Club Med, Nusa Dua - Bali

Exotic, enchanting, extraordinarily friendly.

That’s what the advertisement says. What can I say? All three words plus some. Put it this way, you want a complete rejuvenating escapade, spectacular scenery, wild choice of activities, free flow of food and drinks, and get this - couple time without the kids, then, this is your answer.

Let’s list the pros of Club Med, Nusa Dua.

1. The exotic architecture (carvings & statues), music, sand, sea and sun that is uniquely Bali.

2. The Comodo Dragons (very buaya/biawak-like) the size of young alligators scurrying around the compounds as if they were second nature and impose no threat to humans. Very kewl and convincing. But then we watched them from raised bridges…

3. The never-ending flow of snacks and drinks by the pool. Fresh juices, milk shakes, cocktails, mocktails, hot beverages, pizza, bread, olives (?) – you name it, they have it – and it’s at your beck and call at any time of day. Macam Raja I tell you…

4. The ultra fit and terribly good looking 300 plus GOs (General Officers) from differing countries, clad in red tops and white bottoms, ranging from barely there skimpy shorts to boring belia-3K long pants, who are constantly cheerful, upbeat and smiling 24/7, and ever ready to engage you in small talk, challenge you to a game or dance the blues away. They are there and they are everywhere. They may be in a serious life and death discussion, but the moment you pass by, Chin Up - Colgate Smile - We’re here to Brighten Up Your Day attitude shines through like a 200 watt lightbulb. You just can’t ignore them. They refused to be ignored.

5. The exhausting types of activities that you can join and play - all free. Every sporting game under the sun, including golf. Snorkeling, yachting, rafting, surfing (The Surfing Instructor himself was a god-like exotic creature – yum!). Acrobatic flying trapeze, bungee bounce, archery and a whole lot of other strange sporting activities that I can’t recall. You can tell I’m so not a sports buff.

6. The array of entree, main course and dessert for breakfast, lunch and dinner - just the sight of the food can make you combust in your own saliva. There were fois grass, salmon fondue (kelass gitu...) etc for the coneisseures, eastern and western cousine for the Barbarians, pizza and chips for the little people, and a mile long table of dessert and fresh fuits. I ate sweet Markisa till the seeds fell out of my ears. When in Club Med, only one rule applies. Eat till your heart's content. Even the deep fried frog legs looked extra scrumptious. And if 'that' part of your anatomy acts up, no worries. Head off to the beautifully designed restrooms, and just do what you gotta do. No water? Again, no worries. Just ask for bottled Aqua. You want 4 bottles? They give you 4 bottles. See? Even 'that' part gets first class treatment. Washed down by bottled Aqua? Maan...! We're living the life of Beyonce and Kimora!

7. This is my favourite. The different type of junior/kids/petite Clubs that you can send your kids to, from 9am to 7pm. You collect them for dinner, then send them back to the Clubs to get ready for their night gala performance. They perform, you watch, you pick them up again, and back to your rooms for a good night sleep. The kids get entertained with 1001 activities the whole day, and you…. Hahaha! You need me to tell you what to do without the kids? Tralalalala…. One thing’s for sure. This is definitely the place where parents get a decent holiday too… you know what I mean. (Then again, I’m just suggesting. When you come with friends and family, the boys get together and engage in all the sporting stuffs… and the girls? We tread merrily away to the Mandara Spa and massage the blues away… Darn satisfying if I may say so!)

8. What else… what else… Oh yes. The impromptu sketches of Marilyn Monroe dying in the pool and saved by The Hulk, Superman, Bruce Lee etc, the daily Water Aerobic sessions taught by the GOs (the annoying fun-fair music accompanying the dance is a killer though), the nightly performances and outdoor dances that you can participate in, the disco which ends at 2 am, the free neck and shoulder massages waiting by the pool…

9. That’s it. And if it all gets a little bit too much, just roam Bali town and get a taste of Nasi Padang, watch the Barong and Kechak dances at the Puras, surf shop along Kuta/Sanur or if time permits, catch the sunset at Ubud or fine dine in Jimbaran. All pretty tourisy but you haven’t done Bali if you haven’t done that. Oh.. and you gotta braid your hair too.

The Cons :

You want to go again and again and again.

Well, maybe if not Bali, then definitely Club Meds the world over. You get spoilt at Club Med.

Other holidays will never be the same…

School Holiday Alert

Its school holidays again… and the pressure begins.

I always feel a slight dread when school holiday approaches. I would let out a Red Indian whoopee-yell if I was a kid, but since I’m now only a kid in my mind, and no one else seems to agree with me, plus the fact that I have kids of my own (I do? Did I forget that?)… the thought of school holidays feels me with a slight panic.

It was definitely easier those days. A weekend trip to the bookstore, where Mum goes shop-gallivanting, and Big Sis and I would be left to sit on the floor of the store and pour through book after book, that would be pure heaven. It was just Jaya PJ, the book store below Kathy’s Toys (where Lil Bro would be), but the thought of spending time on store floor would leave me sleepless in anticipation.

I hardly remember going to malls, unless it was Raya time. That would include a trip to Mun Loong and Globe Silk Store, and we would be yawning tears every five-minutes tagging behind mum. The highlight of the day would be lunch at KFC at Sungei Wang Plaza. School holidays at home would mean a lot of book reading, bicycle riding and playing make-believe in the compound of the house. And we would be happy.

D1 and D2 now have toys leading all the way up to the ceiling. Turn every page of a Toys-r-Us catalogue, and they would have almost all of the featured items. A hundred Barbies and accessories, including cars, shops and whatnots, premium kitchen sets, all doll play-sets (changer, cot, iron set, baby carrier, pram, car seat… basically, every necessary item for a living baby, in doll size), vanity table and real makeup (no thanks to their Cu Pit), BBQ sets, motorized cars, bicycles, scooters, every game imaginable (including gambling games… ahem!), sports equipment, tents, special girly sleeping bags with matching torchlights, water tumblers and camping chairs, portable stereo, portable DVD player, Game Boy (all pink, of course…), and books enough to fill up a school library. Any toy or book, you name it, chances are, they’ll have it. Heck, I still have unopened presents from two years back… the storage problem is a killer.

I would have been happy if I were them. But, no. They still call endlessly at the office, asking when I’ll be home, when can I take them to the playground, when I can bake cakes and lasagna with them, when can I play the new game with them, when this, when that, and the list goes on. I should be proud, toys don’t seem to do it for them, they want the company of me mere mortal… but it sure adds to the pressure cooker. So I try to come up with new ideas to entertain them.

I’ve camped with them overnight in my tiny garden. We had the tent and all camping gear up, complete with the gas-cylinder portable cooker. That was fun, except LV refused to join in and preferred the comfort of the soft bed upstairs (very wise of him, I must say…), and I ended up not sleeping a wink because of the ruckus the frogs in my sorry excuse of a pond were making throughout the night. Decepticons slept well, though.

I’ve brought them on morning nature walks, gone cycling with D2 at the back in the sport child seat, gone kite flying, danced in the rain, had dressed-up tea picnics in the garden (with real miniature china, cup cakes and tea), drawn and coloured, played hide-n-seek, monsters, police-n-thief and brought them to restaurants and malls till they beg to be left at home. They now only want to go if it includes movies or sessions at Art Attack.

But I’m still trying to outdo myself. We went ice-skating last Sunday. I ended up on my rump a little too many times, LV swears he’s sprained his ankles and Decepticons pleaded to go home. I’m signing them up for holiday swimming lessons tomorrow, on top of the weekly sessions they have at the Club. That’ll take care of at least two weeks of weekdays. Perfect.

After that will be three nights at Club Med, Bali followed by another PD trip. If there’s any weekend left, we’ll slot in a Kebun camping or a Bukit Tinggi horse riding trip. Or if I’ve run out of steam or energy, another ice-skating trip would put a stop to my fear and it’ll be their turn to panic. And panic they will be... if I have anything to do with it.

The thing is, are they the ones complaining or I’m the one on a guilt-trip? Doesn’t really matter, does it. At the end of the day, we end up happy… albeit sometimes, bruised and wary. A family that plays together, stays together. That reminds me. I haven’t gotten them started on AEIOU or Ting-Ting yet. Another weekday woe gone. Darn…! I’m Good!

Pain & Agony

Let me tell you the feeling.

Your whole body is aching, your insides feel as if they’re clawing themselves out, your skin writhes on every touch. Your head weighs a tonne and is constantly buzzing, the back of your neck is strained and you feel the nerves of every inch of your anatomy clenched and stretched like a mechanism to endure utmost pain. Your throat is dry and the thought of food repulses your every core.

Every step you take feels like a knife forced into your skin. Every movement is agony. Your senses are amplified, the sound of singing birds are like thundering storms, the sight of lights of oncoming traffic feel like laser beams torched right into your soul. You even feel the strenuous effect of your body trying to breathe.

At this moment, you ceased caring. You don’t care whether there are terrorist attacks in London or Kedah is hit by another tsunami. You don’t care whether another building in Perak is on the verge of collapsing or that V.K.Lingam will be getting away scotch free. Heck, those are far too remote. Closer to home, you don’t care whether you will be home in time to play one round of Congkak with your kids or that they’re watching something on telly that they’re not supposed to be watching. Or that the maid had just scorched your linen lingerie and misplaced your favourite peddle-pushers. You just don’t care.

And hell raises when you’re blocked by a moron driving a grey MyV on the way home. The silly twit of a punkster driver who thinks he can swerve his way between a twelve-tyre container lorry and a Bas Persiaran. Come on, its 12 tyres for heavens sake! You’re a quarter of its length and you think you’re Rempit enough to wheeze through and be the first on the front line? I hate small-brained drivers. I hate it even more when they’re driving small cars and develop a low-esteem attitude of trying to prove to the world that they can be as fast and is as much of a bully-candidate as any other big car. Grow up, small car! Unless you can transform into a Megatron, to me and most road users, you’re a pesky pest, and should only be allowed on motorcycle lanes. That’s how much we think of you. (This applies only to drivers of small cars with character-misplacement issues).

And you curse under your breath and hold the horn down for two whole minutes, while negotiating maneuvering tactics around the punkster twit, and would have given him the finger if you hadn’t thought that it wasn’t quite a ladylike thing to do. And then you step on the gas and try to make it home in record time. And hell would have raised again if you were stopped by a petrol car for speeding.

And you reach home, a little worse for wear, and still in painstaking misery. And as you step out of the car, you missed a step and trip over your own foot and fall knee down on the rough pebblewash. And that had to hurt. It had to send a rippling stab right on your knee bone, passing through your thigh and landing in your stomach (it would be groin, if I had one), sending little gassy bubbles spreading in your tummy cells, exactly like little needle points on a wide open wound.

I would have torn my hair apart if I had the energy. I would have shouted and ranted and screamed at the top of my lungs and brought shame to my entire family if I wanted to. I told you I didn’t care, didn’t I.

But right at that moment, as by magic, it was decided that I had had enough of that I could take, and it was time to cut me some slack. It was decided that living three days of torture and being driven almost to the point of insanity was sufficient. I was forgiven and I have been spared.

I could feel liquid trickling down my thigh. And no more pain.

Ladies and gentlemen, my bubble has burst. Literally. The BOIL aka BISUL that had grown in the most unexpected of places, and Grow it did, and along the way, each growth spurt had rendered me less of a human being, had finally given up and exploded.

With a big chitty chitty bang bang, the volcano had erupted.

I am I once more. The reasonable, at most time pleasant person that I am is back. I can hear the birds singing sweet songs again, and I can see that the sky is a clear shade of blue.

But I still hate punkster twits driving small cars.

Flying High In The Sky

I had a dream last night. I dreamt that I was peering through a window, and looking into this majestic setting of a dining room, I could see a long table, precious stones encrusted, heavily laden with food, food, glorious food. There were cakes, éclairs, truffles, soufflés, macarons, scones filled with jam and cream, the prettiest cupcakes and all the bite-sized of everything chocolaty that you get at Shangri-La during Ramadhan. Notice I only mention dessert. I don’t know why. It could be that I just had something fishy for dinner and subconsciuosly pining for something sweet. But I’m a coffee person, not really much of a dessert freak, so why again is a big question. And why all the food was “England-mali Banyak sombong” – your guess is as good as mine.

But that’s not what this is about. The image of the food table obviously reminded me of Potter’s never-ending banquet dinners at Hogwarts, but what I remembered most about the dream was that I was peering into the window, and the window was 20 feet high. I was floating mid-air. I wasn’t horizontal or sideskirting, and I wasn’t flapping around with wings. I was fully upright, and my feet was squared on the floor of the air, just like it would be on solid land.

It was awesome. At least I think it was. Wait – was the floating part awesome, or salivating the food table awesome. Come to think about it, I honestly can’t remember. But I remembered something was awesome.

The thing is, I don’t dream. I don’t remember of any encounter of waking up in the middle of the night, jolted by a dream. Or waking up in the morning, all smiley faced, basking in the aftermath of a dream. If at all I do dream, then it’s all erased and gone ‘Poof’ by the time my eyes flicker open.

But this thing-of-a-dream lasted quite a while. The thought of me floating in mid-air gave me some sort of adrenalin rush, like a caffeine lift. Then my free-roaming mind would go on a minute detour, and all would be lost. No thanks to my slacking mind control, I could only hold that feeling for a measly few seconds. But even then… syiok ohh…

No wonder Superman, aliens, Puntianaks Sundal Malam and any other creature of nature or supernatural would choose to fly instead of any other mode of transportation. The weightlessness, breeze in your face, hands-free-carefree feeling is toxic.

And I just discovered something. I had fallen asleep watching the first episode of Heroes Season 2 yesterday. The last part was about a boy peering into the girl’s bedroom window. Second floor window, that is, and he was floating mid-air. And I was eating left over birthday cake while watching it.

So, my dream was cetak rompak. But the feeling was real. Maybe if I eat cake, and watch it again tonight, I could feel it again. It’s definitely cheaper than smoking, or injecting heroin or chasing the dragon, or doing whatever it is that people do to get high. Cake and Heroes’ the answer, man...

You fly... You fly high.

The Accident

I just came back from lunch with a colleague.

She drove, I happily sat next to her (oh the joy of being driven!), and as I’m such a penglipurlara, started to entertain her with weekend stories, and Bang! She hit the front car.

It was a horror of a car… and a monster of a driver. A white automobile, not exactly a car, but not quite a van. It had no H logo for Honda, or three stuck triangles for Mitsubishi… no logo, no name, no signature, so, do not expect me to know what make it was. I just know how to drive one… Schumacher style.

The vehicle was scratched and dented in more areas than one, left tail-light was broken, the back signal light was perpetually flashing, tyres were wobbling in a rather dangerous way, and it was terribly, awfully, filthy. And that was before the accident. After the accident - the vehicle remained the same. No extra dents or additional touch ups on existing scratches.

But the vehicle screeched to a stop and swung to the side - ala Police Story, the driver flung his door open with such force it could blow off a wig. He jumped off the seat and forced his way to the back of the car, with expressions so stormy – we would have frozen to death if we had dared to look in his eyes. But we didn’t dare. So we casted our eyes down, and stole little glances.

He was Huge. Monster truck huge. Big bulging muscles with tattoos on the right arm. I widened my eyes, just a teeny bit, to decipher the tattoos – a dragon could mean he belongs to the Ghee Hin / Hai San kongsi gelap tribe; little numbers and horizontal coordinates could mean he’s an international child adopter, like Angelina Jolie; a rose or heart could mean he’s a peace lover – (this one, easy… sap, sap, soi… we can cari makan…) But I can’t read this guy. Tattoos were symbols of Chinese characters – unintelligible. He was wearing a white T-shirt, sleeves rolled up, enhancing his die-hard muscles, baggy blue jeans and flip-flops. Hair was tightly cropped, with one earring in his right earlobe.

I glanced at my colleague. She was literally shaking. Her fingers were clenched so tight around the steering wheel, her knuckles turned white. She couldn’t say a word. Not a squeak even. I waited to see whether she wanted to say something, do something, scream, cry, whatever – No Response. The Tomb Raider warrior in me started to take over.

So I shook my head at my colleague asking her to stay in the car, and I stepped out. I went around our car to see the extent of the damage, but all I could see were tiny white scratches, which could even have been there before.

I took a deep breath and walked up to the driver. “I’m ready when you are, Mister… so let’s get on with it”. Of course I said that only in my heart.

He glared at me and swung open his boot in one forceful act. Why is everything about this guy forceful and fierce, so full of drama… So I said, “Macamana Towkay…?”

He looked up at me, stoic faced. Not a single smile.

“Hi yaa… Sikit punya cilita. Tila pa laa… Lu baik-baik jalan….” … And he proceeded with opening boxes filled with Sponge Bob soft toys….

What The??? What A Waste Of My All-Geared-Up-And-Ready–For-Action Emotions…..

Don’t judge a book by its cover.

Such a waste of my adventure-seeking time.

Pick-Em Up

I was in the basement of a parking lot, eyeing for the ticketing automachine. Once I saw it, I parked the car, got down and joined the 3-person queue. Another car (Beamer, nothing less…) zoomed by, and parked right behind my parked car. The owner of the Black Beamer stood behind me, rather close if I may say, and waited. Come on, what else was there to do? Just bear the slight inconvenience, and patiently wait your turn.

I guessed wrong. I felt a tap on my right shoulder, and I turned facing Black Beamer Owner. “Hi…”, he said. “Hi”.. I said, perplexed, not smiling. “Can I have the time, please?”, he said. I looked at my watch. “It’s 5 minutes past two”, I said. He smiled, extended his right hand and said, “Hi.. My name is Johan. I’m sorry, I’ve run out of cards at the moment, but I would like to get to know you. May I please have your card?”

For a split second, I went blank. Did that just happen? Was I being presented with a pick-up line way past my prime time, in a dark, stuffy, basement parking lot, while waiting in line to pay a ticket? Thoughts suddenly came rushing in my mind. When was the last time I heard a pick-up line? Not since the dating era, which seems so far back in time, that I couldn’t for the life of me remember. Even then, people would meet through friends, at after work social gatherings or business meetings, and you would just introduce each other, have a conversation, and if the need to continue the conversation arises, arrange for more business meetings, or more gatherings… in that order. Since you would by then have everybody’s business cards, then arranging meetings would just be a phone call or e-mail away.

So, when was the pick-up era then? School days, college days? I remember the wolf whistles while walking down the street on the way to Kedai Nyonya. Considering they could have come from contract workers, resting by the road side on their lunch break, I wouldn’t count that as a pick-up line. I remember a Hari Raya card with the words, “Pecah Kaca, Pecah Tong, Pecah Sudu… Sudah Baca, Harap Gantung, and I love You”. I could have been 11 years old, and since the sender of the card remained anonymous, I don’t think that would have passed for a pick-up line. You think? Another episode was a hand-written note, wrapped in clear plastic, left on the windshield of my car. It read, “Dear Lady Feroza, You and your car are parked in my heart for-evvuh…”. (Quick history tutorial, I was in 1999, driving a Daihatsu Feroza). Now, THAT, I would consider a pick-up line. At least it was original. Trouble is, sender was also anonymous.

What is it with these anonymous pick-uppers? How can we rate the success rates of pick-up lines if you don’t show your face? Unless they can read our facial expressions upon receiving the notes to indicate interest, proceed with caution, or a clear no-go sign, I would think it was a lost case attempt. Expecially when you have a solid stone for expressions… like me. Huh???

Anyway, point is, after raking my sleeping brains, I conclude that I’ve never been picked up. At least not the typical, corny “There must be something wrong with my eyes… I can’t take them off you” type. Either I’m not a pick-up candidate, or I scare them off so much so they have to remain anonymous.

So, the “Can I have the time” line from Black Beamer Owner is my grand, numero uno pick-up. Whoohoo! This calls for celebration! My reaction – Took my ticket, tossed my hair and said, “It’s okay… Maybe some other time…”. And strutted off to the car… After all, a Black Beamer, but no watch? Naaahh….

LV would have been so proud! (Err…I hope…)

Here’s some top liners. Maybe they ring a bell somewhere… in the far, far distance…

1. Do you believe in love at first sight, or should I walk by again?
2. If I could rewrite the alphabet, I would put U and I together.
3. If you were a new hamburger at McDonalds’s, you would be McGorgeous.
4. Are you a parking ticket? Cause you got fine-fine-fine written all over ya.
5. Baby, you must be a broom, coz you just swept me off my feet.
6. If I said you had a great body, would you hold it against me?
7. Girl, you must be tired coz you’ve been running through my mind all day!

Tales For Gloomy Weather

Preamble :

In order to avoid confusion, with due respect, He Who Can’t Be Named shall from hereinafter be referred to as “LV”. It could be Louis Vuitton, it could be Laling… ai Vely love you, or it could also be Lord Voldemort - suitability shall be in accordance to circumstances. The two Decepticons, in all their angelic deceptive con-artist selves, shall be termed as D1 and D2. Please be informed.


Today’s Wet and Gloomy. The rain in Spain falls noisily on my plain, and it ain’t look like its stoppin’…

Feeling wet, gloomy and mopy too. But 3 things spring to mind, and it brought out a tiny little smile…

On D2 : I fight with 4yr old D2 a minimum of 3 times a day. Everything is a negotiation, a blackmail or downright force measures, and nothing in between. I had just told her off for screaming at D1, and being a pleasant nice person that I am (LOL), I said in the most soothing of voices, “D2, you have to be good, ok. U have to speak nicely, you can’t scream or shout, and you must always, always listen to Mum and Dad and follow what they say all the time. I love you, and I know you can be such a good little girl, if you try. You’re my best little girl, u know that?” D2 looks at me and said, “Okay, you… you… You Big Scoldaholic!”… and ran off…. And she slammed the door. That got me going, so I rushed up, stared and glared at her and said, “What did you just do? You think you can get away with that?”… She looked up at me, tilted her head, and said, also in the soothest of voices, “Mama…. What big eyes you have….”. Enough said.

On a TV drama I happened to catch midway : The son is a super spoilt brat. The dad wants to ship him off to an uncle’s house in a far-away kampong. Son obviously refuses. Screaming match took place. Son says, “Papa, I promise I will change. But first, nak advance, Papa… ada sale kat kedai Fila…”. The dad blew his top. “Aku tak kigha. (Kedah slang)… Fila ka, Gila ka… Donna Karan ka, Minah Karan ka… DKNY ka, Dawai ka… The only thing you’re interested in changing are your girlfriends!!!”…. Desyum! Desyum! Kena penumbuk sebijik and the son got sent off…

On a statement LV said was given by a certain tollgate minister : (Must also say in slang…) “Saya amat berbangga dan rasa amat bersyukur, bahawa kita punya angkasawan sudah sapuloh hari meninggal dunia, dan saya amat suka, semalam dia sudah kebumi…”

Poor Dr. SMS… I feel for you. I truly do.

Hari Raya 2007

Its Saturday morning, the 8th day of Raya. One week after a whole month of preparations, anticipation and excitement of Ramadhan, and what transpired right after is a weekful of tummy stuffing and constipation. A glorious 30 days passed by, where greed and gluttony were suppressed, energy was at abundance and clothes were loose, but all was merely a passing dream come eve of Raya, when old habits return and you’re back to your old overfed, overstuffed, lack of energy self.

Hari Raya is not about ketupat, lemang, rendang, lodeh, kuah kacang and serunding. Its not about containers of rainbow coloured cookies or triple layer plates of kuih lapis, chocolate cakes or dodol. Its not about halwa masqat, kek suji or wajik. And neither is it about multiple channels of Raya musicals, movies and dramas featuring the crème of your local celebrities and sensational ‘artists-of-the-moment’. It should be about getting together with families and friends, asking and giving of forgiveness and the re-bonding of ties that were slightly severed in the mad busy world of everyday life. You want to meet more often, you want to ask about the new baby, the new job, the last taken holiday, which cousin married whose daughter, of course you do want to know, but like always, its just that the timing is never right.

So you make the compulsory drive balik kampung, on in my case, the overnight stays at the good ole parents’ house, since its only a 5-minute drive away. And you engage in the routine scurry for the best seat in front of the TV for Pengumuman Raya from the Penyimpan Mohor-Mohor Besar DiRaja, knowing fully well that it won’t be Raya, and you dash off for the last Terawikh and the day after, the last minute purchases of baking needs, Raya attire needs and the beginning of the cooking frenzy, both for the night Takbir men and the proper Raya festivities. And on Raya day itself, the men flock off to the mosque in full Malay regalia and the women get the table ready and laden with the fruits of yesterday’s labour. And when the men return, you’re well on your way to your old greedy and overfed self.

And long after the Maaf Zahir Batin and angpow sessions are over, which took perhaps only a few seconds, when THAT should have been what Raya is all about, all that’s left is the beautiful memory of the full table and the agonizing reality of sore tummies, diarrhea and constipation.

And I hate the fact that I’m always full of regret that I didn’t do it differently this time, yet never made an effort to change.

And what I had planned to do never materialised. Like teaching my kids the true meaning of Ramadhan and Shawal. Some things, like this and the new Astro 3-digit numbers, just take longer to understand. Other things, like getting constipated after all-you-can-eat rendang, doesn’t take that long…

Model Ambitions

I was running my fingers through my hair, looking at the ends and shafts, and as far as my eyes could see.

On a self-conducted analysis of my crowning glory, this is what I came out with :-

1. Texture : Softlike, drylike, still hair-like with a hint feeling of hay.
2. Length : 2 inches below the shoulder, but appears unbelievably sexy-long if styled at salons.
3. Thickness : Thick on the front and back, less on the sides, and may appear thin and limp if subject to abundance of conditioner.
4. Colour : This is where I’m at a loss for words. All shades of brown, auburn, blondish highlights, gold and absolutely no trace of black.

If I were a blue-eyed Caucasian, the colour description of my hair is next to normal. Pity, I’m not Caucasian, and neither am I normal.

When I was in primary school, leafing through my sister’s glossy Cosmopolitan magazines, I was always in awe of the leggy models, and the air of sophistication and grander-than-thou image that were projected. I assumed that it was every little girl’s dream to be a model, and was painfully ignorant most of the time of my physical limitations and less than generous gene-pool allocations. I obviously thought I had an advantage over ‘other’ girls - I was tall. Everybody knows that being tall is the prerequisite of any model-wannabe…Its just my luck that the advantage ended there.

Apart from being generously tall, I was generously endowed in other areas too. I wouldn’t mind if it was just the ‘booty n hootie’ parts, but no, it had to spread to all areas in between and all around, resulting into one glob of mass meat. Even if I were to cease eating for months, suck in my stomach and hold my breath till I turn grotesque blue, I will not be able to obtain the lithe, graceful figures of the cover girls. I know that and it’s not for lack of trying.

Since that was my major downfall, I couldn’t care less about the other ‘trivial’ matters… that you have to be stunningly attractive in person and sickeningly photogenic too. I had all the must-have attributes of a live model checked and crossed… (Cough! Cough! Ehem!) … crossed out, I mean. That leaves me with one final ace, which I know is definitely achievable.

I can at least have model hair. Peering through all the pages, most models if not all, had long, silky, bouncy, coloured hair. Black is not a colour. Neither is grey nor white. For me to achieve the status of having modelesque hair, it had to be of colour. There and then, I planted my ambition to grow and transform my hair to be in the running for the Next-Top-Model Hair. The first instant that I could, (it happened the time I completed secondary school) I had worked tirelessly to achieve that end – and I have yet to stop.

My hair has been bleached, dyed, coloured, permed (to drastic results), hot-air blasted, treated, twisted and tortured. The amount of stress that it had been subjected to, put it this way, if it had its own way, it would scramble off my head and chain itself to a tree with a giant banner “Stop Cruelty” plastered across.

Ekekekekekeke! But it can’t do that, can it? Kekekekekke! (Evil laugh, slanty eyes, sloppy sneer… oh what the hoot… eerie classical music, cold drafts, screams in the background…the works…)

“Where did you do your hair” (when it’s only been blown dried at home)
“Such nice colours, you must give me the number of your hairdresser” (maybe, if I think you’re nice)
“Your hair always looks like you’ve had it styled at the salon” (It hasn’t, but since you think it is, you’re now my BFF)
Added bonus, my father thinks I’m blessed with original brown hair from birth – the poor dear…

People, people, people… With all those kind remarks thrown at me again and again, you think I would stop and think how miserable my hair feels? Think again. I have however, detected some form of rebellion, bouncy slowly regressing to lifeless, strong strands turning brittle, shiny downgraded to dry and damaged. Poor unfortunate, tortured souls of my stresses (no pun intended) – I’m not done with you yet. If it’s a battle you want, a battle you shall get. Lets make it cold and bloody too.

Nothing gets between me and my perasan-model-wannabe hair. And if you think it’s a fraction of my freaky imagination, you haven’t caught a whiff of my passionfruit soaked and cranberry scented lightly oil-sprayed hair, sexily arranged against a white Damask pillow, the myriad of gold and brown hues of each strand offset against the white cotton…

U know what I mean…

Ekekekekekekekeke!!!!!!

I'm Sorry

Story 1

My brother, sister-in-law and I had just returned home from the movies, and we were sharing jokes as we walked towards the elevator, completely absorbed in our maniacal bubble of hyena laughs, arms aflailing in the execution of our comedy. My brother’s cellphone rang. It was Mum sounding very urgent, telling us to get home quickly, and she wouldn’t say why. The atmosphere in the car on the journey home was thick with tension, one could slice it with a knife. The mixture of emotions, mostly fear, could be seen in everyone’s faces, yet nobody uttered a word. Each was lost in his and her world of unanswered questions which the other person was not a privy to.

We reached home to the sight of a very familiar car parked at the entrance. In retrospect, what we had probably felt was demeaning to the truth of the matter. We knew what we were to find out wouldn’t be as bad as we thought, and we were relieved, only for the selfish reason that whatever bad news that would be, it would be worse for the bearer than it would be for us. A close family friend was in the living room, his face white as sheet. His son had gone missing for two days – but they’ve found him now.

His 20-year old son had woken up, kissed his Mum goodbye and left home to sit for a university exam at 7 in the morning. Two days later, they found his car by the Penang bridge, car keys, wallet and personal items neatly arranged on the front seat. He had jumped off…


Story 2

Walking down the hills from afternoon tutorial, I remembered being on very high spirits. It was a Thursday, the last day of classes. I had made plans to go with some friends to Coles for late night grocery shopping, and end it with a 3-movie marathon at Chadstone Shopping Mall with a quick dash to the Pancake Parlour. I knew I was on high spirits because I walked. I had a much beloved lime green automatic 5-door Honda Civic, which I called “Morsche” – hundred per cent Porsche to me – and the uncountable number of friends who’ve jumped in the back for endless rides. And I’m such a Morsche fan, that I refuse to walk if I can drive, no matter how ridiculously short the distance unless I’m feeling extraordinarily happy and high spirited.

I got back to my room in Richardson Hall, flung my Country Road duffle and was just about to switch the TV on, when someone knocked. I had a call on the landing extension.

My childhood friend’s voice rang in my ears. She was trembling, her words slow and soft, every other word made even more inaudible by her tears. She had just made plans to be engaged to her boyfriend, news which I was ecstatic about as their relationship was not plain sailing. But things had to change. Her father had passed away three days ago, and her mother and other family members have decided that she had to end the relationship…


Story 3

I was at the office, painfully trying to lessen my workload which had crept up unnoticed like an irritating pimple. I know I was no longer paying attention to the 5-day turnaround time, something which I once prided myself in the ability to set the benchmark and complete successfully. I had other matters of concern. I had met a girl through a chance meeting with some friends, and in a short period of time, she had turned to be a dear acquaintance. An acquaintance who equally has a wicked sense of humour, a demented way of looking at things, and thinks nothing of paying RM450 for a top, which truthfully was quite ordinary bordering plain even, but because she just had to have it. She talks, acts and breathes Me. I had found a comrade who speaks my language.

I was thinking about her while reading an e-mail, when my thoughts were rudely interrupted by the unmistaken song by My Chemical Romance. One look at the phone tells me its her. I picked the phone up, hearing her loud and clear, her distraught voice showing evidence of what she was going to say. Her old friend’s mother had just passed away without cause or reason. She was stumped, caught by the enormity of the incidence. She knew him well, she knew his parents well. They shared so much together. So unprepared was her for the news, that she felt faint, heart and body wrenched with shock, sadness and empathy. She was heartbroken…


The Ugly Realisation

Three stories, three different scenarios. But after every single event, I couldn’t stop saying I’m Sorry. It was all I could say, over and over again like some dumb puppet. The continuous sound of my voice sounded so hollow and fake, even to my very own ears. I imagined how they felt. I knew how they felt. I felt it too. For every episode, I was hit by an unexplainable rush of emotions, the sharp sensation that my heart would burst into a million pieces. But I had no idea how to interpret them into words. I had no clue how to take their pain away, to make it remotely better for them.

How do you react when you’re faced with someone else’s bad news? Do you give them a hug, hold their hand or cry with them? Do you tell them that you’ll be there for them, that everything will be alright and that time would heal all? How would you know that? Do you keep silent, letting them talk instead, while you take in the pain and hope that their sorrows will go away? How do you convey the message without sounding like a broken record, without sounding aloof or pretentious even?

I’m all typed out. In hindsight, I realized that I acted as how I genuinely felt. Given the chance, I would have said more, or did more and said less, but all that would not make it less hard for the recipient. I was Sorry. From the bottom of my heart, I was sorry for what they had to go through, and all I could be, was a spectator of the devastating event that had forever changed their lives. But I sincerely hope, that the little that I had to say, brought some form of comfort no matter how small. I may not be there with you in person, but I always have you in my thoughts and pray that you’ll be strong to face what life lays out for you. People say that every cloud is laced by a silver lining. It is my honour and pride to help you find it.

A Moment Of Amazement

I'm at my desk alone, facing the computer, during lunch time.

The stillness, the soft beeping of the fax machine, the 'psst-psst' sound of the air freshener... all intensified in the silence. It's actually quiet and peaceful. Eerily silent. Amazing... I can get used to this.

See how little it takes to amaze me? Let me set the background facts. My office is a hustle and bustle of activity. People continuously entering and exiting, office girls answering calls, talking to clients, typing furiously on keyboards and electric typewriters (all at the same time, mind you...), despatch boys shouting from one end to the other negotiating who should take which task, bosses rushing in and out of rooms, all tangly haired and head frowns deepening as the day goes by, associates tending to documents, calls, people... and more people, twenty printing machines going on non-stop. Its a sea of activity of people and things. You get the picture.

But once the clock strikes one, everything stops. Hickory Dickory Dock and Voila! Its like you've been transported to a different time zone, different place even. Even the calls stop coming in. There must be a pre-answered recording, saying "It's Lunchtime, Dufus! As if you're going to be entertained...?". A few receipts of that would probably stop people from calling at the forsaken hour of 1pm to 2pm. I've yet to check.. but that could be it.

I get the best view of the office from where I'm sitting. In my lonely little end-room, decked in one-sided mirror walls, I get to see everybody's movement, even the reception area.... all one-sided. Genius, huh? I see All. I can sit cross-legged, or feet up on the table, puffing cigars, watching DVDs all day long, and no one would be any wiser. But then, the smoke and cigar smell would give me away. And if anyone approaches, it'll take special skills to turn off the movie, re-arrange my legs and skirt, and pretend to be busily tapping on the keyboard in one smooth, suave move. Right... getting a bit carried away here, that could be a different story, but what I'm saying is, from my first class view right now, the office is ... completely empty. No movement whatsoever. As still as dark water...

And I'm loving it! For once, I can think. The stillness is redirecting oxygen into my deprived brain cells, and it's soothing in pure calmness. In fact, I kid you not, I feel sudden bursts of energy in my head... revamping my movement of thoughts. I'm all energized now. Re-wired. I can now tackle the most headstrong of clients easily, no problems. Calls? Problematic files? No worries, mate! Bring it on....!

Is that all it takes to jumpstart your system? A moment of silence. A well-deserved break of momentary shut-down. Its funny how easily you forget the simple things. How the easiest solution is often brushed aside to make way for the complicated. When our minds get all stressed up, we buy new CDs, watch the latest movies, go for a holiday... all things which require planning, organising, and exchange of dollar bills. So maybe some part of our anatomy does relax... except the part which requires it most. The mind. The Brain. When what it takes to get them all together, is actually... a little peace. A bit of inactivity for the mind. The cheapest and most simple of solutions... but the most difficult to achieve.

Noooo! The first ring of the phone just began. The door opens... and people in all shapes and sizes come marching in. There goes my moment. My Moment... taken away, just like that in a snap. Oh well.... I had it for a while. And it was pretty amazing.

Now I've gotta go raid the pantry. Aah.... I see some girls with cut fruits in clear plastic. Time to jumpstart another part of the anatomy. The loud, grumbling one...

Numero Uno

My first posting in my own blog.

I tried painting, but it took too long to finish. Plus added pressure by surroundings (read - Hubby & Kiddos.. I will come up with suitable names for them later..) made me stop painting just as a form of protest. I tried banging on the piano keys, but since piano's in mum's house and now there's no keys since they've been sent for repair (somehow, they took just the keys... the piano's still there)... anyway, so that can't be my platform. I tried gardening, but realised that the gardener could do a better job. So..., since none worked, lets give this blogger-thingyabob a try.

And if it still doesn't work, maybe I'll try cooking or singing (bwahahahaha!), or list myself up for the next cosmonaut venture... We'll see how it goes.