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!

Pain & Agony

Let me tell you the feeling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I still hate punkster twits driving small cars.

Flying High In The Sky

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You fly... You fly high.

The Accident

I just came back from lunch with a colleague.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don’t judge a book by its cover.

Such a waste of my adventure-seeking time.

Pick-Em Up

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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