They cannot read, They cannot write

I should have left things well alone. I have located them in FB, now I see their one-liners and the blast of holiday pictures, party pictures, family pictures.

But, for whatever reason, I feel like I short-change them with my silly quiz results (that is about all I ever post in FB). So, I mention my blog to the handful of people from long-ago years.

I got the most stubborn and unnecessarily gruff and ungracious reply: I'm afraid no blogging for me... Let's stick to emails.

My reply: Yes, let's.

My thought: Not only do these people not read nor write, these people probably cannot read or write!

Bread - Home baked

It isn't that we are particularly picky about our dinner rolls. It's just that we have not found any that we like enough to go through the hassle of shopping for it and then having to stand in the long line to pay for one loaf or half a dozen pieces of rolls.
So on a whim, I thought to make our own. The kitchen always has the basic ingredients : flour, yeast, salt, sugar.

It really turned out good for a first attempt. I have not reached the stage of proficiency that I care to identify what kind of bread I baked. It is just bread, with a crust, that came out of the oven in time for dinner.

Happily, we slapped butter on the still warm home-baked bread, and savoured it with our dinner of cold cut beef roast, mash, and slaw - all home cooked and prepared.

The faint smell of yeast and baking still lingering in the kitchen as we sat down to dinner was simply heavenly.

The Pole Dancers at NDP

When I first saw the complaint letter of pole dance making its debut appearance in the NDP this year, I dismissed it as just another silly, uptight and unfounded gripe from an overly concerned but misguided parent of school-age children.

But net chatter picked up momentum, and the opinions got more and more ridiculous. Soon, the leap is made from pole performers to prostitutes and strip dancers.

There seems to be two reasons for objecting to pole performance.

One is its origin - that it is the mainstay of sleaze bars and clubs. That the dance form has moved into mainstream society and that women have taken to it as another fitness and exercise option is ignored. Also ignored is the fact that training at the gyms and studios far exceeds what is required at the bars and clubs.

The other is about "skimpy" outfits.

According to The Straits Times:
Pole dancing - where scantily clad women writhe around a pole on stage - is making an appearance at the National Day Parade (NDP) this evening...
(Thursday, August 9, 2009, Lifestyle, page2)

The performers' explanation about the need for skin contact to grip the pole falls on deaf ears. This court of public opinion has passed the verdict that the girls' outfits are somehow indecent. I happen to think that injecting a little sex appeal into an otherwise strenously demanding acrobatic feat never hurts anybody.

No amount of arguing or debating is going to change any minds. The girls will give their all in the first ever appearance of pole dance at this year's NDP. And I know the loud cheers from the crowd will drown out the nay-sayers.

So you go, girls of Acropolates.

What a low and cheap trick

The pedestrian crossing on Paterson Road between ION Orchard and Wheelock Place is really closed.

An underground pass now links the two buildings. There are temporary signs hastily put up at the entrance to the underpass alongside Wheelock and at the front of ION.

I was in a hurry. I was at Wheelock and needed to get across to Wisma Atria/Ngee Ann City, and back.

Getting into the underpass at Wheelock, then walking through ION underground to emerge at ION exit/entrance is, while not so straightforward for a first attempt, was at least manageable.

Re-tracing that path on the return trip is impossible. Once you enter ION, you are totally lost with escalators and shops disorientating your directional judgement. I gave up after asking shop keepers who directed me to more underground levels and shops. I ended up getting out of ION and walking the upward slope along Patterson to cross at the traffic at Patterson and Orchard Boulevard.

My grouse is this: the underpass is NOT an underground pedestrian crossing. It is a cheap diversonary tactic to direct all pedestrian traffic into ION and detain them there. There were no location maps anywhere to help with navigating within the mall either.

How low can a premier and iconic shopping mall stoop to force shoppers into their premises?

L-O-W, cheap and dirty.

Hosts and visitors

I have a relay of visitors coming into town starting next week. Many I look forward to seeing. A handful I am unsure of and have been agonizing over what to do about them.

I got to thinking of the friends who were ever so considerate, who went out of their way to make sure I am enjoying my time in their country. I also recall the ones who gave me the oh-so-glad-you-made-it-here-let's-meet-up-sometime spiel and I never hear from them again during my entire stay.

And it dawned on me that there is a direct relationship between hosts and guests : lousy guests and visitors make lousy hosts and vice versa.

And suddenly, it is all so clear to me who I will not entertain in town, and who I will not want to look up when next I travel.

I believe I finally see the light. Heh

P.S. I know the rationale is not well put forward, but that's all my tired brain can manage right now.

The lexicon of Michael Jackson

I think this is one of the best commentaries written on the late Michael Jackson.

Then mourn the demise of arts journalism.

When the manager steps in

I was looking to buy a particular CD. I called the vendor to ask if said CD is carried in their store.

The staff who took my call was nice enough even if she couldn't answer my question: "I'm sorry, ma'am, but I am not sure about the CD. I have no update so far and my manager has not yet stepped in right now."

Maybe I am just being prickly and picky, but why do people try to sound too clever with English and end up mangling the language. What does she mean the manager has not yet stepped in? She could have simply said the manager hasn't come in yet. Stepping in implies an sense of casualness, like popping in for a short time only rather than come in to assume the hours of the work shift. (I am not going to tackle the "not sure" and "update" bits in her answer.)

Like I said, the staff was nice enough. She took down my name and phone number, and called me back with the answer soon after, when the manager finally stepped in.

Isn't she lovely?

She really is.

I love the essay for it's stylish writing, research depth and sentimental understanding of an often misunderstood people.

I have met these people; I will never forget their kindness; I will always remember them fondly...

July

was the month

(ang ku kueh)

- The apartment directly below me started renovation work. The noise was unbearable. Luckily, heavy continuous drilling is permitted only from 9am to 2pm Mondays to Fridays. I still have the peaceful weekends.

- I actually miss having an office to go escape the noise.

- I accepted lunch dates from anybody who looked for me. Including all those private banker types who are still flogging dubious structured products. I really need to get to know a better class of people.

- I went to shopping malls which I never thought to go to. So far, I have covered Vivo City and Jurong Point. Both were big enough to occupy me for several hours. But when one is not actually shopping, it makes for a very empty experience. I wondered why I loved gallivanting in my (much) younger days.

- I visited old neighbourhoods that I don't usually go to. Like Joo Chiat and Alexander Village. I got reacquainted with long forgotten snack foods like ang ku kueh.

- Mother is still ominously quiet. Maybe my sister is right - the old woman has really forgotten about us. Or she is too busy consorting with unsavoury Chye-nah people who give her time of day because they have design on her money. Neither possibility is good but I value my peace and sanity too much to find out what's happening.

A tale of Singapore food

We listened to the sweet young thing tell us of her business trips to various cities in China. What she loved about the place, what she hated, what she missed.

Food, she declared. I miss Singapore food! Everything in China came in huge portions and were too oily and too salty.

Yes, we thought! She's one of us! She loves her food. She knows her food!

So, we asked, you headed straight for food the minute you touched down?

Yes! came her gleeful reply, I headed straight to Newton Circus for macaroni!

Newton Circus? Macaroni?

She's supposed to say mee pok dry, char kway tiao, Hainanese chicken rice, something like that. And at any of the many old name hawker centres!

Not macaroni at Newton Circus!

She may love her food, but there is definitely a huge gulf between her idea of real and worthy Singapore food and ours.

ps I never clarified what she meant by macaroni, because what came to mind immediately was macaroni and cheese a la Kraft. It was later that I thought she must mean bak chor macaroni soup. So maybe she is half way to qualifying as a foodie of Singapore food.

Happiness is ...

After reading his very deep discourse on man, materialism and happiness, am I to conclude that:

Early early say so lah!

Wedding entrance

I like their style :)

Live well

I am still reeling from the sobering news that a school mate has had a heart attack. She survived the sneaky episode. But it sends a chilling jolt of reality through my mind, body and soul as I ponder the ravages that the passing years inflict upon us.

Life is far far too short to wait for dreams to come true.

I think of the women I know who are still waiting to slim down before they would get into a swim suit. The women who put off leisure activities because of domestic demands on their time. The women who put off self-development because...of what?

I think of the women who took control of their lives, starting around age 40. They laid to rest their long-dead relationships to start anew. They got married for the first time, or got remarried to someone they really deserve. They traded dead-end jobs for a career with a future. They started their own businesses. They bought their own homes. They became single mothers. Whatever. But the important thing is, they started living for themselves. They live self-fulfilled lives.

In my 40th year, I climbed Mt Shasta. Not life-changing. Not news breaking. But personally satisfying to have done it when I did. For I would not have the physical and mental endurance to do it in later years.

Life is for living. Life is transient. Life is worth living for yourself. Live it well.

Hokey Logic

I know it's hokey, but I love the syllogism involved.

If A then B.
Not B, then not A.

Yes, Woman! Tell'em

The friends were trading war stories over dinner.

The guy friend enjoys buying and selling F&B businesses. So he tells of this one particular venture when he and the wife ended up having to work in the kitchen on Christmas Eve. How it was one of the most horrible and stressful things he ever encountered in his life. Whereupon his wife cut in with, "Don't listen to him. I did all the work in the kitchen that night. He was just a stressed out basket case."

And I looked at the woman with renewed respect.

Yes Woman! Speak up, Woman. Tell'em who really takes care of things when the going gets tough.

Waiting for a lost friend

We first met almost 30 years ago. We were at our first jobs. She was a vivacious vain pot with a quick wit and great sense of theatrics. She was a delightful and fun companion to have at all times.

We went our separate ways for many long years - got married, lived abroad, raised families, got caught up with the demands of work, home, motherhood.

We both got back to Singapore and got back together for coffees and dinners. But this is no longer the same woman I knew from those early years.

She still has the demands of home and motherhood. And she tackles them admirably if not somewhat irrationally and maniacally. But gone is the delightful and the fun person I knew.

Instead, she is ill-at-ease around unfamiliar company. She is constantly distracted by phone calls and sms'es from her sons. She is always involved with parent-teacher meetings, school plays, school sports - this list is endless.

I am shocked that she put off a knee surgery for a year and half now. The quadriceps on the injured leg has atrophied to half its original size. The good leg started giving problems from overcompensation, and most days, she uses an umbrella as a walking stick to get around. She has days when she is practically crippled by pain.

And yet, she persists with her manic lifestyle, all centered around the family of two near-grown boys and a long-suffering husband.

The latest insane act is to take the family to Bali for three weeks of annual summer vacation. I don't think the teenaged boys even wanted to do that - be stuck in Bali with the parents for a sizeable chunk of their school holidays.

The frightening reality is sinking in for me. After all the years of hand-rearing the sons, she is the one who is loathed to let go. In the process, she has lost herself.

I think it is a horrible mistake to make the children's lives her own. And I have no way of conveying this reality to her.

So, I will carry on meeting her for coffee chats, listen to her tell me of her life lived vicariously through her sons, and hopefully be there to help pick up the pieces of her life when the boys leave home in a couple more years.

Maybe then, the delightful and fun friend I once had will return.

Meanwhile, I will wait for return of the lost friend...

They don't read, they don't write

I sometimes stare at my Facebook profile and feel badly that it is pathetically empty of content. I don't fill the wall with pictures, I don't write one-line impulsive thoughts. It is still my blog I turn to for meaningful (to me) input.

I have done searches on names that come to mind. Names long buried in the furthest recesses of my mind. Names from schools, from vacations, from places I once lived in. The number of hits is surprisingly big. It includes people I least expect to have a FB account - especially people I remember who are irrational technophobes.

I hesitate about adding them to my list of friends for many reasons:

- They don't read and they don't write for the pure pleasure of reading or writing.

- They have exactly 2 "friends" in FB.

- They have thousands of "friends" in FB.

- They never tried to look for me in FB.

Of the list, I contacted exactly 2 of them. It had been rewarding. I feel like the blanks in the intervening years are now filled. And they, in turn, have tracked me to my blog, which I find immensely satisfying. One of them will even be coming to Singapore later in the year; I know we will make the time to catch up.

The rest I will leave to rest in my past. There doesn't seem any point in re-acquainting.

Especially since I know this about them - they don't read and they certainly do not write.

July Hafla @ Blu Jaz

Click on image for enlargement

Shameless freeloaders

I think the friends finally got tired of the one couple who only ever accepted hospitality and never gave anything in return.

I think the couple never thought of us as friends; I think we were always viewed only as potential customers.

I think we never thought of the couple as outright users and free loaders all this time because, well, we just want to think kindly of people.

At the last home dinner party, the woman free-loader made the usual pointless polite noises about it being such a lovely evening. The hostess said she could take the next turn hosting, to which the free-loader curtly said she is too busy.

Just recently, the man free-loader bumped into the host at their work building, and actually suggested we should all do dinner soon. The host bluntly and pointedly told the presumptuous boor that it is his turn. The lifelong committed free-loader had the audacity to say they can't because the wife doesn't cook. Well, who says anyone has to cook to show some appreciation for years of hospitality given to them?

I think there comes a time when the free flow of goodwill dries up because of non reciprocity. I think for this particularly shameless couple, the time is now.

I will not miss them.

Six years

Six years ago, the maid worked in a family of inconsiderate loonies and she was desperate to get out of her situation.

Six years ago, a couple had a terror for a maid and were desperate to get her out of their lives.

Six years ago, we matched the maid with the couple. It turned to be a very good arrangement for the parties.

Fast forward to present.

Six years later the maid makes the decision that she needs to leave this job and get on with her life. She will miss the household and the couple she worked for, but it has been six long years she has been away from her own home and family. She must have looked at herself, her future, and decided that she needed to make something more of herself.

We hate to see her leave. We have worries about what she will do for a living. But we understand her aspirations. Her plans are vague. Every idea is a maybe. But she knows now is the time to make her move.Before she loses her nerve.

Six years. It is a long enough time to have stayed in one place. It is time to move on.

And so, with some sadness but a lot more optimism, we reluctantly bade her farewell with lots of good wishes.

We will treasure having seen her make a happy home for our friends and we hope that her life will be good back in her home.

Can it all have been six years already?

The Newcomer

A newcomer to an on-going class is always subject to friendly curious interest. So it was that when the woman joined our hula class, we greeted her with the usual polite smiles and hello's.

But this woman's response to us is nothing short of jarring. She took one look at us, and asked, in a tone that came across as accusatory: Must we wear pareos to dance? Well, no, there is no strict requirement but we use pareos tied in some skirt fashion to help us focus on how we are moving...

Followed by another almost-cross question: Where do you buy your pareo? By this time the entire class shrank away from her physically and emotionally, with someone timidly muttering something about Arab Street or swimwear shops. We were too scared by now to mention that we even have leis to help us look the part and get more into the mood of the dance...

The woman was absent for the next class, and showed back up in the third week. A dance mate lent her a pareo and helped to dress her. She looked herself in the mirror and went: This style doesn't suit me. The rest of us busied ourselves with looking at our toes...

We danced through our routine at the end of which she turned to the dancer closest to her and asked, in an unmistakably annoyed tone: Did you learn that last week? Came the meekest reply in the weakest of voice: Yes...

Aiyoh...is she going to join us for real? And will she stop being so cross? Dare we hope...

Fools and chain mail

I cannot believe there are people who still mindlessly and indiscriminately forward chain mail! I am talking about people I know. People I have told off about it already!

For the most part I take one glance at the PLEASE READ! DO NOT DELETE! heading and hit the DELETE key and let it go at that.

But there is this one person who has been told time and again to stop forwarding chain mail. She'd stop for a while, then resume. (Doesn't she have anything better to do?) The latest is the silly one titled Slow Dance.

It arrived on a day I didn't feel kindly disposed to fools. So I wrote her a short message: Oh puhleeze. This has been circulating with update since 1998. Read here. And hit the Reply ALL button. Yes, to all 100 names or so on her hit list.

The fool wrote back: Thought it sounded familiar but didn't want to have a bad conscience so forwarded it anyway. And when are you coming to visit me?

See why I say I cannot spend lots of time cooped up with her and other like-minded people?

It's to0 much to expect I should suffer fools gladly. Especially when I don't have to.

Sweden in the autumn Part II

The spurt of excited chatter by email among the friends about going to Sweden started to slow down, then it quit altogether.

Understandably, we want to nail down some specific fun things to do and fun places to visit.

Suggestions included stopover in Tokyo/London, plus take in other major happening cities in Europe. Activities included lots of girl-chat, shopping, eating, clubbing with a night of bellydance.

Mentally, I ticked off excessive girl-chat. I don't have that much to chat with this particular group. These people haven't stepped into a club in their home countries for decades. We should now club in foreign cities? And we would be in the wrong continent for bellydance dinner shows.

The host is ominously quiet about these suggestions, only offering that we spend 10 days at her home where she has lovingly nurtured a beautiful garden, and drive 500 kms to see Oslo. I am told it is the boringest slow drive imaginable because the speed limit is 80kph.

The most touted tourist activity for Sweden in the fall - mushroom picking - never came up! I suspect the planners never even knew that's the only thing to do in that country that time of the year!

Anyway, the email exchange has stopped for 3 weeks now. I can presume that the trip will not happen after all.

I don't think I will have missed anything much.

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