Tagged!

Tagged! (by The Jah aka Once an Ayam Serama)

• Link to your tagger and post these rules.

* List eight (8) random facts about yourself.
* Tag eight people at the end of this post and list their names.
* Let them know they’ve been tagged by leaving them a comment on their blogs.

I honestly don’t know what to do when I get tagged.

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?

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.

But in the mean time, The Jah, this is for you.


*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.

* I usually look at things differently from how others would.

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.

Don’t blame me. I’m just wired differently.

* I like all things weird, bloody and gory.

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!”

Chromosome defects cannot be explained, just understood.

* I don’t eat, I graze.

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.

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.

(“ … slinks away with head hung relatively low, due to great, unexplained shame…”).

* I have to walk on the left of a person walking by my side.

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.

* I dislike physical activities with a vengeance.

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.

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.

My nonexistent ‘muskel’ can be seen with sheer determination of the mind. Betul. Tak tipu. I see them. Bulging lagi…

*I prefer reading to watching television, forced conversations or any other activity which remotely hints of physical exertion (shopping excluded).

* 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.

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.

Warning : An Emo Entry

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

It’s the grey matters that I need help on. Help me to help them.

Or I could just give you my phone number and you do the explaining to the Decons. Whatever works.

What The?

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.

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.

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.

Now, these 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).

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.

Boy 1 : “Apa la engkau ni, banyak cekadak betul… Beli je la…”
Boy 2 : “Taknak la. Nanti warden tangkap, mati aku…”
Boy 1 : “ Ala… beli je la. Kalau kau beli, aku tabik spring dengan kau…”
Boy 2 : “Taknak. Kalau kena penampar maut dengan warden, confirm bapak aku pun tumpang belasah aku sekali…”
Boy 1 : “Aku cover la. Kau jalan dulu. Kalau problem, campak je. Aku tunggu kat Tangga Bradley…”
Boy 3 : “Eh, aku pun nak. Aku derb!”

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.

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.

So, me being me, I couldn’t contain my excitement, and approached the boys.

Me : “Adik, U all ni sekolah asrama kan? Sekolah “tut-tut-tut” ke?”
Boy : “ Betul la tu”.
Me : “ Yang Selangor ke yang KL?”
Boy : “ Yang original la… yang KL. Yang Selangor tak ori…”
Me : (chuckled, completely agreeing with them)

Then came the Mother of all questions. The missile that rudely jerked me out of memory lane, back to the harsh world of reality.

Boy : “Kenapa Aunty? Anak Aunty sekolah situ ke? Form berapa? Entah-entah kitorang kenal…”

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?

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… Akak yang dulu sekolah situ. Kirim salam kat Tangga Bradley nanti, ye….”

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…?

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. Memalukan sungguh…..

Antara KL dan Jakarta

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.

And then the text message came in. Sukarno-Hatta Airport had been shut down since 10 this morning due to bad flood.

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.

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…

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.

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”.

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.

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.

Ramblings Galore

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.

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.

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 buskers. (You know I meant something else, but just trying to be a lady here…).

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.

People are screwed up. I am too. And at this moment I can’t tell the difference and I couldn’t care less.

Club Med, Nusa Dua - Bali

Exotic, enchanting, extraordinarily friendly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Cons :

You want to go again and again and again.

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

Other holidays will never be the same…

School Holiday Alert

Its school holidays again… and the pressure begins.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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