tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-51907192132375961072024-02-09T02:12:55.749+08:00When A Tigress RoarsTigresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13878290476103640968noreply@blogger.comBlogger19125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5190719213237596107.post-18676784482342868632009-01-21T13:16:00.006+08:002009-01-21T13:39:36.472+08:00The Million Dollar Question<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" >Why would you need another pair of shoes when the one you have is perfectly fine?</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10;"><span style="font-size:100%;">That’s a trick question. It requires a lot of thought, and if answered a minute too soon, might haunt you for the rest of your life.</span> <o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" >Drama. Jangan Tak Drama.</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10;"><o:p></o:p><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">You have a reasonably reliable pair of shoes. They’re a timeless pair, black, sturdy, hand stitched all around, and boast a fashionable and trendy name. You had to have them the moment you set your eyes on them. The image of those shiny patent on the equally shiny wooden rack would be flashed again and again in your mind, interrupting your speech and your daily routine. If on a woman, you imagine them on your feet, adding just that extra inch to transform you from the girl-next-door into a professional, confident fashionista. Every man will turn when you strut your stuff, and every woman would turn green in envy. If on a man, you could stride in pride across boardrooms, shaking hands with flair, confident that that deal will be in your hands by the end of the day, due to the impressive way the shoes made you carry yourself. And don’t even start on the number of women that would be blown away by your mere presence..</span><o:p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"></o:p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">So you buy them. You treat them with great TLC, and indeed, it was proven time and again, that they served you with exact precision with what you had had in mind. They were comfortable, they perk you up in a way that no other shoes can. With them on your feet, you have the world in your hands. The shoes become you.</span></span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10;"><o:p></o:p><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Until you see the matt brown leather pair that just happened to be featured in the latest magazine. </span><o:p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10;"><o:p></o:p><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" >And you imagine how this pair, would for women, make you a little bit more sexy, bold and mesmerizing… and would for men, make you taller, solve issues even better, see things clearer and best of all, would elevate your status to “ You’ve Made It”.</span> <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10;"><o:p></o:p><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Now what would you do…</span></span><span style=";font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Black Pair’s perfectly fine.</span></span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"></o:p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Scrutinize every detail to find fault with Black Pair? Get Matt Brown anyway and justify it later? Rationalise by drumming it into you that Black Pair’s perfectly fine, but so is Matt Brown.. and you can deal with two pairs?</span></span> <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10;"><o:p></o:p><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">This is exactly what I mean. Do you need to find fault with the old to justify the new, or be content that it shouldn’t be rattling on your conscience since you need both, you can take care of both, and both will in the long run, make you a happier person?</span><o:p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10;"><o:p></o:p><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" >Now apply the same concept to these situations :</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: -0.25in; font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10;"><o:p></o:p><span style="font-size:100%;">a)<span style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-size:10;"><span style="font-size:100%;">why need an extra child when the number you have is already perfect?</span><o:p></o:p></span></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: -0.25in; font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="">b)<span style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-size:10;"><span style="font-size:100%;">why find new friends when the ones you have are good enough?</span> <o:p></o:p></span></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: -0.25in; font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="">c)<span style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-size:10;"><span style="font-size:100%;">and the killer of all questions : why seek a different woman/man when the woman/man you’re with is perfectly fine?</span><o:p></o:p></span></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-size:10;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" ><span style=";font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" ><br />And the answer would be? Let me know, please... :-P</span><o:p></o:p></span></p>Tigresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13878290476103640968noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5190719213237596107.post-54874876167406375802008-10-22T12:24:00.004+08:002008-10-22T12:47:44.278+08:00Pengantins & Fairies<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><b style=""><u><span style=""><span style="font-weight: bold; font-family: trebuchet ms;">Note : This is an old entry, newly produced after finding it tucked away in remote, forgotten files. It happens.</span><br /><o:p></o:p></span></u></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">I was looking at the two girls playing together. One of the very rare occasions that they can do that - without tearing each other’s hair out or hurling accusations at top pitched voices. D1 (7) was a Pengantin, complete with lace trimmed gown, glittering crown, waist length veil, flower bouquet – the works. D2 (4) was a multiple role player, from the bridesmaid, groom, kompang boy, confetti-throwing guest, to the Director giving specific instructions. </span><o:p> </o:p><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Somehow, their role playing befits their characters perfectly. D1 is a sweet natured, gentle, determined perfectionist. The perfect textbook kid. D2 is … Not. Where D1 is sweet, D2 is grumpy. Where D1 is gentle, D2 is rough, forceful and loud. Wait, I tell a lie. She’s not loud. She’s </span><b style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><u>LOUD</u></b><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">.</span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"> </span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">But there are similarities. D2 is also a determined perfectionist. She is 24/7 determined to get things perfectly done her way. And hell hath no fury like a grumpy, forceful, loud 4-year old, and condolences to those who dare to get in her way. </span><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span><o:p> </o:p><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: trebuchet ms;"><span style=";font-size:100%;" >Except that people do get in her way, because D2 looks like an angel. If looks are said to be deceiving, with big round eyes, soft curls, and cherubic face, then D2 is living proof. The only tell tale sign that all is not quite as it seems, is when after every “Aiyaa.. so cuteee! So adorable one la you little girl..” remark, would quickly be followed by “Oiit..! Don’t do that! You come back here, you….*&%^”. (Original remark deleted to avoid defamation suits).<span style=""> </span><o:p> </o:p><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Back to the Pengantin scene.</span> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" ><o:p></o:p><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Only now, the scene has changed. D1 is in a floaty, pink fairy dress, with wings. I don’t know where D2 is. But wait, she’s making her entrance now. D2 is in a policeman outfit. She’s blowing hard on the whistle, left hand holding a walkie-talkie, right hand dangling a set of handcuffs. She’s shouting real loud now. Annoyingly loud. She’s on a mission. Someone has just reported a fairy stealing jewellery, someone called “Krita Fatasha”, and the police is here to do justice. She grabs hold of the fairy, twists both her arms, slaps the cuffs on and marches her down to the prison. All</span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"> </span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">these when the poor fairy was bending down to put on her glittery platform shoes, singing softly to herself. Poor fairy… she was caught by surprise like a chicken in a tsunami.</span> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 12pt;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Pengantins and Fairies. How times have changed. I try to stretch my mind as far back as I could - and that’s a lot of stretching – but I don’t remember ever playing Pengantins and Fairies. Neither do I remember being a princess, a queen or all things nice, sugar and spice that little girls are made of. It always has to be ala </span><i style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Bawang Putih Bawang Merah</i><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">, or </span><i style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Ratapan Anak Tiri</i><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"> – and I was always the tortured soul.</span> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 12pt;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" ><o:p></o:p><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">I remember playing Cinderella, being bullied and abused by the stepmother and two step-sisters, or I was a child that nobody wanted and was forced to leave the house in the middle of the night amidst heavy downpour. The latter would take place in the bathroom, and I’ll be under the shower (cold, heavy rain?), shuffling on the floor, bent under the weight of my imaginary bundle of clothes, crying my eyes out seeking for shelter. I would act until my fingers turned blue and shriveled into prunes. The former would be acted in front of my mother’s floor length mirror, and I would be jumping from one scene to the other, playing first the mother (cruel and abusive), then Cinderella (begging for mercy, pleading and always trying to please the mother). And when I say ‘jumping’, that was not a metaphor. I would be jumping first on one side to play mum, then jump to the other side to play Cinderella. Jump, Jump… Act, Act… It was a one-person theater, with multi-players, and I was lost happily confused being both the heroin and the villain.</span> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 12pt;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" ><o:p></o:p><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Having said that, I’m beginning to question my childhood. Why wasn’t I playing Pengantins? Maybe not fairies, although I could have as I was an ardent fan of Enid Blyton and her world is full of fairies, pixies and goblins. Did the choice of childhood games contribute to the making of the weird, complex individual that I am now? I will have to have a word with my mummy…</span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" ><o:p><br /></o:p><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Back to the Police and Fairy scene. </span><o:p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><br /><br /></o:p><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">I'm sorry, I will be zoning off now, because the scene is no longer serene, and the two girls are not playing together anymore. They’re killing each other, if not physically then definitely audibly. The screams, the wailings, the you-did-this, no-its-your-fault, I’m-telling-on-you cries is like a jolt down familiar lane, too familiar and too often for my liking. Maybe that’s why all those years, I chose to play a one person game. Its probably more fun to handcuff yourself, then jump to the other side pleading to be free, then jump back to decide whether to be nice or mean. Jump, jump… Act, act… </span><o:p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10;" ><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" ><o:p></o:p>Yes. Those were the good old days.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p>Tigresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13878290476103640968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5190719213237596107.post-92157320087786680552008-06-04T12:18:00.010+08:002008-06-04T13:51:30.299+08:00Tagged!<div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Tagged! (by The Jah aka Once an Ayam Serama)<br /></span></div><br /><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">• Link to your tagger and post these rules.<br /><br />* List eight (8) random facts about yourself.<br />* Tag eight people at the end of this post and list their names.<br />* Let them know they’ve been tagged by leaving them a comment on their blogs.<br /></span></div><br /><div align="justify"><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I honestly don’t know what to do when I get tagged. </span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br /></div></span><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Is this like the game “Tag! You’re It!!”… followed by main kejar-kejar, where you run like mad after someone and touch any part of that person, and either you run away from him/her (because he/she’s now the catcher) or you sit down, which means he/she has to run after someone else instead. So, say it is like the physically exhausting game, what happens if I choose to sit down? Do I have to wait for someone to ‘sep’ me, before I can carry on blogging?<br /></span></div><div align="justify"><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Cool… Works perfectly. Ok, so the reason for me not being able to update is because I have yet to wait for anyone to ‘sep’ me. Meaning, I’ll have to wait forever.<br /><br />But in the mean time, The Jah, this is for you.<br /><br /><br />*By own admission, I’m a control freak. I have to do things which I plan to do, My Way, or No Way. Don’t get me wrong, if I’m told to do a task, and there’s instructions on how the end product will be, then I will produce the end product, by hook or by crook. It will be done and it will be awesome (lah di daa di daa). Just don’t interfere on how it is to be done. I don’t just swell up 3 times bigger, I might just be a little life threatening.<br /><br />* I usually look at things differently from how others would.<br /><br />If someone sees a leather clad guy sporting a mohawk, one would think that this person is a misfit, running wild in a dangerous group… I would be thinking how uncomfortable his sleep must be with all that standing hair, and that all that leather must be making him feel unpleasantly hot. We both would feel pity for the guy, but for very different reasons. If there is a bunch of monkeys while walking along the road, one would turn back for fear of being attacked, or clutch a long stick to fend them off… I would be so excited, and would run up to them to gawk at their natural habitat, to stare at the young clutching at their momma’s tummy, all the time chattering away to them… and I would not be attacked. If it was at a mall at 1pm, one would not even venture into the parking lot unless they’ve got ‘Preferred Parking’ passes or park high, high up or far, far away…. I would just think that someone who had an early lunch would surely be making her way out now, and I’ll drive head on into the full parking lot, and voila… right in front, a car is driving out.<br /><br />Don’t blame me. I’m just wired differently. </span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br /></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">* I like all things weird, bloody and gory.<br /></span></div><div align="justify"><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I like scary movies, spooky hauntings, objects slaughtered, ripped off or skinned alive, fatal accidents, mass bloodshed and the list goes on. Expecially if it happens to deserving people. I think, that could run in the blood. We were watching a Spanish matador bull-fight on telly one night, and Dad was whole heartedly cheering and goading… for the bull to step on the Matador’s skull. His exact words, “Kill the bugger!”</span> <p></p><p align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Chromosome defects cannot be explained, just understood. </span></p><p align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">* I don’t eat, I graze. </span></p><p align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I eat when I feel like eating, not because it’s required of me. When I want to eat, even a starved oink-oink would be put to shame. But if I choose not to, its because I have other important things on my mind… like mentally choosing between a turquoise sheer blouse or an orchard brown glitzy top, or busily contemplating when I can fake an outside client meeting just to purchase the item, and serious follow up pondering of when and where the hoot do I get to wear the item when I do purchase it. </span></p><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Such serious issues need more brainwork than eating. Of course its also due to my feelings of empathy towards the Myanmar typhoon and China earthquake victims. Of course, of course. That goes without saying.<br /></span></div><br /><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">(“ … slinks away with head hung relatively low, due to great, unexplained shame…”).<br /></span></div><br /><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><br /><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">* I have to walk on the left of a person walking by my side.<br /></span></div><br /><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I am not deaf in the left ear, neither do I have a limp in either leg. I’m just so used to tilt my head to the right to talk to the person next to me. If I attempt to do the opposite, I would automatically be off-balance. I will trip over my own feet, I will start getting paralysingly annoyed and I cannot promise that I wouldn’t end up eating the head of the person who’s mere bad luck was to walk on My left.<br /></span></div><br /><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">* I dislike physical activities with a vengeance.<br /></span></div><br /><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I did play basketball in school, I went for jungle trekking and camped by rivers in my younger days, I grudgingly followed an exercise routine after the births of each Decepticon, and done my fair share of running and skipping merely to entertain them.<br /></span></div><div align="justify"><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Today, I make monthly payments as a member of a fitness centre (more of they just deduct it from my card), and on last count, the last time I’ve paid them a visit was precisely 1 ¾ years ago. Hey, it’s the thought that counts. Your rolls of fat surprisingly melts away when you make the effort to keep them away… in my case, its done by telepathic transmission of being a gym member.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">My nonexistent ‘muskel’ can be seen with sheer determination of the mind. Betul. Tak tipu. I see them. Bulging lagi…<br /></span></div><br /><div align="justify"><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">*I prefer reading to watching television, forced conversations or any other activity which remotely hints of physical exertion (shopping excluded). </span><p></p><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">* I’m a big fan of Indonesian music, and I’m not the slightest bit embarrassed to admit it. I don’t buy albums though, I just download them into my iPod. So yes, I’m a free-loader. Tough. So sue me.<br /><br /></span></div><br /><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I feel so self-centred, writing a piece on “I, I, I”. So like diva only. And because of point 7, I don’t have 8 friends to tag. Consider me as a non-tagger. The Jah, my job is done. I now choose to snooze for another month. </span></div></div></div>Tigresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13878290476103640968noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5190719213237596107.post-49577681212706634572008-05-07T13:41:00.007+08:002008-05-07T13:58:05.646+08:00Warning : An Emo Entry<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: verdana;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10;">From a very young age, you are encouraged to think. To decipher events and causes and ponder why things happen. Its easy when you’re little – neglect your teeth and your pearly whites will rot; too much play and tv and your grades will come tumbling down after; behave improperly and you get a telling off or a whack on your rump. Matters are black and white and no exceptions apply.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: verdana;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10;"><br />When you grow up a little, things start to turn grey. You realize that things are not always fair. The naughtiest girl in school who never seemed to study keeps on getting first in class; you’ve behaved like an angel the whole week and yet you still couldn’t go to a friend’s sleep-over. The concept of ‘Good Things Happen to Good people’ doesn’t seem to be quite relevant anymore. In fact, there are times when your faith is challenged when you keep observing again and again that Bad People have it all and seems to have the world swept right under their feet.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: verdana;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10;"><br />So it comes to no surprise that I couldn’t come up with an answer when many unexplained things took place around me. Why the dearest of ladies, the one person who couldn’t hurt a fly, who had worked tirelessly since the age of fifteen to make ends meet to fend for her eight children, would suffer a chronic heart attack and lay day in day out in the CCU unit of Institut Jantung Negara. Why the 32-yr old mother of two, who went into a simple day surgery to have her tonsils removed, went to sleep in her room post-surgery and never woke up again. Why a dear colleague who’s always smiling and ready to help, who was elated and over the moon (to put it mildly) when she found out she was pregnant, went to her Gynae for a routine 6 month pre-natal check-up, only to be told that there was no longer a heartbeat. Why a well renowned heart transplant doctor, a dear husband, father and acquaintance, who saved thousands of lives, drove back from his kebun with his gardener on a route he had taken countless times before, made a fatal error of judgment and collided head-on with a passing lorry, and the gardener, unscathed, lived to tell the tale.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: verdana;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10;"><br />I’m no cynic, and I hate being in such a melodramatic mood. But it drains the energy out of me trying to figure out how to explain the facts of life to an 8 and 4 year old. To try to put it into their perspective of simple black and white. The concept of qada and qadar is too advanced, incomprehensible to their minds. They see, feel and hear things, but they don’t necessarily understand. They realize that you’re upset, they know that something bad has happened, and they keep wanting to know why it happened. They want to understand.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: verdana;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10;"><br />And I can’t do that. I can’t explain to them why things happen the way they do. The best that I can say is that God takes away the people He loves the most… the Good People. Which brought a question from D1 of why then should she be good, and be taken away, which would cause pain and sadness to her family, not to mention herself? Stand to reason why one would opt to be good in the first place. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: verdana;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10;"><br />Its easy when its self-caused. If a young, generous, successful car dealer meets his untimely demise due to lung cancer, its not too difficult to explain that that’s quite possible when you’re smoking 3 packets of cigarettes a day. Or when a boy hardly past his teens crashes into a tree during a mat rempit full stunt joyride. Clearly, those are black and white issues.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: verdana;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10;"><br />It’s the grey matters that I need help on. Help me to help them. <o:p><br /></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: verdana;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10;"><o:p><br />Or I could just give you my phone number and you do the explaining to the Decons. Whatever works.<br /></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" ><br /><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size:11;"><st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on"></st1:place></st1:city><o:p></o:p></span></p>Tigresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13878290476103640968noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5190719213237596107.post-66888167518044057952008-04-03T11:03:00.006+08:002008-04-03T11:22:39.952+08:00What The?<div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I came across three teenaged boys at 7-11, all donned up in white shirts, green trousers and black shoes. They looked the typical secondary school boys, except for two distinctive factors. 1. They were sporting black shoes. 2. They look and sound different.<br /><br />The fact that they were wearing black shoes shouldn’t be a strange factor. But I notice that schools around my area do not have boys wearing black shoes, unless they’re some sort of union-group members i.e prefects, librarians, etc. Then their uniforms will be different. Different, weird and in the school’s attempt to outdo other schools on the who-can-design-the-most-outrageous-uniform… I must say, downright ugly too. Sorry. Just my personal opinion. These boys on the other hand, were wearing the normal public school attire.<br /><br />They look different. This mainly is again, because the norm in my area, the boys normally look outrageously good looking, hair symmetrically razored and cut to the ‘in’ do of the moment – Ariel Peter Pan look-alikes, some Korean “My name is Rain” superstar or laid back 'I couldn’t care less' hair, which screams a minimum RM100 tag. Yup. The local school boys here don’t even look of any particular race anymore. Fused and scrambled in a concoction of easy money, they now all look like each other and related somehow, like an osmosis product in a melting pot.<br /><br />Now, <em>these</em> boys were different. They were all in short, no nonsense haircuts, cuts that carries the proud look and feel of kedai India barbershops, the ones with the blue, white and red pole of spiral stripes lighting up to clearly indicate that they’re open for business. They were strong, male, macho cuts. Not some namby-pamby boy band cuts. And these boys wore them well. (Although I have to admit that they were fair, tall, lanky and err… red-lipped too… but you can tell, they were boys through and through. No gender confusion here).<br /><br />They sound different. Okay, this is why my attention turned to them. I am not, (I stress) in the habit of checking out school boys in their uniforms. I am not the female version of Males leering at Brittney Spears in pigtails. Yuckss! The reason I found these boys interesting, was because of their conversation.<br /><br />Boy 1 : “Apa la engkau ni, <u>banyak cekadak</u> betul… Beli je la…”<br />Boy 2 : “Taknak la. Nanti warden tangkap, mati aku…”<br />Boy 1 : “ Ala… beli je la. Kalau kau beli, aku <u>tabik spring</u> dengan kau…”<br />Boy 2 : “Taknak. Kalau kena <u>penampar maut</u> dengan warden, confirm bapak aku pun tumpang <u>belasah</u> aku sekali…”<br />Boy 1 : “Aku cover la. Kau jalan dulu. Kalau problem, campak je. Aku tunggu kat <u>Tangga Bradley</u>…”<br />Boy 3 : “Eh, aku pun nak. Aku <u>derb</u>!”<br /><br />I had to laugh when I heard them. First, they were using phrases that I used to use when I attended that certain boarding school, back in all those years. Its good to know that the underlined phrases are still alive and doing their rounds. I used and abused the same phrases right up to Form Five, and mysteriously, they left me when I left the school. Although I could have sounded different since I was banned from ever using “Engkau-Aku” phrases, no thanks to mummy dearest spreading red chilly on my mouth when she first heard me using them with a friend over the phone. Suffice to say, I can’t even say those terms again without feeling a chill(y). Apart from that, the boarding school lingo was still part and parcel of everyday talk. In school that is. It somehow didn’t fit my home environment.<br /><br />But, I swear, my heart literally stopped when Boy 1 mentioned “Tangga Bradley”. The same staircase that we were forced to step up and down, and count and recount every step during Orientation Week. The stairs that we used to go back and forth from class-hostel-prep-dewan makan-hostel. The connector of two lives – the academic and the appearingly normal. Runs deep in history, those stairs.<br /><br />So, me being me, I couldn’t contain my excitement, and approached the boys.<br /><br />Me : “Adik, U all ni sekolah asrama kan? Sekolah “tut-tut-tut” ke?”<br />Boy : “ Betul la tu”.<br />Me : “ Yang Selangor ke yang KL?”<br />Boy : “ Yang original la… yang KL. Yang Selangor tak ori…”<br />Me : (chuckled, completely agreeing with them)<br /><br />Then came the Mother of all questions. The missile that rudely jerked me out of memory lane, back to the harsh world of reality.<br /><br />Boy : “Kenapa Aunty? Anak Aunty sekolah situ ke? Form berapa? Entah-entah kitorang kenal…”<br /><br />What the…? Aunty? I’m only in my thirties, and you call me Aunty? Do I look Aunty-ish to you? You’re bigger and taller than me, and YOU call me Aunty? And “Anak Aunty sekolah situ?” What sort of question is that? My anak just started primary school, but you think I’m Aunty enough to have a child in your class? What, you think I got married at 17?<br /><br />Poor boys. They never knew what hit them. With a cold stare, I brushed them aside abruptly, paid my purchases and stormed off. Two steps off. Then I realized what an ‘Itch with a silent B’ I was, turned back and said sweetly, “Takla… <em>Akak</em> yang dulu sekolah situ. Kirim salam kat Tangga Bradley nanti, ye….”<br /><br />Then it hit me too. First, I became paranoid when being termed “Aunty”, when in fact I was termed as such by Decepticons’ friends. Talk about being in serious denial. Then, this paranoid being of an Aunty asked to send her regards to … a staircase. Even though glamorously named “Bradley”, it was and still is a tangga. What the…?<br /><br />It could be slow signs of dementia. It could be apparent signs of identity crisis. Whatever it is, I’ve got to work on it fast. <em>Memalukan sungguh…..</em> </span></div>Tigresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13878290476103640968noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5190719213237596107.post-37315551079839762012008-02-11T16:09:00.004+08:002008-02-13T12:47:25.165+08:00Antara KL dan Jakarta<div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">The four of us were in the car, driven by a black leather jacketed chap with midnight shades. Luggages were piled in the trunk, and we were happy-clappy all the way, all revved up to begin our journey. Passport – check. Tickets – check. Attire – very tourisy and perasan cool. Check.<br /><br />And then the text message came in. Sukarno-Hatta Airport had been shut down since 10 this morning due to bad flood.<br /><br />Granted, we were only going to Jakarta – not a far-fetched, romantic, getaway resort on a remote island somewhere. Still… We were looking forward to this trip for weeks. It was supposed to be a kids-free holiday. One which we planned to eat, walk, eat, shop, eat, eat till our hearts’ content, and in that order. The gals had refused to eat the whole week, just to make room for the eating spree weekend. The guys, well, they didn’t not eat.<br /><br />So, telling us that we might not be able to engage into our makan marathon, that is not on. So on the spot, we made plans. Lets get tickets to Bangkok instead. We can roam the night markets and try the crickets, grasshopper and livestock menu. We can visit the ‘adult only’ areas and act like we’re on our honeymoon. We can buy fakes. Loads of fakes. Or maybe, lets go to Macau instead. The Asian Las Vegas. We might have to deliberate long on every choice of food, but then, no pain no gain. We can take pain. We can try our hand on the bingo machines, and with the extra moo-lah that we’ll make, since we can’t spend them on food, then maybe, yes… we can buy fakes. Loads of fakes. Now, do we bring our rupiah, or change at the airport, or at the casinos…<br /><br />Amidst the tossing of venue ideas, and the constant squabble of menu choices, we reached the airport. KLM was right on schedule. Not even a half minute delay. So much for crickets and jackpots, we were way on our way to Jakarta.<br /><br />Of course-lah we got there as scheduled. Aeroplanes travel by air, why would it be affected by land matters like flood? Flood would only concern objects with all wheels or legs touching solid ground. The wheels of the aeroplanes would touch the ground for mere minutes, so unless the runway was floored in water, their schedule would not the least be affected. But the roads leading to and fro the airport was a different story. Traffic was a standstill. The driver of our rented car had been stuck for 3 hours getting to the airport. And he was nowhere near the airport. Quick calculation, we decided we would be better off taking another car from the airport. Except there were no legal rented cars or taxis left. “Semuanya kehabisan, Pak. Macetnya, aduh… Ribut sekali”.<br /><br />Ribut tak ribut. We don’t care if its a taufan, we need a car, and we need it NOW. We shouldn’t have worried though. The illegal cars were aplenty. After much negotiation, we hopped into an MPV, and headed off…. The journey to the hotel was an Episode. The smart-alecked, boom-box voiced driver, was also the disciple of David Coulthard. His skills in cilok-ing even at the most uncilok-ed places scared us witless. It was amazing how he could swerve from one end to the other, with hand constantly on the horn, and managed to outrun all other vehicles, in a standstill, non-moving jam. Crazy, I tell you. Not fun, I also tell you. But, even though he accused us Malaysians of being “Perogol Bahasa dan Budaya Indonesia” (It must be that Rasa Sayang song and them getting irked at being termed “Indon” issue), to which, Guy Friend answered “Sama-sama merogol, Pak…, he delivered in getting us to Mulia Hotel via alternative village routes in exactly four hours. To that I raise my hat. Maybe not raise, just tilt it a bit.<br /><br />By then, mood was lukewarm bordering cold. Being trapped four hours on an empty stomach drains the smileys out of you. We dropped off our luggage and went to the hotel restaurant. Fairly impressive! It had just been refurbished, and had the look of an icicle clove with drops of snow on the sides. Very christmasy. We couldn’t stomach the abundance of sushi and sashimi (Indonesians LURVE their sushi), so settled on Sup Buntut instead. It was the wisest of choices. It was pure heaven, and it warmed us all up (banjir kan, so very the cold…), so much so that we could smile and be merry again. Jakarta was looking good. </span></div>Tigresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13878290476103640968noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5190719213237596107.post-60455598535088544432008-01-21T15:12:00.000+08:002008-02-12T10:43:59.192+08:00Ramblings Galore<div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I’m supposed to write on a different topic. A topic that has everyone asking why I’ve been AWOL for quite a while. A topic that I’ve promised to expose and bare all. Problem is, I don’t feel quite up to it yet. So I’m ranting on something else. I’m ranting on nothing.<br /><br />I’m back at work after one whole week. Under normal circumstances, a week of absence from work would be bliss. D1 would term it as “Totally kewl…!”. I would term it the same too, except that, I didn’t quite know what to do with the leave. I couldn’t do the things that I would normally do, only because I wasn’t in much of a mood to walk around, do some window or serious shopping, catch up with friends over coffee and bagel, or coffee and cake or salad…. Or just coffee. Don’t get me wrong… I am still a coffee addict, and I am still catching up on lost coffee in my system – but the idea of having to make an effort to just do those things are a killer. And I feel guilty going out. Again, not because I know what I’m supposed to do, because I clearly have no idea of what to do with myself, but I just feel better not doing things which gives me pleasure. Hang on… the last sentence didn’t quite come out right… I’ll try again. Let’s just say that since I didn’t know what good things that I should do, I feel better not doing things that I shouldn’t do. Although I’m not exactly sure that I shouldn’t do half the things that I thought I shouldn’t. Oh wow…now I’ve managed to get myself confused.<br /><br />A friend of mine just received a phone call from her daughter in Sg. Petani. The daughter said that a mother of her room mate just called her up. That mother had been trying to get that daughter for two days, but that daughter refused to answer calls. So that mother called up this friend’s daughter to ask her whereabouts. This daughter said that this daughter hasn’t seen that daughter for weeks. That daughter hasn’t been attending lectures, and hasn’t been back at the hostel either. In fact, the last time this daughter saw her, was at a taxi stand. That daughter zoomed by in a car with 2 male adults, and asked this daughter whether she wanted to catch a ride. This daughter agreed. In the car, that daughter introduced the driver as her “Ayah Angkat” and the other male as “Bapa Saudara Angkat”. Yup – both males were in their late 40s and that daughter is 19. Go figure. In light of the Nurin case and the still missing Sharlinie, I just hope the parents would act on it fast. To me, the difference is only age. And 19 is still shallow no matter how much experience she thinks she has. Its no blooming contest against 40y old <em><strong>buskers</strong></em>. (You know I meant something else, but just trying to be a lady here…).<br /><br />Another friend just had her neighbour’s house robbed. In broad daylight, with people outside their houses on a bright, sunny, Sunday mid-afternoon. People in the house were lazing around in front of the telly, and two guys casually dropped in, stuck a pistol each at 2 members of the family, got them to hand over jewellery, cash and handphones, then casually walked out again into a waiting car. Not a word exchanged, just a gentleman understanding of how things are done… all in 10 minutes. Now this I would also call “Totally kewl”…. All in the spirit of Malaysia Boleh.<br /><br />People are screwed up. I am too. And at this moment I can’t tell the difference and I couldn’t care less. </span></div>Tigresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13878290476103640968noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5190719213237596107.post-68630466658441351742007-12-28T12:46:00.000+08:002008-02-12T10:43:33.128+08:00Club Med, Nusa Dua - Bali<div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Exotic, enchanting, extraordinarily friendly.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Let’s list the pros of Club Med, Nusa Dua.<br /><br />1. The exotic architecture (carvings & statues), music, sand, sea and sun that is uniquely Bali.<br /><br />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…<br /><br />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…<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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!<br /><br />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!)<br /><br />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…<br /><br />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.<br /><br />The Cons :<br /><br />You want to go again and again and again.<br /><br />Well, maybe if not Bali, then definitely Club Meds the world over. You get spoilt at Club Med.<br /><br />Other holidays will never be the same…</span></div>Tigresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13878290476103640968noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5190719213237596107.post-87954333748616752672007-12-03T12:15:00.000+08:002008-02-12T10:42:35.063+08:00School Holiday Alert<div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Its school holidays again… and the pressure begins.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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!</span></div>Tigresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13878290476103640968noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5190719213237596107.post-40394252096597607472007-11-23T14:54:00.000+08:002008-02-12T10:42:06.965+08:00Pain & Agony<div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Let me tell you the feeling.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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).<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />I could feel liquid trickling down my thigh. And no more pain.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />With a big chitty chitty bang bang, the volcano had erupted.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />But I still hate punkster twits driving small cars. </span></div>Tigresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13878290476103640968noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5190719213237596107.post-37419726460729288522007-11-14T01:13:00.000+08:002008-02-12T10:41:38.065+08:00Flying High In The Sky<div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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…<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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... </span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">You fly... You fly high.</span></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;font-size:85%;"><br /><br /></div></span>Tigresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13878290476103640968noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5190719213237596107.post-85430537187990791192007-11-06T11:26:00.000+08:002008-02-12T10:39:35.295+08:00The Accident<div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I just came back from lunch with a colleague.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 <em><strong>before</strong></em> the accident. After the accident - the vehicle remained the same. No extra dents or additional touch ups on existing scratches.<br /><br />But the vehicle screeched to a stop and swung to the side - ala <em>Police Story</em>, 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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…?”<br /><br />He looked up at me, stoic faced. Not a single smile.<br /><br />“Hi yaa… Sikit punya cilita. Tila pa laa… Lu baik-baik jalan….” … And he proceeded with opening boxes filled with Sponge Bob soft toys….<br /><br />What The??? What A Waste Of My All-Geared-Up-And-Ready–For-Action Emotions…..<br /><br />Don’t judge a book by its cover.<br /><br />Such a waste of my adventure-seeking time.</span></div>Tigresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13878290476103640968noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5190719213237596107.post-70968757239149913852007-10-30T17:17:00.000+08:002008-02-12T10:39:13.947+08:00Pick-Em Up<div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">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.<br /><br />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?”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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???<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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….<br /><br />LV would have been so proud! (Err…I hope…)<br /><br />Here’s some top liners. Maybe they ring a bell somewhere… in the far, far distance…<br /><br />1. Do you believe in love at first sight, or should I walk by again?<br />2. If I could rewrite the alphabet, I would put U and I together.<br />3. If you were a new hamburger at McDonalds’s, you would be McGorgeous.<br />4. Are you a parking ticket? Cause you got fine-fine-fine written all over ya.<br />5. Baby, you must be a broom, coz you just swept me off my feet.<br />6. If I said you had a great body, would you hold it against me?<br />7. Girl, you must be tired coz you’ve been running through my mind all day!</span></div><div align="justify"></div>Tigresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13878290476103640968noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5190719213237596107.post-59047282516918181032007-10-24T11:42:00.000+08:002008-02-12T10:38:26.150+08:00Tales For Gloomy Weather<div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><strong><u>Preamble</u></strong> :<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><br />Today’s Wet and Gloomy. The rain in Spain falls noisily on my plain, and it ain’t look like its stoppin’…<br /><br />Feeling wet, gloomy and mopy too. But 3 things spring to mind, and it brought out a tiny little smile…<br /><br /><u>On D2</u> : 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.<br /><br /><u>On a TV drama I happened to catch midway</u> : 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…<br /><br /><u>On a statement LV said was given by a certain tollgate minister</u> : (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…”<br /><br />Poor Dr. SMS… I feel for you. I truly do.</span></div>Tigresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13878290476103640968noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5190719213237596107.post-60241337224705653572007-10-23T14:51:00.000+08:002008-02-12T10:37:53.392+08:00Hari Raya 2007<div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">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… </span></div>Tigresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13878290476103640968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5190719213237596107.post-77554422551361205412007-10-23T14:37:00.000+08:002008-02-12T11:50:13.370+08:00Model Ambitions<div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I was running my fingers through my hair, looking at the ends and shafts, and as far as my eyes could see.<br /><br />On a self-conducted analysis of my crowning glory, this is what I came out with :-<br /><br />1. Texture : Softlike, drylike, still hair-like with a hint feeling of hay.<br />2. Length : 2 inches below the shoulder, but appears unbelievably sexy-long if styled at salons.<br />3. Thickness : Thick on the front and back, less on the sides, and may appear thin and limp if subject to abundance of conditioner.<br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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…)<br /><br />“Where did you do your hair” (when it’s only been blown dried at home)<br />“Such nice colours, you must give me the number of your hairdresser” (maybe, if I think you’re nice)<br />“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)<br />Added bonus, my father thinks I’m blessed with original brown hair from birth – the poor dear…<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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…<br /><br />U know what I mean…<br /><br />Ekekekekekekekeke!!!!!!</span></div>Tigresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13878290476103640968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5190719213237596107.post-76910186777683244272007-10-23T14:31:00.000+08:002008-02-12T10:37:04.221+08:00I'm Sorry<div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><u>Story 1</u><br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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…<br /><br /><br /></span><u><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Story 2</span><strong><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br /></span></strong></u><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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…<br /><br /><br /><u>Story 3</u><br /><br />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.<br /><br />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…<br /><br /><br /><u>The Ugly Realisation</u><br /><br />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.<br /><br />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?<br /><br />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.</span></div>Tigresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13878290476103640968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5190719213237596107.post-3535816244975642602007-10-23T14:02:00.000+08:002008-02-12T10:35:55.155+08:00A Moment Of Amazement<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I'm at my desk alone, facing the computer, during lunch time.<br /></span><div align="justify"><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">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.</span></div><div align="justify"><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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...<br /><br />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....!<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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...</span></div>Tigresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13878290476103640968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5190719213237596107.post-21774825541547196912007-10-23T12:55:00.000+08:002008-02-12T10:33:50.039+08:00Numero Uno<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">My first posting in my own blog.<br /><br /></span><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">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.</span></div><br /><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">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.</span></div>Tigresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13878290476103640968noreply@blogger.com2