I almost forgot my blog username and password.

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

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.

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)

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

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.