I'm dreaming of a white Christmas

With the snow chaos all over the news in the last days, I was dreaming of a white Christmas in this land of sausage and beer. Especially when we woke up one morning to a white blanket of fresh snow everywhere and feathery falling snow flakes. I was thrilled.

Are we finally going to have a white silent Christmas this year? What is Christmas without snow right!!!

But nope. Like in the past years, I was hoping against hope. The blanket of clean serene snow has since melted away as silently as it has arrived. The magic is broken.

On the bright side, we have a huge white fir tree this year. The fir does look magically imposing with the lights turned on.

The one thing left to complete the festive mood: Presents!!!

Happy Christmas!!

How do you like your coke?

I have never been a big fan of coke. (Yes, the carbonate soft drink coca cola, not the other coke.) When given a choice, I'd rather have an ice tea, green tea, or water anytime. But when fancy does strike, I'll still get that occasional coke in the hope that the thirst would be quenched. Thing is, it doesn't work all the time, does it?

When serving me the coke, one must however observe my two big no-nos:

Do not serve the coke straight from the can. I totally hate that as the coke would be so gassy that most often than not, I couldn't finish a quarter of the can. And that is so wasteful, innit? So well, the only way out is to ask for a glass lor.

Do not serve the coke neat in a glass. Which is how they love to do it here in Germany and apparently the Germans including the man have no complaints about that. As for me, the coke is insufferably sweet without the ice. And I suspect the term ice cold coke somehow got lost in translation in this country.

One might argue that you can have more coke without the ice. Well really, who wants more coke when you could drown down a nicely chilled and not overly-sweet coke? So I say hell with more coke! Gimme a coke with plenty of ice anytime man! That's how I like my coke!

And so weeks ago, I was badly in need of a fix of caffeine high in my bloodstream. We were hooking up with the friends one evening at our favourite greek restuarant in a quiet litle nook. I jumped at the chance and got myself a coke with extra ice.

Several big gulps and thereafter with the cold caffeine cruising down my bloodstream, was I already tripping in my own happy high? By the time my fish came, I was into my second glass and beaming merrily at the friends and giggling silly at anything lame.

More than 3 years in Germany, what took me so long to ask for extra ice?

Or has the caffeine done its damages already?

Dying an early death?

I guess I've probably flunked most guidelines on blogging where its main objective is to help increase traffic to a blog.

Instead of updating frequently, I post only 2 or 3 times per month. And then of course I had to go block my blog recently. That is a definite big no-no in the blogosphere. Unfortunately the break actually freed up my time. I could finish up my half-read book, and idle on my couch in front of the TV. Sometimes it's just great to do nothing at all. That really helps to loosen me up.

Sure, I do feel guilty knowing that a handful of the loyal readers aka the friends would be disappointed in finding the closed blog. But I soon discover my worries are unfounded because I doubt anyone ever noticed the blog was even closed. All I got was the usual cold stony ringing silence. So much for the traffic to the blog.

Someone then wrote, if you are going to blog about yourself, you better have an uncanny knack for wit, humour or cynicism or your life got to be damn interesting or exciting. Because no one wants to read about the colour of underwear you wore last night, the fried rice you ate for lunch or that 98th travelling you did recently.

Err, my life is neither interesting nor exciting since I do not have glamorous friends to hang out or party with. A knack for wit or humour is beyond me...

Eh, everyone still there?

And according to a professional blogger, it is important that you include your blog's content in an RSS feed to increase readership and distribution. Well, firstly I had no idea what RSS was all about until I wikipedia-ed it seconds ago. So no, the blog is definitely not on RSS.

For reasons even unknown to myself, I somehow have this perverse obssession to keep the blog as invisible as possible. I don't do fellowship with other bloggers. I don't belong to a blog community. I hardly comment on other blogs. I forbid friends to link the blog. Not many are in the know of the blog.

And the last I checked, only less than 100 hits have ever graced the blog.

I think I might have single-handedly killed my own blog. *grin*

My Halloween rocks!

The man, all dressed up in his black robes, has left to rock the halloween party while here I am wallowing in my self-pity.

The fever, of all weeks, chose the week leading up to All Saint's Day to visit. Well, I can't really blame the virus and bacteria as how could they possibly know I've been looking forward to the party since weeks?

Minutes ago NW likened Halloween to our Chinese Ghost Month. Thanks to her, I am now keenly aware that I am all alone in the pad.

Or am I? *look over shoulder*

The doorbell shrieked just then. Repressing my thudding heart, I answered the door to have a trick-or-treat thrown at me. I mumbled briefly to the boys I had to see if I had any treats for them and found the kids all gone when I came back. They were probably too freaked out by my oily and unkempt hair and ran away. No need to even put on my war paint to do scary.

Anyways, I resolve to not answer my door anymore tonight to save myself the embarassement and the kids, a fright.

Like a conspiracy, the TV is dishing out party tunes and anything halloween to rile me. Oh well...

The last days were spent drifting in and out of a feverish trance. When I finally woke, the cobwebs in the head casted a haze over everything in sight.

TV was boring. Being online for too long gave me a throbbing headache. I couldn't register the dancing words on the book. With nothing else to do, a movie marathon transpired.

But the cheery bright sunshine was too dazzling for my newly-acquired vampire eyes. Thank goodness for the german blinds which are able to block out each single ray of sunlight.

In the darkness of my living room-cinema, dishy young Al Pacino was ruthless villain Michael Corleone and Robert De Niro the streetsmart and cool as a cucumber Vito Corleone. Part II is definitely my fav among the trilogy simply because De Niro rules in it! Albeit scrawny, his portrayal of the Don was vivid and beautiful. His mannerism spoke of his cold-bloodness, his family values and his rise to power. He was Vito Corleone and not De Niro.

Then Robert Downey Jr was incredibly hawt and sexy with or without his iron suit. Let's hope he stays clean and gets casted in more films so that we will not be deprived of his mastery.

Now, cobwebs are being spun and and the head throbs...

I don't want to be a corrector

Having lived in Germany for more than 3 years now has not led to a fluency in the language. Which is not exactly that bad especially since I am not a rocket scientist in the linguistic department. Nonetheless, carrying out a proper conversation these days does not leave me cowering in shame like before.

Of course I cannot deny I have the flair for committing frequent grammar mistakes and for not able to find the right vocab to express myself aptly. My German vocabs remain sadly limited owing to that sloth monster who has decided to stay for good since that winter in1972.

Hence, my imperfect German leads me to uncover something which is rather interesting.

In times of sticky language-predicaments, most friends, instead of correcting or helping me, would choose either to ignore my hiccups, remain silent, change the subject or simply look away. Or when I asked for the meaning of a word which I have never heard before, I would receive no reply. Don't even ask me how awkward the air was.

Sometimes I didn't even realise I have made a mistake until these subtle reactions appeared. And I was literally left to my own devices to scramble out of the embarrassing hole.

I am bewildered.

The reason of such responses I did not understand at first. I put myself in their shoes and the only conclusion I could make was they were just too embarrassed themselves to put me in a spot by correcting my language. But then again, most Germans are no strangers to voicing their opinions loud and clear. Sometimes, I suspect they even enjoy doing that. Hence, such reactions are what I least expect.

Once, during our german lesson, someone remarked that nobody ever tried to rectify her mistakes. My teacher's opinion that these people are simply too lazy and find it a hassle to correct us, has a lot of truth in it. It is indeed a fuss to keep correcting someone left, right and center during a conversation. In the end, even the correctee (is there such a word?) would be frustrated too, let alone the corrector. The fun of the chit-chat would subsequently be robbed.

Sure, it is not a written rule that friends, colleagues or aquaintances alike should be the corrector. Though it would certainly be helpful and important for intermediates like me. How else would we learn, right?

Therefore, it was a breath of fresh air when a friend actually corrected my german during dinner one evening. Several times, in fact. She even asked if it's fine for me. I was like, 'Oh yes, please! I would be most grateful!'

The entire evening I considered her with new, thankful eyes.

Of black boots, mooncakes and wellies-smelling weirdo

I was racking my brains all week on what boots to get for this fall. With the change of seasons, everyone is scampering off for that hottest pair of boots in town.

I am seriously overwhelmed with the array of choices available. My vision is bombarded with a myriad of boots: ankle boots, booties, country, vintage, biker, overknees, UGG...

I stood in front of my shoe racks and pondered. As my eyes scanned over each pair of shoes, my little eye spied something which I have never worn before.

A pair of black boots.

They were from the Lion.

Flashback: Just before I left for Germany for good, the Lion pampered me with gifts from her HK trip. 2 lamb-wool sweaters to keep me warm because she often chides me for not able to tahan cold. And not forgetting of course the pair of said boots.

I love the sweaters but couldn't say the same for the boots. The boots are round-toed and not flattering. I looked stumpy with them on. I could tell the Bestie shared my sentiments but she kept her mouth shut. Because we both know very well this was an out-of-the-ordinary gesture from the Lion. She never ever shops for presents for friends. That's the Bestie's task, not the Lion's.

Thus it's very heartwarming to know she purposely took time off from work and search for stuffs which she thought I might need in the cold winter months. So tell me am I not lucky to have her as a friend, albeit her short-temper? *wink*

Back to the said boots. I pulled them out of the dusty corner and decided to give them another go. To my surprise, they look rather high-street chic when paired with leggings which are all the rage right now.

It was the Mid-Autumn Festival yesterday and the boots finally saw the light of day.

In fact I was just fretting days before I wouldn't get to eat my favourite mooncakes this year when I had a pleasant surprise. Not only did I get to eat my mooncakes, the mooncakes this time round were from the 6-star hotel, Ritz Carlton, no less!

They were delicious and not overly sweet. The absence of the yolk was not a deterrence at all. What's more there were no signs of oil spots. I almost thought the mooncakes were cholesterol-free! Even the man helped himself to a second slice. And he used to claim he was not a huge fan.

The girlfriend's sweetie once thought the mooncake was a cake assortment and actually gobbled up a whole mooncake in one seating. No prize for guessing how put off he was afterwards that he swore off them from then on. He is so hilarious! Wahahahahahaha...

BUT.

As attested, the Ritz's mooncakes has the uncanny power to convert even the greatest mooncake loather to a devoted fan. That is just how good they are.

Now. I am going to be shameless and not beat around the bush:

Will the beloved friends back home be getting some Ritz Carlton mooncakes for me next year? No need yolk.Just plain traditional lotus bean paste will do. Let me know if you need my address. Thank you very much in advance! LOL

After the mooncake o.d., I woke up this morning, starving. Again, I stuffed my face with what else but food. Leftover fried bee hoon washed down with gulps of coffee. I then decided to be a good girl and went about doing some of my chores.

During my task of peh tau geh (removing the brown parts from bean sprouts), I watched the re-run of a popular German variety show, Wetten, dass?. The concept of the show is people can offer to perform difficult or often very odd stunts and top celebrities would bet whether these people could carry out these stunts successfully.

Today a man claimed that he was able to identify a person by smelling her wellies. But firstly she had to work out on the stepper for half hour. The man was blind-folded and brought to another corner of the stage where there were more than 10 seated women, all wearing red wellies, having worked out on the stepper for 30 mins earlier on. The host went randomly to one woman and removed one of her wellies and brought it over to the waiting man.

The bet began. The nutcase stuffed his big nose into the welly and took numerous deep breath from it. This lasted several loooong minutes!

You should see the disgust on the celebrities' faces. Priceless.

But true to his word, he identified the right candidates 4 out of 5 times.

Really, I cannot figure it out how he came to discover he has such an enviously talent? Did he sit around all day long and smell all the wellies within 10km radius from his home? Or did crack his brains all day on what he could do in order to get on Wetten, dass? Hasn't he better things to do at home, like read a book, surf the net or watch TV?

But alas, his bizarre attempts were in vain. The grand prize, an Audi, eluded him. You see, the winner is chosen by public votes. Now, who would want to vote for a nutcase who goes around smelling people's wellies?

Not me, for sure!

And not the Germans too, apparently. Phew.

Au naturel

While going through my emails at work early this morning, I noticed something about me was amiss. I looked down at myself and discovered with horror that during the mad rush this morning, I forgot to wear a bra!!!!

I glanced around hastily to make sure I did not alarm anyone. I did not.

Instinctively I hunched and crossed my arms over my chest despite having a vest over my t-shirt. Not that I have breasts which are so in-your-face. Rather you can christen them as small dumplings or char siew baos because they are very inconspicuous.

Even so, I couldn't help feeling self-conscious about it.

The entire day I walked with a hunch or attempted to cover my bosom with files or papers when moving about.

My female colleagues cracked up when told of my plight. And to my surprise, even agreed that they would too feel ill at ease. One would even go to the great length of driving home for her brassiere.

And I thought the ang mohs were more liberated?!

Well, I am not a prude who does not leave home without her bra. There are clothes in the wardrobe which require me to go braless. Not a big deal as long as I am prepared for it since indecent exposure is not exactly my cup of tea.

Actually I would prefer to go braless anytime simply for comfort and health reasons. Though it's a no-no at the workplace unless carefully camouflaged.

Later on I related the trivial incident to the man. He looked pointly at my chest and shrugged, 'No difference.'

Ouch!

Is contentment a moral laziness?

Some people might have the inspiration since young to be a rock star and hope to wake up one day as the coolest rock band on Earth instead of with shitty hair like Thom Yorke.

While the only challenge of a rock star is to write great music so that suckers like us will idolize them like gods, their biggest perk is also to trip a great deal in order to produce great music so that suckers like us will worship them like the devil.

The days of our rock stars' lives are filled with glitz and glamour. While the lives of us earthlings are filled with mundane decisions like what to do with our mortal lives and to deliberate on intelligent questions like where do we see ourselves in the next 5 years.

Right now my most pressing question is however what's more important: to be challenged or to stay contented?

Like I've said before, challenges are absent from the work front thus presently I feel like I am drowning in stale waters, urgently in need to come up for a breath of fresh air. Putting the office politics and the strange ways of the management aside, there is really nothing else for me to whine about.

The man remarked that I have it all too good till now, therefore, I need to kick up a fuss to spice up my life a little. I do not know whether to laugh or to cry at that observation. But who knows, he could well be right.

And then NW quipped, 'How old liao. No strength to climb that stupid ladder man'.

This is not about climbing the corporate ladder either. I am way past that phase. My reasoning is if there is no more personal growth or since I am not learning new stuff from the work anymore, isn't it pointless for me to remain? Whatever happen to job satisfaction and fulfillment?

Or should I be a meek lamb and wait for fate to decide what's in store for me?

In the self-development department, I am pleased to say in my first years here I've acquired a new language, overcome my aquaphobia and picked up swimming, refreshed my driving skills and can now cook to feed hungry mouths.

These may well be small feats to others but to me those were actual survival challenges which I had to overcome to fit into this society.

I refuse to lag behind and be an obsolete human.

And then I also started a new blog to chase those boredom blues away. My writing maybe amateur but I doubt anyone suffers nosebleed from following my blog. Or do you?

In other words, I have grown quite abit, haven't I?

Honestly, it just boils down to my fears of being an obsolescence. Which explains my compelling need to keep exploring new things and to evolve so as not to fall into the complacent trap and be a passè.

My most pressing question is self-answering.

Lull before the storm

The impromptu trip during the summer was a fabulous one. It was almost perfect except...

In the silence of the night, the vicinity of the hotel transformed itself into an orchestra of dissonant sounds. The bang of a door, the footfall of guests returning to their rooms, a tap turned on, a flush of the toilet, a running shower, muted conversations and laughter and best of all, moaning from fornications. To go into a deep slumber was quite a challenge there.

Then the man and I both fell ill and were sick-abed for one whole day. Though I admit I was rather glad to be able to catch up on some sleep after the restless nights.

Despite the slight dampers, the trip was an orgy of senses with an unique play of colours of the breathtaking landscape. We are smitten with Santorini and I was most reluctant to leave and go back to the real world.

The holiday ended with a brimful of lull in my mind that eventually spills over into the whole of my being. Which explains my absence in this space.

Okay lah, simply put, I was slacking.

The breather prompted me to face a crossroad which has been lurking in the shadows even before my vacation began. I think I am too chicken-shit to choose a path and walk it down, fearful of the consequences my decision would bring and unsure if I am tough enough to bear them.

But I know as long as the choice is not made, I can never be at peace with myself.

I need strength and wisdom.

Rendang = Messy Kitchen and Burnt Sunday

The aftermath of my ambitious undertake of making the dish from scratch was a battlefield waiting to be cleaned up.

I cannot be modest anymore especially when my Sunday is burnt slaving over the stove.

My reward is a heart-stopping, artery-clogging, authentically and sinfully delicious beef rendang.

Will I do it again? Oh definitely. But not so soon. I need to recuperate first. :D

Try walking in my shoes

From where I come, shoes are considered filthy. Hence, to walk into a home with shoes on is, to many Asians, scandalous.

Contrary to the Asian culture, no one raises an eyebrow here when shoes tread on homes' carpet, parquet, flooring tiles. Be it raining cats and dogs, snowing or hailing (pun intended) outside.

At first, I would attempt to convince myself that to integrate into the German society, I should embrace their way of life. In another word, to close one eye to certain practices.

After hosting a few parties, I realise I would either have to close two eyes or to refrain from entertaining altogether.

Because my skin crawls each time someone walks into the pad with shoes on.

A research shows shoes contain *surprise surprise* bacteria. Many different species of bacteria on our shoes can cause infections in our stomach, eyes and lungs. These bacteria live longer on our shoes than in other places. As we walk, we constantly pick up new debris that feeds the growth of more bacteria. The bacteria on shoes would then transfer to the flooring tiles in a house. Carpets harbor bacteria even more.

And we have two big rugs on our hallway.

After said parties, I would suffer from sleepless nights. As we were usually too worn out to clean up afterwards, my mind would run wild that bacteria was manifesting itself on the couch, the floor, rugs, toilet, our feet...

I had the sudden compelling urge to leap off my bed and start scrubbing away. Not unlike Cinderella, eh?

Despite my cleanliness streak, I still find it improper and ungracious to request my guests to remove their shoes as they might be uncomfortable in doing so. What if they have foot odour or have ugly toes? A good hostess wouldn't put her other guests at such risks, would she?

To refrain from entertaining is entirely out of question, however. So, I resign myself to the inevitable cleanup after each party. No matter how late it ends...

Last night's barbeque was no exception. Although it was a familiar group with whom we have an unspoken code of understanding pertaining to the no-shoes-in-house rule, a newbie in the form of the friend's new girlfriend was present. Unaware of the code of understanding and seeing the sotong friend had absolutely no intention to casually enlighten her of the shoes issue, I gritted my teeth silently, gave up gradually and traced mentally the route of the pair of flip-flops.

Along the way, I flinched involuntarily when terrace-graced feet were lifted onto the couch. On the bright side, my guests were feeling at home.

Oh, it's going to be a looong night, I groaned inwardly.

The man asked, 'Can't we wait till tomorrow?' after the party had dispersed.

Bloody no way!

He rolled his eyes.

The pad is at last spick and span after some serious scrubbing.

Chilling out with some Woodstock footage on the TV into the small hours, we finally dragged ourselves off to bed.

With a peace of mind and a smile.

Brightest bulb in the box? Not!

On the phone with a potential client today, he remarked suddenly after minutes into our conversation, 'You sound very intelligent.'

I was caught completely off-guard by his comment. Most people aren't exactly friendly towards sales persons, let alone paying them compliments. Besides, it is not often that I get such praise. And I wonder why. *wink*

Anyhow, I stammered a little before I managed to spit out, 'Oh, you are very kind..... *pause* Errr... I am just doing my job...'

Which did not sound a wee bit intelligent at all. And I even forgot to thank him!

So, who the idiot really?

An old interlude

In the midst of my moth-eaten childhood memory, a fragment re-emerged rather distinctively recently. I recall that familiar sense of fear each time this sliver of fuzzy memory came into focus.

It is a memory of a photo.

The subject was my 1-year-old brother. He was sitting on a golden furry blanket, with a cake next to him. On it was a single candle burning brightly to celebrate his first birthday. Behind him was a huge picture of a blue lake with surrounding greenery. The view was spectacular.

But the 3-year-old me couldn't rejoice in the celebration. Each time I peeped at the photo, I couldn't help but be furious with my parents.

Why on earth would my parents allow my young brother to sit on the edge of a lake??? What would happen if he were to fall into the water? Nobody would be there to catch him! And he couldn't swim! Besides, nobody would be around to save him!

What were my parents thinking?! Why did they put him in such danger?! How could they do that to him?

Many terrible thoughts ran through my juvenile mind.

My then naive thinking couldn't process the fact that the picture was taken in a studio and that the photo-shooting was long over.

I remember I couldn't bear those paranoid thoughts even at that young age. I was worrying myself sick. So I put the photo away and never laid eyes on it again.

Distracted by play, kindergarten, school, and other grander scheme of things, I forgot all about the photo.

Until recently. When the image re-surfaced in my consciousness again.

I have to but smile at my own silliness over this fond interlude.

The quest for Toni

JO's very compassionate comment arrived very timely.

Before the hair has time to recover from the trauma of the recent breakup, we met the new rebound. However, instead of heeding the signs of warning, we chose to ignore the invisible fingers of admonition carassing the hair.

A series of unfortunate events therefore unfolds the moment I sat on the electric chair:

1. The head was being manhandled. The insensitive rebound could easily tell me or tip the head to the directions she wanted it to be so as to cut the hair properly and I would take the cue from there. Because I am not a wooden block and the head is not a football which she can manhandle anyoldhow!

2. Done with leafing through the magazines, I looked up in the mirror and saw with great horror that she cut away my baby hair*. Yes, you read that right. She cut away my baby hair!

Which bloody self-respecting hairdresser would commit such a crime these days? Doesn't she know how fugly it will be when the baby hair re-grows? And not to mention, I now have a thin strip of white patch along the right side of the hairline!

I am seriously comtemplating to tan my hairline now. I am not joking!

I want to strangle her!

3. When she was finished with her edgy cutting, she proceeded to style my hair. And let me tell you this, I have never met a professional hairdresser as clueless as she is. She had no bloodly idea how to style the hair. She was experimenting this way and that way. And in the end, I was like WTF?! I can style the hair way better than her!

Did she turn up at the wrong workplace that day? Perhaps she belongs to the school academy and everyone made a mistake that day?!

For that kind of money, the ex(-stylist) is definitely a godsend in comparison! But he chose to leave us in the lurch. Hmpf...

The hunt for the right rebound continues...

Sigh...


*Eh.. Can someone tell me what is the correct term for baby hair?

A breakup

A catastrophe descended on me today.

I was trying to arrange an appointment with my hairstylist when I was told he has relocated! To another branch in Austria!

WHAT AM I GOING TO DO NOW??!!

Who is going to take care of the hair now that he is gone?! I can't possibly go to Austria each time the hair needs a trim!

After the initial shock receded, anger took over the hair. That selfish bastard left without breaking up with the hair properly. No word, no goodbye, no nothing. A sms would do too (okay, he doesn't have my mobile number). Still he could have left a message at the reception just in case the hair needs him again. With ample notice, I can at least prep the hair for a new rebound before Mr Right appears.

But no, he has to leave the hair to it's own devices.

The hair is now in despair.

HELP!

Trials and Tribulations

The Dear facebooked me and shamelessly remarked that I wrote only 2 posts in one month. That I should, in her words, cho kang, cho kang!

I retorted immediately that this is quality-writing and that I don't do mass-market. *trying to be very niche here*

On second thought, I must confess it was just an excuse which I plucked out of the air conveniently. I guess I've been slacking lately indeed...

I am pleased as punch with her note however. It's a boost to my confidence that there are people out there who are reading my blog.

Other than the NW from Singapore. Lol.

My absence over here is probably because I feel I am stuck in the rut of late. Especially in the work department. With one year on, the work challenges which I used to face and enjoy are no longer in existence. The job fulfilment seems to be dwindling day by day. That feeling sucks.

On the social front, it hasn't been terribly exciting either. By that, I do not mean paryting or get drunk at some watering holes. Okay, not that I get drunk easily. I don't get drunk because I hardly drink!

But I suppose I just miss having the friends around me. With them, conversations flow easily without a need to think what you have to say next. We can chatter about everything and nothing, giggle over silly nothings and not being embarrassed about it. If we run out of topics to talk about, we will still be at ease in each other's company. Only years of friendship can achieve such intimacy and familiarity.

With the work taking up most of my time now and feeling exhausted at the end of each workday, it can be such a chore to go tend and nuture a new friendship. Therefore, my social life during the week is pretty much zilch.

What's more the man himself is facing some uncertainties at work. The company he works for will announce their cutbacks very soon. With bated breath, we await judgement day.

The term sleeping like a log is alien to me. Sleep is a series of unfortunate ruffled dreams composed of fleeting and forgettable images. I feel anxiety and agitation in my bones. My skin is dull and lacks lustre. I look terrible.

In my attempts to sooth my nerves, I resort to my favourite pasttime: drama watching. Japanese drama to be exact, with none other than Takuya Kimura. But instead of calming me down with the eye candy, I got even more emotional. Depending on the composition and situation in each episode, I could be laughing, feeling angry, agitated or sobbing (like in the final episode where he took his own life).

The man was of course shocked by my great display of emotions but he chose to say nothing and smiled indulgently at me instead.

But I know exactly what's lacking in me right now. My only antidote is that age-old yet very effective remedy:

A Vacation!

So much for the above excuses.

All because of The Dear.

It sizzles!

It is 30 degrees outside. You are simmering at the workplace. 8 hours everyday.

With no air-conditioning and no fan to sooth that ardent summer heat, you find your face is perpetually clad in a flimsy layer of oil. You are sticky with undried perspiration and your t-shirt plasters to your body. Your armpits are damp and so is your underwear.

When you sit, your legs are wide apart because you can't bear the touch of your own skin. Your underknees are giving off heat.

Your breathing becomes a little irregular and you cannot focus on your work.

The above ensemble causes your ill humour to rear its ugly head. You knit your brows, snap at your colleagues and look daggers at them over the slightest thing.

The drive back home is no better. The long warm and humid day has taken its toll on you. Motorcyclists, cyclists and idiots threaten to push the boundaries of your temper. In the car, the air-conditioning at full blast seems like help which arrives a wee too late.

At home, you recoil from the greeting of hugs and touches from the man because you are both sticky and both your body temperature is emitting too much heat. To spite you, he gleefully rubs his arm on your bare skin and walks away, laughing.

ARRRGGGGHHH!!!!!

The lion city girl loathes summer without air-conditioner.

Swim Swam Swum

I love the pool down at the the bestie's apartment. The tranquil blue water was so inviting that everday I would squeeze in intervals between appoinments and errands just so I could take a dip.

There were more activities than usual probably due to the school holidays. Unfazed and armed with my speedo armour and goggles, I probably looked like I meant business and were going to dive into the water anytime and swim them long quick laps like a pro.

Alas, I had to let my audience (imaginary?) down when I warmed up by swimming the breadth instead. Wahahahaha... I could almost feel their jaws dropping.

Oh well, I do not swim for an audience. I swim because I take pleasure in it. The rhythmic strokes were calming. With rays of sunlight on my body while it's submerged underwater made me feel relaxed, cool and warm at the same time. The laid-back vibe allowed me to slow down and perfect my strokes. The sounds of chirping birds above water seemed almost like I was on a holiday. (Okay, not totally untrue.) It's therapeutic and serene. I feel great when I swim.

And I finally graduated into doing full long laps. Not just one, two laps okay. But many many laps.

HAPPY.

Whose cross to bear?

It was with a heavy heart when I hopped on the plane back home. This time I did not shout to the world about my return. I arrived quietly.

I was asked if my return would serve a purpose at all since this is not my battle. Even so, it is unthinkable for me to sit around and do nothing while the family is in the midst of a crisis. Though I agree my presence does not spell solutions, I am just contended to be there with the family in this difficult moment.

Pain, however, seemed like a constant companion in this trip. Before I could catch my breath again, I received news that the dear friend hits a rough patch herself. I am truly glad that I was there to lend her a shoulder.

It is unclear if my homecoming makes a difference at all. By sharing my experience, I reckon it might help the involved parties see the situation in different perspectives. Will they learn from my experience? I do not have that wishful thinking however. Because we human are after all funny creatures. We do not learn unless we are that burnt child who dreads the fire.

We all need time to lick our wounds after the fire but no man is an island. Even at our lowest, we must also have the strength to reach out for help. Asking for help is not a display of weakness. Rather we need immense strength to cast away that deadly sin called Pride before we can reach out to grasp that helping hand.

Similarly we need to forgive ourselves first before allowing others to forgive us. Because to err is human and to forgive is divine.

There is a time and place for everything. When that moment arrives, may the force and wisdom be with you.

When will I learn? The answers to life's problems aren't at the bottom of a bottle, they're on TV!
- Homer

On growing older

When I am asked about my age these days, I no longer have the luxury to reply, ' I am 18!' in a heartbeat and bask in the envy written all over the face of the enquirer. Those days are long gone. However instead of letting the reality bite, my self-denial developed a loss of memory whenever such sensitive issue is brought up. It would usually take 30 seconds or more while I deliberately take my time adding up the years of my life before a response is given. This strategy has been working well so far until my conversation with The Bestie recently:

Bestie: I am turning 38 this year!
Hoonie: Ya, I know lah...
Bestie: And you?! You are turning 37!
Hoonie: *face cramp*

The Bestie's revealing literally blew up in my face just like that. Till then, I have never really registered the real number of my age. I usually brushed it off as 30 something.

My immediate inward reaction to her 'You are turning 37' was, 'Fuck, I am old.'

And truth be told, slivers of fear creeped up my spine just then. I panicked for a moment. But luckily the fear and panic subsided as soon as they appeared. Though I cannot explain the logic of it all.... Was it vanity at work there? Or the fear of growing old? Without a doubt.

As much as I would like to embrace my big Four O like I did my 30, it feels somehow different. Now I fully comprehend why women book themselves into beauty clinics. I seriously do not blame them. I would probably follow suit if I had that kind of dough. I am certainly not the grow-old-gracefully aka Robert Redford / Zhu An sort. Though I wouldn't resort to drastic measures lah.

I may not have great success stories to tell about the 37 years of my life. But I have gone through a few things which I believe have made me stronger and wiser. The privilege of being in the late 30s is I do not see the need to please everyone. If I do not like your guts, I can walk away anytime. I do not care if you like my face or what you think of me. What matters is the friends love me. Making new friends are harder now because I have become more selective. Not everyone can be my friends, you know.

At work, unless I made a mistake, please do not come telling me what to do because I know exactly what I am doing and am probably doing it way better than most. Therefore, I do not take shite unnecessarily and make sure everyone knows that.

There. An unhealthy overdose of self-confidence, ego and take-no-shite attitude. Qualities to embrace when you reach your late 30s.

Welcome to the jungle.

Music - the universal language

In the office today, the colleague aka The Junkie labelled my taste in music as *Singapore Trash.

Simply because when asked what's my take on Lady Gaga, the only comment I could give was, 'She is rubbish!'

Another colleague, aka The Farmer insists, 'Her music is not bad at all!'

*Faint*
_____________________________________________________________

*The origin of Singapore Trash:

We were on the way to lunch in the car one day. My very hamsome young Italian colleague assumed loudly I wouldn't enjoy the sort of music which was blasting into our ears. To which I replied rather snobbishly (I must admit), 'This is Eurotrash.'

To describe the genre of music from Singapore and since I am from Singapore, The Junkie very conveniently came up with Singapore Trash. The term is thus born. And the rest they say is history.

(Note: The Junkie was never in Asia, let alone Singapore and thought Singapore was in China and was surprised when told Singapore has indeed clubs, or rather disocs.)

Somebody, save me!!!

SICK of it

I am probably suffering the worst cold ever in my life right now.

Perhaps on the onset of every cold, I would be scurrying to the friendly neighbourbood clinic in Singapore for that fix of antibiotics that I hardly had the chance to experience the full-blown cold.

The past week was spent sneezing incessantly, with an itching nose running at full speed, a throbbing headache and a sore, dry throat. Despite the sorry state that I was, I soldiered on and went to work as usual. Make no mistake, I am not in love with my job. But with the long Easter holiday and all, I thought it unwise to absent myself again due to a common cold. The Company does have a different set of values from others when it comes to work absentees, cold or no cold, legs intact or not.

On Friday, I finally had enough. With dry and burning eyes, I couldn't last a second longer in front of the computer screen. I was stoning and my mind was an empty blank. After clearing what needed to be done, I decided it's best for me to go home and recuperate.

When told of my decision over the phone, she put me on hold. Shortly after, she came back with, 'Since it is Easter holiday and Friday noon. there is nothing much to do here. You are allowed to go back.'

I am allowed to go back?! It was as if I was at her mercy.

That bloody pisses me off!

Didn't she get it? I was not asking her. I was telling her I wanted to go home. Albeit I being very polite about it, it was not a request!

I do not need anyone to sing praises of me just because I reported for work despite being ill. Everyone in the workplace can attest that I wasn't well. It was not an act. But exactly that sort of reaction from her is the last thing I need.

If they are not going to be understanding and sympathetic about it and do not appreciate the amount of effort I put in my work, I say they can go fuck themselves.

The importance of being HAIR-raising

Finally fed-up with my annoying flopping fringe which has done nothing but irritated my eyes and obstructed my view, I nodded my head readily when my brillant hairstylist proposed to chop off my fringe.

Perhaps too readily...

Because instead of looking like this (not the guy lah, mind you!):



I end up looking like an archbishop:


*Cover face and SOB*

He, with the evil eye

I had to get accustomed to the no-shopping-on-Sundays when I first came to this country. When the weather gets too chilly to do anything outdoors and yet too depressing to coop up at home, off we would go and hit the museum.

Once, I was browsing the museum when I came upon a grotesque that was Otto Dix. I remember I was instantly drawn to his paintings. I stood in front of them and studied the biting realities which were skilfully and boldly etched on the canvas or sketched on paper.

His works are quite sinister I must say. Through his experience of fighting on various fronts during World War I, his paintings depict the brutality and the horrors of the war. Though his work on portraits of family, friends or strangers is not as ghastly as his post-war paintings, they all possess a certain ugly quality in them. Dix accentuates the weakness and the worst traits of his subjects, with no attempts to hide any flaws. For example, a pair of harsh-looking old lovers, old prositutes crouch in unnatural positions, a joyless mother holding her new-born baby, or the unsmiling children at play. Whether it is to depict the decadency in the post-war Weimar society, or to document the cruelty and sadness of the war, or to present the state of his sitters were in, his paintings are shocking and yet strangely alluring at the same time.

During World War II, he was forced to conform to Nazi's rule and started painting landscapes to earn a living. Even these supposedly innocent landscapes are dotted with black flying crows or dark hanging clouds, illustrating the bleakness and grim due to the world war.

His finest work would have to be the triptych titled Großstadt (Metropolis) which depicts the contradictions of the post-war German society: the decadency along side poverty, returning soldiers who are mentally or physically scarred with prostitutes littering the streets. The central panel shows the famous German 'Golden Twenties' where the rich (ironically, his wife, friends and acquaintances) who can afford to dance all night while the side panels offer the contrasting realities on the same night: a grim parade of the mutilated, the legless soldiers who are stumbling about on crutches in the poor end of town and of prostitutes grotesquely strutting past elaborate marble facades in the richer part of the city. Dix featured himself as one of the cripples.

Before he painted Großstadt in colour, he did a sketch of it with charcoal and pencil on paper. The black and white sketch is just as stark and blatantly shocking as the coloured painting.

His other masterpiece Der Krieg (The War) is one of the most powerful documents of man’s inhumanity to man. It consists of 51 prints. With a nightmarish and hallucinatory quality, he denounced the heinousness of the destruction in place of glorifying heroism.

In Triptych of the War the devastating remains after a shelling is presented: human cadavers are everywhere with flesh and blood strewn all over. A masked figure stands in the foreground contemplating the devastating human waste. Above him is a dead soldier with severe burns which left him half flesh and half skeleton.


His works are no doubt disturbing. But instead of repelling, they are intriguing and hold me spellbound. I can't get enough of them.

..ich habe Tatsachen gemalt, die vor Jahren genauso gültig waren wie heute, morgen und immer. Das Leben kann schön und schrecklich sein. Also ich muss auch das Schreckliche und Furchtbare machen…

- Otto Dix

A case of decaying beauty?

Garden dwarf in chocolate by Dieter Roth.

Apparently, this piece of work is as old as I am.

I hope I am aging as gracefully as it does...

Eh, what's that strange odour?

Look what look!

We were in line, waiting to pay at our friendly neighbourhood supermarket. Our turn came. The man moved ahead of me while I stood in front of the cashier, with my cash ready. The young cashier greeted the man but not me.

*I inhaled deeply*

Nevermind...

The cashier then turned to look at me, looked away, looked at me again and looked away again. I was puzzled by her strange manner when she looked past me and asked the man if the items on the counter belong to the both of us. My eyes narrowed. My blood began to simmer.

Before scanning the items, she asked the man if we have any loyalty cards.

And again, she looked past me.

I stared very hard at her.

Bloody hell, I was the one with the cash in my hands waiting to pay and yet the bloody young thing regarded me as invisible.

(On the bright side, I count myself lucky she is not an Ah Lian who will certainly retort my stare with a 'Look what look??!!')

The man, knowing what was about to come, made his escape exit to the bakery counter.

My stare didn't waver during the whole paying transaction. The ignorant thing was probably too blur sotong to feel the heat of my glare. When she handed me the receipt, I, unwilling to let it go, accentuated my 'VIELEN DANK!!' especially loud and clear.

She started and her realisation, 'Oh, she can speak German!' was written clearly on her face. I turned abruptly and walk away.

One glance at my face, the man burst out laughing.

Because this has happened before. At the very same friendly neighbourhood supermarket, with a different cashier.

And that is exactly what ticks me off. Just because I am a foreigner, people automatically assume I do not speak their language. Have they forgotten how their government emphasized time and time again the importance of integrating into the German society by learning the German language? I took pains to learn the language and I think I shouldn't be penalised just because other settlers do not see the need to integrate. That's totally unfair. (Okay, I am in the mood to moan and whine today.)

Anyhow I wish I didn't react so stupidly in both incidents. That I could keep my wits about me and dispense something intelligent like, 'Hey I speak German by the way. As well as English and Chinese. And what about you?'

Oh, I felt like a fool....

The good old Five Stones

The Five Stones. A popular game which I used to play in my childhood days. During every school recess, when we were not out in the field or garden running and panting our lungs out, we would be sitting quietly in threes or fours playing the Five Stones. I particularly enjoyed playing this game perhaps because I was good at it.

S recently gave me a set of Five Stones. Looking at them brought back fond memories of the carefree joys of childhood, without a single worry on the young shoulders of mine. Well, except of course when I had to study for exams...

The idea of playing in those days was really simple and easy. With lots of energy to spare, kids got creative and found ways to amuse and occupy themselves. Usually inexpensive materials were used in the games. For example, Zero Point is basically just a long chain of rubber bands. Five Stones are made with green beans, sewed in pockets of cloth. Capteh is made of colourful feather with a rubber base. And then there are Catching, One Leg Catching, Eagle Catch Chicks, STOP etc. These games require no expensive toys, just plain raw energy and lots of running around. They were a good outlet for our excessive energy and kept us fully entertained. What's more, these games helped develop our social skills in schools.

As far as I can remember, I didn't have a doll or a soft toy to cuddle to sleep. Because I never actually needed those toys. I remember once, before my brother and I went to bed one night, we were sitting on our beds, pretending our pillows were slabs of meat. We were the butchers chopping those meat with our tiny hands for our customers. And we were laughing ourselves silly before being shushed to bed by our parents. In that era, we certainly didn't need much to keep us happy.

With a society becoming increasingly affluent, the needs and wants of its people and their brood change correspondingly too. Paper dolls no longer have their charm on the kids nowadays. Only Nintendo, PSP, computer games and whatnot cut it for them.

Instead of playing and socializing with their peers in the real world, these kids spend their spare time sitting in front of these devices, saving Mario or shooting in Counter-Strike in the virtual world.

I personally am not against compute games. With such rapid advances in technology, to come into contact with any kind of electronic gadgets at a young age is no longer evitable.

The crucial thing is the amount of time spend in front of these media, be it TV or computers and the content of the games and programs.

Apparently, playing computer games for long periods of time alone can cause reclusiveness and introversion. It can also give children a false sense of reality.

Another issue is the violence in games or TV programs. Violence can cause aggressiveness in particularly young men. Some children do not understand that when you kill someone, they cannot come back to life, as depicted by many video games.

Hence, I do not envy the role of parents. With a widespread of media violence these days, parents have a harder time than ever to protect their offsprings from such overexposure. Other than that, they would have to get creative and find ways to lure their children away from these media into the real outdoors.

For a game or two of Eagle Catch Chicks or Catching perhaps.

Goofy, Tom and Jerry, Anyone?

On a whim today, I put up a sign (among many others) on the door of our room in the office. Partly to disperse any questionable notions of my eats preference, But mainly, I find it quite a laugh.

It reads:

ICH BIN AUS SINGAPUR UND NICHT AUS CHINA.
(I am from Singapore and not China)

ICH HABE NOCH NIE HUNDE, KATZEN, MÄUSE, SCHLANGE GEGESSEN UND ICH WERDE NIEMALS SIE ESSEN.
(I have never eaten dogs, cats, mice and snakes before and will never ever try eating them)

ICH TRINKE HEISSES WASSER UND JA, ES IST GANZ NORMAL BEI UNS.
(I drink hot water and yes, this is normal from where I come from)

The message on the sign is self-explaining and I hope I do not need to clarify myself anymore. It is very irritating when you get asked 10,000 times every other day,'What's that you are drinking? Hot water????!!! Ewwww.... That's disgusting!!!!!!'

Most colleagues are guilty of the crime mentioned-above but they all laughed in good fun when the loud sign caught their eye.

I am very tempted to add in:

OH YES, SINGAPORE DOES HAVE DISCOS.

What say?

The Hair Bands

Something came over me suddenly one day and incited me to put together a playlist which reads something like this:

1. Something To Believe In - Poison
2. Love Of A Lifetime - Firehouse
3. I'll Be There For You - Bon Jovi
4. Without You - Mötley Crüe
5. I Saw Red - Warrant
6. I Remember You - Skid Row
7. Every Rose Has Its Thorn - Poison
8. Home Sweet Home - Mötley Crüe
9. Where You Goin' Now - Damn Yankees
10. Have You Ever Needed Someone So Bad - Def Leppard
11. In These Arms - Bon Jovi

After which I just had to youtube these videos for nostalgia's sake. And there was no turning back. I was at it for hours!!!

Men with long mane are undeniably sexy. No matter if it's blonde teased-up tresses or black straight locks, these flamboyant glam rockers ooze sex appeal from every single pore. Most importantly, they coo love ballads in their signature badass fashion which sent millions of chicks (and chickadees alike) weak at the knees. Not forgetting of course, the teasing of their family jewels (whether intentional or not) in their super skin tight jeans.

And then there are the words of the songs:

When love went blind and you would make me see,
I'd stare a lifetime into your eyes.

Without you in my life,
I'd slowly wilt and die.
But with you by my side,
You're the reason I'm alive.

You say you're cried a thousand rivers,
And now you're swimming for the shore.
You left me drowning in my tears,
And you won't save me anymore.

I crack up whenever I listen to the words. Such cliché! And yet I can't stop listening to them. What's more, the playback of these songs goes on and on in my head all day long. This is easily one of my most overplayed playlists at the moment.

My all time favourite then when I was 16 and now? Mötley Crüe, Skid Row and Poison win hands down. Always.

Oh yeah, I am a closet minah rock.

Do you cheena?

The MIL was dressing up to get ready for the reunion dinner at ours. She had her jeans on. The FIL took a look at her and immediately said she should wear something more appropriate. To which she asked why. His reply was, Chinese New Year is a special occassion for Hoonie, therefore, it's only right they should wear something smart to mark this festival together with her. He himself had a pair of trousers on instead of his usual shirt and jeans.

A man of few words but certainly very kind and considerate.

This year's reunion dinner was not much different from 2008's. I slaved in the kitchen for amost 2 days just so we could use this festival as an excuse to pig out. We indulged in the binge that was:

Braised Duck

Meat Balls (instead of Ngoh Hiang upon the man's request)

Roast Pork

Stir-fried Prawns

Not forgetting Bak Ku Teh and Stir-fried Snow Peas. Okay, it's very similar to what we had last year. Either I am rather unimaginative in terms of menu-planning or I am simply too traditional when it comes to the practices or customs in the Chinese New Year sense.

An ex-colleague from many jobs ago who is now living in a foreign land observes that being away from home helps you find out who you really are. I couldn't agree with her more.

I may be educated in English, speak and write the language much better than my mother tongue and may be very much influenced by the western cuture, but I discovered that I can be quite old-fashioned when it comes to Chinese New Year.

Someone said the practice of Chinese New Year is shallow. I beg to differ.

Yesterday was my first time giving out hong baos properly. And you know what? It feels extremely good seeing the joy on the kids' faces when those red packets were placed in their tiny little hands. Suddenly, I was 5 years old once more, feeling the same joy too.

No, the practice of Chinese New Year is so not shallow. And I am only too glad to be part of it.

In coma

The long holiday season was great for doing catching up. Not exactly in the sense of catching up with friends but more like making time for myself to slumber away.

For many days in a row, I finally had the chance to sleep to my heart's content again. What with the cold winter weather, it's just wonderful to snuggle under the covers and snooze. An average of 12 hours spent in slumberland was not uncommon. When I eventually woke, it's just pure bliss.

Forget about the throbbings and the cobwebs in my head thereafter. As long as I got my hundreds winks, it's all good.

All good things must come to an end however. Tomorrow I'll have to join the rat race again.

With the long slumbering in the past days and with a temperature dropping to a frigid -12 degrees in the nights, I am looking forward to waken my sluggish self at 5:30 tomorrow morning.

Oh, I am sooo depressed...

The Quest for The Incredible Indian Biryani

I've been pining for the biryani from this particular place for the longest time. The dishes whipped up by the chef are authentic. Besides, it recently got the nod of approval from my Indian friend. So you certainly can't go wrong with this eatery.

However, the few times I tried going there to appease my craving, there seemed to be a lingering dark force preventing me from satisfying my fix. I never made it to the restaurant.

The last time I checked, it was a year ago since I visited it.

The dark force had certainly denied me of my poison for a long enough time now.

Today I selfishly convinced the man to shop in the vicinity as it's high time I should get my fix of those fragrant spicy basmati rice.

The dark force was however there with me in the form of falling snow and snow-laden highway with not a single snow plow in sight.

Very unusual indeed!

The man casually remarked it wouldn't be a good idea to hit home in such conditions after dark. With the terrible conditions right in front of my eyes, I had to but grudgingly agree.

Bloody hell!!! Not again! I was this close.

Even so I did not give up.

As we were in the car leaving the city, he asked for dinner suggestions. I had of course no desire for any other cuisine except for youknowwhat. He suggested another Indian place closer to ours but I dismissed it as it was either the best or nothing for me!

The man must have noticed my long face for he suddenly exited from the highway. My heart jumped.

He's driving us there!!!! He is such a dear.

To compromise, I suggested we could tabao the food instead so he wouldn't have to stress himself out with the long difficult drive.

At home, my face lit up brightly when we finally sat down for the yummylicious biryani.

Oh, nevermind I have a sore throat. A pig can't change its snout.

Feeling the Love

The Bestie very sweetly got this for me for christmas. She secretly hijacked my order and paid for it herself. Just because she wants to be sure she's getting a gift which I truly fancy. Very naughty and yet very thoughtful of her! How can I not love her?


And then girlfriend, S lovingly knitted a scarf for my birthday. Behind each handmade gift is, I find, a warm-hearted effort to bring smiles of delight to the receiver's face. Which was exactly what happened last night when the pretty scarf was presented to me.

I've always admired those with nimble hands because I, on the contrary, am very awkward with mine. Yes, even simple tasks like wrapping a gift can be quite strenuous for me. Hence, close ones in the know will not expect a handmade gift from me.

The self-knitted scarf is, thus, something which I sincerely appreciate.

I heart my two gifts.

I feel loved and blessed.