AA: The Joys of Alcohol and Altitude

You know something’s not right up there when you suddenly have to go up to Genting at midnight, on a weekday, in your Japanese slippers and ratty clothes (hey! It was a spur of the moment thing ok?) just to shiver while drowning a bucket of beer through chattering teeth. Heh.

I have nothing to say for myself by way of logical excuse except that somehow the road just lead there and um, alcohol is a force greater than myself?

You know what the funny thing is? There were a lot of other jokers who were doing the exact same thing, there was actually traffic going up and on the way down. Who are these people and don’t they ever sleep or need to go to work the next day or something? I tell you, youngsters these days..

Oh, did I forget to add that I had a hell of a time? There’s just something about those roads winding through the mountains, soo pitch black that you have to turn on your high beam just to manoeuvre. Then there’s the icy early morning wind blowing in from your rolled down windows and the magnificent sight of millions of tiny twinkling fairy lights down in the sleeping valley. *Sigh*

Must try not to get too fond of these impromptu jaunts though, have you seen the prices at Genting lately?! Are they trying to make us pay for the natural air-conditioning or what?

And now excuse me while I try to sneak a snooze at my desk, crawling in at 4am is too much for this aging spring chicken.

Life: Not an exact science

I was watching this series on TV the other day. It’s not a bad family drama that I follow on and off. The main protagonist had been having one of those recurring what-if dreams where your life turns out exactly picture perfect. He agonizes over it because he felt that it meant that the way his life had turned out would always be inferior to the happiness of his “perfect” dream life. He confides in a friend who is of the wry opinion that “dreams are dumpsites for neurological waste” and goes on to tell him that trying to find meaning in dreams is like trying to avert unpredictable tragedy, that life happens: we’re grateful when it goes well and count our blessings when it doesn’t.

But what I loved most is the ending sequence where he finally gets to see his dream to its unexpected conclusion. He’s amazed to find that his seemingly perfect life is ultimately very flawed and as imperfect and difficult as his current reality is, he’s lucky to have just that. That in spite of tragedy or because of it, he’d gained and become soo much more than his “perfect” life would have afforded.

Could it be that we struggle soo much with regret, and that we second guess our choices every single time because unlike him we don’t have the benefit of seeing how our desired what-if scenario pans out?

God knows the last thing I want to do is sound preachy, but I guess what I’m trying to say is we don’t have to beat ourselves up when things go wrong, because in another place and time, wrong might have been what we needed all along. And in the end like a light bulb going off in our heads, we might just see why it was all necessary.

Maybe

Maybe we should stop trying to figure out life.

Maybe what we need is to find escape from the mental and physical paralysis that comes from over analyzing, from the constant need to pick apart every little insignificant detail in an ultimately futile attempt to elicit meaning from the utter randomness that is life.

Maybe all we need to survive is gut feel and a quick prayer that we don’t get into to much shit.

Maybe what we need is to close our eyes, draw a deep breath and Take.That.Leap.

Charm School

I was on a rare visit to a client’s office where I had to register at the guard house before entering the premises. I should have known something was amiss when I found the young-ish pak guard minutely scrutinizing me as I wrote down my name in the visitor log.

A polite cough later he said:
“Excuse me Miss, correct me if I’m mistaken, you’re not Malay are you?”

I flashed what I hoped was a dismissive stop-all-friendly-overtures-NOW quick smile and said:
“No.”

Then out of nowhere as I turn to go he says with an impish grin:
“Your face is true beauty”

Only presence of mind and iron self-control stopped me from bursting into wild laughter.

He made my day...ok, ok, make that my week. But I can’t help feeling sorry for him, after all, he must have really bad eyesight.

Office air-con technicians, the balding pakcik at the neighborhood sundry shop, the waiter at the corner mamak shop where we have after work yum char sessions and now: security guards.

I’m quite the charmer I am.

KL: Proceed with extreme caution

I made the death defying foray into the hell hole that is KL last week. That’s right, I drove there. Yikes!

While PJ isn’t exactly paradise on earth it tends to be a little less frightening than KL somehow. And have you ever noticed how the number of motorcycles increase exponentially the nearer you get to the city centre? It’s those crazy jams I tell you, everyone’s finding a way to cut the time and money lost when you’re stuck in one. But if there’s one thing car owners fear more than traffic jams on the roads, it’s those damned motorcycles. I mean if you’ve ever had the bad luck to have an accident with one, you’ll know that no matter whose fault it is you’re automatically done for, in terms of paying for damages that is.

So there I was, trying to stay clear of those motorcycles, but in KL, that’s pretty hard to do with the sheer proliferation of them. You need every ounce of concentration in your body, extra pairs of eyes on the back of your head and perhaps on your elbows too for good measure. And still, my once in a blue moon trip in had 2 motorcycles grazing each other at high speed right next to me, causing one’s carrier box to rip off with a flying piece bouncing off the roof of this already rattled drivers car.

Holy guacamole! Next time I’m taking public transportation!

He ain't heavy, He's my brother

His proud grandma called to tell me that her grandson, my nephew, was in the newspapers. Unfortunately we don’t get the Northern section here, so proud aunty couldn’t show off to her friends. Damn.

His father, my eldest brother, and I are separated by 11 years. Suffice to say we are far removed in more ways than the convenience that is provided by geographical distance and age gap.

This is the guy who made me cry while trying to drum into me my times table. I still remember sobbing while reciting “2 x 8 equals 16, 2 x 9 equals 18…sniff, sniff!” But I have much to owe my brother in terms of a musical education. He was an 80’s teenager, so mini-me had a steady diet of 80’s pop while growing up. One of my fondest memories is of him doing an impression of the Fine Young Cannibals “She drives me crazy”. It had us siblings all rolling on the floor in gales of laughter and till today I smile every time I hear the song. Years later I found that I seemed to be able to recognize 80’s songs and sometimes even sing along without knowing who sang it and what it was called. And so I began paying attention and now I have quite the repertoire of cheesy music to be paraded during karaoke sessions. My friends call me old, but I prefer to think of it as being “cultured”, heh.

I also remember how he and my 2nd brother conned Mum and Dad into taking the whole family to watch “The Thing” in the cinema. I was about 5 years old and spent the entire movie with my hands clamped over my eyes. Oh let me tell u the brothers certainly got a sound caning when we got home and I had lovely nightmares for ages. (Aside: that’s a great movie btw, caught it later in life, was sort of a pre-cursor to “Alien”)

Now he’s a husband and father (well, has been for a while, this post is a leetle late) and it warms the cockles of my heart to witness the tenderness in his eyes at unguarded moments when he’s with wife-y and sons.

So I know we’ll never have the picture perfect elder brother-little sister stereotypical relationship. He’ll never be the elder brother I look up to and confide with and I’ll never be the little sister whom he’ll worship and over protect. But I have a sneaky suspicion that he’s proud of me and I’m secretly happy that he’s found his place in life. And as a bonus it’s nice to find that we share the same irreverent sense of humour. It’ll probably never be more than that, but as far as relationships go, I’ll take it as it is any day.

This is of no consequence whatsoever

My sister says I’m killing my plants.

But I can’t help it! They bring ants in all shapes and sizes and though I’m not one to discriminate against insects, the big black ones, the tiny black ones that run like the wind, the tiny red ones with black bottoms, they all have one thing in common, they BITE.

Seems I’m not very good with live things, they tend to drop like flies under my care. That includes humans. *cue maniacal laughter*

PS: I apologise, I have a long, not-so-vapid post in my pocket somewhere but due to technical difficulties and countless re-writes, it’ll have to wait a little while more.

It's a happy, happy holida-ay!

There’s almost a week long break in early November for Deepavali and Raya Haji.

I find that incredibly depressing.

What’s the use of a holiday when u have nothing to do, nowhere to go (because you have no money to spend) and no one to spend it with?

Hell, I can hardly even fill the weekends!

Questions

Isn’t it amazing how little it takes to send your self esteem plummeting?

How little it takes to fill our seemingly bottomless wells of self doubt?

One misplaced word, one forgotten invitation, that’s enough.

Why do we constantly crave affirmation, validation?

Why must belief in ourselves be planted in quicksand?

"Hi, nice to meet you"

At this age (I feel old, ok?), I can no longer abide by introductions. Meeting new people has become such a chore: the endless treadmill of socializing that leaves you spouting the same tired old lines again and again for the umpteenth time.

Sometimes you feel like lying about yourself just to break the monotony of it all. And other times you have to reign in your to tongue to keep from saying what you really want to say i.e. when you want to let brutal honesty and slit-throat sarcasm take over. But you don’t of course, because that would be a major no-no in polite company. Trust me displaying psychotic tendencies does not make a good first impression. But still depending on how I feel that day I tend to either come across as a smiling half-wit mute with no personal opinion whatsoever, or (this is when I put in some effort) a bland “normal” human being, or (when I’m really pissed) an enigmatic deranged lunatic. Heh.

My point is, and I do have one (I think) is that I wish there was an easier way to go about meeting new people, a way that is not fraught with soo many layers of pretension. Because don’t get me wrong, I’m all for meeting new people and expanding one’s circle of friends, it’s just that I wish there was some way of filtering them for quality first.

Examples of some desirable top notch qualities in my case would be a strong stomach for whiny bullshit, tolerance for long drawn out moody silences and a very strong hide to withstand the occasional whiplash from a sharp tongue. (And people find it amazing how such a wonderful girl like me can’t find a nice sweet guy. It’s a mystery, I say)

So this brings us to blogs (you knew it was coming didn’t you?). When you come to think of it, it’s the perfect solution isn’t it? You get to quietly read as complete strangers pour out their deepest darkest thoughts, feelings and desires. You get a feel of what the person is made up of by the way they express themselves and their reactions to their surroundings. Now if this isn’t a brilliant way to vet through the anonymous masses before you actually introduce yourself, then I don’t know what is.

But (yes, there is a but), using a blog as the sole medium with which to size up a person is not without it’s flaws. It’s kinda like trying to imagine what a person looks like when all you’ve seen is a toe. I also tend to think that the image we portray of ourselves in our blogs are frequently an exaggeration of who we are. It isn’t necessarily a lie, but more of an embellishment perhaps.

So what now? Ok, here’s the deal. If you do find a blog/blogger that you like, chances are you’d probably like them in real life and go on to be lifelong (virtual) friends and whatnot. But before that prepare yourself, because all of what you read might not be embodied in the person you will eventually meet.

Real life, it’s a bummer eh?

The World: It is too small!

It’s shocking how easy it is to put two and two together and discover that you know the person whose blog you’re reading.

So far I’ve found the best friend of my sis ex-bf (who btw also has an empty blog – the lucky devil), a friend of a friend of a friend (yeah it’s complicated) and an ex-colleague (sort of, worked with a sister company, exchanged like one sentence with eons ago).

It’s just too easy. I’ve never even met most of these people before, but with what scant information I know about them it’s a breeze connecting the dots.

So this begs the question: How long before someone who knows me, finds me? How does one go about ensuring enduring anonymity?

Why do I even insist upon anonymity in the first place?
Simple. I’m extremely anal about privacy. I’d hate to move or shut down because I’ve been found out.

First off I probably need to lose the nick, it’s a dead giveaway. Bugger.
.
.
.
.
.
Oh, what the hell! I’ll risk it.

I, Mortified

Just received the photos from The Wedding.

*Ack! Gasp!*

Burn the evidence! No wait, it’s in softcopy, Erase! Delete! Remove all traces! If all else fails, GO INTO HIDING!!

Note to self: constipated leering and cackling like a hyena does not a good picture make.

Oooo…the shame…

All Boozed Up and Puked Out

Any wedding that begins with you and your friends arriving 1 hr late even after a frenzied rush to the venue and ends with the bride’s rowdy shouting of “Where’s my drink??...hic!” has got to be an unqualified success.

Attended what must have been The Malaccan society wedding of the year and had the good(bad?) fortune to grab latecomers seats at the “happy” table. One can easily foresee the fun night ahead when the blokes at your table have tomato-red faces even before the 1st course! Naturally most of us closet alcoholics quickly disintegrated from pleasantly contented to maniacally ecstatic no thanks to the open bar strategically situated right behind us. I still have no idea how much of the bar came to be transplanted onto our table. It was all a blur of glasses chinking, flowing amber gold liquid and muffled cries of “Yuuuuuuuuuum Seeeeeeeeeeng!!!!” & “Bottoms Up!”.

You know there’s nothing like an alcohol induced exuberance to have complete strangers fall into each others arms weeping with joy like long lost siblings. I mean, who cares if you don’t even know each others last names? Does it even matter if no one has anyone else’s handphone numbers by the end of the night?

Yes it was a damn good wedding, and S & S, we shall always fondly remember it as the one that had the most people puking to glory…Congratulations you two!


PS: How is it possible that mushrooms ingested in Melaka can emerge glisteningly whole and completely undigested, 3 hours later in KL? Ah, one of life’s many mysteries I guess…

Can someone invent this already?

Don’t you wish sometimes you had some kind of machine that converts thoughts to words on paper? It should work like some sort of an internal thought transcriber.

I mean it’s bound to be damn useful in inconvenient situations when you’re mind is going furiously but:
1. You’re having a particularly trying time locked in the toilet or
2. When an almost super human effort to retain your fleeting thoughts caused you to absent mindedly try to brush your teeth with hair conditioner (don’t even ask…).

How many times have you come up with the wittiest commentaries while flat on your back after lights out and with the light switch way over there? I have found that by the time I actually decide my thoughts are too brilliant to be entrusted to my increasingly unreliable memory, drag myself out of bed to trudge all the way across the room and switch on the lights, rummage for a notepad, scramble for a pen and finally sit back down comfortably, I will invariably realize that I can no longer recapture that kick-ass turn of phrase.

And like all kick-ass turns of phrases, it will remain elusive until the next such time you so happen to be inconvenienced yet again, like while stuck in an endless traffic jam with not a scrap of paper within sight and a totally dead cell phone so you can’t even painstakingly type it out word for word.

All I’m saying is, the moment someone invents this machine, I sure as hell will be the first in line.

It's their loss (?)

I need to get this off my chest before I write anything else otherwise it’ll be totally screwed up.

I’m reeling from the shock of not getting the job. No wait, more like shock from not even having been called for an interview.

How is this possible?

Was long-listed to attend an Assessment Test, but I told them since I had already sat for the test when I applied to their company the year before, perhaps they could check their records and get back to me. Which they never did do of course.

Now this is the part that I don’t understand. The previous year when I sat for the routine test, I was short listed and attended the first interview. The HR Manager calls me up after a long silence apologizes for the delay stating the company was in the midst of a mulling over a recruitment policy change and if I was still interested to come for a 2nd interview should it go favourably? I re-stated my interest and urged them to keep me updated. Which they never did do naturally.

So now this: being unceremoniously booted out without even being given a chance to be interviewed.

At times like these it’s nice to console yourself and go, “It’s their loss, it’s their loss”.

But funny how I’m the one who ends up feeling the pain right?

The Wedding Bane

I was prepared for it. Psyched myself out. Dusted off the bullet proof amour. Gathered the heavy artillery for defensive counter attack. Stocked up on a barrage of witty comeback lines. And so when it came, surprisingly instead of all hell breaking loose, there was hardly a ripple on the surface. After all that build up….what a bummer!

Attending weddings, unaccompanied, when you’re in your twenties, is usually the worst possible situation you could get yourself into. Nosy aunties and sometimes even complete strangers will magically assume the right to pinch your cheeks and drawl ever so condescendingly, “So when’s your turn darling?” In situations like these it is always advisable to keep sharp and heavy objects far from the victims reach. However the alternative of witty comebacks only leaves them wagging their heads while reprimanding you like a naughty child. It’s a lose-lose situation in everyway.

Worst still if you’re attending the wedding of the 2nd among your group of 3 bosom buddies, which basically means you’re the only unmarried one left and EVERYBODY knows it. It’s enough to give even the most independent girl a strong dose of inferiority complex. And I don’t even want to get married!

But yeah, all said and done I guess seeing the radiant bride and the adorable albeit nervous groom made it all worthwhile.

And yes, I got the same old questions, but miracle of miracles, it rolled off like water off a ducks back.

To the happy couple, dearest C & S, I truly wish you both every happiness together.

And you both have your names engraved on my wedding invitation (along with a dozen or so unlucky people), which unfortunately for you though might very possibly come like, never. So don’t grow old waiting at the postbox eh?

Breathe In, Breathe Out

Can’t. Help. It.

I agree with everything he says.

He makes me nod after every single sentence and grin like and idiot. (Note to self: Must remember not to do this in the office, The Inwardly-Evil Colleagues with Outwardly-Mild-Temperaments are just waiting for the slightest reason to have me committed)

So I struggle to keep my mouth shut. From banging the table and proclaiming “Exactly!”, “That’s so true!” and “I feel you babe”, while nodding vigorously.

Because that’s too much affirmation to be dished out to a complete stranger, even if it’s all true.

The problem, my Dear Imaginary Reader, is who would want to come across as an over-eager-Energizer-bunny-like stalker? No, no, under all circumstances one must act calm and supremely cool. That is of essence.

Compulsive commenting on a complete stranger’s blog is NOT the thing to do. Yes, yes, must restrain ourselves from virtually patting people’s backs and saying “You da man!”
And posting a rebuttal or an agreement of views held (as in this case) in one’s own blog is also so not done.

*summons dwindling will power*

Ahah…hmm….methinks the problem is pride, of which I seem to have cultivated an obvious over abundance of. Sigh and double sigh....

PS: Dear Imaginary Reader, am soo very sorry for my incoherence. Tut! Tut! Shall now bury my head with the shame of it all.

PPS: Oooooooh man….I need to find something else to write about already!!

September

The surest way of declaring bankruptcy by the end of the month:

2 weddings and 6 birthdays.

I swear I shall slap the next friend or relative who dares to be born or wed in this month.

There are 11 other freaking months to choose from, spread out for God’s sake!

Bedlam! Chaos! Hysteria!

*Warning! Excuses to follow...

The Parents are down: indefinitely.

The Sis is “stressed”: sic.

The Blogger is catering to the whims and fancies of The Last-Minute-But-Damn-Cocky-Prospective-Client: *passed out*

The Boss says smugly, “Don’t kill yourself over it”: ^&$&*;@;#$&%#&^%$***&!!!!

Therefore The Beloved Blog is: neglected.

The Writing on the Wall

There are stories in unexpected places.

And in this case: my bedroom wall.

In started during a recent (infrequent) spring cleaning, I found a paragraph written in ink by an ex-tenant on my wall. It began:

“ I hate you.
You cheated me. I love you soo much but you did this to me…..”

It goes on to ramble incoherently (generously peppered with a multitude of exclamation marks) why the author hates/loves/will-never-forgive, her paramour.

After some background investigation (read: nosy poking around) the whole sordid story was uncovered. Said authoress was a small town lady in her mid 30’s separated from an impotent, abusive husband (I am NOT making this up!). After 3 lonely years moving to big bad KL, she found true love in a married man with 3 children. The outpouring of anguish on the walls was during a particularly trying time when his wife found out about the affair. Why this translates to him cheating on her is beyond me. But it’s not for me to judge.

Anyway the story has a happy ending of sorts. She becomes his 2nd wife and they now have 1 child together.

As entertained as I was by her colourful life story, I do wish she’d have expressed her feelings a little less permanently…..like with a pencil maybe...or a blog.

Now excuse me while I figure out how to remove it…