insomnia

i haven't been sleeping well recently. tossing and turning in the dead of the night when all is quiet and resting. something is keeping me awake. i don't know what. my eyes big and round like the cuckoo clock that chimes the hour. i need my rest. my dark eye circles are gaining recognition even within the panda society. sigh. what can i do?

in extreme situation, we need extreme measures.

so......i'm off today to count sheeps in new zealand. ta dah!~

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz............

the long and short of it

i told the grand-daddy of blogging that i will be talking about scratching butts today. but that was just me trying to get his attention. you think i'm crazy? i scratched my butt. there. what is there to talk about?? moving on.

i have a theory. and this have nothing to do with butt scratching.

let me ask a question first. why is it that when i write a post with more than 150 words, i'm immediately accused of being long-winded whilst pink pau's can go on for miles and miles and everybody's screaming soooooo cute. sooooo funny. what is this? goes hand in hand with my auntie-dom status, is it? well, i'm offended. just received my third complaint about being long-winded for this quarter. what is it with you people anyway?

this is where the theory comes in. of course i'm in denial and believes that the unfavourable response has nothing to do with my boring delivery and monotonous topics. i think the fact that the author is a very adorable, sexy and definitely very pretty little girl helps a whole lot. well, in which case, imagine me to be a ...you know, like you know, *chews on chewing gum* a bopping hopping, like you know, teenage queen. shave off those years, and a little bit of fat, from your imagination and suddenly, you won't find me that, you know, tiresome anymore.

there is also the other theory where it has nothing to do with the author but more to do with the readers. my target group seems to fall under the middle aged, blurry eyed uncles who may find long sentences and even longer paragrahs visually, not to mention mentally, challenging. that category lumps those not so old but still very impatient and visually challenged little young boys. well, aunties too i guess but female readers don't seem to like me. i'm neither feminine nor sweet and definitely not patronising enough. i guess it helps if i don't insult my readers either. oops.

so, what is it? i find myself very engaging. see? i don't even bat my eyes, in wild anticipation of my next sentence. i'm delirious with contemplation about what i will spout out next (i myself don't know which direction my thoughts will bring me until my fingers start clicking on the keyboard. i have to fight the multiple personalities raging inside to see whom will gain control).

nevertheless, i write because i like writing. or rather, listening to the sound of my own voice inside my head. (what was that psychiatrist's number again?). bloggers come and go, some killed by the evaporation of their own steam. i am still writing because i like writing. and listening to the sound of my own voice inside my head. where did i hear that before? are we going in circles here? and you are still here......because?

grounded

it has been 12 days since the commencement of the nationwide school holidays. whilst other parents are groaning and slowly going out of their mind, every other day i'm counting the days since it began, afraid that it'll be over even before i know it.

as hectic as their being home is for me, i enjoy their presence very much. i don't know when the attitude changed; i used to fume in frustration when they distracted me from work and my routines. this time round, i'm feeling restless. i'm raring to join them for activites, wanting to immerse myself in their playtime.

but i have been so tied up lately. in things that don't bring much pleasure. i want to throw it all away and spend my hours in pure abandonment but as usual, i have to do the responsible thing, even if it means facing these endless stack of papers and stay grounded to this pathetic chair and table.

if i hurry and complete my work, mr boss, can i go out to play?

attraction distraction

i've been doing a lot of running around, trying to fit elephant-sized activities and schedules into ant-sized timetables. this, that, here, there, forgive me if i appear frenzied and i lose my train of thoughts midway. huh? what was i talking about again? i know, i know, so cliche. *rolls eyes* zero points for pathetic effort.

why do i do my best writing when i am in the car, miles away from the nearest wifi connection and my trusted laptop? perhaps there is something inspirational about landscape zipping by and enclosed spaces. i have half a mind to carry this keyboard, the monitor and the heavy cpu into the car with me right now (forget the laptop, i like the feel of the big steady keyboard) and start punching the keys, if only there was some way of hooking it up to the car generator.

i'm waffling because i lost the train of thoughts for the above topic.

attraction. what draws one party to another? from the male perspective first, since it is fairly short and can be covered in 20 seconds. the fact that it is a female scores 50 points with the general male population. the fact that it is alive and breathing scores another 10. bingo if it's of the human persuasion, that's another 20points in the pocket. the final 20 marks differ from person to person, depending on whether they are a kfc-thigh person, a mummy's milk-deprived boobs person, a shallow callow (rhyming pun was intended) face person or a pretentious i'm-only-interested-in-the-inner-you bum person. i must apologise. i'm wrong. i covered that in 10 seconds only. such is the complexity of the male attraction way of things.

as for the ladies, and i'm speaking for myself personally now since there is no way i can speak for the complicated and fickle species as a whole, it's not as clear cut and definitely not what the opposite species figured. your bum? we wouldn't know until you strip, and even then i have no idea what is considered a cute bum. perky? big? flat? toned? burned to a crisp? i have no particular craving of looking at anyone's smelly exterior.

your muscular arms then? when i think muscular, i think body-building t-shirt muscle-bulging weights-squashed squatty neckless men. i'm sure some ladies loveeeee those but i can't see anything attractive about them. not that they aren't attractive i should quickly add, for i don't want my puny blog to be squashed like a french fry in their muscle-bound fingers.

how about those potential glossy-pages-advertisement-model lookalike, who with a flick of their long fringe and a wink of their dreamy (and glassy) eyes send teenage boopers into a screaming frenzy? i don't know, i'm not a double glazed sweet-till-you-puke chocolate sprinkled donuts type of person. i prefer the whole-grain herb bun with balsimic vinegar and extre virgin olive oil dip. things that look pretty are pretty for a reason. that's my wise philosophy for this week (quick, get a pen and jot it down).

it's the brain then, definitely the brain. if that were so, stephen hawking will have women queuing up from his wheelchair to zimbabwe (maybe he IS in zimbabwe at this moment?!), all staring into his eyes as their mind reel in giddy circles over the words he spouts. hello? does any normal female honestly comprehend even 10% of what he says? i'll pretend to be highly-intelligent and says i do and then i'll have an excuse for not being pretty.

his bank account? i understand some people find the mouldy smelly hundred dollar bills (that's as big as it gets in this country, sorry. if we were discussing this last decade, i could have entertained you with visions of a sexy five hundred and even a horny one thousand dollar bill) very attractive. i, for my life, can't understand why. what's so sexy about a flat, touched-by-a-million-herpes-infected hands, rectanglular shaped paper? give me a ten thousand of that and it's still ten-thousand herpes-infected bum-scratched bacteria-lined paper.

when we were young (and so shallow) the answer was easy. dimples. cute smile. twinkling eyes that sing poetry. it's probably hormones working. now that we are older and still so very shallow, dimples and cute smiles matter less, especially when the loose folds of the aging skin of mr dynamite cover the dimples. now i think a sense of humour is most attractive. someone who can stimulate. the mind, i am talking about the mind (sheesh). someone who has wit. comes hand in hand with intelligence, i guess but intelligence by itself is so dry and we all know that dryness hurts. someone who can make you laugh.

imagine long silky hair, smooth legs to the chest, big round doll eyes, body to die for. you approach her and ask her for the time, anything to start the conversation, you are desperate. she opens her mouth and says, 'tiiiiiiimmmmme ah? i lon know oh. i lo beling my piu lah.' in the most ah lian manner you can think of. or perhaps, 'tttttttttt...hhhhhhhheeeeeeeee......the....the......theee....tttttt...tttttiii......ttttttiiiime ......". well, you can imagine the rest, it'll take at least another hour for me to finish typing that sentence. or at the very least, in the sweetest voice that even the bee will faint from the syrupy tone, 'time? let me look. the big hand is pointing at 4, the small hand is pointing at 6....i am sorry, i don't know how to tell time. i told daddy to get me the...you know, number type, the one that shows' ...bla bla bla, i've lost interest in continuing to play the dumb blonde. how attractive is that? *thumps head* i forgot! i was addressing the male species as well. yes, most men will go 'what's so unattractive about all that? what are you talking about? she fulfills the female, breathing and human category'. yes, my fault. i should have addressed the female category.

as i was saying, if an attractive man opens his mouth and gave me the above delivery, i will faint. after i roll my eyes, run to the nearest drain, vomit and roll on the floor laughing until my sides split, that is. humour! wit! the drier, in this case, the better. we want to laugh all the way to the grave. please don't rush to the bookstore for that latest copy of 'hundreds of puns and other side-splitting jokes'. either you have it or you don't. this is something you can't pretend. see those tall, miss universe lookalikes with paunchy short ugly men on their hands? now you know why. no, the fact that they are rich have absolutely nothing to do with it.

i couldn't say

i hold my tongue too much.

when i was little, my parents used to say that i'm better off being a lawyer, albeit it was said in a disparaging and frustrated tone. i can win any argument, i can argue until the cows come home. that was my forte; arguing my point.

however, growing up has taught me the virtue of holding my tongue. many things are better off left unsaid. be it tact, be it wisdom, i find it a more peaceful alternative to keep my opinions to myself. cowardice on my part? i'm inclined to agree. when the truth is ugly, when it hurts, when you know your opinion doesn't weigh much, when you know your input will not make a slightest difference, when you have been disillusioned one time too many, when tempers clash, when the other side refuses to open up their mind, when you know that they are not paying attention, when you are safeguarding someone else's secret, when you know too much, when you are pretending you don't know at all, when you are surrounded with people who do not care for your genuine interest, when the world is an ugly place, when no one is a true friend, when hypocrites are a-plenty. the reasons are too much, and getting more and more each day. for me to hold my tongue and keep my peace.

will i evolve into a mute some day?

for the man who touched

i read the news of his death in the local dailies a few weeks ago. a famous cardiologist, aged 65, in a car accident. there are many out there with the same name. i didn't give it a second thought.

bored, today i googled his name again. it was indeed the renowned cardiologist that i had the honour to have met and known. the distinguished white-haired gentleman whose face will remain in my cheese-hole memory.

i know how to carry out a blood pressure reading, not using one of those digital one-button thing from omron but with a medical-looking sphygmomanometer. much more accurate, much more professional. he taught me how. a doctor whose patients filled his waiting room and his schedules to the brink took the time to teach me how to work the thing. using his personal stethoscope. suffice to say, i was a nervous wreck despite the fact that he was very nice, cool but nice.

i met him again when my dear friend was hospitalised. he was her attending cardiologist. he didn't recognise me, which is a given since it was just that one meeting many years ago. still, seeing me standing there, looking frightened and depressed, he came over to talk to me. knowing that i was not a family member but guessing that i was a close friend, he gave me encouragements and told me that i was doing the right thing. in that dark dark hour, his words were so soothing to my pain. i didn't even know why i was hanging around like a lost puppy, but he understood.

he was a great doctor, not just for the countless patients he attended to and healed, but also for the little ways he touched others' lives. eventhough i have never known him, i miss him. to dato' dr nik zainal, may you find your rewards in heaven.

being slow is the new cool

i'm so tired all the time, because i stress myself out. i don't know why i do it. but you're just a housewife, some people who don't get it scoffs. how stressed can it be? i'm beyond explaining. i'm beyond trying to justify what it is that i do, how i live my life and the things that go around me.

but it's more than just the load, it's the attitude. being typical type a doesn't help one iota. and a textbook perfectionist, coupled with the ever critical virgoan personality adds to the cake. whenever i have the time to just stop, i realise my shoulders are all tensed up. infront of the desk, sitting at lunch, taking a breather. anytime, anywhere.

i hurry to all my destinations, rushing like a mad woman and flooring the pedal when i'm behind the wheels. i don't get what it's all about. being late for the next thing on my schedule won't kill me. but it drives me crazy. i can't be late without being stressed out. i can stop everything i was doing, leave earlier and plan for a little more slack in between, but that will mean i will arrive too early with too much time to spare, leaving me free and unproductive. which stressed me out also. i need to be doing something, business or pleasure, anytime of the day. see? it's a no win game. i stress myself out either way.

i can say no to so many things, instead of driving myself crazy trying to be a good everything to everybody. but then, that will not be me. i try to accomodate all demands, until i'm exhausted to the brink and just flop flat on my face. that's when i say no, when it's physically or mentally impossible to go on anymore. and still i think i don't do enough, i don't listen enough, i don't care enough, i'm not there enough. there's that devil side inside me that's craving for some attention of our own, some time to pamper, to indulge and to soothe our inner self, which actually complicates the picture and plunge me into further guilt.

lately, it has become more than just a couple of incidents, or a facet of my days. it has become a lifestyle. i can't even eat without shoving everything down my throat within 5 minutes flat. forget the 'chew 50 times for each mouthful' theory. i'm lucky if i even put down the utensils for one second. after each meal i'm filled with so much remorse, i swear that i'll behave the next meal. but it's only after each meal that i get it. i'm trying so hard. really, i am. i want to savour each bite and slow down. but it's like being possessed by the devil come mealtimes. which led to my recent choking incident with the untailed prawn. *sigh* it's another long story. some one should feed me like a little hamster. give me one small cut of food every 2 minutes and when i'm finished chewing that, give me another small cut. my life is ridiculous.

i need to slow down. i need to stop driving myself crazy. i leave things to the very last minute so that i'll get all hyped up trying to do it. i don't understand what this is all about.

what the heck?!

what is this sudden fascination in the blogger world with my washing machine???! sheesh! conspiracy? trust the male species to twart everything they see into their x-rated coloured lenses.

i know the chicken started it, he and his one-tracked 5-minute-attention-span brain. then, our eat-full-nothing-to-do hamsup australian ambassador followed suit. first the industrial-strength version, then he came up with a miniaturised portable and new-improved version. i know, i know. these quys are crying out for a little attention from busy moi. *flicks hair* i'm sorry. i know i've been a little preoccupied to visit your blogs lately but this is hardly reason to post your ardour for me all over your posts. sigh! the whole world will know how the both of you are so infatuated with me. it's so embarrasing. there, there. i grant you permission to kiss the floor that i walk on. unfortunately, i'm not in a pissy mood today and is in no mindset for retaliation. you're granted absolution. :-p

for the sake of public interest, i conducted a test to verify their claims. i hereby bring you an episode of the mythbusters: is it true that a full spin cycle of the washing machine can bring you ecstasy beyond imagination? for this purpose i will be using a 5kg washload electrolux washing machine model ew502f, with 14 wash programs and special features like active 'magic ball' action and aqua shower 3 way cleaning action.

after half an hour, the results? the rattling was so great, my dentures were nearly shaken off. the shaking. the rumbling, the humming and the bumping, my whole body was convulsing so bad it nearly sent me into an epileptic fit. from my head to my toe, even my teeth were chattering! heck, i felt like i was straddling the i-gallop or the latest gintell i-so massager! my body was all numb, even itchy! but no orgasm in sight. hello, naive little boys. if all those people who were sitting on i-gallop and massaging machines had ecstasies, all those sales people in the mega malls will be shouting, screaming and writhing with pleasure. very indecent lah. don't be so innocent lah.

as for that little massage machine that the koala bear suggested, it broke immediately when i sat on it. made in china?! what do you expect?! he was too el-cheapo to buy the patented expensive version.

so folks, this myth has been busted!

scrambled scrabble

i believe in the old adage, you can learn something new everyday. but it's not everyday that you can learn something old.

i can't quite remember when i started playing scrabble. it's just one of those things that happened over time which you never paid much attention to. it wasn't from my only sibling because he never had the patience to sit quietly with me for hours, nor from my parents who were both chinese proficient. by deduction, it must have been from my peers, be it primary or secondary school days.

so, what does it matter who i picked up the game of scrabble from? i'm trying to pinpoint the source. the source of my misinformation. scrabble is one of those games which you just play, never for once opening the attached thin book of rules to counter-check the standards of playing. instead, having a good dictionary nearby is the norm. i have never had the need to look through the game rules, until lately.

i have just learnt, the hard way, that i have been playing scrabble wrong for all these 36 years, not that i started playing when i was still going goo-goo-ga-ga and in my diapers, of course. imagine my surprise when i placed a brain-racking word (in facebook's scrabulous) formed from someone's triple-word alphabet, expecting a substantial increase in my points, when i was merely awarded with a measly 8 points. ???!!! my jaw dropped to the floor. when it happened a second time, in another game, i was flabbergasted. frustrated, i looked here and there, i googled, i wikipedia-ed and i cried for help. only then i learnt that those extra points for the special spaces on the board are only accorded to newly placed tiles, and not for the next turn. hello?? after playing the game for at least two and a half decades, you're telling me i've been strategising wrong??!! i've been protecting all those double word, triple letter spaces so frenziedly against my competitor's next turn for nothing?

my question is, for all those friends i have been playing with all these years, did you not know as well?? we have all been muddling along and nobody had an inkling? i find that a little hard to absorb. people from all ages, all walks of life, from different countries. they all played scrabble with me the wrong way all these years and not a single soul knew.

this from someone who owns two scrabble boxes at home. i hang my head in shame.

gastronomical adventure

the man and i celebrated our 12th year of marriage, after much pressure and a little dark-faced duress, in a pleasant candlelight ambience. apparently he has reserved the entire restaurant to mark the occasion. we had the whole empty and quiet place to ourselves, until 8pm that is when the second customer arrived, followed by the third a short time later.

it was an unnerving experience, i tell you, to have the many waiters stare at you whilst they wait for you to finish the course so that they can bring the next one. and also to have them stand right next to the table, give wonderful reviews about the soup you are about to try and just hover there motionless until you take a sip of it and agree with them vehemently. the pressure. the ackwardness. if i had denied him that compliment, would my next course be laced with some body fluids? i doubt so. it was really a very nice restaurant, the Chalet in Equatorial Hotel.

the 6, or was it 7, course swiss dinner was an entry in this year's malaysian international gourmet festival competition. sounds so full of promise that i simply can't pass, despite knowing for a fact that there is no way my stomach will be able to accomodate all those courses. the carpaccio of californian purple potatoes with sour cream and caviar appetiser, the alsatiaan riesling—cabbage soup topped with truffle and brie (that i was under immense pressure to say 'delicious', but it really was), the appetite-inducing sorbet, the argentinean beef mignon on onion marmalade (the sauce was a little too sweet for my taste, this being a main course, but the waiter was adamant that this was the best way to serve it), the goat cheese medallion with broiled fig (eucks! the only thing in the menu that failed our tastebuds) topped with a wonderful and way-too-full chocolate dessert.

the restaurant took the extra effort of preparing a chocolate cake to mark the occasion, followed with a photo to freeze the memory in time. it's the little extra attention to details that separate an ordinary good eatery from a culinary delight. extra points to the man for getting it right, although i think luck probably has more to do with it than deliberation.

Class 101 on women for dummies

men don't get it.

why don't you bring me flowers anymore, honey? after getting totally sick of the same words being repeated over and over again in their ear, they finally grow up enough to make phone calls to the nearest friendly florists and come every occasion the lady will get bamblasted with flowers; anniversary, birthdays, valentine and even hanukkah. she then says, such a waste of money. don't send me flowers anymore, honey. but....but...i just learnt a new skill. pressing a few buttons and presto! my love in stalks. how convenient, how easy and best of all, no more whining in my ears. what do you mean don't send them anymore??!!! the whining will start again!! mummyyyyyy!

then she says you didn't give me anything for my birthday. you've forgotten about it, haven't you?. but you just said not to give you any flowers?! for those blessed few, the apparent answer lies simply in the feet. walking to the nearest branded shop, doesn't matter prada, gucci, louis vuitton or ayam brand, throw open the glass doors ala clint eastwood style (imagine the soundtrack to dirty harry running in your mind) and tell the snotty ladies, show me what you've got. wallets, key chains, handbags, glasses, doesn't matter if she has it or wants it. the more expensive the better. for the en masse who aren't so fortunate to have robbed a bank in their sleep, they'll just have to make do with continuing to stare at the ongoing soccer game and pretending to have gone temporarily deaf. if you can salvage some little pieces of rubber and shove them inside your ear, all the better. peace will come soon enough, when she tires of whining.

yet, they don't seem to be satisfied. women never are. what exactly do they want? a list would be nice, in point form, less than 50 words in all if possible,especially for those short attention-spanned feathered species. please kindly list all that you want from me, from what to say to what to do, all men (and other forms of animals) are thinking. men are simple creatures. if their brains are akin to singapore's mrt map, women's are like the london underground network. ultimately, on the men's map, all the lines lead to one destination, sex. trying to figure out how the woman brain works is like playing the children tangled lines game, something men will have absolutely no patience to do. to make life simpler for them, give them a list of 10 items and sooner or later, later being the more probable scenario here, it will be done.





why did nature have to pair two very distinct types of beings together? two who are as extreme as night and day, two who sat on the opposite poles when characteristics, desires, attitudes and all other genes were handed out. it's quite a mockery of life, isn't it? wouldn't it be easier on all concerned if women, who craves for a little tenderness, a little concern, a little sensitivity, were paired with women? not just for a selected group but on the whole, as a general rule. perhaps the lesbian movement are the ones on the right track and the rest of us got the order of nature wrong and are muddling along. and men who want compadre-ship when they burp their beers, scream at flat inanimate tv screens and fixate their mind on only one thing find their match in someone who understand how it feels like to get a kick in the balls. why make one want something that the other is incapable of giving?

women want someone to make the effort, someone to spend a little bit of their time and energy to show that this woman is worth my time and effort. not all the time, that will be plain soppy, puke-inducing and simply trespassing on each other's space. just a little show that she is worth the extra effort once in a while. anybody can punch keys, heck, even monkeys can order pizzas and make reservations. anything, when done without a heart, becomes a meaningless routine. even diamonds given to mark every occasion become but a pile of rocks. a little planning shows you have been in someone's thought for the longest time, not just fished out from the closest smelly cupboard when the occasion warrants it. a little planning means someone cares enough for your feelings to matter. a little tenderness means you mean something to somebody, in this cold fast-paced world.

sometimes, some men get it. not all the time. not always. just sometimes. corny? not everything has to be corny, but everything has to be done with the heart.

i am an ape now?!

the old man is grumbling again. at our annual show of infantile and traitorship. of us aping the western cultures and worshipping some sanitary pads-free days instead of parading around demurely in our kebayas and cheong sums, bringing truckloads of relatives to gate-crash into others' open-house festivity celebrations. or is that so passe too? i wouldn't know. they don't give fake gwailos invitations to local celebrations anymore. the only festivity i am allowed to partake in is the one where i have my hands twisted behind my back and forcibly compelled to distribute my hard-earned monies in little red packets. the very idea of it makes my wallet cry unconsolably. and so what can i do? i steal other people's culture, like christmas, halloween and even easter. i would also celebrate the queen of england's birthday, guy fawkes' day and the us of a's independence day as well but my citizenship may very well be revoked. since i have no better place to go, i'll just celebrate those quietly in my heart. yeh, queen elizabeth!

this year, i practiced the art of kiasuism to the extreme. first invitation came as some sort of a compulsory attendance. fine. any celebration is a celebration, so i dutifully marked it in my calendar. no trick or treating (bah!)? we'll manage. i decided to go as a pirate to pillage and confiscate me some loot, to make up for the lack of bounty, you understand me matey.

the second halloween celebration was under the bright hot afternoon sun. who celebrates halloween in the afternoon? how scary can that be?? ooooo, i'm a ghostttt! sorry, i can still see your zits under all that make-up. ghosts don't get pimples. there was a costume competition, so kiasu asked me to hop along to see what we can ravage. sorry, still can't get rid of the pirate's persona. it got pretty scary when the above rabbit's makeup started melting and dripping like hot wax. a melting duracell bunny?? ewwwww! bunny won, needless to say. she was fighting against lame half-dressed kids. anybody with half a decent costume would have won. sheesh!

this grave belonged to the guy who was lying under the car. yes, he spent the entire night, lying under the humid evening sky, drenched in fake blood, tattered clothings and with one fake leg caught under the wheel, distributing sweets to trick-or-treaters. that's the spirit! you go, man-with-leg-stuck-under-the-car.

third and last celebration for this year, unless someone wants to invite me to a belated halloween party, was held on the actual day. i was too cheapo to rent the pirate costume for another time, so i turned my closet upside down and came up with little miss school girl. don't laugh! borrowed my daughter's tie, found an old school pin from decades ago, stole my nephew's oversized school shoe (he's only 11 and he has feet bigger than mine!!!), grabbed a lollipop from the fridge and ta dah! i'm transformed.

the strange thing was...my dad didn't batted his eyes when i walked in, for either costumes. not a single comment either. he must be used to me and my weird sense of fashion.

needless to say, it was fun. that's the trick to life - you have to live it. no bah humbug!