I am sorting out my wardrobe for two weeks in South-West France. I expect beautiful weather in the beautiful Bordeaux and Biarritz country side.I sat down to play a full game (and half) of mahjong over the weekend. It was the first time I played in about 10 years.
I love the game. But I am particular about how the game is played, and with whom I sit down with.
I do not like players who are:
- overly noisy (slam cards, yell and yelp when the winning tile shows up).
- overly whiny when experiencing a losing streak.
- not happy whether winning or losing.
- try too hard to build a strong hand.
- impatient if anybody needed to take a second to consider a move.
You get my drift.
I am very "zen" in my game style, if I am at a table with fairly good skills. I let the cards just come (or not). I particularly enjoy a good game at a table with superior game-masters.
For many years, I had the privilege to play with some of the most gracious and elegant mahjong players; they were impeccable in their game etiquette. I like to think that some of their behaviour rubbed off on me.
So, for the first time in a long time, I played the game again with new found friends and I found I liked their style.
They said they enjoyed having me, and I was happy to hear that.
When they asked if they could get me again when they needed a fourth, I said "Yes!"
When they asked if they could get me again when they needed a third, I said "No!"
Like I said, I love this game too much to have to play it in any slap-dash fashion. Heh,..
The girlfriend mentioned the notion of open-relationships - something the guys were bantering about.
It has been a very long time since I bothered to explore concepts of alternative love-styles.
I am a product of the 70s counter-culture in fashion, thought and being. The era - for all its beauty and failings - defined the person I am today. Certainly I've lived the "free love"
lifestyle of the time. It felt good and right to toss out the hypocritical societal constraints that governed society in the 50s and early 60s, and have the freedom to love - anyone, anytime, anywhere. A lot of us crashed and burned in that experiment in sexual revolution. But with hindsight, I still defend the movement for its innocence and honesty.
I find today's notion of an "open relationship" too cold, calculated and contrived. The parties talk through and agree on clear-cut set rules of sexual conduct with other parties.
I view open relationship as granting permission to be promiscuous. No where in this arrangement does love, even at the most superficial and lusty level, come into play.
I say if you want to sleep around, just go ahead. Saying no is not going to stop anybody anyway.
My closing thoughts on open relationships? Can it, dudes. You are trying to sell a bill of goods. Cheating is a nobler option, and it certainly is a lot simpler.
I first made bao's when I lived in California in the 80s. At the time, there were no decent bao's to be had in the desert town I lived in. My only option was to drive 2 hours to dim sum restaurants in Los Angeles.
The industry-packed bao's available in Chinese supermarkets were, in a word, disgusting. What passed for char siew bao filling was just this bit of sweet red goo.
I have big choice of bao's here, so I don't have any real push factor to make my own.
Except that the comfort food called char siew bao which I remembered from my childhood has been through some evolutionary process. The bao's have become too "refined", if you will. I crave the more "robust" version I remembered sinking my teeth into; the bao back then had more "character" in taste and texture.
So, one day recently, when I had leftover char siew, I made my own bao's.
There is something deeply satisfying about biting into an old fashioned unpretentious char siew bao and taste every nuance of char siew wrapped in a basic steamed bun.
It was an evening of much food, drink, and celebration; three young men in the family had birthdays within a week of each other.
Understandably, the conversation was mostly "young" - decisions about school courses, early days at work, strategy on how to get ahead in life. It was refreshing to hear them chart the course of their future with unabashed enthusiasm and confidence.
Sometime in the evening, the conversation turned to a topic that must be so much more significant and mysterious at this stage in their lives. The guys asked of each other and the girls: "What do Singapore girls want in a guy?"
The guys (typical) then went ahead to list what they knew the girls wanted:
- Someone who will be there for them.
- Money has to rank somewhere up there.
- A hunk, a brain, and something or everything in between.
- etc
I have to admit I never wasted time in my brave young days pondering what I wanted in a guy, or what a guy wanted in a girl. I was with whoever fitted my needs best at the time.
I never asked for or needed promises of forever and ever and a day. Those were just words. Relationships are a lot more straightforward than people allow them to be.
The girl wants the same things as the guy. And the relationship that works is one where those requirements are met.
I 'll drink to that gem of an insight. And you guys should too.
They did not get their way about redesigning and upgrading the lobby and grounds of the condo. So they vent their unhappiness by pelting the condo residents' committee and on-site manager with complaints and more complaints:
- How dare the drainage pipes burst after we've had heavy rain for several days.
- How dare the CCTV not be in good working order.
- How can children be allowed to play boisterously around the swimming pool.
- How can the security guards not stop their two maids from running away.
- How dare a pool side party be allowed to carry on beyond 10pm.
They point out (for the umpteenth time) that their complaints have fallen on deaf ears. They now write to the condo management that unless concrete steps are taken to remedy all the ills of this place, they will have no choice but to seek legal advice on how they may ensure they are adequately protected living here. (Ooooh...we are so scared).
There are some valid issues in their litany of complaints. And the condo manager does address problems that are brought to his attention. It is silly to threaten with legal action when there is simply no basis for it.
And I wonder, for the umpteenth time - why did they move in here? and why will they not consider moving to some place where the environment is more acceptable to them?
was the month 
- feelings that were laid to rest, but were never abandoned, awakened. Feelings that are tied to gender studies, feminist politics and activism. Feelings and beliefs that I always hold close to my heart.
- these feelings were awakened from reading the Larsson books. I re-examine the lot of womenfolk in a world that operates by secular and religious laws made by men and despair at the hopelessness of gender inequity.
- I am further haunted by the reality of how unprotected a life partner is at the worst hour of her life.
- I am acutely aware of the change of seasons even if I live them vicariously. As summer fades into fall, I want to enjoy the little time that is left before the dread winter season takes over with its attendant garish holiday season.
Singaporeans have a real problem with giving definitive answers.
Example:
Me, asking a sales rep who has no customer to sell anything to: Would you know where the nearest mail drop is?
Sales Rep, index finger and thumb rubbing shiny chin, looking thoughtful before telling me after careful consideration: I am not really sure.
Which makes me want to push the point - go ahead, young man, make a wild stab and tell me where you think it might just be, possibly. Go left, right, cross the road in front, behind?
It's just so hard for him to say he doesn't know? I had to point out to him that he does not know rather than he's not really sure, before moving on to another shop to ask another blur Singaporean.
There was a time when I was heavily involved with programmes that helped newly arrived foreign families to settle in. It was a personally satisfying and rewarding thing to do, and I remember how happy I'd be when I hear from the wives months/years later how much the initial contact had helped them.
I don't have much to do with newly arrived foreign families in recent years. Certainly not in any formal capacity. The last one I put in touch with her community was a couple of years ago and I did it because she is from one of the lesser represented groups here.
I recently met a woman from this under-represented group. I hesitated about getting involved because setting up the initial contact takes effort and time. Then there is the early hand-holding her through the different social/cultural events till she is comfortable with the group.
But I never forgot the kindness of strangers who came forward to help me integrate into my new environment. Although it is much easier now to get in touch with newcomers groups via the internet, making that first contact can be still daunting for some people.
So, I decided to step in again. I introduced the newly arrived to a few of her country folks over coffee. The women were thrilled to meet each other and before long, they were exchanging phone numbers and email contact with promises to include the new girl at their next get together.
The new arrival will do fine living here. Her compatriots will do everything to make her adjustment easier.
There are no strangers here;
Only friends you haven't yet met.
Mostly, I have a good measure of control over my social life. Mostly, I can decide who I see, when, where and why.
Then there are the rare occasions when I know I will totally detest the company but am somewhat obliged to humour the host and tolerate her choice of friends.
So I mentally prepared for the inevitably l-o-n-g evening when I will be trapped with her under the same roof, in the same room, at the same table, dangerously within spitting distance of each other.
I was surprisingly unruffled as I listened to her boast and brag about various aspects of her life:
- she has blackberry, iphone, huge telco bills, all paid for by her employer.
- her two near grown sons are in Australia. One working as a tax something, the other finishing uni.
- she looks to "activate" her Australian PR sometime in the next 5 years because Australia is ultimately the place to retire in.
- her near grown adopted daughter (still living at home) she describes as stupid and promiscuous. Her sons agree with her assessment and gleefully joins her in tormenting the girl with vicious name calling.
- her partying weekends in Singapore which starts with drinks and karaoke on Friday night, and ends at 7 am on Saturday at a dive that has open mike. Sleeps through Saturday and starts over Saturday night. Leaves for Bangkok sometime on Sunday to be there to start the workweek.
- her life chock-a-block with travel and holidays with friends, friends, friends!
I did ask early in the evening where's the husband. She played like she never heard me, and started on her tales of her life according to her.
Sigh. Alright. I was only curious about what happened, not concerned or saddened. I certainly wasn't interested in everything else she spilled out that evening.
And, at the end of the evening, we said our goodbyes, and went our separate ways.
Afterwards, I realised how strange that I felt nothing upon seeing her again. Really, truly, nothing. Followed by a fleeting vague sense of feeling sorry I could feel nothing for her. Then - nothing again.
This is not a deep psychological study. But it's a sober, grown-up film. It has action, but not the hyperkinetic activity that passes for action in too many American movies. It has sex, but not eroticism. Its male lead is brave and capable, but not macho. Its female lead is sexy in the abstract, perhaps, but not seductive or alluring. This is a movie about characters who have more important things to do than be characters in an action thriller. Old people.
They can be a font of wisdom, the road map to life's precious secrets.
Or they can be a pain in the proverbial.
There is this nice small neighbourhood shopping mall. There is a bench facing the exit door to the multi-storey car park and a nearby elevator. A resting area for weary shoppers and bored husbands.
Three old people plonk their fossilized asses on this bench to pass the day, every day. Never mind that they deprive weary shoppers and bored husbands of a rest area. What is unacceptable is that they find the fully air-conditioned mall too cold for their comfort, and have taken to wedging the exit door open so they get a mix of cold and warm air!
One day, I decided that this wasteful practice shall cease. That day, I walked past the fossils and closed the door. One old codger immediately and huffily got up, walked past me, and wedged the door open again. I said as politely as I could manage that the door should not be left open because airconditioned air is being sucked out. He waved his arthritic gnarled fingers in my face and angrily said the door should be left open because old people have problem opening the door with their hands full of grocery. I said he could get up and open the door when old people with groceries needed to walk out that door. He berated me about talking to him with no respect. (Hey, I only suggested he should open the door for hapless old people.)
I have filed a complaint with the management office of the building about these cranky old people and the open door. The somebody-in-charge mumbled something about looking into it.
I have been back in that building many times since. The fossils are still parked in their favourite seat in the house, staring blankly in front of them, as the cold air rushes out the open door.
Old people. Mostly they are a pain in the proverbial.
The pair of them. They live in KL. They blow into town every 2 months to sort out various matters - banking, business, medical - and leave in 24 to 48 hours.
They would look us up and insist on seeing us for lunch or dinner. Mostly we would accommodate them.
The pair of them. One a Malaysian Chinese man, an anglophile, a pitiable throwback to the days when anything British was admirable. The other. an Englishman who fancies himself to be the paragon of everything admirably British, a pathetic hangover from the colonial days.
The pair of them, always impressing upon everybody every chance they get that they are pillars of their social, business and church communities. The pair of them, shamelessly name dropping all the time, perpetually bending our ears with the most laborious and boring of gossip and rumour about the rich and infamous.
For years, we put up with the pair of them. We rationalize away their inexplicable and unpleasant behaviour by convincing ourselves that they just had a rough day, or they were in a quirky mood.
But painful experiences accumulate, and eventually exact a heavy toll.
The pair of them. They blew into town last weekend. They wanted dinner. We suggested they eat at our place, because we thought it'd be a mess to try going anywhere on the night of National Day.
The pair of them. They neighed, brayed, snorted and scoffed at any- and every-thing. They do this all the time, but this time, for many reasons, deep resentment awoke in us.
We did the best we could to end the evening graciously. We called them a cab. We said our goodnight's and goodbye's. We put them into the cab. We stood around long enough to see the tail-lights of the cab disappear into the night.
We looked at each other.
The pair of them. We decided that's the last time we would see them. We can do things like that. Something the pair of them seemed to have forgotten.
It was a small birthday dinner for the man at home with a handful of people who "grew up" with him. These days we are looking at "growing old" together.
Anyway.
Because it was very low-key, there was none of the rah rah hoopla paraphernalia of a birthday dinner.
Because some courses were cooked the day before, I totally forgot about the side of potatoes. (Thankfully the meal was saved by serving up home made bread to take the place of carbs).
Because the man wanted apple crumble pie instead of cake there was no cake decoration or candle to remind me of the occasion.
And so when the woman guest pointedly announced that she and husband had to be leaving soon (i.e. could we finish the evening quickly by trotting out the dessert pronto) I totally forgot what all the other lovely people were there for besides dinner.
It was only this morning that I realized there was no mention of the man's birthday at the dinner table last night.
It was still a lovely birthday dinner with good friends.
And there will be a few more get-togethers with the others who couldn't join us last night.
We will have our chance to make the proper Happy Birthday noises yet :)
My collection of accoutrement from different dance forms keep growing.
I have hip scarves, veils, zills, saidi canes, petal skirts, harem pants for bellydance.
I have pau skirts, leis, flower crowns and wristlets for Hawaiian hula.
I have top hat, waist coat, tails, bow ties and cane for Broadway jazz.
I have boas, masks, headress, showgirl costumes, vinyl suits etc etc.
Of course I saw it all coming when I took up folk dance, but I put off the inevitable for as long as I could. I really really have a mind-block about this prop. But the day of reckoning has arrived.
I now add - to my already huge collection of dance accoutrement - the Chinese silk fan! *cringe*
p.s. does it make it any better if I tell you my fan is "watermelon" with the green rind, red meat and black seeds? *double cringe*
As perverse as it may sound, I do appreciate the skill and intelligence that go into crafting a good con job. I admire a superb con job where artful deceit is used to draw in the mark by appealing to his/her sense of vanity, avarice, self importance...
But this?? In ungrammatical English no less? Oh puhleeze! This is so stupid I dare say the Nigerians and Lottery Sweepstakes give a better spiel:
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We stopped seeing some people because of their circle of friends. There didn't seem any point in spending an evening keeping company with boors and bores, listening to their inanities.
But friends being friends, they continue to invite us over and we cannot just never see them again. Having steered clear of them for several months now, we were feeling more or less recovered from past violations to the soul and spirit. We braved going to one such dinner over the weekend.
Yes the boors and bores were all there. Yes, they talked too loudly and guffawed long, hard and frequently at their unfunny jokes. I did my best to tune them out.
Until.
The hostess turned to me and gaily flapped her hands, "Oh, oh, I mean to tell you but keep forgetting. Good thing I remember now. Have you heard what happened?"
You know this is going to be neither boring or inane. This is going to be unadulterated malicious gossip of someone we all detest.
Me: "No...who? what?"
She: "The sao loh (skinny man) is divorcing the feh por (fat woman)!"
Me: "No!"
She: "Yes, I tell you! I just saw the sao loh. He not so quiet and not so stressed anymore."
She went on to speculate on the reasons for the breakup - can't stand it anymore, can't stand her anymore, his son can't stand her anymore, who can stand her anyway...
Call me mean. Call me bitchy. Call me anything. But I must confess that the bit of rancid unhappy news made the evening actually, hmmm, worthwhile. Heh.
was the month
that whizzed by me while I was distracted by Brisbane, dinners, dance and bread making. It probably has to do with the various activities and occasions being so unconnected.
Whatever. It was a good month.
I had plenty of quality time with people who matter very much to me. Many of them will now be away for their extended annual holidays and I expect to regroup with them only in September.
I got back to wearing more colourful clothes and putting on a more made-up face. The dance mates have been telling me how beautiful I look and asking why I was wearing mostly black all this time. I don't know why, but it feels good to break out of the black phase and live in colours again. I wonder now how bad or drab I must have looked to everyone all this while.
I feel I am finally "back". And it's a good feeling.
I already bake my own baguette and hard crusted dinner roll. I was interested to learn about other varieties of bread. There are many courses available in cooking/baking schools, but most of them are heavy on time and fee. The friends tell me that baking courses do come up in the community clubs, and they are right.
I signed up for the first available one that was held at a cc near me. It was the first of a two-stage course, each consisting of 4 one-afternoon a-week classes.
I love everything about the course!
I love the instructor. She is of the same mold of teachers I encountered in my school years. Dedicated, sincere, knows her stuff, never loses control of the class.
I love the course mates. Some are experienced bakers who wanted to know more about this particular category of food. Others are novices for whom everything about cooking/baking is thick mystery and unfathomable magic.
I love listening to everyone's stories of goof-ups and victories in their attempts to bake their favourite bread.
For me, I picked up on the one critical step that has been missing from my bread making all this while - the technique of folding/kneading the dough for surface tension so that the bread will hold it's shape!
Sadly I will not be able to do Stage 2 of the bread course because of schedule conflict, but I will make myself free to sign up for their cake course in November. Heh!
His birthday is quite some time away yet. But because someone is going to be away on the day, the friends went ahead and turned their dinner party into a birthday occasion for the man.
We did not expect this. We were getting together because it was the first weekend that all of us were going to be in one place. We negotiated who was to bring what, and ended up agreeing that the friends will take care of dessert. Which turned out to be a lovely homemade fresh orange cake with candy birthday decoration.
We have shared happy times in the past few years, we have plans for more to come. Their thoughtfulness on an occasion like this makes me grateful we have cultivated the friendship, and we have every wish to see it grow.
ps to the friend - PR baju cantek on both of them :)
There are dance parties.
And then there are haflas where belly dancers come together to celebrate music and dance middle-eastern style, complete with lots of food, drinks and merriment.
It mattered not that this was a community of dancers I was meeting for the first time. The music was infectious, the dancers were riveting and soon I was one with them.
Really, there are dance parties, and then there are haflas.
It is quite the thing to do in the earlier part of Sunday. Maybe it is the only thing to do late on a Sunday morning after breakfast and before lunch. The Riverside Craft Market is, after all, just an easy 10 minute stroll from our hotel.
The market is small; my fascination at craft made by mass manufacturers from around the world fizzled after an hour.
But it was wonderful to see our friend at his weekend stall. 
Brisbane: the capital city of Queensland, population 2 million, third most populous city in Australia. 1 in 5 Brisbanite is foreign born.
The weather was perfect the 5 days I was there: clear blue cloudless skies the entire time. A sunshiny 20C during the day and a bracing 12C in the night.
There is nothing to dislike about the place - it is pleasant and more than adequately efficient for everybody.
But I didn't get any feel for the place. It is like vanilla. There is nothing to object to, but nothing memorable either. It is simply agreeable most of the time.
Before all memory of the place fades into oblivion, I will mention three restaurants which are almost worth remembering :
- Little Singapore on Charlotte, where the food almost made the cut as Singaporean.
- Mado where the bellydancer zipped in for the obligatory 20 minutes of weekend live entertainment and immediately left after her desultory version of a tabla solo.
- The Korean BBQ restaurant (the name has already been erased from my memory bank) where the smoke extractors are for show rather than function.
Brisbane. Vanilla. Except sometimes, one even manages to find fault with vanilla.
was the month
- I had another birthday. I have unequivocally reached the landmark "senior" status.
- In keeping with what I've done for many years now, I made this a birthday month. I made a conscientious effort to live everyday for myself (as much as I can).
- I finally decided to give some real thought to the awful woman's question, "What do you want at this moment in your life?"
The answer is - nothing. I want for nothing.
Leaving aside the good health and the adequate IQ I enjoy but cannot take credit for, the one thing I consciously worked towards is to not be poor. I did not need to be rich, only not poor, so that I may have choices in my life. I reached the goal; I knew it when I reached the target.
So, honestly, I want for nothing.
The silly woman doesn't read my blog (she doesn't know how to access it) so I guess I will write her one day to tell her. On the other hand, maybe not, since it's not anything she can possibly understand as she carries on talking at me.
- This has been a very special month.
p.s. Tomorrow I will be in Brisbane for five days. Just because.
This has been one of the most fun weekends catching up with friends:
Over coffee,
when the girlfriends updated each other about work, travels, bringing up baby and husband. You know, just girl talk, where we actually really understand and empathize with each others' stories. Of course I have my Bali and Paul Ropp stories to tell.
Over dinner,
when the man and I listened with delight about the friends' holiday in Kunming, Yunnan. We were totally enraptured with their stories of the charming lifestyle of the plateau community of LiJiang.
when our delight turned to disbelief that they were so moved as to want to operate an inn/resort there. By evening's end, I have visions of our friends being another China Cuckoo in the making. We will make sure he reads Mark Kitto's book before he does any thing else...
Over sms, elsewhere,
the special friends have arrived in San Francisco, the first leg of their California-Nevada- Oregon holiday. They are having a great time with shopping and dining, using the list of must-do's and must-see's that we compliled.
It has been a fun weekend knowing that just about everybody is doing great :)
I have to give it to the contestants. They have the grit and the determination, as well as EQ and the skills to pull it off.
The competition was held in a public venue. Under less than flattering lighting. The contestants focused on dancing to the panel of judges, dance friends and supporters, but they also have to dance to a rudely gawping audience who happened to stumble upon the event on their afternoon stroll through the shopping malls.
traditional/fusionRemember I bitched about how Singaporeans can stare? Unblinkingly, unwaveringly, rapt in their own world of staring...
Here they are at it again.
What are they staring at? Go ahead. Take a guess :)
ps For answer, click here.
I remember my early visits to Bali.
I remember how the mornings dawned in shafts of gold and silver through the thatched alang-alang roof of a Bali cottage. It would be another day of peaceful happiness on the island.
Already, young women were making their way to the many, many shrines with offerings of fresh flowers and fruits. And the gods would bestow their blessings upon the tropical paradise in the form of glistening lagoons, majestic mountains, rich paddy fields, blooming orchids and bouganvillas.
Everything about the place and its people was simple, even basic. Amenities for the tourists were at best adequate. There was a sense that this place was heaven on earth, where visitors and locals shared moments of each other's happiness.
I don't always feel this way about Bali anymore. I don't deal well with cab drivers who rig their meters to jump about 30% faster. My mood turns foul at the hotel check-in when they try to switch me away from the class of accommodation I had booked and paid for in advance. I don't like the aggressive purveyors of cheap tourist-grade goods. I am tired of having to fight my way through everything everyday.
These days, I go to Bali specifically for the Paul Ropp warehouse sale. I particularly look forward to seeing the team of women who work the shop floor of the facility.
It has become a habit for us to bring them fresh fruits and pastries from Singapore. It gladdens us to see their eyes shine with delight at the sight of these "luxury" gifts as much as it tugs at my heartstrings to understand that they could otherwise never taste anything as extravagant as this.
And for those brief glimpses of happiness shared with these special people, I feel again that maybe the gods do still live on this island.
Kerabokan is a short distance from Seminyak and Legian, but is a completely different world from the Bali of tourists.
Here, among artisans of wood, granite, glass works is the workplace and warehouse of Paul Ropp.
Here, away from the glitzy and spiffy (read sterile) Paul Ropp outlets, is where I prefer to shop for my bohemian/60s-flower child clothes. 
I like that sense of stepping back in time and shopping at source ...
I feel good. I have sorted out the clothes to bring to Bali. And the flight isn't till seven in the evening tomorrow! I feel so organised; it is a delicious feeling.
The past 10 days had been somewhat stressful. One weekend ago, there was the family dinner to tough out. Then I ended up having to show up for work a few afternoons last week, including Saturday! But things began to fall in place at the end of the week, starting with a nice quiet evening with a couple of friends over for a dinner of steaks with all the trimmings.
I even had time to reply to all my mail. Well, almost all.
I re-read the annoying birthday email from her; I cringed at the opening sentence where she shouted , "H A P P Y B I R T H D A Y ( M Y N A M E ) then blah blah blah, ending with, "So, my dear (my name), what do you want at this moment in your life?"
I want to not reply to her. I want to delete and forget the email altogether; hey, I can do that. It is my birthday. So I did just that. So there.
Back to my clothes for Bali: I am bringing exactly 2 pairs of Paul Ropp shorts, 2 Paul Ropp bras, 2 crop tops,2 Indian scarves to use as pareos. They take up half an inch of space at the bottom of my suitcase, which I hope to fill with more Paul Ropp clothes.
I feel good. Life is good.
I dread opening the mailbox (e- and snail) in June. I shudder to pick up birthday cards/letters from people I don't want to hear from. Worse if a thank you reply is expected. There's no saving grace all the way around, because they just go in the trash bin, if I even read them at all.
There are two people I particularly dread to hear from unfailingly every year in June and in December.
She is one. She who keeps telling me how much she enjoys hearing from me, then goes silent for months before she writes another bluffing-people lovey-dovey letter/card.She who keeps saying come visit her for her to return hospitality. And went hmm and ermmm when I showed up...
The other is the ex who will still send me cards/letters to tell me how much he loves me and thanks me for the time he was in my life.
I think some mistakes are so horrible that we can never ever be allowed to be truly freed from their coming back to haunt us...
The weekend of June 19th and 20th is taken up with bellydance activities.
On Saturday June 19th, there will be workshops by Sujee Choi (picture on left),of South Korea. Important details here.
The Asia Global Bellydance Competition (part of SSF10) takes place on Sunday 20th June afternoon. Details here.
I quit having birthday dinners/parties after the 21st.
For the next 30 plus years, my birth month became a period that I selfishly reserve for myself - going wherever I want, doing whatever I want, seeing whomever I want.
Then last year I decided to bring in the family for a dinner get-together again because it was a significant year. I couldn't see waiting another 5 years for the next significant birthday - some old people might not be around by then and I might actually be inexplicably sorry about that fact.
I naively thought I could get away with doing a birthday dinner with family once every 5 years. But as the month and day got nearer, they started asking if we'd all be getting together again, just like last time.
I could not bring myself to disappoint them, so I said yes, of course we will. Just like last time.
Of course the old woman created a lot of tension for everyone in the days leading up to the date.
Finally, on D-Day we are at the restaurant that I so looked forward to. Where the man arranged for a private dining room with the most spectacular view of Singapore from the 33rd floor. Where every course of the meal was thoughtfully pre-ordered, painstakingly prepared and now impeccably presented at the table on exquisite dinner servers.
And I realised too late I did not have my camera to record any of this for posterity.
And so.
I shall remember this occasion in my mind's eye and hold it close in my heart for a very long time to come: an evening of happy memories with my family that is more than a difficult old woman.
was the month
- I caught myself having to work at not slipping into a funk.
The reasons seem trivial.
There was having to sit at the same dinner table with the old broad. She gave me her "I'm so cool I can say hi to you" smile. I glared at her, air kissed the other women, and sat where I was buffered from her by 2 people. Ten years of repressed animosity toward her was not going to turn into sparkling angel dust just because she turned her smile in my general direction. I want her acknowledgement of her wrong doing (no, it's not over the whisper of a rumour about my face); I want her unreserved apology; then I want to carry on having nothing to do with her.
There was Mother and the conversation I endured which left me so agitated that I had 2 sleepless nights after. I will leave this doozie of a story for another time.
There was the realization that I still have a long list of worthless friends. Seeing them brings no joy; it's just work. I want to retire from this form of work.
- I am glad the month is over. It's like I leave the funk behind when May ended.
I can start anew in June.
I love the point when raqs sharqi meets goth (at about 3.20 on left counter).
http://www.imdb.com/video/wab/vi3486319129/
(p.s. may take some time to load, but it's worth the wait.)
Most people go to Bali for the sun, sand and sea.
Others go for yoga and/or belly dance retreats.
Yet others go for the spa treatments.
I used to go for some of the same reasons.
These days, I only head to Bali for the Paul Ropp warehouse sale.
Maybe it is a totally off-beat reason, but it works for me:)
Is she really 80 this year?
She is. And she celebrates in style with students, teachers and staff, past and present.
I almost did not go to the party. I am glad I did.
For I would have missed it all :
- reacquainting with the old friends and teachers,
- taking a nostalgic walk down memory lane as the students acted out their short play of the old school in the old days by the sea,
- reawakening the sense of pride for having come from a very special school that produced many special people.
p.s. I did not even bother to snap at the old broad scrutinising my face from across the table.
The mirror started life with me flawless, gleaming, beautiful. I loved what looked back at me - smiles, hope, confidence.
One day, a crack appeared at a corner with no warning, with no reason. By the time I noticed it, it was spreading in every directions like an intricate spider web being spun, certainly and unstoppably.
In time, I saw a crackly me whenever I looked in the mirror. I lived with the cracks, lived under the illusion that cracks are merely annoying.
Until one day, many years later, I realised I was living under the delusion that the mirror could only contain a finite amount of cracks. By now, the mirror was positively splintering and I could no longer recognise myself in the mirror.
And I knew the day had finally come to do what I should have done a long time ago. With a heavy heart, and with as much care as I could to not cause further damage, I removed the mirror from my life.
Maybe I would live without a mirror for a very long time, maybe even for the rest of my life. Or maybe, one day, I would find a another mirror I liked enough to bring home with me.
Whatever the maybe's, I only knew that day that I could not go on looking at myself as a hopelessly shattered version of me...
p.s. In time, I did find a used mirror that is flawless. And I enjoy seeing what looks back at me once again.
The man said he needed Rooster brand peanut oil at the store.
I stared at the huge array of 2-litre size cooking oils. Local and foreign. No Rooster brand peanut oil.
But this one label came close. I stared at it again. And again. In disbelief. I turned to ask the man if this was what he was looking for : Cock brand pure groundnut oil.
Yes. That's the one. Why didn't he say so; it's Cock brand pure groundnut oil. Not Rooster brand peanut oil.
He muttered something about trying to be a little more polite with words in public. Oh Bah.
Somebody loves his product enough to name it we should respect it enough not to change it...
What did she call me for?
She is a work colleague from another lifetime ago. And like most friendships forged in workplaces, there is a hiatus in contact when we made our exodus and got caught up in our new and usually broadened horizons.
Over the last decade, I've seen her a handful of times. Always when one of the former colleagues blew into town. It seemed to be the only times we'd have a reason to get together.
So when she called out of the blue, I was completely taken aback, and steeled myself for some really bad news (sorry, I am such a pessimist).
She: How are you?
Me: Very well. And how are you?
She: Okay. What are you doing now?
Me: Now? As in this very minute?
She: Yes.
Me (duh?): Talking to you.
She: Are you still bellydancing?
Me: Yes.
She: Oh. You enjoy it?
Me (duh?): Yes.
The stop-go conversation went on for a very painfully long ten minutes. At the end of which I said I'd sms her places and teachers to go to if she's thinking of belly dance. I'd even go with her to get her started if it would help.
I sent the belly dance information last night. It was tedious tapping out the message on the phone keypad, but she is completely computer and net illiterate.
This morning I got her sms reply, "OK. Thanks."
(Duh??)
What did she really call me for?
I settled in for the night and was watching Bohemian Rhapsody.
Surprisingly, it is more than just another documentary on history, culture or travel. It is a well researched and coherently edited life story of Paris narrated by a very telegenic Sandrine Voillet in an engaging and intelligent fashion.
And, when I least expected it, I heard the long forgotten yet immediately familiar opening bars of the most beautiful duet ever composed by a man for his muse:
By then, I actually rate the prgramme as intellectual even:)
I refer to her as the old broad. She is a schoolmate whom I have not seen or spoken to for years.
The last time we saw each other was 5 years ago at an old schoolgirls' meetup . Right before the big evening she apparently said to other schoolmates that she'd heard I had my entire face botoxed and looked just awful.
I am neither sensitive nor secretive about using botox. I also use injectable hyaluronic acid to reduce naso-labial and marionette lines on my face. I presume she did not mention this because she didn't know there was such a product.
Five years ago on that big social night, several of my old schoolmates scrutinized my face up close and personal. It did not bother me that some questions were outright dumb or downright intrusive; I detected curiosity, not malice.
Later this month, I shall be at another social function where not only will the old broad also be there - she and I will be seated at the same table.
In the intervening 5 years, I have had blepharoplasty done. I recently contemplated a mid lower face lift but haven't gotten around to it yet.
I wonder how much more awful she would say I look now...
I delay paying up my magazine subscription renewal until I receive the really ominous sounding reminders. You know - the ones that threaten no-more-delivery after blah and blah date unless you renew NOW.
The thing is, the magazine provides no incentive for early renewal.
Anyway, I recently renewed a mag subscription. Three weeks later, I got another of their reminders to pay up. Or else. A bank balance transaction check showed the cheque not yet presented.
I called the customer service hotline. Some young thing answered with the standard time-of-day greeting, identified the company, gave her name and asked how she might help.
me: Hi, I sent in my cheque for magazine renewal 3 weeks ago and I wonder if my cheque was received.
she: Sorry, but all payments are sent to Hong Kong for processing before being sent back to Singapore to bank in.
me: Is there any way to find out if my cheque is received.
she: No, I am sorry.
me: How long does it take to be processed in Hong Kong?
she: Six to ten weeks.
me: Is there any way for you to see if my magazine delivery will be interrupted?
she: Sorry, I wouldn't know.
me (starting to feel hot under the collar): Ok, goodbye!
she: Is there anything else I may help you with.
me: No, goodbye!
she: Thank you for calling (blah and blah company). Please don't hesitate to call again should you need further help. Have a good day!
me: G-O-O-D-B-Y-E ! !
Oh wah!! A helpful airhead, that one!
I first knew of the 80th anniversary dinner of my alma mater on a friend's Facebook.
I dismissed any thought of going because this close to the date, I thought it too bothersome to organise getting a table.
Then the girlfriend called from abroad. She has gotten wind of the special event, and she knows there are two vacancies left at the table of our schoolmates.
She would like to go to the dinner for two reasons:
(a) She was going to be in town for work, and
(b) It would be a great time to see our teachers again.
She is hesitant about going for one reason: there will be those at the table that she really doesn't care to see, or worse, to talk to, even after all these years.
When she named the women at the table, I found to my dread and horror that they are the same people I don't want to play nice with either.
But that is not a good reason to pass up a chance to catch up with so many other people in one place.
So, screw the long ago mostly forgotten silly reasons why there are people I don't want to see. I know it's their fault *haha*
It's going to be a great evening for the girlfriend and me.
Just like before, it's yesterday once more...
The friends will be in California, Nevada and Oregon.
I had been searched my memory and researching online to come up with a manageable list of must-see and must-do recommendations.
Las Vegas, Nevada is straightforward enough. I have no local knowledge of Oregon.
But California...
I had to pare down the list I'd love for them to cover. I made strong recommendations for little eateries in the beach towns that they will drive through on the scenic PCH 1 from Monterey to Santa Barbara.
I cannot even begin to put into words the breath-taking beauty of Santa Barbara - its perfect Mediterranean climate amd its Spanish and Mission architecture - sandwiched between the sea and the hills of Santa Inez. She is, without doubt, the undisputed American Riveria.
California - I wish I lived there still.
I wish I were travelling with the friends as they cover those tracks of roads and highways that I remember with so many beautiful and sentimental thoughts.
I hope they will love the place as much as I. I know they will...
There is the very hip and cosmopolitan side to Japan -
and the centuries-old traditional side.
And somehow, she navigates through this huge cultural divide with confidence and pride.
I find that as admirable as it is incomprehensible...
was the month
- I made my first ever trip to Japan.
I find its people fascinating, totally different from my expectations which I admit are built on Hollywood's take of the land and its people.
Where I expected the Japanese to be intense, either in a serious or cartoon-y way, I quickly realised how gracious and civic-minded they are. Everyone I approached for help would go out of his/her way to steer me back on course and see me off with the warmest smile.
Where I expected only the extremes of the weary formally attired salarymen vs the fun-loving colourful kawaii boys and girls, I found a spectrum of very tasteful styles.
I resisted going to Japan because I was so sure the country and its people are, simply, too foreign. I have been so ignorant and wrong.
It is a country where its people will show you that you - the foreign tourist - have a place in their ever gracious land.
Food presentation is such a high art form that I always wonder if I should just sit there and admire it for a long while more.
Eventually I take that first bite. Then it is just food again...
Japan is a land of contrasts -
and the modern 
exist comfortably with each other.Oh wow, I am finally all packed and ready to go, with hours to spare before heading for the airport.
It seems like I bring along the same amount of barang barang whether I am packing for 10 days or 10 weeks. That's too profound for me to think through right now...
My good friend who loves Jepun-land tells me I am heading into good weather. So...
I am looking forward to visiting the strange new place.
