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.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Monday, July 20, 2009
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?
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?
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
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!
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.
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.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, June 26, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
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
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
Monday, May 18, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
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.
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!!!Saturday, April 18, 2009
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)