under the blanket

a savoury cookie is a biscuit

2012-01-10T21:46:00.000+08:00

Chop 12 slices of bacon (the original recipe called for four, I doubled it by accident, but I think it's still not enough). I think I'd chop the bacon less fine next time, but that's a personal preference. A foodie friend made the brilliant suggestion of trying bak kwa next time. Fry bacon till crisp, then drain on paper towels. (Save the bacon fat for future use, if you are feeling decadent!)

Grate one cup of sharp cheddar. I read somewhere that parmesan would taste even cheesier.

Mix two cups of all-purpose flour, 120g of butter (cut into cubes, salted is fine), one egg, one yolk and two tablespoons heavy cream (I used some leftover sour cream) until combined. (At this point, my feeble hand-held mixer decided to spew cookie dough all over the counter and onto the front of my T-shirt. Ugh.)

Add cheese and bacon and mix well.

Place a length of cling wrap on the counter and lightly flour it. Roll the cookie dough into a log, then wrap it up.

Now, it needs to chill for two hours at least in the fridge. (Just enough time for me to clean all the counters and mop the floor from the mixer accident.)

Half an hour before taking out the dough, preheat the oven to 180 deg C.

Slice the dough into discs and place them on trays lined with parchment paper. Bake for 18 to 25 minutes until they are brown on the edges.

Cool on a rack or you can do what I did and devour five in one go.

drrrty

2011-12-08T16:51:00.001+08:00

ME: Actually, what does kum lan really mean ah? I mean I know it's vulgar
HE: Um
ME: Anything with lan is so not good
HE: Something to do with the [brinjal emoji] I think
ME: Yes but what is kum?!?
ME: OMG what did I just say? I'm laughing now
HE: In English or hokkien?
ME: Yes, I'm laughing cos I realised in English it's bad too
HE: U too funny
ME: Tears streaming down my face now
HE: Ouch it's beginning to hurt
HE: My stomach that is
ME: But seriously!!! What is kum?!?!
HE: Idk, what else can one do
ME: I laugh until 内伤
HE: U should google it
ME: So someone would kum lan until he kum?
HE: I'm guessing someone else kum him...but to be sure u should google it
ME: Wo bu xing le! I'm hysterical!
HE: I'm gonna do that now
ME: I dun dare to. I may go into fits
HE: Google it that is
ME: Stoppit please I beg of you
HE: According to urban dictionary...To **** a [brinjal emoji]
ME: Ohhh so it cannot be erm done by oneself?
HE: Idk y anyone would want to do that
ME: I thought it was a self service type of action
HE: No it's lip service
ME: Stoppppppppp
HE: Ok enuf...My stomach cannot take anymore
ME: Wait I got one more!
HE: Oh no
ME: What is pooh boh kia??? Someone told me today about it
HE: Wait I google
ME: I never hear before!
HE: Neither have I...pooh boh is pigs wife isn't it?
ME: Apparently it means motherfucker
ME: Obviously my hokkien sub standard
HE: Googling it gets pooh bear
HE: Apparently ur hokkien spelling also not so hot
HE: Should be pu bor
ME: How does that translate to motherfucker!?
ME: So pu is errr fornication? Bor is mother?
HE: Guess so
ME: Kia is kid rite?
ME: So a kid who fucks his mother = motherfucker!!!!!!
HE: Wah yes!
ME: OMG it's quite brilliant

asos wtf

2011-09-23T22:01:00.009+08:00

So.

I'm back.

Sort of.

In my long absence, I have renovated a flat, married off a sister, moved house, lost 4kg, started working night shift and become an Asos addict.

On top of feverishly saving items to my Asos wish list (all the better to monitor price drops!), I have also started downloading these pix which amuse me no end:

"Wow, I look squarer than Spongebob!"

"This smudgy pajamas-like thingy is putting me to sleep."

"This is the best smile I can manage in this monstrosity of a dress."

"Helpch! An alien seahorse is growing out of my ear. I think it's trying to tell me something..."

"Welcome to the circus. I'm the tent."

"You'd look pissed off too if you had all that excess fabric hanging off your ass."

"I make this wardrobe malfunction look good."

"I'm just doing this to pay the rent."

run for your life

2011-04-05T15:25:00.003+08:00

Loser friend: Wat u up to?
Me: Just went running. On a Friday night. I'm a certified loser.
Loser friend: A trimmer loser.
Me: The biggest loser, you mean.
Loser friend: Please. I slept my nite away.
Loser friend: You don't want to start a bigger loser game cos u will lose.
Loser friend: Paradoxically enuf.

That I'm a hermit who doesn't go out on weekends is not news. The shocker here is that I have taken up running. Three times a week at night. After clocking in 10 to 12 hours at work. And I actually look forward to pounding the pavement every time. Okay, stop laughing.

I'm following this Couch to 5K podcast and of course my OCD streak won't allow me to miss a session or quit before the end at week #9. (I'm currently at week #7, but seriously, it seems impossible that I can cover 5km in another two weeks.)

I've become such a running geek that when I see joggers along the road, I find myself following their strides and noting things like whether they are heel or forefoot strikers.

Yes, all those times I muttered "freak" under my breath as a jogger breezed by are coming back to bite me in my -- hopefully trimmer -- ass.

pardon the mess

2011-03-23T11:45:00.013+08:00

I'm a sucker for home improvement programmes and the big reveal at the end. By the same token, I cannot resist clicking on the "before" and "after" renovation pix of my Facebook friends. The more drastic the changes, the more I like.

I don't have any "after" photos yet, but here are some "before" shots of my 40-year-old flat, much of it still in its "original" condition, as real estate agents are wont to say.

The glass of the main door acts like a lightbox.

My beloved arch, leading to the kitchen.

Kitchen floor tiles which I'm keeping.

The entire toilet will be gutted, so there won't be a partition between the shower and the toilet.

I asked Mr Contractor if there are rubbish chutes which are foot operated. He looked at me like I was the laziest ass in the world.

I would have loved to retain the old skool sink but it was very badly cracked. I'm getting something similar, but with two basins. I still cannot believe that my sink costs double of my toilet bowl, which arguably has a more complex mechanism.

To the left, when you enter through the main door, is what I call the front balcony. Check out the terrazzo which I fondly describe as the colour of dried blood. I'm keeping it.

From the front balcony, you can enter the front room (there are two rooms). This wall will become a wall of bookshelves with a set of French doors set in the middle.

In the kitchen, on the left of the sink, is the back balcony, which it is going to be widened to be a dining room (the windows and walls on the left are coming down). There is a delicate mosaic hacking operation going on now to "borrow" as many tiles as possible from the kitchen and bathroom to extend the floor.

The back room, which is accessed from the back balcony. The wooden shutters will be saved to make a screen or something, not sure yet. Both front and back rooms are going to be hacked into one giant room.

Sadly, these sockets are extinct and I will be changing to modern white ones.

This looks like the most awesome retro tiles but actually is gross vinyl flooring which is completely cracked and caked with dirt.

Same as above, this is vinyl and will have to go. Below it is raw concrete which will be painted white and then covered with high gloss epoxy. Apparently, it is not super lasting, but we'll see.

Auntie Laura, who sold me the flat, left me her dressing table. It was her dowry from 40 years ago. Love!

Her husband, Uncle George (not his real name, but he looks like a George to me), left me his cupboard. He also gave me a bunch of film cameras and an old suitcase. Double love!

Renovation started about two weeks ago.

Any ideas what I can do with these grills? Throwing them away is not an option.

Exposed bricks! Not painted white yet.

The view from the living room into the giant bedroom (two bedrooms combined by hacking down the dividing wall).

Mr Contractor brought me to a retro tile shop after I turned my nose up at all the modern ones he showed me. Guess which tile I chose for the toilet floor?

I'll spare you the photo of the sink and toilet bowl I chose, but watch out for more renovation shots over the next month or so.

white washed

2011-03-22T18:51:00.001+08:00

I was asked again today what is the "theme" for my flat. I think "chapalang" pretty much sums it up.

Here are some pix that I showed my contractor -- who deserves a blog post of his own, if only because he immediately knew what I meant by "white epoxy cement floor" and "white exposed brick" -- before the renovation started.

This smooth white seamless floor is what I mean by "white epoxy cement floor". It's going in my bedroom, which currently is just raw concrete.

A prime example of what I mean by "white exposed brick". That little niche/shelf is perfection, I must get Mr Contractor to do it for me.

The textured wall is amazing, but there is something marvellously quirky about the mix of sofas and armchairs. Kinda makes me wish we didn't sell the set we had at Swirl.

I'm still a bit worried that the crevices between the bricks will collect lots of dust, especially since they will be in the bedroom. I guess there's only one way to find out.

I must say, blue exposed brick looks pretty good too, but I'm going for white.

I'm sorely tempted to have a small polka dotted wall. I can't resist dots.

Because there is no store room in a flat as old as mine, I will be spending a small fortune on built-in wardrobes.

I briefly toyed with this design but realised quickly that the irregularity of the lines would drive me round the bend. The frames are a nice touch though.

Imagine this wall in the living room, but without the desk, chairs, lamp and rug. And substitute the monochromatic art with more colourful ones. Can imagine anot?

My bathroom will not be this slick or Zen. In fact, the only similarity will be the glass panel and the niche for bath products, which this home owner apparently does not use. I chose some super retro tiles and mosaic, which I'm keeping my fingers crossed will work in the small space.

The bottom left picture is my fave. There is only one spot in my place which I can build this sort of shelves -- above the rubbish chute. I doubt it will look as nice as this.

Okay, use your imagination here. In your mind, remove the dining set, the wine rack, the recessed lighting and the cooker hood. Change the floor to retro green mosaic. Switch the marble backsplash to a greenish glass. The upper cabinets have one door, not two. The lampshade morphs into a giant round globe. And there you have my kitchen.

I keep telling my carpenter I want French doors, but I'm not 100% sure he gets it. These aren't exactly what I want either, but I can't find the right pix to show him.

He did seem to understand "wide bookshelves" and "wooden ladder" though. Baby blue for the ladder? Turquoise? Hot pink? Or should i stick with red?

There is an archway leading from the living room to the kitchen which I love. And which my contractor likes to pretend he has forgotten I want to retain and make me panic by saying things like, "Next week, we can start tearing this down. You want rectangle, right?"

I've been trawling used furniture listings for a credenza/sideboard/console, but it's not that urgent. If I were rich, I would just to pick one up from Lorgan's, but I'd rather spend my money on a self-cleaning oven. (The Orla Kiely wallpaper is gorgeous, but I doubt I can commit to a print for more than three years.)

On my wish list, too, is a bench with hairpin legs. I briefly contemplated buying the legs online from the US and adding my own plank, but the shipping charges would kill me.

I'd settle for just any bench with unusual legs. I have five mismatched chairs waiting to be painted -- white, of course -- to complete the dining set.

Also to be painted white are three wardrobes and a dressing table. Still thinking what colour to paint the insides, but I know I want them in a different colour. There's only so much white I can take.

See the green wire on the pendant lamp? Nice, hor? I'm wondering if it is possible to just ownself paint. Shouldn't cause electrocution or short circuit, right?

In my dream kitchen, there is always an island. I was devastated when I realised there isn't enough space for one in my flat.

I would also love to have shelves upon shelves of bottles and jars, but alas, I am moving to an HDB flat, not a mansion.

No space for a Japanese soaking tub a.k.a. ofuro either. Sad face.

Isn't this giant framed collection of Polaroids a thing of awesomeness? Alas, I'm a pragmatist who knows (a) framing something this big will cost a bomb, (b) I'm not made of money, and (c) I don't even own a Polaroid camera. Oh, and also, I have no space.

Anyone knows where I can find these adorable-until-can-die scalloped blinds? I need them and I need them bad.

So there you go. My dream house. In the next episode, reality bites as I show you the "before" and "during" renovation pix. Stay tuned.

zannslist

2011-03-21T21:16:00.002+08:00

Trawling Craigslist and other used furniture sites is one of the ways I stave off boredom at work, even though sometimes I feel like my soul is being destroyed by the hideous furniture on sale. And don't even get me started on people who list old, decrepit, worthless junk as "vintage" just to get me to click on it.

On the bright side, there are gems, like this shell rocker I swooped in on. I've always wanted one in baby blue.

And then there are other unintentional gems in the listings:

1. I saw the photo of an armchair and saw that the seller had put in the description: "Single seat sofa".

2. In Facebook's Marketplace, there is a section sellers need to fill in on why they were selling the items. For a listing on a hand-carved mahogany altar, the seller had put: "Seldom use".

3. An ad for a moving service went something like this: "This is Shawn, the cheapest mover who can move your things the cheapest, all you moving house people who need to move cheap".

I think I need to start compiling a list.

the lamp just sat there, like an inanimate object

2011-02-11T14:29:00.002+08:00

This is so good, I had to save it for posterity here.

56 worst/best analogies of high school students

Apparently the Washington Post held a contest in which high school teachers sent in the “worst” analogies they’d encountered in grading their students’ papers over the years. (I place “worst” in quotes because many of these actually strike me as quite witty). The top 25 of these have been circulating around the “Sandra Bullock” (”net”, get it?) recently, but I decided to post all 56 that I was able to find. Here they are, in their order of objective funniness (in my opinion):

Her eyes were like two brown circles with big black dots in the center.
He was as tall as a 6′3″ tree.
Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two sides gently compressed by a Thigh Master.
From the attic came an unearthly howl. The whole scene had an eerie, surreal quality, like when you’re on vacation in another city and Jeopardy comes on at 7:00 p.m. instead of 7:30.
John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also never met.
She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up.
The ballerina rose gracefully en pointe and extended one slender leg behind her, like a dog at a fire hydrant.
He was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck, either, but a real duck that was actually lame. Maybe from stepping on a land mine or something.
Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.
She grew on him like she was a colony of E. coli and he was room-temperature Canadian beef.
The revelation that his marriage of 30 years had disintegrated because of his wife’s infidelity came as a rude shock, like a surcharge at a formerly surcharge-free ATM.
The lamp just sat there, like an inanimate object.
McBride fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a Hefty bag filled with vegetable soup.
His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like underpants in a dryer without Cling Free.
He spoke with the wisdom that can only come from experience, like a guy who went blind because he looked at asolar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it and now goes around the country speaking at high schools about the dangers of looking at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it.
Long separated by cruel fate, the star-crossed lovers raced across the grassy field toward each other like two freight trains, one having left Cleveland at 6:36 p.m. traveling at 55 mph, the other from Topeka at 4:19 p.m. at a speed of 35 mph.
Shots rang out, as shots are wont to do.
The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn’t.
Her hair glistened in the rain like a nose hair after a sneeze.
The hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry them in hot grease.
They lived in a typical suburban neighborhood with picket fences that resembled Nancy Kerrigan’s teeth.
He fell for her like his heart was a mob informant and she was the East River.
Even in his last years, Grand pappy had a mind like a steel trap, only one that had been left out so long, it had rusted shut.
He felt like he was being hunted down like a dog, in a place that hunts dogs, I suppose.
She was as easy as the TV Guide crossword.
She walked into my office like a centipede with 98 missing legs.
The plan was simple, like my brother-in-law Phil. But unlike Phil, this plan just might work.
The young fighter had a hungry look, the kind you get from not eating for a while.
“Oh, Jason, take me!” she panted, her breasts heaving like a college freshman on $1-a-beer night.
It hurt the way your tongue hurts after you accidentally staple it to the wall.
It was an American tradition, like fathers chasing kids around with power tools.
He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if she were a garbage truck backing up.
The politician was gone but unnoticed, like the period after the Dr. on a Dr Pepper can.
Her eyes were like limpid pools, only they had forgotten to put in any pH cleanser.
Her date was pleasant enough, but she knew that if her life was a movie this guy would be buried in the credits as something like “Second Tall Man.”
The thunder was ominous-sounding, much like the sound of a thin sheet of metal being shaken backstage during the storm scene in a play.
The red brick wall was the color of a brick-red Crayola crayon.
She caught your eye like one of those pointy hook latches that used to dangle from screen doors and would fly up whenever you banged the door open again.
Her pants fit her like a glove, well, maybe more like a mitten, actually.
Fishing is like waiting for something that does not happen very often.
They were as good friends as the people on “Friends.”
Oooo, he smells bad, she thought, as bad as Calvin Klein’s Obsession would smell if it were called Enema and was made from spoiled Spamburgers instead of natural floral fragrances.
The knife was as sharp as the tone used by Rep. Sheila Jackson Lee (D-Tex.) in her first several points of parliamentary procedure made to Rep. Henry Hyde (R-Ill.) in the House Judiciary Committee hearings on the impeachment of President William Jefferson Clinton.
He was as bald as one of the Three Stooges, either Curly or Larry, you know, the one who goes woo woo woo.
The sardines were packed as tight as the coach section of a 747.
Her eyes were shining like two marbles that someone dropped in mucus and then held up to catch the light.
The baseball player stepped out of the box and spit like a fountain statue of a Greek god that scratches itself a lot and spits brown, rusty tobacco water and refuses to sign autographs for all the little Greek kids unless they pay him lots of drachmas.
I felt a nameless dread. Well, there probably is a long German name for it, like Geschpooklichkeit or something, but I don’t speak German. Anyway, it’s a dread that nobody knows the name for, like those little square plastic gizmos that close your bread bags. I don’t know the name for those either.
She was as unhappy as when someone puts your cake out in the rain, and all the sweet green icing flows down and then you lose the recipe, and on top of that you can’t sing worth a damn.
Her artistic sense was exquisitely refined, like someone who can tell butter from I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter.
It came down the stairs looking very much like something no one had ever seen before.
Bob was as perplexed as a hacker who means to access T:flw.quid55328.com\aaakk/ch@ung but gets T:\flw.quidaaakk/ch@ung by mistake.
You know how in “Rocky” he prepares for the fight by punching sides of raw beef? Well, yesterday it was as cold as that meat locker he was in.
The dandelion swayed in the gentle breeze like an oscillating electric fan set on medium.
Her lips were red and full, like tubes of blood drawn by an inattentive phlebotomist.
The sunset displayed rich, spectacular hues like a .jpeg file at 10 percent cyan, 10 percent magenta, 60 percent yellow and 10 percent black.

boing boing boing

2011-02-05T12:53:00.001+08:00

Hoppy new year, everyone!

warning: this is about to turn into a decor blog

2011-01-25T19:28:00.001+08:00

This blog post has been sitting in draft mode since last September, when, after a whirlwind fortnight of house-hunting in Tiong Bahru, I wrote a cheque as a deposit for a walk-up apartment that I saw for no more than 15 minutes. I think I spent more time pondering the purchase of a J. Crew handbag than on this.

In October, I signed away 25 years of my life to service the home loan, but even then, it didn't feel real. (This, despite the many sleepless nights.)

Even when I had the keys in hand -- on Christmas eve -- I didn't feel like the flat was mine, as the sellers were still living there for another three weeks (their new place wasn't ready).

Stepping into the vacated flat last weekend, it finally hit me. This will be home very very soon.

Now, let the renovations begin!

property hunt

2011-01-20T00:44:00.003+08:00

Dad: Yi eh agent gyo simi mia? (What is the name of that agent?)
Mum: Yi si Eh Eh Eh...Apple ah? (She is Eh Eh Eh... Apple, I think?)
Dad: Simi Apple? Wa Orange ah! (What kind of name is Apple? I can name myself Orange then.)
Mum: Kanna mmm si Apple leh. (I may be mistaken about her name being Apple.)
Dad: April si bo? (Could her name be April? That seems more likely.)
Mum: Ah, si! Yi si April! (Ah, yes! Her name is April!)
Dad: Mmm si May ah? Mmm si June ah? (Are you sure it is not May or June?)
Mum: Mai gong July ga ho. (Why don't you suggest July?)

after an outing with the 摄影学会

2010-11-28T21:38:00.002+08:00

The Adventure Of A Photographer
by Italo Calvino, from Difficult Loves

When spring comes, the city’s inhabitants, by the hundreds of thousands, go out on Sundays with leather cases over their shoulders. And they photograph one another. They come back as happy as hunters with bulging game bags; they spend days waiting, with sweet anxiety, to see the developed pictures (anxiety to which some add the subtle pleasure of alchemistic manipulations in the darkroom, forbidding any intrusion by members of the family, relishing the acid smell that is harsh to the nostrils). It is only when they have the photos before their eyes that they seem to take tangible possession of the day they spent, only then that the mountain stream, the movement of the child with his pail, the glint of the sun on the wife’s legs take on the irrevocability of what has been and can no longer be doubted. Everything else can drown in the unreliable shadow of memory.

Seeing a good deal of his friends and colleagues, Antonino Paraggi, a nonphotographer, sensed a growing isolation. Every week he discovered that the conversations of those who praise the sensitivity of a filter or discourse on the number of DINs were swelled by the voice of yet another to whom he had confided until yesterday, convinced that they were shared, his sarcastic remarks about an activity that to him seemed so unexciting, so lacking in surprises.

Professionally, Antonino Paraggi occupied an executive position in the distribution department of a production firm, but his real passion was commenting to his friends on current events large and small, unraveling the thread of general causes from the tangle of details; in short, by mental attitude he was a philosopher, and he devoted all his thoroughness to grasping the significance of even the events most remote from his own experience. Now he felt that something in the essence of photographic man was eluding him, the secret appeal that made new adepts continue to join the ranks of the amateurs of the lens, some boasting of the progress of their technical and artistic skill, others, on the contrary, giving all the credit to the efficiency of the camera they had purchased, which was capable (according to them) of producing masterpieces even when operated by inept hands (as they declared their own to be, because wherever pride aimed at magnifying the virtues of mechanical devices, subjective talent accepted a proportionate humiliation). Antonino Paraggi understood that neither the one nor the other motive of satisfaction was decisive: the secret lay elsewhere.

It must be said that his examination of photography to discover the causes of a private dissatisfaction—as of someone who feels excluded from something—was to a certain extent a trick Antonino played on himself, to avoid having to consider another, more evident, process that was separating him from his friends. What was happening was this: his acquaintances, of his age, were all getting married, one after another, and starting families, while Antonino remained a bachelor.

Yet between the two phenomena there was undoubtedly a connection, inasmuch as the passion for the lens often develops in a natural, virtually physiological way as a secondary effect of fatherhood. One of the first instincts of parents, after they have brought a child into the world, is to photograph it. Given the speed of growth, it becomes necessary to photograph the child often, because nothing is more fleeting and unmemorable than a six-month-old infant, soon deleted and replaced by one of eight months, and then one of a year; and all the perfection that, to the eyes of parents, a child of three may have reached cannot prevent its being destroyed by that of the four-year-old. The photograph album remains the only place where all these fleeting perfections are saved and juxtaposed, each aspiring to an incomparable absoluteness of its own. In the passion of new parents for framing their offspring in the sights to reduce them to the immobility of black-and-white or a full color slide, the nonphotographer and non-procreator Antonino saw chiefly a phase in the race toward madness lurking in that black instrument. But his reflections on the iconography-family-madness nexus were summary and reticent: otherwise he would have realized that the person actually running the greatest risk was himself, the bachelor.

In the circle of Antonino’s friends, it was customary to spend the weekend out of town, in a group, following a tradition that for many of them dated back to their student days and that had been extended to include their girl friends, then their wives and their children, as well as wet nurses and governesses, and in some cases in-laws and new acquaintances of both sexes. But since the continuity of their habits, their getting together, had never lapsed, Antonino could pretend that nothing had changed with the passage of the years and that they were still the band of young men and women of the old days, rather than a conglomerate of families in which he remained the only surviving bachelor.

More and more often, on these excursions to the sea or the mountains, when it came time for the family group or the multi-family picture, an outsider was asked to lend a hand, a passer-by perhaps, willing to press the button of the camera already focused and aimed in the desired direction. In these cases, Antonino couldn’t refuse his services: he would take the camera from the hands of a father or a mother, who would then rush to assume his or her place in the second row, sticking his head forward between two other heads, or crouching among the little ones; and Antonino, concentrating all his strength in the finger destined for this use, would press. The first times, an awkward stiffening of his arm would make the lens veer to capture the masts of ships or the spires of steeples, or to decapitate grandparents, uncles, and aunts. He was accused of doing this on purpose, reproached for making a joke in poor taste. It wasn’t true: his intention was to lend the use of his finger as docile instrument of the collective wish, but also to exploit his temporary position of privilege to admonish both photographers and their subjects as to the significance of their actions. As soon as the pad of his finger reached the desired condition of detachment from the rest of his person and personality, he was free to communicate his theories in well-reasoned discourse, framing at the same time well-composed little groups. (A few accidental successes had sufficed to give him nonchalance and assurance with viewfinders and light meters.)

"…Because once you’ve begun," he would preach, "there is no reason why you should stop. The line between the reality that is photographed because it seems beautiful to us and the reality that seems beautiful because it has been photographed is very narrow. If you take a picture of Pierluca because he’s building a sand castle, there is no reason not to take his picture while he’s crying because the castle has collapsed, and then while the nurse consoles him by helping him find a sea shell in the sand. The minute you start saying something, ‘Ah, how beautiful! We must photograph it!’ you are already close to the view of the person who thinks that everything that is not photographed is lost, as if it had never existed, and that therefore, in order really to live, you must photograph as much as you can, and to photograph as much as you can you must either live in the most photographable way possible, or else consider photographable every moment of your life. The first course leads to stupidity; the second to madness."

"You’re the one who’s mad and stupid," his friends would say to him, "and a pain in the ass, into the bargain."

"For the person who wants to capture everything that passes before his eyes," Antonino would explain, even if nobody was listening to him any more, "the only coherent way to act is to snap at least one picture a minute, from the instant he opens his eyes in the morning to when he goes to sleep. This is the only way that the rolls of exposed film will represent a faithful diary of our days, with nothing left out. If I were to start taking pictures, I’d see this thing through, even if it meant losing my mind. But the rest of you still insist on making a choice. What sort of choice? A choice in the idyllic sense, apologetic, consolatory, at peace with nature, the fatherland, the family. Your choice isn’t only photographic; it is a choice of life, which leads you to exclude dramatic conflicts, the knots of contradiction, the great tensions of will, passion, aversion. So you think you are saving yourselves from madness, but you are falling into mediocrity, into hebetude."

A girl named Bice, someone’s ex-sister-in-law, and another named Lydia, someone else’s ex-secretary, asked him please to take a snapshot of them while they were playing ball among the waves. He consented, but since in the meanwhile he had worked out a theory in opposition to snapshots, he dutifully expressed it to the two friends:

"What drives you two girls to cut from the mobile continuum of your day these temporal slices, the thickness of a second? Tossing the ball back and forth, you are living in the present, but the moment the scansion of the frames is insinuated between your acts it is no longer the pleasure of the game that motivated you but, rather, that of seeing yourselves again in the future, of rediscovering yourselves in twenty years’ time, on a piece of yellowed cardboard (yellowed emotionally, even if modern printing procedures will preserve it unchanged). The taste for the spontaneous, natural, lifelike snapshot kills spontaneity, drives away the present. Photographed reality immediately takes on a nostalgic character, of joy fled on the wings of time, a commemorative quality, even if the picture was taken the day before yesterday. And the life that you live in order to photograph it is already, at the outset, a commemoration of itself. To believe that the snapshot is more true than the posed portrait is a prejudice…"

So saying, Antonino darted around the two girls in the water, to focus on the movements of their game and cut out of the picture the dazzling glints of the sun on the water. In a scuffle for the ball, Bice, flinging herself on the other girl, who was submerged, was snapped with her behind in close-up, flying over the waves. Antonino, so as not to lose this angle, had flung himself back in the water while holding up the camera, nearly drowning.

"They all came out well, and this one’s stupendous," they commented a few days later, snatching the proofs from each other. They had arranged to meet at the photography shop. "You’re good; you must take some more of us."

Antonino had reached the conclusion that it was necessary to return to posed subjects, in attitudes denoting their social position and their character, as in the nineteenth century. His antiphotographic polemic could be fought only from within the black box, setting one kind of photography against another.

"I’d like to have one of those old box cameras," he said to his girl friends, "the kind you put on a tripod. Do you think it’s still possible to find one?"

"Hmm, maybe at some junk shop…"

"Let’s go see."

The girls found it amusing to hunt for this curious object; together they ransacked flea markets, interrogated old street photographers, followed them to their lairs. In those cemeteries of objects no longer serviceable lay wooden columns, screens, backdrops with faded landscapes; everything that suggested an old photographer’s studio, Antonino bought. In the end he managed to get hold of a box camera, with a bulb to squeeze. It seemed in perfect working order. Antonino also bought an assortment of plates. With the girls helping him, he set up the studio in a room of his apartment, all fitted out with old-fashioned equipment, except for two modern spotlights.

Now he was content. "This is where to start," he explained to the girls. "In the way our grandparents assumed a pose, in the convention that decided how groups were to be arranged, there was a social meaning, a custom, a taste, a culture. An official photograph, or one of a marriage or a family or a school group, conveyed how serious and important each role or institution was, but also how far they were all false or forced, authoritarian, hierarchical. This is the point: to make explicit the relationship with the world that each of us bears within himself, and which today we tend to hide, to make unconscious, believing that in this way it disappears, whereas…"

"Who do you want to have pose for you?"

"You two come tomorrow, and I’ll begin by taking some pictures of you in the way I mean."

"Say, what’s in the back of your mind?" Lydia asked, suddenly suspicious. Only now, as the studio was all set up, did she see that everything about it had a sinister, threatening air. "If you think we’re going to come and be your models, you’re dreaming!"

Bice giggled with her, but the next day she came back to Antonino’s apartment, alone.

She was wearing a white linen dress with colored embroidery on the edges of the sleeves and pockets. Her hair was parted and gathered over her temples. She laughed, a bit slyly, bending her head to one side. As he let her in, Antonino studied her manner—a bit coy, a bit ironic—to discover what were the traits that defined her true character.

He made her sit in a big armchair, and stuck his head under the black cloth that came with his camera. It was one of those boxes whose rear wall was of glass, where the image is reflected as if already on the plate, ghostly, a bit milky, deprived of every link with space and time. To Antonino it was as if he had never seen Bice before. She had a docility in her somewhat heavy way of lowering her eyelids, of stretching her neck forward, that promised something hidden, as her smile seemed to hide behind the very act of smiling.

"There. Like that. No, head a bit farther; raise your eyes. No, lower them." Antonino was pursuing, within that box, something of Bice that all at once seemed most precious to him, absolute.

"Now you’re casting a shadow; move into the light. No, it was better before."

There were many possible photographs of Bice and many Bices impossible to photograph, but what he was seeking was the unique photograph that would contain both the former and the latter.

"I can’t get you," his voice emerged, stifled and complaining from beneath the black hood, "I can’t get you any more; I can’t manage to get you."

He freed himself from the cloth and straightened up again. He was going about it all wrong. That expression, that accent, that secret he seemed on the very point of capturing in her face, was something that drew him into the quicksands of moods, humors, psychology: he, too, was one of those who pursue life as it flees, a hunter of the unattainable, like the takers of snapshots.

He had to follow the opposite path: aim at a portrait completely on the surface, evident, unequivocal, that did not elude conventional appearance, the stereotype, the mask. The mask, being first of all a social, historical product, contains more truth than any image claiming to be "true"; it bears a quantity of meanings that will gradually be revealed. Wasn’t this precisely Antonino’s intention in setting up this fair booth of a studio?

He observed Bice. He should start with the exterior elements of her appearance. In Bice’s way of dressing and fixing herself up—he thought—you could recognize the somewhat nostalgic, somewhat ironic intention, widespread in the mode of those years, to hark back to the fashions of thirty years earlier. The photograph should underline this intention: why hadn’t he thought of that?

Antonino went to find a tennis racket; Bice should stand up in a three-quarter turn, the racket under her arm, her face in the pose of a sentimental postcard. To Antonino, from under the black drape, Bice’s image—in its slimness and suitability to the pose, and in the unsuitable and almost incongruous aspects that the pose accentuated—seemed very interesting. He made her change position several times, studying the geometry of legs and arms in relation to the racket and to some element in the background. (In the ideal postcard in his mind there would have been the net of the tennis court, but you couldn’t demand too much, and Antonino made do with a Ping-Pong table.)

But he still didn’t feel on safe ground: wasn’t he perhaps trying to photograph memories—or, rather, vague echoes of recollection surfacing in the memory? Wasn’t his refusal to live the present as a future memory, as the Sunday photographers did, leading him to attempt an equally unreal operation, namely to give a body to recollection, to substitute it for the present before his very eyes?

"Move! Don’t stand there like a stick! Raise the racket, damn it! Pretend you’re playing tennis!" All of a sudden he was furious. He had realized that only by exaggerating the poses could he achieve an objective alienness; only by feigning a movement arrested halfway could he give the impression of the unmoving, the nonliving.

Bice obediently followed his orders even when they became vague and contradictory, with a passivity that was also a way of declaring herself out of the game, and yet somehow insinuating, in this game that was not hers, the unpredictable moves of a mysterious match of her own. What Antonino now was expecting of Bice, telling her to put her legs and arms this way and that way, was not so much the simple performance of a plan as her response to the violence he was doing her with his demands, an unforeseeable aggressive reply to this violence that he was being driven more and more to wreak on her.

It was like a dream, Antonino thought, contemplating, from the darkness in which he was buried, that improbable tennis player filtered into the glass rectangle: like a dream when a presence coming from the depth of memory advances, is recognized, and then suddenly is transformed into something unexpected, something that even before the transformation is already frightening because there’s no telling what it might be transformed into.

Did he want to photograph dreams? This suspicion struck him dumb, hidden in that ostrich refuge of his with the bulb in his hand, like an idiot; and meanwhile Bice, left to herself, continued a kind of grotesque dance, freezing in exaggerated tennis poses, backhand, drive, raising the racket high or lowering it to the ground as if the gaze coming from that glass eye were the ball she continued to slam back.

"Stop, what’s this nonsense? This isn’t what I had in mind." Antonino covered the camera with the cloth and began pacing up and down the room.

It was all the fault of that dress, with its tennis, prewar connotations… It had to be admitted that if she wore a street dress the kind of photograph he described couldn’t be taken. A certain solemnity was needed, a certain pomp, like the official photos of queens. Only in evening dress would Bice become a photographic subject, with the décolleté that marks a distinct line between the white of the skin and the darkness of the fabric, accentuated by the glitter of jewels, a boundary between an essence of woman, almost atemporal and almost impersonal in her nakedness, and the other abstraction, social this time, the dress, symbol of an equally impersonal role, like the drapery of an allegorical statue.

He approached Bice, began to unbutton the dress at the neck and over the bosom, and slip it down over her shoulders. He had thought of certain nineteenth-century photographs of women in which from the white of the cardboard emerge the face, the neck, the line of the bared shoulders, while all the rest disappears into the whiteness.

This was the portrait outside of time and space that he now wanted; he wasn’t quite sure how it was achieved, but he was determined to succeed. He set the spotlight on Bice, moved the camera closer, fiddled around under the cloth adjusting the aperture of the lens. He looked into it. Bice was naked.

She had made the dress slip down to her feet; she wasn’t wearing anything underneath it; she had taken a step forward—no, a step backward, which was as if her whole body were advancing in the picture; she stood erect, tall before the camera, calm, looking straight ahead, as if she were alone.

Antonino felt the sight of her enter his eyes and occupy the whole visual field, removing it from the flux of casual and fragmentary images, concentrating time and space in a finite form. And as if this visual surprise and the impression of the plate were two reflexes connected among themselves, he immediately pressed the bulb, loaded the camera again, snapped, put in another plate, snapped, and went on changing plates and snapping, mumbling, stifled by the cloth, "There, that’s right now, yes, again, I’m getting you fine now, another."

He had run out of plates. He emerged from the cloth. He was pleased. Bice was before him, naked, as if waiting.

"Now you can dress," he said, euphoric, but already in a hurry. "Let’s go out."

She looked at him, bewildered.

"I’ve got you now," he said.

Bice burst into tears.

Antonino realized that he had fallen in love with her that same day. They started living together, and he bought the most modern cameras, telescopic lens, the most advanced equipment; he installed a darkroom. He even had a set-up for photographing her when she was asleep at night. Bice would wake at the flash, annoyed; Antonino went on taking snapshots of her disentangling herself from sleep, of her becoming furious with him, of her trying in vain to find sleep again by plunging her face into the pillow, of her making up with him, of her recognizing as acts of love these photographic rapes.

In Antonino’s darkroom, strung with films and proofs, Bice peered from every frame, as thousands of bees peer out from the honeycomb of a hive, but always the same bee: Bice in every attitude, at every angle, in every guise, Bice posed or caught unaware, an identity fragmented into a powder of images.

"But what’s this obsession with Bice? Can’t you photograph anything else?" was the question he heard constantly from his friends, and also from her.

"It isn’t just a matter of Bice," he answered. "It’s a question of method. Whatever person you decide to photograph, or whatever thing, you must go on photographing it always, exclusively, at every hour of the day and night. Photography has a meaning only if it exhausts all possible images."

But he didn’t say what meant most to him: to catch Bice in the street when she didn’t know he was watching her, to keep her in the range of hidden lenses, to photograph her not only without letting himself be seen but without seeing her, to surprise her as she was in the absence of his gaze, of any gaze. Not that he wanted to discover any particular thing; he wasn’t a jealous man in the usual sense of the word. It was an invisible Bice that he wanted to possess, a Bice absolutely alone, a Bice whose presence presupposed the absence of him and everyone else.

Whether or not it could be defined as jealousy, it was, in any case, a passion difficult to put up with. And soon Bice left him.

Antonino sank into deep depression. He began to keep a diary—a photographic diary, of course. With the camera slung around his neck, shut up in the house, slumped in an armchair, he compulsively snapped pictures as he stared into the void. He was photographing the absence of Bice.

He collected the photographs in an album: you could see ashtrays brimming with cigarette butts, an unmade bed, a damp stain on the wall. He got the idea of composing a catalogue of everything in the world that resists photography, that is systematically omitted from the visual field not only by camera but also by human beings. On every subject he spent days, using up whole rolls at intervals of hours, so as to follow the changes of light and shadow. One day he became obsessed with a completely empty corner of the room, containing a radiator pipe and nothing else: he was tempted to go on photographing that spot and only that till the end of his days.

The apartment was completely neglected; old newspapers, letters lay crumpled on the floor, and he photographed them. The photographs in the papers were photographed as well, and an indirect bond was established between his lens and that of distant news photographers. To produce those black spots the lenses of other cameras had been aimed at police assaults, charred automobiles, running athletes, ministers, defendants.

Antonino now felt a special pleasure in portraying domestic objects framed by a mosaic of telephotos, violent patches of ink on white sheets. From his immobility he was surprised to find he envied the life of the news photographer, who moves following the movements of crowds, bloodshed, tears, feasts, crime, the conventions of fashion, the falsity of official ceremonies; the news photographer, who documents the extremes of society, the richest and the poorest, the exceptional moments that are nevertheless produced at every moment and in every place.

Does this mean that only the exceptional condition has a meaning? Antonino asked himself. Is the news photographer the true antagonist of the Sunday photographer? Are their worlds mutually exclusive? Or does the one give meaning to the other?

Reflecting like this, he began to tear up the photographs with Bice or without Bice that had accumulated during the months of his passion, ripping to pieces the strips of proofs hung on the walls, snipping up the celluloid of the negatives, jabbing the slides, and piling the remains of this methodical destruction on newspapers spread out on the floor.

Perhaps true, total photography, he thought, is a pile of fragments of private images, against the creased background of massacres and coronations.

He folded the corners of the newspapers into a huge bundle to be thrown into the trash, but first he wanted to photograph it. He arranged the edges so that you could clearly see two halves of photographs from different newspapers that in the bundle happened, by chance, to fit together. In fact he reopened the package a little so that a bit of shiny pasteboard would stick out, the fragment of a torn enlargement. He turned on a spotlight; he wanted it to be possible to recognize in his photograph the half-crumpled and torn images, and at the same time to feel their unreality as casual, inky shadows, and also at the same time their concreteness as objects charged with meaning, the strength with which they clung to the attention that tried to drive them away.

To get all this into one photograph he had to acquire an extraordinary technical skill, but only then would Antonino quit taking pictures. Having exhausted every possibility, at the moment when he was coming full circle Antonino realized that photographing photographs was the only course that he had left—or, rather, the true course he had obscurely been seeking all this time.

b.o. a.k.a. laughing gas

2010-11-19T17:28:00.007+08:00

Posting this conversation between my twin and I (at around 5pm last Friday) will probably lower my already dismal karma points, but here it is anyway.

Twin: I can't believe I've eaten both my lunch and dinner already. I got nothing to eat next!
Me: Dinner?!?
Twin: The curry rice was dinner. I ate lunch before kickboxing, remember!
Me: Curry rice is tea!
Twin: I want you to be my fitness instructor! That day, before our self-defence class, I was early, and I heard some ditzy girls asking the instructor how to diet.
Me: Oh, apparently he is a personal fitness instructor too.
Twin: And he went on and on about not eating rice after 7pm etc etc. I hate to hear things like that.
Twin: So this guy does anything related to fitness!
Me: Apparently, super duper hardcore people employ him.
Twin: Wah. Well, he is super duper hard core! His warm-up is not even a warm-up, it's the actual exercise already!
Me: I think he is also a freelance photographer!
Twin: Wot!
Me: Once, he sent me an e-mail, but he forgot to change the signature.
Twin: Wahahahahahahahah wah lau! Skarly he also freelance writer.
Twin: Freelance eyebrow plucker.
Twin: Freelance model agent.
Me: Freelance skipping rope salesman.
Twin: Or basically, you got any job and you ask him, he'll do it.
Me: Can we ask him to shower?
Me: And use Rexona?
Twin: WAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAH
Twin: Once, I saw him spraying Lynx on himself when he thought no one was looking.
Me: Wah! You are his stalker!
Twin: Ahahahahahahahahahahaha you were there too! But you probably didn't see!
Me: For some reason, I find the surreptitious Lynx-spraying very hilarious.
Twin: We were outside the studio and he was inside and he thought he was alone, but I saw his reflection through the mirror.
Me: I'm convulsed with laughter now.
Twin: Yes! He even checked around to see if anyone was looking! But he forgot about the mirror!
Me: Tears are coming out now.
Twin: Wahahahahahahahahahahahahahah
Me: You even saw it was Lynx!
Me: I'm laughing all over again.
Twin: Wahahahahaahahaha yes! He must have obviously given up on the Lynx subsequently.
Me: Stoppit. I'm dying here.
Twin: Hahahahahahahahahahaha
Twin: He really should have layered it on a bit more especially for the rape lesson.
Me: STOPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP
Twin: Wahahahahaahahahahahha
Me: Who knew B.O. could be this funny?
Twin: Wahahahahahahahahahahhahhah
Me: You just have to say the word "lynx" and I will burst into tears.
Twin: I went to the zoo and saw a LYNX cat.
Me: Was it nice smelling?
Twin: Wahahahahahahahahahahah
Me: DID IT TRY TO RAPE YOU!?!
Twin: WAHAHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAAHAH

Please, tell me I'm not the only one reduced to tears by Lynx (I'm weeping now as I type this).

imaginary outfit

2010-11-15T19:59:00.002+08:00

Braindead after a Monday at work -- still at work, actually -- so all I can say is: I want those sequinned leggings. In fact, the entire outfit is perfect, whether I'm walking the tightrope or not.

2010-11-09T06:49:00.002+08:00

Just like how a certain publication, which shall not be named, published an entire article based on a (possibly fictitious) fan e-mail, this blog is also not above pandering to its readership of three, especially that anonymous one who commented on the last post, asking for more fashion on this blog.

So, I hereby present: More frivolous fashiony drivel!

Ms X told me once that she was very proud that in her entire time at a renowned (ahem!) fashion mag, she never carried an It bag. In fact, she used only various cute canvas totes, sometimes festooned with geeky chic brooches.

Good for her, I say, for staying true to her anti-establishment nature. And while I have coveted the Stam bag briefly in the past (haven't seen anyone using it for a while now, so much for being an investment piece) and still think a Bottega tote would be my go-to bag if I had $7,000 lying around (actually, no, these days, I'd rather spend it on toilet bowls and windows and tiles and chandeliers and, oh, you get it), I don't see why an item meant to ferry my barang from Point A to B should cost more than my rent.

I also don't get why a skirt should cost $1,000, even if it is made of silk (even at an exorbitant $100 per metre, the cost of materials is at most $200, because you wouldn't need more than 2m to make a skirt unless it is a tent). Or how a designer tee ($200 min) is any better or lasts any longer than an identical one from Giordano ($20 max).

Hence, if you look in my closet, all the so-called designer items -- but really, even the el cheapo gold flats I favour from Cotton On can also be called designer, as in a designer had to come up with it, right? -- made their way there via a sale or flea market:

(a) a DKNY leather and tulle skirt, from my very first Club 21 sale in my first year as a writer (90% off)
(b) a couple of Calvin Klein watches (birthday gifts)
(c) three genuine leather bags (they cost less than two months' worth of dog food and do not feature interlocking logos or monograms)
(d) a canvas "Birkin" (one of a series from Slow and Steady Wins the Race, which mocks It bags; I still covet the quilted canvas "Chanel 2.55", which appears to be sold out, boohoo)
(d) a handful of alldressedup items (reckless impulse buys on deep discount, including the aforementioned $1,000 skirt at 90% off and a $275-reduced-to-$5 bag)
(e) a Kate Spade pouch and lucite ring (both gifts)
(f) my latest flea market loot of a battered Anya Hindmarch suede tote, a DKNY skirt and a Day Birger et Mikkelsen dress (grand total: $80. Score!)

But back to Ms X and her canvas totes. I am proud to report that in my years of writing, I have:
(a) interviewed shoemaker to the stars Stuart Weitzman in $5 flip flops;
(b) doorstopped Miuccia Prada in a Prada-esque poufy skirt, courtesy of H&M; and
(c) attended glitzy Louis Vuitton galas armed with my trusty battered gold vintage clutch.

While I relished those little acts of fashion rebellion, I must be honest: they were out of necessity. Unlike fashionistas who regularly attend these events by luxury houses and trot out the corresponding logo bag -- it's supposedly rude to carry a Chanel bag to an LV soiree wor, but sometimes, I wonder how poorly paid fashion writers afford the stuff -- my meagre pay barely feeds me and my dog. And now I have a mortage to service as well.

I might have to start a Go 365 Days Without Shopping Project, except I'm pretty sure I won't make it (cf. the dismal failure of the Buy 20 Items In 2010 Project). But one can try. Wish me luck!

enlisted

2010-10-25T18:14:00.002+08:00

Ever so frequently, I feel the intense urge to throw away everything in my wardrobe and start afresh. Which is right about now. But being extremely impoverished, I've decided instead to take stock of what I have.

According Brit Vogue five years ago, these are the basics I need. (Those with a * indicate what's going on top of my shopping wish list. This is a completely self-indulgent post for me to justify shopping, but may I suggest you join me, too, in "taking stock".)

1. The nearest I have to a cashmere cardi is a threadbare pashimina which I no longer use.
2. See above. Pashminas are passe, no?
3. Slips I have, but they're all polyester.
4. I have one leather belt, circa 1995, which is still going strong.
5. Way too many totes, yet I keep buying more.
*6. This is clearly a sign that I need to buy a wrap cardi. One can never have too many cardis, especially in this freezer office.
7. I own only one pair of trousers and that is more than enough.
8. I'm so over jeans. Jeggings are the way to go.
9. Yes! I have striped scarves (non-striped ones too).
10. I bought my fave tee in three colours (I've become that sort of person who shops in multiples.)
11. I covet the gray slim ladies' Converse, even though I already have two pairs.

12. Not sure why I have a trench in Singapore, but I do.
13. Not a fan of polo tees, so I'll pass.
14. Long-sleeved stuff gets stuffed to the back of the wardrobe, but I know it's there.
15. Don't get me started on the nubuck leather bag -- the most expensive bag I've ever bought -- which is irreparably stained by a cheap pair of jeggings.
16. Cashmere socks? Really?
17. I'd rather wear a nice pair of tailored shorts than a casual skirt.
*18. Still on the quest for that perfect pair of flat boots. Oh, Frye, why are you so expensive?
19. I don't wear PJs; I wear boxers and tanks.
20. I knew that keeping that stone-washed denim jacket from 2005 was a good call.
21. Nobody wants to see me in a bikini, least of all myself.
22. Bought my first pair of loafers this year, not from Tod's though. I must say they are amazingly versatile.
*23. Yay, I don't have a shirtdress, which means another excuse to go shopping.

24. I'm afraid of ruining silk, so no silk tops for me. I'm too cheap to pay for silk anyway. What's wrong with polyester?
25. Jersey dresses are fine, except when I'm retaining water like a bathtub, which is 25 days in a month.
26. Silk clutches, lucite clutches, leather clutches, metal clutches. I have way too many.
27. See 24.
28. I look terribly dowdy in lace, so this is a no.
*29. I've toyed with the idea of sewing sequins onto a top, because all those I see in the shops are unsatisfactory. I would also like a sequinned mini skirt while I'm at it.
30. Who still calls them court shoes? Oh, right, the Brits. I own one pair of sensible black pumps (and several insensible pairs in other colours).
31. The missed opportunities for layering here. I would love to have an evening coat, except I'd probably be mistaken for a flasher at night.
32. Who doesn't own a bra or 10?
33. Diamante means fake diamonds, right? Real ones, I no have, but fake ones, I have in all sizes.
34. I have black capris, not pants, do they count?
35. I have one extremely unflattering vintage jersey skirt languishing at the back of my wardrobe, which I can't bear to throw away because it reminds of my first trip to Barcelona.
36. I have that exact same pair of Muji flip flops. Havaianas have nothing on them.

37. My precious black pair of ballet flats are dying and I'm inconsolable.
38. What do people without wallets do, throw their money into the bag? Wear clothes with pockets all the time?
39. Silk camisole: why must everything be in silk?
40. The last time I needed a "work" jacket to interview some CEO, I borrowed one. He turned up in jeans.
41. LBD? Check.
42. As a matter of fact, I do have a necklace from Tiffany -- I made my friends buy it for me for my birthday -- lurking somewhere.
43. Brown boots take priority over black ones (but a black bag takes priority over a brown one. There is no logic to my madness).
44. I have a whole bunch of opaque tights in all sorts of colours, but they cut off blood circulation to my lower body and cause my toes to curl upwards, so I stopped wearing them.
*45. Gold ballet flats are the Holy Grail.
46. My phone is my watch.
47. A vest is a singlet? Tank top? Wifebeater?
48. Denim skirt a.k.a. jean skirt. That's so early 1990s. I have a pair of denim cut-offs, which is also from the same era.
49. I love a crisp white shirt, but ironing is a bitch, so I hardly wear it.
50. I have a mamasan cardigan just like that. I go, "shi li li, sha la la" whenever I wear it.

Not bad, I only "need" five items to complete this checklist. Let's go shopping!

holy crap! shit happens!

2010-10-02T12:03:00.010+08:00

For unfathomable reasons, I seem to always be flying off with severe lack of sleep. Oh, right, it's because I take four hours to pack every time.

In preparation for the detox [detox being a euphemism for colonic irrigation], I had been avoiding carbs and proteins as much as possible for two days. But I succumbed to the shrimp omelette on the plane. What can I say, I cannot resist food in compartmentalised trays. Also, the thought of not being able to eat for the next seven days was a strong motivation.

On arrival in Chiang Mai, I was whisked off to the resort, from which I would not step foot out for the next week or so. This was the view from the balcony of my "deluxe pool side room", also known as "the cheapest room in the house".

I'm not sure why housekeeping decided to welcome me with these honeymoon suite swans. To crack me up, probably.

The rest of the day was like an orientation: meeting with the health director [an absent-minded old man of some sort of Nordic origin who did not once ask me about my health], watching a welcome video by the founder in a Hawaiian shirt, which I'm sure was cheesy even when the film was shot in the early 1990s, and being instructed, while fully clothed, on, how do I put this delicately, sticking it up your ass. One last supper of raw zucchini "pasta" with marinara sauce -- Tasty! And I'm not being sarcastic! -- as I braced myself for deprivation, starvation and hallucinations of prawn cracker sticks.

Every day begins at 7am with a detox drink, made with some sort of gray liquid clay and psyllium husk mixed with watermelon and/or pineapple juices. You take this five times a day, every three hours. There are also herbal supplements in pill form, six of them, also five times a day, every three hours. I did not expect that to be the worst part of the detox, I thought it would be the lack of food, but the pills were truly vile, like regurgitated grass which is then fermented and dehydrated. But the detox drink was refreshing, despite the fact that there was clay in it.

I only made it for two of the meditation sessions. I figured I would just meditate in bed, because I was dozing off anyway while the guru was asking us to close our eyes and "watch the river of your thoughts, and then push it away". He also said: "Meditation is not doing. It is being." In my head, I was going: "It is boring."

I'm proud to say I made it for yoga every morning except one. Give me a break, I was on vacation, surely I was allowed to sleep in one morning. The yoga pavillion was on a hill with breathtaking views. Well, I was out of breath every morning after trekking up there anyway. But I must say I was already one of the fittest students and I felt a (probably unjustified) sense of superiority over the angmohs who couldn't even sit cross-legged and gazed upon my half lotus with awe and jealousy.

On top of the five detox drinks, we were also allowed one coconut [I accidentally on purpose ate the flesh once before reading the fine print of the fasting manual: "No chewing allowed"], one carrot juice [good thing I like carrots, otherwise it'd have been gross] and one vegetable broth [a.k.a. warm dishwater flavoured with three grains of salt]. The coconut was the highlight of my food-deprived day, but actually, I never felt hunger. I missed eating and food, but I didn't feel like how I usually felt at 12pm when I was at work and going, "Chi fan! Chi fan!'

There are two colemas a day -- I'll get to that at the end, so that the squeamish will have time to escape from this post -- but other than that, I was free to do anything and nothing. I chose nothing.

If the weather was nice, I'd go to the pool, do a few lazy laps, frantically apply liberal amounts of SPF 130 sunblock and then read. [Yes, The Art Of Travel is a bit of a cliche, but it's a good book. I also read two of David Sedaris' books, borrowed from my twin, which made me snort out loud most unbecomingly.]

I tried to fulfil my painterly ambitions. Don't laugh at my lopsided cake, this is my first attempt at painting anything other than cupboards and walls.

My package included daily tummy massages, you know, brute force to push the crap out. While my intestines were being squashed and twisted and pummelled, I gazed on a peaceful grove of bamboos and imagined scenes from Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. After that, I would go for a sauna or steam bath to purge even more toxins.

Not being much of a nature lover, I didn't go hiking. My commune with nature was limited to this one inexplicable crab that scuttled across my path and the creepy crawlies in my room, including a big black butterfly which flew in and refused to leave.

One of the cats climbed onto my balcony, I know not how, and demanded to take a nap on my bed. There were scruffy dogs running around too, which made me miss my smelly one back home, but they didn't want to play with me.

This is not a pina colada. As if. From Day 4, we were advised to take this Liver Flush drink to rid our liver of toxins. Made of extra virgin olive oil, lemon and orange juices, garlic, ginger and cayenne pepper, it sounded vile but was really yummy, like ginger tea with fruit juice and a peppery aftertaste. This was my last Liver Flush drink, sadly, although I guess I could always make it at home myself.

On Day 8, I broke fast. It took me 45 minutes to finish eating my first meal of a fruit platter, because apparently I had forgotten how to chew. I was expecting the flavours to explode in my mouth, but instead the pineapple was so sour, it made my tongue sting for hours.

We were told to eat only vegetables and fruit for the first two days, but I succumbed to a piece of garlic toast and some wanton soup when I went to town to do some shopping. In the mall I went to, supposedly the biggest in Chiang Mai, there was an entire floor devoted to buffet restaurants. The only thing holding me back was the urban legend circulating in the resort of some dude who ate some fried chicken at the airport after his fast -- and couldn't poop for two weeks after that.

And speaking of poop, that was what I did twice a day for seven days, 20 minutes each time. The first time was the most daunting, but they give you lubricant to make things go smoother. There was no pain, just like a mild tummy ache, and then whoosh, out it comes. Someone who had done it before said it was so shiok, she could have done it four times a day, no problem. I would have to agree. [The above photo from my morning trek to yoga is just there to break up all this shitty text.]

There was a plastic mesh basket colander thingy provided if you were inclined to take a closer look, but I was too put off by the thought of having to wash the actual thing to use it. But from what I could see from the toilet bowl, holy crap! It was amazing how much output there was every single time, despite there being not any input. [Cute kitty pix, in case your imagination starts running wild.]

The final dump was the most satisfying, as I produced what looked exactly like those pictures I'd seen on the internet. I almost felt proud. But not proud enough to take photos, because I didn't want to risk dropping my phone into the bowl. If you are feeling exceptionally brave, click here for pix. You have been warned, so don't blame me if you lose your lunch because you were kaypoh. [Ominous pix of approaching rainstorm, just because.]

When I weighed myself on the last day, I had lost 3kg. Sadly, it was easy go, easy come back, even though I did not eat any fried chicken. I do feel disgustingly healthy and rested and squeaky clean on the inside. I was also warned that during the fast, I might feel nauseated, vomit bile and get headaches -- which the other people I met there also experienced -- but I guess I wasn't as toxic as I thought I was, despite the vast quantities of prawn cracker sticks I had consumed.

Heading home sweet home to my favourite dish in the whole wide world -- mum's chicken soup. But I didn't eat the chicken, just in case.

cooking is my therapy

2010-08-15T01:35:00.000+08:00

Hello? Hello? *Tap tap tap on the mike*

Testing 1, 2, 3. Anyone there?

I'm still alive! More than alive, I've about doubled in size since posting anything substantial here, what with the way I've been cooking and eating. Here's what I've been gorging on.

I've developed quite an obsession with quinoa (above). My journalistic training compels me to add here that it is a seed crop that originated from South America and it is pronounced "keen wah". A friend asks: "How does quinoa taste? Would I be keen on it and go wah after trying?"

I can't quite describe the taste. It is sort of nutty and creamy, and there is a pleasant, addictive bite to it. Depending on what you add, it can take on the flavours of, say, the miso paste that is mixed into it -- mmm, umami -- or the wafu salad dressing I like.

On top of being super yummy, it is also super healthy -- high in fibre, proteins, minerals, etc etc etc -- and super easy to cook -- just pop into the rice cooker with double the amount of water.

Quinoa is also super versatile. I have made a chocolate cake (above) with it. Yes, chocolate cake! It tastes just like a regular cake too, meaning it does not taste like cardboard masquerading as health food.

The original recipe is from The 10 cent Diet, but I have tweaked it a little:

1. Cook 2/3 cup of quinoa with double that amount of water in the rice cooker and then fluff and allow to cool.

2. Preheat oven to 180 deg C. Grease two 8" round cake pans. Line the bottoms with parchment paper.

3. Melt 180g butter and let it cool.

4. Combine 1/3 cup milk, 4 eggs and 1 tsp vanilla extract in a blender, add the cooked quinoa and butter. Blend until smooth.

5. Whisk together 1 1/2 cup sugar, 1 cup unsweetened cocoa powder, 1 1/2 tsp baking powder, 1/2 baking soda in a large bowl. Add the contents of the blender and mix well.

6. Divide the batter between the two pans and bake on center rack of oven for 40-45 minutes (until a knife inserted comes out clean).

7. Remove cakes from oven and cool completely in the pans before serving or icing.

The icing recipe is from my lurve, the baker extraordinaire of Crummb who is my Martha On Speed Dial, and it is idiot-proof. She advises that I use Millac whipping cream from Phoon Huat (or any whipping cream that has a "stabilising agent" in its list of ingredients, otherwise it will not set in our climate).

Add icing sugar (to taste) to 500g of whipping cream and whip until stiff. Yum! According to my Martha, you can also add mascarpone or white chocolate, but don't ask me what quantities, because I haven't tried making it yet.

I have also made quinoa into baked patties (above, with charsiew sauce pork chop), but, to be honest, they look better than they taste (very dry, need a lot of sauce to help them go down), so I won't bother listing the recipe.

I've also rekindled my love affair with cold noodles, specifically, somen (above). (It's the lesser known noodle from Japan, very thin and delicate, and cooks in mere minutes.) On a hot afternoon, it is the perfect quick lunch with carrot sticks, topped with seaweed and spring onions, and eaten with ice-cold dipping sauce.

After a particularly mind-blowing, stomach-bursting dinner at Osvaldo some time back, I've been hankering for good sun-dried tomatoes. Those from Cold Storage's deli section -- daylight robbery prices some more! -- just don't cut it. Then I stumble upon this recipe for slow-roasted tomatoes (above, pre-roasting) from ever-reliable Smitten Kitchen:

1. Preheat oven to 100 deg C.

2. Slice about 500g of cherry/honey tomatoes (two punnets in my case) into halves.

3. Place on parchment paper in a baking tray with whole cloves of unpeeled garlic.

4. Drizzle with olive oil -- just enough to make the tomatoes glisten -- and sprinkle very lightly with salt and pepper.

5. Bake for about three hours (do check after two hours, mine take less than three hours). They will look shrivelled and ugly but still taste juicy and explode when you bite into them.

6. Leftovers can be refrigerated, covered with olive oil.

I've used them in wholemeal wraps, with leftover bolognese sauce (see below), lettuce and grated pecorino romano. So so so good. Also good in baked eggs (see further below).

Another cooking experiment that went swimmingly well: Bolognese sauce. And so easy too. (I adapted the recipe from the River Cottage guy, but being lazy to measure, based the quantities on agar-ration.)

1. Chop streaky bacon and fry in a hot pan until the fat runs clear. Remove from heat.

2. Brown minced beef in small batches until cooked. Remove from heat.

3. Fry finely chopped garlic and onions until soft.

4. Add 1 can of tinned tomatoes (400g). (The recipe also called for 250g of sieved roasted tomatoes, which I omitted because I had none and anyway, how do you sieve roasted tomatoes?), but I'm thinking the next time I attempt this, I will add the slow-roasted tomatoes, chopped roughly, from above.)

5. Bring to a merry bubble and allow to thicken slightly. Add 250ml water, the bacon and minced beef, a liberal sprinkling of McCormick's Italian seasoning (there is no shame in not having fresh thyme, rosemary, basil, etc), salt and pepper.

6. Simmer uncovered for an hour, stirring until thick.

7. Serve over spaghetti. Grate a mound of pecorino romano (my new fave cheese!) over the whole plate and devour.

The moment I saw my foodie colleague's Facebook photos of baked eggs, I knew I had to make them. Mine (above) were a little over-cooked, being my first time and all, but still very eggy and delish. Comfort food at its best.

1. Preheat oven toaster at 200 deg C.

2. Chop streaky bacon and place in ramekin. Place in the oven for about 10 minutes, until it sizzles.

3. Add slow-roasted tomatoes, then crack two eggs into the ramekin. (I find it easier to crack the eggs into a bowl first.)

4. Bake for another six to eight minutes, until the whites are set but the yolks still runny. Remove from heat and top with pepper or, in my case, Japanese seven spices or togarashi, which I've been sprinkling on practically everything, from chicken soup to salad.

Demmit, now I've made myself hungry!

doodles at 30,000 ft

2010-08-07T15:22:00.003+08:00

The "I Lego NY" guy is back with a visual diary documenting a flight from New York to Berlin (with a layover in London).

On a related note, I've been toying with the idea of taking up a course and I think I've decided. I'm going to learn to draw, and I don't mean like a five-year-old. Does anyone know where I can take lessons? I don't want to join a CC class with other five-year-olds.

chocolate factory

2010-07-31T15:40:00.002+08:00

The Mast Brothers from The Scout on Vimeo.

Is it wrong that I want this chocolate because the bearded brothers (especially the non-bespectacled one) are so adorable?

ai, actually

2010-07-19T23:34:00.003+08:00

I stopped repeating this following anecdote, courtesy of my aunt who overheard it on the bus, months ago. Now that 爱, the Taiwanese melodrama that advances 0.1mm per episode, has been moved to a daily (daily!!!) slot, it has become "newsworthy" again.

Woman on the phone on the bus: 老公，今晚有没有做爱？
Her follow-up question after his affirmative reply: 今晚做爱几个小时？

Demmit, now I have the Hokkien theme song echoing in my head：我问天！我问天！

an education

2010-06-25T13:40:00.002+08:00

All the illustrations on Stuff No One Told Me should be compiled into a book and given to kids (and adults too).

mosaic love

2010-06-22T17:56:00.004+08:00

It's currently Day 83 on my second Project 365, which I'm doing with M and K. (We also have an intermittently updated blog of all our pix so far.) Being the masochist that I am, not only am I using an iPhone and not a proper camera, I'm also shooting only square photos and restricting myself to one-line captions.

I must say, looking at it again, the very first day's photo bugs me as it is not really square; I may change it. No rules against that, only a penalty for quitting prematurely; a penalty so goddemawful it does not bear contemplating.

Here are the pix from the first 72 days. Fingers crossed I make it to the finish line.

1. Day 1, 2. Day 2, 3. Day 3, 4. Day 4, 5. Day 5, 6. Day 6, 7. Day 7, 8. Day 8, 9. Day 9, 10. Day 10, 11. Day 11, 12. Day 12, 13. Day 13, 14. Day 14, 15. Day 15, 16. Day 16, 17. Day 17, 18. Day 18, 19. Day 19, 20. Day 20, 21. Day 21, 22. Day 22, 23. Day 23, 24. Day 24, 25. Day 25, 26. Day 26, 27. Day 27, 28. Day 28, 29. Day 29, 30. Day 30, 31. Day 31, 32. Day 32, 33. Day 33, 34. Day 34, 35. Day 35, 36. Day 36

1. Day 37, 2. Day 38, 3. Day 39, 4. Day 40, 5. Day 41, 6. Day 42, 7. Day 43, 8. Day 44, 9. Day 45, 10. Day 46, 11. Day 47, 12. Day 48, 13. Day 49, 14. Day 50, 15. Day 51, 16. Day 52, 17. Day 53, 18. Day 54, 19. Day 55, 20. Day 56, 21. Day 57, 22. Day 58, 23. Day 59, 24. Day 60, 25. Day 61, 26. Day 62, 27. Day 63, 28. Day 64, 29. Day 65, 30. Day 66, 31. Day 67, 32. Day 68, 33. Day 69, 34. Day 70, 35. Day 71, 36. Day 72

going off the deep end

2010-06-14T23:02:00.004+08:00

I just realised I have not posted the entire series of our monthly jumps, which have been going on for almost a year. Soon, soon. In the meantime, be hypnotised by this.

unravelling

2010-05-24T11:04:00.002+08:00

I want to make a surprise ball. Heck, I want to receive a surprise ball. From Kiosk. Check out the unravelling video.

happy (belated) mother's day

2010-05-10T19:02:00.002+08:00

My mum, my sissy and me in Genting, circa 1985.

Due to some stupid glitch, I could not post this photo yesterday, when the three of us celebrated a low-key Mother's Day with Vietnamese food for lunch.

I just like this snapshot; it cracks me up. And by the way, I still have that red quilted jacket and I can still fit into it. *Smug face*

bad picture, good meatballs

2010-04-25T00:10:00.002+08:00

The recipe for these baked chicken meatballs is the first I've tried from Smitten Kitchen and it won't be the last.

Not only were they easy to make, they were also healthily baked and succulent and juicy, thanks to the dollop of tomato paste on top of each. And they tasted cheesy without the addition of cheese, which is pretty amazing in my books.

My inner Martha is well pleased.

i heart pancakes

2010-04-21T16:14:00.002+08:00

I needed an excuse to use my new exceedingly impractical but pretty measuring cups.

So I modified the IHOP recipe and insisted on feeding my family a pancake breakfast.

Topped with my fave fruit -- raspberries.

And my non-fave fruit -- bananas -- and golden syrup. Of course, IHOP's were fluffier but mine were pretty yums too.

pengerang

2010-04-21T14:58:00.003+08:00

The heavy marble-topped table was cold and sticky as I rested my forearms on it, already aching from lugging a camera forged from steel, or so it felt, for an hour.

I tuned out my friends' excited chatter -- about prime lenses and bokeh and bak kut teh and the watered down teh si -- and cast my eyes around for something to shoot to make this shoulder ache worthwhile.

Mosaic tiles caked with decades of grime, fluttering day-by-day calendar with ultra large numerals, kopi tiam auntie pouring hot beverages ungracefully into beer mugs. Click, click, click.

Motioning to my bag, I tasked my friends to look after it while I wandered out into the drizzle to see if I could capture scenes of what Singapore must have looked like in the early 1980s, somewhat unenthusiastic because, clearly, the 1970s was my preferred era.

Just across the two-lane road, I spied another kopi tiam. On the second-storey of the shophouse, the windows were gaping holes that framed the sky. The skeleton of the rafters was still there, but the roof was nearly all gone. The sky was not as vivid a blue as I would have liked, and the pathetic wisp of a cloud was not particularly picturesque, but what to do. I decided to make the best of it.

I crossed the two lanes without even looking right, left, right. There were no cars. As I got closer, I saw that the metal grills on the front of the kopi tiam were pushed apart. Inside was a food stall, with gleaming stainless steel counters, spotless glass shelves displaying wantons, char siew and bundles of thin floury noodles.

Behind the wall of steam rising from the pot was a wan-looking woman of indeterminate age with a pinched but kindly face, dressed in an overly-large pair of bermudas and a T-shirt which spelled out, rather incongruously, "Jurong Bird Park" in faded rainbow colours.

Pasting on my best asking-favours-from-strangers face -- eyes widened, mouth slightly upturned, shoulders shrugged haplessly -- I opened my mouth, but before I could greet her "auntie", she was bustling towards me with her own version of my face. Turned out that she wanted me to help her translate the English instructions on the back of a pack of plant fertilisers. I seemed to remember that they mentioned Lily of the Valley, although there were no plants to be seen in the entire place.

In fact, despite the large interior, there was just her wanton mee stall and one unoccupied large table under the lazily revolving fan. No Jaz beer posters with Gillian Chung, no golden cat with upraised paw, no calendar with ultra large numerals. As I fumbled through the instructions in my faltering Mandarin -- how do you say sprinkle fertiliser around the circumference? -- a guy who looked to be in his 20s walked in. Pleasingly plump and bespectacled, with a messenger bag slung across his body, he struck me as one of those graphic designer types. He seemed taken aback at my presence and examined at me curiously, making me wonder if my denim shorts were too scandalously short.

I quickly took the chance to gesture towards the flight of stairs at the back of the room and asked if I could take a look upstairs, hoisting my camera to my face to indicate click, click, click.

There was a flimsy accordion-type door stretched across the stairway and a single naked lightbulb was switched on, as it was dark that deep inside the hall, even at 9am. The auntie made short work of the four or five hook-and-eye catches securing the door, swooshed the door open
efficiently and stepped aside to let me up. As I brushed past her, she grasped my arm with a surprisingly strong claw-like hand and said, in Mandarin: "Be careful."

The floorboards must be rotting and may not withstand my weight, I thought, reminded of my grandmother's pre-war shophouse which we were never allowed off the ground floor. So imagine to my surprise when I creaked my way to the top, that I saw another stall in the far corner.

A ruddy-faced man was chopping vigorously behind the counter while another, equally ruddy and also clad in a similar uniform of thin white tee, loose black shorts and Tat Sing slippers, flip-flopped around hurriedly with plates of chicken rice. A couple of girls in uniforms and plaits, who looked like sisters, were picking up their haversacks, getting ready for school.

I took in all of this in five seconds flat. My first thought was: How would customers know that there was chicken rice upstairs if the door was latched? It was followed quickly by: But there are no customers here at all, who are they serving?

I looked up, fully expecting to see the sky. The roof was completely intact. I could not see the sky.

My feet moved of their own volition and bounded down the stairs so fast, I didn't even have time to worry about tripping and falling. My pale face must have said everything I could not even put into words, because the auntie, with sorrow in her eyes, patted me once on my shoulder and said: "You saw them."

My entire body was ice cold and stiff. I could only nod.

"You better leave."

As I forced my legs to function and walked out onto the sidewalk, something made me turn back. Through the grills that were now drawn shut, I glimpsed the entire family gathered around the table, getting ready to eat. At that moment, the fear in my heart evaporated, leaving behind an almost unbearable sadness.

Footnote: I later learnt that the kopi tiam had burned down 20 years ago and the only survivor was a toddler, the youngest boy in the family.

verminator: they'll be back

2010-04-07T17:00:00.002+08:00

For the past couple of months, I have been plagued by vermin -- and other foreign objects -- in my food.

First was a long-legged insect in my broccoli. That will teach me to try to eat more veggies.

On a quest for buffalo wings, I made M have dinner with me at Dan Ryan's, only to be rewarded with a long strand of plastic in my clam chowder. The wings weren't that hot either.

Two weeks later, my chicken horfun had a little extra something something in it -- protein from a worm.

On a day trip to Pengerang to partake of seafood, I was merrily digging in when a flying creature insect thingy decided to dive headlong onto my plate. Five minutes later, its counterpart decided to land on my gravy-covered fingers and commit kamikaze. The 11 other people at the table were not affected by vermin at all.

obviously, we are not christians part II

2010-04-02T11:57:00.005+08:00

Conversation this morning:

Dad: Today is Good Friday. It's the day he rose from the dead.
Me: No, it's the day he died. He rose on Easter.
Dad: No, he died on Christmas day.
Me: No, he was born on Christmas day.
Mum: Who died?
Me: [both an answer and an exclamation] JESUS CHRIST!

obviously, we are not christians

2010-04-01T20:19:00.002+08:00

Mum and I had this conversation on Monday morning:

Mum: This Thursday is a public holiday.
Me: No, it's this Friday. It's Good Friday.
Mum: No, Good Friday is on Thursday.
Me: ?!?!?

twenty ten

2010-03-30T16:19:00.006+08:00

It's almost April, which means I have had this blog post brewing at the back of my mind for three months. Procrastination rawks (or maybe nawt).

So instead of a laundry list of things to accomplish this year (cf. 34 Things To Do Before 35), I've decided to keep it simple for 2010:

Read 20 books: Am already past the mid point, but reading more will not hurt, right? I'm on the lookout for new authors to read, please leave suggestions of your favourite books.
Cook 10 meals: Made pancakes based on the IHOP recipe, but I still can't stop thinking about the real thing.

Perform 20 random acts of kindness: Work in progress.
Meet up with 10 old friends: Soon, soon! We've been meaning to meet up for months, I know.

Buy 20 items of clothing: Everyone gives me disbelieving stares when I tell them that, even when I clarify that bags, shoes and accessories do not qualify as clothes. Loot so far: two skirts, one pair of culottes and one romper. (Shopping haul from New York and Tokyo at the beginning of this year does not count. Why? Because I said so.)
Make 10 crafty things: So far, I have made some pom pom flowers. Oh, and arranged some instant photos on the wall above my bed into a shape that is either a heart or a lady part, depending on how dirty your mind is.

palpitations

2010-03-24T15:16:00.001+08:00

This will make your heart beat really fast -- but in an awesome way.

property fever

2010-03-15T21:47:00.005+08:00

I almost committed the rash act of retail therapy by clicking on "buy" for these two pieces.

Child-like and innocent but with a touch of sinister. It's a canvas by Danielle Rizzolo for Urban Outfitters. Methinks my nesting instinct is kicking in.

Similarly, there is something innocent yet sensual and foreboding about this print by Samantha French. I can almost visualise how I would frame it -- dark wood frame, extra wide matting -- and where I would display it -- next to my typewriter and vase, both in various shades of pastel blue.

In related news, instead of buying cheap art, I went to an alldressedup warehouse sale and bought two skirts, two bags, one pair of culottes and a romper. The best buy was a $1,000 daylight-robbery skirt, marked down to $99. (More on this subject later.)

And in other also related news, I'm searching in earnest for a flat to buy, now that I have come of age -- as determined by HDB. Besides feverishly adding decor pix to my other blog, I've also been trawling property sites. Those property agents' snapshots of disorganised kitchens, dingy rooms and toilets in their "original condition" are slowly but surely destroying my soul. So much ugly contained within 645 sq ft!

Going to bed now to dream about how I would do up this amazing Tiong Bahru walk-up I saw online with a balcony adjoining two bedrooms and airy kitchen with its original mosaic tiles. Alas, it is out of my reach at a ridiculous $700,000. I'm sad beyond words.

wtd

2010-03-03T01:02:00.003+08:00

I adore this acerbic camera-toting duck from What The Duck.

blogbooking

2010-03-03T00:37:00.002+08:00

This one's for The Pukesome Mummy Blog: You can even publish your blog as a book, thanks to Blurb. Scrapbooking is so last year.

#3, 5, 6, 9, 10, 15, 18, 21, 22, 23, 30, 31, 33

2010-02-25T15:48:00.003+08:00

Take your pick from the above numbers for the next Toto draw — these are the items on my list I failed to fulfill before I turned 35.

#3 I did not learn to use Photoshop (but I did borrow a bootleg copy and installed it).

#5 I did not sell a photo (but my twin and I did set up an Etsy account for that purpose).

#6 I did not shoot one good photo on film (but there were quite a few which I liked personally).

#9 I did not build a Lego house according to its plan (yeah, I've got no excuse for this one).

#10 I did not finish painting all the pictures in the Paint By Numbers kit (ditto).

#15 I did not add my own drawings to an old painting (but I couldn't even find one).

#18 I did not teach Randolph to do the Downward Dog (but we discovered he knew how to fetch and play ball).

#21 I did not sew a new bathrobe (but bought one instead).

#22 I could not fix the stopped cuckoo clock (but I'm still keeping it as an ornament).

#23 I did not make a banner for the blog (but I will, soon! Promise! Those mini teacups will be history.)

#30 I did not even think about the Semi-Successful Social Experiment (but I did other boliao projects).

#31 I did not complete my Tintin collection (but I bought and read adult books instead).

#33 I did not use the words "anachronism", "quotidian" and "paradigm" (but I did throw out "ceteris paribus" in casual conversation. That has to count for something).

A 61.7% success rate ain't bad (obviously I aim my sights really high, huh). No, there are no consequences for getting a C- in this annual life goal list. And no, I will not be carrying over the unchecked items, because I have a new list for the new year (yes, I am aware it is coming to the end of February).

P.S. The photos above of Baby Rosemary, part of my mother's dowry, aren't really related to this post, but I'm a sentimental fool. She used to be snowy white and she has been mine for as long as I can remember. Her stomach decided one fine day to explode and expel its spongy contents. She would have been 37 years old this year. RIP, Rosemary.

#17

2010-02-25T15:35:00.002+08:00

In case you haven't realised: I went somewhere with snow.

#28

2010-02-25T15:29:00.001+08:00

Sure, it was full of typos and arrived way too late, but I typed a letter on my cursive typewriter.

a control freak looks for love

2010-02-13T14:58:00.002+08:00

This piece by Jon Richardson in The Guardian is dedicated to all my fellow OCD sufferers this Valentine's Day. Oh, and at the risk of sounding as stupid as the bilingual editor I mocked so mercilessly, here's wishing you Gong Xi Fa Cai Je T'aime.

A Control Freak Looks For Love

My last girlfriend was a loser. Literally. A wonderful and beautiful person, but prone to losing things; keys, money, credit cards, mobile phones. Each time she lost something, she would get upset and come to me for help and reassurance.

I, on the other hand, am a keeper. Not in the American sense that women throw themselves at me, rather that if you were to ask me to lay my hands on a receipt for a pair of shoes I bought in 1997, I would be angry if it took me more than 90 seconds to locate it. Over to the filing cabinet I would stroll, R for Receipts, S for Shoes, and work through chronologically.

Had our relationship taken place in a sitcom, this juxtaposition would have led to hilarious consequences, as we laughed and joked about what a couple of cards we were and what kind of mixed-up world could ever have brought us together. Instead, we argued frequently over what she saw as something she was powerless to change, and I saw as a correctable weakness in her character.

In general I would say I find it difficult to accept other people's shortcomings. I am not an unfair person but I do think more effort is the solution to most problems. Not losing things is simply a matter of trying harder to remember where you put them, isn't it? Popular music is no help here, telling us:

If you love something,

Let it go,

If it comes back it's yours,

That's how you kno-o-ow

Nonsense, Christina Aguilera! I say, "If you love it, file it away under 'Things I love'. If it's required at a later date, you'll know exactly where it i-i-i-is."

Wanting things my own way is not something I like about myself. From my love of right angles to my stubborn, black and white views on complex issues, I recognise I can be a very difficult person to be around. I also cannot fail to recognise many symptoms of obsessive-compulsive personality disorder. I have countless habits that I know serve no purpose but am powerless to avoid. I arrange my coins into ascending size in my pockets, for example, and nothing gives me more comfort than the knowledge that my forks, knives and spoons are all in the correct place, tessellating magnificently in their drawer.

I like to think that we're all on a scale where these tendencies are concerned. I am sure many people find it difficult to settle down to watch a DVD with a cobweb hanging behind the TV. But what if the cobweb isn't behind the TV – or even in the same room – but lurking nauseatingly in the room next door? Could you still relax and enjoy the film? As a child I remember marvelling at how neatly my dad's sponge used to fit into the sponge-nook in his Ford Escort, but I don't know whether this was an early warning of who I would become or the reason for it.

If I were to have a catchphrase (and I like to think I don't), it would be, "Fun must be sacrificed for efficiency." It's harder to try all the time, it's harder to be monogamous than to sleep with whoever you want and it's harder to be disappointed by failure than it is to laugh and move on. That said, I have definitely crossed a line.

I no longer attempt new things because I am too afraid of failing. In my garage there exists a shrine to the person I promised I would become; scores of broken musical instruments, squash rackets and computers carefully boxed up to prevent them from hurting me any longer. I enjoy meals out, but limit my menu choices to things I've eaten before to reduce the risk of wasting money on a meal I don't enjoy.

For me there is no pleasure to be had in an experience unless I complete it perfectly first time. I'm not just talking about golf here, or bowling, but simply eating a biscuit, which can be done the right way or the wrong way in my world (depending obviously on the biscuit in question). But there is another part of me that wonders why, if my way is so right, it has brought me to live alone, far from family and friends, in Swindon.

I moved here when I dropped out of university, stepped off the treadmill and took control of my future. I wanted somewhere I could be anonymous, where there was nothing to distract me from what I wanted to achieve. Unless I developed a sudden fascination with roundabouts, Swindon seemed the perfect place to reinvent myself. At no point in my teens did I think, "I can only hope that by my late 20s I will have my own place, close to a big Asda and with equally handy transport links to Cirencester or Wootton Bassett." Yet here I am.

I should point out here that there are many positives to be had from taking life as seriously as I do. For example, I don't remember the last time I fell over. Even in the recent snow and ice I stayed upright, although less by stealthy cat-like grace than by steadfastly refusing to leave my house. I would rather stay at home than take a tumble on my way to Morrisons and be laughed at by passersby. Falling is a good example of something that can be seen in one of two ways; either it is an unavoidable consequence of our get-up-and-go lifestyles, or it is an inability to perform such a rudimentary task that it cannot be tolerated. Needless to say, I subscribe to the latter ideology.

When it comes to the simple pleasures in life, half an hour with a glass of beer and an episode of You've Been Framed! is hard to beat. Occasionally I have to rewind and watch the same clip over and over again (I'm talking about you, girl falling into boating lake). I laugh uncontrollably but it's not the suffering of another human being I enjoy, it's the relief. "It could have been me!" I think as I watch pensioners grappling unsuccessfully with pogo sticks and dogs running into glass doors. I treat each show as a training manual for life, crossing off pastimes that represent an unnecessary risk: flying remote-controlled aircraft in misty fields, spinning round in the garden with an upturned rake on my chin, carrying a carefully iced birthday cake. Falls end in pain and humiliation; falling over, falling from grace. Even, in my experience, falling in love.

My last relationship ended in 2003 (it seems the final thing my girlfriend lost was her desire to put up with my constant nit-picking) and I decided to take a break for a while. There is no reason, I thought, why people can't be completely happy on their own. Initially I revelled in returning home to find that everything was exactly where I had left it; that there was as much milk as there had been when I last used some and that I could watch whatever I wanted on TV. The novelty has now definitely worn off and the grass on the other side of the fence is a sickly, HD green.

I haven't woken up with a cup of tea by the bed for seven years. It seems such a small thing (and those of you reading this who are in relationships will probably be thinking that at least when you make a cup of tea yourself it doesn't taste like crap) but it's one of a thousand things I miss about having someone around to take care of you. I have spent my entire adult life getting things the way I want them and all I want now is someone to give it all up for.

When you look into the eyes of the person you love, it is easy to forget that there is anything else in the world besides the river of emotion flowing between you. Why, then, do you want to push them out of the window five minutes later for putting a wet teaspoon into the sugar? Have they not been told a thousand times that the sight of the brown clusters this forms makes you feel sick? Of course they have… so they must be doing it because they hate you! You hate them, too. How could you have been so blind earlier? Then, as you are getting up to charge headlong in their direction, they laugh – and you remember why you love them – and the whole exhausting cycle begins anew.

But if true love is hard, then one-night stands hold little appeal for a perfectionist like myself. In my head I have a carefully ranked list, with things I do well at the top, and things I do badly at the bottom. About two-thirds of the way down, between making trifle and rewiring a plug, is "showing a woman the night of her life between the sheets". I would no sooner go clubbing and pick up a woman for sex than I would run on to the pitch at Old Trafford and start showing off my keepy-uppy skills.

My friends can't believe how long I have gone without having sex. I see it rather like going to the cinema; of course it's fun and if we all had our own way we would do it as often as possible, but if we don't get round to going, it's probably just because there were far more important things to do.

In the last few years I have met women who have made me think that it might be time to end my self-imposed isolation. From those whom I have been out with a few times, to strangers who have walked past me on a train, a brief encounter will set my mind racing about what the future could be like for us and remind me of all the things I currently miss out on. Believe me, holidays abroad, lazy Sundays and trips to Monkey Forest are all much less fun alone.

Things never get far before I find some reason to knock down the idealised vision I have created. If they are attractive, I wonder whether I am being superficial. If they are funny, I wonder whether they are funnier than me. Perhaps they will call or text too frequently and I will feel harassed, or they won't text or call at all and I will become convinced they despise me. It could be something as small as a "Hope your OK" text, which will send me spiralling into apocalyptic visions of a life without apostrophes or question marks.

On the other hand, do I want someone like myself? An equally quarrelsome perfectionist, only with breasts and less body hair? Absolutely not, it would drive me insane. According to the American author and philosopher Sam Keen, "We come to love not by finding the perfect person, but by seeing an imperfect person perfectly." Great, you would think, I can finally stop looking for Mr or Miss Right and just work on convincing myself that Mr or Miss Not Bad But Smells Funny And Has An Oddly Small Mouth is actually perfect. This is far more difficult than it sounds.

In the early stages of a relationship, what I call "the lying stage", two people will display only that side of their character that is attractive to a prospective partner. "You love Dostoevsky, too? Wow! Well, aren't we just two peas in a long-winded, Russian pod?" A bond will subsequently form based upon the fictitious life that these two invented personalities could share. Friends and family will be informed that the search for "the one" is off. We can all get to this point easily enough, but the real challenge comes as the stresses of compromise become too much and the real person begins to manifest itself. He wants to wash up as they cook, before residue has a chance to dry out and stick, whereas she wants to leave it to soak and do it after The Simpsons. She wants to go on holiday to a place where they can do and see things of interest; he wants to go somewhere he can drink by a pool. She wants to paint the bedroom red and he wants to get Sky+. She wants to have a baby and he still wants to get Sky+.

In comedy cliché terms, this is known as the point when two people finally feel comfortable enough to break wind in one another's company. Curiously, this is seen as a good thing. For me, it signals the beginning of the end. From the peak of potential perfection you descend down through "going to the toilet with the door open", past "perfunctory sex" and into "cold, dead stares across the breakfast table". I could quite happily get through a 40-year marriage without ever suspecting that my partner went to the toilet at all.

As I read this back to myself (the last line especially), my conclusion is, "Wow. That guy really needs a girlfriend!" Surely no relationship could be as difficult as living with my own perfectionism? If I met the woman of my dreams, would I mind her organising our CDs by genre and not alphabetically? Could I let her keep the knives to the left of the forks in our shared cutlery drawer? Of course, I'm not a fool. But that's not what is really being surrendered in a relationship. What you give to someone, when you give him or her your heart, is control over your happiness. Their moods and reactions can dictate absolutely whether you skip out of bed in the morning or are afraid to go home after work. There is no middle ground; the joy is in the surrender.

I know that no one is happy all the time, but I have learned that unhappiness can be an awful lot easier to deal with if you know you are responsible for it, and therefore responsible for changing it. It's in my nature to focus on the negative details so that they can be fixed. The problem is that I sometimes forget to enjoy life in the meantime and just go looking for the next thing to improve upon. As much as I want that cup of tea in the morning, and all that goes with it (security and a sense of contentment, not just sugar and some toast), I am scared that my desire to make someone perfectly happy would be an impossible pursuit and the cause of much unhappiness.

I can't shake off my feeling that the only inevitable result of a long-term relationship is that you will see somebody else's weaknesses and they will see yours. Eventually you will lose respect for one another and either break up or find yourselves locked into a loveless future. Am I right? Of course not! Can I change? I sincerely hope so because, as it stands, it is clearly me who is the loser, desperately looking for a keeper.

i like lists. so sue me.

2010-01-11T16:18:00.006+08:00

Untitled (Rolls of Printed Fabric, Paris), 2006, by William Eggleston

More things to add to my growing to-do list in New York:

-- William Eggleston!!! (Excitement conveyed by three exclamation marks.)
-- Drink and Draw, with a supposedly nude model, to make up for the robed nudist lesbians. I can't draw, but I sure can drink.
-- Vintage shopping at Stella Dallas in Greenwich Village and Fox & Fawn on Delancey St.
-- Pinkberry fro-yo! How can anyone resist anything with "Swirly Goodness" in its tagline? (Or 50% off in winter?)
-- Crate & Barrel
-- Fishs Eddy

#8 & #13

2010-01-10T16:02:00.003+08:00

For the past six months or so, I've been religiously following the face-slimming massage that I learnt from this video (thanks, MS!)

I wasn't all that sure the five-minute routine was working, though, and was already slacking off on mornings when I was short of time (which happened on a near-daily basis).

Then, a couple of days ago, I met someone whom I had not seen since I started doing the face massage. This was how the conversation went:

FRIEND: You look different!
ME: I'm growing my hair long.
FRIEND: No, it's something else.
ME: Errr, I permed it too.
FRIEND: [Still staring intently at me] Did you lose weight?
ME: I wish lor. Don't have lah.
FRIEND: I know! Your face is slimmer!

In addition to anecdotal evidence of a less fishbally face, I also have inconclusive photographic evidence. (Warning: Scary photos coming up.)

June 19, 2009

July 17, 2009

August 22, 2009

October 10, 2009

November 10, 2009

December 9, 2009

The inconsistent camera angles do not help, I know, in a proper scientific evaluation. And you probably need vernier callipers to measure the minute reduction.

Okay, so anyway, a slimmer face does not equate glowing skin, which was what I set out to achieve in #8 on the list. But what I meant with that was basically to take better care of my skin, which I think I achieved.

I'm still trying to achieve the glowy part, which is why, about a month ago, I bought a Clarisonic skincare brush. In part, I was swayed by this rave review (as well as the literally hundreds on various beauty websites).

It's been less than a month and the jury (ie. me and my sis, we share one device with a brush head each) is still out, though we agree that the skin feels softer, moisturisers seem to absorb better and make-up goes on more smoothly.

I'm not glowing like the moon yet, but I'm going to give it a few more months to slough off all those years of dead skin.

And as for #13, well, my hair looks pretty much the same length in the last photo above, no?

it better snow

2010-01-05T15:32:00.006+08:00

More things to add to my list of things to ~~eat~~ do in New York:

-- Have good tiramisu at La Lanterna Caffe.
-- Attend a poetry slam.
-- Visit what looks like a fun sake bar.
-- Pretend to understand the art at the New Museum.
-- Partake of good creole food.
-- Have a picnic in the snow (like the Beatles did!), even though quite a few people have warned/cursed me that it won't snow when I finally get there.
-- Visit the Empire State Building (or was it the other one, which would allow me to have a good view of the Empire state Building?).
-- Have a look see at Marc By Marc Jacobs store.

I'm open to other suggestions, faster leave a comment for me below!

On a tangentially-related note: How sweet is this Missed Connection illustration? From here.

#12

2010-01-03T23:21:00.006+08:00

I made a feeble attempt at #12, I must admit.

First, I went through all my cookbooks and gave away or sold cheap cheap those I knew I would never cook from. (Hence reducing the number of recipes I have to tackle. It's not cheating, it's strategy.)

Next, I went through all the remaining ones I couldn't bear to part with -- Nigella, Harumi, Jamie, perhaps a dozen in total -- and slapped Post Its on those recipes I wanted to try.

My first -- and only effort -- was a cream cheese muffin from Harumi, which seemed simple enough except that I used plain flour instead of self-raising and produced inedibly tough 发糕 by mistake.

The rest of last year's kitchen experiments were mostly from the greatest cookbook ever, also known as the Internet.

In March, I made an ice cream layer cake for two friends' birthdays, and salad and grilled tomatoes with honey vanilla balsamic vinegar.

In August, I made my very first casserole, with leftover chicken and Campbell Soup.

In December, I made up for lost time with cranberry muffins, chocolate bread and butter pudding and doggie biscuits.

There may have been a couple of batches of cookies and quite a number of ice creams and sorbets in the course of the year, but I cannot remember them without photo or blog documentation.

Even though I did not accomplish the goal of #12, not by a long shot, I'm going to cross it out nonetheless, because I realised that (a) I only like to look at food porn and reading recipes, not following them, (b) my actual cooking is based on sudden cravings, which I then satisfy by Googling and then modifying the recipes, (c) cookbooks never stay open and also get dirty in the kitchen and I can't bear that happening, and (d) I did make about 12 dishes, which seems like a good number to me.

Oh, and this isn't going to stop me from buying more cookbooks this year.

apple of my eye

2010-01-01T11:11:00.001+08:00

The countdown has begun.

On my trip, I will:

-- Wear things I never get to in Singapore: woolly hats, scarves, winter coats, furry ear muffs, pink wigs, etc.
-- Not complain about the cold.
-- Eat lots of peanut butter bonbons from Vosges without considering the cost of airfreight.
-- Buy everything I like from the Moma store without qualms.
-- Actually visit the Moma (and not just the gift shop).
-- Eat many burgers: Shake Shack, Burger Joint and that tiny burger that I forget the name of.
-- Make a snow angel. And snow man. And snow woman. And snow doggie.
-- Walk the whole way across the Brooklyn Bridge this time and not be overtaken by old ladies with those walking stick-portable chair combos.
-- Go ice-skating.
-- Take lots of photos.
-- Sneak into a lecture at NYU.
-- Share the best steak in the world (Peter Luger) with someone or two (only because there is no way I can finish it on my own).
-- Eat Sylvia's chicken with bare hands.
-- Stay one night at the Chelsea Hotel (or maybe not. I'm scared of ghosts).
-- Drink gallons of soup from the Soup Nazi.
-- Do that Sally thing at Katz's Deli.
-- Visit High Line park and Dumbo and pretend to be one of those arty farty types.
-- Revisit Coney Island (even though I know it is now a shell of its former self).
-- Two words: Krispy Kreme. Another two words: Hot now!
-- Document all the food I eat, which will be a lot, just based on the items on this list.
-- Heck care about weight gain.
-- Stake out Urban Outfitters and Anthropologie for sale items.
-- Visit Brooklyn Flea at its fancy new Art Deco venue.
-- Find the Sad Panda.
-- And last but not least, hang out with two of my most favouritest people in the world (and freak them out by rolling in their bed with my "outside clothes" on).

On repeat mode now. Jay-Z's emotionless rapping doesn't do anything for me, but Alicia Keys is smokin' hawt.

the hours

2010-01-01T00:01:00.000+08:00

Yes, Clarissa thinks, it's time for the day to be over. We throw our parties; we abandon our families to live alone in Canada; we struggle to write books that do not change the world, despite our gifts and our unstinting efforts, our most extravagant hopes. We live our lives, do whatever we do, and then we sleep - it's as simple and ordinary as that. A few jump out of the windows or drown themselves or take pills; more die by accident; and most of us, the vast majority, are slowly devoured by some disease or, if we're very fortunate, by time itself. There's just this for consolation: an hour here or there when our lives seem, against all odds or expectations, to burst open and give us everything we've ever imagined, though everyone but children (and perhaps even they) knows these hours will inevitably be followed by others, far darker and more difficult. Still, we cherish the city, the morning; we hope, more than anything, for more.

~ Michael Cunningham, The Hours

A wee bit of a downer, but I think it expresses my mood perfectly on this first day of the year when everything is new and shiny and full of possibilities. Have a good one, everyone, and may everything you hope for, and more, come true.

#32

2009-12-30T18:34:00.005+08:00

The original plan for #32 was to print out the saved .jpg files of interiors I loved and then file them in categories -- bedroom, book shelves, etc -- in a binder.

However, the thought of printing out gazillions of crummy low-res pix and then punching holes and then all that filing was just too daunting, not to mention unenvironmentally friendly.

So I've done it digital style, in the form of a visual scrapbook. Well, it's actually another blog, but one with lots of pretty photos of things I love -- mostly home decor, but also some fashion and some quirky stuff I come across on my online travels -- and very few words. The fact that I can tag the posts for easy reference just sealed the deal.

I'm still slowly uploading all my photos -- I wasn't exaggerating about there being gazillions, but luckily my work involves lots of thumb twiddling followed by frenzied activity -- so come visit often at karang guni tendencies and leave a comment or 10 (I'm a comment ho! And don't worry about having to include your email address, just put a fake one or something if you want. Have I mentioned that I'm a comment ho?). And not to make this blog jealous or anything, but I may actually post there more often, since putting up pix is so low commitment.

merry festivus

2009-12-27T14:28:00.008+08:00

How was your holidays? Mine was filled with all the little things that matter.

Fairy lights put up for the family feast on Christmas Eve.

Mini Christmas tree I just had to get when I saw it in Cold Storage. Note to self: It is a warzone there on Christmas Eve. Avoid at all costs.

Unfortunately, I had to brave the hordes of last minute shoppers to get ingredients to bake some dog biscuits. The adorable cookie cutter was from Pantry Magic.

Very simple recipe which I modified. Pour 3/4 cup of hot milk over 125g (or half a block) of unsalted butter and stir. Add 1 teaspoon salt and 1 egg. Add whole wheat flour, half cup at a time, total of three cups. Knead for a few minutes, then roll out on a flat surface and cut into bone shapes. Bake at 160 deg C for 50 minutes and allow to cool.

They smelled quite heavenly, if I may say so myself. I also ate one, just to test if they were as good as they smelled. Not bad, but super hard.

They were a big hit with all the neighbourhood dogs (this is Chase the chocolate lab from next door)...

My friends' three dogs at their Christmas Day BBQ-cum-mahjong (this is Tyson the Italian Greyhound who snuggled in my lap while I played mahjong and lost all the money I had in my purse)...

And of course, Randolph (seen here with a Santa Claus ribbon around his neck, a cookie on his paw and a longing look on his face).

Ah, the indignities he has to suffer for a mere cookie.

Much as I detest dogs being dressed up, I have to admit that I find this hilarious, even if he doesn't. His grumpy face says it all.

After all that feasting, this is my weight. The scale reads in metric, FYI.

butter makes everything better

2009-12-16T11:35:00.002+08:00

Struck by an intense craving for bread and butter pudding, I scoured the Internet (well, actually the recipe was one of the first few I googled) and decided to make it last night.

Right after work, I rushed to Cold Storage in the rain and bought a loaf of bakery bread (I think it makes a difference from the dense Gardenia/Sunshine type). All the other ingredients were pantry staples, so I didn't even have to buy them.

I sort of winged it and modified the recipe. Assembly took a mere 15 minutes, then the bread had to soak for 30 minutes before being baked for another 30 minutes.

And by 11pm, I was wolfing down hot, custardy, chocolatey goodness. (It looked burnt, but wasn't. It was the brown sugar I sprinkled on top. My sis cruelly described it as one of those topographical Google maps.)

Here's the recipe I made up (for my own reference, because I am sure I will be making this over and over again):

Six to eight slices of white bread (with crust), cut into four triangles
Half a slab of unsalted butter (you can use less if you butter the bread less liberally, but I went all out)
Two cups of milk
Two eggs
Half a packet of chocolate chips for baking (I used the semi-sweet ones I found at the back of my fridge, leftover from a long-forgotten baking project; the recipe called for raisins, but I was morally opposed to them)
Five teaspoons of sugar (I used brown, but white may have been better)

Grease the oven-proof dish, which should be deep enough to allow the bread to soak.

Butter the bread triangles and layer in the dish, buttered side up. Toss in a large handful of chocolate chips. Continue layering with the bread until you reach the top of the dish.

Beat the two eggs in a container that has a spout for easy pouring, then add the milk and three teaspoons of sugar. Pour the mixture over the bread, making sure all the slices are soaked. Sprinkle the remaining two teaspoons of sugar on top.

Let the dish stand for at least 30 minutes, for the bread to be thoroughly soaked.

Preheat the oven to 180 deg C. Bake for about 30 minutes until the tops are slightly brown and the pudding has risen somewhat.

Remove from oven, cool for 10 minutes (if you can wait that long), and dig in. You don't even need to add custard or ice cream, it's good enough on its own.

the (accidental) wedding planner

2009-12-14T11:02:00.001+08:00

Our union is like this: You feel cold, so I reach for a blanket to cover our shivering feet.
A hunger comes into your body, so I run to my garden and start digging potatoes.
You asked for a few words of comfort and guidance, and I quickly kneel by your side offering you a whole book as a gift.
You ache with loneliness one night so much you weep, and I say here is a rope, tie it around me, I will be your companion for life.

~ Our Union by Hafiz

A friend of mine, let's call her the Neurosurgeon, is getting married on Saturday to this guy who, for the sake of simplicity, shall be known as the Diplomat.

Because the Neurosurgeon works long hours on crazy shifts and the Diplomat is not even based in Singapore, somehow, I landed the job of Wedding Planner.

My only experience has been as a 姐妹 (twice), a guest-book-angpow-box guardian (also twice) and Polaroid photographer (once, super fun until I realised I had to shoot a former MP and my company's CEO).

So far, we have settled:

-- the dinner venue (after the crushing disappointment of not getting the first choice restaurant),
-- the hair stylist (the Nazi, of course)
-- the flowers (a very efficient and cost-effective friend)
-- the alteration of gowns (my seamstress, who is not only good, but also always cheery and has lots of gossip to share about acquaintances with $20,000 French lace wedding gowns and cheap bridesmaids' outfits)
-- the shoes (two pairs bought in one intensive Saturday afternoon of mall pounding)
-- the photographer (finally found one after being turned down many, including three by the names of Desmond, Desmond and Desmond)
-- the music (acapella outfit from a smokey cigar bar, zero input on song selection from me, because I have deplorable taste in music)
-- the accessories (vintagey, hand-made and a perfect match to the gown)
-- the last-minute cheongsam (Tong Tong Friendship Store)
-- the last-second additional wedding gown (designed by my former elf, still being made as we speak).

I was also asked (but adamantly refused) to design her wedding gown (no experience, too stressful) and take photos (ditto). I gladly offered my services for her food tasting session, though, where three of us devoured portions meant for six.

Only things left to do: Make the angpow box, do the place cards for the dinner and lose enough weight to fit into the dress I am intending to wear.

Phew. Did we leave anything out?

If I ever get married and if I decide to wear a poufy white gown and if I decide to hold a wedding dinner and if I do get a band to perform -- all very big ifs and all of which I am not sure I want -- then these would be the songs I choose. Of that I am sure. The tenderest love songs are those crooned in Hokkien.

linger

2009-12-05T19:31:00.004+08:00

Trapped in Cold Storage during a sudden afternoon downpour -- seemingly a daily occurrence, afternoon downpours, I mean, not being trapped, although that has already happened three times in two weeks -- I succumbed to a punnet of cranberries on half price at $5.

I have to state for the record that before this, the only cranberries I've had were dried, juiced or sauced. After tasting them "raw", I realised it was with good reason they were processed. These glorious red rubies were both tasteless and sour at the same time, if that was at all possible. They sure looked purdy in my baby blue colander though.

The solution? Cranberry muffins (with walnuts added for more crunch), baked in the cutest floral muffin cases from X, on a drizzly Friday afternoon with my sissy. Mom stood behind us and breathed down our necks (oh, I mean supervised), finding fault with the way the flour was sifted, walnuts chopped and oven preheated.

Though the mini muffins looked way cuter, the big ones were more moist. And more satisfying too, as they took more than two bites to finish.

About 25 minutes later, we were gobbling these babies down. And the next day, we had them for tea. And there are still more left for breakfast picnic we plan to go on tomorrow, if we can wake up on time.

Listening to The Cranberries' Linger now, for the most tangential of reasons.

#26

2009-12-05T15:30:00.004+08:00

For way too many years, I'd put off going to the dentist. Just one of those things I never got round to doing, but now it's done. And my teeth are "pretty good", according to the dentist, so I guess not visiting didn't do any harm.

Next visit should be in 2014, give or take a couple of years.

[For those interested, toothbrushes belong to sis (bear), mum (panda), dad (frog) and me (dog, butofcos).]

#11

2009-12-02T23:21:00.008+08:00

Do gooding makes me feel good.

Instead of my goal of buying a cow for charity -- for some reason, none were on sale this year, although there were goats and pigs -- I substituted it with two school bags, four pillows, five standing fans, six mattresses and 17 rice cookers.

This was with the help of some friends from work, who all gave so generously, so that we could fulfil the wishes of some of the needy folks of the Boys' Brigade Sharity Gift Box.

So. These are not cows, but rice cookers can go moo, too. And that's #11. Good grief, I still have another 20 more items to cross off the list and less than two months to go.

P.S. The above photo was shot with a disposable camera from Muji, which failed me horribly. Out of 27 shots, perhaps three were half decent. The rest were horrendously under-exposed, even those shot in my brightly fluorescent-lit office or on a scorching day on Sentosa. Piece of 200-yen-impulse-buy crap.

flexitarian

2009-12-02T22:31:00.002+08:00

Over the past three days, I had unwittingly cut all meat from my diet. Guess I was a temporary lacto-ovo pescatarian -- there was only one little lapse, can you spot it?

Monday
Breakfast: Carrot cake (the ang moh kind, baked by mom), prune juice
Lunch: Mee goreng, teh si
Snack: Mini bowl of laksa, soon kueh, chicken wing
Dinner: Fried fish, turnip, dark chocolate

Tuesday
Breakfast: Nutella with bread, prune juice
Lunch: Prawn and scallop udon, hard-boiled egg white
Dinner: Seafood salad with wafu dressing
Supper: Tomato, fish and tofu soup, dark chocolate, Yakult

Wednesday
Breakfast: Wholemeal bread, prune juice
Lunch: Seafood noodles, teh si
Snack: Mini dark chocolate tart, handful of honey dijon mustard chips, cuttlefish, two organic strawberry cookies
Dinner: Fish, spinach with century and salted eggs, dark chocolate, Yakult

mememe

2009-11-25T19:26:00.003+08:00

I love me and memes. Thanks for the tag, Wallflower. Those who want to play along, please do. I'm looking at you, you, you and you.

where is your phone?
limbo

your hair?
wavy

your mother?
downstairs

your father?
upstairs

your favourite food?
savoury

your dream last night?
disjointed

your favourite drink?
coke

your dream/goal?
nebulous

what room are you in?
bed

your hobby?
creating

your fear?
moths

where do you want to be in 6 years?
home

where were you last night?
dreaming

something that you're not?
mature

muffins?
cupcakes

wish list item?
uncountable

where did you grow up?
library

last thing you did?
squeal

what are you wearing?
necklace

your tv?
habit

your pets?
smelly

friends?
essential

your life?
so-called

your mood?
starvation

missing someone?
denial

vehicle?
legs

something you're not wearing?
glasses

your favourite store?
internet

your favourite colour?
sky

the last time you cried?
loneliness

your best friend?
amazing

one place that i go to over and over?
yesterdays

facebook?
unexciting

favourite place to eat?
italian

ah sir

2009-11-23T23:14:00.002+08:00

In case you are not familiar with TVB dramas or terrestrial TV crap, there is now a cop show on Channel U, 学警出更. My entire family tunes in because (a) we like TVB dramas and (b) terrestrial TV is crap, so we don't have much choice.

As I was showering at 10pm, I could hear the familiar macho theme song: "Oh can you feel, our sweat and tears, will overcome hardship and fears." Yes, I know the lyrics and can even sing it in the requisite Hong Kong accent.

My sis, who was brushing her teeth, exclaimed: "Oh, Zhang Sir fell off the cliff." To which I replied: "He won't die one lah. Because Madam Yuan is going to die."

At the same time, I could hear my mother asking in Hokkien: "Wu si bo? [Got die or not?]" and my dad assuring her: "Si liao bo hee zo! [Die already no show!]"

After all, it is only episode 12. Cannot be so fast bo hee zo.

fickle is my middle name

2009-11-21T01:40:00.003+08:00

Is it possible to covet a ring more than the meringue ring? Why, yes, I believe so.

From Kate Spade.

tis the season for gingie

2009-11-18T14:04:00.003+08:00

What can I say? I love Gingie in all its incarnations.

Make your own with this pattern.

pithy, that

2009-11-17T15:03:00.002+08:00

Notch in the mood to work, so am just loitering at time-sucking sites on the net. Like One Sentence, for instance.

gingie

2009-11-17T12:21:00.002+08:00

At first glance, I thought these were karma sutra gingerbread men. But this is even better: yoga poses!

The Warrior 1 and Plow poses crack me up. Gingie has a fat ass.

From here.

ichiran vs ippudo

2009-11-14T13:27:00.009+08:00

After a hugely disappointing ramen dinner at Aoba at Ion Orchard (soggy noodles which bore only passing resemblance to ramen, sodium overkill in the soup, even for a self-professed MSG addict like me), I sorely needed to exorcise the bad memories of that meal.

Lucky for me, I was in Tokyo for a junket, so I made ramen my mission. (My other mission to get a Jil Sander for Uniqlo double-breasted winter coat was a fail. Sold out!)

First up, Ichiran (Iwamoto Bldg. B1, 1-22-7 Jinnan, Shibuya-ku).

I dub it the Anti-Social Ramen, because you have zero human contact during the entire meal. First, you purchase a ticket from a vending machine at the entrance, then you queue up in front of a board with two rows of red lights. When a light turns green, it means a customer is done and you can proceed to the vacated solo booth seat.

The bamboo curtain is raised and a pair of disembodied hands politely slips you an order form in Japanese. I whisper: "Sumimasen, English please?" and the Japanese form is whisked away and replaced with one in English like magic. It is extremely detailed, from noodle firmness to strength of soup to spiciness to even the amount of green onions.

I order an egg, thinking it would be added in the soup, but it comes first, accompanied by a sachet of salt, a thoughtful wet napkin and detailed step-by-step instructions on how to peel it.

When the noodle arrives, unexpectedly quickly, the bamboo curtain is lowered and I am left to tuck in in private. The soup stock is awesome, but my order is too moderate, being my first time and all. I prefer much firmer the noodles, spicier soup and much more green onions.

The egg, too, is not runny enough -- a cardinal sin in my book.

Nonetheless, I slurp up every last drop.

Three days later, it is time to taste test the ramen at Ippudo, (Odagiri Bldg. 1F, 4-9-11 Roppongi, Minato-ku).

If you squint, you can just about make out the name of the shop on the chopstick holder, which would come in handy should you not be able to identify the shop (although the queue outside is dead giveaway). Also check out its website with the cutest Lego people zipping around. My digital camera, which keeps faltering intermittently on me throughout the trip, dies on the spot. And my film camera only has only three precious shots left.

The customisation of your order is not as detailed compared to Ichiran. I only get to choose the noodles (firmest, of course) and spiciness (more spicy). You also get to talk to the waitress and oogle the cute young chefs just an arm's width away behind the counter.

The noodles and spiciness are just right, though the soup is not as robust as Ichiran. Being the freak that I am about different food items mixing in the bowl, I am secretly pleased that the meat, seaweed and half a runny egg (which came with the ramen) are served on the side.

The ramen at Ippudo wins this round, but finicky me will definitely be going to Ichiran again finetune my order. And I need a return visit to Tokyo to try another apparently hot fave, Kyushu Jangara Ramen at Harajuku. Next time!

P.S. It is on my travel wishlist to visit the Shin-Yokohama Ramen Museum. Other dream destinations include Legoland and Six Flags Magic Mountain.

P.P.S. Actually, my favourite noodle type is udon.

white wishes

2009-11-14T12:45:00.006+08:00

Meringue rings, to be worn, not eaten.

Hipster headphones, to be seen, not heard.

White iPhone, to have and to hold.

teef

2009-11-13T21:12:00.002+08:00

Keep forgetting to post about these milk teef. Cute until can die, can.

My fave tale of them is the one where Lardee wants to play but ickle wants to read. Which is yours?

3D in the 19th century

2009-11-13T21:04:00.004+08:00

I have no idea how to post these awesome, if a little nausea-inducing, animated gifs, so go here to see them. Way cool!

molotov cocktails

2009-11-12T00:02:00.001+08:00

Upon checking in at the unintentionally funky retro hotel (ie. hasn't been renovated since the 1970s, now finds itself back in fashion, immaculately maintained) in Karuizawa, I spotted this innocent looking blueberry pie on the side table in the nook by the window.

I didn't take a bite of the blueberry pie because I was momentarily distracted when I opened the curtains and took in the view. I may have also gasped audibly, suaku that I am.

D, in the next room, was able to multi-task and take in both the view and the pie at the same time, before we had to rush out again to go to the sprawling outlet mall before it closed. She could not raving about the one bite she managed. (Check out the graphic print of the carpet in the lobby. Groovy!)

We both did not find much to buy at the outlet mall, although two other girls bagged thousand-dollar totes from Tod's. Apparently they were a real bargain. I wouldn't know. Thousand-dollar anything doesn't sound like a bargain to me. The mall was real pretty though, in a manicured golf-course way.

After the shopping frenzy, we rushed back to our rooms to change for cocktails and dinner. I had a few minutes to sneak a bite of the blueberry pie. That was when I had my Molotov Cocktail* moment. If not for the fact that I was running late, I would have devoured the entire thing.

Throughout dinner (spectacular dining room with a million bulbs in the ceiling, but unspectacular Western food with Japanese touches, such as this green soup below, made of the yomogi herb), I kept thinking of the quarter of pie languishing in my hotel room.

And I wasn't alone. My dinner companions were also contemplating how to fit the pie into their stomachs after that four-course dinner.

The pie -- filled with subtly sweet raspberry jam, topped with fresh blueberries on a crumbly buttery base -- was that good. We were still talking about it the morning after. I just had to buy a Doraemon phone charm representing the region's special pie as a keepsake.

Back in Tokyo, while wandering around Ginza, I came across this supposedly famous Belgian waffle place. There was a longish queue, but since I had nothing more pressing to do than visit Muji, I decided to try it, thinking it would be like those limp waffles made on the spot at heartland bakery shops. I mean, how good can a waffle be, right? After a 10-minute queue, I was standing outside on the sidewalk having another Molotov Cocktail** moment.

Imagine "Hot now!" Krispy Kreme, crispy on the outside, soft and fluffy on the inside, just not in a donut shape and without icing. The waffle shop name is Manneken -- not sure how to pronounce it, but I'm sure it means "best darn waffles in the world" in Flemish or whatever it is they speak in Belgium. I'm still kicking myself for not buying the gift pack to bring home.

* Molotov Cocktail is the shorthand X and I came up with to describe eating something so incredibly mind-blowingly delicious that your tastebuds just explode with a "jee-bah-BOOM"!

** I proclaim Japan the land of Molotov Cocktails. Erm, okay, that doesn't sound right, but you get the meaning. I remember having a Molotov Cocktail moment in Osaka last year over a stewed tomato. Coming up: the battle of Ichiran vs Ippudo. Ramen! Banzai! Kamikaze! Ganbatte!

#24

2009-11-09T23:16:00.002+08:00

On an extra humid Sunday evening, I found myself shepherding a bunch of balloons through the Botanic Gardens, trying to find my picnicking friends.

It was a birthday celebration for K and S, but really, I didn't need an excuse to buy balloons.

There was way too much food, including a whole suckling pig (harking back to a recent wedding and another birthday feast a year ago), but all I shot were the plastic wine glasses.

Who doesn't love balloons? Nope, not young chewren and not me.

I like that you know that your enjoyment of balloons is finite. At best, they deflate. Sometimes, they burst. Or perhaps, they just fly away.

lo res

2009-11-05T14:37:00.004+08:00

When I saw these black pumps from United Nude, I was intrigued and not a little taken with the clever twist on the classic black pumps.

Then I clicked on the other colours and let out a gasp when I saw this. I want!

still feeling nippon-esque

2009-11-03T13:59:00.002+08:00

This reminds me of kimono fabric.

This, of course, makes me think of my fave origami cranes.

And this is just plain beautiful.

All from Milk From A Thistle, which unfortunately seems to be only stocked in Australia.

typography love

2009-11-02T20:46:00.002+08:00

Love the use of typography. Love the love story. Most of all, love the last sentence.

[Click to embiggen, not sure why Blogger is refusing to post it at a legible size.]

origami on my mind

2009-11-02T18:40:00.003+08:00

Yes, I'm back from the land of origami (and ramen and shinkansen and warmed toilet seats). Bet some of you didn't even notice my absence, but it's okay, you're forgiven, because revenge is mine. I am on the verge of inflicting 84,525,463 photos of autumn leaves on you.

While the film is still being "washed" (as my family would say), here are some adorable origami ideas. (Oh, I bought a book on origami birds on the whirlwind trip. Clearly illustrated step-by-step instructions and perfect squares of coloured paper, that's all I want from life, really.)

If you look carefully, you will realise that the bird in the glass is not a real folded crane. Cheaterbugger. And notice the little square piece of paper with faint dotted lines? Packaging designer Nathalia Ponomareva has obviously been reading this humble blog. Ha!

I'm sorry I can't find the source of this marvellous pillow to link to, but I'm sure it must be Etsy. And I'm about to utter my most famous line: "I also can make!"

conversation at 8.33pm

2009-10-22T20:33:00.001+08:00

Mum: Should I go pay the bill? Do you think the 7-11 is still open?
Dad: It's 7-11!
Sis: You should blog this.

star-shaped sand

2009-10-22T16:06:00.003+08:00

One last photo from the Taiwan trip, though technically it was shot after I had returned and unpacked the only souvenir I bought: the fabled star-shaped sand.

All along, we were under the (mistaken) impression that only Okinawan beaches had this geological wonder, so imagine the squeals in the Green Island gift shop when we stumbled upon tiny bottles of it.

No need to go Okinawa already.

on a slow news day

2009-10-22T15:45:00.004+08:00

I squared off a piece of rough paper...

Picked up my fat green marker...

Carefully drew dotted lines...

Then folded along those lines...

And a paper crane was born.

non sequitur

2009-10-21T14:35:00.004+08:00

Conversation I had this morning while I was getting ready for work, my mum was sweeping up dog hair and doggie was lying in a corner, quietly shedding some more:

Mum: We shouldn't have another dog. One day, our 狗狗 will mati and we will be very sad.
Me: But he is so cute.
Mum: You take care of me, the 老狗, better still.
Me: You not cute.
Mum: But I can do housework.

tinkerbell

2009-10-10T22:48:00.000+08:00

I'd forgotten all about his Tinkerbell, who used to pose so prettily on the cubicle divider, together with Tintin (mine, long gone now, snitched by a cursed thief in the office), Coco (of Chanel fame, complete with tweed jacket, also mine) and an ugly alien/spaceman/Transformer hybrid (unknown origin, still standing next to Coco).

He took his toys with him when he packed up and left the paper factory. We drifted apart and then reconnected (hate that word, by the way, it's so Facebook corporate speak), especially over the past month or two, in the drinking-dancing lead up to my lurve's wedding. Somewhere along the way, I don't know when, Tinkerbell lost her head. She came back to me last weekend, just before he departed to work overseas, in a jar with two tubes of super glue.

I tried to fix the decapitated toy, but the glue he'd so helpfully included had hardened over the years. In the end, I dug up a tube of my own and got the job done. With her head firmly reattached to her torso (and my index finger to my thumb), Tinkerbell joined the collection of tiny things on my bedside table.

There's a moral in this story somewhere -- except I'm not sure what it is -- about the ties that bind us.

fun taiwan

2009-10-10T22:12:00.004+08:00

Sickly traveller. I infected the two people next to me in this photo before the trip had ended.

I managed to stage a miraculous recovery by Day 3 though. I attribute it to the amazing powers of the pineapple bittergourd soup.

Varying degrees of success in the art of levitation.

Attempting to fly without falling off the cliffs of Mao Kong.

Spontaneous jumping the moment we arrived at the Mayday concert venue.

Post-concert high jumps.

Blown away by the strong winds of Green Island.

Last day on Green Island. Farewell jump with the sporting minsu auntie we called Tian Ma Ma.

You wouldn't have guessed I'm actually afraid of mushrooms.

* I have never actually watched an entire episode of Fun Taiwan because the host, Janet Hsieh, annoys me so much I have an urge to hurl my remote control at the TV. And I really tried, especially before the Taiwan trip, so as to get an idea of places to visit, but I could not tolerate her act-cute voice.

#7

2009-10-07T23:28:00.003+08:00

Sorry I don't have a better pix, but I believe the word "jump" succinctly sums up how we spent most of the four hours of the concert (besides singing along in a mass karaoke session with 14,999 other fans, that is).

i want to fly away

2009-10-07T23:20:00.002+08:00

1. bunting is a funny word and anyway is this a bunting?, 2. decepticon, 3. plane blue, 4. final sunset, 5. orange clouds, 6. rainbow connector, 7. blue skies ahead, 8. divided sky, 9. the answer, my friend..., 10. where did the bra go?, 11. skylight, 12. men at work, 13. aerial view, 14. suitably modern building, 15. Untitled, 16. 看海的日子, 17. rainbow wheel, 18. morning prayer, 19. a piece of the sky, 20. guten morgen, 21. family outing, 22. 75A, 23. the wires, 24. high & dry, 25. chasing sunsets

how much would you pay for chocolate?*

2009-10-07T17:45:00.003+08:00

I am struck by a sudden, intense craving for the Peanut Butter Bonbons from Vosges in New York. I'm pretty sure I have blogged about these sublime treats before (but too lazy to check my own archives), because they are the bestest chocolates I have ever had, no fight.

Because the site doesn't allow me to steal the photo (the chocs aren't that great to look at anyway, just brown lumps), here's the mouthwatering description: "Each bonbon is filled with creamy organic peanut butter infused with pink Himalayan salt, enrobed in 45% deep milk chocolate and topped with a crunch of English Maldon sea salt".

Enrobed, okay. Pink Himalayan salt, not white, okay. English Maldon sea salt, okay. Well, all Maldon salt is English, right, since Maldon is in England? But do not let this detract from the marvellous genius taste combination that is peanut butter + milk chocolate + salt.

At US$27 for nine pieces, they are a mite expensive. However, tag on US$75 for international shipping, plus US$1 per item and US$7.50 for special packing materials to prevent it from melting, and it becomes prohibitive. Le sigh.

* By "you", I really mean "I". And the answer is not US$110.50.
** Why is it a box of four pieces costs US$10, making the cost per piece** lower than for a box of nine?
*** Obviously, my level of obsession with these chocs have reached the point where I have reached for a calculator.
**** It also makes Bacon Candy Bars. Much as I love bacon, I think I'll pass.

travel journal of someone who draws like a five-year-old

2009-10-04T11:28:00.005+08:00

* Click on each image to embiggen.

state of mind

2009-09-23T17:03:00.002+08:00

I'm so coveting this photo right now (my abject state of broke-ness means I have to be contented with a colour laser print-out of it though). My state of mind at this point in time is such that I'm intently scrutinising messy travel sites for cheap air tickets to New York (even though I leave for Taiwan in less than 15 hours).

september issues

2009-09-19T16:37:00.004+08:00

I've been looking forward to September since the beginning of the year, when the above photo (if it can even be called that, it's more like a fleeting moment of pure unadulterated happiness*, captured, that makes sense only to me) was shot at Mayday's open-air concert. Since then, I have been anticipating flying to Taipei for their concert -- on my own expense, which I have never done, being spoilt with junkets in my former incarnation as an entertainment reporter.

So far, September has been turning out to be so bitter sweet that I can barely bring myself put it into words. Too private, too complex, too unknowable, since there are still about 10 days left to the month.

The September issues** that I can talk about seem so mundane: over-spending (retail therapy no doubt due to emotional upheavals), over-working (and feeling aggrieved over the sheer amount of work and aggravating freelance assignments) and over-indulging (eating, drinking, etc etc etc).

I leave for Taiwan in less than a week and I feel strangely reluctant. A tiny bit of this reluctance stems from the same aversion I have towards rereading books which I loved, in case the magic doesn't work the second time round. But most of it comes from this certainty I have that things will never be the same come October. And, to mutilate Green Day's lyrics, I'm not sure I want to wake up when September ends.

* In Averted Vision, which I just reread after being reminded of it by my lurve and fell in love with all over again and cursed my own lousy inability to put my emotions into words as beautifully and succinctly, Tim Kreider*** wrote about travelling down a highway, seeing a Burger King billboard while listening to Van Halen and experiencing one startlingly clear moment of happiness: "This kind of intense and present happiness is heartbreakingly ephemeral; as soon as you notice it you dispel it, like blocking yourself from remembering a word by trying too hard to retrieve it. And our attempts to contrive this feeling through any kind of replicable method — with drinking or drugs or sexual seduction, buying new stuff, listening to the same old songs that reliably give us shivers — never quite recapture the spontaneous, profligate joy of the real thing." I remember being at the Mayday concert and thinking: "I'm happy". And I wonder if going to Taipei is going to end up a futile exercise in trying to recapture that feeling.

** My "five movies a year" quota has been reached with the press preview of The September Issue On Thursday night. The other four movies I saw in the cinema (TV, DVDs and airplane not counted) this year included He's Just Not That Into You (blah), Bruno (the man's a genius), Year One (excruciating) and Up (erm, uplifting?). I intend to exceed the quota with (500) Days Of Summer.

** Another brilliant piece, The Referendum, by Kreider. Shortly after I read it, I sent this text to my lurve: "It's sad. Everyone is moving on. You're married. Karli's leaving. Mama's having a second kid. I feel stagnant and left behind." As Kreider writes towards the end of the piece: "One of the hardest things to look at in this life is the lives we didn’t lead, the path not taken, potential left unfulfilled."

send me to okinawa

2009-09-02T18:43:00.002+08:00

This starving art school student has an ingenious website, which I've always loved. He will send you whimsical, basically worthless stuff from various places if you pay him some token sum.

One of the things on "sale" is the star-shaped sand of Okinawa, the destination which was clearly not meant to be for XY and me (the ferry company between Keelung and Okinawa has gone bankrupt, China Airlines is too exorbitant, not to mention risky, etc etc).

To console ourselves, we will be celebrating Okinawa Day this month. Festivities include partaking of Okinawan delights (apparently there is a restaurant in Liang Court that specialises in them), dressing up as American GIs and wearing a lot of sunblock.

Alternatively, you can PayPal me some money and I will send you the star-shaped sand of my dreams when I get there.

this & that

2009-08-19T15:00:00.004+08:00

Big Pooh and Little Pohh in da 'hood.

A playground with real sand. None of that primary-coloured foam crap.

The swing is my second favourite, after the merry-go-round, which I'm still on a quest to track down.

I'll be the first to admit I'm not very patriotic. But this is a nice display by my neighbour.

And who can resist bunting, nationalistic or not, fluttering in the wind?

Doggie at his favourite park. Actually, I'm not sure he really likes it there -- there are no other dogs for him to hump -- but it's the nearest one within walking distance.

Trying to finish up the roll of film before our first dance class. Even though I was so nervous I had a tummy ache before the class, I'm a bit sad now that it's all over.

choo choo

2009-08-19T14:18:00.005+08:00

We went to the train station, but you probably can't tell from these photos which do not contain any trains. (Don't ask me what happened to this shot. I like that the film accident made it look sufficiently vintage.)

It felt like we were in Malaysia. Which we were, technically. (We could use S$ though.)

We got shouted at, rather rudely, for going onto the platform.

We truly didn't see the "No entry" sign.

No one could miss the rainbow sign though. The supposedly good Malay food there was only so-so, save for the Ramly burger which was excellent.

We ended wandering around the lane at the back.

This grill is all kinds of awesome.

I'm bad at taking photos of people. Real bad. Mostly because I'm not a people person.

This Malay dude obligingly struck a Vogue pose for me. I didn't catch it.

I cross processed this roll, but I'm really not feeling it. Everything looks so greenish.

My fellow photographers on this field trip took more snaps of a particularly lazy immobile cat than of trains.

snail mail

2009-08-18T21:17:00.004+08:00

Like Griffin And Sabine, only better, because it is real.

Which reminds me, I still owe someone a typewritten letter.

weekend detox

2009-08-10T10:25:00.001+08:00

Taking the chance to detox over the so-called long weekend (just a usual weekend for me as I am back to work on Monday), especially since my mother is away in KL with my neighbour, her new BFF.

Saturday: Breakfast
Freshly-squeezed orange juice
One apple
Handful of cherry tomatoes

Saturday: Lunch
Baby spinach salad with shaved parmesan and pine nuts
Power berry juice (includes cranberries, blueberries, acai berries and other berries I can't recall)

Saturday: Dinner
Tomato, egg and tofu dish, an inferior take on the recipe from Eating Asia which had inspired me
Potato, carrot and chicken soup (I didn't eat the chicken but saved it to make a casserole for Monday)

Sunday: Breakfast (above pix)
Power berry juice
Two golden kiwis
Handful of raspberries

Sunday: Lunch
Leftover tomato dish and soup (I overcooked!) from dinner the night before

Sunday: Dinner
Baby spinach salad
Leftover soup
Small portion of chicken casserole (supposed to be for lunch the next day, but I couldn't resist)

i heart sg

2009-08-09T01:25:00.003+08:00

"NDPs are depressing. They remind me of everything that is orchestrated, superficial, rehearsed, practiced, and devised from top-down in Singapore. They are artificial cauldrons of whipped up frenzy and heightened emotions where quick spasms of ecstasy are mistaken for patriotism."
~ From groundnotes

Been meaning to post this for some time, and today is the perfect day.

I've always hated the National Day Parade -- different from National Day -- even though I have been to countless ones in my childhood because my dad was in the Army. In my youth, I even took part in three.

In Secondary One or Two, I was in the choir. I recall that I was under an overhead mike on the actual day, after months of rehearsals, and purposely, gleefully, sang out of tune for the mike to pick up my screeching. Which it did.

In Secondary Three or Four, I was in the marching contingent of the Girls' Brigade. I remember trying very hard not to faint and not knowing what was going on during the entire parade. Once we marched in, we just stood still and could not see a thing. Once we marched out, we were fed cold KFC and could only hear what was going on inside the stadium.

In university, I forgot the lesson learnt in my youth and joined the marching contingent for NTU for the sake of a few meagre ECA points (to continue staying in the hostel). At least when I was in the Girls' Brigade, we had a smart ~~costume~~ uniform. The NTU contingent wore baggy track pants and polo tees. There was also no chance to see the displays in the stadium. Stone cold KFC was probably involved too.

Not only do I have bad memories, I also do not like having my emotions manipulated, which is why, in the 14 years since, I have not been to a parade or even watched one on TV. And I intend to keep it that way.

P.S. Not that it is at all significant, but this is my 999th blog post. Who would have thought I had so much rubbish to utter?

#1

2009-08-07T17:26:00.001+08:00

"Twelve significant photographs in any one year is a good crop."
~ Ansel Adams

Obviously, I am not Ansel Adams, so I've picked 10 per cent of my photos from Project 365 as my "good crop".

1. bare naked ladies, 2. near extinction, 3. plastic fantastic, 4. going into the light, 5. doubleness, 6. merrily, merrily, merrily, 7. bon voyage, 8. straight & narrow, 9. plane blue, 10. power outage, 11. 看海的日子, 12. flamingo face-off, 13. crossed lines, 14. having a ball, 15. morning prayer, 16. pin cushions of the sea, 17. get fresh, 18. helter skelter, 19. no bikes allowed, 20. feet up take a break, 21. lost my marbles, 22. eeyore, 23. a piece of the sky, 24. bonus moon, 25. old news part 5, 26. back space, 27. high & dry, 28. sit, randolph, sit, 29. pink on pink, 30. laundry day, 31. don't fly off yet!, 32. 75A, 33. doggone it, 34. lace, 35. lotus position, 36. skylight

#16 & #19

2009-08-07T16:28:00.002+08:00

I was going to string fairy lights -- from trusty Chatuchak, of course, for like $15 for 10 feet of lights -- over my bed, but I then developed a fear of them falling onto me and strangling me while I was asleep or bursting into flames and then causing my quilt to catch fire. All morbid thoughts, not fitting with such whimsical twinkly lights.

So I decided to drape them all over my mannequin, Jaime, who needed a new outfit anyway.

Talk about two birds with one stone, huh.

the definition of random

2009-08-07T16:14:00.004+08:00

Out of the 35 shots from the latest roll, only these I like. For some reason, they were uniformly over-exposed and a lot of shots were not in focus. Not sure I can blame it all on the new processing place I used. Sad face.

Thai street food, from the lupsup weekend in Bangkok last month. Sorry, I can't tell you much because I have to toe the party line: "What happens in Bangkok stays in Bangkok."

Hot, sweaty and tired in Chatuchak, where I took very few photos.

I like repetition (see photos above). I like repetition (see photos above). I like repetition (see photos above). Sorry, I had to do it.

Hot, sweaty and tired in Haw Par Villa. See a pattern here?

The pagoda of my childhood. Must dig up that old photo of me looking teary in front of it because my hair ribbon had fallen into the moat around it.

the pursuit of happiness

2009-08-04T18:23:00.004+08:00

This piece from the NYT blog is so good and true, I just had to repost it here in full in case you don't click on the link.

Averted Vision
By Tim Kreider

In 1996 I rode the circus train to Mexico City where I lived for a month, pretending to be someone’s husband. (Don’t even ask.) I remember my time there as we remember most of our travels — vivid and thrilling, everything new and strange. My ex-fake-wife Carolyn and I often reminisce nostalgically about our honeymoon there: ordering un balde hielo from room service to cool our Coronas every afternoon, the black-velvet painting of the devil on the toilet that she made me buy, our shared hilarious terror of kidnapping and murder, the giant pork rind I wrangled through customs. Which is funny, since, if I think back honestly, while I was actually there I did not feel “happy.” In fact, as mi esposa did not hesitate to point out to me at the time, I griped incessantly about the noise and stink of the city — the car horns playing shrill, uptempo versions of the theme from “The Godfather” or “La Cucaracha” every second, the noxious mix of diesel fumes and urine, the air so filthy we’d been there a week before I learned we had a view of the mountains.

I was similarly miserable throughout the happiest summer I ever spent in New York City. I was recovering from an affair that had ended badly, and during my convalescence I was subletting a cool, airy apartment a block from Tompkins Square Park, with a kitchen window that looked out on a community garden. A theater troupe was rehearsing a production of “The Tempest” out there, and I got used to the warped rattling crash of sheet-metal thunder in the evenings. I happened to catch “The Passion of St. Joan of Arc” on cable for the first time late one night, a film I knew nothing about — it was grotesque and beautiful, astonishing. One of the happiest memories of my life is of sitting on top of the little knoll in the park with my friend Ellen, eating a sweet Hawaiian pizza and waiting to see what movie would play on the outdoor screen that was being inflated in front of us. (It turned out to be “Raiders of the Lost Ark.”) Even though this whole time I was preoccupied with thoughts of the woman I’d lost and torturing myself with jealousy and insane fantasies of vengeance, in retrospect it’s obvious now that the main thing I was doing that summer was falling in love.

I wonder, sometimes, whether it is a perversity peculiar to my own mind or just the common lot of humanity to experience happiness mainly in retrospect. I have of course considered the theory that I am an idiot who fails to appreciate anything when he actually has it and only loves what he’s lost. Or perhaps this is all just what Michael Chabon called “the ruinous work of nostalgia, which obliterates the past.” But I think I recall that summer with such clarity and affection for much the same reason that I remember my month in Mexico City so fondly. The fresh heartbreak was, in a sense, like being in a foreign country; everything seemed alien, brilliant and glinting. It was as if I’d been flayed, so that even the air hurt. When you’re that unhappy, any glimmer of beauty or consolation feels like running into an old friend abroad, or seeing mountaintops through smog. Maybe we mistakenly think we want “happiness,” which we tend to picture in very vague, soft-focus terms, when what we really crave is the harder-edged intensity of experience.

We do each have a handful of those moments, the ones we only take out to treasure rarely, like jewels, when we looked up from our lives and realized: “I’m happy.” One of the last times this happened to me, inexplicably, I was driving on Maryland’s unsublime Route 40 with the window down, looking at a peeling Burger King billboard while Van Halen played on the radio. But this kind of intense and present happiness is heartbreakingly ephemeral; as soon as you notice it you dispel it, like blocking yourself from remembering a word by trying too hard to retrieve it. And our attempts to contrive this feeling through any kind of replicable method — with drinking or drugs or sexual seduction, buying new stuff, listening to the same old songs that reliably give us shivers — never quite recapture the spontaneous, profligate joy of the real thing. In other words be advised that Burger King billboards and Van Halen are not a sure-fire combination, any more than are scotch and cigars.

I didn’t always enjoy being a cartoonist. During the 12 years of my career, if I can call it that, I bored my friends and colleagues by complaining bitterly about the insulting pay, the lack of recognition, the short half-life of political cartoons as art. And yet, if I’m allowed any final accounting of my days, I may find, to my surprise, that I reckon those Fridays when I woke up without an idea in my head and only started drawing around noon, calling friends at work for emergency humor consultations, doing frantic Google image searches for “Scott McClellan” or “chacmool,” eating whatever crud was in the fridge, laughing out loud at my own jokes, and somehow ended up getting a finished cartoon in by deadline, feeling like an evil genius, to have been among my best.

But during the time I was actually focused on drawing — whipping out a perfect line, spontaneous but precise, or gauging the exact cant of an eyelid to evoke an expression, or immersed in the microscopic universe of cross-hatching — I wasn’t conscious of feeling “happy,” or of feeling anything at all. I was in the closest approximation to happiness that we can consistently achieve by any kind of deliberate effort: the condition of absorption. My senses were so integrated that, on those occasions when I had to re-draw something entirely, I often found that I would spontaneously recall the same measure of music or line of dialog I’d been listening to when I’d drawn it the first time; the memory had become inextricably encoded in the line. It is this state that rock-climbers and pinball players and libertines are all seeking: an absorption in the immediate so intense and complete that the idiot chatter of your brain shuts up for once and you temporarily lose yourself, to your relief.

I suspect there is something inherently misguided and self-defeating and hopeless about any deliberate campaign to achieve happiness. Perhaps the reason we so often experience happiness only in hindsight, and that chasing it is such a fool’s errand, is that happiness isn’t a goal in itself but is only an aftereffect. It’s the consequence of having lived in the way that we’re supposed to — by which I don’t mean ethically correctly so much as just consciously, fully engaged in the business of living. In this respect it resembles averted vision, a phenomena familiar to backyard astronomers whereby, in order to pick out a very faint star, you have to let your gaze drift casually to the space just next to it; if you look directly at it, it vanishes. And it’s also true, come to think of it, that the only stars we ever see are not the “real” stars, those cataclysms taking place in the present, but always only the light of the untouchable past.

so corny

2009-08-01T00:53:00.003+08:00

"Normal-sized cornflake, meet the largest cornflake in the world."

dreaming

2009-07-31T23:25:00.000+08:00

Diana F+ Dreamer

Why I want to get it:
- It's so pretty. The colours slay me!
- I need a lighter camera for travelling.
- I don't have a square format camera.
- I heart film.
- It's not that expensive.
- Again I say, it's so pretty.

Why I should resist temptation:
- I already have five cameras, all of which are woefully under-utilised now that Project 365 is over.
- I should save for a good digital compact camera instead.
- Film developing is a pain in the arse (delayed gratification kinda sucks).
- Film isn't that expensive, but it ain't cheap either.

#14 revisited

2009-07-27T19:50:00.002+08:00

I have just one thing to say after close to three months of eschewing special concoctions for the eyes: Eye cream is essential.

Paula Begoun, be gone! Fine lines under my eyes, be gone, too, please!

love, verbatim

2009-07-27T11:09:00.001+08:00

"i dont have any adorably cute pictures of us to make a person squirm, and i have no perfectly flawless story to tell but thats what makes my love so beautiful. he was my best friend, when i met him, well we were both a little pre-occupied, he was trying to get over an ex that he had been so sure he was in love with and i was well on my way to falling head over heals for my fling which quickly turned boyfriend. though that didnt stop us from talking, we were in two classes together back to back from eachother and so every day wed walk to math from religion. well minus the days that id see my boyfriend in the hall, and i always felt myself fell a little sadness when i had to part with my bestfriend to talk to my boyfriend. not that i wasnt crazy for the boy, but it was just always so much easier talking to dominic (the bestfriend) then it was ryan (the bf). dominic was always there for me, he was a goof and a funny buddy and though i was falling fast for ryan i couldnt help but create a feeling for dominic that he admited to returning. i tried to shrug it off but it was hard. we dont have any romantic way that he swooped me from ryan, actually we started to distance, ryan was jealous and i wasnt in the mood to argue so i just, distanced myself from my bestfriend. it hurt. even after we broke up i found myself trying to keep my distance, maybe ryan would take me back, thats what i always seemed to want. no dominic didnt say anything about how we should be together actually the start of our relationship was a really rocky one, im not sure how we did it but both of us were suffering from a broken heart. i had only been with ryan for about four months but the reality of it was that he had become everything to me and more. he was my whole world and he promised me forever just to break my heart and string me along. though dominic was always there to listen, i avoided talking about it, really, me and my best friend could never really say we were just friends. we always 100% had a crush on eachother but it was never the right time to admit it openly and try it out. i remember it really clearly, valentines day was coming along and ryan was trying to win me back, said he wanted to see me i of course said yes, but kept a back up plan with dominic just incase. i knew better then to actually expect ryan to keep a plan and i wanted to see the best friend i had been avoiding so it worked. when ryan bailed like i had expected dominic invited me over to his house to watch some movies, eat some popcorn and just hang out. we watched the movie sure, his arm wraped around me. i remember my heart beating 50 miles an hour and wondering how i could sit there in his arms and feel so comfortable, like my heart wasnt completely broken inside of me and my life hadnt fallen around me months before. it was mr and mrs smith, we joked around about it, goofed off, cuddled, but when the movie ended and the whole room fell dark minus the small glow off the now gray tv screen he looked at me, and we sat as close as we could be and just sat there. our forheads touching and looking in eachothers eyes. i had never felt so comfortable in my entire life, just laying in his arms made me feel tired but i kept my eyes as open as possible to watch his. it took us a good 15 minutes siting like that for him to finally kiss me, i hadnt exactly expected it, i knew he liked me, he knew i liked him, but it wasnt like we were in the possition to date. though, that didnt stop us, we spent at least three hours every day texting eachother after that, and not the cute best friend things we use to say but cute i miss you i love yous your amazing sort of things that we loved. i hadnt been that happy since me and ryan broke up. we have no real love story but i am in love with this boy. 5 months later and i can honestly say ive never been happier with anyone in my entire life, hes perfect and amazing and though he has his flaws, i love him for them. we fit perfectly together and my family loves him. i miss him when hes gone and i try to spend every minute with him i can. when im sad or scared i talk to him and he cheers me up and makes me feel safe in an instant. were in love, im sure of it, hes told me hes in love with me every day since the first time he said it. he told me hed remind me every day for the rest of our lives. he doesnt believe in forever but he said he knows no matter what our love will be around even after our bodies fade away. its only been 5 months but if it were up to me id marry him tomorrow, i know were not gonna just end in a month, and im not gonna be niave and say ill be with him forever and have kids with him, but i still hope i will. cause hes amazing and perfect and i love him. did i mention i love him. so like ive said, we dont have any cute pictures and my friends dont go gaga at us cause were so cute, but were perfect for eachother. i promise ill never hurt him. i just thought id share that, even though it probably bored you. im 17 and in love, who knew that was possible ?"

From Le Love.

To be 17 and in love. Heck, just to be in love, even at double of 17.

help i have OCD

2009-07-24T17:41:00.002+08:00

This site, which peddles over-the-counter drugs in humorous packaging, confirms that I have OCD. See what happens when you click on each of the squares until they disappear.

The "Help I'm bored" section is pretty entertaining too.

new wardrobe

2009-07-16T16:25:00.005+08:00

Do you know that prawns/shrimps shed their shells, like snakes? Yeah, me neither, but apparently they do, leaving behind a luminous, transparent casing. Hell, I don't even know the difference between prawns and shrimps, but these crustaceans do make very fascinating office pets.

an apple a day

2009-07-09T12:53:00.005+08:00

Ever since I got my shiny new iPod Touch a couple of weeks ago, I've been obsessed with finding the Holy Grail -- a clear, super slim, tactile, non-plasticky cover which can protect the chrome back but not hide it, does not show up fingerprints, can provide some protection when (not if) I drop it and -- this is very important -- does not sport some fugly logo. As far as I can tell, this object does not exist.

In a fit of desperation, I bought a translucent condom-like cover, which I hate to the core, and one of those sticker films which does nothing to prevent fingerprints all over the screen and bubbles up on the corners. Needless to say, it drives me nuts.

In the course of my fruitless trawling of Amazon, eBay and even Taobao, I found some ingenious "Apple" products. (All made in China, butofcos, and less than S$200 each.)

The iPod Phone

The mini iPhone