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

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

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

#28

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.