week after week

For horrible Tuesday at work: Floral top from Isetan, favourite culottes from Urban Outfitters, string of beads from Chinatown

wet wet wet

For running errands in Chinatown and Arab Street on a rainy day, followed by birthday dinner for dad: Pinstriped jacket from Old Navy, hand-made fabric brooch from small shop in Holland V, new pink tee and new stretchy jeans from Giordano, blue rubber thongs from Muji, giant brown bag from Country Road donkey years ago, orange traffic cone from carpark in West Coast

fashion diary

Remember my food diary? Here comes the fashion diary, inspired by this piece of fluff in Vogue in which women were asked to snap pix of what they wore for two weeks, to analyse their dress sense.


For dinner at Chef Chan's kitchen: Camisole from Giordano, skirt from Chelsea flea market, pink tulle underskirt [not seen] designed by Swirl, belt from the 80s courtesy of my mom, blue beads on wrist from Salvation Army in Williamsburg, charm bracelet borrowed and never returned from Lisa one drunken night, earrings from H&M

i heart london

When London won the bid to host the 2012 Olympics, I didn't give a heck about it.

In fact, I kept mocking the decision, "Did they factor in the weather? They won't be able to play any games cos it's gonna be raining all the time!"

Then the Tube blasts struck. Edgware Road, Russell Square, Liverpool Street. These were all places I was familiar with, and while not quite as near my heart as Bukit Merah or say Holland Village, still I felt a horrible rage and terrible sadness.

lights... camera...

my daily cuppa

I'm no Martin Parr, but since I can't find that pix, here's my own version, taken at 10.34am this morning, when I should have been rushing to work.

ideal room

If only my room could look so orderly. I finally moved in but there's so much more unpacking to do. I wish some elves are working on it now while I'm at work.


And I need a nice vase. But more than that, I need a pretty dustbin.

perfect posture

What I've learnt from purchasing two cheongsams and wearing them both within the space of three days is that it is physically demanding.

You cannot hunch or you'd rip the sleeves.

You have to sit ramrod straight or there'd be unbecoming creases down the front.

You constantly suck in your tummy so as not to ruin its tailored lines.

Sudden movements will cause a button to pop or a seam to rip. So your arms have to move gracefully, languidly. You don't run, you don't walk hurriedly, you don't stride. You have to glide.

Being all lady-like does take a toll. I was exhausted when I finally took the cheongsam off.

algebra

Cindy is 10 years younger than her teacher. Her teacher is four years younger than her sister. Her sister is twice Cindy's age. How old is Cindy?

Does this bring back nightmares of PSLE problem sums?

Went out with my sis and her student last night. The generation gap is staggering.

While having dinner, her student made sure that there was no vegetables in her meal, because her surname is Cai. I, on the other hand, was having a healthy salad.

While shopping at Tangs later, her student looked on in bored amusement as I excitedly compared bedsheets and threadcounts, and exclaimed over $248 dustbins. And rolled her eyes when I tried on a cheongsam that was on sale.

While driving home, she was utterly aghast that we were listening to Class 95 and proclaimed that she would never ever do that even when she is old. Give her another 10 years, I say, and she'll be humming along to "golden oldies" with us.

barbie girl

Almost all the painting is done at my new place. Almost all of it is pink. No wonder my neighbour has dubbed it "Barbie's doll house".

I can't wait for the bed to finally be there so I can sleep over. And then we can start having housewarming parties.

Come on, Barbie, let's go party...oh oh oh yeah...

remembrance of things past

I'd all but forgotten about these images which I'd seen and loved, until I stumbled across this postcard which triggered a slideshow in my head.


Andreas Gursky, 99 Cent


William Eggleston, Untitled (Boy In Red Cardigan)


Martin Parr, Common Sense

Also stumbled across Parr's Love Cubes game, circa 1972, but still fascinating to play mix and match.

Still trawling the Net for the image of a cuppa on a table cloth. Sudden nostalgia for good ol' England.

firestarter

Was happily setting up my appliances -- microwave oven, hot water flask, toaster, mini crockpot, and very crucial for this tale, electric stove -- without noticing that certain switches were by default turned on.

In fact, the stove hobs were dialled all the way to maximum. And I went upstairs and did my own thing for at least a couple of hours without realising that.

Luckily, M felt the waves of heat emanating from the counter and turned the stove off.

Even before I moved in, I'd almost burned down my new place. I'm a fire hazard. Help!

loving thyself

This was edited out of a column on Mr And Mrs Smith:

I could make a lot of dirty jokes about that here, but I'd probably end up in a lonely cell where I'd have to use my own hand for a long time.

So was this item from a list of holiday programmes for primary school kids:

They will also learn about themselves through a self-exploratory exercise linking to their fantasy future. Finally, they will also find out what it would take to reach their golden goals.

amused muse

Jean Michel Basquiat did a Self-portrait With Suzanne, while Leonard Cohen tried to woo Suzanne with music.

Somebody, Dance Me To The End Of Love.

more waiting

Attraction is over-rated.

Always be polite, even when you are goddem pissed off.

I should start practising my smile in front of the mirror.

I dislike fickle people. Even though I can be pretty fickle myself too.

Every day at work makes me wonder how I'm going to hang on till bonus time.

I have honed procrastination to a fine art.

Having your ears cleaned by someone you love is the warmest, fuzziest feeling in the world.

After painting my room green, I've realised that my favourite colour is still blue.

There are more shades of white paint than all the other colours combined.

I lurve it when people -- well, it's only one very prolific person -- leave blog comments.

while waiting

It is possible to be mesmerised by a sparkling chandelier.

Some people just rub me the wrong way and some the right way.

It is sad to have nothing but one carton of Coke in your spanking new fridge.

Ikea has the best chicken wings in the world.

Char Siew is a good name for a dog.

I will have no more life after Swirl launches next month, let alone any chance of a love life.

Two days of work wipes out two weeks of vacation. Photos help to alleviate the pain only slightly.

I have a water heater but no shower gel. I have a stove but no pots. I have a bedroom but no bed.

How did I ever live without broadband?

I have only taken half of my allocated 28 days of medical leave for the year.

I'm due to write Girl Talk. Again. I can hardly believe it. Any suggestions of topics?

I'm haunted by a new New Order song which I don't know the title of.

Isn't it a marvellous idea to motivate students by promising to flash them if they get a good grade?

Does anyone remember Herman's Head?

I have given up trying to catch up on my reading.

Why isn't blardee Gmail working so I can reply email instead of typing out these random thoughts?

pixel pixie

Now that the "essential" New York tourist pix have been posted and shared, here are a couple of non-crucial shots.


Let them eat cupcake!


Kaleidoscope souvenir which I now regret giving away.

Ok, now that I've finally overcome jetlag, I will stop talking about New York too. But that doesn't stop me from wishing I was back there.

happiness is...

...reliving your holiday through photos. Work can wait.


All the NYTCs at a picnic in Central Park.


NYTC and me at the Guggenheim, where we were heard plotting our own version of Daniel Buren's stripes, but in polka dots.


I screamed. And screamed. And screamed. Poor Alfie's ear drums. Then I laughed. And laughed. And laughed. Even the Zipper ride operator was laughing [prolly because he gave us an extra terok ride, but not that I'm complaining].

Note: I dunno why my pix are having the pixelated porno effect again. I think Photo Bucket is screwing with me.

Once again, I am suddenly wide awake at 3am, even though I made sure I tanked up on super duper painkillers to knock me out till morning.

Perhaps it's the stress of all the things we need to do before we can move into Chip Bee. Just off the top of my head -- I have a more comprehensive written list somewhere in my trusty notebook -- these are what we need to do these two weeks:

-- wiring of power points
-- buy and make chandeliers
-- installation of lights
-- installation of aircon
-- painting the entire place
-- installation of SCV
-- settle rental payment stuff
-- print name cards
-- hassle website design guy
-- write press release
-- fix sizing on clothes samples
-- buy fridge, stove, microwave oven, etc for kitchen
-- buy toilet cabinets, racks, etc
-- look for second-hand washing machine
-- transport furniture from a couple of different locations
-- repaint some old tables and bed
-- set up stock-taking, inventory and receipt system

Hyperventilating now.

new york state of mind

Just when I so smugly thought I wasn't jet lagged at all -- I wasn't when I arrived in New York -- I found myself wide awake at 3am.

After fiddling with my holiday snaps and listening to Billy Joel for the past hour, I'm more wide eyed than ever and still mourning the end of my vacation.

i heart ny

I love New York. But I’m never going back.

Have decided that unless there is a miraculous cure for my baikar, I’m never going to fly ever again. It’s just too much torture.

Imagine feet swelling to the size of trotters and not being able to do anything to prevent or relieve them. Leg room of 30cm that barely allows for any movement or stretching. Hot needles of pain constantly being jabbed directly into the veins. For the longest 24 hours of my life.

But sandwiched between the two worst flights I’ve ever taken in my life are two fabulous weeks in a city I almost wish I lived in.

i heart ny x 2

I love New York.

I expected it to be a combination of my favourite cities -- the never-go-to-sleep attitude of Barcelona, the never-say-die vibe of Hong Kong, the culture-vulture scene of London, the everything-available-at-a-price market place of Bangkok -- and it was.

But something was missing -- I don’t know what -- and the city just didn’t reach out and grab me. Or perhaps I was hobbling too slowly and wasn't able to get into the pace of the place.

I will still tell people that I love New York. But I must admit that I expected to love it more.

i heart ny x 3

I love New York because of:

-- picnic in Central Park and playing our Favourite game. Who’s your favourite character actor? Favourite author? Favourite holiday companion? [The last is a trick question, heh heh...]

-- Krispy Kreme donuts fresh off the conveyor belt. And I got the T-shirt to prove it! Also have the “I heart New York” T-shirt, just like a true blue tourist.

-- Chelsea Papaya’s BLT, which was specially made for me the non-beef-eater. I swear it was nonetheless contaminated with beef juices from the grill, hence so delish.

-- the Met’s Temple of Dendur. I stood within it in a daze, unable to comprehend that this was the actual temple from Egypt, brought over and recreated stone by stone.

-- Williamsburg and its quaint little shops.

-- Greenwich and Magnolia Bakery’s diabetic-inducing cupcakes.

-- Coney Island [which is not an island and we still haven’t found out why it is thus named] and its rickety wooden roller coaster and laugh-until-stomachache ride called The Zipper. Just found out that the roller coaster, known as the Cyclone, was built in 1927 and, according to the website, Emilio Franco, a mute since birth, regained his voice on the Cyclone, uttering his first words ever -- "I feel sick"!

-- Cocktail at subterranean Russian bar Pravda. We made the one delish drink last the entire evening and bonded over Most Embarrassing Moments, a variation of our Favourite game.

-- TV dinners on compartmentalised plastic plates.

-- TV. Endless episodes of Gilmore Girls and Law & Order on Tivo. Season finales of shows which haven’t even started on Singapore TV. Circumsized Cinema. And of course, Channel 35.

-- Tiny Doll House, with its, ahem, tiny doll houses filled with tiny chairs, tiny beds, tiny chandeliers which actually work, tiny fake food [Krispy Kreme!], tiny mannequins with tiny dresses in progress. Tiny, tiny, tiny!

-- flea markets. Don’t be jealous of my Little House on the Prairie dress, beaten up red leather bag, floral circle skirt, vintage pony brooch, fake amethyst earrings...I can’t get enough of old stuff.

-- Urban Outfitters, Crate & Barrel, Old Navy and of course, old favourite H&M. Oh the many happy hours we spent there.

-- MOMA gift shop. Call me shallow, but even though I couldn’t squeeze time out for the actual museum, I managed to go to its gift shop three times.

-- the weather when the sun was out. But for one abnormal week, it was the coldest spring since 1967. Going around in flip flops when it is 50 deg F (10 deg C) and raining makes you learn how to walk with wet and frozen feet without slipping and truly appreciate sunshine when it appears.

-- Ginnie and Alfie.

i heart ny x 4

I love New York. And I have the photos to prove it.


Pretending to be a seagull at Coney Island.


NYTC and me.


The Zipper made us come undone after the ride.


NYTC and Ginnie at Central Park.


Worshipping the Krispy Kreme conveyor belt and its waterfall of icing.


Photographer and model at work. Fashion shoot in New York, how glam is that? Big hug and thanks to Alfie and Serena.


Saw Lady Liberty from afar. And somebody's ass up close.

`
Empire State Building from my cousin's rooftop.


The only monument I climbed.


Ginnie and me again at the Cast Iron Building, which was being renovated.


Because I failed to consult the guide book, we ended up at the New York Public Library on a day that it was closed. When we returned the following day, I petitioned Mayor Bloomberg to extend opening hours. They had a letter-writing counter set up for that.


I lurved the cup noodles at Times Square because it had real steam coming out. What am I saying? I lurve cup noodles. Period.


Not quite double exposure, but a photo of a photo of Times Square. An image of me reflected onto the image of the woman.

new york, new york

I have to leave for the airport in four hours' time and I'm still in the office.

I have not even started packing and I still need to go to M's place to pick up some stuff.

I am so screwed.

eight days to go

NYTC leaves for New York tomorrow morning. Another eight more days to go for me before checking into Casa Del GA.

anybody home?

Some time last year, this old classmate of mine called me up at work out of the blue and from a payphone, no less.

Him: Hello, do you know a Chee Tiong* from ACJC?
Me: Erm, yes?
Him: I am Chee Tiong.
Me: Erm, hello.
Him: Have you heard any news about me?
Me: Erm, what? [I thought I heard wrongly, as it was noisy.]
Him: Have you heard anyone talking about me?
Me: Erm, no. Who's talking about you?
Him: Reporters have been calling me and calling me.
Me: Erm, about what? [I was thinking at this point that he was insane.]
Him: [Hemming and hawing] About me. And my business.
Me: Erm, why would they want to know about your business?
Him: They want to know.

The conversation went on in this vein for a while, until he hung up, still with disbelief in his voice that no one was enquiring about him or his activities.

Last week, he called my home and asked my Mum for my mobile number. She didn't give it to him, of course, and took down his number on his insistence. When she passed it to me, I shuddered and said: "Psycho!" And then I threw the scrap of paper away.

Two days later, he called my office. For some unknown reason, I picked up. [I usually don't pick up unknown numbers, to avoid long-winded PR girls and their brainless spiels.]

Him: Hello, do you remember Chee Tiong?
Me: [Heart sinking] Erm, yes?
Him: I am Chee Tiong.
Me: Erm, hi.
Him: I tried to call you at home.
Me: [Brightly] Is it?
Him: Have you heard any news about me from Audrina*?
Me: Er, no, I don't really keep in touch with our classmates.
Him: Have you heard any news about me from your colleagues?
Me: [Clutching my phone in disbelief that this is happening again] Erm, no.
Him: They have been following me.
Me: Erm, why?
Him: They want to find out more about me.
Me: [Rather loudly and impatiently] Erm, why?
Him: Can you let me know if anyone asks about me? This is my handphone number.
Me: Erm, ok.
Him: Can I get your handphone number too in case?
Me: [Lying through my teeth] I don't have one.

He finally gets the idea and hangs up.

* Names have been changed so that he won't be able to google and find out that people have, indeed, been talking about him.

online booking

Thank you for booking your stay with us at Casa del Ginnie & Alfie (aka
Casa del GA)!
Here in reputedly one of Manhattan's smallest studio, we go by the
motto, "There's hardly any room but cheapos shouldn't complain!"
Casa del GA (rhymes with Agar Agar) is a cosy studio located in
downtown NYC (2 blocks south of WTC site) that offers fine
starving-artists sleep-on-mattresses-on-the-floor style quarters with
practically no privacy and endless hours of Law & Order, Gilmore Girls
reruns, VH1 music videos from the 80s, fresh episodes of reality Tv and
the occasional Cooking Network programs. We provide free internet
access but we dont promise any meals. Pajamas are not provided but
city tours are available on request at the kitchen counter (For
Art/Museum/Book/CD tour contact A. Lee, for Shopping/Food/Supermarket
tour contact G. Teo. Please reserve in advance).
Casa del GA is a smoke free but not (entirely) snore free zone.
For our Singaporean guests, Casa del GA is roughly equivalent to the
size of a 3 room HDB flat minus the 2 bedrooms, or for those unfamiliar
with government subsidised (or so they say) housing, it can roughly
accommodate 2 Mercedes S class wiper to wiper, with 1 driver stationed
in the kitchen alcove and the other in the bath.
For those with no sense of smell and an iron stomach Casa del GA also
provides a subway transfer service from JFK and La Guardia.

We at Casa del Ga hope that you'll enjoy your stay with us and look
forward to seeing you!
Cheers
Alfie & Ginnie
Casa del GA
"Where there's hardly any room but cheapos shouldn't complain!"

six days seven nights

I've always hated packing for trips. I fear forgetting to bring my passport or more importantly, my underwear [which has happened before].

I've always loved springcleaning the junk that I hoard -- photos, Christmas cards, costume jewellery, cute little bottles, magazines, Dirty Dancing cassette tapes, Doraemon figurines -- because of the memories they invoke.

With the Big Move scheduled tomorrow for fengshui reasons, I have been ordered to pack at least enough clothes and toiletries for a week. The family will be going on a six day seven night holiday to our new place in West Coast. [I'm moving too because my current place is going to be rented out and I will only get the keys to my very own place in Chip Bee in June. And also to appease my mother.]

Packing for the Big Move has been pretty trauma-free, so far. Dumped all my clothes into suitcases without even taking out the hangers, just like how people in movies pack when they skip town in a hurry. There was no anxiety about accidentally forgetting to pack anything, cos I can always just come back for it.

While sorting through some boxes at the back of my cupboard, I unearthed a stash of crisp $50 "bird print" notes and a well-fed piggy bank. I think it was my angpow money from 20 years ago. Just like that, I'm $300 richer.

In other news, I went for a BBQ at Chip Bee last night, the farewell do for a couple who are moving out. They were so nice to invite us to introduce us to the neighbours. Once again, I was told that I look like Ah Girl.

As I sat under the fairy lights, nibbling a chicken drumstick and playing with the neighbour's fluffy poodle, I found it hard to grasp the reality that this could possibly be my life very soon.

spelling bee

The Washington Post's Style Invitational once again asked readers to take
any word from the dictionary, alter it by adding, subtracting, or changing
one letter, and supply a new definition.

Here are this year's winners:

1. Bozone (n.): The substance surrounding stupid people that stops bright
ideas from penetrating. The bozone layer, unfortunately, shows little sign
of breaking down in the near future.

2. Foreploy (v): Any misrepresentation about yourself for the purpose of
getting laid.

3. Cashtration (n.): The act of buying a house, which renders the subject
financially impotent for an indefinite period.

4. Giraffiti (n): Vandalism spray-painted very, very high.

5. Sarchasm (n): The gulf between the author of sarcastic wit and the
person who doesn't get it.

6. Inoculatte (v): To take coffee intravenously when you are running late.

7. Hipatitis (n): Terminal coolness.

8. Osteopornosis (n): A degenerate disease. (This one got extra credit.)

9. Karmageddon (n): It's like, when everybody is sending off all these
really bad vibes, right? And then, like, the Earth explodes and it's like,
a serious bummer.

10. Decafalon (n.): The grueling event of getting through the day consuming
only things that are good for you.

11. Glibido (v): All talk and no action.

12. Dopeler effect (n): The tendency of stupid ideas to seem smarter when
they come at you rapidly.

13. Arachnoleptic fit (n.): The frantic dance performed just after you've
accidentally walked through a spider web.

14. Beelzebug (n.): Satan in the form of a mosquito that gets into your
bedroom at three in the morning and cannot be cast out.

15. Caterpallor (n.): The color you turn after finding half a grub in the
fruit you're eating.

And the pick of the literature:

16. Ignoranus (n): A person who's both stupid and an a-hole.

tupperware party

I have today acquired two cardboard boxes filled with retro Tupperware, which is roughly half of my mom’s stash from her days as a Tupperware party hostess.

Most of those air-tight containers -- water bottles, jelly molds, salad bowls, cups and more in deep brown, vivid yellow, olive green, carrot orange -- have never even been used.

Even though I’m delighted to inherit these brand-new 20-year-old heirlooms, I’m even more delighted that my mom has come round to the idea that I am, indeed, moving out.

damsel in distress

Part I

A moth fluttered into my room just as my sis and I were about to turn in last night.

It wasn't one of those menacing black ones which fasten themselves to the wall and stay immobile while sending evils vibes. Instead, it was the (equally evil) type with erratic flight patterns that careen about wildly while threatening to land on your face.

So there I was, screeching away like a banshee and diving under my blankets. My brave but ineffectual sis tried to swat it out with a broom, but the evil creature taunted her by fluttering around before suddenly vanishing.

We couldn't find it, and we needed to sleep, so we gave up the search. But it was a restless sleep, as I was haunted by thoughts of being smothered to death by powdery black wings while slumbering.

Part II

It was one minute past offstone and I was the only one in the office.

Then the phone rang. There's a problem with the cover. A major, urgent problem that I couldn't solve without the help of someone from Art Dept, but none of them were in yet, and would not be for another two hours.

So I had to call one of the artists who lived across the road and haul him back to work. He sounded none too pleased about it over the phone -- who can blame him? -- but 15 minutes later, he was at his desk with sleep in his eyes, bed hair concealed under a cap and a day's worth of stubble on his face.

As he took over the cover, I stood helplessly behind him, wringing my hands, sending out stress vibes and generally being 100% useless.

And then the most wildly inappropriate thought hit me: "Wow, he's really hot. Like one of those grizzly Survivor men. How come I never noticed it before?"

I sent a message to my evil twin to tell her about my revelation, and she replied: "Haha you are just turned on cos he was the knight who rescued the damsel in you."

still life, fast moving

Apparently, if you see the above images moving, it means you're stressed. The faster, the more stressed you are. Or it might just be an optical illusion.

material girl

What my heart desires: Crystal chandelier
What I'd make do with: Crystal earrings

What my heart desires: My very own tropical island
What I'd make do with: A week-long holiday in Phuket

What my heart desires: Complete set of Tintin comics
What I'd make do with: Buying one comic everytime I feel down

What my heart desires: DVD recorder
What I'd make do with: VCR and DVD player

What my heart desires: Prada gown
What I'd make do with: Home-made copy

What my heart desires: iPod mini in blue
What I'd make do with: digital camera which can store 12 measly songs

What my heart desires: Nigella Lawson's cookbooks
What I'd make do with: Watching her on TV

What my heart desires: Walk-in wardrobe
What I'd make do with: Big cupboard and lots of shelves

What my heart desires: Fresh flowers everyday
What I'd make do with: Plastic daisies

What my heart desires: Rollerblades
What I'd make do with: Birkenstock

What my heart desires: Black Labrador
What I'd make do with: Animal Planet

What my heart desires: Baby blue Volkswagen Beetle
What I'd make do with: Comfort cab

Insomnia drives me to think about things I can't have...

seeking oblivion

I made my lurves join me in getting drunk -- to the brink of happiness but not the point of puking, we all agreed beforhand -- but we were all still lucid at the end of the night.

Did not even come close to the Worst Time I Ever Saw You Drunk moments we had been through together, which include:

-- Brushing your teeth naked and having a boy and his girlfriend walk in on you.
-- Accidentally making out with a friend you have no business kissing at the end of a bar.
-- Lunging at your man at a traffic junction and being spotted by your friends in the next car.
-- Sitting on the sidewalk, cradling a tilam on your knees to rest your throbbing head.
-- Too many to catalogue during our infamous Slut Party.

I might have been tipsy, wobbly and giggly last night, but no matter how much I drank and how much I wanted it, oblivion just did not sink in.

I still remember everything I wanted to forget.

one two three four five

SIX WEEKS PART I

My hairdresser has refused to cut my hair.

"I've already planned your next hair cut and your hair needs to be longer," he explained with a pained expression on his face.

"But my fringe is very annoying and keeps poking into my eyes," I protested with an equally pained expression.

"If it is really very irritating, I can cut it..." his voice trailed off and his expression became even more pained. "But if you can keep it for a few more weeks, it will be very nice."

"How long more?"

"You come back in six weeks, ok? I'll cut for you."

"SIX WEEKS???" I wailed.

I suppose I should be glad that my hairdresser cares enough to plan my next hair cut. But I can't believe he is now dictating when and how I should cut my hair.

SIX WEEKS PART II

"When are you going to climb your mountain again?"

"Next week," he replied gleefully, filling me on his plans to white-water raft, take photos of holy men who never bathe and spend time with his Nepalese mistress and his brood of illegitimate kids.

"When will you be back? I need you to help me shoot some photos of my clothes leh."

"I'm going for six weeks."

"SIX WEEKS???" I wailed.

SIX WEEKS PART III

The lease has been signed and we're officially in business.

By the end of April, we should be able to go into our newly rented place at Chip Bee Gardens and survey the terrace house that will be our showroom-cum-sweatshop as well as my new bachelor-girl pad.

By the end of May, we should be decorating in earnest. Already, we're picking out colour schemes, thinking of where to hang chandeliers, scavenging for second-hand furniture and appliances.

How to wait another SIX WEEKS???

SIX WEEKS PART IV

The countdown to New York, as of today, is precisely SIX WEEKS.

my left foot

Back on my feet -- Literally! And figuratively! Finally! -- after being bedridden for four days and naturally, I was so glad to be out and about that I overdid it.

First up was yummy Jap lunch. Paper steamboat, juicy tako, grilled squid and one extremely entertaining lunch companion and his girlfriend that we'd been convinced was imaginary. I really shouldn't have eaten all that toxic seafood, but after a whole week of nothing but chicken and lots of fruit, I couldn't resist.

Then, I made a quick stop at Times to check out the 20% discounts, but it didn't have the Domestic Goddess book by Nigella that I was coveting, so I ended up buying Vogue instead. Totally forgot to check out Kafka On The Shores, cos I didn't bring my List Of Books I Want To Read. [Very nerdy to have such a list, I know, but I can't help it.]

A substantial chunk of the afternoon was taken up with the witnessing the humiliation of the Cleo Bachelors, more specifically those two that I know. Both had to take off their T-shirts in the middle of a busy shopping centre. One executed push-ups, which he did effortlessly -- ahem -- 69 times. The other had a relatively easier -- and arguably more enjoyable -- time having his hairy torso rubbed with lotion by some girl they pulled from the crowd.

By this time, my feet were killing me and we retreated to get something to drink before heading home.

Before I could flop down on my bed to rest my feet and flip through the overdue Vogue, I had to head out again, this time to conduct an illicit transaction with a friend back from New York. It involved a dark corner next to a smelly rubbish dump, out of sight of the crowds thronging Orchard, and exchanging a wad of $50 notes for an airticket.

As I hopped onto the first available cab to zip home, I entertained myself by thinking how I would defend myself and my cash if the cab driver turned around and decided to rob me. Decided that jabbing him in the eyes would be my best line of defence.

Spent the rest of the night horizontal, recovering from all that walking. My trotters were swollen and about ready to fall off.

Later that night, K -- who had been attempting to pimp me the whole afternoon to the bachelors -- sent me an SMS.

Him: "I still cannot believe I put myself thru that fiasco this afternoon."

Me: "I tink I've lost ALL interest in boys... Not the least turned on by any of the bachelors! How?!?"

Him: "Haha good god u r turning gay!"

Me: "But I'm not into girls either! I'm turning into a... NUN! Faint...this does not bode well..."

Him: "Haha then how u gona fulfil your needs??"

Me: "Nuns dun have needs. They have god. Haha"

Him: "Yup...hands of god huh?"

an unmoving story

I thought I'd just go with the flow and stop opposing the move to the new place. So yesterday morning, the entire family went off on a light-buying trip to Balestier.

Settled on the living room and dining room lights without too much pain. Was even in a good enough mood to stand under a lamp and take goofy photos.



But by afternoon, my energy level was flagging and I needed a snooze in Barang Barang while my sis soldiered on with the sofa selection.



Today was supposed to be a major expedition into Ikea. It started off well enough, with fried chicken wings to start us off on a full stomach.

But things just went rapidly downhill, for no reason other than my dad was behaving unreasonably, shouting at my mum and threatening stupid things. It didn't help that my sissy and I started developing headaches because it took so long to get them to agree to anything.

Managed to sort out the dining table, cabinets, chairs, blinds and kitchen after five exhausting hours in the store.



But if you could see my face in the photo -- standing next to the chosen dining table -- you would see it was totally black. Had a blazing row in the middle of the kitchen section with my dad, which ended with me throwing everything onto the trolley and storming off while the people milling around stared.

Was so mad that I was trembling with rage. I remember saying very loudly and in a very clipped tone to my mum: "I. Am. Moving. Out."

My mum is now pretending that she didn't hear it and asking if I want to move my wardrobe over to the new place.

My dad is now pretending that nothing has happened, but I'm ignoring him.

Even though things are in a bad state now, I am feeling better than a couple of weeks ago, when we were emotionally blackmailed into agreeing to the move and even paying for it.

At least now, I have stated it loud and clear -- I. Am. Moving. Out.

Now, to get the place I want in Chip Bee...

doppelganger

Quite a long time ago, when Channel i was still on air and Ah Girl was still showing, my ex told me that I looked a lot like her.

A couple of weeks ago, at a party that my body double and I were both at, a friend of a friend went up to her and had an entire conversation, thinking she was me. When she finally realised her mistake, she ran away in embarrassment.

A couple of nights ago, NYTC told me she met her and that not only do we really look alike, we also have the same animated expressions when talking.

I suppose I should be glad that I dun look like Irene Ang or Abigail Chay.

the scissor sister

After 55 years, 'human Google' Edda Tasiemka is selling her amazing cuttings library and retiring - distressing news for at least one customer

Lynn Barber
Sunday March 13, 2005
The Observer

The news that Edda Tasiemka is planning to retire and sell her cuttings library had many journalists, including me, sobbing into our laptops. How could any of us survive without Edda and her cuttings? Whizzy management types are fond of telling us that nowadays you can find everything on the internet, but actually it is rare to find any newspaper stories over five years old or any magazine articles at all, whereas one quick phone call to an elderly German widow in the suburbs can provide precisely what you need. Almost every profile writer and biographer I know uses Tasiemka, and everyone who uses her raves about her. Nicholas Coleridge is such a devotee that he put her in one of his novels. Robert Lacey said he could never have written Majesty without her and added wistfully: 'She's a real dish, isn't she? I wish I was an older man!'

Given that Mrs Tasiemka is 82, this is quite a wish. But it is impossible to believe that she is 82, when she looks about 40 - a tiny, darting, elfin figure who makes most ballet dancers seem clunky. Her Christmas card a couple of years ago showed her sitting on Santa Claus's lap, flashing her fabulous legs in slinky black nylons. The other day, she was telling me that she and her 'toyboy', Peter Knight, were going to a dinner-dance at the Compleat Angler and that she planned to wear her La Perla nightdress because it was far too glamorous to confine to the bedroom.

She and Peter love dancing. 'Strictly ballroom?' I asked and she said sternly: 'No. Smoochy dancing.'

Incidentally, Peter the toyboy is 78 - they have been lovers for 34 years.

So Mrs Tasiemka is not exactly your average librarian. Nor does her house look remotely like a library. It is a conventional 1920s semi-detached in north London, with a white Sandtex exterior, a short drive up to the side garage and a lawn surrounded by bedding plants. The drawing-room gives the same impression of old-fashioned gemütlich comfort - button-back armchairs, Regency cabinets and highly polished tables covered with knick-knacks.

However, if you look carefully there are already signs that this is not quite a conventional house - the Stop the War placard in the hall for instance (Mrs Tasiemka went on both the prewar marches) or the two lifesize model sheep in the corner.

But it is when Mrs Tasiemka starts opening drawers and cupboards and sliding back bookshelves to reveal other shelves behind that you really begin to see what the house is about. 'Are you interested in American history?' she asks, going to a Regency music cabinet and opening the drawers. 'This is the American Civil War,' she says, pulling out a sheaf of American newspapers from the l860s. 'This is the assassination of Abraham Lincoln.'

In the drawing-room, the cuttings files are kept more at less at bay, but they run riot over the rest of the house - sport in the loo, medicine in the kitchen, crime and celebrities in the top bedroom, and then - aagh! - the terrifying section she calls 'the Family', housed in the garage. Of course, there is no car in the garage, just hundreds and hundreds of buff folders with titles like 'My Father Stole My Husband', 'Seven-Year Itch', 'Runaway Mothers-in-Law' - meat and drink to daytime television shows such as Trisha.

It is an idiosyncratic filing system but it seems to work. In fact, it works far more quickly and efficiently than any other library I know. Mrs Tasiemka has a staff of three to help with the photocopying, but she does all the filing herself and works pretty well non-stop. And she seems to remember everything .

If I say: 'Can I have cuts on so-and-so?' she'll often volunteer: 'And do you want something on the brother who committed suicide?', even though I don't even know that there was a brother who committed suicide. As Robert Lacey attests: 'Mrs Tasiemka was a Google search engine long before Google was invented.' But, of course, that compliment would mean nothing to her because she has never used the internet.

She has had a strange, disrupted life. She was born in Germany in 1922. Her parents were unmarried. Her father was a famous communist leader, but he was forced into exile when she was a baby, so she was brought up by her mother in a small dormitory village outside Ham burg. 'In l933, when the Nazis took power, I was immediately aware of what was going on. We had the police in practically every week; a lot of our friends were arrested and worse. Because of that, I never wanted to join the Hitler Youth.'

This meant that she was not allowed to go to the local secondary school, so they moved into Hamburg. But then, on New Year's Eve 1938, her mother was arrested. 'The police came at midnight and took my mother away; the next day, they sealed the flat, so I had nowhere to live. I was l5. And I sort of moved around then, staying with friends, but the first people who took me in were Jews, so that was dangerous, too.'

Her mother was released after six months but they still had nowhere to live; they eventually ended up living in a fishing hut by a lake.

Edda's dream was to be a civil engineer, and she trained as a technical draughtswoman, but she ended up after the war as a secretary with the British army of occupation in Hamburg. It was there in l949 that she met Hans Tasiemka, who was also working for the British army, as an interpreter at the War Crimes Trials Centre. He was a left-wing Jewish journalist who had fled to Paris at the outbreak of war and joined the Foreign Legion. Eventually, he escaped via Casablanca and joined the British army.

He was 17 years older than Edda, but she says: 'We were politically on the same level totally, and he knew a lot.' When he was demobbed at the end of l949, they moved to England and got married in Hampstead register office. Peter Lorre, who was a friend of Hans's from prewar Berlin, gave them lunch at the Dorchester on their wedding day, and Mrs Lorre gave Edda some camiknickers. They lived in a tiny bedsit off the Finchley Road. Hans worked for the German section of the Foreign Office, producing a magazine for distribution in Germany, and she was a typist for Universal Aunts. Was her English good? 'Oh, better than now. Because I worked for the army for four years and all day long, I spoke English and took dictation from my Major Holt.'

The Tasiemkas never had children ('For years, I went up and down Harley Street but I had blocked tubes and that was that') but they always had cuttings. Edda remembers that when she first met her husband, his pockets were already bulging with newspaper clippings, which he sent to a friend in London to store. 'So, when we got here, he had a box of cuttings and that was the start. In the bedsit, we kept them under the bed. Later on, of course, it got completely out of hand.'

Hans was working for various German newspapers; one day, he was away when a Munich paper rang demanding a report of the opening of Parliament, so Edda wrote it and phoned it through. 'That was my very first story and I thought, "Oh dear, this is terrible", but they published it word for word. So I thought I could do it. From then on, I did many stories, and worked for the magazines.'

With both their careers flourishing, she and Hans were able to move to a bigger flat and then, in 1962, to the present house, though even then, she says, it was difficult to find a removals firm willing to move all their files. Not content with cutting newspapers, the Tasiemkas spent their weekends going round antiques fairs (Eastbourne was a particular favourite) buying up old magazines and acquiring such treasures as a complete set of Le Rire with illustrations by Toulouse-Lautrec.

But Mrs Tasiemka didn't stop at cuttings - she also collected Louis Wain cat paintings, Meissen porcelain, Staffordshire figurines of royal children, Georgian salt cellars and knife rests, Adam Buck tea sets, Victorian fairings.

And then there are what she calls her 'curiosities'. I must say I was a little star tled when she showed me this collection - antique china figurines of women suckling sheep. 'I am fond of sheep,' Mrs Tasiemka said dreamily, 'They're not erotica, they're just harmless. This girl is nursing a sheep, you see. And this one is suckling a fox.'

'Why would she be doing that?' I asked cautiously.

'Well, that I don't know. I wouldn't say it's my dream .'

Hans died in 1979. His widow registered the library in his name - the Hans Tasiemka Archive - and kept on cutting. Gradually, friends and friends of friends started using it and Edda's cuttings were increasingly in demand, especially during the 1980s, when most national newspaper libraries were paralysed by union restrictions.

Robert Maxwell was very keen to buy the Tasiemka archive at one stage, when he was founding his London Daily News, but he wanted 5l per cent ownership and Mrs Tasiemka would not surrender control.

But now she has decided she must give up. 'Well, I'm getting so old, you see. I've got to think of the future of the library; somebody should carry it on. And also it's got to have money pumped into it - it is not a paying proposition.'

She would like to see it housed in a university where journalism students could use it. The question is whether anyone wants cuttings any more - they take up an awful lot of space. And the unique selling point of her library - that it cuts magazines as well as newspapers - is also the most expensive to maintain.

I suggested to Mrs Tasiemka that maybe she could sell a few of the most valuable historic cuttings - accounts of Lincoln's assassination, Queen Victoria's funeral and so on - but she was horrified. 'But if you sell something, where do you stop? And it's not worth it then.'

She has never sold or destroyed anything and never would. Consequently, I don't really believe that she will sell her library, even though she says she wants to. Selfishly, I pray that she doesn't; for me and her many other devotees, it is one of the great joys of journalism.

communist party

C's off to a great adventure in Beijing -- we'll miss you! -- and she threw a Communist Party before she left. How apt!

There were the garden-variety communists dressed in T-shirts with the CCCP sickle or big yellow star or carrying Little Red Books. Then there were the Vietnamese peasants, cheongsam-clad Madam Maos, a gun-toting soldier in camo, a KGB spy with eye patch, a bald guy with birthmark painted on his pate to resemble Gorbachev and cheena-looking girls in samfoo tops [that would be me, complete with rattan basket and fake pigtails].

Very impressed by everyone's imagination, especially one guy who managed make an ordinary Gap shirt into a Communist Party uniform by pasting two small pieces of red paper on his collar and wearing a red arm band.

But the best costumes had to be this sporting couple who came as defecting East German athletes. Their sports jackets were emblazoned with the flag on the front and on the back, there were words like "ZEITGEIST" and "BRATWURST". Hilarious.

We should have theme parties more often.

over to you

In the spirit of the magazine that everyone in the office is talking about, here's a pop quiz.

I know I'm in love when...I can't eat, I can't sleep and want to make phone calls at 3am.

When no one's looking...I pick my nose.

I feel on top of the world...when my outfit is perfectly coordinated.

Men like me because...I don't play games and I don't play hard to get.

I like a man...who makes me laugh until I cry.

I last cried...watching Sex And The City, season six, part two, disc 1. The DVD broke down towards the end and I cried.

Which reality programme do you want to be on? Paradise Hotel, so that I can be a slut, enjoy room service and be massaged the whole day.

A man will drive me mad wearing...a blue striped shirt.

Now's your turn. Post your replies under the comments, kay?

guilty pleasures

[Warning: The following is merely a boring post of how my day went.]

A well-deserved off day yesterday.

Woke up early due to tummy ache caused by god knows what rubbish I ate. [For those who want to know, I had to poo three times. I felt increasingly lighter after each dump. Sounds masochistic, but what a nice way to start the day.]

Supposed to go shopping in the morning, followed by dressmaking class in the afternoon and yoga in the evening. But good ol' procrastination and too much yakking over the phone with M about Hong Kong meant I only left the house after noon. So no dressmaking done today.

Instead, it was shop shop shop and eat eat eat a lot of carbos. [Lor mee for breakfast, linguine carbonara for lunch and la mian for dinner, very very very bad!]

Bought five tops altogether, including a Nike sports top. Not bad, considering it cost just over $100.

Finally found the yoga book I wanted at Kinokuniya. Walked briskly past the travel section so as not to spend needlessly on guide books. Wasted five whole minutes giggling by myself at the magazine section over Cleo's 50 Most Eligible Bachelor. I just had to call Bachelor #31 so I didn't seem like a lone female going hysterical over some magazine spread.

Aching all over now, though not sure if it was from yoga or from lugging my mat, sports gear, magazine, book and shopping loot all over town the whole day.

Oh dear, and now, just as I'm about to go to bed, I feel my tummy rumbling. My day is about to end the same way it began.

flying away

Feeling increasingly stifled.

Work has been tedious, inducing blinding headaches and I'm producing uninspiring pages. Also have more than a tinge of envy over my former London classmates who are doing so well. Recently caught up on the latest news on them -- two are with The Times, one with The Independent, one with BBC, one with the French Embassy, one is starting a new magazine in India, one is teaching in Lahore, but I am the most envious of one who got married to the Brit boy she met in a pub.

Parents are driving me slightly bonkers with their insistence on moving to the new place they secretly bought in the boondocks. Have been acting like a petulant kid and refusing to uproot, but decided to give in [ungraciously]. This may be the last nice new home they get to live in. But I foresee many arguments over decorating. Already, I've been instructed that the walls in my room can only be in white or beige.

Have to shelf my plans to move out to live on my own, for the time being. That just adds to my resentment of being forced to move to that shoebox of a condo. And did I mention my parents are demanding that my sis and I contribute $5,000 each to the renovation fund?

Add on to all these the stupid stalemate in my love life -- are all men this dense? -- and I feel this tremendous urge to escape from Singa-bore, as two friends who constantly have wanderlust like to say all the time. I don't think I can wait another 60 days till I can validate the New York airticket now sitting in the drawer with my passport.

So there I was yesterday, poking disconsolately at the travel guides in Kinokuniya. Somewhere between New Orleans and Orlando, I found a TimeOut NY, tempting me with its glossy pages filled with shopping and sightseeing.

It was almost too much to bear. Luckily, my New York Travel Companion [henceforth known as NYTC] stopped me from forking over $37.75 [including GST]. From now till May, I shall alleviate my travel pangs with Discovery Travel & Living.

[P.S. This is off a tangent, but I always feel like I'm with kindred spirits when browsing the travel books aisle. These people are planning a trip sometime in the near future, just like me. I want to ask them what exciting place they are flying off to. If they are going to some place I'd been to, I want to tell them about the must-sees and must-dos. But I curb my enthusiasm, because this camaraderie only exists in my head.]

hello, again

Another thank you, this time to the "absolutely fabulous" Clara Chow, the lone supporter of this blog with her comments.

hello, gorgeous

In the spirit of this website, I would like to thank the "drop-dead gorgeous" Teo Cheng Wee for alerting me to its existence and providing me with hours of reading pleasure.

Hope this makes up for his utter disappointment in not having his name mentioned on it.

yoga to be kidding

The moment I wake up,
Before I put on my make up,
I weigh myself before I poo.

Well, anyway, I have hit a new low today. Am now merely 800g away from my ideal weight. And without any diet or exercise either [two sessions of yoga over three weeks doesn't count as exercise!].

But I'm proud to announce that I managed to do a shoulder stand on my second yoga lesson. My ultimate goal is to do a head stand, as someone read somewhere -- actually it was Kerouac's On The Road -- that a homeless bum with the same mystery foot ailment as mine did daily head stands and cured himself. Makes sense, since it promotes blood circulation. A rush of blood to the head, literally.

Still on yoga. I dreamt in the early hours of the morning, just as the sun was piercing through my curtains and my eyelids, that I was on a secluded beach somewhere in Sydney -- nope, I've never been there, but somehow you know such things in your dreams! -- watching the sun rise and doing a sun salutation.

in a twist

This is an extremely inane post, but I just have to do it.

I lost a pair of purple panties with my initials in sequins -- don't ask how I got it.

I have been frantically rummaging through my drawer of drawers -- geddit, drawer of drawers?

I can only conclude that someone has nicked my knickers -- am I witty or am I witty.

the force is not with me

I'm afraid my time as an adrenaline junkie is up.

I used to be able to go on daredevil funfair rides, one after the after, with zero ill effects. In fact, I did a story in which I rated all the rides at the UK Funfair when it first came to town a couple of years back. It was the most fun I've ever had on the job, plus my ed was super impressed that I was totally not afraid.

So when I heard at the beginning of the month that the funfair was back, I was super excited!!!!!!!

We finally went late last night.

First stop was the Air Force One, sort of like a revolving Viking. Wheeeeeeee!

Then it was bump and grind on the Takada, sort of like sitting on the rim of a giant frying pan without a seat belt. Wheeeeeeeeeeee!

Third stop was the scariest -- and most expensive at $15 -- ride known as G Force, which basically spun you from great heights and great force, hence the name. It was 2-1/2 minutes of screaming and pure adrenaline rush.

Very proud of myself for letting go of my death grip on the safety bars and even rallying the stranger next to me to do the same. Wheeeeeeeeeee!

But it was a huge mistake to immediately board the Air Force One for the second time.

As we were hurled and twirled around for the final revolution, I experienced motion sickness for the first time in my life. No wheeeeeeeee...

I hate to admit it, but I am no longer a spring chicken. There was a sick sensation in my stomach that stayed with me for the next hour or so.

But the next morning, even though I had bruises on my elbows and my biceps/triceps/cordyceps ached from holding on so tightly, I was raring to go again. Wheeeeeeeee!

pre-ride jitters

Just the thought of the rides is enough to give me clammy palms, make me break out in cold sweat and put on an insane grin at the same time.

As we were arranging our little funfair outing, I had casually mentioned it to a friend. Later, I messaged him the details.

Me: Up for wild roller coaster rides tonight? Wheeeee
Him: Eat full full then sit lah, lagi exciting
Me: OK, I dare you to do it. On lah?
Him: Ok, but you sit below me haha

In the end, he couldn't make it. So I had clammy palms, cold sweat and grinned so insanely for nothing.

self lurve

My horoscope for the week:

You can search throughout the entire universe for someone who is more deserving of your love and affection than you are yourself, but that person is not to be found anywhere. You yourself, as much as anyone, deserve your love and affection. -- Buddha

Which reminds me of a letter from a reader a couple of weeks ago, in response to this Agony Aunt column I do:

I am 40 yrs old and still single. Mr L and me have been working together in the same company for 20 yrs. I have known him from single to married and father of 2 now but my interest for him is growing stronger each day.

Specially so when I have slimmed down since 3 years ago. I have more confidence with my appearance and look now. I have tried getting close to him with the help of my company's secretary (as I am shy) by organising more official outing like lunches (sometime I'll cook for him cos I want him to enjoy my food) and I'll always sit next to him when he drived.

During our D&D, my "invisible hand" had helped me to get a ride from him. I wore a low v-neck top which can show my cleavage but he has no expression, only hold my shoulder when taking photo (with the help of my "invisible hand" urging him to hold me). Immediately after the dinner, he fetched me home and rush back to his wife.

With all my efforts in slimming down and looking prettier has not help him to notice me. He only look at me when my "invisble hand" urge him to. I am saddened and depressed by his "unappreciative" behaviour.

Please do not print my email address or my name for fear my colleagues may read it.

to lurve and lurves

Saturday wait!

Sunday always comes too late!



Happy Valentine's to the pair in the pix and all the pairs out there!

pick me up

According to the latest Elle, Japanese researchers have found that the best pick-up line is "This time next year, let's be laughing together."

The Elle columnist thought it was lame. I kinda liked it, though. I'm easy like that.

cry baby

Something is wrong with me or my hormones. Am now dabbing my eyes with tissue while reading Ella Enchanted alone in the office. A children's book, for crying out loud!

weighing in

I've got a new toy -- digital weighing machine which also automatically calculates BMI -- and I can't stop playing with it.

Gain in weight during the day = 1kg
Loss in weight doing nothing more than just sleeping eight hours = 0.5kg
Gain in weight after a satisfying meal of pasta and desserts = 0.3kg
Loss in weight after a satisfying dump = 0.3kg
Gain in weight after putting on jeans = 0.2kg

quote unquote

"I really love your work. I've got two of your paintings."
~ British Prime Minister Tony Blair to Ian McEwan

boohoohoo

I have not shed so many tears while reading before. The Time Traveler's Wife got me all teary on the very first page:

LOVE AFTER LOVE

The time will come
when, with elation,
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror,
and each will smile at the other's welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel you own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

~ Derek Walcott

There I was, alone in a cafe that was empty except for a gaggle of high-pitched Japanese housewives, and ridiculously wiping my eyes with a paper serviette. I had to stop after a few pages.

Later, blubbering discreetly on the bus:

Ah, but what can we take along
into that other realm? Not the art of looking,
which is learned so slowly, and nothing that happened here. Nothing.
The sufferings, then. And above all, the heaviness,
and the long experience of love,-- just what is wholly
unsayable.

~ Rainer Maria Rilke

The next day, while waiting in a quiet nook in a noisy Japanese restaurant, I'm reading again. It's a thick dictionary-sized novel. And for no reason, I'm all choked up and near tears.

Much later, in the still of the night:

Angel!: If there were a place that we didn't know of, and there,
on some unsayable carpet, lovers displayed
what they could never bring to mastery here -- the bold
exploits of their high-flying hearts,
their towers of pleasure, their ladders
that have long since been standing where there was no ground, leaning
just on each other, trembling -- and could master all this,
before the surrounding spectators, the innumerable soundless dead:
would there, then, thrown down their final, forever saved-up,
forever hidden, unknown to us, eternally valid
coins of happiness before the at last
genuinely smiling pair on the gratified
carpet?

~ Rilke

And C was right. The moment I finished sobbing through the story of the wife of a man who travels through time -- it sounds like sci fi mumbo jumbo, but it's more about fate, deja vu, love, longing and waiting -- I wanted to read it all over again. In private this time, so I can bawl without embarrassment.

But my eyes were too swollen to continue, so I went to sleep instead.

birth month

Feels like I've been counting down to my birthday for the past month.

The festivities intensified with last weekend's Crossdressing Pajama Party, and I indulged some more today.

Will be off work for five days, and the birthday break started well with a facial in the late morning. My facialist -- is there such a word? -- said my skin seemed smoother, so hooray!

Next stop was to get more MAC concealer -- still need lots of it before I can face the world, despite supposedly smoother skin -- and as I was queueing to pay, the girl in front of me commented that the beads-brooch combi I was wearing was very unusual. I took that to be a compliment, of course, so hooray again!

Shopped till I almost dropped the rest of the day, now that my self-imposed-shopping-abstinence-in-remembrance-of-tsunami-victims period was over.

When I couldn't walk any further, I limped to the over-publicised Latitude cafe, took off my shoes and read The Time Traveller's Wife until a friend snuck out from work to join me.

Came home, slept for a while with Chinese MTV in the background, woken up by Jay Chou video, mmmmmmmm...

After that, met up with some friends at this glorious chill-out place, The Villa Bali. Little wooden huts, a few mosquitoes, some white wine, great entertainment from two gay boys... and only five minutes away from my place on foot. What a discovery!

Plans for the rest of my break include sewing class, dinner with family, SpongeBob SquarePants movie premiere om Sentosa, reading, more sewing class, dinner with girl friends, haircut and watching lots of daytime TV.

I'm so self-indulgent, I would make a perfect taitai.

post party slump

Under much duress, I'm hereby updating my blog on the much-anticipated Crossdressing Pajama Party on Saturday. Too depressed to work now that it's over and I got nothing to look forward to...except turning 30 in less than a week's time...

Guest of honour: Taufik [But no Sly! Pout!]
Guests of dishonour: Boys who put on nighties but kept their jeans on underneath
Alcohol consumption: Frightening [Where did all the lychee martinis go? I only remember having one!]
Casualties: One down [Three cups of vomit and one ruined cushion]
Birthday cake: Lana [So drunk that I forgot to eat! Guess you can't have your cake and eat it too, hardy har har]
Number of complaints from neighbours: None [Yippee, we can hold more parties! Thick walls = Good sound insulation]
Number of incriminating photos: Too many [Coming up soon...gulp!]

I'm blaming the champagne for my misbehaviour, which I've conveniently wiped out from my memory...I didn't smoke, I didn't hold some cutie's hand, I didn't accuse anyone of smoking pot, I didn't try to undo someone's belt, I didn't fall asleep at my own party.

nebulous night things

Two nights ago, I was woken up in the middle of the night by a tuneless whistling which seemed to be coming from outside my window. I wasn't particularly frightened, though I thought of SMS-ing my sis to wake her up and make her listen to it too. You know, just to make sure I wasn't hearing things, like last week, when there were bells ringing from upstairs, but no one else heard it.

Last night, I was once again woken up by someone covering my blanket over me. Even in my drowsy state, I was creeped out because this someone was standing on the side of my bed which is flush against the window. I tried to scream, reach for my phone beside my bed, twist my toes, anything... but the only sound I managed to make was a thin screeching wail which was too sonic pitched to do any good.

happy birthday, my lurve

These accounts of drunken debauchery end up sounding the same after a while -- apple shooters are not our friends anymore -- but Friday night's episode had a slightly different ending.

At 5am, we were sitting on the curb, cradling a tilam in our laps. It made quite a comfy headrest for our spinning heads.

survey revisited

Had an impromptu sushi lunch with one of my survey respondents [see previous entry].

Him: You are too picky lah.
Me: I'm not! I'm not! I'm not!
Him: I got Ah Beng friends, introduce to you, want?
Me: Dowan! Dowan! Dowan!
Him: And you say you not picky...
Me: There's a difference between picky and having standards.
Him: You're picky!
Me: I need to marry a rich man. A rich husband would solve all of my problems.
Him: And why would a rich man need someone like you?
Me: Ummmmmmm...I'm cute? I'm intelligent? I'm funny? I'm shameless?

survey results

It seems like ages ago, or it may have just been yesterday, but I was conducting a survey among my friends. I just found the notepad on which I had scribbled the results.

There was only one question in this pathetic survey: "In your opinion, why am I still single?"

KT: "You're too introverted."

AL: "You're not trying hard enough."

KH: "You're not meeting enough people."

DO: "You haven't met the right guy. Or are you secretly lesbian?"

GT: "There's no one that you like."

CC: "There are no good men left."

TPL: "You appear very self-sufficient."

LG: "You hang around the same people, so you don't meet people."

MF: "You need to widen your circle. Consider divorced men?"

Since the survey was done, two of the respondents have gotten married -- one secretly, the other shotgun -- while another has a new man in her life.

People all around me are falling in love, out of love, getting married, breaking up, getting divorced, having a dog, having a kid.

Me? The constant single. And the survey hasn't helped one bit.

wish you weren't here

Saw this really "good" photo of a ravaged street in Banda Aceh, with what looked like a limb hanging from a barren tree in the foreground.

You can't help but take a closer look. It is actually a damaged mannequin that had been swept from a shop window and deposited there, but somehow it drives home the message more subtly than if had indeed been a body part.

Morbid as it sounds, I think postcards from warzones and disaster areas can be quite impactful. And sell rather well too.

As I was walking past one photog who had just returned from assignment in said disaster zone, it was on the tip of my tongue to ask: "So how was Phuket?"

But decided it sounded too much like he went on vacation there, when it was anything but.

Anyway, my fave photog also came back yesterday and was regaling me -- in his usual goofy manner -- with stories of sleeping in tents filled with Milo water [ie. mud] and newly orphaned kids playing in refugee camps ["See? No parents but still so happy."]

Then, suddenly very serious, he said: "And this is the picture you never saw..."

While they were driving through the totally destroyed town, they went past a woman sitting on the curb with her head in her hands and one lonely battered suitcase beside her.

As they trundled past, he grappled with asking the driver to stop for him to shoot a photo.

He decided, in the end, to leave her to grief in private.

how lei

C: Yes yes, I love Tong Lei by Stef Sun too!!! Sigh, when will we ever find?

Me: Sigh sigh sigh

C: We are in that horrible in-between category. We are neither gorgeous enough for some guy to grab like a prize, nor are we docile plain Janes who will satiate a guy's ego by never rocking the boat. We just have to wait for the alchemy of the tonglei, if that happens.

Me: Basically we're looking for a not so good looking guy who isn't looking for a xiao nu ren type of girl.

C: Ya lor. A not so good looking guy who is satisfied with having found a good friend whom he finds entirely agreeable shagging. I think every single word of this formulation is important, especially "satisfied" -- as opposed to someone with roving eye and commitment issues.

Me: You have just discounted half the male population with that last part.

C: Ya lor. Depressing init

C: Sigh... There's a package out there that men go for, you just have to fall into that. Average height to tall, slim, some curves, clear skin, proportionate features, okay dresser, non-embarrassing communication skills... ok now I am depressing myself. I have to stop.

C: What the heck since I am almost there shall go full throttle into self-pitying mode. I am too short, too small, I slouch, my features are irregular, my skin is oily and my hair is too thin... hahahahahahaha

belated pix

New Year's Eve with the Eiffel Tower


Romantic dinner for two on the cable car


Cable car dinner part deux

same species

I have favourite songs of the moment according to my mood. Currently, it's Stefanie Sun's Tong Lei on constant repeat mode.

Wind, it blew and then it stopped/I suddenly thought of someone
Day, it was bright and then it grew dark/I grew older by a few years
Heart, warmed and then disheartened
The world, sometimes can be so lonely/Longing for someone feels the same

Somehow, Chinese song lyrics sound maudlin and superficial when translated, even if they are meaningful and poetic in the first place. Could it be the Yoda grammar?

ha ha ha

In Africa, there is a river called Limpopo.

In Nepal [or is it Tibet? Or Inner Mongolia?], there is a mountain pass [or is it village?] called Zingzingla.

In Singapore, there is a [perhaps fictitious] bar called Simpopo.

give till it hurts

If it doesn't hurt, you haven't given enough.

Every month, a small amount is deducted from my salary for Comm Chest, but it is so miniscule and so unobstrusively done that it is painless. The tsunami has made me wanna do more.

Read that the F1 guy Schumacher donated $10m out of the $80m he made last year. That is in US dollars and about 1/8 of his salary.

Assuming I made $40,000 last year -- which I must qualify that I didn't -- that means my donation works out to be $5,000.

The Guardian has a biting indictment of corporate donations:

Another wave of miserliness from Britain's super-rich
Corporate donations to the tsunami appeal are stunningly stingy

Jonathan Freedland
Wednesday January 5, 2005

Most television programmers like to aim for a balance of light and shade, but the editors of the news bulletins over the holiday period have not really had that option. Instead, and for each evening since Boxing Day, the TV news has been a glimpse of hell. Report after report, from Indonesia or Sri Lanka or some flyspeck island in the middle of the Indian Ocean, has brought some new horror. Not the pictures of the mangled buildings and upended ships; it is surprising how quickly we have become inured to those. But the stories - of orphaned children, of babies snatched from their mother's arms, of fathers washed out to sea - seem only to get worse, taking us ever deeper into the calamity.

All that the bulletins have had to lighten the gloom is a related story: the British reaction to the disaster. On this the media have spoken with one voice, lauding the great British public for a generosity that has made us among the most openhanded nations in the world.

The scale of British giving has been moving, especially acts of kindness by those with least to spare: cleaners or pensioners or the unemployed donating sums that either took a week to earn or were a week's keep. People have drawn a legitimate pride in this and in the public's outpacing of government, whose earliest pledge of £1m looked so paltry.

Ministers increased that to £50m and yesterday hinted there would be more if needed. That is welcome, but hardly overwhelming. Others have pointed out the contrast between that contribution, even if it rises to, say, £100m, and the £6bn the UK government found so readily for the war on Iraq. But one need not look so far. The cost of the new national identity card scheme, for example, bringing food and shelter to no one, is estimated at £3.1bn. Next to sums like that, £50m or £100m is, to use a grimly appropriate phrase, a drop in the ocean.

But the government is doing plenty of other things, lending military assistance to stricken countries as well as deploying staff in London and around the world. No, anger, if we feel it, should be directed at the third lead player in public life: not citizens or government, but big business.

Corporate Britain was quick to realise it needed to stand with the public mood and publicise its concern. The major companies doubtless feel proud of their generosity. They shouldn't. They should be ashamed.

Vodafone announced it would be giving £1m and matching all staff donations. A million pounds is a lot of money to you and me, but not to Vodafone, to which it is pocket change. The company's annual profit, registered last May, was £10bn. That means the company made substantially more than a million pounds an hour. Yet that is all they gave - less than an hour's profit. It is less than they gave their new boss, Arun Sarin, for his annual bonus.

Put another way, Vodafone has given a mere one tenthousandth of its annual profit. (Not its total revenue, mind, which would be a larger figure, just its profit.) Think of your own annual income, after you've paid off all your expenses. Now work out what one ten-thousandth of that sum would be. If you had given just that amount to the tsunami appeal, would that be enough? Would you announce it with pride?

Or look at one of the early givers and publicity seekers: the Premiership. It gave the same Vodafone figure, £1m. The Premiership is made up of 20 clubs, so that would have set back each team a grand total of £50,000. That is what Manchester United pays Wayne Rooney for four and a half days' work.

That club alone is worth £700m; its annual profit is £47m. Maybe the Man U players did the maths and felt guilty but, if they did, it was not nearly guilty enough. Between them they raised another £50,000. When you think that Rio Ferdinand earns £80,000 a week, that is scarcely an impressive total from an entire squad. They could each have sold off a couple of diamond ear studs and raised more than that.

The rollcall of shame continues. BP gave a healthy looking £1.6m: fine, until you realise the oil giant's expected profits for 2004 weigh in at £9bn.

Abbey National's trading profit from its core businesses topped the billionpound mark in 2004, even if the company made an overall loss. Times must be tough, though, because when it dipped in its corporate pocket it found just £25,000. I've done the sums: on my comfortable Guardian salary, that's the equivalent of me giving less than two quid.

Tesco is proud that it has sent food, water and hygiene products to Thailand and Sri Lanka - but it's still a shock that, with annual profits of £1.7bn, it only managed to give an anaemic £100,000.

Philip Green, the BHS boss, is a famously generous man, giving serious sums to charity. But even his £100,000 in cash and £1m worth of clothes looks like less of a sacrifice when one notes that his Arcadia group paid him a dividend of £460m last year - and that he spent £5m on a toga party to mark his 50th birthday two years ago.

None of this should really come as a surprise. Battlehardened viewers of Children in Need and Comic Relief will have noted the corporate givers' eagerness to grab free publicity - handing over a cheque on TV - combined with their stunning levels of stinginess. The sums they give are the coppers down their sofa, the lint in their pockets - and we are expected to be grateful.

The problem is not just rich companies, but rich individuals. According to the Charities Aid Foundation, the wealthiest 10% of UK income earners give just 0.7% of their household expenditure to charity, while the poorest 10% allocate 3% of theirs.

What explains this institutional miserliness at the very top of Britain's wealth tree? Historically, the argument was always that Britain was so heavily taxed, the rich did their bit by paying whacking sums into the national exchequer. In the US, by contrast, the ultra-affluent knew they were barely taxed so they made up for it with personal and dynastic philanthropy: think Carnegie, Mellon and Rockefeller.

But that logic no longer applies. Today's British companies enjoy some of the lowest tax rates outside America. Now they have the best of both worlds: low tax and no guilty expectation of philanthropy. They can keep almost all their money to themselves.

Unless we, their customers, say otherwise. This last week has seen a rare and stirring demonstration of people power. Maybe we ought to turn to the big companies and say: you can no longer have it both ways. Either you give as generously as we do - or we will take it off you in tax. Either way, it's time to start paying.

four days into 2005

In a quiet moment in the busy work day, I was suddenly struck by a thought so heart-stopping that I had to close my eyes for a moment to absorb it.

Things going to turn out either very good or very bad. I'll keep you updated on which way it goes.

running out of time

It was a New Year's Eve of parallels, sort of.

We decided to go back in time to Over Time, arguably the best Japanese drama serial starring the swoon-worthy Takashi Sorimachi as a photographer living in a house with three women hurtling towards to age of 30. [OK, the plot sounds dem lame, but it has a good soundtrack and some very good lines. But I can't think of any now.]

The show kicked off with a New Year's Eve countdown. So very apt.

The housemates constantly had steamboat for dinner. So we had shabu shabu too while we watched.

They also played the Game of Life all the time, probably an obvious metaphor for, erm, life itself? So we dug out the boardgame and played too.

In the show, Tokyo Tower -- itself a copy of the Eiffel Tower -- cropped up all the time. So we posed for photos with a wine bottle which was happened to be shaped like the Eiffel Tower.

Even though we had to fast-forward and race through the 12 episodes, it was a good start to 2005. Happy New Year!

after the storm

Ever noticed that expressions of extreme pleasure and extreme pain are remarkably alike?

Spent hours trawling the wire pictures for a page I was doing on dealing with the emotional aftermath of the tsunami.

Cliched as it sounds, that was when the news really hit me, like a relentless wave.

Ended up severely depressed after looking at literally hundreds of colour photos of brown bloated bodies and faces of despair and grief.

I padded around the office in a daze with a stack of photos, looking for my editor to choose the "best" one. But in my heart, I was reluctant to use any of them, really. It seemed like such an intrusion into someone else's private mourning.

I walked past into my favourite photographer and listlessly showed him all the grieving images. I guess I was looking for reassurance that all those souls are somewhere above in a better place and badly needing a hug.

But because it was sure to freak him out, I blinked back my tears and asked for his professional opinion on the quality of the photos instead.

cable car revisited

C and I had a romantic dinner for two on Cable Car No. 15. Two hours of swaying motion, a Japanese meal that had been sitting in the open for a little too long, some amateur night photography and a good girl friend. It doesn't take much to make me content.

Just like when we spent 24 hours in that enclosed space in March, there was never a moment when we had nothing to say to each other.

Topics discussed include: best and worst kissers, alternative jobs, and boys we had "hu gao" with before. But 'nuff said, cos we agreed that nothing would be repeated outside the cable car.

seeing red

On Monday, a blood vessel in my left eye burst. There was a red clot, but I didn't think much of it, since it didn't hurt. I even wore contacts.

Same on Tuesday, but I decided to see a doc anyway, just in case.

Turns out that I can't wear my lenses for the next two weeks.

The reason for the burst vessel? Eye strain, the doc says, probably due to staring at the computer.

But I know better. It's eye strain due to intensive sewing into the wee hours.

wo zhi zai hu ni

Listening to Teresa Teng's classic Wo Zhi Zai Hu Ni, sort of in honour of my parents' 31st wedding anniversary. And also because the tune has been echoing around my head since I heard C and C rehearsing it in the pantry for H's wedding.

Am so full now from celebratory buffet dinner at Amara that I can't sleep.

Update on my dressmaking progress: Have been frantically trying to complete a day dress and night gown for the wedding of the year coming up on Thursday.

Spent the better part of today hunched over the sewing machine, with my sissy roped in as the assistant elf to do tacking. Have even taken a day off tomorrow so as to go for dressmaking class.

As my sissy says, "The fire has reached your eyebrows." [It makes more sense in Mandarin!]

So far, the bubble dress with little sailboats is 99 per cent completed, with only the zip part to go. It's lurvely, if I may say so myself, though it is a little fattish [a word which my sissy and I invented which describes so precisely clothes that make us look fat].

The dress for the night, however, is only 75 per cent done. Need to join up the top and bottom parts, do up the armholes and add pretty lace bits. And only tomorrow left to accomplish all that, or I'd have to go for the wedding dinner in -- god forbid! -- some old dress.

While running Elna my sewing machine -- yes, I named my sewing machine, cannot izzit? -- at full throttle this afternoon, I caught a glimpse of my darling Jay on Chinese MTV.

How the heck am I supposed to get over him when he keeps popping up everywhere in reality, and not just in my subconsciousness?

Which reminds me of something funny which I had meant to blog about, but forgot. On jay-chou.net, there are these rabid fans who translate almost everything he has ever said or written into English, which is wonderful for people [ie. me] who take hours to figure out his mumbled lyrics.

Anyway, there is a link there to get his fans to vote for him for the MTV Asia Awards, and the exhortation is to vote "every five minutes" because "the S.H.E. fans are overtaking us". That just cracks me up. And no, I haven't voted. Yet.

showers of blessing

If your husband-to-be picks you up from your bridal shower: +10 points
If your husband-to-be picks you up from your bridal shower in the rain: +20 points
If your husband-to-be picks you up from your bridal shower in the rain looking drenched: +30 points
If your husband-to-be picks you up from your bridal shower in the rain looking drenched and handsome: +100 points

Congratz to the happy couple!

one more time, with feeling

It makes us sound like losers with no life, but we had a post Singapore Idol party last night.

It was rose champagne, KFC, black sesame and Earl Grey ice-cream while Sly and Taufik sang their hearts out in the background. Even the lone Taufik fan among us, who watched the finals live at the Indoor Stadium and couldn't really hear much, had to admit at the end: "I'm a little swayed towards Sly now."

The next party will probably be when His Slyness releases his debut album.

fruit head

Forgot to write about my new hair, which I snuck out of work for two hours to get done last Friday. I didn't want my bosses to know but I guess it was pretty obvious when I returned, that I'd had my hair cut.

Anyway, my previous cut made me look like a coconut -- a cute coconut! -- while this current one makes me look like a pineapple. A stylish one, butofcos.

I guess a photo would paint a better picture. Akan datang.

la la la la

It was a reunion of sorts last night, when the four of us who went for Jay Chou's concert grudgingly attended Jolin Tsai's concert.

I say grudgingly because:
(1) we don't know any of her songs, besides the annoying one which goes "la la la la" [which is now stuck in my head, demmit!]
(2) we hate her already cos she's Jay's rumoured paramour [why he so no taste!?!]
(3) we are not teenage Ah Lians with bleached waist-length tresses

So why did we bother to troop down to the Indoor Stadium?

Sly, butofcos! He was the opening act and we had to control our swooning cos we were seated in the press section, hence had to appear professional [especially T who had the unfortunate task of reviewing the concert].

But mark my words, he is gonna be big. Huge, even.

say cheese

An afternote to yesterday's post:

L came over excitedly to show me a photo of him and Karl Lagerfeld. I equally excitedly told him: "I got photo too!"

And promptly showed him my prized pix with SpongeBob and Patrick. He almost fainted.

last fling

Dragged my sorry ass back to work today after one week's leave, which I frittered away doing nothing much. Didn't even manage to do my ultimate indolent off-day thingy -- wake up at 11am, brunch followed by cooking and decor shows on TV, capped with an afternoon nap with the blinds lowered. Where did the time go?



What I did manage to accomplish in the past seven days:
- Semi-annual catch-up session with old friend [we can pick up like we'd only just met yesterday]
- Idolising party [waving of Sly flags included]
- Getting over Jay by watching a lot of old music videos [bought dirt cheap from Chinatown]
- A pathetic bit of sewing on my bubble dress [and a lot of unpicking]
- Facial
- Dentist
- Zouk Out
- Post-Zouk Out recovery [which took a whole Sunday]



But on my final day of leave yesterday, I did squeeze in quite a lot:
- Karaoke with my sissy [first time ever singing! It's all cos of Jay Chou!]
- Spongebob Squarepants roadshow [we were the only adults there -- the kid in the pix is a mere decoy! -- and shamelessly went on stage to hug Patrick Star even though we were not among the privileged first 50 children there. Check out his adorable stumps!]
- Meet up with friend back from New York [must maintain good relations for future visits there! Hotels there very expensive, you know?]