A sudden recollection

It suddenly came to the idle mind (thanks to the abundance of festive grubs) that the first buds of aspiration to write didn't occur just recently. In fact, it was some fifteen years ago when that spark of fire to scribble, to compose, to write was ignited.

Each morning while waiting for the bus to arrive, I would be greeted without fail with the image of a father, carrying his handicapped young daughter over his shoulder, on his way to the market. His daughter was probably about 8 to 10 years old. As they passed the busy bus-stop, he must be terribly conscious of the unseen emotional flutter their atypical presence had stirred which led to either gazes being swiftly averted or curious stares fixated unbashedly at them. For I sensed, rather than saw, his already straightened back became ever so slightly stiffer. The feeling was no doubt an unnerving and awkward one, so I thought then. Of course he had the choice to leave his daughter to her own devices in the flat while he could go about his marketing in peace and without any public scrutiny. Instead, the knowledge that it would do his little girl good to be out and about, had possibly propelled him to disregard society's often unwanted and embarrassing pity for the invalids.

This powerful picture of a doting father whose love knew no bounds etched deeply into the mind of a then hoonie who didn't quite have many cares in the world. The impact on me was frightfully great that I felt documenting it in the form of a dairy was in order. I could hardly contain my enthusiasm.

I believe I merely did a few entries on my thoughts of the pair and the ego in me was already itching for some sorts of commendation. Boldly, I showed the unpolished and clumsy writings to the ex. Upon finishing reading, he returned the dairy to me without a word. I looked at him expectantly and waited. Oddly, there was no response from him. A slow realization gradually transgressed. It was clear that he wasn't going to share with me his take on my maiden attempt. I must have sucked awfully. The wounded vanity kept me from pressing him for further blows.

The earnest aspiration was nipped so completely in the bud by his wordless reservations that I never again inked any word in the pages of that dairy.

We moved shortly after and I never see the father and daughter again.

And the dairy was strangely nowhere to be found.

A Batty Christmas

In view of my eager anticipation of The Bat's final movie:

Happy Holidays, everyone!!!

Photo credit: here

Now you see me, now you don't!

So much for declaring shamelessly that I strive to write as often as I can. The last entry was a month ago and then poof! I disappeared into thin air. No word, no update, no nothing to show for my newfound commitment. I am amazed I have this natural aptitude to conveniently and consciously forget an important promise I made to myself even when the fingers of guiltiness tap ever so lightly yet persistently on the window pane of my conscience. Then I wave away the guilt trip absently like how I would with a fly that buzzed noisily in my ear while I terrified my soul insanely in the dark hotel world of Jack Torrance and lost myself impatiently in the slow sorrowful tale of Frankenstein.

And then here I am again.

A late dream

I tried rereading my last post minutes ago. Yes, I do that sometimes and I have a feeling I am not alone in taking this little ego trip once in a while. So I was saying, I was rereading the last post and I had to stop after a few sentences because the unfortunate entry was terrifyingly boring that even I, as its guilty author, couldn't stand to finish reading it, what more the readers of this blog? Which entails me to genuinely pity them, provided there is any left by now.

How did I manage to get so suicidally boring? That is not to say I wasn't boring in the past but since I hardly ever receive any criticism, whether constructive or not, I presume no news is good news. Or perhaps I am just being self-deceivingly positive. I almost forgot that this blog is quite akin to an undiscovered virgin island shrouded in a cloak of mystery in the choppy waters of blogosphere. Ok, I am romantising things here because I can't help it and I digress.

What I am trying to say is, I am fully aware how awfully few readers this blog has. That is decidedly no gratification to the already vulnerable ego. But I ain't complaining because the only reason why I construct this blog to be as invisible as possible is I am truly and painfully self-conscious of my own writing. So there you have it, my naked soul.

Which brings me to the next question. Why do I continue to blog? Well, this may sound cliche but I got hooked on writing when this blog was born. And like many countless bloggers out there, I imagine one day my insufferable amateurish scribble would be read and being curiously appreciated by someone and get published somewhere, even if it's an unknown publication which no one has ever heard of before.

Don't ask me how on earth would someone like that get to read my scribble when this blog is as secluded as the aforementioned virgin island. I haven't figured that out yet. But when I have, I will let you know.

You might say how dare I dream such big dreams. Just look at the rubbish I write, it's neither professional, entertaining nor informative. No on will ever pay attention to what I have to say or write.

Well, for a start, no matter if it will ever come true at the end of the day, it doesn't hurt to have a dream. Secondly, (another cliche!) dreams keep us alive! Some people don't even have dreams, sadly. As much as I am a dreamer, I am also a very practical person. I predict it will take me at least ten years before that big day will arrive, if ever. Why ten years? Ten years is the politically correct time frame for one to graduate from a novice to a reasonably qualified scrawler. Just look at any successful cooks, doctors or craftsmen, it took them years and years of sharpening their skills and improving their expertise in their field before they got to where they are right now. For me to get there, I need to put in a plenitude amount of hard work and strive to read extensively and to write as often as I can, preferably everyday, through all of which I hope I will eventually find a voice and style that I can call my own. That sounds simple enough. But if you have been following this blog for a while, you would have noticed that diligence and self-discipline aren't exactly my strengths. I do try my best nonetheless, irregardless if I have the writer's block or if I am running out of things to write.

Now you understand why the ridiculous previous post. As the saying goes, practice makes perfect. This space has become my training ground. Thus, do bear with me if you can. Thank you.

The agonies of a mom

It didn't cross our chaotic minds to get our baby the little matching mittens as we were too caught up in the hustle of purchasing more essential winter garb for her, like the quilted coat, cardigans, warm trousers and so on. Then in the midst of the frenzy shopping, Oma's keen eyes spied the sweet but fashionable knitted hat and scarf. One look at the products, we gave her a quick nod signalling our approval. Off they went to the pram (which incidentally also served as our makeshift shopping bag for that day) to wait in line for the trip to the cashier later.

The man and I were dithering over what's necessary and what's not when good old Oma came in to keep us in check. Ok well, they're the ones paying so perhaps that's why. Hahaha.. Obediently, we put the remaining unsuccessful contenders back to their racks and proceeded to make the payment, with Opa's wallet already ready in hand, despite the long snaking line.

Happy with our loots, we headed home after a pleasant dinner.

I promptly washed the shopping the next day and waited impatiently for them to be air-dried. Oh yes, I did read the labels. Knits, coats etc and dryer really don't agree with each other.

The fall weather was clear and sunny but crisp. As the man was wrapping the little one up for her daily walk, I discovered, horror of horrors, that she only has a pair of fuchsia gloves to go with her beige knitted hat!! The glaring mismatch is an annoying sight. I determinedly resolved the unforgivable oversight must be fixed.

Two days later, I needed to be in the city to do an exchange and eagerly popped by the store in the hope of finding the matching gloves. No luck. They're sold out.

Shortly after that, the man chanced upon a gadget (among many) which caught his fancy and made up his mind finally to indulge himself this time. So off he rushed to the city happily in search of the device, but first not without my instruction to check out the store again if they had new stocks of the mittens. Sadly, we're second time unlucky. The man returned home empty-handed except for his new toy.

Infuriated, I racked deep in the brains where else I could get my hands on the hotcake mittens....

Then it hit me! The online shop, of course! Where else! Why didn't I think of that earlier?! And to think that I brag all the time how frequent I shop online! I truly deserved a good kick in the butt!

To my utmost relief, the online shop still carried the mittens! On the pretext of making the shipping cost worthwhile, I lingered on the website for some knits for myself. Then the man indiscreetly peeped to see what I was up to and asked the doomed question, 'Are you shopping for me?' To which, I gave the doomed reply, 'You need anything? We can check out their menswear.' His doomed answer, 'Not now. I am not in the mood to shop. Tomorrow maybe.'

The quintessential cheapskate in me still insisted on making the 4€ shipping cost worth its while, which led to the even doomed-est decision to wait till the next day to purchase the mittens.

Well, this is no Sherlock Holmes. All of you would have guessed by the time I visited the online shop again on the morrow, the mittens were gone! Gone, Gone, GONE!!! AAAARRRRRGGGGHHHH! Why didn't I just get them there and then when they were available?! The hell with the 4€! I was THAT close to pulling all my hair out!

What should I do now? No matching mittens for my little girl? And subject her to the disdain and sneering of the fashion police and risk leaving her with psychological scars on her tender little soul and having her grew up as an insecure and painfully self-conscious young woman who's socially inadequate and facing the bleak prospects of living sadly ever after, alone?!! And all because of a pair of mittens?!

I shudder to think further.

I fail as a mother.

Photo credit: here

Customer is king, not!

Our dinner over the weekend was a pleasant one. When he set his eyes on the cherub, our chirpy Chinese server quipped, '真是个漂亮的小姑娘!'

I had to beam at the remark. Not because someone thinks favourably of my playful darling. Ok, that too. It's just how the way he put it: terribly old-fashioned and yet so very endearing. Never mind if there is any truth in it or not.

Each time he passed us by, he would make friendly comments like, '怎么啦?不让妈妈吃饭啊?' His warm and attentive disposition is a welcome change from the usual malevolent and disagreeable temperament which is the Cantonese server or ex-server, at least I hope.

Which brings to mind a most unpleasant incident involving this particular waitress. It was the first day of the Chinese New Year, some two, three years ago. The few of us, yearning for our own kind, agreed to meet up at the said restaurant with the hope that the mediocre Chinese grub would at least quell our cravings and thereby dissipate our homesickness. Merrily chit-chatting away, we finally settled into our seats. With the menu spread out in front of us, we casually wondered aloud to the server if there were any special dishes for the occasion or any specialties to be recommended. Instead, we were rudely greeted by loud clinks and clanks of table-setting by none other than our leading lady, the unbelievably grumpy woman. She was anything but light-handed when it came to handling the tableware. At one point, I was quite certain one of the cups was about to break from all the deliberate manhandling. Her body language was literally screaming: she couldn't wait for us to leave, let alone take time to inform us of their specialities!! And to think that we hadn't even ordered our food yet! The lot of us was bewildered by the plain hostility and couldn't fathom her dark mood. But once the food issue was sorted, her unconcealed display of sulkiness became a source of curiosity to us. A brief discussion ensued and we came to the conclusion that she must be immensely maddened by the fact that she had to be working on this important day of the lunar calendar. As a result, she must have secretly swore that whoever crossed her path on that fateful day would get it from her.

Other than raising our eyebrows in protest, we stomached in silence the dreadful service which somewhat marred our festive mood. Our inaction is virtually unheard of since we Singaporeans are notorious for our penchant for making our displeasures known. In other words, we love to complain. Yet, in this instance, I suppose we, as much as we loathe to admit, kind of empathize with her. To be fair, we wouldn't be too delighted if we were given no other choice but to work on this day. So we held our tongues.

Still, a service staff audacious enough to unleash her private resentment on customers is an undesirable attendant. Such perplexing work ethic is inconceivable. It is a crime.

From then on, I eye her with misgiving whenever she waits on us. Even when she is all smiles and everything, I resolve not to be fooled by her falseness. First impression lasts forever, so they say.

I see you are wondering what draws me back to the same crime scene and perversely indulge myself in the awful service again and again. Well, the sad truth is, that is the only decent Chinese restaurant to be had in our miserably small city center. And beggars can't be choosers. But lately, word has it that a competitor (a much better one, finally!) has just set up shop next to the said restaurant. It's high time for me to leave the dark side of the force.

And may the force be with the chirpy waiter I mentioned earlier.

A hungry hoonie is a very angry hoonie

What am I doing right now, you ask? Well, I am presently slouching on the sofa, pricking up my ears whenever I hear noises, hoping with impatient expectancy that it is the man turning his key in the door. But nope. Each time I realize it's just the neighbour or the never-sleeping children living above us, doing their nightly acrobatic whatnots, the heart sinks, the tummy seems to unwittingly groan louder from hunger and the head inadvertently throbs, as if in an angry synchronized protest.

Yes, you guess it right. The man is supposed to bring dinner but very unfortunate for me, he is being held up at a company do. How timely.

And what does the clever me do to satiate the maddening hunger? I look at food pictures like this one:

As you can obviously see, I am very good and very fond of torturing myself, especially in dire times like this. Other than being ravenous, I am now terribly homesick. Great.

Excuse me, are you a phantom?

I am hoping the motherhood juggernaut has not roll-moulded me into someone who loses herself and gets impossibly absorbed in the whole new world of parenting. You know, like the glitzy girlfriends you see on telly moaning incredulously over salad lunch about how a certain mommy-girlfriend disappears just because she had a new baby. Then again, even if I did turn into this said mommy-girlfriend persona, you won't see me apologizing or compensating for it. Why should I? The munchkins means the world to me.

A baby is hard work, no doubt, and consumes plenty of one's time. A regular day sees a sleep-starved me in a running-around-like-a-headless-chicken state of diaper-changing, feedings, cooking, more feedings, housekeeping, errand-running, mother-daughter bonding (read: mommy acting all comical, singing out of tune, anticipating and counteracting her often-baffling quirky mood swings, pacifying her frustrations, applauding her little achievements over-enthusiastically, laughing merrily when she plays cute and savouring tender moments together. You still there?). Thus when the little one flutter her eyes closed to meet the sandman, I very much prefer to rot on my couch and just spend some quiet time with me, myself and the man. So by choice, the social calendar is unfashionably bare of late and not because I can't afford the time. 

Maybe it is the age too. Intimate get-togethers where I can bask in easy conversations and familiar closeness definitely sound more appealing than making efforts to forge new friendships. The mere thought of it already rings tiresome to me. Since the friends here either have a young family or are in the process of starting one, their precedence is an obvious one. Thus, the social front is naturally less colourful than ever.

Incidentally, I am not sad that I am not out there to see and to be seen. Let's just say merrymaking hard for a long while before I went over to the west side does not bring forth the need to make up for lost societal time. My complacency is ridiculously hermit-like, so much so that the man joked if I have the opportunity at all to don those clothes and shoes I bought online. I merely shrugged in reply. One never knows when occasions arise where decent garbs are a prerequisite. Hence, handbags and glad rags must still be had for this social-less butterfly.

So if you have this nagging suspicion that you do not belong to the inner circle because you haven't heard a word from me for a while, for a very long while in fact, then your intuition is probably right. Muahahahaha....

Let's cook a pot of curry!

I don't quite take to the smell of burning charcoal wafting towards us whenever the next door neighbour barbecues on their balcony. Not that the odour gives me a headache or compromises my health in any way. I merely find it unpleasant. 

So do you think I should go to our Rathaus (town council) and lodge a complaint? To demand my neighbour not to barbecue and not to eat barbecued food whenever I am at home? Well, I am hardly out of the pad these days as I have the little munchkins to take care of. Okay, they can barbecue when we do our daily walks or grocery shopping.

I think the Rathaus is going to tell me to go fuck myself and fuck off to my country if I so wish. Because in this country, the law specifies that cooking is a social norm and everyone is allowed to cook at any time of the day and night. And cooking smells, even that of garlic, are not only normal but should be tolerated as well.

No wonder no one ever complains whenever I cook my curry. Or my stir fried veggies with garlic or my stinking sambal chilli...

Take a leaf out of the Germans' book, Singapore. Take a leaf.

A girlie prattle

This pink purse has been with me for the longest time. It is easily more than 10 years old. When I first clapped eyes on it at the Mooks store in Bali, I was quite taken with the bright fuchsia tone and made the purchase in a heartbeat. Just look at the worn and sorry state it is now. I wonder how it is that I keep buying clothes, shoes, bags, yet it has strangely never occurred to me to get a new purse or a wallet. Okay, I am not exactly a wallet girl just because with all that junks I so love to collect, the wallet would soon turn into a little fat, bulging thingamajig. That would be a most ugly sight to whip out from a bag!

The closest thing to a wallet which I truly need and pine for is a cardholder. But well, if you know me enough, you will discover that I am also a very lazy person. I just never get down to actually shop for one. Since a long time, I've relayed the intention to the Lion of buying a cardholder from her as I trust her expertise in this area. And the best thing is, that would spare me the hassle of looking high and low for that perfect cardholder. Haha! I am shameless like that! Alas, the Lion is a very busy human (aka forgetful), I didn't get to buy that cardholder from her. Yet. One should not give up hope so easily, right? I am still waiting very patiently. Heh.

Hell no! I am not hinting to anyone to get me one. I maybe shameless but not that shameless. I can still very well afford to buy a cardholder for myself. Thank you very much.

And then the roving Mammon eyes spy a whimsicality that is this.

The splash of colours would be so fun to pull out of the bag that it already brightens up my day just by feasting the eyes on it. Yes, I am enamored with this impish money bag already.

But. It would make me a tad uneasy if I do click the BUY button because the man is going to cry bloody murder! Sure, it is my own moolah and all and I surely do not need the man's go-ahead to shop. Still, as much as I hate to, I have to concede that I have crossed the shopping line way too far in recent months.

Then again, full leather at an alright price, the weak willpower has me somewhat swayed towards you-know-what. Plus I am incorrigibly NOT a Stella-McCartney vegan fashionista.

Well, if I do feel brave one of these days, I might just show the man the sad purse and suss out his thoughts on its wretched state.

Let's just hope he doesn't get to read this before I do all that. Lol!

Photo credit: here