June

was the month
- I officially joined the rank of senior citizen at the entry level. I know mail relating to active aging is going to pour in.

- I thought about a birthday bash. It never happened. The only birthday bash I ever threw was at age 21; I realised then I could not deal with the fuss. I did enjoy small fusses made by the friends who did know about the birthday, and I want to thank you girls for making the birthday deeply meaningful and memorable.

- I want to thank the girlfriend for her gift of leopard print tights. She saw those and thought it was so me; I am flattered that she remembered I love animal print accessories and that she thought I'd still be able to wear them tastefully. I do and I can; I will.

- I had dinner with the family. The dysfunctional dynamics are fully intact. Some things will never change. I learn to see it as a constant in my life; there is perverse comfort to be drawn from that.

- Three entertainment personalities passed away. I am not particularly interested in the lives of celebrities, but these three were special:

- RIP grasshopper aka David Carradine. While I never thought much of him as an actor, I wished he'd be remembered for more dignified reasons than the sensational circumstances surrounding this death.

- RIP Farah Fawcett, the beautiful woman with the famous hair that inspired my generation in the 70s.

- RIP Michael Jackson, whose tormented mind gave us 3 decades of unforgettable music. The coming-of-age song for me was I'll be there (1970) when MJ was still part of the Jackson 5.

- I became more aware than ever that I did the right thing by making the hard decisions I did. There were people I hurt badly for which I will forever be sorry, but I had to do what I did.

- After all that I've done and been through, I know who and where I am. I am grateful.

Los Tarantos goes Arabian

Los Tarantos is home to the Singapore Flamenco club, providing a Flamenco haven for all Flamenco enthusiasts in Singapore.

It also provides a flexible performance space for various music and dance performances or special themed private parties.

La pena (an informal gathering of Flamenco artistes who come together celebrate the culture of Flamenco) is a regular feature at Los Tarantos.

Last Saturday, bellydancers staked out the place for their Hafla at the charming Peranakan shophouse in the colourful Geylang neighbourhood.

The usually Flamenco-themed place was transformed into a cosy middle-eastern cafe for the bellydancers and their friends and family. Clever use of gold and silver threaded fabric draped the otherwise stark walls. A kelim and scatter cushions provided the finishing touches.

Many dancers made their debut performances alongside seasoned performers and competition winners. Several professional performers and teachers were on hand to give quick lessons to the interested crowd.

What is a party without drinks and food? There was the ever-present much loved sangria. A lip-smacking middle-eastern meal of beef kebabs, chicken curry, hummus and salsa dips and flat breads was cooked by the Maestro of Flamenco - Antonio Vargas.

It was an evening to remember for a long time for the bellydancers.

I can see a Hawaiian Luau in the offing soon :)

Another sign

Remember this outside a tailor shop? An additional sign has been put up:

I think there is improvement in the English bit. Or maybe not. Help?

The girls of Sasa

Sasa has to be my favourite shop for cosmetics. Its product range has depth and width - you can find just about any product from your favourite brand to suit your budget.

As with any shopping experience, the sales staff can make or break your day. I find the Sasa staff highly knowledgable and extremely helpful. They are consistently personable without being personal; they give intelligent answers; they make helpful recommendations; they are never pushy about closing a sale. You will likely end up buying products you never knew existed that the Sasa rep introduces, but trust her - your life will be so much richer:)

So I end up buying a lot more products than I mean too. But I have always been happy with my purchase at any of their outlets.

This is probably old hat to most of you girls, but I am eternally grateful to the rep who introduced me to gel eyeliner. Finally - an eyeliner that combines the intensity of liquid eyeliner with the versatility of pencil!

I am so easy to please :) and I love those girls of Sasa.

Oh how they can stare

Oh how they can stare.

Unblinkingly, unwaveringly, rapt in their own world of staring. The starers may be young/old, man/woman. They all stare the same way at anything anywhere anytime. At the street dog licking his balls, at my bellybutton piercing, at the bird pecking at throwaway crumbs, at my crotch...

Take today for instance. Durian season has started. We were picking through the fruits at a market stall. One man positioned himself behind us to stare at us making our selection. The vendor started to open up the durians. Two men joined the first in the staring past-time. By the time we were helping to pack the durian meat into styrofoam boxes, a small crowd had gathered. All staring unblinkingly, unwaveringly, wordlessly.

Finally, the boxes are put into plastic carriers. We paid up. We picked up our purchase and turned to face the crowd. In silence, they moved to make a small exit path for us. As we walked away, we could feel the eyes still staring at our retreating back.

Unblinkingly, unwaveringly, wordlessly.

Oh how they can stare.

The Vow

I, (name), take you, (name), to be my (wife/husband), to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish; from this day forward until death do us part.

A promise made between a man and a woman with sincerity and faith that it can be lived up to. Many could not. I include myself.

But I will still make the promise all over again because the burden of those words are borne equally by the man and the woman.

But not these. I cannot agree to start life with any man on unequal footing. Among other things, I unequivocally reject the requirement to submit to the man as head of the house.

I have sat through many religious weddings where these sentiments are preached. I always find myself flinching and recoiling inwardly when the woman pledges herself to live with these onerous conditions. Of late, I find myself questioning the intelligence and integrity of such women, and suspecting the sinister and tyrannical nature of the men.

In order that I might retain some degree of respect for the newly weds I have decided to banish myself from all religious weddings henceforth.

Hafla@Los Tarantos

Los Tarantos is hosting its first Hafla, a private Arabian party with delectable Moroccan tapas and drinks, Middle Eastern music and dance where dancers take turn to perform for each other, and some open floor dancing for everyone to dance the night away ...

A prize goes to the best dressed performer of the night!

Limited Seating ! Book your tickets now!

TICKETS: SGD 25 (inclusive of Moroccan tapas platter and one drink)

TO BOOK TICKETS:
Call Daphne 68440893/ 94510597
Email: info@lostarantos.com.sg

To purchase tickets online, click here.

Cheap words

Flattery gets you everywhere, everytime. So when the girlfriend proclaimed our roast beef the best she ever had, and asked for us to cook her one for her dinner party, we readily agreed.

But cheap flattery is another matter. The dinner guests were faithfully awed by the roast, done just right at medium rare in the centre to well at the ends. Then the whole exercise gets sabotaged by a stupid question from the one guest: where did we get the beef.

It would have been a different matter if he had asked more thoughtful questions: what temperature to cook at, how long it took for this 4.5 kg roast, what cut of beef was this, was there a marinade etc. But where did we get the beef?

Any place that sells beef was my miffed reply.

You can bet the girlfriend is not getting another huge roast at her next dinner party. We did not waste time cooking the main to feed ignorant fools who don't know just how offensive their ignorant questions are.

There is flattery and there are cheap unthinking empty words that philistines try to pass for compliment. Too bad for everyone we happen to know the difference.

Don't call me at home

We don't like being jangled out of our peace and quiet at home. That is the reason we have a private number. We do not give out that number when filling out forms anywhere for any reason. We can easily be contacted on our mobiles. Preferably by sms rather than voice call if it's not anything long-winded or needs immediate response.

We are very annoyed with sales calls to the home phone. We usually give the caller a very rude telling off. And we always stress that this is an unlisted number, so how the f*** did they get our number in the first place. The caller always mumbled something about a data base. That would be true because they always ask for us by name.

That really pisses me off. Enough to finally call the telco to complain. The representative assured me that the telco does not sell subscriber information to anybody. She suggested that someone, possibly a family member, must have given out the information. That's out of the question, because no other family member lives with us.

I told the telco in no uncertain terms - there is a leak somewhere within their organisation. We pay them for our privacy. They will have to find that leak and plug it. Or I will lodge a complaint every time any telemarketer makes a cold call to that number.

Why am I so certain the leak is within the telco? Because I supplied a name that is deliberately spelt wrong. And that's the name the nuisance callers ask for. The trap is called disinformation - something I learned from watching so many spy movies. What's even more brilliant is that the telco still doesn't know about the ruse.

The telco representative assured me the company will look into the matter. It will be interesting to hear any follow up from them.

I don't do gelek

I already don't like her. But I still try (very hard) to appear gracious when she comes calling. But I cannot stop myself from recoiling inwardly.

After this latest short conversation, I will not entertain her social come-on's anymore.

she: Hi. So long never hear from you. How've you been. Still bellydancing?

me (oh stupid me): Oh hi. Yes, been a long time. Yes, still bellydancing. But I am also into folk dance and hula.

she: Oh, I am sure you do so well in hula. You can gelek so well.

me: Gotta go. Goodbye.

Gelek? Me gelek? Gelek-ing, to me, means a no-talent show-off sashaying in obnoxious fashion for the sole purpose of grabbing attention.

This is the same woman who not so long ago asked me to choreograph a bellydance number for her to perform at her son's wedding. I told her to look up professional bellydance performers or instructors. Really, they can do a better job.

Not that I wanted to attend the wedding, but for the record, I was not even on her guest list!

So she wanted me to teach her to gelek?

She should never try to look me up again, under any pretense. Especially for the business of gelek.

I do a lot of things. But I do not do gelek!

A little bit Bellydance, a little bit Hula

I love Middle Eastern Dance.

I love Hawaiian Hula Dance.

I positively hate it when the two are thrown together in the name of fusion.



A little bit of Bellydance, a little bit of Hula. Then call it bellynesian. It still does not make for a good dance; it does not do justice to either dance form.

I generally do not like fusion. After seeing this, I positively hate fusion.

Got something on

She called. I cringed. All cheery, she tells me we have a friend visiting and how about let's all have a drink together. I said thanks, but no thanks, can't make it. Got something on.

I sms'ed the Bibik who has also been similarly subjected to the caller's abusive ways in the past.

me: Hey, the tua pui yeow kwee kiam siap called about getting together for drinks because (so-and-so) in town. Not going.

the Bibik: She already called me twice and I already told her I got something on so not going.

me: I got nothing on and still not going. She looking for me just to have transport and have me pay for food and drinks. (So-and-so) can look for me herself if she wants to see me.

the Bibik: Haha. Never change. Chow.

Got something on. I like that phrase :)

The paper chase

My morning routine: stumble out of bed, walk in half-wake mode to front door, pick up the newspapers, and settle in to read the headline stories with that first cup of coffee. The day starts right. Bliss.

Then.

Everything went awry with the delivery. Last Saturday, I got the Straits Times minus the Business Times Weekend. On Sunday, I got the Sunday Times with other publications I am not familiar with. On Monday, I got the Sunday Times again. Each time, I eventually got the right newspapers after making a call to the vendor who then got somebody to come around to drop off the newspapers later in the day.

The last two days were "normal". The correct papers were dropped off at my front door on the right days. My world is right again.

Until.

I saw the delivery guy dropping off the Sunday papers today (Wednesday) at my neighbour's.

Oh no. I think the paper chase is about to start again...

Sweden in the autumn with friends

I have been following the flurry of email exchanges among the friends about an autumn holiday in Sweden. The arrangement is to stay with the girlfriend who has a summer home which she now lives in year round. The itinerary basically consists of lake fishing, or else berry- and mushroom-picking in the woods, and spending time, lots of time, together.

I have been silent. Images run through my mind. None too appealing.

I never saw fishing as an enjoyable relaxing activity. I'd rather just curl up with a good book for quiet time.In which case, I don't need to go to a summer home in Sweden to do.

I think of cavorting through the woods with these people. Naked like the locals if the mood so moves them, but that is not likely. I think of severe urticaria eruptions on skin that came in contact with nettles, oak vines and poison ivy. I think of the man wearing a waist-pouch full of antihistamine pills and injectables around his otherwise naked body. I think of spending the remainder of the holidays scratching at itches so bad that you just want to rip your skin off.

I think of cooking and eating our haul of wild mushrooms. I think of mushroom poisoning; I shudder at the thought of suffocating to death with my mind still crystal clear to the very end.

I think of long stretches of time spent cooped up with the lot of them. After the first night of excited catching up, I imagine I am ready to part company. Except there would be nowhere to retreat to. I am certain the summer home is many hours' car ride to anywhere. So I will spend the rest of my time counting the days to going home.

I think I will have to see the wonderful people under other circumstances. In other places. Where I can escape company when I feel the need.

So I will remain silent about this great holiday adventure. Until somebody comes up with a prettier picture of holidaying together.

It's a minute steak

I like the Aussie-styled steakhouse for its decent food and casual ambience. I also like the no-fuss efficient service of the wait-staff. Parking is never a problem either.

It came to pass that the man and I took our visitors for a quick lunch there since they were running on a tight workday schedule.

The one guest is always a pain in the proverbial you-know-where. He particularly enjoys talking down to wait-staff with a fake English public school accent trying to impress that he has a most impeccable palate.

We ordered the set lunch, and have selected the minute steak for the main. Now he tells the waitress, Eton accent and all, "Er, y-y e s. I know how you always do steaks overdone in Singapore. Might you be so kind as to tell the chef I want mine very, very rare please?"

We groaned. We protested: Oh, puhleeze. It's a minute steak. It is a thin slice of meat pan-fried for just a moment on each side. It cannot be done very, very rare!

The waitress very graciously said she will check with the chef. She was back very quickly with the answer: The chef says the minute steak is too thin to be pan fried and served very very rare. He can, however, do it to a perfect medium rare.

There. Exactly as we told him when he nevertheless proceeded to make a ass of himself.

Like I said, I like the restaurant for it's decent food and casual ambience. Now I respect it for its straightforwardness and honesty too.

The chamber of horrors

My preferred route in a shopping centre is to ride the lift to the uppermost shopping floor and work my way down by stairs and escalators. Makes sense: I don't have to cover the same grounds twice.

One of my favourite shopping haunts is Far East Plaza on Scotts for fun, quirky and inexpensive clothes and accessories.

But.

Step into the bubble lift of that building, and you enter a chamber of horrors:

- it is tiny; if there are 6 people in there, you feel hemmed in.
- it gets the full sun all day; it always feels like you are walking into a oven that has been set on slow bake mode at 50 degrees C.
- it rides slow; you suffer the crowding and the baking for longer than necessary.
- then, the mother of all horrors: I catch the awfullest reflection in the mirrored panels. Sickly yellow complexion, caked makeup running into every line on my face, hair colour a nasty orange shade of straw, and by the way, is that really the colour of my eye shadow? Even that go-anywhere wear-anytime ensemble of black tank top and gypsy skirt looks like rejects from the salvation army.

By the time I walk out of the chamber of horrors, my ego is deflated like a punctured tyre and my confidence is like shattered glass pieces on the floor deserving to be swept away post haste.

It takes walking around the shops, making a conscious effort to breath deeply and slowly, realising that nobody is scrambling to get away, and babies are not crying at the sight of me that I finally regain my equanimity.

I hate horror chambers that double up as elevators in shopping centres.

May

was the month
- I love. I think of the last of soft spring smells and colours before the full fury of summer heat claims its turn for the year. The antipodean autumn in slow surrender, covering the land in a blanket of golds and reds.

- most ideal for travel. For a brief few days, I considered Prague and Budapest by way of Istanbul. I never got any further than just thinking of it fleetingly.

- I stayed put in equatorial Singapore instead. And ended up having a good time making new friends who I am optimistic will rebuild my fast dwindling social circle as I continue to drop lousy people from my life. (How come there are still so many left?)

- I wrote the most "gripes and swpies" posts of any month since I started blogging. I wish for that to change in the new month.

- my hair has stopped falling out by the handful and is looking less tortured. I am contemplating going back to purple streaks again.So boh kia si (fearless) hor?

- I did not hear from Mother. The sister thinks Mother is totally distracted by Chai-nar (China) people and their tai-chee (problems) and has forgotten about us. I don't doubt it.

night and day

Photos by The Man

All that jazz

Photo by The Man

Choreography and arrangement by Bill Calhoun
Dancers from Dance on Us

Little girls, big girls

Most pictures are already used in previous montage, but I cannot reisit putting this together.

Thank heaven for little girls
For little girls get bigger everyday

Thank heaven for little girls
They grow up in the most delightful way

Showtime

The long hours of practice. Fine-tuning the choreography. More changes. More practice. Until, finally, dancers and dance come together to form a kaleidoscope of glitz and dazzle.

The last minute preparation for body and mind. The final touches to makeup and costume. The pre-show jitters. And then ... it's showtime.

And afterwards, as the dancers made their way back to the changing room to wait for the grand finale, one excited dancer said to her team-mates:"Oh, they applauded! Did you hear that? They applauded!" Another asked, "Did they applaud us the loudest?" "Yes! The longest and loudest. They loved us!"

The applause - that has to be the happiest sound to any dancer's ears.

Sao Kong and Fei Por

First I got an sms from the bridezilla inviting everybody to come party with her at a new cafe/restaurant/bar where there is karaoke all night long. I promptly deleted message and forgot all about it.

Then I bumped into an old acquaintance who still hangs out with the motley crew of washed-up musicians. She has been going to this new watering hole with the guys and now reports to me excitedly that the walking nightmare is there every weekend, hogging the mike and taking centre stage all night long like she is the star performer of the joint.

I had to ask: How are the sao kong (skinny man) and the fei por (fat woman)?

Without a moment's hesitation, she cheerily said, "Aiyoh. So poor thing. Who ask him marry her? Sao kong now so sao. Fei por now so fei. Aiyoh! You cannot believe it, man."

Sure I can. And ya lor, who ask him?

Mean old people

They were already old when we first met them. To our dismay, we realised very quickly that they were mean-spirited people.

They are from two of the most prominent old moneyed families of Singapore. They never had to work a day in their lives; the wealth they inherited could not be used up in 5 lifetimes.

They could have chosen to live nicely and treat people around them with decency. Instead, they delight in vicious gossip about other people's misfortune; they love nothing more than predicting people's downfall be it financial, marital or social. They actually begrudge people who managed to get ahead.

We have stopped seeing them altogether for several years now but we hear occasion news of their slow decline in physical and mental health. The latest is that the old woman is showing signs of senile dementia; she gets confused, forgetful, depressed and angry.

The old man is not supportive. He is of the opinion that her condition is just the latest of fads in clinical diagnosis alongside dyslexia, autism, attention deficit, bi-polarism and all other syndromes and phenomena.

The man and I considered forgetting their vileness towards us. They are just two old people getting older. We were actually very useful to them in many ways, especially when it came to medical issues.

But we know that whatever faculties they might lose in the years ahead - physical and mental - their vile nature will remain to the end. We decided to continue staying away from them.

We should feel bad about leaving them to fuddle through their dotage, but we don't. We can't care about them.

They are just too mean.

Me - Woman of the house

The man does enjoy cooking. And he does turn out excellent dinners. He enjoys having friends and family over to share the food, drinks and company. He also loves to explain in great detail to the guests how the food is cooked.

Me. I am a very good cook too.

Unlike him, I don't bother to promote my skills; the food speaks for itself. Unlike him, I can and prefer to work alone from planning, shopping, cooking to putting the food on the table.

He on the other hand, needs all manner of assistance when he is in the kitchen. I am just as involved and busy when he is doing the cooking.

The word is out that he is a good cook. I generally grin, grit my teeth and bite my tongue when the clueless men in the neighbourhood walk up to him and say, "Hey, I heard you are a good cook". I am willing to let that silly and impossible statement pass because, well, what do the men know about men and cooking anyway.

Then, one silly wife parroted the Hey-I-heard-you-are-a-good-cook chorus. I lost it then. I turned on her and snapped, "If you please, we are all good cooks in our household!"

The show of annoyance was rude and ungracious of me. But I contend that it is totally unforgiveable that this or any other woman can be dumb enough to believe and repeat so preposterous a rumour. I don't regret being sharp with her. There are, after all, two of us in this household and regardless of the distribution of workload around here, she has no right to ignore the importance, usefulness and contribution of one or the other.

Especially me - the woman of the house. So there.

I hate this dress!

I don't remember ever hating a dress so much in my life.

I already hated the material at first sighting. It's a pale tropical print. I don't do pale tropical prints.

I hated the design. It's a fitted muu muu. I don't do muu muu's.

Then there is the tailor with attitude. On the first fitting, 9 out of the 11 dresses were too big everywhere. After alteration, the dresses came back fitting crazy - too tight here, too loose there. Those that were too long (mine included) the tailor took up from the shoulder straps.

I will be wearing this hideous thing on stage.

The friends had a good giggle over my exasperation and dismay. You frighten the dress too big can kah lao (drop off) is it? I frighten dress kah lao and I puak toh (fall down) because dress also too long. The friends exploded into unstoppable and uncontrollable laughter till tears streamed down their faces.

Such sympathy I get from friends.*hmpff*

May hafla by Belinda @ Blu Jaz

(click on image for enlargement)

After a short hiatus in April, Belinda is back with the May hafla at BluJaz this weekend.

The theme is Sultry. Come prepared.

She's a ballroom dancer

The dance performance is mere days away now. There have been many stumbling blocks in all directions, one of which is that we have not had a single practice session with everyone present yet.

At the last practice session, we had the most number of show-ups todate. Things were looking up.

Until.

To our dismay, one of the dancers just had difficulty lining up right after each formation change. A helpful soul tried to explain to the left-fielder how to spot and get back in line.

The spoken-to did not take kindly to the constructive suggestion. She has been a dancer, a ballroom dancer if you please, for 40 years. She knows all about dance - connection, frame, posture, timing, body alignment, proper weight transfer, etc.

And the light came on in my head: the woman, in her 40 years of being led across the ballroom, never ever had to figure out space and place when dancing.

Can die. And the performance is mere days away.

I guess the rest of us will just have to dance around this stubborn obstacle.

Ice Kachang after the snowstorm

The crowd watched in hushed silence as designer Vivienne Westwood appeared on the big screen during the Audi Fashion Festival's closing show last Sunday. In the pre-recorded video, London's grand dame of fashion apologised for her absence at the showing of her Anglomania collection but explained that the reason was that she was watching her carbon footprint.

(BT Weekend, Saturday/Sunday, May 16-17, 2009)

In the same feature story, Sunday Times fashion commentator Colin McDowell went on to describe the designer as "someone who thinks today what we all care about tomorrow."

And I remember why I despise chi-chi events - the shallowness, the hypocrisy, the arrogance of it all, packaged as cutting edge, world changing visions of the future.

And the worshipers - bowing and scraping - lapping up every drivel of rubbish from the lips of self-serving, big-money purveyors of obscene consumerism.

How's this for a little bit of truth in representation: the big-name madame was not at the show because it was not important enough for her to put in an appearance. And that plane she did not get onto took off on schedule, so no need to bluff people about reducing her carbon footprint.

So, it is refreshing to have the notorious Fash Hag of Urban reporting with sarcasm, wit, disdain and humour to bring down self-important characters a peg or two whenever the opportunity presents itself.

For spectacular special effects during a private party, the Tent was blasted with a snowstorm of white down feathers. Everyone was covered with fur-like flecks.

According to Fash Hag: ...one ruffled lion-haired tai-tai entered the Ngee Ann City restroom to clean up, only o have a passer-by exclaim, "Wah, her hair looks like ice kacang."

That last line made my day. *Meow*

What for kaypoh for nothing

The woman called me out of the blue. Her friend was interested to get into the wine distribution business and was organising a wine-pairing dinner. Would I be interested to go?

I wouldn't, actually, because I am totally allergic to alcohol and because wine-pairing events tend to have mediocre food, lousy wines and boorish people.

But I would gladly get a table if it would help. I could always make an evening of it with friends I have not seen in a while.

The woman said she wouldn't be going because she would be out of town that day. I couldn't help but think how convenient for her.

Sigh. Would I move my kaypoh ass to move a product that is meaningless to me for some any-old-body who happened to be a friend of somebody I know?

I am rather selective about where I put my kaypoh-ness to use, thank you. What for I go and kaypoh for meaningless people to support their meaningless causes?

Almost-famous

When the artist held her first solo exhibition, the friends and I made it a point to attend the showing and blab about the show every chance we had.

She was rather successful for a first time almost-famous artist. Most of her paintings sold in the first few days. It had to do with that fact that I blabbed to an office-manager friend who I knew had a nice budget and was looking to fill his office walls at that time.

At some later date, I told the artist I know the buyer and where her paintings are now. I expected some mild interest or curiosity from her. Or, at a bare minimum, a thank-you-for letting-me-know kind of response.

Instead, I got the curt explanation that the exhibition was handled by a gallery and she has no knowledge how her work is disposed of. Ooooh, excuse me. I am sorry to have interfered with how things work in the world of artists.

Now she has another exhibition coming up.

Do I think I will move my kaypoh ass to move her masterpieces this time?

I think I will let her stay almost-famous for a long time to come.

Like that sure quarrel wan

I think the world of the the guy friend. I don't think anything of his wifey.

It's not just because she is a one of those freaky religious zealots. It's not just because she is a shrill control freak. It's because I consider her morally bankrupt over a particular incident involving their teenage daughter and my navel piercing. The girl took one look at my body jewelry and just had to have it too. The mother was aghast, and instead of asserting her parental authority to say no, she insisted that I tell the girl it is body mutilation which is against the Almighty's teachings.

Of course I told her to you-know-what. Which of course started an open cold war between her and me. Like I care. She already has it in her head and in her heart that I live a life of sin in a den of decadence. (I have naked pictures of me on the walls, for Gawd's sake).

So now the guy friend tells me the wifey and he are taking up ballroom dancing. I think of lovely couples in intimate graceful embrace on the dance floor. I see couples who have danced together beautifully for a lifetime, and now move effortless as one to music that shows the world their love.

I turned to the guy and said, "Wah, like that sure quarrel wan." He, with mock indignation, said, "I wasn't going to say that." To which I gleefully said, "Oh, quarrel already right?"

True what. She like that sure quarrel what. Heheh.

National Day of Prayer

I didn't even know there was such a thing the entire time I lived in the US.

But then, I left the country right before George W. Bush made President.

I am happy to know things are back to normal under the current President.

Well, at least at the White House.

I don't know about the rest of the country.

The peidu mama

We have been buying our papayas from the same vendor for some time now. In the beginning, he manned the stall himself. Then, for a while there, he was helped by a woman we presumed was his wife.

We got asked by the other stall vendors: "You buy your fruits from that peidu mama?" Well, yes. Was there a point to their line of questioning? If there was, we ignored them.

The woman always wore make-up. Her hair was always done up in some fashion and she has a flair to her dress sense. She was also always helpful and she was obliging of fussy customers poking and prodding the produce. She even helped us with the ingredient-mix and wrapping technique when we were on our jiao zi making craze. We liked the woman; she added a cheeriness to the market place.

Then we noticed she was not at the stall for several days in a row. We asked the papaya seller if his wife no longer came to help at the stall. He let on that he he had no idea what she was up to. She had taken a job doing facials but would not tell him where. The work conditions are 12 hour days, no days off, no base pay.

We were stunned. We felt badly for the man - he sounded pissed off and sad at the same time. Worst of all, while intellectually we are fully aware we don't know anything more about the situation, we felt all our prejudices and suspicions towards all women from the mainland come flooding back.

The Vote

The fight for control of AWARE is over. With a no-confidence vote of 1414:761, the scary exco was removed from office last night.

The victory surprised me; I did not think the issues or the organisation were important enough to move enough people (women) to action.

On a personal level, I have read the entire episode wrongly.

This saga will go down as a historical event for many different reasons.

April

was the month

- that brought back bittersweet almost forgotten memories of the 70s.

- when a 25 year old women's rights organisation was ambushed by scary Christian women.

- in spite of wide media coverage and active blog posts I remained unmoved because the defeated side failed to put forth a convincing case that they deserve to be re-instated.

- the saga reminded me of the short-lived student protest I was in during my school days. At the first warning from the school administrators to disperse, only the student leaders were left standing. At the second warning that the police will be called in if the remaining protesters did not immediately stand down, the protest was effectively over. I never again got involved in protests unless it is (a) for a cause I believe strongly enough in that I will make personal sacrifices for, (b) the protest is well thought out and organised, (c) the members are deeply committed and (d) the leaders are fearless.

- I recalled one of my favourite songs from the era of my own coming of age era:

April gave us springtime and the promise of the flowers
And the feeling that we both shared and the love that we called ours
We had no time for sadness, that's a road we each had crossed
We were living a time meant for us, and even when it would rain
we would laugh it off.

I've got pieces of April, I keep them in a memory bouquet
I've got pieces of April, but it's a morning in May

We stood on the crest of summer, beneath an oak that bloss0med green
Feelings as I did in April, not really knowing what it means
But it must be that you stand beside me now to make me feel this way
Just as I did in April, but it's a morning in May.

I've got pieces of April, I keep them in a memory bouquet
I've got pieces of April, but it's a morning in May

One scary Christian baby

Those scary fundamentalist preachers start them young. This baby's already got the hateful tone and frenetic jerky body movements of a crazed fanatic. Pay attention to the encouragement from the congregation in the background. If this doesn't send chills up and down your spine, I don't know what will.

Of course it makes me think of the other scary bunch in our midst who will be out in full force this weekend.

The battle @ AWARE

I followed the twists and turns of the recent AWARE exco changeover with a wide range of emotions. Surprise turned to revulsion to optimism to alarm and dismay.

Many ugly accusations have been thrown up - religious zeal, sneaky takeover, hidden agenda, pro-homosexual or anti-gay leanings. All carry some element of truth. All are distorted and exaggerated claims.

The battle lines are drawn. The present exco is facing an EOGM this weekend that has been called to vote them out of office. Both sides are shoring up resources through mass recruitment. Emotions run high as each camp try to explain what is at stake according to their personal belief value systems.

I do not expect the current exco to be unseated. And, believe it or not, AWARE will continue to do its work no matter who runs the organisation.

It is a false argument that AWARE will cease to be a secular organisation if it is overrun by members headed by an exco that are of a particular religious bent.

AWARE is and will always be secular because it is governed by the consititution and laws that created it. What will change is the flavour of the organisation.

I am not moved to join the campaign to wrest authority away from the current exco because I see the mass recruitment exercise as a hysterical irrational call to restore bruised egos.

Regardless of the outcome of the EOGM, no woman will be deprived of whatever support or service she may be getting from AWARE now because there are alternative support and help groups that do similar work.

Now, let the battle begin.

That wedding invitation again

The idea of a wedding that consists of just the solemnisation continued to bug me today.

I read and re-read our last sms exchange.

Me: What happens after soleminsation?
She: Dinner, n whatever these younsters r doing?

It just simply cannot be! It is plain not possible to plan what they call a school-themed wedding party at the premier wedding venue, have just the solemnisation and then turn everybody loose to fend for themselves!

So I sms'ed the mother of the groom again. I am blunt and direct this time.

Me: Where is dinner?
She: 10 course sit down Chinese dinner is at Chimes (sic) itself. Renting catheral (sic) hall for the dinner.

*sigh* I despair at my mis-reading of the invitation.

I looked again at the information provided:
Date: day-month-2009
Time: at sunset, 6:30pm
What: A School-themed Wedding
Where: Chijmes Chapel
Join the party!

Elsewhere, the same information read "... invite you, ...to a school-themed party at Chijmes chapel on the (day) of (month) at six-thirty in the evening, two-thousand and nine.

I give up. What is wrong with me that I cannot understand this invitation written in their English?

RSVP: decline, with regret

I smiled when I received the invitation to the school-themed wedding party.

The concept was clever and novel. It was in the form of an old fashioned exercise book complete with brown cover, school emblem and three lines to fill in name (guest), subject (wedding invitation) and teachers (the parents of bride or groom).

The single lined pages inside contained the usual pertinent information: groom and bride, son and daughter of so-and-so, followed by date, time, place.

I read the lines over and over. Then the smile froze on my face. There were two things in the invitation that I had to seek clarification from the mother of the groom.

First, the school theme: I absolutely refuse to play school whether as teacher or student. The mother said not to worry about that. Just come in whatever.

Second, there was no mention of what happens after the solemnisation.When I pointedly asked, she said and I quote: "Dinner and whatever the youngsters want to do." I cannot believe my ears. There was no plan of anything following the solemnisation.

I accept, even embrace, breaking from tradition and just having fun with the wedding and party that follows. That is great for the newly weds and their friends. It may even be fine for family and close friends of the parents. Frankly, I don't see the "youngsters" being thrilled to have the "old people" in their dinner and whatever.

I find it totally meaningless for guests (like me) who are neither family nor close friends to attend the solemnisation and then freely follow the wedding crowd to wherever and do whatever.

Sorry hor, I am not the free and easy type for anybody to just-any-old-how invite to a wedding leh.

That is one wedding invitation I will reply, without regret, "decline, with regret".

Feria de Abril in Singapore

(click on image for enlargement)

FlamencoAsia brought to Singapore the world of the Sevillianos - a world of music, food, drinks, and of course, flamenco, the dance that embodies the very soul of the Spanish character.

For two nights, we were treated to a breathtaking display of tanguillos, rumbas, sevillanas, alogrias, fandangos, guajiras, tangos, bulerias itentos asturias, siguiriyas.

For two nights, under a colourful casetas, we lived the gaeity and cultural richness that is the Feria de Abril.

I will be back next year, better prepared with some training in the dance of the Sevillianos.

Meantime, there is Camino Flamenco to look forward to on Saturday.

A day at the hawker centre

We frequent a particular hawker centre for lunch. The place is never crowded and it has enough variety of food stalls to keep us coming back.

Today, as has always been our habit, we sat at one end of a bench table that is in the outer aisle of the food centre. Today, as is usually the case, we watch strange people doing strange and oftentimes disgusting things.

Today I watched with revulsion the man at the next bench table spit prawn tails and what-not on the table as he plowed through his plate piled high with food. He then got up and left the table littered with food leftovers. A small flock of sparrows immediately descended upon the exposed detritus of his lunch.

A woman soon came along and plonked herself and her huge plate of food at the far end of the bench. She briefly looked in the direction of the sparrows having their merry feast. Then turned her full attention back to her own feast.

The cleaners appeared within two minutes to clear the mess. The birds took a brief flight and perched themselves on the rails patiently awaiting for their turn again as soon as the woman leaves her pile of debris.

It has been 10 days since the disastrous food poisoning episode at Geylang Serai which resulted in 2 deaths and over a 100 people taken ill. The breach in hygiene was traced to cross contamination of foods stored in a refrigerator shared by several stall holders.

There was plenty of finger pointing as to who did not do an adequate job of protecting the public health. There were so many reasons leading up to this unfortunate incident of food poisoning - improper food handling, careless food storage, rats and bird droppings, sloppy health inspection. The list is long.

And nobody thought to blame the customers. The ones with such filthy personal habits that all efforts to keep the public eating place clean and safe are futile.

Facebook vs blogging

It is everything it claims to be: a social utility that connects people with friends and others who work, study and live around them. People use Facebook to keep up with friends ...

Everybody but everybody is on Facebook. I will see pictures of parties, holidays, new baby, grandma's birthday etc etc. I will be so up-to-the-minute updated if I got on Facebook.

I finally caved in and signed up 2 weeks ago. I have taken the time to look around its features, built up a small list of friends, left one-line comments on some of their updates, took the mindless quizzes and published the meaningless results. I have not written anything of substance.

My original suspicion that Facebook does not work for me is now assuredly confirmed.

For a start, I do not want to be found by long lost friends who are long lost for good reason. So I registered for an account under my screen name. The small list of friends are real life friends. I am happy to read their brief and frequent updates.

I do not like the way Facebook tries to grab any name it can for me to add. Friend of a friend is my friend too. I particularly detest strangers from Kenya and other scam-riddled countries asking to be my friend.

Updates in Facebook tend to be activity driven. Look at me: doing this, going there, with these people, omg can you believe this! It's the Harley-Davidson of networking - full of noise and no substance.

I love my friends and respect their choice of Facebook as their platform to express themselves. I will drop in often to see what they've been up to, what their latest happening is. My contribution will be short comments and silly quiz results.

I do not have the desire to broadcast my activities, thoughts or feelings on a high frequency basis. Blogging will remain my preferred platform of expression.

I enjoy the more measured pace and considered content that blogging allows me.

Here comes the bride

Dinner conversation was going nowhere.

Until...

The conversation turned to the wedding of the woman whom I detest intensely. Delicious and malicious gossip was aplenty.

She has put on a tremendous amount of weight, something like an additional 10 to 15 kgs to the original 100 kgs. She could not walk in high heels, so she resorted to waddling down the aisle on flats. She had ordered two wedding gowns online, and the one she managed to squeeze into was splitting at the seams in protest. Her makeup was her usual kabuki white mask, black circled eyes and too-red lips, but applied with industrial strength intensity for her special day.

The groom, previously described as a quiet man, was now an unhappy quiet man at the wedding. And he was so tiny next to her. In my mind's eye, I saw a desperate-looking doomed drone trapped beside an out-sized queen termite in bridal white.

I am fully aware that it is not the done thing to take gleeful delight in hearing mean things being said of anyone. But about her, I can always make an exception and feel no guilt allowing the baser side of me to surface.

And in taking irresponsible and irrational pleasure in blogging about this puerile rumour to keep it for posterity, I sink to a new low.

Heh.

April and all things Flamenco

April is the month of semana santa (holy week) and Flamenco activities in Singapore.

The arrival of Los Tarantos, under the guidance of maestro Antonio Vargas - mentor, teacher and choreographer - promises to bring the world of Flamenco to a whole new level. It provides the space for all flamenco dancers to experience the beauty and power of this art form, and actively promotes the lifestyle and culture of this elusive and beautiful dance.

The two Flamenco events taking place in April are:

Feria de Abril (April Fair) at CHIJMES on 18 and 19 April will be evenings of festive music, dance, food and all things Sevillian.

Camino Flamenco (Road to Flamenco) traces the journey of gypsies from Rajasthan to Turkey and Egypt, through North Africa to Morocco and finally into South of Spain - Andalusia - where the influences of Indian and Arabic elements come together in the dance that is Flamenco.
I am particularly intrigued with the gypsy element of Flamenco. I look forward to an intimate encounter with Flamenco which I see now as more than just another dance form.

It is culture, history, art. It is a lifestyle.

Korean Clock Lady

This clip of a prank call by shock jock Howard Stern to a Korean lady about clock repair was forwarded to me by Nonya M.

It is in bad taste, it is signature Howard Stern, and it is funny.

.

Journey of Cleopatra

It all happens on 30 April 2009.

After a very successful concert last year, Susanna Lawren of Goddess Motion is bringing back Melina of Daughters of Rhea for another exciting evening of bellydance in Journey of Cleopatra with special appearance by the legendary Rhea of Greece.

Highlights of last year's show:



I have organised my tickets for the concert. I am now sorting out the workshops.

Tickets for Journey of Cleopatra available at Sistic.

What's your number?

The Life Path Number

The Life Path is the sum of the birth date. This number represents who you are at birth and the native traits that you will carry with you through life. The most important number that will be discussed here is your Life Path number. The Life Path describes the nature of this journey through life.

My birth date numbers add up to 1971, which makes my life path number 9. I especially like "the number is less inclined to the competitive business environment and may find this a struggle." I don't feel guilty about my checkered work history anymore.

You-know-who is a number 6. No wonder "modesty and humility may not flow easily" with him. *haha*

I am not into astrology, numerology or any other methods of divination that read my character or future. But I will concede that the reading at this site is cleverly worded enough as to come across as uncannily accurate.

March

was the month
- I finally signed up for a facebook account. It was a matter of being cowed by the overwhelming success of that networking site. Too many friends kept asking if I was on facebook, implying that it'd be so much easier to keep me in the loop if I were. I'm onboard now, albeit reluctantly. I can't wait to see how much more enriched my life will soon be.

- Mother has been ominously quiet the entire month. She must be slow-cooking something really bad.

- I debated long and hard about writing unflattering entries on two distasteful women whose irksome ways keep getting mentioned to me at the most unexpected times. One is overbearing and loud. The other keeps popping up as a new reincarnation after the last ones went up in flames. Both are shameless self-promoters. One more mention, and my resistance will crumble.

- I decided that there will be no travel for the time being. My plans keep falling through, so I will take it as a sign that I should stay put for a while.

Pieces of conversation

He had a dream.
He cheerily tells me he had the weirdest dream about me the other night. He doesn't remember most of the dream. What he remembers is that I was a quadriplegic with prosthetic limbs. And he recalls vividly long after he awakes that I was on the ground on my torso and looking up at him.

The weirdest bit is that he had a dream with me in it.

Quite a different matter from he dreams of me. I wish.

Got difference meh?
I asked her if a friend of ours is still dating the Lebanese. She tells me the guy is Libyan. How did I get Lebanese?

My mind goes to another conversation some years ago about another woman dating this guy that everyone said was Algerian. Or maybe Nigerian. Same difference they said, when I persisted with asking so which was he.

I guess it's the same difference this time too.

Claws.
I whine to a fellow dancer friend that I am distressed I am not able to make lovely soft wave movements with my hands in my dance choreography. My fingers lock and my hands look like claws. I show her what I mean. And realise to my added horror that the joints on my fingers are knobbier than I remembered them.

Sigh. I make knobby claw-like movements with my hands these days.

Paul Ropp OD

I used to look forward to the Paul Ropp warehouse sale. That was when it used to be a big once-a-year event in September/October, with a smaller sale in April.

I would actually make a turnaround run to Bali just for these events.

Then the novelty started to wear off.

We actually passed up on the last warehouse sale in late January this year.

Now there is another in April. I am hesitant.

Because I suspect there will be another in a few short months. I might make that one. Or I might not.

I might have really overdosed on Paul Ropp.

It's a request *groan*

...he asked Mrs. Porteous' cousin to show him her breasts.

The request was denied, and Mrs. Porteous rebuked him for making it.

Request??

As in "oh pretty please may I have a peek at your perky tits?"

How about the drunk thug made lewd and crude remarks/gestures to cousin and wifey gave him the cussing of his life?

And while I am railing at choice of words preferred by our national paper, how about finishing court reports with "the maximum sentence for such and such offence is such and such" instead of the current line "so and so could have been jailed up to blah blah years or fined blah blah amount or caned blah blah times". What does could have been mean in this context? The sentence was too light?

Why is the paper so averse to using straightforward language? It is news reporting after all, not creative composition. Geez!

The twit in the dress shop

The dress shop happens to carry the bohemian style of clothes and accessories I adore - ethnic, peasant, beaded, lacy, patchwork, vintage. I enjoy browsing in there; happiness is when I find the item I absolutely must have even if I have no idea when or how I will use it. Other times, I just have to be content with having enjoyed poking around the cramped little store, but there was just nothing I really wanted.

Sadly, of late, the shop is manned by the most unacceptable twit of a salesgirl.

First she annoyed me by being right by my elbow the entire time, asking incessantly, "Anything special you are looking for?" In spite of my repeated answer of "No. I am just looking, thank you" she stayed right beside me.

When I told her I would enjoy browsing on my own, she actually said, "It is our policy to serve our customers very close."

Then she proceeded to give me this utter rubbish of sales spiels: "All the clothes are personally designed by my boss." Sigh. I so wanted to tell her the entire inventory came from places like Chatuchak; they may be handpicked by the boss, but they are certainly not personally designed.

I left the shop without buying anything that day.

I happened by the shop a few days later. Same twit was there. The moment I walked in, she walked right up to take her position by my side. As politely as I could manage, I told her to please leave me alone to look around by myself.

And she said, "Oh? You are still looking around?" Yes, in exactly that tone.

That's it. I left the store. And it crossed my mind that I should call up her boss to do something about the twit's style of customer service.

I did not act on my impulse. Instead, I resolved that I would not be in there again until the twit was removed by some other unhappy customer.

Well, I walked past the store again today. I still love the range of clothes in there. But it still came with the same insufferable twit who was busy pissing off another customer.

Maybe it is time to make that call to the boss...

Scary years

My guess is that I am the median age in this group of dance aunties. Everyone is 10 years on either side of me and it would be hard to figure out the exact age of any of us. There is real comfort in this observation - we are simply this group of "older women" leading an active lifestyle with folk dance.

Until.

Woman 1: I feel that the years 50 to 65 are very scary years. You notice the high mortality in this age group? Or else all kinds of ailments start at this time? But if you live past 65, you will live a good long life.

Me: Well, it's because in this age range, our bodies are going through a lot of changes.

Woman 1: How old are you?

Me: I turn 55 this year. And you?

Woman 1: 51.

Woman 1 to Woman 2: And how old are you?

Woman 2: I am much older. 73.

Now, this is all very scary because:

Woman 2 looks nothing close to 73. She can pass for 10 years younger, and a very good specimen even at 63.

Woman 1, at 51, looks older than me by maybe 3 to 5 years.

I just always assumed I look my age.

I look around me. I no longer know just how old the other women are. I don't even know how old I look.

I don't know why I find it scary when a person does not look her age in either direction. I just know I don't like being scared of something I can do nothing about. So I resolved I will stop talking about age with these women. So I can stop scaring myself. Haiz.