Not again

I’m very disappointed. But I tell her, “It’s ok, it’s ok, no biggie”.

For as bad as I feel, I would feel soo much worse if she knew because then she’d feel somewhat responsible and I couldn’t forgive myself for that.

So yes, a brave, care-free and confident front it is (while my insides quail and my spirits dampen just that little bit more).

Home

I’m heading home today, and I’m looking forward to it, a slight surprise considering all that’s going on. And as I gently tear myself away, I know I will miss and be missed and what a balm that is.

I haven’t been back in a while (long by my standards alone) and home is a place that has usually been somewhat of a refuge, not always though, but mostly and especially when I have needed it. It’s the ease of slipping into the calm quietness of routine, normality and laidback-ness that soothes the soul.

The Parents too in their own way miss me enough to be sweet and doting to the daughter who, in times like these, finds it easy to behave. And since I’m going back alone this time, it’ll be even more peaceful. Something I will savour seeing as the next time I return it’ll be to the nightmare of whirlwind activities and frayed nerves that is every Christmas.

And yes, I’m overly sentimental, but that’s just me.

Midnight

This is stupid. To hope that one typed word minus the endearments can convey the multitude of uncertainty, insecurity and emotion being held back.

I don’t know what it is I seem to be expecting. Why I’m restless, like a caged lioness pacing, pacing, pacing. Why do I want to shake something, anything, out of you? Why do I feel like putting you through a food processor in order to extract the essence of you, because maybe then I’ll be satiated?

Why against my better judgment (like putting this in a private diary), knowing who reads this, I still go ahead?

I feel …unsettled.

A friend said something that struck a chord with me yesterday. She said we needed time to find our tempo, a synchronized rhythm for two. And maybe she’s right, because I feel far from that now.

Subterfuge

When a virtual stranger enthusiastically recommends food, proceeds to order it for you and expresses horror when you attempt to pay for it, you must do your best to save face, yours and the stranger that is. No matter if the food was sub-standard, and chockfull of allergy inducing bits, shovel it down you must. So there I was grinning and bearing it magnificently as I stoically munched and swallowed the bad char keuy teow while my stomach issued a volley of protests. I even consumed quite a bit of taugeh so as not to draw attention to myself!

You see, I’m a char keuy teow purist. Yes, there is such a thing, I just made it up, see? It’s a malady Malaysian Northerners suffer without exception when it comes to food. You know how your Penang or Kedahan friends tirelessly wrinkle their noses and complain about every single item of hawker food that can be gotten here in KL or JB or Singapore for that matter? Well that’s the purist in them. We’ve been spoiled silly by quality food since young that our taste buds unequivocally reject inferior substitutes. So when we move to other parts of the country, we lose weight by default. (How’s that for a weight loss program?)

And char keuy teow which seems soo simple on the outside, is actually one of the hardest things to get right. I should know, after years of trying, all I need to do is look at it in order to tell if it’ll be any good. I personally think that the problem is the texture of the keuy teow that they use. It always turns out wet, when the last thing a “char” should be is wet. And they like to put foreign objects like lap cheong, which should not come anywhere near it, in it. What’s up with that? *Sigh…*

Urgh….if only he knew how much it took for me to bite my tongue, control my expression and use mind control to stop the gag reflex. Hm, I think I’ll politely decline the next time he has another brilliant suggestion…

We, are.

"Congrats"? Did I win the lottery?

I'm figuring out why this response disturbs me. And I think I know why. It's the general perception of society that a person is not whole unless they have a 'partner' (in crime in my case ;). And so to congratulate me when I have 'someone' is akin to conceding that I (and other 'unfortunate' people) was only half a person when I was alone. This is the one thing that used to drive me absolutely mad especially when I meet patronizing people (and there are way too many out there) who used to pat me on my back and say condescendingly "You'll find someone someday" while they clutched possessively to their other half without which their entire world would fall apart. I swore I would never ever do that to anyone, and I cursed those people to one day experience what it is like to be alone.

I haven't changed and I don’t want to change to suit anyone. I believe this is something we (him and I) agree on since both of us are highly individualistic. Retaining my individuality in a relationship is of great importance to me. I understand the virtue and necessity of compromise, but I'd never tolerate a dilution of my personality (and definitely do not want that of him either) just so I can hold on to him. I rarely have very strong views, but this is a topic close to my heart. And I’m not angry at this friend of mine, but sometimes I can give people a rough time for a careless word. And yes, I’ll admit it, I can be uptight. (ok, ok, that’s an understatement, happy now??)

***

So after some rough patches, and a very bumpy take-off, he’s decided to stick around this dysfunctional person.

I am happy.

I grin like an idiot,

And hide secret smiles,

When others are around.

(I am apprehensive.

And I worry,

I am insecure;

A measure of anxiety in the calm)

I hold my breath,

My voice catches,

I shy away,

but not too far.

I look away,

but have you framed

in the corner of my eye.

Now I know,

The sum of us

is an absolute.

Now

Everything is soo bleak right now. I desperately need to laugh. I’d probably get down on my knees and kiss the feet and thank the next person who can make me laugh. Make me forget the heaviness of my heart. Make me stop thinking and feeling for a few seconds.

I feel like I would allow you anything, but you won’t allow me to be. There is something desperately wrong with the sum of us and I don’t know what it is or how to make it better. And the accusations get us nowhere. No, that’s not right, they get me exactly where I am now, in limbo which should be painless, but it’s not.

The Great Gender Debate

Ah. Nothing like a lazy Sunday evening, good food and a mixed group of interesting personalities to spark off a heated (but friendly: no injuries incurred even though some would have gladly strangled each other if not restrained) gender/relationship debate. In the end, the men claim that they have been enlightened on the female psyche and will put it to good use.

But I’m not soo sure. You might tame the occasional tiger, but you can’t change its stripes.

***

A snippet:

Men want the women they’re with to be attractive to other men. It makes them proud to escort these women around, to be the object of envious looks from other guys. It is even a factor in considering if a woman is worth pursuing. Nevermind if she’s brilliant or makes him laugh till his insides ache. If she doesn’t make heads turn then he has to seriously considering if she is worth his time and effort.

On the other hand, women would rather their men not be soo attractive as they wouldn’t want to have to spend all their time fending off the advances of other women. Women are jealous creatures and their claws are sharp.

When it comes to pairing up, handsome men must find a partner of similar beauty, no plain Jane’s for them. And even the most average looking Joe thinks he has as much of a fighting chance as the next male model bloke at hooking up with the most beautiful chick at the bar (and to this I say, get a clue and a mirror while you’re at it babe. Heh.)

But the thing is see, that average Joe? He ain’t that far from the truth (that lucky bastard!). Women tend to be less concerned about looks when it comes to finding a mate/boyfriend/husband/partner/whatever. Just look around. Of all the mismatched couples you see, how many more of them are made up of gorgeous women with ordinary looking guys as opposed to the other way round? A staggering number that’s what. And leaving the depth of the man’s pocket out of the equation, it usually boils down to men being the visual creatures while the females are more emotional. For him, as long as she’s hot enough to salivate over, and for her, as long as he makes her laugh/feel loved/treats her like a queen, then it’s all systems go.

.

.

As with all generalizations, these too will and do breakdown if given a wide enough sampling population. So while it need not be said, here it is: not all men or women conform fully to the gender stereotypes above. But as a general guideline, it’s pretty damn accurate, most of the time anyway.

***

On a personal note, the gender debate gets stale pretty fast. There really isn’t any point in re-hashing and arguing the same old points again and again. The finger pointing also gets increasingly wearisome after a while. It’s a conflict as old as time and will never be resolved.

And so as I get older I’d rather access the person as an individual rather than judge or predict how they will act based on their gender. Of course this only works if you believe that people can rise above and beyond the norm and actually develop a personality independent of and perhaps despite their gender.

Oh well, one can hope.

November

It’s Friday night, no actually it’s already Saturday morning. The week long holiday has flown by, and yes, it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. I don’t regret not having had plans. As someone said, it’s never going to be as bad or as good as you expect it to be.

***

Time has a way of sneaking up on you. It’s already November, a month I usually greet with a combination of anxious excitement, trepidation, a certain amount of denial and varying degrees of depression. It’s a month where every little detail of my life flashes before me in sharp relief. A time for questioning, for reflection, for taking stock.

The past few years, like clockwork, I descend into the pits of depression on the day when I should be celebrating the anniversary of my birth. Once it was soo bad it took all my willpower to hold back tears in public. It’s not about being afraid of getting older because while that is true it’s merely a matter of getting used to it. It is however because it’s the day when I feel most alone. And oh how it cuts like a knife!

Yes I have friends and family who wish me and celebrate, but it’s somehow lacking. I always end up feeling significantly less than special, knowing that I’m not the most important thing in their lives. Do I sound petty and self-absorbed? Shouldn’t I be grateful I have people who remember and are willing to make an effort? The thing is I do appreciate it, but at the end of the day when the party is over it’s the loneliness that remains. And it is this underlying feeling that permeates the day and infects everything with bitterness.

Will it be any different this year? I have hope, but am conditioned not to expect too much. Anyway, I’ll know soon enough.

I (wish I was) am the body beautiful

I never knew I had it in me.

You see, I’ve only just started going to the gym. Religiously. Like almost everyday. And it all started because I somehow acquired a free 1 month membership (hence the kiasu-ism i.e. milking it for all its worth) to this rather popular gym. I say ‘popular’ because of the sheer volume of beautiful people per square feet concentrated in one location. It’s enough to make any normal-sized person, with a usually healthy body image feel inadequate and run to the nearest Dunkin’ Donut for a pick-me-up scoff.

Funny thing is, and I’m embarrassed to admit this, but gym equipment freak me out. I mean, they’re soo massively intimidating and have such complicated mechanisms that you probably need a degree in engineering just to figure out how they work! And after you painstakingly get them all nicely figured out and actually start using them, all you want to know is how to make them stop before they crush you to death! (Hm? What do you mean it’s only my imagination??!)

The first time I visited the gym, as I made my way past row after row of people using the umm….running exercise machines (yes, yes, I need to brush up my gym lingo), I was struck by how much they resembled programmed robots. The illusion was further fortified by their synchronized movements, blank faces totally devoid of expression, and eyes staring straight ahead, completely disregarding anything else that was happening around them. I suspect that if I was to fall in a dead faint in front of them, that they would not have bothered to break their rhythm but instead grimly soldiered on. But maybe that would have been because it was only me fainting. Heh.

So anyway, needless to say, I only go there for the instructor lead classes. So far I’ve pumped iron to music, salsa-ed and samba-ed like a hot Latina (I said like, but oh how I wish!), and belly danced to glory. Sadly, all I have to show for it are very sore muscles. But still, I’m enjoying it. It gives me something to do that requires very little interference from my brain, which is a good thing really. And besides, I have to get my moneys’ worth right? Oh wait, no, that’s not right. Oh hell, who ever needed a reason to exercise anyway?

Now, which class should I go for tomorrow? Kick-boxing or Hip Hop? Decisions, decisions…

For whom the bell tolls

Well, the time of reckoning has arrived like a death toll.

A week of endless empty monotony awaits.

Will I live to tell the tale? (Wait a minute, why would anyone even want to hear the tale?)

*Sighhhhh*

And here I was trying to cultivate the image that I actually had a life. Phish phosh, that’s down the drain.
.
.
.
.
The gym, the gym, it will be my salvation!...but that’s a story for another time. *wink* (And seeing as I have nothing else to do, it’ll probably be soon. Heh.)

Turbulence

It's a gift and curse. I can always read people.

And when you say "I trust even you don’t want to know.." I get the distinct impression (in fact I’m bloody fucking sure) that, that is precisely what you want me to do: to want to know.

I'm divided. On one hand, as a friend, I'd like to help, to listen. But on the other, aware of the circumstances, I don't want to get involved, to avoid the complications just waiting on the sidelines to happen.

Damn. I’ve been in this situation before. The other one ended badly, for me. But this time there’s soo much more to lose and I’m not just talking about our friendship.

Why am I a magnet for people in throes of trouble?
Do I look like the Dalai Lama or something?
Why is it, even though they know that I’m the last person they should be asking, they still throw caution and propriety to the wind and do just that?

Desperation? No one else to turn to? I know, I know damnit.
That’s why I’m soo divided. Because I’m afraid, if not for me, then you would have no one else.

PS: For the sake of peace and calm I must say (though I’d really rather I didn’t have to) that this post is absolutely NOT about anyone who visits this space.

Still not a feminist

An email from a ‘fan’:

Since you follow the F1, was wondering if you knew the issue right now with regards to the F1 races where they are thinking of bringing in women drivers. And what’s more interesting is that the loser team Minardi is actually going to introduce one women driver into the F1 circuit. Well I guess after Alex anything is worth a shot.
Anyway in the SUN papers today Jenson Button actually commented on this issue and the following were his remarks:
- women drivers maybe to big to fit into the F1 cockpit
- one week in a month they wont be able to race or imagine any driver wanting to race them during the period
- the mechanics would face problems strapping them in (boobs) and would not be able to concentrate
What’s your opinion?

The wise one replies (Me-lah who else??!!):

Firstly I'm embarrassed to say I didn't even know there was a ruling against or for women drivers. Honestly, the lack of women drivers never even crossed my mind. (Now I have to go off in a corner and start pondering why it never occurred to me, because that's strange don't you think?)

So anyway, I'm delighted to find that there are actually pretty good (according to the papers) women drivers out there. And so if this will mark their foray into a male dominated circuit, then more power to them. I seriously think gender is a non issue when it comes to excelling on a level playing field. People shouldn't care what gender the drivers are as long as they're damn good at what they do. And for the record, this opinion doesn't just apply to F1 driving.

As for 'structural' differences, this is just silly. It reflects more on him than the women he seems to have a grudge against. Personally, it sounds like Button is very intimidated by more competition coming his way that he has to fall back on anatomy and biological makeup to protect his turf from intrusion. As such I won't even justify his dinosaur-mentality comments with a rebuttal.
PS: All together now, "Button sucks, Raikkonen's ma man!"

The not-soo-angry feminist

I was in a sewing shop just now accompanying a colleague who wanted to purchase something or rather. While in the shop I couldn’t help feeling a sense of forced feminity and girlishness, of docile domestication, homeliness and other unmentionables. I couldn’t help feeling soo out of place among the cross-stitches, knitting needles, balls of yarn and rows upon rows of colourful thread, sequins and beads. Not that there’s anything wrong with any of the above, hell, I even used quite a number of them as a kid. But somehow, now, all of it smacks of stereotypical female occupations: a reinforcement of an arcane female ideal. And try as I may, I find it hard not to be somewhat scornful (oh, this is too strong a word) of women who indulge in these pastimes. It appears as if I’m making a case for feminism, which is not my intention at all. I really mean no offense though it may seem otherwise. But it’s just that I don’t fit this particular pigeon hole.

On the flip side, I love the veritable Aladdin’s cave that is hardware shops. The intoxicating smell of leather, shelves of every imaginable glistening steel implement and contraptions and tins of industrial chemicals. There’s just so much to pick up, tinker with and marvel over. Unfortunately the downside is dealing with hardware store owners and salesmen. I happen to be the wrong gender you see, and I couldn’t make it anymore obvious if I walked in with a sign plastered to my forehead that said, “I’m a girl, cheat me, I’m dumb”. Not only do you get disbelieving looks because you’re a girl, saying you’re “Just browsing” to inquisitive macho men doesn’t stop them from following you around gawking and snorting under their breath at such a highly amusing oddity.

There was once I frequented one particular hardware shop soo regularly that the owner began to greet me warmly like a favourite daughter. Heh. But it sure didn’t stop him from trying to con me out of my money though. Men, sheesh!

The Yellow Brick Road

Future plans: it seems everyone has some idea where they’re headed, or if they don’t at least they have their future acquisitions all mapped out and carefully budgeted for. Car at 23, house at 26, marriage to the nice boy next door at 27, 2.5 kids (carefully spaced out, naturally) by 32, the insurance plan, retirement investment plan, children’s education fund, the requisite local and overseas holidays, all efficiently planned years in advance.

Woe be anyone who doesn’t have a ‘plan’ much less a clue where their lives are headed, what they want and how they’re going to get it. The horrified pitying looks that follow such a foolishly brave announcement would be enough to make you want to repent remorsefully before you quietly do yourself away so you wouldn’t have to inflict anyone else with your directionless existence.

Sometimes I wonder how many out there make up all the stuff people want to hear just to quell the questions and patronizing concern for their welfare. How many purposefully lie just to seem not soo utterly lost?

PS: Two things:

1. This is too heavy for the weekend, I apologise.

2. And I'm not as depressed as I sound.

Psychedelic baby!

“I’ve got soul, but I’m not a soldi-er,
I’ve got soul, but I’m not a soldi-er,
I’ve got soul, but I’m not a soldi-er,
I’ve got soul, but I’m not a soldi-er….”

All these things that I’ve done – (Hot Fuss) The Killers

Instructions for use: Sing line repeatedly, starting out soft and building till reaching a completely soul-satisfying screaming crescendo. Accompanying head shaking, furious air drums action and feet stomping also highly recommended. Heh. Therapeutic this.

PS: I can’t help thinking that this is exactly how The Beatles would sound if they were from this era, complete with hysterical, swooning, and much hotter female fans of course (but yet somehow still managing to be cool enough for the guys).

Future soo bright I gotta wear shades

Your face is your fortune. It’s written in the stars, on the lines of your palm and apparently also in your choice of a favorite cloud in the sky. I kid you not.

A good friend of mine visited a fortune teller for the first time recently. We’d discussed the possibility of doing this before just to satisfy our curiosity eventhough both of us are born sceptics. We’d both hesitated and put off doing so because even if we knew enough to take everything with a healthy pinch of salt, we weren’t sure we’d be able to withstand the power of suggestion and that seed of doubt that would linger on.

So anyway, she did it for fun and because not only was the “Mythologist”, as he calls himself, highly recommended, but he also speaks perfect English. This is handy especially if you don’t want a lot of things lost in translation. We’d all like our money’s worth and let’s face it, fortune telling is already vague as it is without the further complication of language.

For obvious reasons, I can’t reveal what he told her, but she came out not that much wiser about her future then when she went in. She had a few words of advice though. When faced with a fortune teller, do try to reign in the scepticism and keep your expressions bland. These people are attuned to body language and this will affect what and how much they tell you. And the other thing was, to get the most ‘benefit’, it’d probably be a good idea to seek a consultation only when you have pressing need, like for example when you’re at some crossroads of life. Otherwise you’d have nothing to ask him and whatever he’d say would carry no weight and very little meaning.

Now for a little experiment you can try at home. If the top tip of your ear is aligned to the end of your eyebrow and the bottom is aligned to the top of your upper lip, then you are destined for greatness. Of course if you have an asymmetrical face like mine, this begs the question: which ear? Or must it be both? These are questions you must ask the next face reader you meet, ‘cos I sure as hell don’t know! Heh, that’s another career choice down the drain...

On a serious and much too personal note..

I am different. I can’t explain it. The other day it just hit me: for the first time I have my eyes wide open. For once the road ahead though vague, appears to be devoid of obstacles, be they the ones I set up for myself or the ones that have been put there by prior circumstance. I realize that in all previous times I was never happy. Instead, what there was, was a whole load of anxiety and a distinct sense of futile hope.

This time round I’m aware of the constant need and the application of conscious will to not play mind games. A need to be honest, to be unafraid to say what I mean and what I feel, nevermind the consequences. And all of this while feeling like I’m voluntarily plunging headlong into the unknown despite being completely aware of clear and present danger. That’s right, for once I’m acting like there’s nothing to lose.

I used to be soo careful with my pride, doling out affection only to the exact measure of the amount I received. To show too much was a carnal sin, a sign of weakness, an acknowledgement of someone else’s power over me. And in an atmosphere where control was paramount, I never invested more than what was clinically appropriate.

Looking back, I know why I am exactly where I am now. I did this. But can this change last? Can I swallow my pride and take the chance? Can I suppress the urge to run for my life? I know I said it was a joke, but yes, what else can I be, but afraid?

(And meanwhile at the back of my mind, the resounding voice of reason cautions, “It’s too fast, slow down”.)

expectant hush

A sea of endless calm,
As far as the eye can see,
As long as memory can stretch.

Softly,
A ripple runs through
Gently,
The boat rocks
Tentatively,
The slumbering sailor,
stirs.

What is this shifting?
..swishing, ..rolling,
..tossing, ..turning,
..churning?

and in the horizon,
the Eye of the Storm,
approaches…

Disclaimer: I don't know why I feel the need to write a disclaimer. Well, actually, I do. I thought I'd be embarassed at its childish simplicity (mission accomplished: I am). But then I wondered why should I be soo bothered? Let it be. At the very least it is honest.

Cheetahs

Sociable?
Not exactly. Only the males, often brothers, roam and hunt in a coalition of 2 or 3. Rarely will they live alone. This is in contrast to the females who are solitary except when they have litter. Males and females mix only to mate. As such the female raises her cubs alone.

Biologically engineered for speed
Classic example of nature and adaptation at it’s finest.
The cheetah is the fastest land animal in the world with a top speed of 110km/hr. You think that’s fast? Even 5 month old cheetah cubs can easily outrun almost any other adult carnivore! Though a member of the cat family, it differs in many ways from the big cats like lions, tigers, leopards and panthers which rely on brute strength to hunt and overpower its prey.

Cheetahs rely purely on speed. And to achieve such blinding speed the cheetah has a highly adapted structure. It is the only member of the cat family that has non-retractable claws. This blunts the claws and makes them ineffective for attacking prey, but highly useful in providing traction to the cheetah during the chase. Its heavy tail acts as a rudder and the flexible backbone as a spring. The cheetah’s light, lean frame is attributed to thin bones and during the chase the cheetah is at times completely airborne with none of its paws touching the ground.

All this speed comes at a price, and so to accommodate the increase in oxygen intake, the cheetah has large nasal passages, a large heart and adrenal glands to support high metabolism. The large nasal passages leave precious little space for the cheetah’s small teeth and jaw. As such once the cheetah outruns its prey, it clamps onto the neck and suffocates its victim before consuming it.

Strength vs Speed
The cheetah is very vulnerable once it has captured its prey after a high speed chase. The intense effort expanded leaves the cheetah in exhaustion and if it is to savour the spoils of its victory, it must eat quickly. The slight cheetah is no match for the much bigger, heavier predators like the lions and hyenas. Even a pack of vultures can easily oust the cheetah and steal away the prize.

Cub Mortality
In the wild, cheetah cub mortality rate can reach as high as 90%. The main predators are lions and hyenas. In fact it’s been shown that lions kill cheetah cubs as a matter of course. They don’t eat them, they just kill them. Researchers have yet to find a reason for this phenomenon. And it doesn’t help that the females being the sole parent are forced to leave their cubs in search of food.

And now another fun fact you can take away with you: Ever wondered what the difference is between the leopard and the cheetah? Same colouring, both cats, right?. Well, the cheetah is easily identifiable by its characteristic black "tear mark" running from the inner aspect of each eye down to the mouth. Oh, and the leopard’s much heavier, remember strength vs. speed and agility?


PS: Alright, alright, if you insist: I watched a documentary, found it riveting and decided it was my duty to educate the world!....or maybe just the two of you. Oh, nevermind! Anyway I hope you found it as educational and as much fun as I did. Cheetahs rule!

Love Thy Neighbour

Can someone please kill my neighbours?

(No, no, this is not yet another Malaysian rant against Singapore. Sorry to disappoint.)

And just to get the logistics right for those who want to heed this distress call, plus seeing as murder ain’t no child’s play, they live directly opposite me and are LOUD. Tonight more so than others. They’ve been having some big ass party and as if it isn’t enough to block off the entire street, they and their guests have conveniently opened tables and parked their backsides in front of their neighbours gates effectively blocking off our exit routes. Damn them all to hell!

And the howling, good God the howling. And squealing, and screeching. Yup folks, that’s right, they have that perennial Malaysian weapon of mass torture: karaoke. And my do they wield it with abandon. I’ve had to seek refuge by plugging in my earphones and blasting classical music. And yet, and yet, in the background, I can still hear their sweet voices.

Could I plead just cause if I went over there and wrung their necks? Something’s got to be done, they’re effectively keeping us prisoners at their pleasure while we writhe in agony. Huh? Huh? Could I? Could I?

And besides it’s just not neighbourly to have a party and NOT invite your neighbours.

That’s right, all that alcohol and I’m not invited. I demand justice!
.
.
.

Update: It’s past midnight and they’ve subsided without blood on my hands. Thank God for small mercies. I’m going to sleep.