the specific ones, post-break-up blues, friendships, sibling rivalry and parents, politics in relationships, and many other miscellaneous aspects of life worthy of engaging and productive conversation.

There was also the supermarket stroll, 4 trips to the toilet and the back-to-school-days sitting on a stairway and chatting finale.

I was grinning bananas and bursting from the joy of experiencing and appreciating a friendship outside my relationship with Ly. It really was the appreciating part that made everything extra sweet – realising how much this friendship means to me and being extremely thankful for it.

Meanwhile, as I was enjoying my night with my girl friend, Ly was sweating pheromones with his best friend at an overcrowded public gym. Ly has regular weekly meetings with his hedonistic best buddy from his ACS days, which I at times did envy, because he seemed to be special to someone else too, other than to me. At those points in time, I felt I was only special to him and special to no one else. I didn’t know of anyone I could rely on emotionally or anyone who would look out for me as a good friend would. I didn’t have anyone I felt accountable to. I have a few good conversationalist friends, but at the end of the day, they aren’t the ones I saw myself calling up for just a no-purpose chat in the middle of the day.

I don’t know how I forgot Berwine. Then again, perhaps I didn’t forget her being such a friend, possibly because she never fell into that category of friends until recently when we graduated from friends of convenience (being in the same class) who are easily taken for granted because of their constant presence, to friends who make effort even when convenience isn’t at hand.

Bitter

2004-04-16T13:20:00.000+08:00

Reflecting on the content and tone of my blog, I realised I can be a bitter person. As of this point, the two life events I’ve been most bloggably bitter about have been the ‘A’ Levels and The Necessary Stage’s Theatre For Youth Ensemble (TNS TFYE). Admittedly, I have been a tad childish in my responses to these two, having written in strong tones of I’m-happier-without-you and you-made-my-life-a-living-hell-but-good-riddance-to-you-now.

My 2 years of JC life were hellish while my experience at the year-long TFYE programme left me disillusioned about the quality of the youth-and-theatre curriculum, the real (as in practical and usable) experience I gained, the type of people and social dynamics of that group. I have been obliged to write a detailed feedback of the programme, but I’m finding it really difficult. I suddenly have nothing to say, particularly for the what-have-you-gained questions. Critical as I am, I don’t know where to begin for the what-could-be-improved question. I’m honestly dumbfounded.

JC was awful, getting into TFYE wasn’t easy in terms of maternal and civics-tutor approval. At the end of the day, my efforts to be part of that group proved so futile, and worse, possibly detrimental to my already poor academic record (taking up of my Saturday afternoons). I am bitter about the seemingly unnecessary experience – the wasted time that could have otherwise gone into getting my driving license as soon as I hit 18 last year.

I suppose I expected too much out of the group of teenagers. I should have only expected the theatrical experience, and nothing more. I just realised why I’m so disillusioned – I had unconsciously expected relationships to form, a certain form of emotional intimacy within the group that worked together for a year. I found nothing close to that. While I made attempts to go deeper in a more recognisable form of friendship with some of them, I never received any promising response. I suppose this was a result of several factors:
· I don’t clique well with this youthful theatrical bunch by virtue of the cosmic differences in our characters and life’s priorities. Most of them there belong to the “more-liberated” and self-serving (in that the impact of their actions on others are barely considered) age. Theatre was apparently a passion to them (even if it’s a perceived passion to them that would probably die off with the onset of reality and maturity).
· I was quickly judged as passé, forgettable and possibly apathetic. It’s easy for them to come to that conclusion because of my rule-by-the-head nature. Unfashionable and “out”: I barely dressed up for TFYE sessions because they were 3-hour Saturday affairs spent rolling on the floor; practicality and comfort came before my sense of aesthetics. Apathetic: I didn’t fly into extreme ends of boyfriend-related, instructor-infatuated or showbiz-fever emotions, and I couldn’t empathise with those who did.
· My tactics of breaking through didn’t translate well.
· At some point, I gave up trying to gain an experience from the ensemble. I just did what I had to and hungrily anticipated the end.

Am I justifying myself? Apparently if I’m still harping on TFYE, I must have felt something strongly about it. It must have meant something to me, or at least, I must have hoped it did.

The Normalcy Of Weilinghood Has Resumed In My Life

2004-04-14T19:48:00.000+08:00

The way it should be.

Tuition, driving, swimming, jogging, cooking, baking, Thursday paktor days, spending my nights in the cosiness of home…

Unfortunately, my hair has been murdered with the harsh hairspray applied in generous proportions 5 days consecutively during the “Secrets From My Room” production week. My locks have not recovered, and it has been more than 2 weeks. I’m resigned to the fact that my hair is deceased. I shall chop it off (in whichever style I should soon decide on), and await new growth. I hope it was really the CFC-filled environmental-unfriendly hairspray that has caused the damage and not the dehydrating effect brought about by age. I suppose I shall only know when there is a substantial amount of hairlings for me to make a judgement on their texture.

It’s depressing not having a single good hair day the last few weeks. Really, it is.

Summer is approaching. I can feel it.

I opened the car door into my head on Sunday. I couldn’t quite shit for that day because it was such a bad knock on some vein on my forehead that when I exerted the anal muscles, my head hurt.

I’ve been learning driving in the mornings three times a week. I can’t believe I’ve attained the ability to drive from Comfort Driving School to Tampines and past my home! It was exhilarating passing my home in a car, without either parent or boyfriend in the driver’s seat for the first time.

I’ve also been reading Alice in Wonderland (for the last few months actually), courtesy of Ly’s growing library of children’s books as he pursues his teaching degree in English Language and Literature.
Here’s a piece of trivia: Lewis Carroll’s fascination with the quirky character of Alice was likely related to the man’s interest in little girls. He had a stammer that would only disappear when he was around little girls. The man also prided himself in the nonsense he wrote for children, consciously not conforming to the obligation and habit of Victorian writers to write moralistic literature.

The book is ridiculously amusing with it’s “uncommon nonsense” (a phrase found in the book, playing on the phrase “common sense”).
I haven’t been particularly fond of others planting huge chunks of their favourite literary works (apparently song lyrics included) on their blogs, because I barely have the motivation to read them because of their sheer length and when I do, I understand them not.

Nevertheless, here I am as I risk breaking my blog morality code.
Here are three of my favourite excerpts, concise and hopefully appreciatable:

After Alice fell through the rabbit’s hole into Wonderland and underwent several physical alterations in size…
“Curiouser and curiouser!” cried Alice (she was so much surprised, that for the moment she quite forgot how to speak good English)

Alice’s conversation with the infamous grinning Cheshire puss…
“Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go form here?”
“That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,” said the Cat.
“I don’t much care where – ” said Alice.
“Then it doesn’t matter which way you go,” said the Cat.

Conversation between Alice and the Mad Hatter at the Mad Tea-Party:
“I think you might do something better with the time,” she said, “than waste it in asking riddles that have no answers.”
“If you knew Time as well as I do,” said the Hatter, “you wouldn’t talk about wasting it. It’s him.”

A summary of what I love about the nonsensical book is it’s nonsensical sense. Lewis Carroll made nonsense sound so logical.

Well, I pray thee tell me now how readable, understandable and likeable my first attempt at quoting literature is. The comment box is on the right.

Close the World, Open the Next

2004-03-29T13:44:00.000+08:00

Not quite the right imagery for me actually.

I see the death of TFYE 2003 as just a chapter in my life. No story has really ended. Perhaps the one about theatre with that bunch of youths, but not the conclusive, decisive, life-changing finale of any major part of my life.

Most of the cast (the two stage manageress too) were so teary on Saturday night. Even TC.

Most of us at least; I could not get a shot of all of us together.

I wish I could have felt something more. I don't know why I was so relatively unaffected.

I rationalised:

Maybe it's because I'm too logical and sensible. I didn't see much to cry over.
Yes, it was the last day of that journey. But so what? Journeys end every day. Maybe this was a major journey to many. Some journeys end without us even knowing it. For instance, friendships end after one particular meeting which no one realised would be the last. Phases of innocence and ignorance come to an end with each experience. People are dying, life journeys are ending. What is this single theatrical one in relation to all the rest?
TC washed everyone's feet and many tear ducts were activated in the process. It was touching -- the way TC chose to perform such a menial and humble act. I watched him as he even washed the bucket and pieces of cloth he used to wipe our feet, himself. Very sincere and very domesticated.
But I couldn't see how washing our feet marked the end of our year-long TFYE journey.

Maybe it's because I did not go through as much as they went through together. I wasn't part of the much-fondly-remembered, emotional and bonding production "3" last year. I wasn't a dying human in this show. I was an eternal and aimless Moon. My emotional journey had never been anything close to that of the majority of the cast.

When I saw everyone in the mood that night, I was a little upset at myself that I wasn’t as sentimental as everyone.
But two nights of good sleep have returned me to my logical self again. Just because everyone feels that way does not mean that it is the only way to be, nor does it mean being otherwise is wrong. Different yes, but not wrong. It’s so easy to get caught up, get upset, get ecstatic, get swayed and get taken in by the crowd of the moment.
The entire pre-last-show scene was just so evangelical.

I’m not saying that the rest who cried are easily swayed, but I have ascertained that just because the majority are feeling some form of solidarity doesn’t mean I, in the event that I’m not singing the same note, have to oblige myself to feel that too.

“It’s me. It’s only me.”

Journey Home

2004-03-29T13:11:00.000+08:00

I was on my way home after my National Skin Centre treatment today.

Opposite me on the MRT was an old couple. The man was carrying a National Cancer Centre plastic bag full of medicine. The two were so sullen and sad-looking. I don't know whether that's the default expression of that old couple or was it the aftermath of the hospital visit, but it made me feel so sad.

I almost cried on the MRT, just looking at them. I teared.

I wasn't feeling so much for the dying party. I was feeling more for the one to be left behind. Not just being left behind, but slowly watching her partner go and knowing that it's a one-way process. No turning back.
Later, I did also think about what it was like to be him. To know his life is heading towards a bleak end. To be leaving his wife behind and trying to find ways to make the remaining time bearable and good for both of them.

I thought about Ly too.

Turning 19

2004-03-26T13:19:00.000+08:00

Frankly, the day’s events were sucky (those close to me knows that I use the word “sucky” when I’m exasperated and can’t find any official English vocabulary to describe my experience) for the following reasons:

1) I woke up to a feeling of loneliness, an emotional hangover from the night before. I felt like going shopping for my monthly spluging item with a good close friend, but none were available (the few I had in mind were busy). My Mum didn’t give me a wake-up call to wish me Happy Birthday (in fact she never said it at any point through the entire day).
2) I spent half my day at The Necessary Stage among people I have known for a year but barely have a rapport with.
3) TC the director, whom I once thought to must be nicest SNAG (Sensitive New Age Guy) ever, came up with the most ludicrous and ironic conclusion about my lack of fusion with the characters in the play – telling me I think too much and don’t feel enough. Then again, perhaps he was right – but within the TFYE group itself. Elsewhere, I sometimes believe that I emote too much for my own good.
TC even told me that I seem to be hiding my own vulnerability behind all the questions that I ask. I just want to know more, and I think questions are a good way to start a meaningful conversation than a mere comment on something obvious to both speaker and speakee. I don’t believe I’m justifying myself here, because I simply do not understand how TC, someone whom I had developed a level of admiration and respect for, could come up with something so remotely far away from who I am. Am I in self-denial? Perhaps I can’t quite blame him. All he knows about me is from what he sees me as in my interactions with the theatre group, which I will admit, is quite otherwise from my natural and genuine self.
4) The show went horribly for me. While the rest of the cast were enthralled at having been reduced to tears by TC’s dying grandmother story and thus having been in full swing for the performance, I was treated to the reality of the show’s appeal to a real audience. The audience was bored; they couldn’t make sense of our work. My friends made up 15% of the <70-strong src="http://home.pacific.net.sg/~spotamin/Birthday%20Gang%20good.JPG">
Outside the TNS Black Box after the show

Amardeep, a JC classmate, even took a cab to catch me after my show, knowing that he couldn’t be for the actual performance because tickets were sold out. He joined the church bunch at Secret Recipe decked out in his army garb, looking good, and faithful as a friend.

My sister made me her own bouquet of flowers – the smallest and crudest in comparison with the 3 other elaborate bouquets I received – but the most meaningful because it is both what she does best and the sheer effort and thoughtfulness. And because it is from my sister. She wrote me messages that addressed my insecurity (that stems from having an academically excelling and guitar-talented sister, along with a Mum disappointed in me). “I am so proud of you!” were the headlines of her note. For a younger sister, she certainly is very sharp and sensitive to me, especially surprising when I’ve hardly spoken to her or even seen her the past couple of months because of my afternoon tuition sessions and night rehearsals.

From left: Ly dearest, my white hair, Michelle, Tengren, Mike, Hongshen, Shanci the gorgeous one and Edmond

Ly, very graciously and lovingly took a backseat as I caught up with the rest of my friends. Our supper of 9 included ex-classmate Amardeep whom I probably will not see for a long time after this and ex-boyfriend Edmond whom I’ve not seen for a long time. Ly took me home. He told me sincerely that even after the entire theatre business thing, when I’m with him, I’m Weiling. It’s like I’m back home.

A third kind of feeling that weakened me yesterday was that of I-wish-I-could-give-more-of-myself-to-them feeling. I wish I could have spent my birthday with Mum, Cui and Mama too, but I didn’t because I was out with my friends. I hope they don’t have the impression that my friends mean more to me then them. I am just so pressed for time.

I do thank God for showing me what really is important. Minutes before I was due on stage, I was frantically praying and yet resigned that my prayers wouldn’t change anything. I was resigned to His omnipotence – that just because I prayed for the show to go well doesn’t mean that He would ensure it, because He may know better that that isn’t what I need. It was a terrible feeling to be so helpless for that moment. But yes, God indeed knows what my heart needs – and He gave it to me, in fact, more than what I would have actually asked for.

Tears of Gala Night Eve

2004-03-24T23:59:00.000+08:00

Tonight, I cried my eyes out after TC passed his genuinely disappointed comments on our full-dress rehearsal.

I am not usually affected by mass reprimanding and the likes, but it was a personal comment he made at me that got me so upset. He questioned me whether I had been trying hard enough through the production process. This is a sore spot because I am aware of my weak spirit that gives up so easily. It was the same weakness that made me give up on my A Levels. Yet, TC was speaking of this with particular reference to my voice projection, which I feel I had worked sufficiently at, but simply cannot make the mark because of what I’m naturally gifted (or rather, ungifted) with – a shrill and small voice. In addition to that, I suspect my inflamed thyroid gland is preventing me from fully opening up my throat. Are these physical attributes the reason why I’m not performing to the mark, or are these exactly the excuses that make me underachieve?

Secondly, I was upset that I wouldn’t be able to do well in the gala night’s show.

However, when Ly asked me why I was upset at the production which he had the impression didn’t mean much to me (not of his fault, but perhaps understood from my passing-off comments about the rehearsals), I realised where another major sensitivity lay. This production does mean something to me, just as all my performances do, even if I’m working with a group of strangers. It matters to me because this is probably going to be my last stage performance. I’m probably not going to be allowed to dabble in theatre in University, which would have been my last chance in this area since I’m not pursuing theatre as a profession.
Mum is sorely disappointed with my A level results. She never has been so upset with my academic performance. She has blamed my distracted mind, involvement with TFYE and worst, Ly. While I do not disagree with her, it just upsets me this badly, that I no longer have her approval and support in what I do and what means a lot to me. She seems so displeased, so unhappy with me. She tells me that it’s good that TFYE and the late nights will be over in these few days. Yes, that is what I have articulated too, but not really the only sentiment I have.

This performance, particularly tomorrow’s one is also very important to me because it is the only day when Mum, Cui and my friends are coming. It is the only day, and probably the last, when I get to prove myself on stage to those close to me. I fail terribly in the academics, which so often seems the world to most people and the value I have inevitably allowed to rub a little onto me. At least, I still have theatre to justify my worth, my uniqueness? I know this is such a terribly childish notion, but here I am laying my most basic vulnerability to everyone now, complete and unabridged.

Patriotism: To Be Expecting

2004-03-23T13:03:00.000+08:00

A child. In fact, 3 or more.

I can’t wait to be pregnant. I can’t wait to confidently show off my belly with pretty maternity clothes (versus consciously hiding the unsightly womb-protecting pouch of lipids with breath-holding techniques). And to know I wouldn’t ever be physically lonely for the next 9 months.

Some pregnant women look so good. Some women look so good pregnant. I wonder whether I’ll ever be one of those who look wonderfully radiant when pregnant, or whether it will appear that yeast has had its effect on my nose and have bloated calves and feet upon the life-harbouring experience.

I can’t wait to redeem my maternity leave too. I’m sure I’ll be guaranteed a good maternity package in view of my future teaching career most likely being in the hands of the civil service. And we know that the Government is pressured to set an example after all the talk about encouraging (re)productive sex.

Pak Lah’s political legitimacy with his clean sweep in the elections, China and the dead Hamas leader Yassin don’t interest me as much as the Mama-and-Papa-leave and EM3 debate that have recently been the issues of active debate in the papers.

Yes, as “aunty” as Audrey the stage manager may conclude derogatorily about me, I am content with my auntiness – my premature-to-many maternal instinct, household-expenditure budgeting skills, indifference to many youthful indulgences and in general, being too unexcited and level-headed for an Audrey’s perception of a kid.

Technical Rehearsal #1

2004-03-23T13:02:00.000+08:00

The set-in-the-making was revealed to us yesternight. I must say TC (the director) or whoever designed the stage did quite a pretty and cost-concealing job with economic hanging fluorescent lighting tubes.

It was nice to be in the actual theatre itself, to know and understand the space, to know where I am in relation to the audience. Everything feels more real and in an ironic way, more consoling now. I'm less hesitant about the show as a result of experiencing the Black Box’s dynamics and observing all the other things that will distract the audience from our not-very-impressive performance.

By the way, I love blackouts because that's the time I get to scratch my nose or adjust a wedgie on stage.

Expiring

2004-03-22T14:11:00.000+08:00

My teenhood is expiring soon. This is my last year as a somenumber-teen-year-old.
Sad to say, I don’t have much to be proud of as I edge closer to the 2-decade mark of exploiting the earth’s resources, fulfilling karmas and being loved.

As a guilty result of blogstipation, I shall make random comments on my life as it is now and other miscellaneous thoughts which possibly could be of interest to some reader.

By the way, through my last few months of teaching elementary English to Primary schoolers, I have accidentally discovered the difference between the usage of “shall” and “will”:
“Shall” follows any pronoun referring to the speaker while “will” comes after the other pronouns.
i.e.
I shall, We shall, Shall we?, Shall I?
versus
He will, She will, It will, They will etc.

I received 2 birthday cards elaborately decorated with coloured pens, tissue paper, paper mache and beads from the pair of sisters I’m teaching.

Primary 1 Lina wrote:
“Happy Birthday
Miss Chen
I am Lina Tay
I will wolkhare
Thank you
To teach me.”

Her Primary 4 sister, Emily, apparently articulate with more words wrote:
“Happy Birthday Miss Chen,
I hear wishes you a………………………………………
HAPPY BIRTHDAY and a……………………………….
HAPPY DAY for you Miss Chen
From that day on I will work hard and do my homework.
(If you are free please reply me.)
(I will tell you more news on that day about me.)
(I will take good care of my health and be hard working ok?)
(Remember to reply ME)
“Yours,
Emily Tay
(Your student)
(For Primary 4)”

Apparently, I have inadvertently done a superb job in getting these two cuties to develop some hero-worshipping infatuation with me. Unfortunately, I cannot say the same about my task in their education of English in the areas of spelling, punctuation, subject-verb agreement and parenthesis versus postscripts.
Don’t ask me where the I-will-be-hardworking-and-healthy-as-a-present-to-you concept came from. Never have I condoned anything of this nature (primarily due to the fact that the 2 girls always faithfully finish my assigned homework). Perhaps their Mum cleverly chose this opportunity and their passion for tuition to sneak in this very-Chinese and Singapore-education “moral” principle.

Production week has arrived. This week holds the technical rehearsals and the 4 badly sold-out shows. Sold-out isn’t self-praise here. With practical reasoning, 4 shows with only about a hundred seats per show isn’t hard to sell out. Furthermore, considering that we’re unheard-of amateurs, the good-sales credit then should go to the publicity campaign (flyers, TV Mobile and the Straits Times). We’re also the cheapest show in the TNS-M1 Theatre Connect ($15, $13 for concession eligiblets).
Okay, perhaps I shouldn’t be that wet a blanket (in spite of being logically and reality-wise sound), especially in the performance week itself.

On a brighter, or rather the more enthusiastic, note, this will probably be my last performance in a long time. Chances are that I wouldn’t be taking up Drama again should I enter Uni. As I fill out my CCA records for the university applications, I realised I had not ventured into other areas. I was in Table Tennis and Drama both in Secondary school and Junior College. I’ll like to try out a wilder sport if my Mum allows me to take up some extra-curricular activity (previously, she didn’t have much say since “c” in CCA represented “co-“, or more implicatively, “compulsory”). She’s tired of me having too many distractions in my schooling stint and is bent on ensuring I am closer to getting A’s in the next lap of my educational career.

But again, I digress (never begin a sentence with “But”, “And” and “Because”, unless you have artistic license to do so, or simply unless you’re not taking a Cambridge-related examination). The abovementioned “more enthusiastic” side of things refers to the dull nudge I have within, compelling me to make this performance a good swan song (even if I’m only playing the pimply and grouchy moon occupying the back corner of the stage with a few redundant lines in a 45-minute play).

And while gala night falls on my 19th birthday, I am aiming at the very least, not to make a pathetic memory of my presence on stage on that over-glorified annual event. The additional impetus lies in the reality that the gala-night Thursday is the only day when my family and friends are coming. In other words, Thursday would be the worst day to make a dog's dinner of myself.

At the end of this week, I am really looking forward to the return of my nightlife (just staying home). I can’t wait to part with the lonely late journeys home from rehearsals (which also requires me to walk past the still hauntedfied-by-night swimming pool in my estate, where I imagine some hair-covering-face “The Ring” woman emerging suddenly from the “Dark Water” and pulling me down into her world).

Living Life

2004-03-03T13:40:00.000+08:00

The past 3 months has the been the best time of my life since Junior College.

I had the most horrendous time of my life in my 2 years of JC. It does not matter whether I suffered out of my incompetence and/or clumsiness in handling the JC syllabus/lifestyle, or that most victims of the unsympathetic University-screening 2-year-course experience the same ordeal, these two years have left terrible marks on me. Any allusion to the aforementioned concentration camp for the soul immediately draws a feeling of nausea and severe discomfort to me.

I speak of this because, having been given some time away from the inflicting elements of the A-Level course, I’ve finally collected my thoughts and emotions in a coherent manner and overcome the strong aversion of discussing anything A-Level-related. I can at last speak comfortably of my experience at the A-Levels.

The two weeks my A-Levels took place in saw me in a sudden resigned bout of teary depression. After the first few papers (General Paper and Economics), I had become resigned to never making the mark to enter University. Yes, it was the most self-destructive emotional choice anyone could make at such a crucial point, but I regretfully did. The failure of my strength of character at that decisive period, once my scapegoat for botching the exams, is now but a sheer embarrassment and another item added to the self-reproaching to-do list. Basically, while messing up the A-Levels was by itself adequately detrimental to my happiness, the awareness of my self-destructive ways that led to it is even more painful and more time-enduring.

Bumping into a JC-classmate last week and giving a clumsy but candid reply to the “So how are you?” question made me realise how much I’ve lived in the past 3 months. I replied her with equal awkwardness, “Living, really living life.” Of course, the circumstance in which we ran into each other was also responsible for my unusual response (I was clad in a short skirt, plunging spaghetti camisole and dyed hair and caught in a bikini shop – something that none of my JC-mates would have even imagined the overlength-skirt-donning, 5-year-old-hairstyled, cosmetics-and-alcohol-virgin Weiling in. As for the outfit that fateful day at Orchard, it was just the occasional wild let-go Weiling who went for such a combination).

But I digress (though only in parenthesis, but that’s what these brackets are for right?). Anyway, in the last 3 months, according to I told my cell group members as we reflected on what we had to thank God for, I’ve been allowed to do what I enjoy and have been doing them well.
I’ve been given a flexible though hectic schedule (the tuition darlings, uncompromising night rehearsals at Cairnhill, driving lessons and having to handle affairs at home with my Grandma now banned from entering the kitchen after her operation) of which I plan my daily affairs meticulously well. I’ve been entrusted with the lives of several children of which I believe I have been dedicatedly and effectively grooming them academically while doing my best to make their learning enjoyable. I have become more domesticated in the aspect of culinary skills. I have had time to care for and give of myself more to Ly, my grandmother and a few others.

Simply, I have been happy, and that’s what I mean by having lived life the last three months.

However, the looming dark cloud of the results coming out threatens to tear my bliss apart.

The A-Level results are coming out within the next 2 days. The results will determine whether I squeeze myself into a local university or punish myself with a third year of hell (i.e. retaking the A-Levels). They will determine whether I can finally discard my loathed A-Level notes. They will determine whether I shall pick up a few more tuition kids or begin dropping them. They will determine whether I can even think of going on a short shopping spree with a group of friends in KL in April. They will determine whether I get pushed back a year in my get-married-young plans.

But nevertheless, I wish to announce for the sake of accountability, that come what may, I have chosen to place my faith in God’s omniscience and grace. His omniscience lies in Him knowing what He wants for and out of my life, as well as what He has made me capable of. His grace means He will never let me experience more than what I can endure.

Whether I’ll have to repeat another year or whether I graduate to the next step of my education, I know everything in my life will work out perfectly by His plans and through His understanding; and this is not the “perfection’ understood by the world.

“And we know that in
all things
God works
for the good
of those who love him,
who have been called according to his purpose.”
~Romans 8:28

Happy Loving Day!

2004-02-17T14:17:00.000+08:00

That’s what my Primary 4 student, Emily, wrote on the Valentine’s Day card she made for me when I went to her home on Saturday to tutor her and her Primary 1 sister.

How can I not love my job?

I’m beginning to develop an attachment for all my children. I have nine students now (another recent 2 additions, whom I will meet this Friday).

Sec 2(N) – Zhen Ling
Sec 1(N) – Guan Hui
Pri 2 & 6 Brothers – Jing Xiong & Jing Rong
Pri 1 & 4 Sisters – Lina & Emily
Pri 4 & 6 Sisters – Stella & Vivian
Pri 2 – Daryl

Emily and her really petite Primary 1 sister, Lina, are an extremely endearing pair. On the first day when their Mum decided to put Lina together with Emily for tuition with me, Lina sat at the table half an hour before I came in sheer anticipation. The two obliged me with their diabetes-causing saccharine smiles to get those “Well done!” rubber stamps by my next session with them.

Primary 2 Daryl is my chubby ice-cream-, chocolate-, sweets-, basically-food-loving boy who told me in sincere candidness when I sneezed, “Wah, Cher! Your sneeze can frighten people ah!” And who affectionately waved, “Bye bye, Miss Devil” at the end of the lesson where he saw me in my red hair. He is the boy who used his chin to wipe the table, and later with a piece of tissue after I tell him how unhygienic that action was. Following which, he uses that same piece of tissue to wipe his sweaty face.

Secondary 2 Zhen Ling was my first student and the one whom I’ve had the most number of sessions with (16 to be exact). He can be offensively blunt, loudly telling me that I have something stuck in my teeth and that I look ugly without my glasses in addition to other random insulting commentaries. Yet, I can’t help feeling a sense of affinity with the boy. Teasing him when he completed his homework way before the last-minute-time-period (a rare occurrence), I told him I was so happy with him that I’d give him a kiss. “Err.. No, thank you… I don’t deserve it,” came the pretentiously humble but self-preserving reply.

They are all charming children whom I know will produce a surge of the awful I-wish-I-didn’t-have-to-do-this feeling in me when the time comes for me to part with them.

The First Time I Paid More Than $15 For Hair-Shortening

2004-02-09T14:42:00.000+08:00

Against those secondary school days’ “I will never dye my hair (until I’m 45 and need to cover the grey hairs)” oaths and the later JC period’s “If ever I dye my hair, I’ll colour it either purple or blue” logic, I dyed my hair last Friday. Not only did I break the first oath (made in impetuous self-righteousness and self-love), I did not achieve what I had set myself to potentially do in the subsequent more thought-out JC oath (i.e. I did not dye my hair blue nor purple).

My hair’s red now. No, not the entire head. I don’t wish to stop traffic with a redhead alongside my Mum’s bright red lipstick.

The hairstylist, May, tied my hair up like Nezha’s (some Chinese lengendary character, whom I have yet to encounter but who has a repute for his vertical ponytail extending from the top of his head).

She then got her goateed assistant with yellow petrified (head) hair (his hair texture had a striking resemblance to pubic hair) to paint the rest of my hair that wasn’t erect.

Before I continue, here’s the misplaced prologue:
I have been recently seeking a genuine change in my hairstyle (not an unnoticeable trim that girls usually sacrifice four to five MacDonald Value Meals for and get upset over should no one notice a change in their hair length), and was desperate to the extent that I would have my hair dyed should there be a need in the transformation process.
I made mention of this to my TFYE (Theatre For Youth Ensemble) kharkees, Ave and En Ying, during one of our many rehearsal sessions. An invitation was extended to me to join them at a salon at Far East that coming Friday. This was both very nice of them, and also quite thrilling for them, anticipating having a hand in and witnessing a somewhat radical change in the hair-related aesthetic style of straight-haired, centre-parting, passé Weiling.
En suggested a pink for me, but I chose to do something milder (in comparison to a pink) lest I get disowned, and also because I couldn’t afford to pay another $40-50 to get my hair stripped of its colour by a damaging bleaching agent (the second reason also applies to why I did not have my hair .

Anyway, back to the 2-hour, $77 experience, I had my hair and scalp painted red by Mr Pubic Hair (Ave cheekily and obsequiously loudly called him “the Nice Guy”). It was a rather torturous affair because of the unexpected itchiness the dye on my scalp brought about. Mr Pubic Hair probably couldn’t stand my high-pitched complaining commentary (a great tool to get what I want) and scratched my scalp for me, much to my delight. Ave exclaimed from where she was planted with her hair bundled taitai-ishly in a towel, “Aiyo, Weiling, what are you doing to the Nice Guy?”

Oh well, flirting with him I guess, and satisfying my itch.
“Lower, lower, a bit to the right, upper, righter… Ahh…”

As my “personal assistant” was near completing his menial task, En (or was it Ave?) said that my hair looked like bleeding entrails from the back.

He then placed me under a rotating heated halo for almost half an hour. This was the point was when I truly appreciated my company and came to the divine understanding of why women go to salons in toilet tradition – in twos or more.

The best part of the process was lying down and having my hair shampooed – by someone else. I guess that’s where the half of the $77 went to – the I’ll-lather-shampoo-into-your-hair-for-you-and-get-your-scalp-cells-accumulated-under-my-fingernails-even-though-you-can-jolly-well-do-it-yourself pamper treatment service.

The Final Result
Anyway, I have a bird-nest crown of my original hair colour and a left parting, two red streaks shaping my face, and red tips at the back of my head. Whenever the wind blows, a different design emerges (when I don’t put any hair-styling-and-stiffening substance).

The Reaction
En was the first to see the final product and her compliments were definitely supportive and the kind which did not make me repentant of spending $77 on a hairdo that would last for about only a season.

Ly told me sweetly that he was worried about how people would view me as an Ah Lian on the first night he picked me up. Oh well, he has since tried to redeem that comment and himself since by telling me he’s growing accustomed to the new spunk. What a darling…

Grandma and Sis loved it, with my sister showing me off to her friends in church.

Mum… that’s a tough nut to crack still. For a prudent someone who believes in only going to QB to get her 10-minute-$10 haircuts and who isn’t fond of seeing her daughter clad in anything less than a T-shirt and knee-length whatevers, I suppose it would take extra time to get a “that’s nice” from her.

People in church generally, particularly the older folks don’t like it (what I gather from their silence) while a few of my peers are quite thrilled by my new look.

My tuition kids gawk at me in surprise when I enter their homes, but are so saintly and sweet that they endeavour not to offend me, by masking their expressions and keeping silent. What angels!

It's Great To Be Needed

2004-02-06T12:41:00.000+08:00

Which Cancer Causing Agent are you?

Well, to the TFYErs, being a useful and needed sun sure beats being the useless, purely aesthetic moon (the star of romantic scenes, no pun intended.. or the creator of pretty swishy swashy waves) who lives off the light from the sun.

Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?

2004-02-03T21:55:00.000+08:00

Dried latex on my face.. The make-up trial for Secrets From My Room...
The latex seemed to work only on the lower half of my face, but nevertheless, that looks a little scary already.

The latexing process:
1) Liquid latex, that looks like white glue, is plastered onto our faces. (Latex smells strongly of ammonia)
2) While our skin is held taut, a dryer blows the latex dry.
2) Upon drying and releasing the skin, some creases in the latex over our face forms.
3) Repeat 3 times

The Only 2 Reasons Why I'm Glad My Malaysian Mum Converted Her Citizenship

2004-01-29T12:24:00.000+08:00

Blogging makes me more conscious of the morality of my thoughts, or rather the portrayal of my morality.
Therefore, to prevent myself from looking like a critical snob, I shall give only 2 good reasons why I am glad to be a Singaporean, why I wouldn’t want to stay in Malaysia on a long-term basis and/or in support of a Singaporean citizenship (versus a Malaysian one) advertisement.

To begin with, here’s a little history on how this thought evolved:
My Mum grew up in Taiping, a small mining town in Perak, Malaysia. She then came to Singapore to take up law, after which she started working in the city, characterised by the poised Sir Stamford Raffles, Merlion with evil colour-changing glowing eyes, Courtesy Lion and Clean-and-Green smiling frog.
Falling in love either with the quaint country or with the man she met at the Sonny Lau Dance Studio who would later become her husband (I have no idea which came first), she converted her citizenship and also registered my sister and I as Singaporeans. That is one of the many things I’m eternally grateful for.
Anyway, Mum, Sis and I make frequent trips to Malaysia (often K.L.) for our annual shopping trips and relative visitations.

I just returned from the Chinese New Year spent in K.L. and of course, another bout of mad shopping.
This trip was a longer one for me this time around – 5 days (usually, we stay an average of 3 days, basically only during long weekends when Mum doesn’t have to worry about missing work). An additional two days meant a lot for my general experience of Malaysian life.

Back to the 2 reasons, here they are:

1) I don’t like Malaysia
a) The water from the taps and cisterns is a muddy yellow (it looks as if the toilets are never flushed). I prefer rinsing my mouth with recycled pee in Singapore anytime to almost unfiltered genuine pee in Malaysia.
b) I don’t feel safe even in the shopping centre. I also very much prefer the inexperienced and pathetic graffiti of the word “Sars” on walls near my home to “F*ck you cina”.
c) The majority of cars there are way due for scrape. (Apparently, I’m quite aesthetically fussy even on the roads.)
d) Where mosquitoes are rampant, I have to wave one hand behind me to resemble a cow’s tail while trying to shit, in order to shoo off mosquitoes ferociously trying to feed on my succulent rear even in my fourth aunt’s condominium penthouse.
e) The architects habitually miss out the most basic home-building requirements such as water drainage holes outside the shower area, water pumps for units at higher levels (I was forced back into the time of bucket-bathing because the low-pressured showers there produced only a small stream of water good enough for brushing teeth) and an-adequate-length tap heads (which means your toothbrush always touches the sink while you try to rinse it under the tap).
f) The areas in K.L. are named Section 32, SS11 etc. versus the colourful and even laughable names of the Singapore housing estates and road names.
g) Malaysia’s toilets are perennially irrigated because of the Malays’ habit of washing up after they excrete (a good hygienic but really impractical and messy habit).
h) There aren’t bus-stops within walking distances from most homes and no MRTs going to every major town. i.e. I’ll never sustain a home tuition career there nor will I be able to go pak-tor-ing (dating) without my Mum if I did not own a car and a license.
i) Despite being a couple of degrees further away from the equator than Singapore, K.L. always feels hotter than my dear “air-conditioned nation”.

2) I love Singapore

On a brighter note, I feel pretty in Malaysia because the fashion there is usually 2 steps behind Singapore’s and the girls there are more conservative and less exposed to the image-consciousness found in Singapore (sadly brought about by the epidemic of slimming advertisements and skin/flesh-bearing fashion). The girls there hardly dress up; the daily garb consists of T-shirts and jeans, very much unlike Singapore where there is a varied style of trends (close-to-nakedness, Jap, pop, bohemian, grunge, radical…).
In Singapore, I’m considered a plain cosmetic-virgin Jane who has retained the hairstyle of a 5-year-old girl (especially by the standards of those from my theatre group). In contrast to that, I appear trendy and maybe even overdressed while walking in a K.L. shopping centre.

Another positive side of K.L. (to balance my commentary) would be her absence of rude gawking hum-sup-guis (lecherous men) and equally offensive and kiasu housewives divulging the 30%-discount wagons.

But I’m still not moving Malaysia anytime soon, as long as my sanity (or perhaps the absence of it) remains in me.

Wart Removal -- Method 1: Burn, Method 2: Freeze

2004-01-28T16:18:00.000+08:00

I had my first wart removal treatment at the National Skin Centre today. They froze my toe with liquid nitrogen that came from a metal cylinder similar to that of the Baygon can, but with a nozzle that looks like that of a welder.

A wart is a viral skin infection that usually comes from the generous courtesy of common swimming pools, which have a high concentration and rainforest-like variety of unfriendly bacteria and viruses, albeit being heavily chlorinated at hair-bleaching levels. Warts (and boils) are also what young children are told witches have all over their faces.

The last time I had a viral wart removed was 8 years ago, according to the records held by the National Skin Centre. I was in primary school then and hence allowed to scream when the doctor injected anaesthesia into my big toe several times. The doctor then told me that I could scream as loud as I wanted to because the room was soundproof. She must have regretted giving me such a friendly and light-hearted assurance. Unfortunately for her, and my Mum, who could accompany me because of that "tender age", I took her comment very seriously. 10-year-old Weiling then could scream just as piercingly as she can now if she was tickled.
When the anaesthesia took effect, the laser woman began welding the bottom of my big toe. As she aimed and shot a narrow and precise jet of blue flame or something along that line of imagination, a “piak” sound (similar to the sound accompanying a spark from an electrical socket) would follow.
It was more traumatising for my Mum than for me then. Apparently, unknown to my Mum, I was aware she was nearer to fainting at the smell of barbequed flesh then I was to letting out another scream. I asked, “Hmm, what’s that smell ah? Smells chao tah (burnt).”
That was probably a cruel comment on my part in view of the fact that I knew my Mum was feeling so quesy. As if to console me, she nervously laughed and said, “Oh yar ah, what’s that smell? Barbeque perhaps.”

Anyway, back to the more recent incident, I was the noisiest patient the nurse ever had today, in addition to owning the title of the having the highest-pitched voice (which gets even closer to ultra-sonic when I’m nervous or excited). I didn’t scream this time. No, no. I behaved better. I just whimpered and whined. I clenched the cushion so tightly through the 5-minute affair and leaving my finger pressure marks behind, the next patient would have no problem knowing where to place his hands.

My Mum was one bad experience wiser this time around. She didn’t stay in the room with me. When I asked her whether it was because she was scared, she didn’t respond. Then I asked her, “You shy ah?” Her reply, which came in a series of positive facial distortions, signalled a “yes”. She added, “Char si lang!” (translated: so noisy until dead man wakes, noisy to the point of murderous, or something along the expression of “You’re embarrassingly noisy.”)

Tears began gathering in my eyes about 10 minutes after the whole episode. Post-traumatic stress I think.

Ly laughed at me when I told him over the phone about what had happened. Stupid boy… I hope it was a laugh of endearment and not contempt.

The Reunion Dinner

2004-01-21T20:33:00.000+08:00

Reunited with my father. That's all. Just for one night.

We had our half-hour "reunion" dinner at the famous Mahatir-visited Nasi Padang coffeeshop at Zion Road, before Mum, Cui and I go onto our night train to Kuala Lumpur before 10PM. Dad deliberately came back from Batam (where he feeds another family and runs a pseudo karang guni business, which in reality is the mere maintainance of a shop turn storage den) on the calling of tradition's guilt.

So it was dinner with 4 immediate members of the family -- a rare occasion indeed. Oh, and a family photo too. Ha ha, how quaint.

I'll Crush You Like A Cockroach! (If only I wasn't afraid of things that have wings, have six legs and are a few thousand times smaller than me)

2004-01-20T10:31:00.000+08:00

I want to write about something… but what? I have run out of events that are bloggable and inspiration for distorted accounts of my life/thoughts… and against the backdrop of my no-trivia, controlled-whining blog policy too (basically, I don’t write what I wouldn’t want to be reading on other people’s blog)… Arghh.. whatever! *Wei Wei does the blondie’s “whatever” and roll eyes thang*

I’m angry, and I need to shit. (I found out I can’t shit late at night. It’s as if my bowel muscles get just as tired as the rest of my physical and mental state.)

I’ve so little patience for immaturity and irresponsibility in anyone old enough to be in secondary school. That’s quite ironic, given the fact that I’m working with children most of the time now: Tuition kids between ages 8 and 14 through Mondays to Saturdays, and then my own one-to-one follow-up 10-year-old girl in church on Sundays. Evenings are the time I take off from children, yet that’s the time when my 14-year-old sister fills the gaps.

14-year-olds are so irritating. I hate seeing those Sec 2-3 characters roaming about Tampines Mall, eating at MacDonalds, being in my space… Argh!
Sec 1s are not so bad: fresh into a new system of secondary school and teenhood, they are still testing out the waters and proceeding cautiously; hardly any airs and all out to let new experiences soak in.
The Sec 4s and JC1s are comfortable in their teenage years and past that teen-insecurity phase of the frightful-fourteen-year-olds.
Sec 2-3s are the “Well, hey! We’re second-years in teenhood, so that gives us the right to start trying to set trends and making our presence loud and clear to you. We’re individuals with a mind of our own, so par-leease show us some R.E.S.P.E.C.T. And to our elder siblings, yes, we think you’re so passé, but we’ll still copy some of the things you do but of course disguise them a little so that they look original. And in the event that our behaviour becomes strikingly similar to yours, blame it on nurture and spending too much time with you. No no, we don’t like the way you talk, but we took after it, most unfortunately may we add, by the cruel fact that we live together. Oooh, and lookie at the front seat of the car, and the place at the dining table Jie Jie always sits at,… they must be the best… let’s try it out!”

And if you have not guessed it right, it’s my sister I have the least patience for. I suppose you could say familiarity breeds contempt and the fact that living together is usually never the best way to bring out the positive essence of anyone’s character.

I hate it when she uses my toilet. In fact, I hate it when anyone uses my toilet. It’s not officially my toilet of course, but the habits of this home have been such that the common toilet that is also an attached bathroom to my room, has become more or less, mine. Totally personalised with my favourite combination of toiletries and hygiene/cleanliness/neatness idiosyncrasies (e.g. The toilet is always wet because I shower the toilet bowl almost after every time I use it. Yes, psychotic as it sounds, I do that.), that’s my second favourite abode, after my room.

At least now, she makes the attempt to use it so secretly well that I can’t spot her presence (Previously, my highly-sensitive intruder alert was often activated by the fact that my facial wash tubes were messy with soap in the caps). But alas, she forgot to open the door into my room today after her shower this morning in my toilet. That’s the problem – the longer she does something in secret, the more careless she gets.

I have to admit I’m not the nicest person to live with either. I’m meticulous, a perfectionist and can’t stand the slightest sight of dirt, untidiness and evidences of irresponsibility.

Darn, now I find me justifying myself through my rambling and complaining again. That’s partly why I try not to whine through my blogs. The b*tch in me comes out.

The RaRa of My Life Now (the rara that's eating away my nights at home or with Ly)

2004-01-18T20:07:00.000+08:00

Here's the Necessary Stage production that most of us Theatre For Youth Ensemble (TFYE) members have been looking forward to. We're currently in the devising stage still, but things are taking shape.
This is the close-to-year-long theatre programme I've been involved in on Saturday afternoons (now 3 times a week... and later hitting 5 times a week).

The advertisement was taken off the M1 Youth Connection brochure which also features "Mixed Blessings" and "Such Sweet Sorrow", now available in all good places...

(Sorry ah Yan, I'm living off your scanning work. And thanks ;> )

10 Things That Would Make A Girl Like Weiling Happy

2004-01-12T13:06:00.000+08:00

1. Agreeing with her other half (not a cutsie term for ‘boyfriend’, but the other psychological half of Weiling bound by the inertia of her massive bottom) to go for a morning jog (the only time she would jog because the jogging path outside my window is shielded from the fire-breathing sun then)

2. Returning drenched in perspiration hence feeling lighter and justified to have another binging session should Ly invite her to dinner at his place(no more lunches because Ly resumed lessons at NIE today)

3. Taking a shower cum washing her toilet while her hair soaks in mint Shampoo/Conditioner

4. Using Biore’s Men’s Facial Wash (mint too)

5. Using The Original Mint Showergel mixed 1:3 with newly-bought Dettol soap (I bought a small bottle of the foul-smelling bodywash over the weekend in the hypochondriac expectation that it will kill all the white-patches-and-wart-producing germs that I bring up from the swimming pool and while doing any other health-benefiting exercise in public areas)

6. Hanging about her room clad in my underwear doing all sorts of healthy and clean things that decent girls do in the privacy of their rooms

7. Finally completing her Quiet Time in the morning, and not just before she sleeps (a result of the day’s activities and procrastination) when she usually dozes off while praying

8. Skipping breakfast by virtue of all these happy distractions and having an early lunch instead – simply the delusion of having had 2 meals in one, and hence saving herself some calories while not having officially missed a meal

9. Updating her blog while having a Sunday-cooked-but-today-microwaved-to-reheat brunch, which removes some guilt of making her faithful blog-readers visit my page regularly and finding nothing new

10. Enjoying the prospect of having some more time between lunch and her first tuition session today at 3pm to complete some other household chores which she absolutely loves to get done, not to do: cleaning windows, ironing clothes (To my future husband, I don’t enjoy ironing, so get wrinkle free shirts in the future or be a PE teacher) and changing her bedsheet

Tuitioning Is Fattening

2004-01-12T12:28:00.000+08:00

While my busy schedule leaves little time for me to have good nutritious afternoon meals (except when I get invited to Ly’s place for a minimum 5- course lunch – his daily fare), my tuition students’ Mum’s make up for this poor diet.
Two of the Mums gave me a box of home-baked pineapple tarts and chocolate crispies – fabulously made with lots of that motherly touch too. The latter came at my first lesson with the Mum’s 2 boys. I found the box of edibles a nice welcome gift to begin my new responsibilities with – the Primary 2 and 6 boys placed under my charge.

Nevertheless, better than getting a new student by recommendation/request or being showered with Chinese New Year treats, was my Mum’s comment that she was proud of me. She was proud and pleased with the way I launched my tuition career and how I am managing with 6 students (one more on the way). At the risk of sounding like my Primary 2 boy (as lovable as the amount of puppy fat he is endowed with) who requested that I told his nanny that he got full marks for his spelling and dictation test, my Mum’s pride in me has and probably will always be very dear to me.

The Much Delayed (now much condensed due to the loss of memory with the passage of time) Account of My Malaysian Trip (26-28 December)

2004-01-07T22:53:00.000+08:00

Another shopping spree in ringgit. The fact that I can buy everything while giving my Mum the impression that they are twice as expensive in Singapore (even if it isn’t) is the secret behind the 2:1 ringgit appeal to Singaporeans.

On a graver note, I observed to some horror, my Mum, along with my relatives (grandma & aunties), aging. The manner in which they are aging is rather frightful actually: the older they get, the louder they speak, the more instances they talk simultaneously. And worse yet – in the claustrophobia-inducing enclosure of the car (made this way due to the dominant presence of 4 loud women talking in a raucous high-pitched chorus at the top of their voices).

My 12-year-old cousin Zachary, 14-year-old sister Cui, and I kept silent in apathy, bewilderment and survival instincts respectively. While Zach made several futile attempts to turn up the volume of his noise-making FM channel and my sister sat in the gait of a motion-sick creature, I mused on the thought of my semi-deaf second Aunt’s husband being the most blessed man against the backdrop of aging wives.

The Occupation

2003-12-18T09:21:00.000+08:00

Latest update in my occupational life:

I have decided to become a full-time tutor -- after the series of job-hunting interviews, from F & B to office nine-to-five positions. F & B's rejected me either because of the fact I can't work at night and refuse Sundays, or because I intimidated my interviewers with my excessive chattering. As for the office positions, one looked highly suspicious with a questionably too handsome, too young (before mid-20s definitely) and too smiley (he smiled more than I did -- imagine that!) interviewer while the other 3-month Data Entry senang job at American Express didn't appeal to me (I'd probably quit within 3 hours).

Apparently as I was making the life-transforming (at least for the next 6 months of my life) decision whether to take up tuition full-time (or none at all) or a regular job, I was offered 2 more tuition assignments within the hour (in addition to the 2 that I had accepted earlier this week). Was God hinting to me shouting directions at me?

So at this current moment, I have 4 students, and I'm still considering MOE's relief teaching scheme.

I had my first session with my first student yesterday afternoon, a small-framed, probably pre-pubescent Sec 2 (Normal Academic) boy in Tampines. Although I headed towards my new workplace with some inertia (the knowledge that I was about to begin bearing the responsibilities of teaching again) and apprehension (of what the child -- and his mother -- would be like), I found myself enjoying and reviving my old fondness of communicating with students and teaching (something I've not done since last year when I ended my stint with a repeat 'N' Level student my age, and her Sec 2 brother).

The Plom (3 Dec) – That’s What My (albeit English-educated) Grandma From Malaysia Calls It

2003-12-10T09:25:00.000+08:00

The Plom was a disaster.

The gown (a full-length maroon one, the first that I tried and my Mum insisted was the only one I looked decent in) was fine, the underwear wasn’t.

I refused to wear a thong that would, as a result of its lack of supporting presence, unleash seismic activity of untold magnitudes in my generous semi-solid butt cheeks with every step I take. Consequently, the next alternative was box-shorts. I wore a granny-like underwear (branded Elle to lessen the image of granniness) which I bought several months ago in Malaysia (where I do my annual shopping) and never wore until such a big night (big in relation to the level of youthful excitement in my life). A terrible mistake it was. For the first time, I had donned on an oversized undergarment (I have never been given the opportunity to encounter any underwear which is “too big” given the generous endowment of my twin-bearing hips). Getting wedgies wasn’t exactly a comfortable memory, it resulting in my approximate 5 trips to the Ladies’ (no one says “toilets” at a Plom) within the 3 hours I was in the Orchard Hotel function room.

That was just a synopsis of the general Plom experience. The real beginning was before the Plom.

I was late, really late (estimated from the 2-3 dishes that had already been served by the time I arrived). I had finish off singing with the youth choir at a church wedding (all Singaporean weddings begin late, even those involving appointments with God) and fetched my make-up artist (courtesy of TFYE’s Aveline, Art student from VJC) on the way home, prior to the “big” (relative again) make-over session. After all that was slapped onto my face and hair, we were on our way…
The trepidation I experienced through the car journey was one of regret (of getting conned into going for the Plom, a once-in-a-life-time experience – in rational reality, an experience I could have been happier without) and expected embarrassment. Mum told me not to fret; I wouldn’t be significant at the Plom where everyone was all dolled up anyway (in contrast to Ly’s “Steal the limelight, Sweetheart.”). Mum’s advice, as usual, was the more accurate of the two. Nevertheless and more naturally, Ly’s comment stuck to me during the journey, for both its sweethearty flattering element and potential likelihood of materialising as shall be explained in the following paragraph).
Plaguing my mind through the car ride was the scene of me clumsily strutting in 1.5 hours long overdue, into a hall where everyone had comfortably been seated and settled. In addition to that, while making my way dazedly halfway through the hall to my table and being the awkward late Cinderel-lah, I would then trip over my gown/heels/self and zao-geng (literally translated: “run (head)lights” – flash in Singaporean lingo). And worse yet – in my granny undies.

Anyway, in spite of the vivid imagination, that didn’t happen.

What really happened was:
I called Jonah (one of my only 2 male comrades who were at the Plom) to come down to the lobby to bring me up. No, not to show off, but simply to have someone to laugh with should I plom on the red carpet at the Plom. He came with YC, and both, in the most complimenting male manner, told me my make-up was “Wow!” – “like a wall, cannot penetrate one”.
We went up together after snapping a quick photo in front the hotel’s Chrismas tree, with me flanked by the two men on both sides.
I was both dazed and late as anticipated, but the noise spouted from the hired host and grossly magnified through the PA system, was so overpowering that it even impeded the visual ability of the plommers. More importantly, I did not trip. Hence no one noticed me as I snuck in as inconspicuously as Weiling possibly could.

My table: 9.5 girls.
The 9 full-fledge girls sat elegantly at the table, dolled up and looking demure and pretty – with lips sweetly pursed behind the judgmental running commentaries in their heads that would verbalise shortly in the “privacy” of the Ladies’.
Very kindly, Janna had kept food from the earlier dishes for me. So there I was, late and the only one eating greedily. The other dishes came, and left barely touched. In her absolute copyright trademark, Amanda who was seated next to me, rolled her eyes and commented, “The food sucks right?”
Oh yes it did, but I still ate enough of it to make up for at least $3 of the $65 ticket. We were dished Muslim food – Briyani rice with spiceless curry and Kembing soup in place of fake sharks’ fin soup… after which, all was a blur.
The girls didn’t eat – either by virtue of the detestable idea of having been served Muslim food at a formal dinner (when we had no Muslims at our table), and/or the restrictive gowns that fitted too snugly on their bodies that did not allow the slightest intestinal expansion.

I spent most of the Plom correcting wedgies in the Ladies’ or standing outside the hall, in the depressed and pathetic gait of regret and loneliness due to the absence of my male comrades. I could neither bear the company of silent pretty ladies (whose only words came when criticising the choice of dressing made by the lucky-draw winners and when gathering each other for flash photography) nor the juxtaposing noise of the Plom affair consisting of the dreadful but well-meant JC1 performances, loud not-my-glass-of-Milo music and the raucous host.

I guess what made the night for me was when Ly came to my rescue around 1AM, picking me up from the hotel room.
The guys and I had adjourned to the hotel room to escape the uneventful Plom. The guys took more photos of themselves in their tuxes than I, 0.5 female, did of myself (and the poses in which they chose to capture themselves historically on film made me rethink the vanity of men).
Ly, who had taken sleeping time off the church camp he was vice-chairman of, drove me home (partly on Mum’s strict “not too late” and “have someone sent you home” instructions), but stopped over at his place where he cooked up a 15min Maggi Mee dish (“elaborated” with prawns and slices of meat) while I konked out on the sofa. Maggie Mee with Ly – the best dish of the Plom night.

China Spits On Singapore

2003-10-31T18:30:00.000+08:00

The rapture has begun, with China in the lead (assume they’re Christians just for this analogy). The population of PRC rises towards heaven with their dowdy communist grey suits. They make a transit in the skies above Singapore. A shadow is cast upon the island as the entire drab mass blocks off all sunlight. No ray escapes the numbers. Suddenly the populace, in traditional Chinese idiosyncratic culture, rakes up their internal fluids in the unity of red brotherhood. With a final gruff effort, they expectorate. Gravity takes the spittle a long way though the stratosphere and matter-of-factly splats across the Lion City.

The above was inspired by a metaphor used by a student in my school and re-cited by a teacher during a post-mortem of one of the many periodic internal JC exams:
“Singapore is so small that if everyone in China was to spit on Singapore, our tiny island would be submerged!”

The sky is hurling buckets of water down Singapore (or at least all of Bedok and Tampines) while children of the wind play “Catch” and indiscriminately fling water-bombs in the playground of my home, a box neatly stacked on the sixth level of one of the many blocks in Aquarius By The Park (by the way, my room is by the longkang).

I squeal in utmost girliness at the storm washing the exterior walls of my flat, the pseudo-threatening thunder, the sudden plummet in the temperature, the sheer feeling of being protected and potentially-warm in this cosy (euphemistic for small) apartment, as well as with my open-arm welcome of any form of distraction from the study of Economics (Keynesian’s multiplier process).

I do my Ah-Soh scamper (in a pink housecoat with prints of cartoon children sewn upside down) though the house shutting windows, pulling in the clothes, sliding close the balcony door and wrestling with the backyard door (whose glass pane once shattered upon the impact of the door slamming shut – the product of the potent wrath of a previous storm).

As I do all these, I sing multiple obscenely atrocious cover versions of “What The World Needs Now (is love, sweet love)” near the top of my voice, ending each disfigured version and beginning another unrecognisable one upon hitting the part where my knowledge of the lyrics has never developed.

While my raucous insanity musters me and I (now) walk through the house calmer, room by room, to do my spot-check of the windows and planting my music in every corner, half my room is getting flooded. The parquet threatens to warp and rot as I let out a blonde’s shriek. I talk to myself, aloud, reprimanding and complaining. My monologue/dialogue sounds so convincing, I frighten myself.