About Nude Not Naked

It Could Be Worst

2010-07-21T04:14:00.006+01:00

"Think of it this way," I said to Hill one afternoon under the swaying tree. "It could be worst..."

I lived here with Mr. Husband and baby (plus domestic wife, whom I fly back and forth along with me) since February this year. Hill lived for the past 2 months, so it was a good time to discuss our experiences. Our husbands are both working as expatriates in the engineering field and it is fair for the two of us to expect some amount of traveling and living abroad. We are now officially expatriate wives.

"Remember this, Hill." I said, "It could be worst. It could be Azerbaijan..."

***
Indonesia is a weird place to be. I don’t mean it in a bad way. It is weird simply because it is not what you would expect it to be. Take shopping in Semarang for example. Did you know that you cannot find a tampon to save your life? But you can buy two pairs of Guess shoes. I know this because I am still flying my tampons to Indonesia and I am now the owner of two pretty new pairs of shoes sitting on what used to be the fish pond. (I will get to the fish pond turn shoe rack story soon).

It is an adventure trying to find fresh chicken but heck, you can find plenty of Chicken Cordon Bleu or Chicken Picatta (my favouite!) in the restaurant by the sea. They even have a fridge for the restaurant! I seriously considered the option of bringing the damn pepper mill because I love freshly ground pepper in my cooking. You cannot find any – pepper or mill - not even in Carre Four (the epicenter for grocery shopping). It’s shocking, I know!

This does not mean that Indonesia is a poor nation. I have not seen this much Louis Vuitton bags since Milan. There are many rich people living and working here. They are just discreet. You never know where they live though I suspect they are living along the hills of Semarang, where the houses are the size of office building. The sheer number of people living here means money is changing hands constantly. All restaurants are always busy, especially those without refrigerators. Bakeries are always zooming with customers buying ‘roti tawar’, which is sweet and not ‘tawar’ at all.

Maybe I should not use the word “Indonesia”. I should probably limit it to “Java” and “Semarang” to be more precise. We live 70km from Semarang and it takes us 1.5 hours to drive there. In a car, not a water buffalo. Perhaps if we rode a water buffalo, it’d be faster. Though we might have to hire more than one water buffalo to take the circus troupe that is my family. It would also be less expensive to repair if we knocked into another water buffalo along the way.

***
I am suspicious of our driver. He is terribly reliable and is there when we need him to be. He drives us in the morning at 4 a.m. when we need to get to Solo for our flight back to Malaysia and he drives us at 12 p.m. to lunch at the restaurant by the sea. He will be there, no questions asked. He reminds me of John Statham, a professional transporter from Transporter, the movie. They are identical twins if only John Statham had a moustache ala Burt Reynold’s.

I never had a driver before this, so it can be both liberating and confining to have one. For sure, most long drives are now much easier because Bambang (that’s his name) drives the car. We all sleep through the journey and arrive on location in good spirits. Then again, we realized how restricted our lives have been since moving here. We have to call him to take us to KFC whilst in Malaysia, we would have just driven ourselves. What is fast food if it isn’t instant, right?

If you are curious why we have a driver in Indonesia, the answer lies in the traffic rules here. There simply is none! And if they had a rule, it would be ‘just keep moving’. There is no rhyme or reason for why cars or buses or water buffalos start or stop. They just go along and move along and everything is fine. We suspect that one must possess a certain genetic material to survive driving in this chaotic calm. It is advantageous if some village folks doesn’t kill your driver when he runs over a suicidal chicken on the road.

***
Do not take what I am saying here as a complaint. They are not. Living on the Javanese island has been a wonderful experience thus far. I love the fact that we are away from our normal routines back in Malaysia. I work on my laptop only when something important cropped up at work. Otherwise my life is quite easy and relaxing, with my little boy being a great distraction. It is such a privilege to watch him grow and learn about his world!

Being away from the comfort of my home taught me many things. It showed me what I have been taking for granted and made me appreciate some other things. The whole experience breathes fresh life into my being. I have to make do without some things that I am used to having and stretch me to accept some other things that I never had in my life.

“There is a Body Shop in Paragon!” Hill said. “That is my best bet for some decent make up.”

“You mean we can’t get some Chanel eye liner?!” I asked, batting my eyes while smiling at her. Hill and I became close friends since her arrival in Java 2 months ago. We share similar kind of silly humor.

As a matter of fact, we are quite alike in many ways – we had a baby recently. Her daughter is 6 months. We met because our husbands are now working together in the same office. In our old lives back home, we were working too but over here, we are quite free to do as we please. So we usually meet up for lunch daily to catch some sunrays and to get out of the house.

“I wore high heels all through my pregnancy,” she said.

“Oh my goodness! I wore heels throughout my pregnancy too!” I screamed. We were behaving like two teenagers, giggling as we confessed our mommie crimes. Some women are born mother earth type – embracing motherhood and organic vegetables – and other women like Hill and I, are born to get out of the house, wear beautiful shoes and have Super Girl Fridays.

***
Many friends and not so close friends asked how I adjusted to life without rushing through the door for work each morning. Some women wear shorts and t-shirts, scrunch up their hair and walk around in slippers all day. I happen to be the one who wears proper day wear, light make up, proper coiffed hair and high heels at home. Being home is not sufficient reason to slack.

I might be an irresponsible shopper, buying 3 pairs of white shoes on the same day but I am very disciplined in other areas of my life. I have a timetable that I abide to daily. I might be messy with my things but I am not a slop. That’s just how I am built, I guess.

“That’s why you are the party pooper, my love…” Nikki said some time ago. She patted my head as she said it. We were discussing whether teenagers should be allowed to ‘party’ on weekends. My opinion was clear: there was no necessity for a 15 year old to disco dance or a 14 year old to have supper with friends at midnight. Nikki obviously felt otherwise, perhaps because she was from another culture altogether.

Oh I am diverging…

***
There is a Javanese version of Glastonbury Festival happening at the moment as I am typing this to you. A neighbor of ours is organizing a ‘keselamatan’, which I understand is something like a thanksgiving party. It lasts 3 days minimum with 7 days being its maximum. It is 9:30 a.m. in the morning. What the hell are the drum rolls for?

Oh my domestic wife just remarked that it is probably a dangdut festival. “Hopefully it is just for one night”. So who needs U2 for the Glastonbury? We have some Javanese pixie singing, “Ah Ah” while gyrating her hips seductively…

If it takes you nine months to make a baby…

2010-07-15T05:48:00.003+01:00

… it will take you a year to lose the fats.”

Those were the wise words from Mr. Husband. The problem is, it is now more than a year. Fourteen months, to be precise. It sounds strange calling him my husband, to be honest. “Boyfriend” sounds more attractive for very unknown reasons. At least to me. So does “girlfriend”.

I know many search for relationships and they dream of the day when they will feel complete. Usually it coincides with the day they marry. It is the same day they make a long list of loving commitments to each other. Somehow I have grown apathic and do not possess the butterflies that are tied to feeling of getting married.

Don’t get me wrong. I do get the butterflies in my stomach. I get them when I see him brush his teeth in his underwear. I often wonder why men have such beautiful bums (and beautiful, if not super hairy, legs). I get butterflies when we ride on the jet ski he bought last month. It isn’t motion sickness, I swear. I get them when we sit in the car on our way to dinner on weekends. The wonderful feeling of closeness and warmth of knowing someone deeply is all there. It is just not tied to a wedding or a marriage.

What most people didn’t know was, or rather is, we were not married when I was pregnant. The fact that we were not married made it easier for me to call him my husband. It sounds strange, I know. I am a strange woman. While most girls would prefer some form of ‘solid’ commitment, especially with a bun in the oven, I was actually very happy and relaxed without the need to rush a wedding. I felt secure in our relationship. We spoke about being pregnant for a few months before. Consequently we were ready and delighted when we were. Married or not, it did not add or subtract anything.

And if you are asking me, “how the hell did you register the birth?”, the answer is obvious. Many are led to believe you need a wedding certificate to register a birth. Even at the counter, the lady will ask for a wedding certificate. I don’t know which blue smurf started that rumor but that is definitely untrue. The birth certificate indicates “Father” and “Mother”, which means biological parents of the child. It does not say, “Husband” and “Wife”. (I can imagine a lightbulb moment a few seconds ago when you read the previous sentence.)

So all you need to do is to proof that you are the biological parents. It is easier for the woman to proof that she is the mother. It is a little more challenging to proof the father. Well, we solved that by presenting Mr. Husband, himself, at the birth registration counter during his paternity leave. Yes, he had 2 weeks of paternity leave, which sounds swell except for the bit that he had to travel back to Java once the 14 days was up.

You can imagine me with happy smiling baby at 3 a.m. for a couple of months. Note: Baby smiled, not I.

***
Now that is all history. It is amazing how something so profound and life changing, can and will, with time, become something of the past. You will forget about the tears, lack of sleep and feeling of terror as night falls. All that is left is a beautiful boy, trying to insert a DVD into the DVD player. That’s his favourite skill today. Yesterday he practiced opening the door. Mind you, he can’t reach for the keys. And the day before, he was pouring body lotion after bath. It’s all pretend play but he seems quite excited about everything.

Mr. Husband and I agreed that a little boy did not belong in the middle of nowhere. So we delegated our duties. Me with baby and work in Malaysia. Mr. Husband with work in Java. It went on for nine months due to the H1N1 flu yadda yadda yadda. But we finally made it here, to Java, two weeks before the Lunar New Year. We are now here for the fourth time this year alone. That is quite a lot of flying for the little boy, who turned one in May.

So where the hell are we? Well the nearest direct flight airport is Solo, which is a 2.5 hour flight from KL. And then it’s another 3 hours of driving to the little town where we are now living. It is by the sea and on most days, it feels like living in Phi Phi island. There is a pretty café bar next to the sea, a Japanese restaurant inland, a proper English pub and a few up and coming eateries and places to hang out.

Don’t be fooled by the description because this is a very strange land. It feels like island paradise as long as you walk within the perimeters of expatriate establishments. Outside those lines lie filth, dust and poverty. Children run without shoes in mud houses. Roof is nearly always leaking, even in the best houses. And the most amazing sight is of a river near Semarang, where the residents bath, wash dishes, throw their bodily waste and even brush their teeth next to each other.

***
Everything has changed yet everything still felt quite the same. It is an adventure, one that I had not imagined but am excited to embrace. I am like a duck that has never seen water. Now there is a pond in front of me and I will have to learn to wade in it. Hopefully I will be a happy duck. Those around me seem wade around quite easily. What is it with women and marriage anyway? Pfff...!

Like Eve. She has now three children, her third was born at the same week as my first. She is busy zipping around with her life and is now preparing to attend the French Independence party this weekend. She looks exactly the same but an improved version. Body fats do not bother her. (not that she has any) Neither does stretch marks nor dry skin. “Dress to your advantage,” she said the other day when I lifted my shirt to reveal a not so flat tummy. After giving birth, trust me, nothing shames you anymore. “I no longer think of my belly or thigh fats,” she shrugged and tucked merrily into her lunch. “You don’t even have stretch marks,” she blurted after a few seconds of, what I like to presume, thought.

“Madam,” said my domestic wife, “Think of it this way - you had your mojo and now you passed the mojo to your son…” Hmmm, it did not comfort me at all. While it is true that the little boy is a dashing boy (every mother thinks so), I would much prefer to share the mojo than to pass the mojo entirely.

I am happy to announce that there is wisdom in Mr. Husband’s words. The fats melted away as little boy blew one candle. Somehow everything just went ‘POOF!” over night and everything looks smaller in the mirror. Perhaps I have a magic mirror in Java! Even my hair looks lustrous as before. I had to chop off my locks, giving up the thought that it could resuscitate itself after the pregnancy.

“Why don’t you ask me to lose some weight?” I asked Mr. Husband once. A man of few words but he summarized everything succinctly. “Because you will never allow yourself to be fat.” He was still reading Finnish news online when he said that.

***
“Honey, we need to talk,” I said on one side of the bathroom door.

“Yes?” he asked. He was packing our bags for the first Singapore night race.

“I think I am pregnant,” I said, heart beating ever so fast, looking at the two stripes on the white pregnancy test kit.

“Honey, you can’t say that you are pregnant just because you feel fat….”

***
Yes, I married that man and this is the story of our lives.

Love

2010-06-23T04:37:00.001+01:00

Love requires courage. Courage to merge and be one with someone not you. Courage to take care of someone's heart more than yours. Courage to continue loving in times of extreme difficulties. It is easy to love someone when times are good and the sun shining everyday. The true account of love manifests itself in the darkest nights along the looming clouds of troubles. It is at this point that you will find true love. Or not.

There is something magical about darkness. We all instinctively fear darkness because of the uncertainty of daylight. What we must remember is there is always light at the end of the darkest night. And without the darkness, we seldom appreciate light. In these dark moments, we stand to be tested - to see if our love is pure. Those who still stand together when day breaks, now those are the ones who love. And for us to stand at daybreak, we must have courage.

Love. Courage. Faith. These are all emotions. So are jealousy, anger and fear. The lines between the emotions are very thin and if you are careless in your love, you will cross them too easily. There is no right or wrong emotions. Emotions in themselves are neutral. You can love someone and yet feel extreme jealousy and possession. When you lack courage, you will have anger and when you have faith, you will not fear. But more often than not, all the emotions will float in your heart like little boats in the vast ocean.

I am still a student of life and I am still learning about love - when to love and when to hate, faith in the love we share, courage to have faith and wisdom to guard my heart.

A Series Of Old Letters - 4

2010-01-19T00:02:00.004Z

I wrote this email to SwedishLove during the two months we were apart. It describes an intimate moment I daydreamed. It clearly and honestly shows the act of loving someone in the most instinctive and purest form and it is probably the only record I have of my own sexuality - my desires, dreams and wants from a lover.

Loving someone demands the revelation of your deepest person and then allowing... no, trusting another person to come complete you and feed your body and soul. The yearnings of a woman deeply in love resonates through the whole email.

*
Subject: close your eyes and imagine this...
Date: 15 May 2001 13:04:40 EDT

Our bed, by the window. Lots of pillows, just the way we like it....

A soft breeze blew into the room. We walked into the room and switch off the lights. I held your hands and led you to our bed. First I laid on my back on the edge of the bed and smiled at you... I teased you to come and give me a hug. You gently lowered yourself on top of me and we hugged each other warmly. We pushed ourselves onto the bed as we gently bit each other’s lips. Our lips met passionately...

I breathed into your ears softly, "I want you." You smiled at me. My hands roamed downwards, caressing your body softly. You took your shirt off and helped me take mine. Throwing the clothes on the floor, you then lowered yourself on top of me again. I kissed you passionately as our tongues touched. I traced your lips with tiny kisses...

You gave my right nipple a gentle kiss. Slowly you moved down a little to suck on my right breast. I sighed as the sensation from your kiss as it floated all over my body. I asked you whether you enjoyed my body. You nodded your head, not saying a word.

I held you tightly in my arms. I leaned upwards and nibbled your ear a little... moved myself away from your face... I moved downwards and smiled cheekily at you. You smiled and gave my thigh a little kiss. Our eyes met. I looked down and ran my fingers along your body, slowly in circular motions.... dancing from your chest to your tummy... and down to your thighs... your eyes were following where my fingers went. Your body yearning for my touch.

I held your right hand and brought it closer to me. Used your fingers to trace my body... from my thighs... to my tummy… along the side of my body... up between my breast... along my neck... slowly I put your finger into my mouth... sucked it... my tongue danced around it... teased it...

Suddenly you took your finger away. I smiled. You reached downwards and kissed my inner thighs... I took a deep breath as you flicked your tongue. I moaned at the sheer pleasure it brought. I leaned to my left and planted a wet kiss on him. Then I put it in my mouth, so slowly it felt almost painful to wait for the pleasure to arrive... Slowly inch-by-inch, I sucked on him. You moaned and showered me with even more kisses. The pleasure was so warm. I sighed. I wanted more. I knew you wanted more...

I wanted to feel you inside but I wanted to feel the longing... of wanting you... I wanted to see you wanting me. I wanted to watch you as you become excited; excited when you licked and sucked me. Excited that you knew that you were going to come inside me. But we had to wait... we waited for the emotions to build up... we teased each other into excitement... time stood still before I could feel you inside... but that was the way our passion built... It felt so good, so good that it felt almost painful... I wasn’t able to tell the difference... it was so good....

The pleasure was so wonderful as you licked and fingered me. So pleasurable that sometimes it felt like time was eternal. So I held onto the pillows to stop myself from stopping myself from feeling the pleasure. Breathless.... I surrendered. I wanted to feel it. I wanted to feel it all. "Help me..." I let out a soft sigh as the warm sensation flooded all over my body like a wave...

I smiled at you as you wiped your mouth. I hopped on top of you and kissed your lips. You smiled at me. I gently sat on top of you, pushing you in me slowly.. gently... little by little... inch by inch.... I cringed a little. So you lifted my hair up and began to kiss me lovingly as I eased myself into position… you ran your right hand along the base of my neck, slowly making its way along my back… you held me tightly in your embrace... it felt so good to be held… to feel the protection and the love.... What first felt like pain, clearly was sheer ecstasy.... And soon it was warm and lovely when I took him all in...

Holding you in my arms, I started rocking myself back and forth... you let out a sigh..... a sigh of pleasure... I pushed you to lie back on the soft bed... you reached out your hands and cupped my breasts. I continued to rock slowly, squeezing and relaxing.. letting him feel my all... I wanted you to feel how much I loved you.... how much I wanted my mortal body to join with yours.... to please you... how much I wanted to hear you come... how much I wanted to hear you love me... love my body... tell me how much my body is bringing you pleasure because all I want is you...

You hugged me lovingly for what felt like forever... No, we didn’t move…. I could feel you pulsating inside.. You laid me on my back… moved your hands over mine... As your hands reached mine, you held them in security... You pushed him inside of me again as you showered me with kisses…

“I love you” you said.

“I love you too” I replied, feeling your every shiver.

With that, you started to thrust with deep longings. I looked at you. I felt your breath on my face as you felt the pleasure building inside. I loved watching you love me. I loved watching you close your eyes to feel every single sensation that was floating around your body. I watched you making love to me.

Slowly. Quickly. Deeply. Purely.

You clenched your teeth as you came. You moaned deeply, pushing him deeper inside, rubbing her in ecstasy. I squeezed tighter, to feel you more.... More, my baby. I want more.

You closed your eyes tightly to feel every single throb. You rested on me, still breathing heavily. I pat your head, kept you warm in my embrace. Your heart beat fast. I snuggled closer into your arms. As you savor the last few orgasmic moment, I whispered in you ears, “I love you baby.. I love you very much... much more than you know.."

You got up.. held my hands and led me to the bathroom, where we sat in the tub. You cupped some water and ran it on my back. I kissed your left knee gently and offered a smile. We exchanged glances. I took the towel to dry you. You moved your hands along my body with the towel, drying me. We kissed each other as we walked to the bed again.

I curled up in your arms... gave you a kiss good nite... you kissed my neck and held me even closer.. I snuggled warmly into you... I could feel you breath...

A Series Of Old Letters - 3

2010-01-17T01:05:00.007Z

Let's dance in style, lets dance for a while
Heaven can wait we're only watching the skies
Hoping for the best but expecting the worst
Are you going to drop the bomb or not?
Let us die young or let us live forever
We don't have the power but we never say never
Sitting in a sandpit, life is a short trip
The music's for the sad men
Can you imagine when this race is won
Turn our golden faces into the sun
Praising our leaders we're getting in tune
The music's played by the madman

Forever young, i want to be forever young
Do you really want to live forever, forever forever
Forever young, i want to be forever young
Do you really want to live forever
Forever young

Some are like water, some are like the heat
Some are a melody and some are the beat
Sooner or later they all will be gone
Why don't they stay young
It's so hard to get old without a cause
I don't want to perish like a fading horse
Youth is like diamonds in the sun
And diamonds are forever
So many adventures couldn't happen today
So many songs we forgot to play
So many dreams are swinging out of the blue
We let them come true

~ Forever Young, lyrics by Alphaville

*

A flood of memories rushed to greet me when I started reading the entries. It was a warm and idyllic time of in my life, filled with traveling and experiencing new places, gooseberry ice creams on hot summer days, walking in Gamla Stan, going out with many friends and eating roti canai under the tree. We played Bomber Lord and watched lots of movies on the bed. We were in Perhentian before it became all hyped up, long before Bubu Long Beach laid its first brick.

I was surprised by the amount of Swedish I spoke and wrote prior to enrolling into Folk University Sweden. The translation for the following phrases in this email is:

"Jag lik den lång" --- "I like it long"
"Tack själv för älskande mig" --- "Thank you for loving me".
"Pojkvän" --- "boyfriend"
"Flickvän" --- 'girlfriend'.

I was even more surprised by our living arrangement - 4 months in Malaysia, 2 months apart, 4 months in Stockholm and 2 months apart. That was a pretty impressive living arrangement, one that gave us so much freedom of movement. I remember having lunches in Vurma on Saturdays and lusting after clothes in Indiska, waking up in the yellow bedroom and dressing up was carefree. Many emails were punctuated with 'see you later at 4 p.m.' or whatever time. It simply indicated that despite being together a lot, we each had our individual space to do our stuff. I was probably at work and he was at Coffee bean when we were in Malaysia. And in Sweden, it was probably the opposite.

We argued once and it was over his ex-gf of three years. They met when she was a foreign student studying in Sweden. I hated the comparison between Malaysia and Singapore, which I felt was a subtle comparison between the ex and I. But for most, the emails were cordial, lively and sometimes a little horny. Having such beautiful emails, you will begin to wonder why the hell we broke up. I found the answer by the end of the email exchanges.

*

Subject: Jag lik den lång
Date: 19 Mar 2001 05:07:35 -0500

To my dearest horny pojkvän,

I am very happy and thankful that I have you by my side. It has been a very interesting week and I bet that it will just get better by the end of this weekend.... mmmmm, geram! Honey, open up your legs....

You have been a tremendous joy to talk to and be with. For example, I am very happy just lying by your side last nite, talking about things. We could joke, tease, tickle and play with each other. I feel so comfortable with you!!!

I am just so glad that you are mine. I am so happy that we can be together, just enjoying each other's company. We make a great couple because we have plenty of things to talk and discuss! Both of us have a sense of humor (thank goodness we do) as do we share common sense of style and ideas..... and we sometimes say the funniest things that brighten up our days.

These days I also feel loved by you. To hear you whispering into my ears that you love me, makes me feel so warm inside. I also know it from the way that you hold me.... I feel very cherished by you. Tack själv för älskande mig :)

I feel excited each time I think about you and about us together. I can smell, feel and taste how good it will be... do you understand what I am saying here?

Anyway I am looking forward to meeting up with you later tonite. We'll attempt watching the movie AGAIN tonite *hahaha* will be there approx. 8:30 p.m. You enjoy yourself, ya?!

Love always,
Otto

A Series Of Old Letters - 2

2010-01-15T23:47:00.005Z

I was amazed when I found the following two pieces of correspondence. They were the very first times Henrik and I communicated. What a rare jewel to find these and to discover that we were sat in Coffee Bean on 20th January 2001. Eve and I were having our usual morning weekend breakfast. There was this beautiful creature sat across us, holding a book on architecture. He had the most amazing face and the most piercing eyes.

We devised a plan to find out who he was looking at. I walked over to the dispenser on the pretext of getting us some water. Naturally he would trail after the girl that he was observing. I made my way back to Eve with two white paper cups in my hands and was informed that he was looking at me. You should see the smile on my face... We sat there past our breakfast, hoping that he would walk over to our table and introduce himself. Those were the days when men dropped drinks and themselves at our tables all the time, so it was a very realistic assumption that he would do the same.

After 5 hours, I gave up and told Eve that we'll go home. This was ridiculous, I mumbled. I am not that desperate for a man albeit he is a very good looking guy, I thought to myself. I remember sitting in the car on the driver's seat when Eve bleated, 'Oh just give me your email address. Our new year resolution is to do all the things that we did not dare do and this is crazy....' I jotted my email address on a torn scrap of paper and off she ran upstairs, smiled at him and told him that if he liked me, he could write to me.

*
Subject: coffee bean ;)
Date: Sat, 20 Jan 2001 12:26:49

hi! i saw you today at coffee bean and your friend gave me your adress. i'd
really like to meet you!!! email your number and i'll give you a call...

henrik

*
Subject: Re: coffee bean ;P
Date: 20 Jan 2001 20:22:56 -0500

Hi there! Yes, I saw you too, sitting in Coffee Bean yesterday.... as requested, this is my cell phone number, if you would like to talk to me...

012-XXXXXXX

Please call me on Monday morning between the hours of 10 a.m. to 12 noon. Catch you then...
Otto

*

Greece, summer 2001

This exchange of so few words sparked a whirlwind of adventures spanning many countries and lit a different flame in my being. It marked the beginning of my womanhood, of growing comfortable of my body and asserting my thoughts. Henrik encouraged me to be who I was - a young woman. And till today, I hold a very Scandinavian view of sexuality and the human body. The photos we took of each other stacked more than 10cm high and were the most physically beautiful period in my life.

Reading the emails reminded me of how active we were as a couple. I was still performing dances in churches, learning Sign Language and socializing immensely. Most importantly, we were smiling crazy in all the photos. We were deeply in love.

A Series Of Old Letters - 1

2010-01-15T01:02:00.005Z

The last 48 hours was spent in a frenzy letter reading session. Eve found an old box of letters containing all the letters I ever wrote her. I wrote to her nearly everyday while we were in highschool, despite sitting next to her desk! And those letters were very passionate. Many heartbreaking letters about HighSchoolSweetheart and even more letters about the interracial love between a Chinese girl and a Kadazandusun boy in the early '90s.

You know that movie where the guy went back to all his girlfriends to make amends? Well that was my last 24 hours. Those letters to Eve sparked my journey of catching up with those important men in my life. Daytime was spent chatting to HighSchoolSweetheart and the whole night was spent talking with SwedishLove. I can safely tell you now both their names - Richard and Henrik.

We talked about our love and the time spent loving. There were many reflections and many thoughts, often punctuated with love and a small dash of sadness. By the time Henrik and I spoke, I was reading through the old letters we wrote each other. My penmanship is clearly visible and the different stages of my life brought about different choice of words and style of writing. Letters to Eve were emotional, lovelorn and hostile (Eve and I had a lot of teenage pent up anger). Letters to Henrik were, in contrast, full of optimism, love, hope and lust.

I'll try publish a collection of the letters in the next few days. And perhaps you will be able to read my life. These works are graphic and unedited. It is an honest look into the life of a young Malaysian girl - all her hopes, dreams, her wantings and her love experiences. They are bittersweet and lovely. I am sure that I am not the only girl to write as I did and I am not the only girl to receive such letters as indicated in the next few weeks.

I don't know why I am publishing them here. Most probably I am trying to immortalize the words and to rediscover who I was. It is a soulful read. So here it goes - I chosen this particular email exchange for its graphic nature. I was quite shocked and embarrassed when I read it this morning but there were very many letters like this - lustful, flighty and filled with innocent love. I was 25 years old then and Henrik was 28.

*
Subject: wet dreams...
Date: Tue, 08 May 2001 21:03:59

i love you flickvän, it's that simple. today you were on my mind every single second throughout the whole day... again! i miss u!! and it makes me soo happy to get your emails and read about all the things you experience, and especially to read how much you love me. don't let me go!!!

well, i've done some good thing today i guess. it's now 22:10 and i just finished painting for today. half of the first coating is done! so in two days everything will be finished :)

you want a photo of my family? i was actually thinking of sending you one, and maybe take some photos one of these days to finish up the roll. so lets do some trading. i'll send a photo of the family, and you'll send me a photo of you wearing your sexy underware. how's that? so that i can have some wet dreams too... ;)

i'm glad you're feeling sexy at the moment because you ARE extremely sexy. if only you knew how many times a day you turn me on when i start thinking about you. damn!!! not to mention at night when i lie alone in bed, thinking of the times we've been intimate... it drives me crazy!!! i think of that time in the hotel room when i came inside of you for the first time. do you remember? ohh, that was soo good... you were lying naked on the bed letting me caress your body, letting me kiss your lips, your nipples, your thighs... before sticking my toungue inside, tasting you. and then i came on top of you, holding your arms down above your head pushing him inside... slowly, inch by inch until he was all inside. my god!!!!! Otto, never think it's only because of sex that i want you, but oh sex is good with you!

wow, i think i should make my way to bed straight away now... :P wish you were here with me now! have a great day tomorrow and tell me more about your life. i'm longing for tomorrow when i have a new mail from you to read :)

yours forever!!!!!
Henrik

Snake and Ladders

2010-01-05T09:29:00.005Z

‘Aiyo!’ I sat up and looked at him, ever so seriously. ‘I am on the other fucking ladder!’

It was past 11 p.m. and he was to wake a few hours later to catch his flight back to work. I blinked my eyes and nestled myself on my pillow. It was the harder pillow, filled with some kind of beans that were supposed to promote wellness and sleep. They were not very good beans, I guess. I was awake for the next hour, having a little therapy session with him.

‘What’s the first ladder?’ he asked, smiling. He always smiled and depending on my mood, I either loved his smiles or get superbly annoyed. That night, I loved his smile. If men could be doe eyed, he most certainly was so.

‘The first ladder is the girlfriend ladder,’ I said. ‘Girlfriends are freaking cool, always look like a pornstar, gorgeous hair, good skin, the most beautiful clothes and the highest high heels in the whole land. Girls on this ladder are ever hopeful and exciting. Men love them because they are cool, elusive and coy.’

‘And the second ladder?’ he asked.

I went off tangent and babbled on, ignoring his question. Men love girls on the first ladder because they were dangerous. They smelled like the heavens, knew the rules of games by hard and played even harder. They knew exactly when to bat their eyes and look away. If you asked these girls to spell the word ‘fun’, they would do it with lipstick, high heels and nothing else. Oh yes, they will spell every word in capitals.

And men loved them. Men loved them because these girls always played it right. They knew when to smile and when to get coy. They threw the bait and fish would climb up their poles. You would love them too because truth be told, girlfriends are fantastic. Their sex is stronger and they ride harder.

There are thousands of reasons why men love a girl on the first ladder. The girlfriend, apart from being exciting, is also unavailable. You see, these girls have something that the girls on the second ladder don’t. They have the ability to walk away. And the more able they are to walk away, the more attractive they are.

And quite honestly, girls who are able to walk away are the happiest girls around.

*
‘And the second ladder?’ he asked again.

‘Oh the second ladder…’ There was a pause. ‘… the second ladder is the wife ladder.’ I said, shrugging my shoulders. ‘This is the ladder for the wives, who turned grumpy, naggy, unhappy and all the words that ends with ‘y’… like ‘fatty’ or... or... 'frumpy'!’

He found my comments amusing because he laughed. He laughed so hard that the baby was about to rouse. Perhaps that was what he wanted to do, as a mean to escape our night conversation. But I chose to be optimistic that night and so I thought my remarks amused him.

Women sometimes jumped from the first ladder to the second. Other times they were unaware that they had transcended onto the second ladder and were very surprised (and probably angry) when they woke up one day to discover that they had landed on the second ladder. Whether willing or unwilling, women of all ages will one day find themselves on the second ladder.

And who sits on the second ladder? Grumpy wives, nagging their husbands from sunrise to sunset remain the most popular group on the second ladder. They are angry and bitter, often disheartened and disarrayed after the love glow waned. The men they married still looked the same and more often than not, behaved exactly the same as the first day they were acquainted. Second ladder women have love battle scars. They have the fatty tummy after the baby, stretch marks to remind them of how they used to be or perhaps a 20cm long caesarian scar, like me. Men looked exactly the same and most probably smell just a foul as the first weekend you met them.

Second ladder women are burdened by the responsibilities resting on their shoulders and the years of stress often marked their faces. It is an evil cycle. The more burdens they take on, the more they nag and the more they hate themselves. They hate to nag but they have to nag because the men were not listening. Not that nagging helps anything. Nothing saves these women on the second ladder. It is a lost case. Which is why women here are often resentful and hurt. And they talk like a broken record.

No woman walks down the aisle hoping to land herself on the second ladder.

*
‘I need a broom,’ I whispered.

‘Why? We don’t have a broom,’ he said.

‘To beat the first ladder women away,’ I said as a matter of fact. I could have been reciting the periodic table of elements. ‘I am Chinese and Chinese don’t like the broom… so I guess I need a broom’

He turned to his side and gave me a hug from the back. Ah, spooning. It is such a ‘couple’ thing to do. He was gently breathing behind my neck as we lied in bed together. The curtains were not drawn so the streetlight was shining through. There was a moment of calm. He was holding me tightly as my mind went wild. First ladder. Second ladder. Me on second ladder, now in need of a broom to beat the evil young things trying to tempt my honey away. BAM! Wake up call, babe. My mind was doing the mid night marathon.

‘I know. Probably the vacuum cleaner would do the trick.’

Grey Whiskers

2009-06-24T05:36:00.002+01:00

The nurse looked away. “Leave the room, please,” he said. The nurse turned and walked away from us. She pulled the curtains that separated the consultation room from the nurse’s room. I could hear her chatter with the other nurses. Inaudible noises from beyond the four walls.

“Why didn’t you pick up my calls?” he asked. He took the strap and tied it just beyond my elbow. I looked away as he tapped my arm. I always looked away. While I was the sort of person who really needed to know everything, I was also quite afraid of really graphic scenes. Like drawing blood. And bloody hell, there were three tubes to fill today. “Take a deep breathe,” he said, “It’ll be over very soon. No pain, I promise.”

First tube, second tube and then the third. He was right. It was quite painless after the initial prick. He swabbed it when it was over, placed a cotton across it and folded my hand. He gave my hand a gentle squeeze and kissed it. His facial hair gently grazed across my fingers.

“Don’t you know that I love you?”

*
I could hear his laughter as soft as it was. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“Fragile,” I repeated myself. He was keying some data on his laptop when the nurse helped me onto the bed. “I feel fragile.” My fingers were fiddling over my huge belly. The white ceiling and a patch of screen with flashing data were above me. He came through the white curtains and sat to my right. I looked over and saw him sat there, like all the months before this. But the feeling was different.

“You don’t have to feel fragile,” he said. He took the ultrasound scanner and ran it across my stomach. The moment he touched my stomach, I heard my baby’s heart beat. 157 beats per minute, like how a healthy baby should. “You needn’t feel fragile at all.”

I have never felt so vulnerable in my life. I detest visiting doctors and try my best to avoid them. Avoid doctors like a plague, I thought to myself. Going to a doctor on monthly basis felt foreign and took a lot of getting used to. He was a stranger who became a lesser stranger as the months and weeks passed.

“You don’t have to feel fragile,” he said. He reached over, grabbed a tissue and wiped my stomach. “You don’t have to feel fragile because I am right here and I will make sure that you will be alright.”

*
“Ewwww,” Eve said. We were baking muffins on the last Saturday before we became mothers. I developed a habit of baking muffins to pass the last two weeks quickly. It was far more exciting than sitting on your ass waiting to birth a baby.

I am no Martha Stewart. I baked from readymade Pilsbury recipes. Before baking trays of muffins, I indulged in sewing. I managed to sew a proper blanket for my baby and was mighty proud of it. It was straight where it was supposed to be straight and right angled at the appropriate corners. After the blanket, I sew a few skirts. The working prototype was a skirt for PY’s daughter. I sew a purple skirt for PY and eventually a cheerful skirt for myself before the sewing machine died, hence the muffins which now sits in my fridge.

“Ewwww,” Eve repeated again. Her face was all bunched up in a grimace. “Dr. V, sexy? Ewwww.” She popped a muffin in her mouth. See, muffins were (and still are) pleasant looking little delightful gifts. I must have baked enough to feed a small nation. “Why Dr. V?”

“Don’t know,” came my reply. “Maybe because he has a moustache that reminds me of my dad,” I said in the most nonchalant manner. I popped a chocolate muffin into my mouth. We poured the next batch of muffin mixture into the tray of 12. “I love his composure,” I said after giving it some thought.

That was true. I loved his composure and the way he talked. He was not a great talker, which I found very appealing. I never liked men who talked like great salesmen of the year. The way he looked intently into my eyes and the way he carried himself was attractive to me. “He’s so ah pek,” Eve said. Dr. V was ah pek (trans: uncle) to Eve but to me, he was perfect.

*
“So what’s the big drama today?” he said as he chuckled. “Nothing that big today,” I said with a smile. I sat on the chair next to him. I must have been like every other patient he had met that day – pregnant and feeling bloaty. “I just wanted to show you my strawberry mark,” I said.

He looked puzzled, so I stood up and turned my back to him. I lifted my right foot and showed him my second toe. “There,” I said, pointing to the red dot, the size of my little finger nail. He gave a chuckle.

“See? It looks like a strawberry mark, isn’t it?” I asked, pointing at the red little specks resembling a tiny wild strawberry in the forest of Sweden during Mid Summer.

Dr. V laughed and waved his hand, inviting me to sit on the patient’s chair. He looked absolutely delightful like my muffins, with his mop of grey hair, geeky glasses and moustache. He keyed some data into his patient database. Then looking at me, he said, “It is nothing. It is just a virus and it will go away. Don’t worry.” He gave me a pat on my right hand.

*
There are currently three men in my life – The Bachelor and my two obstetricians. It is amazing how the two doctors pop up in my conversations with The Bachelor. It happened at the most unlikely places and times, such as while we were trying to reignite the sparks between the sheets.

“Will you ask Dr. L about this during your next visit?” he said, fiddling with the condom. He hates the condom and I hate it too. It however was not the cause for my pregnancy. We were happy together and wanted to have a baby. Condoms or the lack of it was not the reason for Sunshine who is now sleeping in his cot next to me.

“I will ask my sexy Dr. V,” I said, snuggling closer to The Bachelor. I had those dreamy doe eyes whenever I mentioned Dr. V. He is so yummy, I thought to myself. Dr. L was good but Dr. V is just MMMMMM with a capital M!

I guess the intimacy with one’s obstetrician/gynaecologist is to be expected. He is, after all, the next legitimate man to take a close look at your Fifi and not get slapped for it. Next to your life partner, a obstetrician or gynaecologist is also the closest man to you. He is like your best friend, the one you can intimately share details of your sex life with. He is like your gay friend with the exception that he is not gay. (He could be, if you chose to visit a gay obstetrician.)

I cannot help it. Dr. V was the one who held my hand (very literally) throughout the nine month pregnancy journey. He made sure that I was safe and that my wellbeing was taken care. He saw very private parts of myself such as my toes and my Fifi. And he listened and chuckled at very private stories and jokes.

Many pregnancy books inform you that pregnancy brings about all sorts of hormones and that a pregnant woman usually has greater sex drive. Books also mention that a pregnant woman fantasies more when she is relaxed. The books were right because I had many sexual dreams that felt very real. Some were dreams of The Bachelor but some were with my obstetrician such as those that I wrote above.

Eve did not experience such closeness with her gynaecologist. It is not surprising for someone whom I named “The Butcher”. The above stories were little fantasy escapes for a woman with a bloaty stomach and swollen feet. I needed them, I guess. Those dreams gave me a sense of wellbeing, of being cared and loved – that I was still attractive and lovely despite my 38 inch waist and very unattractive hair. They were my little adventures with Grey Whiskers.

Seeing Butterflies

2009-03-20T05:29:00.003Z

(written on 20th February 2009)

In ancient Greek the word for butterfly is "Psyche", which translated means "soul". This was also the name for Eros' human lover and the two figures are often depicted surrounded by butterflies.

***
The first time I saw the butterfly, it was sitting on the grey marble wall. It had an outline of black and dots of reddish orange. It flapped a few times, wrestling the afternoon wind. Then it gently floated across the garden onto a plump green leaf of a palm. It was at that very moment that I thought of the title for this entry, “Seeing Butterflies”.

Butterflies usually symbolized a change in life. Perhaps it is a left turn off the course of what you usually call ‘normal’ or a step towards the right direction. Whatever it is, butterflies and a change in your life is often welcomed, especially if the changes are good or desired.

***
‘Look the right,’ she said. She took a step forward and stared intently. ‘Your nose is still the same size,’ she concluded, as if she expected my nose to balloon.

***
I have not written since my last entry in August. That is a change, wouldn’t you think? There were some changes in my private life and I felt that I needed some space in order to grow and change. I think many readers have realised that I will only write about things that I wish to share. And when I do not have anything to share, I just don’t.

I wrote many times but published none. There were times when I feared that I would lose all my readers, which took me more than 2 years to build. But then I realised that I had changed and those figures do not matter much to me anymore.

I had reached a point in my life where I feel peace. My soul is at rest and I am happy just where I was. That was a huge change, one that took some effort and time to acclimatize.

Do you know that it takes courage to be happy?

***
‘Hey you, I’m dropping by,’ YC bleated like a sheep on the phone. And when I arrived to pick her up, it took her some seconds to recognize the car. Just like a butterfly’s metamorphosis, even my wheels went through a change last year. ‘You got yourself a new car?’ she asked as she plopped herself into the passenger seat.

We decided to have some nibbles in a Korean restaurant nearby. ‘Check out those tits,’ I teased. Mine were overflowing through the pink blouse. ‘My tits more than twice your size wei.’

I don’t think she finds it funny at all.

***
We bought a house and renovation began in September. We tore down the floors and replaced them with granite on the ground floor and Merbau wood on the remaining two floors. The kitchen went in sometime in October and November was spent chasing after the plumber, who had never seen the washing machine plumbed next to a sink in the utilities.

We were supposed to move in 3 days before Christmas, which was postponed to 2 days before and then the day before. We finally slept in our bed for the first time on the 28th of December last year. I took a sabbatical and for the following 30 days, we spent it in the house blissful and happily waking up whenever we felt like.

Days that were spent zipping around the city, working in the office, chasing after clients, meeting friends, having meals and shopping were soon replaced with searching furniture pieces, strangling the plumber and arranging our very first lion dance during the Lunar New Year. These were punctuated only by visits to the doctor’s.

Nights were filled with cuddles and kisses, sometimes in bed but often time on the plush sofa, which was our very first purchase for the home. We fell asleep in front of the TV, preferably to CSI or some movie than Discovery Turbo (if you know what I mean).

***
‘Are you sure that it is a boy?’ she asked, staring at my nose again. ‘Your nose is nice and sharp. Boys usually mean fat, ugly noses.’

In reality, I had the very same conversation with a couple of friends. It is either the nose or the belly. Sharp belly equals a boy and a fat, round belly means buying everything in pink. I cannot agree with the nose statement because my nose is still as cute as a button despite seeing my baby’s nuts on the ultra scans twice.

However there is something about the sharp or round belly. You see, Eve has a rounded belly and guess what? She’s having a girl. I have a sharp, pointy belly and it is undeniably a pair of nuts during each monthly scan. A trip to the doctor confirmed that Eve and I must have been doing the horizontal tango on the same day.

It was a beautiful Sunday morning…

***
‘Honey, I think we need to talk,’ I said from one side of the door.

‘What is it?’ he said from the other side. He was packing our stuff for the Singapore F1 Night Race. That is one of the more endearing qualities he possessed. He packed my clothes, shoes and make-up into bags at each trip. (He said he had replaced the Indonesian maid but I digress).

‘I think we’re pregnant,’ I said. Needless to say, I felt miserable in Singapore as any fabulous girl would feel if she found out that she was expecting a crying package in nine months or so. Nothing says ‘miserable’ like the act of dragging a slurring, drunk 41 year-old man whom I lovingly called ‘ancient’ home.

Let’s up that statement a little. Nothing says ‘miserable’ like the act of dragging a slurring drunk 41 year old man on the same day you found out that you had to lay off those 4 inch platforms for some months because there was a bun in the oven.

He made up for it on Sunday night though. He took me on a crazy trishaw ride and all that I could see was a river reflecting lights off buildings and roads. I had not laughed or screamed so hard for a very long time.

***
I like this change. I really do. I yearned for it for the longest time. Many people were caught by surprise. Even you must have thought that I was a colourful party creature with a winsome smile, flirtatious eyes and conversations that entrapped many men. I guess those were true (or at least I would like to think that I do at my ripe old age) but only to a certain extend. If you really know me deep inside, you will know that I am more than that.

Or less than that, as YC discovered the very first time she met me. She found me quite plain and I took it as a compliment. Some compliments are better in smaller doses.

***
It was amazing to watch the butterfly. It sat prettily on the leaf, dainty and graceful, even as the wind tossed the leaf a few inches up and down. Changes are like that, I guess - tossing you and moving you along life’s many routes. You have to hold on tight if you want to survive the trip. Just remember to put on your best smile and highest heels and float gently like the butterfly.

The garden was wet after an hour of watering. Then the rain came to water the new garden a little more. It is always the same story. It rains whenever I drench the garden in water but it never seem to pour when I forget.

***
Today is his birthday and we are apart for the first time. It was not always this way. We were together for our last two birthdays and he was a very good friend during those years. Now we share a house, the house mortgage that we thankfully can afford, two cars and a soon to arrive maid. However nothing beats the excitement of sharing a baby together.

It is those butterflies at work again. He is in Indonesia and I will soon join him. The last two years were full of changes. Changes are good when you grow and renew your soul. I look forward to a little time for myself. I am excited about a new life and I am not sure if I will make a good mother. All I know is that I will try my best.

When we are apart, he calls me each night. That he has done for more than two years and is also yet another endearing quality. He sends me a message when he wakes up and again when he sleeps. If I could be in Indonesia, I would have flown in an instance. I am no longer allowed to fly until the baby is born. Thenafter, I think we shall be traveling quite a lot between Malaysia and Indonesia and then again, twice more to Europe each year.

This will be the longest time we are apart, a whole 3 weeks. He will of course come back soon and travel back and forth until the baby is matured enough to travel to Europe to meet the family. Then we will all be in Indonesia – baby and I there on alternate months until his contract (and the economic gloom) runs its course. Quite a long metamorphosis, I guess.

***
I saw two purple butterflies. Purple pygmy butterflies, they must have been. They were the smallest that I have ever seen.

Who’s Your Daddy? (The Merdeka Post)

2008-08-18T09:14:00.011+01:00

Dedicated to every down and trodden Malaysian.

"Just because I'm losing
Doesn't mean I'm lost
Doesn't mean I'll stop
Doesn't mean I would cross."
~ Coldplay, 'Lost'.

‘Do you know who my father is?’ he barked on the mobile. Earlier that day, my brother and I visited his office, a tiny dot on the face of the Earth. Prior to our appointment with Daddy’s Boy, we were at Michael Chong’s for some legal advice.

‘Do you know who my father is?’ he asked. ‘My father knows Mahathir, ok! Do you know who you are getting involved with?’

These were the words of a full grown man businessman, who co-developed a Malaysian franchise. We are not talking about some kampung business selling prawn crackers. No offence to the successful business women in Kelantan, who by the way (I’m assuming), worked hard for their money and relied on nobody but their backbones. We are talking about a legitimate business with ’11 years of technology’ behind the brand name. Those were also the words uttered by Daddy’s Boy (though I personally prefer to call him ‘Purse Carrier’ in my private time).

*
Without going into details (less they sue me because they evidently spend more energy, time and money on making sure the little they’ve gotten from impressionable and hopeful young entrepreneurs stays within their bank account) it is suffice to say that I am all for building a high standard franchise brand.

There are lots of issues that I have very many questions to ask and they have a lot to answer for. But what irritates me most about the franchise was the willingness to use Mahathir’s name. Poor ex-premier’s name being used by some businessmen for personal gains. (I've no issues if the said business man had used Mahathir's name to promote some kind of charity event).

Can you imagine that my brother and I had to seek for FREE LEGAL ADVICE to ensure that the franchisor cannot suck any more money from my little brother? Contrasting our story is Daddy’s Boy, who not so subtly asked us to be careful because his father is a friend’s of Mahathir.

(I’d like to think that even our ex prime minister has some standard to maintain-lah. It is unlikely that Daddy's Boy or the good Daddy himself share Sunday Roast with Mahathir. This post has nothing to do with our previous Prime Minister. He happens to be a by-stander in this Merdeka post, whose name was borrowed and leeched off till kingdom come.)

*
We are putting up flags and banners to celebrate Merdeka. Fifty one years on and we (still) have many grown men telling common people who their daddies are. What big crying shame!

Won’t you take a minute to think where our nation is heading to, if legitimate businesses NEED to borrow big shot names to justify their business and survival? What happened to running your business based on just principles and healthy competition? What happened to right and wrong? What happened to defending the poor and needy? What happened to responsibility and accountability? What ever happened to consumer’s rights?

My brother is not pursuing the matter. He just wants to get the whole issue behind his back. His energy is drained and his enthusiasm is crushed momentarily. I however, have much energy to pursue this and to highlight the fact that each and every Malaysian’s consumer rights should and must be protected from the big shots and even bigger names. Businesses must be accountable and responsible for the product that they are peddling.

My brother was one of three franchisees opened at the same time. Out of the three, two of them chose to end their businesses within very short time. From my last two sentences, please form your own judgement on the quality of the franchise brand.

Now the excuse offered was, ‘Businesses have up and down’ and ‘sometimes you win, sometimes you lose’. That is a fact that I will not deny. However do you not agree with me when I say that most people buy a franchise brand for its in depth knowledge and experience in a certain type of business? Basically when you buy a franchise, you are buying a systematic approach towards a particular business. The success rate should be higher than opening a business on your own.

A franchisor has to maintain a certain standard of quality. Blaming many franchisees for lacking tenacity and perseverance is sloppy and unprofessional. At the end of the day, a franchisor is responsible for weeding out grass from corn. A franchisor should have a system of identifying suitable franchisee partners to work with and pursue a relationship with people who will be able to withstand and stay competitive within the game.

My modestly short list of criticism includes:

You do not hand out a franchise agreement to every Tom, Dick and Harry who hands you the cash for the start-up (which by the way equals approximately a Honda City in cash at minimum). (Failure rate of 2/3 does not look good to prospective franchisees.) You should set up several interviews to discern the best from the lot and work with those who are committed to your vision. For example, Kumon protects its brand name by insisting that all franchisees work within the franchise on a full time basis. This ensures commitment and dedication (which guarantees a certain quality for the brand name).

You have to identify profitable areas and look for franchisees in those locations. You should have done your market survey and know which locations work and which don’t. You do not allow a franchisee to open wherever he thinks fits him. After all, you are called "PARENT company" for a reason. You should know better.

On a micro scale, you do not allow a franchisee to open in an unfavourable spot in the shopping mall because in almost all businesses, it is always about location, location, location!

You must have sufficient time to train your future manager and staff. First impression means everything, so you should never allow your franchisee to open his doors before he is fully equipped, trained and staffed. How is it possible for you to allow a franchisee to open your franchise brand when a simple thing called ‘staffing’ is not prepared, trained and resolved?

You should listen to the grievances of your franchisees with an open mind and see to their needs through your support system. You must make time for your franchisees and not claim that you are attending one meeting after another and have no time for your clients. You should solve grievances within a target time shorter than your very best of ‘3 to 5 weeks time’. That is almost as miserable as TMnet's current duel with MiniBoyFriend, who is trying to terminate his internet service since February 2008.

The best part is you have spent your resources defending your little bit of money instead of solving the issue. In your busy schedule of getting more franchisees to sign up, you do not even know what is the issue at hand. We do not want all our money back. We want what is right for Malaysia as a acceptable and standard practice. We want justice and consumer rights for the average Malaysian. We do not want some big company threatening us with legal action this and that. We are just small folks.

Take a hint from AirAsia who responded positively to Kenny Sia's criticism. They could have sued him for defamation but instead were gracious and generous enough to take a little criticism and show sincere actions to improve their products and services. Well done, AirAsia. I will vote for Tony Fernandes as Prime Minister any time of the day!

I do not appreciate being told/advised by the franchisor’s employees that I should use a softer approach ‘because he (the boss) will become hard if you are hard on him’. I have the right to question if a mistake was made. The last time I have heard, it was my brother who paid you a sum of money. In my book, that makes him your customer and not your slave/court jester.

And unlike some employees who might need to curry flavour some bosses, customers do not need to butter the boss. And don’t you even dare start with the ‘my father knows Mahathir’ miserable line of an immensely pathetic excuse.

*
This ‘who’s my daddy?’ would have been an urban legend in many countries but it is alive and well in ours. Welcome to Boleh-Land. We send astronauts into space and build the tallest towers. We use the internet and have hifi, wifi, 3G and whatsonots everywhere. We are the land of everything also must can – from the longest dumpling to the fastest worm in Malaysia. We are still working on a Gold in the Olympics but that’s okay. Lee did us proud anyway. We sent some guys up to Everest and to the north pole. And yet, grown men borrow their daddies names and that of every important person they know with the aim of bullying and intimidating the common Malaysian man.

Everyone had their very own come back lines when they heard the 'Who's your daddy?' line. These lines painfully highlights the differences between the well-connected upper class with political connections and the common everyday everywhere people like you and me.

Him: Do you know who my father is?
Me: Who the hell is your father?
Him: My father knows Mahathir.
Me: Eerm… What am I supposed to say? Congratulations? I'm glad that your dad knows Mahathir. My dad knows Mahathir too. We used to have his photos on our walls.

Him: Do you know who my father is? He knows Mahathir.
A very white Mat Salleh: Do YOU know who MY father is? He knows Ah Beng, the pirated DVD seller on Tuesday’s pasar malam. Can get really cheap DVDs one…

Him: Do you know who my father is? He knows Mahathir.
A 64 year old retired English teacher: So what if your father knows Mahathir? Does that make you right?

Him: Do you know who my father is?
My brother: *in rather meek tone* Who is your father?
Him: My father knows Mahathir. So don’t play around with me.
My brother: Sir, I am not playing around, sir. I am quite serious about the business.
(After hanging up, my brother looked to me and said: Die lah, die lah. They (are) preparing C4 now.
To which I replied: You think it's easy to get a hand on the C4 now?)

What is your best come back line? What would you say if someone intimidates you with his father's name? Let's celebrate Merdeka this year with some deliciously wicked come back lines to the bullies. Submit your smartest and cheekiest come back to 'Who's Your Daddy?' in this post's comment section.

*
If we were more prepared, we would have recorded the whole conversation and posted it on YouTube. It was a huge surprise to hear those words. It was the topic of conversation for days and many jokes were spawned from the "Who's Your Daddy?". We are living in 2008 in the land of the free and here is an overseas educated and good looking man (and likely father to some kids) using his daddy's name and Mahathir's name like a baby using a bib while feeding from the milk bottle. But alas, we did not record it, so he is not going to be a superstar anytime soon. (I really wished that we did though because his reaction would be priceless and worth every single Ringgit paid.)

My family is not pursuing the matter anymore. The issue is resolved and closed as far as the family is concerned. Well we have lost, isn't it? We do not know Mahathir and he claims that his father does. The company has a huge legal eagle machinery to condemn us to financial ruins. So Daddy's Boy wins and we have lost. The franchisor is yet to reimburse some money which they had promised and we are not hopeful. I told my brother that this is a bitter lesson that he must learn. Life is not all wonderful and businessmen can be as cunning as they can be honest.

I am writing this so my young readers will be informed and educated. Read the terms and conditions of your franchise agreement properly. Read the fine print. Hire a lawyer to protect your rights BEFORE you sign the agreement. A franchise brand is like all other businesses. It isn't infallible. Choose your business partners wisely. Protect, yes protect your rights as a consumer and do not be afraid to ask questions. Be brave to seek for what you think is right and is rightfully yours - as a member of civil society, a consumer, a citizen of a free country called Malaysia.

But above all, think of Malaysia. Love our country. Show some pride in your conduct. Shape your future. You can be better than the ordinary. All of us are born equal. This isn't the 1800s. We are no more living in a feudal system where some lord has the right to push us around - where the folks have to bow to those with connections and right family names. In Malaysia, we are each accountable for our actions. We cannot blame our parents and grandparents for our choices. We cannot blame our forefathers or politicians for their choices in the past. We make our choices today and shape our very future.

It is time for our nation to grow up and walk on our own two feet. Fifty one years on, we are more than ready to grow stronger shoulders so we can carry our own weight and walk the long and narrow. We no longer use our father’s name. We have ours.

*

"You might be a big fish
In a little pond
Doesn't mean you've won
Cause along may come
A bigger one."
~ Coldplay, ‘Lost’.

***
Related Link:

Kenny Sia's Tony Fernandes Read My Blog

49th Merdeka Post - We're 49 Yrs Old Now and What Have We Achieved?

50th Merdeka Post - To The One Who Searched for Malay Pig

51st Merdeka Post - Who's Your Daddy?

The Blanket Bandit

2008-08-05T01:38:00.000+01:00

You know that time has passed you by when you wake up in the middle of the night with, “What the fuck! September 2008 is just round the corner. Technically I have known YC for two years”.

You may ask, “Why YC as a point of reference?” and I would answer, “Because she is about the only common person that both you and I know”.

Yes, it is two years since I met the little missy somewhere in the desert of nowhere and approximately a year since I last seen her. The last that she called was about two months ago on a Thursday afternoon. “Want to go to Rawa?” she asked. I wished I could. I was down with the flu and was more of a dead dog than babe in bikini.

I have known YC for two years. Twenty four months, if you wish for more “drama”, so to speak. I have written in ANNN for a year extra. That makes it three whole years. Three whole years of stories of me, me and more ME.

It’s funny how time flies when you do not want it to.

*
Are you one of those people who enjoy quantifying their lives? I happen to be one of them people. I like to think, equate, count, reflect and decide if I had a good life. Or a horrific life, on a bad day.

I am also one of those manic people who need to achieve something – to make meaning of my life. That sort of thing. I need to feel that I have done something to improve myself and on a larger scale, society and world. Therefore it comes as no surprise if a pop quiz in Glamour magazine once said that I would either be:

A psychiatrist

A teacher.

A writer.

I found the above list quite revealing. They were all professions that I have considered in the past and they remain the professions that I am considering after all these years. Strange, huh?

*
I used to write daily. Those were the times when I think I was trying to figure myself. I wrote long and short and I wrote lots. I wrote the truth and then there were some mistakes. Hint: all those entries about other characters in the blogsphere such as Daphne or XX. (How stupid.)

Then I figured that perhaps I should give my readers a break and begun writing on alternate days. I wrote only what I felt comfortable writing and I wrote only the truth. I could have written a tall tale - that I had a magnificent lifestyle. Or that I was physically taller. But I thought I should not lie about such trivial matters. If I should write a creative blog and told a lie, I much prefer telling a huge, fat ass lie.

Yup. I am a greedy bugger.

*
I realised that caffeine do not agree with me from dinnertime onwards. I should never ever have coffee with VSOP if I want to sleep by 11 p.m. It is never a good idea, I have discovered. Because here I am at 1 a.m. writing this to you. Not that I do not want to write to you. I always felt the urge to write to you but I always found some other things to do and errands to run. Errands such as to determine the design for my kitchen.

I am smart enough to hire a designer to design my kitchen layout plus produce the cabinets. Then I am manic enough to override his decisions by electing myself as the chief designer. Mind you, he is the second firm I have approached. I am much happier with this chap because he arrives for appointments on time, is pleasant and answers my questions with confidence.

*
There are hardly anything that I can do. Much less errands to run at one in the morning. So here I am, contemplating my life. Thinking and trying to establish if indeed I have a good life. No, let me rephrase that.

To determine if indeed I am HAVING a good life.

I can’t decide. I know that I am having a good life. I mean, I have enough work clothes to rotate two months without washing a single item. My parents love me and I still get extra lovin’ from people around me - known and unknown. I have a good set of friends around me (MBF R, LL and of course, my ever faithful breakfast buddy, PY). Even E and BestGuyFriend made their presence known in recent weeks, which is really nice.

I have lots to be thankful and even more to celebrate. I am satisfied with the progress on my professional life. It has given me many opportunities that many do not receive. Personally I am doing well. Life is hectic but I feel satisfied internally. I even enjoy the after work crawl home! Taking my place in the traffic jam makes me feel alive and important.

That I have a place in society.

That I am doing something important.

That I am making changes and who I am matter to the world.

*
Oh yes, it is 1:18 a.m. and all I can think of is how to contribute to society and if my life is significant. I am sure that you think of such important matters too, when you can’t sleep at night.

Why is it that as great as my life is, I do not dare to call it ‘great’? Is it because I am afraid that it will fade away the moment I do? Is it because I am humble? (Definitely am not a humble person, which you can gather from my writing). Why can’t I just say, “Yes, Otto. Well done. You have a GREAT life!”? Could it be because I constantly search for something greater? And bigger? And more meaningful?

Why the search anyway? If life is great, why look for more? Now that is an interesting question to ask yourself the next time you can’t sleep because you were smart enough to have coffee nearing your sleeping time.

*
‘You are a blanket bandit,’ he said.

I was driving home after dinner this evening when he related how I have stolen the blanket last night and the few nights before last. Like usual I start building a nest every night before I sleep. I am making a habit of pulling the blanket right up to my neck, to keep myself warm. All those nights sleeping naked had left me with the undesirable trip to the doctor’s - TWICE this year alone! Since then I always wore something to sleep in an attempt to keep myself warm at night.

Miraculously I always wound up sleeping on top of the blanket in the course of the night. He slept naked too but never received a trip to the doctor’s. But he soon will, at the rate that I am pulling off the blanket, which leaves both me and his bare butt in the cold.

‘The next time this happens, I will pull the blanket back, Blanket Bandit,’ he said, gently tapping my nose.

Me, a blanket bandit. Now that makes a catchy title, don’t you think?

*
It’s 1:35 a.m. and I am still pondering on the quality of my life. All my friends remarked that I think too much for my own good. But I think that thinking about life makes life eventful and special. I savour each minute of my waking hours and I celebrate life itself. Everything seems clear and real to me. Even dreams are sweeter.

I am the first to admit that I can be a little strict with myself. Harsh, if you wish. But you see, that is the only way to succeed. Show me a disciplined person and I will show you a successful person. If you are happy, it did not happen by chance. You made it happen. You chose it. Every step and every decision you took, take and will take takes you a step closer towards happiness. Or away.

*
It is 1:42 a.m. on the 5th of August 2008. The Blanket Bandit mightily declares that her life is great. Maybe that’s because she is going to steal the blanket again tonight.

All Knocked Up

2008-07-02T04:27:00.002+01:00

‘Miss Tan, you’ve got to help me,’ I bleated into the phone. The heavy traffic noise muffled her replies, thus compounding my frustrations. ‘The guy’s brother keeps calling me at every hour!’

*
Two Tuesdays ago some smart 19 year old was fetching his chick from work. I guess he was too excited at the prospect of being a slave driver to his pretty girlfriend that he pushed the gas pedal instead of the usual brake pedal. We were all stuck in heavy traffic and everything was at a standstill. The cars in front of me were all on brake. I was on brake when this 19 year old accidentally pressed ‘GO!’.

PY got out of the car and approached the boy. He was tall and lanky. If he was nervous, he surely did not show it. He was cool and composed, stepping out of his Mercedes. Not your average college kid who knocked his daddy’s car for the first time, if you know what I mean. He took out his MyKad when PY asked him for verification. He even corrected PY when she took down the car registration number. (See, what I mean about being cool and composed?). Such is the innocence of a 19 year old in puppy love with his anxious looking girlfriend at the passenger seat.

‘Thank you,’ I said to the boy as I walked back to my car. What the fuck am I doing, I asked myself. The guy knocked my car and I am bloody thanking him for it.

*
I received a call from MNG, informing me that they were having a pre-sales event. So after the short roadside stint, we packed up and headed to MNG. I sat on a chair, thinking about the incident while PY was busy trying on some clothes on 50% discount. I figured that a police report should be made to ensure that both parties were clear on the facts. I found his MyKad producing stint troubling. You see, I would have protested like hell, if anyone asked for my MyKad but the 19 year old flipped his MyKad out like he would flip out his Platinum Card at his girlfriend's every request.

The accident occurred at 2:18 p.m. but by 4 p.m. his brother took over the communications, which started out quite normal and turned abnormal as the minutes and hours passed.

I finished the police report at 6 p.m. and he called. ‘Come out for coffee lah,’ he said. ‘My treat, ok. You bring your girlfriends and I treat you three ladies to coffee. This is very small matter only’.

He called again at every hour and at 9 p.m. he said, ‘Where are you staying? Come out for some tea or something?’ I politely declined his generous offer for coffee, tea, dinner or even friendship or companionship or all four at once. Come on, I might have been crazy enough to pick Wouter and two of his companions from a 7-11 on Saturday night but I was not crazy enough to go for a coffee session with the brother of the guy who ever so lightly bumped into my car, costing a repair of RM2000.00.

Thank goodness I habitually silenced my mobile at night because he kept calling till past 1 a.m. which then led me to call my Honda sales representative for dear help the following morning.

*
‘Miss Tan, you’ve got to help me,’ I bleated into the phone. The heavy traffic noise muffled her replies, thus compounding my frustrations. ‘The guy’s brother keeps calling me at every hour!’

‘Aiyah, maybe he wants to go out with a pretty girl?’ she said. ‘Never mind, I ask Mr. Muthu to help you with the insurance claim and fix your car, ok? Just inform the guy that your insurance company is taking over.’

I was relieved when I saw Muthu. He had this grin on his face when I greeted him. ‘Mr. Muthu, you are going to return my car to her pretty former glory?’ I asked. He smiled, walked to the workshop, then came out with a piece of chalk and a digital camera. He took a good look at the back end of my car and proceeded to draw many crosses on the rear bumper.

‘Wah Muthu,’ I said, looking at the many crosses, then looking at him. ‘That’s a lot of X…’. My bumper looked like a LV Monogram bag, with the exception that the repeated design was ‘X’ instead of ‘LV’. He explained that he had to indicate the areas that needed fixing, so insurance claims could be made on my behalf. ‘Change the whole bumper. Spray and knock,’ he concluded.

*
I passed my documents to him, so he could process the claims. ‘Eh, can photocopy extra set for me or not?’ I asked. ‘I have to see the sergeant this afternoon’.

‘Why you need to see the sergeant?’ Muthu asked. His eyes were looking intently into mine. Darkest shade of black, I thought. Muthu had such dark eyes and a head full of hair that was dutifully combed back. He looked like a version of Ken Doll (Barbie’s boyfriend) - just perhaps he was a little darker and not as proportionately tall. But he had a cheerful and friendly face and he responded efficiently to my queries. (These were my definition of good customer service).

‘Dunno. The sergeant said I needed to see him a few days later with copies of my driving licence, insurance documents and MyKad.’

‘But you don’t need to see him again. There is no such procedure,’ he said. Heads popped out of office cubicles and even the cashier girl placed her face flat against the glass separating her from the world. ‘WHAT?!’ boomed right through the whole showroom. Customers turned to look to Muthu and I. Silence crawled into every space in the big and airy showroom.

‘What? I don’t have to bloody visit him again? I hate doing all this official paperwork mumbo jumbo thing and he nearly costed me an afternoon!’

‘Maybe he thought you were pretty,’ Muthu said, then he grinned his sheepish grin.

I did not visit the sergeant later that afternoon. The sergeant did not call either, so I guess it was not an important 2nd visit after all. I had tea with my father and was home by 7 p.m.

*
‘I need to get to work,’ I said after signing the insurance claim documents.

‘You are working?’ Muthu asked. He said the word ‘work’ as if it was some alien micro organism attached to my right shoulder.

‘Obviously! Who will pay for my car, if I am not working?’ I asked, shrugging my shoulders. I got up and zipped up my blood red Rosewood bag.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Back to work, like everybody else?’ I said. I stressed on the word “work”. Muthu grinned again. ‘Where do you think I am going?’

‘Dunno. I figured a girl like you never need to work,’ Muthu said, then stamping the document that I just authorized. The conversation ended, just the same way it started.

Just as I pushed through the glass door, Muthu said ‘Come back next week. I’ll inform you of the repair date’.

Detachment and Reattachment

2008-06-23T05:51:00.001+01:00

‘Silly Milo,’ I said to the fat orange cat. He was busy poking his nose into the corner of the potted flower. Every so often, Milo waits at a wall, waiting for a lizard to drop to the ground. And when it did, Milo would lunge at it.

‘See, all you have is the lizard’s tail,’ I said as I lifted the potted flower. The lizard was nowhere to be found. All that was left of it was its tail, still twitching and jumping about. ‘ A lizard’s tail as a decoy.’

*
Don’t worry. I have written in this blog many times since the last entry. I wrote them in the middle of the night, when nothing is alive and everything is asleep. I wrote them in my head, word by word, weaving tiny little sentences into a big story to call my very own. Some nights I even managed to come up with a witty title for my entries. Seriously.

There was a night when all I heard was tiny water droplets drip dropping from the faulty tap in the bathroom. All I could think then was to describe everything my eyes saw and everything my heart felt. You see, I have experienced some strange things. So strange that I have changed and even stranger still, the experiences caused me to stop writing altogether.

*
Did you know that I can see sounds? Yup. I promise you that it is true. I can SEE sounds. I hear sounds, of course. But I also see them. Some people have square sounds and some others have round sounds. Sometimes I bump into people with triangle sounds too but they are quite rare.

These days I not only see sounds. I feel a person’s emotions floating on his head like a cloud. But it isn’t necessarily a cloud. Some people have rainbows and butterflies instead of clouds. Others are like a scene out of The Sound of Music, green hills complete with bunnies and all. Angry people have angry clouds that look like looming dark clouds with occasional fiery dragon breaths.

I used to be one of those people with angry clouds. I always imagined myself a dark endless cloud that mushrooms more and more into the air. It was a frightening affair, with secrets and unknown dreams. Sometimes there were thunderstorms above my head and when it was not, it was a tornado tearing at the centre of my soul, eating everything bright and beautiful.

I sowed seeds of anxiety and pain through Nude, Not Naked, writing everything in a pitch-black cloud that was punctuated only by terrifying screams of my own nightmares. Everything was beautiful but I felt as if I stood at the edge of a thunderstorm and at any moment, someone or something would take everything I loved away. Everyday felt like I was standing at the eye of an emotional storm.

In my dreams, I always ran. I ran from the unknown to the unknown. I ran from doomsday monsters and evil spirits that trailed after me during the day. I watched people I loved die before my eyes. I stood at rapture. Dreams were literally swirls of my emotions and subconscious thoughts.

*
For the longest time, I had not written. How can I write when all I have above my head are blossoming flowers, flying fairies and sunshine? I tried searching for the evil dark clouds but they are nowhere to be found. Not under shadows of things, the deep recess of cupboards or corners of rooms. It occurred so slowly and so subtly that I am blatantly caught by surprise.

If I were to write a sentence or two, they would spew giddy happiness and everlasting joy. Bloody hell, I am like the princess from Enchantment. Every word is a blissful melody and every emotion is of pure contentment and delight. I am actually feeling at peace with myself and with the world. Everything is fine and I am all right.

Damn it. I am robbed of my misery and words do not seem to carry the same anger or resentment they once did. I do not know how to write anymore.

*
‘I am ok,’ MiniBoyFriend R said. ‘I am fine on my own. It’s okay if I have this thing,’ he said as he pointed to his mobile. ‘And it is fine if I don’t.’ Obviously the mobile was an illustration. He was talking about material things and the detachment that he felt though he owned those items. He felt nothing when he had them and he felt nothing if he lost them. Nothing on earth added or took away anything away from MiniBoyFriend R. He just was and just is.

I hold onto everything very tightly. Every memory, every dream, every word, every action and every thought – I play them in my head a million times. When I am happy, I savour the experience a thousand times and when I am sad, my heart dies a thousand million times. Every emotion is clearer and every colour is brighter. And though I feel so much sadness, my heart also felt so much hope and love.

And if I were to detach myself from pain and danger like a lizard detaching his tail, maybe all I am escaping from is life. And what is life is if you cannot feel a thing. You might as well be a lettuce or cabbage on a field. I rather feel all the pain and all the dark clouds, if it means I can feel all the sunshine and fluffy bunny's tail.

You must celebrate with me. I will write again soon enough. I was not ready to share my intimate thoughts many months ago but now I think I am. I have changed, of course. But that is life, I guess. Some days you are a nuclear waste land of vast emptiness and other days you are just pure fertile soil, bountiful fruits and fresh water. Detachment and reattachment from life, playing itself in a loop of birth and destruction.

*
If I asked you to choose a body position to represent your heart, what would it be? How would you arrange your body? Where would your head lay? Where would your hands be? Are you legs touching the ground or flying into the sky? Would you be soft and laid on the ground? Would you be in high motion, one leg up and ready for action?

In recent weeks, I instinctively moved myself into a position. I do not think it is yoga since I do not know any yoga poses. However my body tells me to get into this position for a few minutes each morning and so I do exactly what my body tells me to do. Each morning I would wake up and take my position. Palms by my side and opened, I would face the sun with my eyes closed. I would soak and imagine absorbing all the positive energy from the sun into the core of my body. Then I would raise my arms above my head, stretching myself like an arrow flying into the sky whilst my feet are firmly planted on the ground.

If I were to choose a body position to represent my heart at the moment, this would be it. Feet firmly planted on the ground, hands stretched outwards and upwards, like an arrow shooting into infinity.

Happiness Is

2008-05-29T01:50:00.004+01:00

Working till lunchtime, then meeting up with the girls. Driving up and down through all the shops, big and small. Window-shopping and dreaming of all the furniture for a place you would call your very own. Exchanging notes, prices and latest conquests with some girlfriends in a tiny cafe.

Oozing with charm, you negotiate the prices for your beloved treasures. What glee you feel deep in your heart, for you will lay your head to rest in your own home in a few more heartbeats...

*
The Conquests

The dazzle of hundreds of crystals laced with aluminium thread, shaped in a snowball. Hung low on the coffee table, which I have not found.

Pure white glass blown dainty chandelier. The only feminine and whimsical piece in the whole house. Very Alice in Wonderland.

Stainless steel light in a beehive shape, sitting on the center kitchen island.

The biggest and most comfortable sofa that my pockets could afford, in white with down feathers filling.

Dining table in eclipsed shaped tampered glass top and stainless steel circular leg. I am looking to pair the table with funkier chairs (or at least happier).

Sunny yellow bedroom curtains to match my existing dark mahogany MacIntosh inspired bed and dresser.

Living and Dining room curtain against a milky white wall.

Sample of roman blinds for the windows in the kitchen area.

*
Such is happiness in life.

Nothing Stays The Same

2008-04-28T11:58:00.006+01:00

The season has come and gone. Flowers died and now they are alive again. Snow came and then it melted. How different everything seems when time comes calling.

Everything changes. Nothing stays the same. What was there a month ago is now long gone.

Past
Snow boarding in Himos during Easter
(check out the snow!)

Present
The sea that was frozen a month ago. Now ducks and swans swim merrily in it.

Exhilaration at 160km/h on the Ducati.

Visited the zoo on a sunny Sunday.

I was not the only one enjoying the sun.

(Near) Future
I am returning home to turn this 2D plan into a 3D house.

Ground floor

1st floor

*
I can't complain about how my life is unfolding. There are many things to look forward to. I am very excited about the house and especially the furniture shopping (hehehe). I am a little pissed off that I missed Gudang's sales in March but I am sure there will be another one just round the corner. Also need to find some handsome looking lightings.

Do you know where I can find reasonablly priced Nordic inspired furniture pieces (that is not from Ikea)? After years of clubbing and pubbing around, I somehow have settled into a more serene lifestyle, which is reflected in a change of furniture taste.

Women Behaving Badly

2008-04-28T10:42:00.003+01:00

‘So it is not ok for a forty plus woman to dance around like a crazy person?’ I asked again. I asked the question a second time because it was important to get the facts right.

Tim nodded his head. He did not bother justifying himself. The gospel according to Tim says that old men (old by definition here means anyone above 40) can prance around and do stupid things together, It is acceptable because ‘everyone thinks that it is just another bunch of lads doing stupid weekend stuff again’. However women above forty are not measured on the same ruler. Somehow this 42 year old divorced father of three teenage girls and boyfriend to one 35 year old woman thinks it is NOT okay for older women to go mad on a weekend.

‘They just look pathetic,’ he said. No apologies for the statement. ‘A woman over 40 should look dignified. Not slobbering around the pub like a drunken fool.’

‘But it is okay for men above 40 to do so,’ I paused, hoping that he would disagree. If it is not okay for women to do it, then it should not be okay for men to do it too, right?

Apparently, the answer is wrong. As a matter of fact, he agreed whole heartedly that men of whatever age can get drunk, get loud, piss around the garden and have noisy boys nights. But girls, oh girls just do not do such stupid things.

‘Grown up girls just don’t do such things,’ he said.

Scandinavians on the whole are a very forward thinking bunch. Men and women enjoyed similar rights for the longest time. Suffrage movement in Sweden and Finland led its women to the right to vote in 1862 and 1906 respectively. Their men are well house trained, can cook and generally treat their women folk no different from how they would treat another man. (That means no special girlie privileges like opening doors just because you are a girl. You get some and so you lose some, I guess).

I sat at the dining table, imagining some Feminist members crucifying Tim. Yup, Sweden has their very own feminist political party and I am sure those girls would love to hang Tim or do something nasty to him. I was not angry or anything. I was just surprised that men (who are taught from birth to treat women as equals) have double standards. If sexism exists in Scandinavia, you can beat your beans (if you are Jack) on the double standard existing and thriving in a country such as Malaysia. (No offence to Malaysians in a whole but we must admit that we are 100 years behind Sweden in this area – quite literally).

So what makes it okay for men to do it? ‘Well men never grow up,’ Tim said. Men grow old but they never grow up. Put a few men together and you can see them gelling together, merrily enjoying themselves. They can joke, have fun, burp, drink beer, fart and laugh. In Finland, you even get to see your friend’s balls while you burp, drink beer, fart and run naked around a bush during Mid Summers. Such is the camaraderie of men.

Women, according to Tim, were expected to behave themselves and carry themselves well.

‘Carry themselves with dignity,’ I said.

‘Yes, yes. That is the word. Dignity. With dignity,’ said Tim. ‘You just feel sad when you see an older woman dribbling beer all over or is too loud.’ He took a sip of whiskey, then coffee. But why should a woman show restraint and carry herself well all the time? Why can’t a 40 year old woman behave as carefree and reckless as she was when she was a single 20 year old university student? Tim was sharing some ideas why it felt weird looking at a drunk woman.

‘I think it has to do with your image of a mother,’ I said. Psychology is lovely. With psychology, you can blame your mother for every fuck up in your life. Most mothers are anchors in their young children’s lives and they are responsible, caring, attentive, well behaved, restraint etc. A mother’s actions influence her child’s future behaviour.

‘Yes, that must be it. Our mothers always carried themselves well. A drunk 40 year old woman just looks sad,’ Tim said.

I was having dinner with three eligible men, who were all married and then divorced. They were successful and were reasonably good looking for their age (think George Clooney). Tim had 3 teenage daughters and Tapio had one. The Bachelor was a sperminator to some British bird, so technically he has passed on his genetic material. They were all casually meeting younger women. As they grow older, the women became younger and the age gap became larger. They swore that younger women made better partners.

‘Here lies a problem, boys,’ I said. ‘Men intrinsically seek out young women because they make good companions. Tim, now you said that younger women are more spontaneous and happy, right?’

‘Right.’

‘Then why do you feel that it isn’t proper for an older woman to just be that – spontaneous and happy-fied? Don't you think it is unfair?'

Rebirth

2008-04-18T12:44:00.002+01:00

I was in the shower when I thought about my blog. I usually think of you guys when I am up and about doing things. But sometimes I do think of you when I am in the shower, with the hot water running down my naked body. I was thinking of all the people I knew resulting from my blog, About Nude Not Naked.

It all started with the grand dame of shopping, YC. I think I met her more than a year ago. Oh yes, when I think about it now, I am sure we met in 2006. I remember texting her three seconds after I turned my back and walked away from Adidas Boy on 30th October 2006. I remember pressing the phone keypad at the corner of Mango boutique, Mid Valley, restraining tears from falling, writing something to YC.

‘You know, you two will clash when you meet,’ someone remarked. The friend of a friend of a friend of YC’s was certain that two huge egos should never meet. I brushed the idea away and met YC a few times.

YC has the most beautiful eyes, almost cartoon-like. She should be a little taller than I, waif thin, with a face that would sit pretty in any hairstyles. The next thing I noticed after her physical features were two pieces of jewellery that she adorned. She had a green jade bangle and a crystal pendant in the shape of a pacifier. I thought they were such contradiction to her persona, which I think tells you a thing or two about the young lady. She came across as intelligent, vocal and a thousand years wiser than I ever was at her age.

And no, we never had any of the arguments that the friend of a friend of a friend of YC’s predicted earlier. I dotted on her like a little sister and to a certain extend, she dotted on me like a little sister too (since she is the more streetwise of us two). The highlights of our blog-friendship included:

The ‘He is married’ episode - a guy friend of hers and I were secretly talking to each other with our eyes (commonly known as the art of flirting) when YC dropped the ‘he is married’ bomb. (He has the most winsome smile). That was a very embarrassing moment, needless to say. Crash and burn, baby.

The ‘Mad Dash for Chicken Rice’ – we drove at warp speed down a highway to purchase packets of chicken rice. The chicken rice was worth every kilometre of the way. Actually, YC has a thing for pork satay too whilst I am not a pork person. Come to think of it, YC is very food oriented…

The ‘Clash of Great Fashion Senses’ episode – we walked into Lola together one night in the most contradictory party clothes. YC, in a black sleeves tight blouse with a cinched waist with gold buckles while I, in a soft pink blouse with a slit running past the cleavage. Talk about differences.

We got along reasonably well, if not for the fact that I am 8 years older than her and a hell of a lot more quiet and a dash more boring. I think she was disappointed to discover that I am such a quiet person in real life. Oh well.

Then there is Nicholas, whom I met in London. We spent three happy months together, mainly sitting in Four Seasons for duck rice or Hong Kong Café in China Town for all its delicious goodies. We spoke regularly on the phone when we were not chatting online. Nicholas is a wonderful young man, who strangely was not attached to anyone when I first met him. I am glad to know that he has found someone since then.

Nicholas often wore a beanie, which hid his short-cropped hair. He wore a pair of black rim pair of glasses (or at least I think they were) and often carried a backpack whenever we went out together. I cannot describe him beyond this since he is a boy. There is nothing much to talk about boy’s sense of fashion, now is there?

Nicholas’ most attractive quality must be his warmth. He comes across as a genuine and caring person. He is a generous spirit with a lot of give to those around him. Spending the weekends and afternoons with him was simply pleasurable. He is a gentleman through and through.

‘Oh don’t worry. You don’t have to wait for me. You shop until I arrive,’ he said on the mobile on an afternoon we were supposed to meet up for tea. Dear Nicholas braved through the summer sales in the commercial labyrinth called TopShop, in search for a hyperventilating Otto on a shopping frenzy. I was happily browsing through racks after racks of clothes, looking at its many lines, which are not available in its other franchise. No other TopShop on earth would do.

Obviously we spoke a lot about our private lives, which are not for your eyes to read. Other than private stuff, we actually did a lot of London tourist things together:

The Nottinghill Carnival –There were lots of music blasting around the surrounding blocks of apartments, which was nice but we basically saw only horse shit and an ocean of human heads. Did not manage to see anything on the floats despite wearing 4 inch hells that day.

The ‘Young Oriental Models Upstairs’ episode – It started with me noticing a paper on a door that said ‘Young Oriental Models Upstairs’. We were one street away from China Town, Leicester Square. I was certain that it was a polite advertisement for prostitutes, so Nicholas and I walked across the street to check out the rooms upstairs. ‘Oh so that’s why they are called Red Light District,’ Nicholas said, noting the red light bulb in those rooms. I think I hugged him tightly on his neck and we walked towards Hong Kong Café, giggling and chatting away.

The King’s Road Adventure – Nicholas and I spent a relaxing afternoon getting lost in the fashion mecca of the 60s. We wandered through small shops and what-so-nots. We tried not to end up in the hospital while we mounted the lions on Trafalgar Square. That was very memorable. I wore a halter-neck blouse and no bra. *beaming with happiness*

He addresses me by my real name with the title ‘jie’ at the end, which means ‘sister’ in Mandarin. No one calls me ‘sister’, not even my brothers, so it is quite refreshing and sweet that Nicholas calls me sister. That is as Chinese as I will ever be.

Not too surprisingly we remained close friends since returning back to Malaysia. We talked often on the phone and we poured quite a few secrets. He remains one of the few people who know details of my daily life stories. I cannot imagine that it has been nearly 2 years since we first met in London. Time surely passed by faster than I am comfortable with. Now he is working in NuffNang, which makes the next interesting story.

You see, I met Timothy too. We met for a short lunch in the Four Seasons in Bayswater. He was on his way back to Malaysia and I just arrived in London that morning. We chatted for a bit and exchanged some ideas. Now I must say that this young man is visionary. Do keep him under your radar because he is someone to watch out for. I was not surprised when he came up with a great idea and launched NuffNang. Timothy came across as a rather passionate person and he had the balls to see his dreams come through. NuffNang celebrated its first anniversary recently.

It is strange that I nearly met up with Kenny. Somehow we could not meet up and we ended up talking on the phone. ‘So you aren’t going to tell me where you are at?’ he asked. I replied ‘no’. (It is so obvious, isn’t it?). He dropped by ANNN several times, commented some and even mentioned ANNN in his blog. But you and I must admit that Kenny and I were as different as night and day. On blog reviews, he would receive a thousand stars for humor and I would be glad if I scored even a pathetic one. So there you go.

Oh I should also mention Ian Liew, who is a thinker, like myself. We spoke a couple of times over the phone. I even sent him the ‘Call me now!’ short text messages, so I could howl on the phone, sharing my minute details of my emotional dramas. It is amazing that Australia-UK phone calls are reasonably priced when compared to Australia-Malaysia. Ian always had perfect timing when he called or chatted online with me – while I was prancing around my bedroom half naked, trying to get ready for a hot weekend night out clubbing.

In retrospect, he called me out of the blue last year. I can’t remember what was the content of our conversation. I had this fading memory of it being a birthday greeting. Can’t remember if it was his or mine. Both of us were preparing to go out clubbing that night, so the conversation was short. I should email that boy again soon and see what he is up to lately.

There are of course many readers who correspond via emails. Some comment on my writing style and grammar mistakes, which I truly appreciate. Others write to share their stories and secrets. Many remarked that I gave words to their private stories. So many of you had similar life experiences. Writing and reading ANNN has healed both your hearts and mine. You have been a witness to my life. I am glad that my stories have found a place in many of your hearts and I hope I have not disappointed any of you.

*
I am flying back to Malaysia in less than 14 days. I am feeling butterflies in my stomach. It is always the same feeling. You will never get used to it. I am anxious to go home. Three months is a long time. Many things change. People change. Roads change. I change.

Coming to Europe gives me the opportunity to step away from the daily grinds in Malaysia. Everything feels lighter when I am away. Every frantic moment melts away. Everything might move at a radical pace but internally I feel a sense of calm and peace. And somehow I can see things better when I am thousands of miles away.

I grow up a little more each time when I return home. It starts with a total transformation on the outside the morning I am home. My haircut and colour would have changed, before I meet my mother for lunch. Clothes and hairstyle has always been a symbolic expression of everything that I felt inside. Each time I return home, I feel like it's a moment of rebirth and I am a whole new person again. I am no longer who I was months before. Friends who meant the world to me before I flew to Europe no longer have a place in my life. Things that were important to me a few months ago now no longer have priority in my schedule. Going home to Malaysia always signal a reshuffle of priorities, reflecting the change of my personal beliefs and desires.

Not many people have the opportunity to grow and change like the way I do. Maybe that is why they are still reflections of themselves from years ago while I have lived the lives of a thousand women. Maybe people are meant to grow and develop. Maybe people are supposed to take another route in their lives. Maybe they are trapped in their circumstance and cannot evolve into the person they only dreamt of each night. Maybe I am supposed to be trapped too.

Saving The Girl That Needs No Saving

2008-04-08T14:54:00.007+01:00

‘Which is worse?’ he asked. ‘To have too many suitors or to have too little?’

‘I think it’s horrible to have too many suitors,’ I replied. ‘Notice my long list of complaints?’

‘Come on. Admit it. It is much better to have too many than too little,’ he said.

‘If you insist, then yes. I guess it is better to have more choices than a lack of.’

I imagined how beautiful the view out of his window. The Petronas Twin Towers must look absolutely majestic against the slow descend of the sun as we messaged each other on the Yahoo Messenger. Mr. Easter Bunny and I were conversing on a daily basis the week before and after Easter. I was searching for some writing inspiration and he was there at the right place and the right time.

*
If you have noticed (which I am sure you do), I have been avoiding writing lately. I must be one of the most boring persons you ever read about. I write only what I am ready to share and I don’t mince my words around. And when I am not ready to share, I don’t. Hence there is hardly any action here in About Nude Not Naked. I have my regular readers but I am no Kenny Sia.

Not that my life isn’t filled with action. It is. It is very much filled with all sorts of actions but I commit those stories to my memory. I did not tell you that I am doing well and how happy I have become in the last year or so. I dare not share how my life has changed for the better and how comfortable I feel.

And how I finally feel some measure of peace in my heart.

I don’t know how everything started. I hate to think it has to do with age. To admit that I changed because of age is like to admit that I have set limits in my life. And if you know me like how MiniBoyFriend R knows me, you will know that I hate limits. I hate the word because I feel it is constricting.

So no, I don’t think I made different choices (drastic ones, I might add) in the last 18 months or so because I feel that I am getting old. I much prefer to think that I changed because I needed to move onto a new phase in life. I have always felt a need to challenge myself, to push myself further and stretch myself wider. This decision happens to be one of them.

I have never been one that is complacent. My mind is always thinking, moving and changing. My eyes are always searching and observing every minute detail of everything around me. And I always listen to conversations and always enjoyed words.

*
‘Hey sexy mama,’ the voice said.

‘That’s hot, sexy mama to you,’ I said as I continued to type into my iBook. Time to change iBook, I thought to myself as it was overheating. The Apple laptop has served me very well in the last 4 years. I am a happy bird if relationships and friendships were as reliable as my trusty Apple iBook.

‘Where have you been?’

‘Working,’ I said

‘Why working so hard?’ he asked. ‘There is a gig tonight. You must come out. You remember XYZ?’ he asked. ‘He asked me to invite you out tonight because he has not seen you since Famosa’s party’.

I gave a muffled non-commitment mumble of some sort. True to form, I did not go out that night. I watched Heroes on TV instead.

One of the first things that I changed was to reprioritize my time. I have spent too many hours with too many people that I should never have spent time with. They were not bad people. They just weren’t good.

Some of you might ask what motivated me to go out in the first place. There are many reasons and perhaps only MiniBoyFriend R understood them. The main reason however was vanity and ego. It was always lovely to go out somewhere and be admired. Who would not like that? Who wouldn't want to feel that she had just lit up the entire room by just walking into it?

All I needed to do was to spend an hour dressing up (which is a therapeutic experience in itself) and head out for the night. It does not matter which night it was. There were always people out there and there will always be people who would look at you and talk. After some years of dealing with bad 'publicity', I have relented and decided that perhaps ‘bad publicity is better than no publicity’.

Think of it like how celebrities do it. They garner attention each time they go out. The more they go out, the more attention they will receive. They do not appear on magazines and TV for staying at home, you know. Now obviously, the attention can be either positive or negative. For example, having the paparazzi taking your photos, landing you on the best or worst dressed list. But celebrities still battle the paparazzo’s daily because they want to remain in the current news.

It used to be the same case for me too. Continuously dressing up to go out is quite an expensive pastime. However doing so keeps me present in people’s conversations, even when I am not around. The attention has blessed me many privileges. For example, girls working in boutiques reserve clothes for me to try on before they display them in the shops. My hairdresser continuously works miracles by framing my best facial features.

And my bowl of noodles nearly always comes with extra goodies, courtesy of the aunties whom I fondly visit and chat with on working days.

‘Aunty asked where you went,’ PY sms-ed the other day.

*
I have gone under the radar. When once I regularly spent weekends in Lola, I now regularly do not spend weekends there. I miss it every once in a while, so I would dress up again and visit the place. Each time I would try my best to relive all those happy memories I have of the place but I somehow no longer feel the same way. It could just be the booze but I swear that something inside me has changed.

When I look into the crowd of people dancing and gyrating to the music, I no longer recognize anyone. The bar tenders are now strangers, no longer weekend friends. The bouncers however still let me skip the queue and allow me to come and go as I please. Something has changed. I no longer feel that I belong in that noisy place.

I no longer crave for the attention and find no necessity to always be on top of everyone’s conversation topics. I still dress the way that I do and I still have the attention (daytime at least) but I do not feel that I have to push myself anymore.

‘Eh, are you unwell?’ my mother asked me one Saturday night as I sat watching Discovery Channel. She placed her hand on my forehead, to feel my body temperature for sure. ‘You must be sick, if you are not out on Saturday,’ she said.

You know, there was a time when I would just pop one tablet of Panadol and head out on sick nights. Nothing comes between the clubbing scene and me. Not even rainy nights. Nowadays it almost feels okay to be at home on Saturday night, watching TV and answering phone calls.

*
So this is why I no longer have too many drunken stories to share with you. In its place, I have collected many happy and sober stories. Maybe one day, when the time is right, I will share my happiness with you.

*
‘Can we talk?’ R asked yesterday. His message popped on my Yahoo Messenger as I was designing some work related stuff. (Remember that I am the boss, the PA, the dispatch girl and occasionally even the makcik cleaner in the office).

‘Of course,’ came my reply. It must have been the shortest sentence I have written him. Some time ago, I had made a mental note to recognize and allow MBF R to express himself without me prodding him. In short, I recognize that I must change myself, to allow him to write at his pace and not crowd the conversation with my opinion.

‘I must confess to her,’ MBF R started the conversation. ‘She has said yes and I think I should say yes too. So I have to tell her about all my destructive relationships.’

‘Your reasons for doing so?’ I asked.

‘I want to tell her everything, so she is prepared. She is such a precious and innocent thing, I am afraid that I will ruin her.’

R met a girl on a holiday trip and they spent every moment together on the trip. Returning home, the immense feelings they felt for each other did not dissipate. They have gone on with their normal lives and returned to work since they came back from the holiday. It was no longer a holiday inspired fling and they still feel as strongly now in KL, working and busy, as they did while frolicking and relaxing during a holiday.

‘I must cut ties with all my destructive relationships,’ he said.

‘Like what?’ I enquired, waiting for him to mention the not so short list of lunch hour buddies, golf bunnies and genuine muses. Which he did.

It was the first time I ever hear him say that he felt that this was it. The girl gave him the feeling of security and total unconditional love. Actually what he mentioned was, ‘I am 28 years old. I feel that this is the right time. I have to do this right. It is now or never.’ Or something along that vein.

So he is going to cut ties with all the unhealthy relationships and friendships he had developed over time. I understand each and every word R said. I have been down that road before. I have straightened some friendships and severe ties with the rest.

‘But what if I can’t do it?’ he asked.

‘What do you mean you can’t?’ I asked.

‘You know, I like the beautiful girls that dressed to kill, flawless skin under heavy make up, willing to open their legs by the end of the night, drive you insane with jealousy and rage – those sort.’

‘Oh R,’ I said philosophically, ‘aren’t all men the same? They all like beautiful girls who dressed to kill, with flawless skin under heavy make up, ever willing to drop their panties by the end of the night.’ I sighed. Men would be perfect if not for the failure to control their lust factor. (I don’t want to even start talking about this topic).

*
I had a similar conversation with BestGuyFriend years ago, when he first met Nikki. So I guess I had the 'My Best Friend's Wedding' experience, though unlike Julia Roberts, I actually gave my best boy friends away. BestGuyFriend in 2006 and soon, my MiniBoyFriend.

BestGuyFriend married in December 2006 and we have remained casual friends since then. I can see that he is happy whenever I bump into Nikki and him. He is far from the person I knew years ago. He is confident and contented since he rescued Nikki during the great tsunami. I saw them last the weeks before Christmas last year and they looked perfect together.

MiniBoyFriend R and I managed to maintain a reasonable and healthy friendship. We make good friends and catch up for breakfast whenever possible. We still walk the dogs, Vodka and Gin. We still debate if Vodka has preferred inclination since he sniffs boy dog’s bottoms whenever we are out walking. But we no longer spend Sundays painting and cuddling up for movies.

I see D and his bunch of boys mostly in the restaurant that he is now in charge of. He’d call every now and then, for supper but strangely I have not felt hungry enough to dress up at 2 a.m. I think he has also grown up and moved on, although he still goes out with a string of girls, promising nothing to each and every one of them. You have to give him credit when it is due. He was fair to all.

My last memory of Adidas Boy is a happy one. We were walking around aimlessly in Mid Valley and settled for dinner in a Japanese restaurant. We went for some drinks somewhere and chatted until morning when he left for work, holding and manning a video camera and lighting. While snooping around my readers’ blogs (by backtracking to theirs) I discovered that some of you readers actually met and knew Adidas Boy. It is just that you did not realize it. The world is extremely small, don’t you think?

*
I arrived at a stage in my life when I feel that I have a firm grip of everything around me. I do not write about it because I am not ready to celebrate my happiness in public. I still grieve over Alex.

The fantastic thing about men is that they are able to move on after some time. That is nice. That is what I want for Alex. I want him to move on and be happy. Nothing saddens me more than imagining him at a house that stinks of Polish vodka. I rather be the person in the stinky Polish vodka house. I want him to be happy and excited about living. It is important to me that he feels so.

I know that he no longer wears the ring I gave him 2 years ago. I still wear the ring he gave me and I still carry the keys to my English home. It is silly, I know. It isn't like I can open any other door using those keys. But I still carry them because they feel precious. They have a lot of memories attached. One look at them whenever I open my purse and I am transported back to my English home and life. I have not seen Alex for 10 months now, so clearly it is over. It was my decision but I still need time to grief. I just need time to tell myself that it is okay and I can be happy. I do not need to feel bad that I am actually happy inside. I can be free and I can let my happiness show.

Because if I really am honest with myself, I know that I am.

*
'When I first met you and again now as we speak during the past week, I thought that I was sent here to save you,' Mr. Easter Bunny said.

He believed in karma, even when he is not a practicing Buddhist. He believed in destiny and reasons for being. For Mr. Easter Bunny, our sudden conversation spreading over days was not a mere coincident. There must have been a reason why we spoke. I have told him several times that our conversations were just that; conversations. I have no other intentions but perhaps he thought otherwise.

(I do suspect that he reads About Nude Not Naked quite regularly and we are playing a cat and mouse game. He had asked me several times if I published my writings in a blog. He had also very casually mentioned that some of my emails to him were very blog-like, which they were published on ANNN as entries. So you know that I know that you know. Now shhhhhh...)

'That is what you always write about - sins and salvation. So I always thought that I am here to save you. But I now know, it isn't you that needs saving.'

He then told me his dark secret.

'We are talking this week because I needed saving. I have burden - a secret - in my heart. It turns out that you are the friend that I needed,' he said.

One Night with MiniBoyFriend R

2008-03-28T08:46:00.003Z

'A girl said that I had a very unique face while we laid on the hotel bed. What the hell is that suppose to mean?'

'That you have beautiful eyes,' I replied. He has a beautiful pair of eyes in a very beautiful shade of light brown. 'Hey, is this the same girl whom you meet at the bus station?' I asked.

'No,' came the reply. 'Different girl.'

'Wow, someone's getting lots of action lately.' I said, beaming with pride, like only a mother would.

'Yeah, soon you will have to queue up to see me,' he said.

*
I love my MiniBoyFriend. We have the most wonderful conversations. Last night, he told me that there is only one way to cry, that is to cry for the wrong reasons. 'There are no right ways to cry, only wrong ones,' he said. How very romantic.

We shared some secrets and I found out that he was one busy boy in my absence here in Europe. I need not worry about my breakfast buddy since he is having more than one girl for breakfast. (laughs). I told him about Bunny and the humbling lesson learnt.

I showed him a photo of myself. With a smile. Finally. It was some time ago when he requested for one of my photo, so he could use as a base for a cartoon drawing. 'You know, give me some happy photos' he said. 'It is difficult to draw a cartoon out of solemn faces.' I had no such photos. No photos where I actually smiled till my eyes were slitty and shut. It is all vanity. Smiles create wrinkles and smile lines. (And bags under the eyes - not nice). But I had a sweet photo of myself taken while sledging during Easter weekend, so it was a rather nice gift for MiniBoyFriend R.

He related a strange tale, set on another hotel bed in another hotel with another girl. 'Have you ever asked your girlfriend to abort a baby?' the girl asked casually. (Men should be extra careful when women ask casual questions).

I don't know about you but I think such a question is the perfect contraception. No 'up, up and away' times after that question, I suspect. MiniBoyFriend R said that he frankly did not know the answer. I argued that one must know the answer. After all, the question was 'Have you ever asked your girlfriend to abort a baby?'. You either did or did not. He said some girls might not have informed him. Being the dutiful MiniGirlFriend that I am, I relieved him of all responsibilities in such an event. It's logical, isn't it? He could not have possibly be responsible for aborting a baby that he did not know the existence of.

'For all you know, you could be a daddy now,' I said. He wearily agreed.

*
'I'll draw you something,' he said.

I have always loved his drawings and paintings but don't you tell him that. (He can be a very diva artist). He has the talent of a great artist and definitely the charms of one. Just look at the long line of muses he has been collecting. (smiles). While he was away drawing something on a sheet of paper, I chopped and cut and diced and cooked. 'I cooked grilled chilli chicken. Better than Nando's,' I declared to MiniBoyFriend R.

'I am vegetarian lah,' came the reply. MiniBoyFriend R is a vegetarian by choice, which sometimes made breakfast arrangements funny to the rest sitting at our breakfast table. I had his two extra sausages and he had my two extra sunny side up eggs. I think he is still trying to figure out why he is a vegetarian. I guess all vegetarians are romantics at heart. After half hour or so, he came back to the keyboard and emailed the drawing to me.

Obviously the names were altered to protect
the true identity of two rather boring persons in real life.

'Very well done, R,' I said. 'Could do a t-shirt print with this one.'

'If it was a t-shirt print, we are the only two people who would buy the shirts.'

'Could do with more loving words though,' I said. Here we have Mr. R, my generous MiniBoyFriend draw me something special and I had the cheek to ask him to put some loving words into the conversation boxes. Like 'This drawing is perfect, R!' and 'Thank you!'.... that sort of thing.

R said only foul languaged t-shirts sell well. Maybe he is right.

No, let me rephrase. Surely MiniBoyFriend R is right. He is in the industry afterall. And when I get back home, he's going to help draw and embroider something pretty onto my biker chick jacket. I suspect it's going to be another 2 cats with nothing but foul language in conversation boxes....

Compassion for Bunny

2008-03-27T10:41:00.005Z

Every now and then, Mr. Easter Bunny writes. Now we met under very strange circumstances and I do not recall much of the night when we met. Other than some boys climbing up a wall and I working behind the bar. Oh yes, I was a waitress in a bar, a long time ago. For fun. So I can write all the things that I write you in ANNN.

During our last conversation, which was last evening, he mentioned that BestGuyFriend was waiting for me to sit on his lap. I do not even remember sitting on BestGuyFriend’s lap. We were very close but it never occurred to me that perhaps it wasn’t your usual boy + girl friendships. Especially not if I sat on his lap for fun...

I should tell you why I call him Mr. Easter Bunny. Like the many other single European men working in Malaysia, he has a spare bunny at his disposal. They met a long time ago while he worked in the Philippines. I didn’t ask much about their relationship, not more than he would share on his own accord. However one day, I asked him without being coy, what he gave her as allowance since it was obvious that she was not working. My question was in the name of writing material research. Quite obvious, isn't it?

Mr. Easter Bunny dutifully informed me that he leaves a stack of cash amounting to RM1000.00 every Monday as pocket money for his little brown bunny. I think he said he leaves the cash on the table and never directly gave it to her. The Tooth Fairy leaves you some money on your pillow for each tooth. Mr. Easter Bunny was far more generous than the Tooth Fairy will ever be, leaving you RM1000 weekly. You don't even need to exchange it for a tooth.

Hence Mr. Easter Bunny's fairytale inspired name.

*
I am in a predicament. I hate bunnies of all ages because they symbolize how weak women can be. Or perhaps how cunning women can be. Or how smart some women are, when compared to me. I work like hell and I don’t have a Mr. Easter Bunny dropping me RM1000 weekly. Not even monthly or yearly. So I resent bunnies because they get lots of bunny treats without even working hard (or studying hard). These bunnies fly around the world, shop as they please, do not have to work a day of their lives and get money for doing exactly that.

You can imagine how frustrated non-bunnies are. I am a typical stressed out non-bunny. What a snub to our faces! Especially when we worked hard to study, worked hard to enter universities and worked hard at work. We are seeing a very slow repayment for our very hard work. But bunnies just need to look fluffy and lovable (ala Anna Nicole Smith), without having any education or career, they are cared for and paid quite a lump sum of money.

I expressed my opinions and I am sure that Mr. Easter Bunny got a earful from me. I was not quite the polite person that I normally am, arguing the ethics of handing out money to young girlfriends. There are a lot of things the young lady can do, other than sitting around at home and wasting her life and energy away. One thousand ringgit as weekly allowance is sin, I thought to myself.

Like all other men, Mr. Easter Bunny has his set of excuses and reasons for rewarding a young lady for not doing something productive with her life.

She comes from a disadvantaged background.
She doesn’t have family support and protection.
She was a bar girl and I am saving her from the streets.
She doesn’t have skills to work properly.
She doesn’t have work permit in Malaysia.
She doesn’t have a house or a car.
She has relatives and family members to help at home.

I told Mr. Easter Bunny what I told Alex years ago. Give the girl education and skills, if you are sincere in helping her. Poking her is hardly considered charity.

*
I mulled over our conversations through the Easter weekend. Perhaps I am a little too aggressive. After all, Bunny wasn’t my Bunny. She is Mr. Easter’s and if he is fine with the notion of giving away RM1000 weekly, I guess I am not in the position to nag.

Maybe I am ashamed of what my fellow Eves have done. Maybe I am angry because I feel degraded when my sisters are. Maybe I am too proud to ask for man’s help and I feel that women are weak if they do. Maybe Mr. Easter Bunny is right – I do not know what it is like for Bunny. Maybe I am throwing stones at a glass house.

Maybe I should not be so harsh. Maybe there is another ruler for another woman. Maybe Bunny is the way Bunny is because of circumstances. Maybe Bunny did not have all the opportunities accorded to me. Maybe I would be Bunny if I were in Bunny’s shoes. Maybe I should not be so quick to judge her of crimes that I imagined she had committed. Maybe Bunny is as pure and fragile as Mr. Easter Bunny said she was.

*
The long Easter weekend gave me plenty of opportunity to recollect and reflect on my arguments against Bunny. I wrote Mr. Easter Bunny a short email yesterday and I remarked that perhaps I should have more compassion for Bunny – that I should not be so quick to judge her and beat Bunny’s self to a pulp based on my personal beliefs. That Bunny was not me and I cannot impose my personal beliefs on her.

The compassion was timely. Bunny ate hospital food for dinner last evening after being admitted for being unwell in the past week.

Bunny has pneumonia and a small part of my heart feels pity for the 21 year old brown Bunny.

*
'Let the one without sin cast the first stone'.

When The Cat Goes Away, All The Rats Come Out To Play

2008-03-13T12:12:00.003Z

You know what I hate most? I hate how complacent some people can be. Now I almost used the word “Malaysians” but decided against it since not all Malaysians skip work (or think of skipping work) the moment their bosses, wives or mothers are not eagle eyeing them.

I find this habit very troubling. I mean, aren’t you supposed to work because you SHOULD work? Or are you going about your daily work schedules because your boss happens to be staring at you while you chat on yahoo messenger? Do you constantly need someone to breathe down your neck in order for you to get your work reports done?

My experience managing my staff could be a reasonable example to use here. While I am away from the office, suddenly there is a spike of “I am not happy with (fill in the blank)” complaints. Now I check if the complaints are justified and obviously there are several cases where they were justified and were addressed.

The most recent “I am not happy with…” involves the dishing out of salary. We doubled our list of clients (because of strategic business strategies and research) and 6 new members of staff were hired in the last 4 months to help manage the sharp increase of clients. While I hired new staff, I thought that it was also a good time to reward my senior staff members in recognition for their efforts and contributions in growing the business. Basically it’s a separation and celebration of those who were with me from the beginning.

A junior staff came into the office and cried. Let’s call her Miss Tan. So Miss Tan claimed that she could not survive on the salary both parties agreed on when she began work 3 months ago. This junior member said between sobs “transport to work costs me RM400 and my car loan is RM500 monthly. I live on nearly nothing after paying the utility bills and rent.”

14 years in the position of “boss” I realised that enthusiasm (and a willingness to work) is often time even more important than any qualification or experience any employment can cough onto the interview table. Now Miss Tan is a fine girl and enthusiastic about work, so I suggested that we give her an increment as part of her confirmation package. Therefore instructions were given for her to receive an additional RM200 under petrol allowance.

Naturally Miss Tan was happy when she heard the news of her increment. Her tears turned into joy as she proclaimed that she needn’t work in Singapore (as suggested by her mother). Thenafter the 2 other staff members who were confirmed in March were given similar petrol allowance. The sum varied, according to their talents, experience and work attitude in the first 3 months of work. No problem there.

A senior staff then stormed into the office, telling the head of staff that she wasn’t happy that the junior members received petrol allowance. “I’m not happy that she has petrol allowance.” I am sure it was her polite version of “I want petrol allowance too!” Anyway her reactions pissed me off incessantly and here are the reasons:

Salary information is private and confidential everywhere – how did she manage to yank the salary information from the junior staff’s chest?

“I am not happy” is not good enough justification for the senior member to receive similar benefit. It is not acceptable, especially not when her 2008 salary is a 30% increment of her December 2007 take-home salary + increment of EPF contribution by employer + a holiday on gratis slated in August this year.

I’m upset that Miss Senior failed to see that her salary is still higher (in every single aspect) and she was already awarded and recognized for her seniority in the company’s hierarchy. In my opinion, she is being very petty for picking on little words here and there. Her reaction to the whole episode demonstrates to me how down right ungrateful she is, for the recognition and salary hikes given to her just 3 months earlier.

I cannot give into Miss Senior’s demands. I have given into my staff’s demands in the last few months in anticipation of the increased list of clients. Obviously they know that the company needs them to work in order to maintain and sustain the number of clients we have at the moment, so they are trying hard to squeeze as much juice out of me.

The most important reason however, is that increment comes with job performance and increased productivity. Increments are made and agreed during appraisals. You have to justify the increment. For example, if you demand a RM200 increment, you have to demonstrate to your boss how you have helped him/her earn more than RM200 in profit. You cannot demand as you please.

Maybe it's time the cat came out again. Keep the rats at bay.

*
Speaking of staff meetings, I nearly died reading the secretary’s minutes for January’s staff meeting. The whole bloody thing was just a big list of “What my company should buy for me, ME, ME!”. I am not bloody Google, who being best employer in the world, is able to provide its employees with crèche service, free food for whole family, games room for its staff etc etc. Having such facilities and benefits in Google attracted the best brains to the company.

While I am not Larry Page and Sergey Brin, my company does provide free meals for its staff - breakfast, lunch and te. You would think that my staff would roll on the floor, absolutely happy, isn’t it? Oh no, they are not happy. They actually think it’s their god damn right to have free meals served to them piping hot. These days they even complain what they do not want to eat for lunch and what should be cooked for them. In my book, what's good enough for the boss to eat is good enough for the rest. January’s list includes the question if the company reimburses staff’s lunch if they head out of office to buy lunch elsewhere when they do not like what’s served in the company’s canteen.

This all excludes the small budget for staff’s relaxation and entertainment. We encourage the team to organize an activity during one evening or the weekend, to have fun and enjoy each other’s company. I thought it was an excellent way to build teamwork, trust and communication between fellow colleagues. So far, they’ve enjoyed it but I am yet to see an increase in productivity...

*
The big advertisement was meant to replace the torn one in front of the office. I had made the order before Chinese New Year and was told that I had to wait until CNY was over. And so the wait began. I received a copy of the advert the week after CNY and confirmed its design.

How long do you think it takes for an advertising firm to put up the damn thing?

It is still not up and the old banner is now flapping around the front of my office, like the torn flag of the Flying Dutchman. It’s more than one bloody month! Now I know this wouldn’t happen if I was around. The last time I ordered it, the banner turned up in less than 5 days. What changed?

Oh yes, the cat flew to Europe. So the rats are all out to play.

Last evening the cat told the rat that if he doesn't put up the banner by 5 p.m. today, he doesn't need to it up at all.

*
My third illustration examplies the Asian mentality. I really hate classifying everyone as “Asian” but I am so fuming mad at the moment, I can’t help it. I have similar encounters many times over, each a little different but yet all revolve around a similar theme – most people must have their balls squeezed till they turn blue or else they can’t function at work efficiently.

I wrote a letter of offer to a security firm for CCTV installation in one of my offices. I felt it was a good way to manage my business and showed transparency to my clients. It was also good timing and planning as the office underwent a major renovation and all the wires were laid into the building. Trouble started when they requested for a short delay in completing the installation due to a sudden huge order from a factory.

Since I manage a business myself, I fully understand the intricate works that goes into managing a business. I could wait just a bit, given the fact that the CCTV was not a life and death situation for me. It would help me manage my business better but one or two weeks later wouldn’t kill me either.

You would think that my gesture would be appreciated and my cameras + CCTV facilities set up within 2 weeks. It took them more than a month to fully complete installation in my office. I paid them with a cheque the moment the invoice came despite the company still owing my staff the necessary training to utilise the software and equipment. Oh how swiftly they bank in the cheque. But what happened to my staff’s training?

I waited until my face turned blue. Finally when I could not take it anymore, I placed an order on another product, which they promptly send to my office. With the products safely in my office and invoice in my head of staff’s hand, I refused to pay them until they settled the training and online access.

“I am utterly disappointed with the service rendered to me. It’s been more than a month since a full payment has been made for the CCTV and the training promised in the package is yet to be conducted. Please be advised that I shall only make payment for the new service when you have fulfilled your previous tasks. Thank you.”

I had to scold them and squeeze them by their balls before they did their job. They finally conducted the training for my staff. I had access to the CCTV online after more than 6 weeks waiting period. Why must people be squeezed and threatened before they are able to work?

I’ve realised that most employees (including my own set of friends) have very similar mindset. They will find ways to escape work, the very second their bosses are not watching. And most companies will stop follow up with the extra service the moment payment is made. How difficult is it to do your best because you want to be the best? Why must your boss beat your confidence down before you would move your ass?

‘Why should I work so hard since the company is not mine?’ seemed to be the acceptable excuse. I obviously have a different perspective since I am the owner and the boss. I want to treat my staff with respect and be generous with my praises for their efforts. However it looks like all these things are taken for granted here in Malaysia. People, or rather, employees, do not respond well to goodness and kindness. They respond very well to fear (of losing their livelihood), threats and self-esteem beating.

If you can’t work hard because the company is not yours, why don’t you open your own business and work hard there? The fact some people are born to manage businesses and others are born to be team players. Your attitude towards work should be the same, whatever the role you play at work – employee or employer. There is no excuse.

*
Do not take for granted when your boss is generous towards you. Celebrate when you are rewarded for your work. Be happy when your achievements at work are recognized. Do not gloat nor think that you are indispensable when your boss said, “Well done, good job!”. It means that you had done well. It does not mean that you can now parade around the office, thinking that you are one floor above your boss.

If your boss can train you, she can train another to replace you. It might be inconvenient but it is possible. Do not give your boss the opportunity to remind you how dispensable you are. Listening to how dispensable you are is degrading. Your boss does not want to be the bad person. Don’t let her be.

You should be the best that you can, whether you are an employee or an employer. Business is organic and continues to grow after you have completed the transaction. Where service is concerned, make sure you walk the extra mile. Your clients will remember you for the efforts you put into it. Do everything to the best of your ability. Respond to needs and complaints as fast as you can. Keep it simple, efficient and fast. Keep your customers happy.

Whatever you do, do not ever stop serving the minute you receive the money in your hand. It is common practice and it is bad taste. The level of sincerity of managing your business is reflected in the way your after sales service is conducted. Nothing will testify better of your priorities and objectives. It isn’t all about ringing the till.

*
The cat licked her paws. She has sharpened her claws. Wait a minute, I thought I heard a rat sneak by. Her ears perked up. How vigilant are her eyes. No more rats playing after tonight.

Election 2008: Top Bravo and Boo Boo

2008-03-10T13:58:00.007Z

No more looking at the horizon for a new home.
I have finally found my home in Malaysia.

Everyone has a moment in time when they stood out for glory or for shame. In the midst of negative sentiments against really bad government administration by really stupid people, a lady stood out from the rest. She will be remembered for having a generous spirit in a very difficult time. Nobody enjoys losing, so Sharizat's composure and calm (be it genuine or scripted) in face of defeat deserves a mention here.

Watch the first 5 minutes of Sharizat's moment and you can see that (while BN might generally consists of baffoons and idiots) there is one lady who spoke with some amount of wisdom and humility.

When a reporter asked if Sharizat was disappointed at her lost, she replied:

"No, I am not. Because you know why, I believe in God you know... kepada saya, saya dah 12 tahun di sini. Saya faham tentang politic. Ada masa kita menang, ada masa kita kalah. Dalam 12 tahun ini, banyak perubahan berlaku. So I go away with great dignity. Like you know, I'm really happy. I worked here with great passion."
~ Shahrizat Abdul Jalil

And she thanked the people of Lembah Pantai and the media for supporting her for 12 years. Top BN people should take note of Sharizat's words. This is how you carry yourself in public, instead of threats of bathing a weapon with Chinese blood or how a woman leak every month. Or man woman stand squat etc.

Sharizat, if you are reading this, I would like to say that I have great respect for you. You showed maturity and grace in a very difficult time. I can't say the same for the rest of the baffoons who still have the cheek to make stupid comments. Sungai Petani losing BN candidate Zainuddin Maidin (as quoted in Star today) would be a good example of stupidity at its highest form:

"It is not that they love PKR or PAS more that they voted against me.

The Chinese showed their resentment because of the economic backlash they often complained about. So, PAS and PKR should not be overly proud of their win (in Kedah).

The people may have to pay a price for their decision."
~ Zainuddin Maidin (as quoted in Star today)

Zainuddin as the previous Information Minister should perhaps read some online blogs to understand the sentiments of an average Malaysian. Do not even start with the threats. You are lucky the people has not demanded to check your background for any corrupt practice. Racial politics is no more relevant, so please bark elsewhere.

Zainuddin remarked to anyone who criticised Islam would be tried under the Sedition Act in 2006. The meaning of "incite" here is "belittling Islam". He is of course free to have his opinion but I find his threat of "amok" is unacceptable. Especially in the Parliment.

"We will not think twice about using this law against anybody who incites...

... But you must remember the word amok comes from this country and there is a limit to everything."
~ Zainuddin Maidin

Boo boo and shame shame on you. The Parliment has no place for people who practice threat or violence. Or one who will run amok or crazy. It is people like you that will drag us back to the middle ages. Thank goodness you are out.

*
Now the election is over and the results are out. We should all get back to our normal lives. Keep our eyes peeled on the newly elected politicians. Pray for good governence in our country. Flush out stupid people who makes stupid remarks. Stamp out corruptions. Build a new Malaysia that rewards its citizens for great work. Raise a generation of young who are articulate and analytical, who will be participants in our nation's future. Show a generous side of the human spirit and champion the plights of the disadvantaged.

Good night, Malaysia.

Ghosts

2008-03-04T10:50:00.006Z

It has snowed since Saturday morning. Everything is covered in whitest shade of white, from the trees to the rooftops and from passing cars to the swing in the playground. Everything that was brown, dirty and old, like the road works happening in front of my apartment, is now all white and beautiful.

Wouldn’t it be nice if you could have an emotional snowing, emerging on the 3rd day when you are all blemish-free, pristine and as pure as fluffy snow from the sky?

*
There comes a time when everyone packs their bags and head out into the archipelago, just a little bit off Stockholm. It is like a date that the Swedes have with themselves. 3rd Saturday of June, pack your bags and go into the forest. Prance around the fertility poll, clap hands and sing drunken men songs, sauna and skinny dip with friends accompanied by lots of barbeque and booze.

‘Skål!’ The tiny bottles clinked. Nasty little packages, they are. Nothing starts the day better than 7 a.m. wake-me-up droplets of terribly cheap booze. Come to think of it, maybe that spelt the beginning of doom.

The Scandinavians love potatoes. They have potatoes from Monday to Sunday and on special occasions such as the Mid Summer, they have boiled potatoes with dill. Given the fact that I was a spoilt (still is) little brat that never lifted a finger back home in Malaysia, I was quite a good girlfriend, peeling a bucketful of potatoes with a Korean girl and a Swede.

Don’t feel too happy for me. It wasn’t an international party despite I being totally clueless when it came to Swedish. A Swedish couple adopted the Korean as a baby, so she was oblivious to the fact that she wasn’t really white (or European, if you must) afterall. (We’ll talk about that phenomenon in another story).

Everyone has jabbering in Swedish. One shouldn’t take for granted how little you understand when you understand approximately everything 5th word. Words like “this”, “the”, “one” (and the sequence of numbers), “white”, “come here” and of course, the very famous “potatoes”.

SwedishLove was missing somewhere. He went to help the boys, so I was stuck with two girls jabbering in Swedish. They spoke in English, perhaps 5 minutes of each dreaded hour. Although silent through the whole of their conversation, we managed to skin all potatoes, poured them into an even bigger pot, filled it up and covered the lid after placing some dill in the pot of bubbling hot boiled potatoes.

Everyone gathered and took a walk into the forest. Here is the romantic part, guys. Part of the Mid Summer’s tradition involves girls wearing a garland of wild flowers on their heads. We looked somewhat like earthly princesses, with flowers of every colour sitting in a circle on our heads. A crown of freshly picked and weaved flowers sat on each and every girl’s head. Like icing on top of a cake, I guess.

Henrik and I walked around, searching for little wild strawberries. They were tiny, the size of a large bead. Red and similar to the ones we buy off shelves in supermarkets. Just that they are wild and perhaps taste a little sweeter than the commercial ones. Then again, I think they were meant to be bitter, since they were wild.

‘This is yours,’ he said, then placing the chain of wild strawberries on me. ‘It is traditional to make a chain of wild strawberries for your loved ones.’ He gave me a kiss. ‘Happy Mid Summers.’

It was so romantic, being surrounded by the greenest green forest and wild strawberries on the ground. Summers in Sweden are amazing. The sun rises at 2 a.m. and sets at 11 p.m. With the sun up 20 hours of the day, everything in your soul wakes up. Everything feels more alive and everything is a whole lot more exciting. There were others around but the world felt as if it had stopped. And in that one moment, there was only my SwedishLove and I.

Obviously there is a spoiler to this romantic story. The ghost broke the little moment we shared. ‘So you ready for the barbeque?’ she asked him. She stood a distant away, her hands urging us to join them at the table. The Ethiopian was SwedishLove’s first girlfriend and somehow or rather, they shared friends and were invited to the same Mid Summer party.

Not a problem for the two of them, obviously. But I felt like the 3rd person on a very small bed. The whole lot of them, going on and on, singing and talking in Swedish through the lunch barbeque did not help one bit. Everyone at the party were friends from years ago and they got on like they have never left each other. By then, I wasn’t only the 3rd person on the very small bed. I wasn’t even a person anymore.

I broke down after a few hours of numbness. You will never feel lonelier than the isolation you feel in a sea of people. Loneliness is when you sit at a party where everyone is clearly enjoying himself and you are the only one left at the dock of the unknown. I called the evening short and went back into the dead silent city. Oddly, I didn’t feel lonely despite being alone.

*
It was my first encounter with the 3rd kind - the ghost of past relationships. Obviously everyone has a ghost (or two) but not everyone has to deal with it in the face. Mid Summer party in the company of boyfriend, his ex-girlfriend and 10 other old friends is not recommended.

It did not end there.

‘Let’s clear up the space in the basement,’ he said. We went down 3 flights of stairs and opened the little cage-like space. I remember how the space looked. It was a corridor with space for each occupant to store his soon to be forgotten 6 months later rubbish.

I opened up a black plastic bag and there were numerous clothing articles in it. Dark navy blue, army green, dirty brown, sweaters, trousers and some odd looking t-shirts. ‘What’s this?’ I asked him, showing him the bag. ‘Do you want to keep it?’

‘Put it in the corner. It’s Jenny’s.’

Such a sweet name for a ghost, don’t you think? I hope that you are like me, thinking ‘What the hell are you doing with her clothes still?’. We didn’t speak about it until the day I left for Malaysia at the end of summer.

‘What would you like to see the next time you come back?’ SwedishLove asked.

‘I want all of Jenny’s things gone.’ And it wasn’t even negotiable.

The ghost of Jenny came and went as she pleased. No utter respect for the living, I am telling you.

‘Singapore is so much more advance than Kuala Lumpur.’

‘You can live in Singapore, for all I care. In Jenny’s panties, if you like.’

‘Jenny’s in the US at the moment.’

‘Like I care.’

‘Jenny’s a very smart girl. She speaks Swedish.’

‘I don’t consider speaking Swedish ‘smart’, especially when you have lived and studied here for 4 years.’

‘Why do you pronounce the word like that? Jenny speaks better English.’

‘Well you can be with Jenny then. I don’t give a fuck. Malaysians have Manglish and Singaporeans have Singlish.’

‘She speaks like you when she’s with her friends. But she speaks perfect English with me.’

‘Well then she’s not being her true self with you, isn’t it? She’s more honest with her friends than with you. I speak to you exactly I speak to the rest of my friends. You go figure that one out.’

I can be a bitch when I need to be. But soon though, I was also a ghost in his life. Now my clothes sits in a black plastic bag somewhere downstairs in the basement, right next to Jenny’s. And together, we are the ghosts that will haunt the next girl. I’m smiling because I know that at least I have some amount of taste in fashion.

You can betray your upbringing by changing the accent you speak. But your clothes will never lie.

*
Sometimes the ghosts popped up at truly unexpected places. Like last Saturday at the party. Nothing is more frightening than a ghost in her wedding gown. Damn unlucky, if you ever have to look at a ghost in her wedding dress. It helped that her dress was ugly like Princess Diana’s OTT Cinderella-ish pom-pom sleeve dress. She smiled, one hand holding a bouquet of red and yellow African Daisies and the other hand resting on the groom.

I saw the ghost when Kitty took me on a tour of the summerhouse by the lake. Not allowing me a moment of peace, eh, I thought to myself. Actually I was quite shocked to see the ghost bride. She was dead 4 years ago, so she had no place in the house anymore. But there she was, standing pretty in her wedding dress, next to all the family’s wedding photos.

I did not sleep well that night. The whole house smelled foul with her presence presiding over it. I knew in my heart that I had no place there in the house if she lived there. She haunted me, even if she was just an empty memory sitting on wall. That is the scariest, isn’t it? Of all the ghosts you can ever find (in secret locations such as a box in the basement or a photo album) one that sits openly and proudly on the wall to remind you that she is there, watching you every day is of the worst kind.

‘Why are you so quiet?’ he asked, then giving me a little rub on my upper arms. We were walking around the small supermarket, searching for alcohol and extra booze to boost the party.

‘Nothing,’ I said, mucking about. ‘It’s cold.’ It was a blatant lie. I have not felt cold when I cranked up the thermostat to the max in each and every room. Often time, I have to take off my layers of clothes once I arrive in the shops because it’s too freaking hot indoors.

‘Hey you! How’s everything?’ the voice came and tapped him on his shoulders. It was a friend commonly shared by the ghost bride and him. Blonde and wrinkled eyed, I thought to myself. Don’t worry, I was not the only one rudely checking from head to toe. She looked at me too. It was moment like this that I thanked God for dressing up, even for short trips to the grocer’s. In total I met 3 friends they commonly shared on a 10 minute trip to fetch more alcohol.

Bloody photo, I thought to myself. Whenever I was alone, I found myself staring at her, nitpicking and interpreting every little expression on her face. Same hairstyle from 16 until 38 years, I thought to myself, noting how her hair was the very same as the photo I saw of her when she was only 16. I would hang myself if I had the same haircut for half my life. As it is, I morph myself on average twice a year – hair colour, cut and shape. It is a symbolic metamorphosis of who I am and what I am becoming, shading the dead layers of my old self, emerging brand new.

I faked tiredness and retreated to the bedroom (to sulk). Bloody ghost stared from across my bedroom door. It’s like she planned all of this years ago. Sitting there to haunt anyone who dared to walk into the house. The whole house smelled of her, her presence never left the place and her photo was there to remind everyone that she is alive and living in some dark corner of his mind.

I slept and got up only when there was some noise downstairs. I found myself in a situation, similar to what I experienced during Mid Summers a long time ago. A room full of friends shared by the ghost bride and him, ten thousand eyes staring and judging me. I imagined that they were comparing me to her and decided in their minds that she won. You can never win when they have been friends since childhood. (Biased, biased, biased!)

Again I found myself at the sink peeling potatoes. He spoke and I replied, never looking at him. My lungs felt starved of oxygen as each minute passed. It was the most silent 20 minutes of my life - standing there, thinking, smelling and breathing the ghost. ‘Are you ok?’ he asked.

I nodded, unable to say a single word. The whole world will crumble if I spoke. I knew it. I felt a little tear nesting at the corner of my eye. ‘Damn it. I hate peeling onions,’ I said, then wiping the tear away. 'It's not onions....' a voice said in the background. And there was silence when the pots, pans and plates did not make noise.

‘Can you please remove your wedding photo?’ I asked, in the calmest voice I could muster. I must have sounded like a mouse, afraid that the ghost bride would hear. ‘What?’ he said, straining to hear what I tried so hard not to utter.

‘Can you please,’ I said, then crumbling emotionally a little more. ‘Please remove your wedding photo.’ I looked away, sensing that I have been defeated by the ghost bride. The ghost bride must be happy now, I thought to myself.

‘Pardon, Love?’ he asked again, looking at me in the eye. The tears rolled down immediately. Don’t look at me. I will die if you did. My heart will waste away when you do. I took a deep breathe and said, ‘Please remove your wedding photo. I am disturbed by it. You can place it back on when I am not here.’

‘Of course, Love. Of course, I can. This is why you are quiet, isn’t it?’ he said, then washing his hands. Great, crying in public again, I scolded myself. I walked away and hid in the bathroom for a very long time. I looked at my eyes. Do you know the defeated have red and swollen eyes? I was defeated. I let her win. The ghost won.

The photo was gone by the time I opened the bathroom door. She no longer stared into my room and her presence no longer loomed over me. The whole room felt lighter and I found myself breathing for the first time since arriving 18 hours ago in my powder blue jacket and sexy black boots. But she was still there. She will always be there. That is what a ghost do – hang around, judge you harshly and make your life a misery.

I found myself seeking refuge in the bedroom an hour after dinner. They were speaking gibberish, as far as I am concerned. I don’t get it. Why invite someone to your party if you are not going to speak to her in a language that she understands? It’s the 2nd party when they went on and on in another language, when they knew I would not be able to participate. ‘Sorry, I don’t speak English’ doesn’t cut it for me. In my most generous self, I call it rude.

Then again, I guess this is expected. They will not be easily won seeing that they are friends with the ghost bride now ex-wife. Friends stick by friends, right? Even if the relationship is dead, you still mourn for your friend’s dead relationship, won’t you? You cannot replace your friend with someone new. It’s like betraying the memory.

So even if the dead is dead and the person is nothing more than a ghost in the past, you can count on the living to remind you of their presences. The ghosts will never let you go.

*
‘I’m sorry, Love. I did not know that the photo was there.’

No matter how many apologies you make, it does not go away. It never does. It was very symbolic, the fact that she was still there, hanging and happy. This would be an altogether different story if the photo tucked somewhere in an album or slipped between the pages of a book. But a dead wedding photo hanging next to living marriages is so great a sin, it will live on forever like the ghost.

*
Is your ghost dead?

The Evidence That The Party Exists And So Do I

2008-02-26T11:47:00.012Z

The view of the frozen lake

Bachelors forever!

Listening to Milly's story

Birthday Boy got into many panties wearing this.
Viva la the '80s!

Male Bonding

Altogether we drank 6 litres of assorted wine,
48 cans of beer, 1 bottle of champagne + 1 litre of vodka.
Who said we aren't cultured?

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The reason why we can't do this every weekend anymore

Milly’s Story

2008-02-25T14:44:00.002Z

~ We're Not Gonna Take It, Twisted Sister

The old boys travelled for hours for a very testosterone filled party over the weekend. I, for one, sat in a car for 5 hours on Friday afternoon, to converge for this very special occasion. A 40th birthday celebration is a rather special occasion. Isn’t it?

*
‘I can’t believe he is hugging him!’ she gasped. She was the prettiest girl I have seen in the last three weeks. Which is a very fine compliment for a nation that is really challenged in the looks department. It has been three weeks since I lived here and I have not met a single man I had considered good looking.

And then there was Milly. She was blonde and beautiful. She was a show stopper, in her blood red coat, matching scarf, slutty red boots and a Gucci clutch.

‘Do you know that my husband hates men hugging?’ Milly said again. She rested her chin on her right hand. She observed her husband, Jerry and was caught by surprise. Her husband was publicly showing immense affection for his mate, the birthday boy.

Going old school, they played LPs on an antique recorder. Milly clapped her hands in delight (and utter surprise) when Twisted Sister’s ‘We’re Not Gonna To Take It’ played. The boys jointly stood up, gathered in a circle and chest butted each other.

‘I don’t understand why men behave that way,’ Milly said, just as the boys pointed their index fingers at each other and sang the chorus in unison. Birthday boy was singing into an invisible mic made out of his fist.

‘It’s male bonding. That’s how they… MEN… show love,’ I replied.

*
I have been caught by surprise twice since arriving here and going out with the locals. Maybe I value my privacy more than others. It is always surprising to meet people who are so honest and open during their first conversation with a person, who a minute before was a total stranger.

The first was the conversation I had with a 44 year old man, who is a confirmed bachelor for life. He talked about his relationship problem immediately after ‘Hi, my name is Tim’. His problem involved an ex-wife, 3 teenage daughters and a new slightly younger girlfriend.

The second was my conversation with Milly (with a short interruption by Lucca). Milly grew up with these boys. They were all friends, all part of the cool pack back in the 80s. They all laughed together, sang together and in the summers, swam naked in the lake together. And like ducklings taking to water, these friends naturally jumped into the sauna naked. Together.

‘Sometimes I feel that this isn’t happening,’ Milly said. ‘I am still very young. I wake up sometimes wondering why am I married to Jerry.’ She sighed, feeling almost at lost, in a situation that she had brought upon herself. ‘I’m going to divorce him.’ I am unsure if she was kidding or seriously considering the option.

She felt that she should not be married. Four years older than I am, she woke up one day and felt that the world was her oyster. She could be anyone she dreamt of being, if only she was free. Her life, according to Milly, was filled with ‘if only’-s.

‘If only I am single, I would be in another city’.

‘I love cats and would have a cat, if only Jerry was not allergic to cats’.

‘There are so many things that I can do with my life, if only I am free’.

*
‘Oh god, how long have we known each other?’ Lucca asked, after he gulped some beer from the fresh can.

The numbers popped up like mushroom after a rainy day.

‘Is it 10 years?’

‘No, it has to be longer. I’m married for six.’

‘Hmmmm, I think it was in ’93 that we met,’ Lucca said.

‘No, I was in college and I am sure to have met you before then.’

‘It must have been in 1989.’ Lucca’s voice trailed off as he reflected back in time. ‘Yes, on New Year eve of ’88’.

‘How long has it been?’ Milly asked aloud. ‘That would be 19 years now.’ She paused for a second before bursting out: ‘Oh my god! It’s been 19 years!’

And it was not a happy discovery. ’19 years and look what I have.’

Milly looked miserable. She bit her lips and looked at Lucca, who gave her a hug. ‘Look, I am with Mary for 7 years.’

(In all honesty, 19 years is a hell lot longer than 7 years but one must give the man some credit. He did try to pacify the realisation.)

‘Look, you have Mary for 7 years and you have a child together. What do I have? I have nothing for my 19 years.’

I glimpsed over to the noisy side of the party. There was Jerry dancing with the old boys. Oblivious to what was happening right here on the quieter side. Right here, where Lucca, Milly and I shared her story.

‘I have nothing for my 19 years. Jerry and I don’t share a child. We do not share a car or a house. I am 36 years old and spent 19 years with a man and I have nothing,’.

*
Now here is the strange bit. When it comes to love, human are ever hopeful. We talk about having each other in the evenings, sharing good times and building dreams and memories together. Ask yourself what are the benefits of being in a relationship and chances are you, like me, would quote reasons such as ‘hug each other’, ‘have fun together’ and ‘having a friend’.

We never talk about house mortgage or diaper duties. It is as if, a mortal sin, to talk about what you have gained (and shared) in terms of money, properties, pets and babies.

Here was was Milly, who equated her love to the above – sharing a car loan, house mortgage and lots of dirty diaper changes and milk puke. All the hugs in the world and “I love you” in the mornings do not carry the same weight at the end of the day.

Is it wrong for us to think what have we profitted out of a relationship? Does it mean that we are calculative (and thus insincere) in our love for our partners? Is it wrong to check our relationships and to ask what have we gotten out of the whole deal? Is it wrong to debit and credit our relationship, as if it is an account in the bank?

At the end of the day, what matters in our relationship? Is it the invisible rewards such as security within a (hopefully monogamous) relationship? Or does the crux lie in the very basic human needs – physical sustenance and fulfilment of human needs.

*
As the night wore on, I gave up whatever music standard I had and started to dance with the boys. Obviously they stopped chest butting by 5 a.m. which made it all more convenient. And from the corner of my eye, I saw Milly nesting her arms in Lucca’s. Nothing wrong there, to be honest since I cling onto MiniBoyFriend R every now and then.

Her emotional dam burst and quietly tears rolled down her pink cheeks. She cried, shook her head and cried some more. She got up to take a piece of tissue from the kitchen counter and walked back into Lucca’s arms. He gave her a light kiss and wiped her tears away. Their bodies were aligned into each other’s.

In Jerry’s shoes, I would have spent some private moments with Milly. To talk to her and to show her that she was special. That she was not like the rest of us at the party. He could have publicly indicated that she was someone special to him and that she mattered.

I would have spent some private time with my wife, especially after finding her riding another man like a horse. It was not a drunk stunt one would pull after 8 hours of drinking. It was clearly an attempt to win little attention from her chest butting husband. Jerry kept quiet and let it happen. Maybe he wanted to look cool, that it was okay for his wife to ride another friend. Maybe he did not want to make the issue bigger right in front of friends. Whatever the reason, Jerry either stood and watched without much of any emotion or ignored Milly with continuous head banging, chest butting and merry making with the old boys.

Would you be Milly, in Milly’s shoes? I am more of the “storm out of the party after slapping him” sort but this is Milly’s story.

*
By 6:30 a.m. Milly had her hands, legs and head on Lucca’s hands, laps and shoulders. Everyone created an alternate reality by smoking cigars by the frozen lake. I assumed that Jerry could not take another minute of everything because he went to the bathroom for the longest time. He emerged much later, on the floor. Milly laughed just as Jerry’s snores transmitted from one end of the living room into the other end of the dining cum kitchen area.

Her eyes were swollen. She still sobbed a little, with a tissue in hand. Her head was still latched on Lucca’s shoulders when we all sat at the table to fill our growling stomach. I left the party immediately after that, without much of a word. I washed my face while looking at Zach, who passed out cold on the bathroom floor.

*
‘What makes you crawl back to your wife after all these years?’ I asked a long time friend. He was married to his wife for more than half his life. ‘What is your secret to a happy marriage?’

‘I share a romantic house mortgage and 2 kids with her.’ Not the sort of romantic reply that I had imagined and expected. ‘I will be financially ruined if we divorced. Plus the kids are lovely’.

*
I cringed when I first heard my father’s most memorable advice: ‘Find a decent man who loves you. Get married and have his children.’

*
Reflecting on my own life, if I can have a moment of truth, I know Milly’s story. I understand Milly’s story because I was Milly. I am still Milly and I am not the only Milly in the world.

I am from a different generation of women. Unlike my mother and grand mother’s generations, I have all the freedom accorded to man. I stand on equal ground. As long as I am willing to believe that I can, I know that I can. There is no boundary and no limit to what I can do or achieve. The key is finding the space in my heart and mind to do it.

While some women define their worth by being with a man and having a family, I believe in finding my own place in the world. I believe in carving my own name and future. I never saw the necessity of a man to complete who I am. I admit that I find myself lonely at times and lost for most of the time. I am still trying to define who I am outside of society’s definition: grow up, be pretty, study alright, find a suitable family friendly (good enough a job to mention during parties but will not take up your entire waking hours) career, catch the most eligible bachelor, walk down the wedding aisle, have children and raise them well.

One of the reasons (if I dare to be honest with myself) why I am in and out of relationships is because there was never an anchor in the relationships. Aside from preschool crushes and highschool secret boyfriends, I had 5 relationships in my adult life so far. Barring the starter relationship being mad and destructive, all consequent relationships were wonderful and healthy. So why did the love not last forever?

On days when I dare to be true to myself, I would say to myself that there was never a single thing that tied me to my relationship. Sure, I had fun and the relationships were good. Sure, we travelled here and there, did lots and lots of things. Sure, we laughed more than we cried. But like Milly, I too feel that there is nothing in my relationships to seal the deal. There are no jointly shared properties in our names and no children to call our own.

*
Milly is a young and attractive woman. There will be many men queuing up to comfort her and hold her hand. There will many men to reaffirm her and tell her all that she wants to hear. She will be awoken and she will realise the many things that once clouded her head before.

And when the time comes, when Milly is ready, she will find the courage to share a mortgage and children with someone special. If it is not Jerry, it would be some guy named Peter. Or Andy or William or David. All she needs to do is put her mind to it.

*
I woke up at 11 a.m. to go to the loo. Zach was still sleeping next to the toilet bowl. I returned to my bedroom and sat there for the longest time, just watching the snow fall, covering the old, dirty snow with a fresh layer of white fluffy snow flakes.

Life is like a snowy morning. You are fresh, white and blameless again.

When You Stopped Loving Me

2008-02-18T10:44:00.005Z

To all the bad lovers in the world,
including the lousy people representatives of Malaysia.
~ Hit The Road, Jack (Ray Charles)

Like all other foolish 17 year old, I was blind enough to love you. You promised to love me. You promised to protect me and help me in my times of need. Like any young person, I promised that I will love you forever. I promised to be the best that I can be, so you can lift your head and be proud of me.

You were my hope and my dream. You were my everything. Being with you gave me immense pleasure and I missed you whenever I was away. I knew that you were always there for me. You promised to be true to me. You promised never to lie to me. You told me that I was special. You promised me the sun and the stars in the skies.

You promised to always love me. But you never really did. Did you? You did everything in your power to break my heart. You broke my heart then and you are still breaking my heart today. And now I am wounded. My heart bleeds and it will never stop bleeding.

*
I remember the first time you broke my heart. I was naïve enough to believe that you will love me. You said that I was special. You love her but you will love me too. That was what you said. But I guess you lied. Like how you lied to a thousand others.

I remember reading those rules and regulations. You discriminated against me – against my color and my race. You gave many others opportunities because they were the right color, professed the correct religion and were the so-called surpreme race, thus having the surpreme right. Do you not know it isn't your right? It was at the expense of MY rights as a citizen of Malaysia. You gave others scholarships to pursue education in other countries when they did not possess the right skills nor knowledge. And you left me out in the cold, to find my future all on my own.

I was not good enough for you. I was not the right color. I was not the favoured race. There were many others who converted to the favoured faith so that they might receive your love and approval. But not me. You see, I do not sell my soul to the devil. Your love is conditional and it is conditional in its worst kind.

I will never forget the day when you turned your back against me. I will never forget what I said the day when you walked away from me. Like all heart broken lovers in Malaysia, I rubbed my tears and promised myself that this will never happen again. This is the last time you will discriminate against me. You will never be able to break my heart again. I will rise up and stand on my own. And I will no longer love you because you have never loved me.

I would accept the fact if my results were not good enough but do not tell me that I am not good enough because I am not of the right colour. Or because I do not the same race box as you. You have failed me terribly. I hope you feel some form of shame.

Now you are calling for me to return home. You ask me to show some love and affection. You ask me to be loyal to you. You ask me to contribute my skills and knowledge. You need me. You need others like me. But like all bad lovers, you twist your words. Instead of taking responsibility and apologizing, you call me unpatriotic and self-serving.

But why should I love you when you had not loved me? Only a fool will continually do so. And I am no one’s fool and as a 17 year old, I promised myself that I would never be a fool for you.

*
Thankfully it was only you who failed me. I found other means to fund my tertiary education. I pursued a course of my choice, learning all the necessary skills that I need. Someone else loves me more than you do. Someone else appreciated my intelligence and skills as a person. Someone else gave me the opportunity to broaden my horizon and to gain the necessary experience that I needed.

I made another promise to myself on the day I graduated. No matter how you entice me with sweet nothings, I will never work for you. I could have worked for a government agency but I opened a business instead. And I promised that I will never bow down to you, no matter what happens. Do not underestimate the fury of a woman scorned. You have insulted me enough.

I am not going to join you when I know that you are discriminating against me. Why should I keep quiet and pretend to be the second best when I know that I am the best? You see, I might be young but I have got spine. I know that I will find a way to not only survive in this world. I will find a way to excel, despite all the hindrances you stacked against me.

*
It is more than 10 years since you last broke my heart. I do not habour any hope of reconciliation. We cannot reconcile when you have not changed. As a matter of fact, you have gone from bad to worse. When I was 17, your disloyalty was mere subtle. But now, it is blatantly apparent that you do not care for me anymore. You do not care for us.

Your lovers came to you with roses. A good lover would have listened to their complaints. You are not a very good lover, are you? You refused to commune with your lovers. Instead of love and affection, you doused your lovers with acid laced water and tear gas. Lovers argue and lovers quarrel. But lovers do not send the police to lock 200 up.

My darling, you have broken too many hearts. At 50 years, you are hardly the heart throb that you once were. And you no longer carry the glimmer of hope you once did.

*
I love you very much. I love you so much that I know what needs to be done. The cancer in your body is spreading like wildfire. I am a supportive lover. I am here to help you get better. We will severe the cancer-ridden parts, so you might re-emerge fresh and new. I know it will be painful but it is something that you must endure. It is something that all lovers must endure. I will be here for you and I will hold your hands through this difficult time.

We have a date on the 2nd Saturday in March. Do not forget our date. That is the date that destiny has appointed. I will rid you of your cancer on the 8th of March. Your other lovers will free you of your afflictions. Like all lost lovers, I hope that you will wake up, changed and humbled by the experience. You have 12 months to prove how you have changed. I really hope that you would change because hope is about the very last thing I have left.

I will feel sad if you fail this 12 month probation. I will be sad because I know that all hope is lost and I would have to end my relationship with you. 32 years of mistreatment and abuse of my love and devotion is more than I can bear. I will not put my children through the same relationship too. I will then have to say good bye.

*
You know that you could have had the best of everything? You could have my loyalty and love? But you abused my love and devotion and now it is too late. This is the not the end, my love. This is just the beginning.

***
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The Day After You Die

2008-02-12T00:25:00.000Z

Do you know what is worse than dying? Well I was kept awake two hours by this very question. What is worse than dying my dear friends, is the day after you die.

What happens if you died tonight when you sleep and wake up tomorrow, realising that you have left your mortal body? Some might figure that you will end up in either heaven or hell, depending on your deeds. Heaven would be bliss, I was told. No sickness. Only roads and streets paved in gold. Although I don’t understand why we are stuck on precious jewels and metals, which if you hadn’t notice, are coincidentally very earthly and carnal desires for material gains.

Why bother with a heaven that is paved in gold when money don’t matter anymore? Now that’s something to ponder tomorrow night before I sleep.

But as for tonight, let’s just stick to burning in hell and thenafter.

Shit would be finding out that you are burning in hell on the day after you die. Right?

Actually. No.

I think there is something worse than rotting in hell for all eternity. Oh yes there is, ladies and gentlemen. There is something worse than hell’s burning fires and Satan and Saddam’s dinner invite on alternate weekends. What is worse than dying and ending up in hell begins with a “R” and ends with a “T” with “EGRE” in between them.

REGRET.

It would be terrible to wake up the day after you die, realising that you have regrets while you were alive. And there is no turning back once you crossed the line.

*
I wake up in a puddle of sweat. Everyone sleeps soundly but like a watchman on his 2 a.m. round, I am alert. I am on guard. I lay still and keep watch over everything that happens around me. I pick and dissect today. What was good, what was bad. What went well and who the hell does the old geezer think he is, cockstaring me at the bloody traffic light?

My buttons are pushed. My shoulders are bruised. They knock me over and they never apologize. It is their god-damn right to push me around. I don’t belong here, I am told. I am an alien and my father eats pork.

Actually my family doesn’t eat pork since the day we adopted our 2 year contractual, extended family member. She is Indonesian, of course.

I am worried for my safety, like I have never worried before. I lived my whole life in a house where the door and gate are almost nearly 100% unlocked during the day. These days I check my locks a few times and I sleep without resting. I hear every creak and every little rustle in the trees.

Just the other night, the phone rang at 2 a.m. I never pick it up, so I rolled over and closed my ears. The phone died down and I rolled to the other side. The phone rang again in minutes and just as I was about to roll over and close my ears, I sprung up.

‘What the hell! It could be the bloody idiots testing if I am awake in the house,’ I said to myself. I rushed out of bed, ran through the house and switched on the lights. It was my signal to the outside noise that I am awake.

I am here. I know you are out there.

*
Have you thought of the legacy you leave for your kids? Maybe I am just a thinker. Or a dreamer. Or a philosopher. Most think that they are all the same person and that I am one. I have thought about what I am leaving for my kids and what I want to pass to my children.

I am not talking of gold nuggets and LV bags here. I am smart enough to earn my keeps and I am bloody sure that my children are as smart as their mother, if not smarter. They will never need anything from their mother, the same way I do not need anything from mine. My mother gave me skills that guarantees me a future and I will pass to my children the very same skills (plus-minus some miscellaneous stuff, which I politely decline to share. I am sure you have your private bag of emotional baggage).

I am not sure if many people think of what they are leaving behind. They enjoy today too much to care about tomorrow. And before they know it, WHAM! They’re dead and it’s the day after they had died. Which basically means it is already too late.

I am not here to preach world peace or animal rights – although I am passionate about both. Just like you, I have only 24 hours but I am thinking of ways to be accountable for mine. I am way too busy to bother with trivial matters.

I am only concerned about what matters most when I wake up on the day after I die.

*
I am worried about the future. I am worried for my children. I am worried about raising my daughters, especially. I am concerned for civil liberty. Especially these days when the basic block of my rights as a human and as a citizen seem to be chipped at, a little at a time.

I don’t read the newspapers anymore. Reading another day’s worth of newspaper is depressing these days. I don’t know if you have noticed but these are rare and exciting times to live. What we are witnessing before our eyes will go down in history.

History books might distort the truth of what really happened, as they are written and rewritten by those in power. But our minds’ account of history lives forever. Or at least until you and I are silenced in death.

We are witnesses to a royal inquiry into the accountability of our Malaysian judiciary. Whether it is true or false doesn’t matter. The damage is done. The legal system is tarnished and it will take years to restore the faith of the people.

It will take years to restore my faith in the Malaysian legal system, for the fact that its legitimacy is questioned.

The other worrying trend in the newspapers is the body snatchers. Now I seriously do not care for the world, what religion the body snatchers represent. The operative word here, for me at least, is ethics and there happen to be none (or very little of it). And this worries me a lot. Grieving families have the right to grieve and burry their lost without the interruption of strangers, who never cared for hoots for the dead until he died. I have a problem with that notion.

Death might be as sure as the sun rising from the east but be assured that no one enjoys watching a loved one dying. You have no control over what happens after someone die. The last few control you have is the body of the dead. Can you imagine losing the very last right to respect and bury your loved one?

I don’t mean to be mean but it can be likened to our prime minister finding out that some men claiming the body of his beloved wife, saying that she converted to XYZ religion and should be buried according to its rites. And he has no right to say ‘no’. They just take her body and bury her elsewhere – somewhere of no consequence to her or him. But mattered all in the world to the strangers.

You go justify that one while I write about another news worthy cringe.

*
I have never been this frightened in my life. It is not affecting me directly but I am affected by it nonetheless. I cry when I read about the lives of Revathi Masoosai and Lina Joy – women who lost the battle the day they were born. Revathi was forcibly detained and separated from her child for 180 days. She was detained against her will by a group of people who had no right to detain anyone, let alone someone who is not of them.

You want to talk about family values? What family values is there when you forcibly break up a loving, law abiding and functioning family compromising of a husband, ONE wife and seven kids (eg: Martimutu)? Who gave you the right to tell them what is right or wrong? Who are you to define their marital status? And who gave you the right to deprive seven young children of a normal childhood?

Marimutu’s children should sue the government for not protecting their rights as children in the country. Oh hell, they might as well sue the queen of England instead since chances are a court case not favouring the government or certain influential people (who merrily drank their way beyond recognition) would take years.

I am worried for my rights as a citizen of Malaysia. Every single day I read the newspapers and it is shouting that my rights are stripped, slowly but surely. What is stopping some strangers from taking a body of my loved one? There is no guarantee, is there? They might just spring a “He has conveniently converted 3 days before he died. Oh didn’t he mention? I am sorry but his body still has to go…”

Who can guarantee my freedom to express my thoughts and opinions? A weaker person might think that I am preaching hate here when all that I am doing is defending my rights according to the Malaysian Constitution, which states ever so explicitly:

Article 8
1. All persons are equal before the law and entitled to the equal protection of the law.

2. Except as expressly authorized by this Constitution, there shall be no discrimination against citizens on the ground only of religion, race, descent or place of birth in any law relating to the acquisition, holding or disposition of property or the establishing or carrying on of any trade, business, profession, vocation or employment .

Take note that the definition of “law” stated above is the Malaysian civil laws. All of us are entitled to equal protection of the law, by which these articles are bound.

There shall be no discrimination against citizens on the grounds of religion, race, descent etc - which basically means I am equally as entitled to all the privileges given to the bumiputras as the bumiputra sitting next to me.

The very same article states that my Muslim brothers and sisters are firstly accountable to the Malaysian civil court and are bound by its rules. Any other court or laws are secondary to the Malaysian civil court. The Constitution and its laws are the supreme law in Malaysia.

Article 11
1. Every person has the right to profess and practice his religion and, subject to Clause (4), to propagate it.

Read it clearly. Every person has the right to profess and practice his religion. The last I recall, even Muslims are “every people”.

Article 12
1. Without prejudice to the generality of Article 8, there shall be no discrimination against any citizen on the grounds only of religion, race, descent or place of birth....

It is like jackpot here. It is clearly mentioned again that there SHALL BE NO DISCRIMINATION against any citizens on the grounds only of RELIGION, RACE, DESCENT OR PLACE OF BIRTH.

Does this mean that we can sack politicians who ask us to “balik cina” or “balik India” in the Parliament? Asking me to go back to China appears to be a discrimination against me on the grounds of race.

3.No person shall be required to receive instruction in or take part in any ceremony or act of worship of a religion other than his own.

I am relieved when I read this clause. I am not required to receive instruction or take part in any ceremony or act of worship etc. I was okay with the mosque’s call to prayer with four speakers but I think it’s a little over zealous to crank up the volume and add four more speakers to the very well maintained existing four speakers. I don't understand how the other 4 call to prayers sound so melodic with the first one being the exception.

And if you can’t count, that's 8 speakers on a little village mosque. I really like its architecture and smile whenever I see it. It looks really beautiful until I am forcibly woken up for an hour every morning. Me no likes that at all.

In case you are saying I am prejudice against Islam, let me state that I agree that no bells should chime on churches, no ting tongs in Chinese temples and no ding dongs in Hindu temples. Which therefore makes me equally as prejudice against them lot.

4. For the purposes of Clause (3) the religion of a person under the age of eighteen years shall be decided by his parent or guardian.

Reversibly, does this mean that a person above the age of eighteen years have the right to decide his/her beliefs, faith and religion? I think it means just that but whether it is practiced here in Malaysia or not, depends entirely on the generosity of its people and the wisdom of its leaders to uphold the Federal Constitution.

I am losing faith in the sovereignty of the Federal Constitution. Which was written for me, to protect my right as a lawful citizen in Malaysia. Oh hell, if the newspapers don’t have much faith in the Malaysian legal system, why the hell are we talking about ideals such as our right as citizens of Malaysia?

*
My UK visa will expire in May this year. I was reflecting on the necessity to extend it. Can I plead with the British Embassy that I NEED to extend my work visa because my faith that my country will protect me is dwindling by the nano seconds? Do you think they will give me a two year extension on humanitarian grounds? That I believe that my basic human rights are slowly undermined?

I do not want to end up waking up the day after I die, to find myself buried by some unknown strangers in some unknown place. Who so happen, thought it would be fun to bury me against my wishes. Or against the wishes of people who meant the world to me.

I have a huge concern for the things we teach our children. I am worried for the future Eves amongst us. Five years from now, will Eve be taught to shut up? Will she be called evil because she was born female? Will her sports attire be any longer than it is today? Will her teachers spit at her because she has a mind of her own? Will she stand on equal ground with Adam?

I want a heritage for my children. I want a bright future, where my children are valued for their contributions to society. A future where they are judged for what they can do and not for where their great grandfather came from. Where they stand equal with the friend next to them, given the privileges that all Malaysians deserve. Where they have the liberty and freedom to share their views without fear of prejudice.

Where they will never have to fill up forms stating their race. Based on ethics, I no longer tick the box which requires me to state my race. I think it is none of their business whether I am Chinese, Indian, Malay (or worse, "others"). Where their government will not deny them of their rights as Malaysian citizens. Where they vote for someone because he is the right person for the job. Where there is efficiency.

I want my children to taste freedom and in order for that to happen, I need to do something today. I need to vote at the coming election. I need to show the world that I think. This coming election will be the trip of a lifetime. Mark it down in your diary for it will be a day for Malaysians to remember. It will be the day where every single one of our voices count.

I am not preaching religion. I am not preaching against religion. I am talking about love for my country and my duty to protect it. It is my duty to protect my country. Get rid of those people who tell you that patriotism is nodding your head to whatever that is thrown to you. I'm sorry but telling me what a good track record the government has had in the last 50 years doesn't cut it for me. Not anymore anyway. What is important to me is where Malaysia is heading in the next 50.

Don't even try to subtly mention how the country will fall into disarray if the opposition comes into power. I might misunderstand your intention and label it as threat. I don't care whether the candidate is for the government or from the opposition. I want to know who is best for the job. Now if Obama has the slightest hope of being the first black President of the US, then I think we Malaysians are ready to vote for the right person - without prejudice against gender, age, political aliance and especially not discrimination against a candidate's race.

Vote for people of substance. Vote for truth and justice for all. It is time to vote for an efficient leader. That’s neo-patriotism.

*
So have you thought about the day after you die? Have you thought of the name you leave behind? What inheritance is left for your children when you are gone? Is it the multi-million dollar business empire or the super expensive home? Will you sell your soul to the devil for a few good years of your life?

As for me, it is all about the ethics. It is all about basic human rights. It is the protection of my family and my neighbour’s. It is about bringing up children upright, not fucking them up with some sex segregation propaganda by certain quarters with ulterior motives.

I don’t want to wake up tomorrow, fearing that there is no tomorrow. I don’t want to face a day of regret, wishing that I did more. I don’t want to wake up one morning, wondering how on earth did Malaysia end up so fucked up. I don’t want to check the locks ten times before sleeping tonight.

*
Good night, Otto. Sleep tight and don’t let the thieves come in tonight.

The Red MG

2008-02-06T08:44:00.000Z

Lina offered traditional massages and was very good with her hands. Everyone loved Lina because she was special. She not only could heal your body. She could heal your soul.

‘I didn’t want it to happen this way,’ I said, then breaking into silent tears. I drew my hand towards me face and wiped a secret tear away. I was lying on my stomach when we had the conversation. How everything breaks down after sometime and how I broke down each time. She kneaded my back, along the back of my spine. She started at my shoulder blades, slowly moving down and worked on my thighs.

‘Turn over,’ she said, lifting the towel whilst I turned around to lie on my back. She covered my breasts with a neatly folded fresh towel. I laid still, eyes closed as she oiled my hands. ‘You should find an older man,’ she said. ‘And don’t get married this year.’

I opened my right eye and looked straight at her. ‘What do you mean by “older”?’

‘Older,’ she said, then pausing for a second. ‘As in much older than you. Ten, eleven, twelve years older than you. Only an older man can understand you and allow you the freedom that you need.’

‘I am hardly going to marry someone this year, Lina,’ I said, the sighing. ‘I can hardly concentrate ten seconds on any man.’

She laughed, then she patted my head. ‘Listen to me, my child. You will feel calmer when you find that man. He is much older than you, so he will let you go and quench all the desires you have inside. A young man will never understand your needs.’

She moved her hands from the sides of my body, towards the center. ‘This is to centralize your womb. Makes you have good sex.’ I laughed when I heard that. I never knew old ladies were ever bothered about sex. ‘Oh goodness! Look at your belly button,’ she exclaimed.

I lifted my head to see the fuss surrounding my bellybutton. Is it bleeding? Is it dirty? Did I forget to wash my bloody bellybutton? I took a look closer.

‘Your bellybutton is special. Women with bellybuttons like yours make sex good for men. Tight inside. Wraps a man tightly inside,’ she said, then tapping the area surrounding my womanhood. ‘Now remember what Mak Cik Lina said. Find an older man.’

*
I was walking around aimlessly. Waiting, I was waiting for the cab to take me to the airport. I hate flying. I don’t know how I managed to like flying when I was younger. I must have been crazy then.

Actually, I am still crazy now. The backpack decided to slouch off my shoulders as I turned around to pace the space again. Sometimes I wished that I smoked. Then I looked normal when I pace. You see, smokers walk up and down three paces whenever they smoke and they have the most serious look on their faces. I had the serious look because I was seriously late for my check-in but I did not have the ciggie.

I hate cigarettes.

*
‘And what do we have here?’ His red car crept up like a cat upon a mouse. I did not hear it roll by. This is what you get for pacing up and down like a crazy homeless lady. A thousand things can happen around you but you would not have felt them one bit.

I peeped through the window. His MGB Roadster always looked exotic on the streets. ‘Who is that waiting for a cab?" He smiled when he said that.

‘Yes. I know that I am adorable, even when I am frantic,’ I said. He always had this calming smile. He pinned the cigarette at the corner of his lip, got out of the car and threw my luggage into the back. ‘Thank you, darling,’ I said as I got into the passenger seat.

Each of us has a role to play in life. His role in my life was always of the saviour. He and his red MG appear at the strangest and most difficult times in my life. It is as if he knew that I needed someone to carry me through the time and it was him who always carried me through.

*
‘I’ll take you for lunch,’ he declared. ‘I think you need something to fill that stomach of yours,’ he said as he poked my belly with his left index finger. He looked strange with the cigarette pursed at the corner of his lip. He looked like Popeye, the sailorman. Hey, that is quite apt seeing he sails in and out of my life.

‘No!’ I said. I crossed my arms in protest, like a spoilt child. ‘I am already late for the god-damn flight! And I don’t want to miss the flight.’

‘At this rate, you have already missed the flight. Don’t worry about it. You and I will go for some quick bite. I will get my PA to arrange a new ticket for you. Where are you going this time around?’

His car zipped down the street.

*
‘My whole life is like an hour on BBC World. It is frenzied with all emotions twirling and raging inside. My life is a drama and I am in a mess.’ I buried my face in my hands.

‘Oh it isn’t that bad,’ he said, then rearranging my brown locks on my shoulders. ‘You will make it through this one, like how you made it through your last one.’ Somehow his words were soothing. He soothed the pain away. And when I feared anything, he was there to sweep it all away. That was his role to play.

I told him how I got into this mess. How now I have to fly faraway to explain myself. How unhappy I am with everything despite having quite nearly everything. How I feared hurting people around me. How I wanted to be free. How I feared being alone but I could never feel comfortable with someone. I never trusted anyone more than myself. And when I fear, I flee.

He poured some tobacco on the paper. He had perfected rolling tobacco down to an art-form. Watching him craft the cigarette into existence soothed my soul. I grew silent and rested my chin in my hands. I sat entranced as he licked the edge of the paper. He lit the cigarette and drew his first smoke.

‘Now I have to go break-up with a person. I am telling you, I can’t do this anymore. My heart cannot take the heartbreaks anymore.’ I cupped my eyes with my hands. I cannot break down and cry. Not in the restaurant anyway.

He lit his cigarette and then he gave me a squeeze. 'Don't worry. I will take you there.'

*
I rubbed my eyes. It is 8 a.m. but it is still dark outside.

One Thing Man Should Never Do

2008-02-04T09:20:00.000Z

What I love most about being away from Malaysia is, it challenges my daily routine. I find myself bewildered by what I normally take for granted back in Malaysia. A good example would be this morning when I got up and looked out of the window. Another good example would be the oh-so-ordinary trip to the neighbourhood grocer.

This morning I was up like usual. The definition of “like usual” would be 7 a.m. It is calm here; not more than the occasional sound of water chugging through the pipes. I took a peep through the kitchen window. The forest looked different. Ah yes, it is different. It snowed. A lot. The forest was pristine white, with dark chocolate brown lines marking each individual branch of each individual tree.

*
‘Are you free to talk, Miss Otto?’ Her left eye blinked through the small gap through my bathroom door.

‘I’ll be out in a minute. I just need to make sure the yellow eye shadow on my right eye matches my left,’ I said then plastering myself closer to the mirror in hopes that I could match my eye shadow as accurately as possible. No pressure.

If I were to name the culprit for my high (real or imagined) stress level, staying across my office would be it. Clients came in every hour of the day and I could never run away from the phone calls. I had a TV and Astro installed late last year but I was never able to watch TV from 7 a.m. to approximately 7 p.m. My bottom was stuck to the office chair from the moment my eye shadow matched each morning till I was too tired to type another letter each evening.

This morning, I am writing a story to you finally. Staying away from Malaysia means I am writing this to you while sitting on the loo. How different my day is after a 13-hour flight to a city where leaves sprout in late May.

*
I wasted a year of my life taking short breathes. Taking short breathes through tiny slits of imaginary air, before submerging myself into tasks that never seem to end, emerging only to take another short breathe.

Today is the first day I slowed down to smell everything around me. Today is the first day that I find time to take a slow, deep breathes, relishing in the air that my lungs received.

I am not drowning anymore.

*
‘Aiya! Why you don’t fly after the lunar new year?’ my mother asked when she found out that I had a ticket booked for Europe five days before Chinese New Year.

‘Nothing special happens during Chinese New year, so I thought I should fly,’ I said nonchalantly.

Which is true. Nothing ever happens. My family is small, consisting of my parents and three brats they call children. When we outgrew our cute phase called childhood, my parents babysat three siblings, who are equally as bratty as my parents’ real children. Reunion dinners never seemed important. Well, we have reunion dinners but it was a small affair consisting of two adult parents, 3 adult real kids and 3 more artificially adopted kids.

We don’t smoke. We don’t drink and heaven forbids if we ever learnt to gamble! Which left us with only one Chinese sin – eating.

I think Eve spends a typical Chinese New Year. It is family tradition for Eve’s father to talk about the bird and the bees to his three girls after having some Henessy. My family finishes reunion dinner by 6 p.m. We then do random non-Chinese New Year related stuff.

Three years ago, we tried to be our Chinese best. We learnt to play mahjong. We should have realised that it was a failed venture from the start. Even the blind can read the tiles better than my brothers and I.

*
To date, I owe the following to the following people:

1. My contractor, a sum of RM13,000 for building renovation on my office.

2. Alex, a letter answering his questions. An emotional debt.

3. My bank, a sum of RM20,000 for an overdraft.

4. My car financing institution, a sum of RM1050 for the pretty car I zip about in.

5. My credit card institutions, random sums of money for random manic purchases which now include a pair of ruby red Camper shoes and a gold bracelet that looks like an earthworm crawling on my wrist.

I will expedite payment before Chinese New Year, as I would like to clear as much debts as possible. One should start the lunar new year with as little debt as possible. It is like the act of cutting your hair. You always come out feeling lighter and fresher.

*
The sun is out and it is melting the snow away. A sparkle of jewelled water drops off the end of a tree branch.

Do you think the sun will melt my emotions too?

*
‘And that is why men should only tell women things on a “should know” basis,’ he said, then stumping the life out of his cigarette.

One evening, his girlfriend (ever so innocently) asked him how many girls had he brought home to shag on his bed. He now admits that it was a mistake to tell her the truth. He claims that anger seethes through her pretty rows of porcelain teeth. Sometimes she claimed magnanimity by saying that she was cool with it. (Seriously, who was she kidding?)

‘I knew it! I shouldn’t have told her. You should never tell women the truth. Just tell what is necessary, and that’s it!’ he said.

‘No, no,’ I replied, ‘Don’t ever do that. The one thing that a man should never do is hide.’

‘Why?’

‘You will prefer to be nagged for something that you did than for something that a woman thought you do. At least the nagging is justified. She will make up an answer if you did not offer a satisfactory answer. So you might as well get flak for something that you really did. At least you are punished for your real sins, not imaginary ones.'

He lit another cigarette and nodded his head.

Sing Sang Sunk

2008-01-11T01:12:00.000Z

Promise me that you will not tell anyone what I wore on Christmas Eve. Promise?

*
‘I am pathetic,’ I typed a short message to R on Christmas Eve.

‘Surely not as pathetic as me.’

‘Oh yeah? I am in bed at 8 p.m. iBook on lap, watching senseless tv on Christmas Eve.’

‘I’m home too.’

‘What the fuck happened to me? Promise me that you will not tell anyone what I wore on Christmas Eve, ok. Jatuh saham (trans: lose stock value).’

After exchanging more than ten messages, we both agreed that we were too lazy to join the long jam. Can you believe it? I involuntarily volunteered to be alone at home on Christmas Eve. I wouldn’t mind it that much if I had some hot hunk but I was sat in bed all on my own. Actually I didn’t mind sitting in bed at all. I needed all the rest that I got.

Not so long ago, I club hopped on my own, joining different groups of friends in nothing but sexy lace.

*
Somehow everything feels bland in my mouth. Nothing tastes sweet anymore. Is it really true that everything tastes like nothing when I don’t have you? And that love will make even the bitterest experience sweet and it is also love that takes away everything beautiful.

I don’t know if you have noticed but I am escaping somesort. I am avoiding the topic that I do not want to mention. I seriously do not think that I am able to deal with this at the moment. Each time I think about it, my heart sinks and tears will flow uncontrollably. I have lost count the times when secret tears ran down my cheeks - at work, while driving, during dinner at my parents, afternoons in a busy shopping mall, quiet moments at 3:11 a.m. all alone. I woke up at 3:11 a.m. exactly for the past 2 weeks.

‘I can’t do this anymore.’

I practiced that line a million times. Each time I say it, I will hear Alex mew a little ‘babs’. To be precise, I imagine him pursing his lips, eyes cast down with a squeak ‘baaa-aaabs’ and it kills me each time.

Every and every time. And even now as I recall this, tears roll down. Damn those tears.

*
It sometimes feels easier to severe major arteries than with him who makes you sing in your darkest hour.

This Is My Escape Pod

2007-12-26T06:48:00.000Z

I am sitting in the office, with a towel wrapped to my head. Some friend’s daughter gave me headlice. ‘Merry Christmas, Aunty Otto,’ she said last week, then she gave me a hug. I wished it was just a hug that she gave me and not a head full of lice. My god, my hair is the longest it has been, sitting somewhere near my waist if I stretch out the curly locks. Some days I feel that they are the prettiest things on earth and on other days I feel like chopping them off.

Like this morning when I felt like a train wreck waiting to happen. I was very close to chopping my hair down to Marilyn Monroe's blonde shoulder length cut.

I think I have successfully screwed my internal body clock. I worked till past midnight every night for the past few months, getting up at 7 a.m. to work again. Last night I rolled in bed till 5 a.m. I had no control over my tear ducts. Tears streamed down like an endless waterfall of sadness and disappointments. I am exhausted and I am tired of everything. I am so sick of staring at my laptop that I feel like puking just thinking that I have to face the damn thing again.

And yet, here I am sitting with a towel around my wet bundle of hair.

*
I slept sometime after 5 a.m. this morning after the much needed emotional lonely crying session. And just when you think that Otto is all okay and I have sufficient sleep, I should let you know that I was actually quite rudely woken up by a phone call. Good job that I liked the client (or I would have chomped off her head) and so I sat up in bed and chatted with her for a bit. Made all the necessary arrangements for next year.

Couldn’t sleep after that phone call. I pressed the remote and the TV was switched on. It was not even 9 a.m. I slept 4 hours today. A mere 4 hours. It is no wonder I thought I needed medication last night.

I walked towards the cupboard and took out a dress. It was dark chocolate halter dress. The whole idea was ‘this is my weekend and I fucking going to walk around without a bra and without a care in the world!’.

I stared at myself in the mirror and arched an eye brow. I was happy stepping on my fancy electronic scales recently because I have lost 2kgs. Yay, that’s 2 kgs less of fatty thighs! That was what I thought until I stared at myself in the mirror. I think it was 2 kgs of breast, rather than thighs.

And I love my breasts! The lesson learnt before breakfast this morning is – Losing weight in kilos isn’t everything. Losing at the right places is more important than how many kilos overall. Now I am on a mission to eat until I gain my fuller breasts size again.

Which is really good news considering the way I stuffed 10 pieces of ‘yong tau fu’ for breakfast.

*
Sometimes I experience a nervous tinge. I cannot pinpoint when this exactly started but I know that there are times when I feel the onset of an anxiety attack. Like this morning, with my head 3 inches from the mirror and my right hand steadily applying the gel eyeliner. I suddenly felt faint, as if everything was turning black. But the moment stops almost the same instant when it starts. And I get back to my normal self.

One more week to the new year. Are you excited? I am anxious and excited at the very same time. There are things this year that were tremendous and wonderful and yet, there are things that still haunt me.

This year represents self-indulgence and pursuit for personal things. I have many things but yet, there is something lacking. How can I have so much and yet have so little? I cannot figure this one out. While everyone else is moving on and going about, I feel that I am trapped in a room that gets smaller and smaller by the minute.

Everyone escapes unhappiness and is in pursuit of happiness. I am walking around in a loop. I sleep at night and yet my mind is awake, thinking ‘This cannot be it. How can this be it? There is no way this is it.’ I sleep and feel no rest. I wake up but am not awake.

I do not know what I am looking for. All I know is that I am searching.

*
‘I have had many boyfriends. I will admit to that. I cannot promise you that I will love you forever. I promise that I love you today.’

23 Days to New Year

2007-12-10T07:55:00.000Z

I know it is 23 days to the new-year but I can’t seem to get the idea out of my head. A summary seems perfect tonight as I sit in my bed, typing, deleting, typing again while watching Miami Ink. I guess there is no rule prohibiting one from summarizing the year 3 weeks earlier than usual.

*
I have not dreamt for two weeks. Now that is strange because I remember my dreams well. Not recalling my dreams is worrying. It all started two Sundays ago when I was about to drive to my parents’ for Sunday dinner.

There it was, on the Bachelor’s Jeep. There was a burnt paper, like those burnt sacrifices you would see at a Chinese funeral. I looked upwards into the blue sky. There was no trace of illegal burning. There was no funeral wakes in the vicinity. Strange, don’t you think?

I walked closer to inspect the burnt paper and it turned out to be a photo, burnt and seared at its edges. I felt a pinch of regret in my heart the moment I picked it up. I looked at the eyes staring back at me. The eyes were familiar. They were mine.

The burnt photo was sitting on the Bachelor’s Jeep and the photo was me. It was a passport photo of myself, in a work blouse I wore to the last photo session a year ago. And I do not know who burnt it. Or why.

Did the burnt photo steal my dreams away?

*
If I have to choose a word to describe this year, I think I would choose “tremendous”. 2007 is tremendous in every sense. It has been an exciting year, full of challenges and filled with excitement. I actually feel quite smug when I think about it. I have done a lot of things that I have never done.

Like working non-stop. This is the first year where I did not take much holidays. I usually work away from the office for at least three months of each year. However this year, I have my legs firmly planted in Malaysia. Specifically in my office, Monday to Sunday, from morning till night.

I started this year with a renewed vow. I promised to grow myself in every aspect of my life. I stopped taking my business for granted. I reclaimed all that was mine years ago. I worked hard and I shopped harder. The business grew and here I am 23 days into a new year, in a room full of things, which now includes a flatscreen tv (and a secret red Louis Vuitton in the cupboard - shhh).

A year ago I never imagined the flatscreen in my bedroom but yet, there it is, noisy every night. Looking at it now while I write this to you, I can’t seem to decide if I would flirt with Ami or Nunez (of Miami Ink).

I have not flirted in a long time. If flirting was a wall, it would be full of spider webs and icky flies.

*
I switch the television on the moment I retreat to my bedroom. I wake up at 3 a.m. and the tv flickers on and on. Occasionally the tv broadcasts red, green and blue lines with a flat high pitch beep. It is as if I am filling my emptiness with background noises.

This is about the only photo
I have taken 2nd half of 2007.

***
Related Links

The Post Christmas Turkey Post

Tak Tau Malu

2007-10-30T07:09:00.000Z

I meant to write you a letter but I never found the time. There are plenty of things I wished I shared with you but somehow the words don’t flow. I do not blame you if you think I have abandoned you. I understand why you must have felt that way. I would have felt the same way too, if I were in your shoes.

I wake up everyday and I chase after a shadow. No, people call it a dream. Yes, I wake up daily to chase a dream. Some dream that there will be a better tomorrow. Some dream of beautiful things. Some dream of the simplest, like ‘more coke that you can ever drink’ recorded in The Joy Luck Club page one.

I don’t know what it is that I am chasing. Or what it was that I was supposed to have chased after. The dream, once vivid, now feels a little blurred. I can see what it is if I shut my eyes and move myself to another space and time.

But I am stuck here.

*
Everything that I felt a year a go seems so far away. All the love and excitement, everything has changed. I am still excited but it is for something else. I still feel love but it isn’t anymore Alex.

No. I can’t say that. I can’t say that I am over Alex. I know that I am not. But a long time ago, life taught me that there is a distinct separation between love and life. Sometimes all that you love cannot be part of your life and other times, all that is in your life has no essence of love.

Many women are victims in the name of love. They do everything for the man they love. I used to be one of them. I believed that love could change everything and love could conquer all. I guess I still believe in the same thing with the exception that I have read the fine print, located on the last chapter of the life contract, right below. The print was so fine, I needed a jolt in the form of a very selfish man who abused me in everyway imaginable.

Since that day I walked out of his life, or rather, asked him to get the fuck out of mine, I believe that love conquers all when the man and the woman involved are willing. You know what they say about “when there is a will, there is a way.”

So what if there is no will?

Then there is no way.

*
‘Don’t call me at my phone number,’ the voice cracked. I could hardly recognize that it was PY. ‘I was robbed 5 minutes ago. Fucker.’

She was robbed in front of 5 men (2 of them were sat at her table) in a little coffee shop in Seremban. There was a laptop but it was not taken. The robber must have been desperate for cash. He could have taken the laptop, which was located nearer to him but he chose a lady’s bag.

Now despite me lovingly teasing PY with the tag “aunty” the truth is she is anything but an aunty. She sprung into action, ran after the guy and nearly caught him, if not for her sprained left ankle.

So she called me from Seremban, nearly in tears (brave girls don’t cry) but she managed to account minute by minute all that had happened. How she ran down the path after the guy in helmet. How other men merely shouted at the guy but no one offered to help.

How helpless and defenceless she felt since that day.

*
I was angry last weekend. Some random stranger ransacked through my bag while I queued up at Sepang to watch Mika Kallio on his 36. I must say that I did not pay good money to have my privacy ransacked in public. What angered me more was the fact that they threw some other dude’s bottles of water. There was a mountain of bottles at the table where they checked everyone’s bags.

I think it is a total invasion of my privacy in the name of consumerism. I have all the right to bring in whatever drinks (or chips or sandwiches) I wish to bring for the event, just as long as I do not dirty public spaces. I hate it when people force me to do something that I am not willing to do. I would buy drinks on my own accord and not because some strange man threw my bottle of mineral water at the counter.

On what grounds do you throw people’s mineral water? I hope it is for the sake of public safety. “So you have to buy your food and drink from the stalls near the grand stand” doesn’t make the cut for me. For your information, I was one of those lazy people who did not prepare a single thing for the MotoGP and willingly parted with RM15 for a lousy can of Tiger beer. But on principle, I hate having my consumer rights ripped out of my hands.

A slight breeze blew during the Sunday race as I sat in the plastic seat. I glanced to my left and saw a group of young boys sitting on the steps. What do we have here now? A bunch of Mat Rempits and Mat Motos, released from their schools?, I thought to myself. They were in their uniforms and backpacks on their backs.

“What a minute? Is that a bottle of water?!” The Bachelor asked, grabbing my elbow for some attention.

The group of them had their little water bottles intact. So the stranger dude at the gate did not take their bottles away. “Why did they keep theirs?” The Bachelor asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe because they are students and they are poor,” I replied.

There I sat, stunt by my own answer. It was my subconscious mind doing the talking and even in my subconscious level, I have been making excuses for them.

But not today. You have no right to receive special treatment just because you are poor. Being poor does not give you the excuse or reason to be treated differently. You deserve help if you are poor. But you do not escape life’s responsibilities in the name of poverty.

If you have the spine, you will find a job. You will do something with your bare hands if you must. You will move rocks and shift sand if you have to earn some money to pay for your home bills. You will never call yourself poor or give yourself an excuse to remain the way that you are.

Men who have courage will do everything in their power to change their predicament. They will not do nothing all day. They will not sit under a leaking roof and say, “It is God’s will that I am poor”. They will use brut strength if they must. True men will do something about the situation instead of sitting under the shady coconut trees.

And they won’t certainly have the cheek to ask you to pay for their state of poverty. Or brainwash young children of a certain colour that they owe another colour because that colour is poor. And subtly threaten that they will be eliminated if they do not give into their requests.

Only those without a spine will cry that they are poor because even when the poor have no money, they have a sense of dignity and self-esteem. They will refuse to be labelled as poor. They know how to spell the word "dignity".

*
PY’s birthday was a week ago. I drove to her office like I always do and she got into the car. She is still nervous when she sees unidentified men walking near her. She holds onto her handbag tightly when some strange man stuffed his hands in his pockets. She does not like the feeling of vulnerability.

I don’t think anyone ever enjoys feeling vulnerable. No one likes to think that their freedom and all that they love can be taken away from them. Material things can be replaced easily. Actually that is not true too. She took 3 days to re-establish her bankcards, MyKad and get herself a new phone and SIM card. But it will take a long time to make her feel safe sitting in a coffee shop again.

It rained when I saw her for tea today. I held her close to me and we walked under an umbrella towards my car. Her little new phone was in her hands. PY and I were talking about the recent MayBank employee protest. “Have they no shame?” PY asked.

“I say just sack everyone of them. They possess no other skill other protesting during lunch break on false bravado. You could see it in their eyes, how they eyed each other as the noise polluters banged on. If they are so efficient, try completing tasks on time and not let their customers wait.”

Listen up, MayBank staff. Do you not know that bonus is at the boss’ discretion. You cannot demand for increments or bonus. If you think you are better than what MayBank is paying you, then have the guts to walk out and find a new job that will pay you the salary that you deserve. No one is forcing you to slave on forever for MayBank. Go work for a company that will appreciate you for your talent and skills.

Unless of course, you have no skills other than to protest. I do not think companies ever reward you for lack of skills and poor performance.

Take it from someone who hires good staff. That will be me. Good staff are hard to come by. I will do anything to keep my efficient and skillful staff happy. I will go the extra mile for them because of their dedication to my company. I am more than happy to pay them more, give them more benefits and reward them for their fine performance at work.

And as for bad staff? They don't deserve bonus. I personally do not even want to keep them on my team.

Especially not if they picket at my company's front gate. Who will ever reward you for slapping your boss' face?

"Tak tau malu ke?" I asked one of the protestors the other day.

Love

2007-10-03T09:27:00.000+01:00

~ Simple, KD Lang

So here is the deal. I got myself a car. No shit. I did. It started last Monday when MiniBoyFriend R and I were sitting in our little breakfast corner, having the grandest breakfast for the day. I moved my seat away from the reflection of the sun on my old faithful blue Wira. He was busy composing his list of errands for the day while chain-smoking away.

‘You should get a new car,’ he said. He squinted his eyes to avoid the glare.

‘I don’t need a new car.’

‘Yes, you do. Your Wira is old and its safety belts aren’t working anymore. It’s fucking suicide.’

Ah yes. My safety belts were rendered ineffective sometime last year. Even a trip to the workshop did not manage to solve the problem. Apparently the problem can only be fixed with RM500. Brand new safety belts for the very old Wira that is valued no more than RM9000. I did not get the safety belts fixed despite being one of those people who are extremely ‘safety belts on before starting the engine’ sort of person.

Which means it would have sucked if I landed myself in an accident.

*
‘And you cannot get a car that is cheaper than your Wira. That means you cannot purchase a Kancil.’ It is amazing how MiniBoyFriend R seems to be able to read my mind. ‘And you can’t get my car!’

‘You can buy a Honda,’ PY said, shrugging her shoulders casually. ‘Low interest rate of approximately 2% per anum.’

‘Is it approximately 2.9% or 2.1%? There is a lot of difference between the two.’ I asked. It was Wednesday’s breakfast session with PY and R when I decided that we should all venture to the nearest Honda showroom to check out the real deal.

And so we did check the car out on Wednesday. And then I did it again on my own on Friday and on Sunday, four grown men accompanied me to the showroom to confirm the purchase. Who were they? My two brothers, MiniBoyFriend R and The Bachelor, who was happily turning the steering wheel of the Honda Civic, like a play toy.

*
‘Get as much love you wish from this car. I am buying the Honda,’ I said to PY when she slouched in lazily on Monday morning.

‘Wow, that was quick.’ I nodded my head. I was so deliriously happy that I was on my way to buy my very own Honda City. I am a big girl now, I thought to myself.

I can tell you now that it was the calm before the storm. You would think that buying a car is as simple as writing A-B-C. Nope. I had to choose a bloody colour and I could not decide between the bluish silver or the sparkle grey. My mind shifted between the two like a see-saw. Two seconds here and three seconds there. Could not make up my mind.

Then I found out that I do not have the bloody NBC shit. Apparently my Wira was registered under my father’s name to save insurance money. Or for loan purposes. I can’t remember and neither can my parents. So I am starting my NBC at the age of 31. Fuck.

Then I found out that I could not transfer my most favourite carplate number in the whole wide world to my new car. I have to get some random carplateshit. You can be sure that Otto no like.

Then all hell broke loose when my parents found out about the NBC and the carplate shit. They have all the creative suggestions, none of which are effective - to save money, continue to use father’s name for NBC discount. Thank you very much but no thank you. Then there was a moment where the lawyer was involved in this elaborate plan to transfer all the old junk cars at home, so I could transfer the carplate back to the original owner, ME.

*
Some people might call what I am doing now a distraction from what is truly bugging my real self. I mumble nonsense whenever anyone enquires about Alex. I am not ready to face yet another ‘Oh look, Otto broke up with yet another nice boy AGAIN!’ lecture from really wonderful friends and thoughtful parents.

Am I happy where I am now? Yes and no. I am happy because I feel extremely settled at the moment. My business is flourishing because I spent time nurturing it instead of running to Europe like I did in previous years. I have a place to call my own and now I can look forward to a new car. I have a small clique of good friends and then I have my beautiful cats. So yes, I am happy.

But no, I am not happy because I feel that I have paid a huge price. I do not know what the actual price is but I know that it is priceless. To gain control of my life, I had to cut Alex out. I had a life in the UK and now I have a life here.

I also know that Alex is also much happier, despite his pining emails. Or maybe I would like to think that he is. He has been to a few other countries since I left Sevenoaks in May. He has even been to Stockholm. I hope that he will grow and find a place for himself.

And I hope that one day I will come to a place in my life whereby I can say I am home. And if you know me in real life and you love me, do not ask me whether I am with him or not with him or whether I am this or that. I do not know what status I am. Or maybe I do.

All I know is that I am Otto and my real name is Love. And on some days I wished KD Lang was right - that love was truly simple.

"I am calm in oblivion
Calm, as I ever have been
Love will not elude me
Love is simple"
~ Simple, KD Lang

But Honestly

2007-09-19T06:57:00.000+01:00

‘I don’t want you to meet him or talk to him or have anything to do with him,’ she said.

‘But he’s my lawyer and we’ve known each other as long as I have known you, E. What do you want me to do?’

‘Don’t see him. Find another lawyer. Don’t have any contacts with him,’ she replied.

He was my lawyer and E’s separated husband. She knew him as a teenager and I was sometimes included into their dating routine. After four years of courtship, they got married and shared children.

The very first Christmas they parted, I took her children to the shopping mall and bought them presents. I called him up and he was there when I was busy with the kids in the toy store. These are no ordinary kids. I was there, especially for the 2nd child – at the monthly check-ups, looking at the ultra scans with her and even pushed her into the labour room.

I had not met E for a few weeks prior to the Saturday afternoon Christmas shopping and she did not respond to my phone calls.

I guess I should have known then what I do now.

*
‘You ok there?’ I asked him. Music was banging against the wall that he leant against. His eyes were squint like little slits on post boxes.

‘Yeah.’ Arif let out a little yawn. It must have been past 2 a.m. when he walked out for a breath of fresh air. I took after him, just to keep check. Two years after dating E, he gave up smoking because his lungs could not take it anymore. Then he gave up drinking like a mad person because his liver just could not cope with the abuse.

‘Hey you. What are you doing out here?’ E asked. She slid into his arms and gave him a hug. ‘Come in. Don’t stand out here alone. Lots of party!’

They walked into Lola, quickly getting lost amongst the hundreds of beautiful people on a weekend night.

*
E happened to be around for the weekend some weeks ago and her friend, John dropped by. ‘This is quite a scene, isn’t it?’ he asked. His head was bopping to the music.

‘You really think that this is good?’ My eyes nearly popped in disbelief. My definition of a good night often included two shots of vodka to start the night, followed by crazy dance moves (but no sandwich between two girls) for three hours in a row and ends with fried instant noodles with eggs. His happened to be a crowded Irish bar. But then again, what else do you expect from a 49 year old man who has tasted almost everything in life?

‘So what kind of sports do you do?’ he asked, between puffs.

‘Erm, sports like in exercise?’ I asked sheepishly. He nodded. ‘Well I have not exercise since I left school.’ That wasn’t the type of conversation I wished to have with a stranger at my drinking table. E had left him in my responsibility for a bit while she wandered off to another table on a social call. ‘I have been meaning to join some kind of yoga or pilates.’

The fact was I felt quite stupid. I was talking to a seasoned rugby player and all I could cough up was a miserable, ‘I don’t do sports.’ I would have committed suicide if I had a conversation with someone as boring as I was that night.

‘This place is fantastic. Too bad E doesn’t talk much about this other side of her life. She has never mentioned this fantastic place nor you.’

*
‘You should check E’s photos in her Facebook. She looked absolutely stunning but you could see a very poor thing Arif in the shadows of her photos.’ Alex wrote me a few days ago.

‘Facebook? E has a Facebook?! Oh god.’

I have always been a strange person. I never want to join any clubs that wants me for a member. And I was never one to follow fashion or trends. As a matter of fact, I was anti-trend and I was quite anti-whateverbook they are marketing these days.

I do not own a Facebook. I don’t want to register into the latest what-so-not in thing, Myspace, yourspace or whatever photo album thing. I hated the concept of ‘Now check me out. I have a kabillion friends and my friends said that I am phatcool.’ In my book, what’s cool is what is the latest uncool. It takes guts to stand alone in your thoughts, opinions and beliefs.

So when all the girls did the Rachel, I went for a full-blown 50s curls. I did the gypsie/traveller look before it was hip in Notting Hill and retro before the word even existed in fashion magazine.

But I bent the rules and registered Facebook so I could see what the big fuss with E’s photos were, according to Alex. I found out two things.

First of all was the fact that Alex owned a fucking Facebook too and he was listed as one of her friends. There were 11 other guys listed on E’s book and no girls, so I know I have no reasons to be angry with her.

She has just conveniently forgotten to share with me that:

she had a Facebook.

I was not invited.

But Alex is.

Second was that I had three friends listed before I joined. One turned out to be my Swedish Love, so we started corresponding for quite a bit. It was lovely to see photos of his siblings, who are all so grown up now. Even his baby brother is now a dashing 18 year old.

Facebook was an eye opener, bringing some friendships closer and tearing others wide apart.
*
These are all rubbing in more salt into the wound. I have been licking this wound for the longest time. I have always known but I have pretended otherwise. That was the only way to sustain the longest friendship I know.

‘Hey, why didn’t you come last week?’ AB asked. He gave me a warm squeeze when I turned up at the DJ console just as he was about to start his session.

‘E had taken ill, so I didn’t come. I am not going to come here on my own,’ I said to AB. He was still in his blonde phase and E used to call him ‘Blondie’ then.

‘But E was here last week,’ he said. ‘We talked and drank together. As a matter of fact, she even asked me to join her for a short trip next week.’

‘But E said that she had flu and that she didn’t want to go out. So I stayed back home…’ I said. My eyes were lowered as AB gave me another squeeze. He patted my head, popped his ciggie between his lips and started spinning his usual tunes.

*
‘I need to bitch,’ I typed to MiniBoyFriend R. I could see him on webcam, R in his relax white T-shirt and jeans. I could see his room and everything in it, which included a bottle Heineken as teatime drink and an ashtray stuffed with cancer causing cigarettes.

‘Go ahead, shot me,’ R typed into the Yahoo Messenger.

And so I told him all that had happened. About E and Alex on her Facebook and me not being there or even knowing that it existed. I told him the sense of betrayal I felt inside for a friend that I held so dear to my heart. It broke my heart time and again.

‘Plus she failed to tell me that she went out for dinner with The Bachelor last October.’

‘So what?’

‘Well initially I was a bit confused as to why she was angry when I told her that I went out with The Bachelor. Everything fell into place when The Bachelor told me that he had gone out for dinner with her once last October but nothing happened between them,’ I typed.

‘Nothing big deal about a dinner, right?’

‘Nothing at all. But it helped me understand why she was upset when I told her that I went out for a few dinner dates with The Bachelor. If there is nothing to hide, she could have just casually mentioned that she had been out with him.’

‘True, true.’

‘And seriously, I don’t give a fuck if they have fucked. They are adults and I am not too bothered. I am just bothered by the fact that she left out such an important fact.’

‘Maybe she is just jealous.’ R typed. ‘Lots of people are, for all that you are and all that you have. And we aren’t talking only about boys.’

*
I have never gotten used to the word. Jealousy, what does that mean in reality? Does it mean that you would lie and cheat? Does it mean that you are jealous? Why would you want to be jealous? Where are the benefits? It is a monster that will only eat into your soul.

I am basically a social retard and I admired her natural talents all my life - E’s ability to light up parties and be the center of attention. How she is able to talk to people, making them feel at ease is so amazing to witness. I always felt that she was better and smarter than I ever was, because of her inborn ability to influence people and communicate her thoughts.

Although a social retard, I do know that there are some lines that I should not cross. Like how E wants to be private about her life and she wants to maintain a different circle of friends that I know she specifically do not want me to be part of. That is her right and I have also made sure that I did not intrude into spaces in her life, where she wanted some measure of privacy (and the boys that came with it).

It isn’t a competition, who has more boys and who received more attention. I have realised that whilst you can have the attention of a million men, at the end of the day, you can only go home with one and more often than not, just want to go home with one very special man.

I just cannot get over the fact that I feel betrayed by sharing this friendship with her. Time and time again, I sniff out news that I felt she should have told me, rather than me hearing it from other people. Alex told me to let it go. ‘You cannot make her be your friend. It doesn’t work that way.’

*
‘She has not been a very good friend but you have to forgive her. It isn’t healthy to hold so much ill feelings.’ R typed into the Yahoo Messenger. That was the typical answer I expect from R – an answer that was socially and politically correct, whether he actually liked it or not.

‘But honestly, we are still good friends.’ I wrote back.

I wished that I believed it today.

Day 14: Riding On The Monster’s Back

2007-09-14T09:32:00.000+01:00

It occurred to me some time ago that I might be addicted to shopping. While it is true that all girls love to shop (give and take one or two), I am reasonably sure that not many girls have the amount of stuff I have. Snails and slugs leave yucky goo trails but I leave a trail of clothes, shoes, bags, cosmetics, accessories, never been worn clothes and unopened packages from my parents home right up to my own home.

So yeah, I concluded that I might be addicted to the rush of shopping a few weeks ago. As with all forms of addiction, shopping addiction more often than not is a sign of a hidden emotional issue. I don’t know. Take your pick. It could be all the arguments my parents had in front of me. Might be the time my mother spat at my dad and spewed Hokkien words that I never knew she knew.

Or perhaps the time when my mother grabbed her bottom bits ala Michael Jackson and asked my dad to screw himself (also in Hokkien). Come to think of it, it’s funny. My family speaks English at home, English being my mother tongue, intertwined with Bahasa Malaysia, so I do not know where my mother learnt all the Hokkien swear words that even I have trouble understanding. It could be the language my parents spoke before any of their kids were born.

Maybe my addiction was birthed out of lack during my teenage years. Can you believe that I did not own a pair of jeans until I started working? My mother sent me to the tailor for pretty dresses, which I wore all through high school. It does not take a mathematician to figure out why I was not the hippest or most happening girl in school. Floral dress in a walking plank is never going to be fashionable anytime soon.

*
Like all other important things in life, my shopping addiction happened by chance. It started small – just a little gift for myself when I felt frustrated or angry. Sometimes I reward myself with a ‘Oh Otto, you are so hardworking!’ pressie. Soon the gift boxes grew bigger and more frequent. There is no emotional patch better than an Aldo shoe box or three pairs of Levis in different shades or a spanking low cut top to show my best assets on weekends.

It was like magic. Such an adrenaline rush it was. Whatever your heart desires, Otto, whatever. You can be whoever you want to be and you can have all that you ever dream of. The feeling was magical, almost as if I was in love again. The exception being, I was not falling in love with a person. I was maxing out my card instead of making out with someone like Daniel Craig.

This butterflies in tummy feeling extends more than just clothes and shoes. It presents itself in various forms – buying cards for friends who never appreciate it to buying books that took my fancy. Good news is I got rid of those friends and I read most of the books. At least those sprees brought about some measure of happiness and knowledge. I was never the Sweet Valley High sort of girl. I am a geek in this sense. I only read serious stuff, so I always had pieces of conversations ready for most folks.

Except for the baby in the blender thing.

*
'What baby in the blender?’ you asked.

My friend’s trademark joke was this question, “So what’s cute and red all over?”. It always got the crowd going and questioning. When no one could figure the answer, she would say, “Baby in the blender with razor blades” and snorts.

I don’t get it but apparently it is a popular joke. Everyone laughed.

*
I knew that I needed help the day I came home with a packet of sugar. Feeling blue about I do not know what that day, I drove out to Jusco and bought a packet of sugar. It gave me the rush that I needed. It was the literal sugar rush. I was so excited and ecstatic. And I knew I was in trouble.

As months turned into years, the shopping budget grew. It had to. It had too, isn’t it? I mean, it is innate for us to crave for more. So what started of as innocent monthly purchases turned into an economy that sustains at least 2 boutiques and another 2 jewellery stores.

For example, I ventured from cheap silver accessories to designer silver pieces from Europe. It started as plain geometric pieces, which then turned into intricate pieces from The Pilgrim, for example. True to fashion, my fashion changed to reflect my inner thoughts and emotions. And jewellery has taken a new defintion - gold, pearls and diamonds. I bought approximately RM10,000 of accessories in the past 37 weeks alone, which some of you might diss as "not that much lah".

I once heard a guy said that he spent that much buying Adidas shoes. I bet he would regret the purchase when he turns 50. RM10k is a good sum for business start-ups and the boring downpayment for a house (which in investment terms, will be the greatest investment in your life). Yes, I know. I am talking in grown up terms. I am nearly weeping.

*
Dear child, what sort of trauma you have gone through to be severely addicted to shopping? I do not have the answer then and I still do not have the answer now. But at least I am willing to admit that I have a problem and that I cannot resolve it by buying a little present for myself.

It is obvious that you feel excited and happy whenever you receive something new. It’s like Christmas, isn’t it? You experience unlimited happiness and everything feels bright. A new present, whether given or bought, offers you a sense of hope that things will get better. No matter how small the present you bought yourself, it is a reminder that everything can be changed and renewed.

But let's admit it. It is false medication.

*
I promised myself that September is going to be the month that I do not buy myself anything. It is self-empowerment of some sort, I think. I do not have a problem if I admit it (which is a borrowed philosophy from dear Uncle JF aka Unagi) and it will not be an addiction if I can control it. So September is going to be a self-cleansing month. A month of thoughtful consideration for the fallen compatriots, those who maxed out on their plastics and maxed out on life, with no U turns in sight. September will be the month to give to the less fortunate, count my blessings and spend responsibly.

*
It is Day 14 and here I am trying to control myself, knowing when my urges peak and consciously telling myself that I cannot buy anything to make my stress go away. It is an illusion. My stress merely took the afternoon off, never truly leaving me at all. Therefore I am better off trying to fix my problem and curb my spending.

My hands were shaking this morning when I started writing this. You cannot believe the excuses that an addict can cough up to justify all her bad habit.

You look like a middle age aunty. What you need is some new blouses to jazz up your wardrobe. Your black shoes look dull. You should buy a new pair. Oh come on, Otto. It is just a short peek into Zara. You don’t have to buy anything. Let’s just do some window-shopping. Go on, just run your fingers through the racks and feel all the colours and textures.

It is the weekend, girl. Chill out. Buy yourself a little something to celebrate what a great week this has been for you. Go on, treat yourself a little. You have not bought tight little top in such a long time. You have to keep yourself high on the ladder, remember? And you aren’t going to be there for long, if you let this slip. You only put your best foot forward and honey, it is never cheap.

It is Day 14 and I will not buy anything unnecessary. I will not buy any more clothes. I have enough to open Salvation Army Store. I do not need any new shoes. The 32 pairs I have in my wardrobe are still in near mint conditions. No, I do not need a new haircut or colour or treatment. I do not need a new leather bag when my old bag is only a month old.

Otto, you do not need anything. All you need is yourself. You are good enough and you do not need anything else to make you better. And nothing will make you feel better if you do not feel good inside. Just breathe deeply and rationalize. There you go, girl. See, there is no cause to panick. You will survive the month without shopping because you are strong and you are innovative. You will fix whatever internal conflict you have instead of medicating it. Otto, I know you can do it. Just hang in there. You have to prove to yourself that you not dependent on material things for happiness.

You are happiness inside. You just need to search for it.

*
The monster is gone. Yes, it must be. I cannot see it anymore. No more nightmares and no growling sounds. Its bloody eyes have vanished into thin air.

Shhh. I can hear him. I can hear his deep slumber breaths in the lair.

Attack of the Killer Bikinis

2007-09-11T05:59:00.000+01:00

I was having afternoon tea on Sunday when something crept into my mind. The thought came between sips of apple juice and a slice of curry puff. As the thought grew, my frown became apparent.

*
You have seen the following movie scene a million times. The movie character (which can be male or female) does some mindless chores around the house, go to work, pick up some laundry, go home, lie in bed, brush teeth, read a book and wham! One day he stares at himself in the mirror and gets the fright of his life.

Oh yes. That’s the moment when the movie character realised that he had not lived a life despite having heartbeat and breath.

And that was exactly what I was thinking on Sunday. Going through my life, doing all the things that I wish to do and dream of doing and yet, waking up one day only to realise that I did not know what the fuck I was doing.

Everything is going great, I though to myself. Everything’s perfect. So what’s wrong? I don’t know what is wrong.

*
I stared at the mirror after brushing my teeth last night. I looked at my face, taking note of all the little bumps that were never there a year ago and all the lines that only appears when I do not wish to see them. It isn’t so bad, I thought to myself. Some girls half my age look twice my age. I snickered then breathed a sigh of relief.

So alright, I gained a little weight. Four kilos to be exact, which officially makes me a hefty 52 kg. I don’t weigh myself after lunch time these days. Makes me feel a whole lot better.

I could lie and medicate my heart with little purrs that I am still alright. I still look good. I feel great. So fine, fine, I have not pursued fashionable clothes like I used to a year ago. But I guess something has got to change. I guess you change as you grow older. Your priorities change. Right?

*
I met a client today. Her hands were shaking as she enquired if I would accept her as my client. Her eyes were dilated and her voice was quivering as she explained everything. You could hear all her anxiety through the little words she used.

I reached over and pat her hand. ‘We’ll work together,’ I said. If relief could be visible to the eye, I think the whole office was filled with relief. Her breath slowed down to a more comfortable pace. She had a smile on her face. You could see her optimism. The lady was happy and relieved that everything was finally settled.

It is amazing how one touch can change everything; that you can lean over and make another person feel good again. There is nothing more special than bringing joy and hope to another being.

It is gratifying to be able to change the world and make it sweeter and better. It is almost like magic, the feeling that you are able to make a difference in the lives of those around you. And for this feeling, I don’t think I will ever change what I do.

*
Do you know what a panic attack is? It can happen to anyone at any time. I think I suffered from mild depression and panic attacks at the beginning of this year and yesterday, I think it happened to MiniBoyFriend R.

I took Monday afternoon off so I could do something about my hair. You know this priority change thing I was talking about earlier? Well apart from neglecting my waistline, I have been neglecting my crown of glory. It’s part of the first impression thing.

I booked a spot at my hairdresser’s and went over by 3 p.m. As the saloon girl washed my hair, my phone started to beep tiny messages from MBF R. He was feeling a little blue and needed someone to talk. I am glad that he shared his thoughts with me. There is nothing worse than suffering all alone in silence.

Depression is a terrible thing. It does not knock your door to announce its presence. As a matter of fact, depression comes silently, sitting on your shoulders like dark clouds threatening to rain terrible things in your life. The more you walk in depression, the more you feel that you are not able to walk out of it alive.

I remember feeling so depressed that I did not want to wake up. Nothing in the world mattered to me and I felt empty. There were also panic attacks, the sudden feeling of heart palpitations and sweat, occurring at the strangest times and places. Everything felt magnified – more real, more painful.

The good news is that a friend always helps in times like these. Just talking to someone else might give you the light that you need, to guide you out of the dark tunnel you found yourself walking.

I am just glad that R decided to share everything with me. I shared everything with him and yesterday afternoon, in the most innocent place such as a hair saloon, I had the opportunity to be a friend.

*
‘Yeah, I don’t really want to bitch about this but seriously, D is driving me insane,’ he said.

‘Well, D wasn’t a problem to you before this. So why start now? He is just the very same person. The only thing that has changed is the fact that the bar isn’t doing as well as it used to,’ I replied.

I was slumped on my bed on Saturday, having a phone conversation with someone I knew a long time ago. Not much of a close friend but someone I knew and shared weekend tables with in Lola. I was painting my toenails when he started telling me how terrible D was.

‘Serve him right. Bitching to everyone about us doping. It is such a sensitive issue. Those boys dropped a few pops and he was gone on Saturday night.’

‘You know it isn’t nice to spike his drinks. He might be tested at any time and you might have gotten D into trouble,’ I said.

‘We are all professionals, so we have to maintain our public image. Who the fuck is he to tell everyone that we’ve been taking K?!’

You know, people are strange. They can be the most loving and loyal. Yet at times people possess such darkness within themselves, that you see the worst in them. Up to six months ago, D had so many girls hanging around him, like flies to light. Who wouldn’t want to be his friend? He had the flash car and the cash to spend on any girl.

The girls giggled whenever he spoke. The boys backed off when he was after a particular girl. Everyone was D’s friend. Isn’t it easy to feel that you are nearly like God when those around you keep nodding their heads. Won’t you feel like the biggest player when you can park your car just at any spot and you don’t give a damn whatever happens tomorrow?

I saw D on Saturday night in a newly opened restaurant. He was alone. He was not his usual self. He did not come for a hug or a chat. I did not approach him either. All we did was to smile whenever our eyes met. There was so much to be said but not a word was exchanged.

The day I spoke a long time ago had come. The day that everyone was worshipping elsewhere at weekends, when D was no longer the weekend God, had arrived. And D sat all on his own, in his little corner and I wished that I said that I was still his friend.

*
Two weekends ago the boys in London planned a grand weekend camping escapade. They were so excited and spoke of their compasses, new burners, fancy collapsible tents and a Geiger counter. Everything was planned and ready for deployment.

These boys might have fancy everything but nothing in their bags of tricks could stop their girlfriends. The girls forbade the boys from heading out into the jungle to play Tarzan.

It is Alex’s personality to organize a huge barbeque, complete with an axe to chop the wood for fire. He apparently perfected the art of selecting the correct wood for burning – matured oak.

He wrote about the whole process of grilling a nice piece of pork and for a change, he wished that I had a miserable weekend.

*
I want to go to the sea, to lie in a hammock, to wear a string bikini. That would most certainly bring some sunshine in my life.

Life is hectic and I am busy. I have not stayed here in Malaysia for so many months. I am experiencing slight claustrophobia, which I try to avoid by not meeting too many people. The more people you meet, the more politics and relationship issues you are involved. And that always sucks. At least I think it sucks.

I have to do something about my bikinis. Those 3 new pieces from Roxy are sitting in my cupboard. There is no justice in the world.

Quite Wise Words

2007-09-03T09:28:00.000+01:00

Here is a short collection of quite wise words that once belonged to quite a wise person.

“Life would be perfect if I could manage my relationships as well as I manage my career.”
~ reply to MiniBoyFriend R’s welcome greeting over the Merdeka weekend.

“I sort of figured out this over the weekend. I am not sure if it is too late though but I think I am a difficult person to live with.”
~ impromptu self depreciating remark to MiniBoyFriend R.

“That’s what responsible girlfriends do best – bore their boyfriends to death and deny them of any opportunities of having fun.”
~ commenting on some boys’ grand plan for a macho weekend camping trip, halted by their girlfriends.

“If I were to own a blog, I would have to fantasize a fabulous alternate life. Who on earth wants to know about my boring real life?”
~ the reply when asked (in rather crafty ways) if the quite wise one owned a blog.

“There are two types of men – men who would cry for you and men that you cry for. It’s better be with a man that would cry for you.”
~ the comfort words for a friend who lost her lover to another younger woman.

“And you, my dear - you are fine with or without me. My gut tells me that you will continue to live your life, oblivious of everything, when I am no longer with you. So good night.”
~ a good bye line at the end of a night.

“Thank you for loving me.”
~ self-scribbled notes on tiny pieces of papers as constant reminders that someone loved her very much.

“At least I have never been expelled from school.”
~ the quite wise one’s comment on a lady who used to judge her harshly during high school days. Her daughter was expelled last week, all happened while she was a teacher in the very same school.

*
Come to think of it. I don't think she's wise, quite or otherwise.

And Now You Knows

2007-08-30T08:23:00.000+01:00

I wonder if you are like me. I wondered who accompanied Tunku Abdul Rahman to London to seek for Malaya's Independence in 1956. Always and always, all descriptions of Abdul Rahman's journey to London mentions him and a "delegation". For example, "In 1954 Abdul Rahman led a delegation to London to seek independence for Malaya" (click here for source). But who really were a part of the delegation?

So I googled and searched for the names of all people who were part of the delegation. Almost everywhere mentions "Tunku and his delegation" but fails to mention who specifically formed the delegation. It troubled me that somehow the information on who were present at the meeting is missing. Or lost. Or in the process of being lost.

Personally I believe that history varies from one source to another, depending on the convenience of the information. It can be altered to suit the interest of whoever was in power at the time. You just need to omit the information from the secondary school text books for 10 years and everything that you should know, would be long forgotten. And in 50 years time, no one would have remembered the true account of what happened.

*
In the spirit of Merdeka, I have dedicated today to Malaysia. I was busy reading some historical articles and biographies of influential personalities and somehow decided to find out who were the delegation.

Thankfully my fears were unwarranted. Phew, they were merely the creation of my highly imaginative mind. I found the answer in only one article from The News Straits Times.

The delegation, which also included (Tun) Abdul Razak Hussein, (Tun) Dr Ismail Abdul Rahman, (Tun) H.S. Lee, (Tan Sri) T.H. Tan and (Tan Sri) Abdul Kadir Shamsudin, had left for London by boat from Singapore on Jan 1,1956.

And now you knows...

It is important to note the people involved on that faithful day. Obviously Tunku's contributions were enormous but his contribution was not the only one. His was highlighted more often than the rest since he is Bapa Malaysia. There were other people who worked hard, toiled, believed with great passion and were alongside Tunku Abdul Rahman.

And now I will have to read about these people who were part of the delegation as I do not know much about them.

*
Another interesting article. Oh forgive me if this post is a little off. I mean, it's more candid than my usual ones. It is afterall, the eve of our 50th year, so I can blabber on about Malaysia and Merdeka as much as I wish to.

Did you know... (ala Hitz dot fm)
Tunku sat in an MG during the motorade to announce the date of Independence in Melaka in 1956. Now that's what I call STYLE... Who sat with him?

"Tunku rode in together with former MCA leader Tun Tan Siew Sin and Datuk Panglima Bukit Gantang Toh Muda Abdul Wahab Abdul Aziz. It bears the same registration number, M4442.

So it wasn't Tunku sitting on the convertible on his own. He had friends with him! And now you knows....

And guess what? Apparently our Prime Minister Badawi will be riding on a motorade, similar to Tunku's in Melaka again, in conjuction with our 50th Merdeka. And who is Prime Minister Badawi riding with this time around?

This time, Abdullah will ride the car with Culture, Arts and Heritage Minister Datuk Seri Dr Rais Yatim and Chief Minister Datuk Seri Mohd Ali Rustam.

And now you knows...

Surprise! I Am Pregnant

2007-08-29T07:43:00.000+01:00

I am one of those people who dream actively. I remember many dreams and on Monday, I had a dream that struck me as being more special than the rest.

I dreamt that I was pregnant and was busy doing my things. Suddenly I went into early labour and laboured for the baby. The dream wasn’t about the labour itself but what happened after the labour.

The father (NameWithheld) was not present in the labour room and was not there to comfort me. This in itself is strange, don't you think? I had the child all on my own, without support and when the baby was delivered, the doctor asked me for her name. Yes, I dreamt I had a baby girl. I didn’t know what name to give the child because I had not discussed it with the baby’s father.

But the doctor wanted a name and so I said, “Megan NameWithheld”. Now the name “Megan” is quite special in the sense that I have never thought about the name in my life. You know how girls are – we have chosen our wedding dresses and baby names since we were 5 years old. So I have a list of names that I liked to name my babies but “Megan” was never one of them.

I then recalled that there was a timeframe for naming the baby, so I told the doctor to postpone the baby name until later. He told me that I had a week to decide on the name and so I arranged for my baby to be cared by someone while I flew to NameWithheld’s country to ask him what he wanted to name the baby.

The dream ended when I left the baby under someone’s care (I can’t remember who) and informed the doctor that I would fly away to ask for the baby’s name from the father.

*
What do you think the dream meant? Do you think that dreams have any meaning at all or are they just dreams?

I have been thinking about this dream and I have concluded that it is sad that I dreamt a birth that way...

To The One Who Searched For 'Malay Pig'

2007-08-21T12:23:00.000+01:00

To the young boy with the heart of a man, Wee Meng Chee.

“Is it so bad to be misunderstood? Pythagoras was misunderstood,
and Socrates, and Jesus, and Luther, and Copernicus, and Galileo,
and Newton, and every pure and wise spirit that ever took flesh.”
~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

*
Sometimes out of boredom, I would check my stats counter. I used to be manic about this but in recent months, I have not found enough time to be compulsive obsessive.

You will be amazed by what comes streaming through my blog’s door. I mean, the words that people googled to arrive at ANNN can make many men and women blush with sheer embarrassment! I think it’s sick that people google ‘nude child’. I do not want to know why people google ‘nude 70 year old man’. I mean, are the 70 year old man’s nuts that appetising?

Today I received yet another anomaly in the goggle searched words. Some person from Kansas googgled “malay pig” and arrived here at my blog. I would like to address this person, whoever he is. The rest of you folks just have to bear with me as I correct this particular person's misconception.

*
To The One Who Searched For 'Malay Pig',

I would like to take a moment to correct what you googgled for. I take offence that you associated the word “Malay” with the word “pig”. As you might or might not know, Malays are born Muslim in our wonderful country, Malaysia. They are blessed folks who have chosen to know the right path to God. And as you might or might not know (because I am assuming you aren't Malaysian - hence the rude google search) Muslims cannot consume pork and they do not like to be associated with pigs.

Therefore I would like to clarify that there is no association between “Malay” and “pig”. I hope that you will not search for any more articles with the words “Malay” and “pigs” strung next to each other and if you continue to do so, I am offended on behalf of my Muslim friends. Your actions are callous and insensitive towards our many diversity here in Malaysia.

However you may associate the words “Chinese” and “pig”. I don't think I am a pig but my opinions might differ from the mainstream. Nothing much will happen to you if you associate the Chinese with pigs because many Chinese have had those words thrown at them. This has been going on for so many years without much protest from the Chinese community, so I think that it is socially acceptable to string “Chinese” and “pig” next to each other.

Let me explain a little more, if you do not understand what I have just said. Many of us experience the phase every so often. Sometimes it is used as an ending to a sentence. For example, “Go back to China lah, you Chinese pig”. (‘Balik Cina lah, lu babi cina’).

To further illustrate my point, I shall share a true account of how my father ended up with those words hurled at him. It happened when my father corrected a bunch of Malay men in their mid 20s who were trailing and harassing two girls on the street at 4 p.m. last Friday afternoon.

‘Jangan kacau perempuan itu,’ (Don’t harass the girls.)

‘Ko sibuk sangat, buat apa? Aku bukan kacau ko! Aku kacau tu pompuan.' (Why are you meddling into my business? I am not harassing you. I am harassing those girls.)

‘Tak sopan kalau kacau mereka. Kalau nak kacau, kacau depan ayah mereka atau abang mereka.’ (It’s rude to harass the girls. If you want to tease, tease them in front of their fathers or brothers.)

‘Oi! Balik Cina lah, lu babi cina!’ (Oi! Go back to China, you Chinese pig!)

It does not matter if my father was defending (and to a certain extend, protecting) those girls. It does not matter if the boys were wrong or my father was right. I think my father’s teaching whiskers were prominently displayed, so the boys walked away after they were satisfied insulting my father. No one stepped forward to help either party, although there were many spectators that stood by the road to watch the exchange of words.

‘Babi' and 'Cina’ are two words almost synonymous with the Chinese community here in Malaysia. Ask any Chinese and if he is brave enough and is honest enough, he'll tell you that he had been called such. However don't ask him now because he will have to say something else. He is afraid that he might be thrown out of his beloved homeland. Nobody enjoys being thrown out of his house, so imagine how serious it is to be threatened to be thrown out of his homeland. Thus I hope you'll understand his little problem.

In secret, some Chinese adults might whisper to you that children who are not even 4 feet tall called them “chinese pigs” and/or asked them to return to China. For example, I might be called "babi cina" and then asked to "balik Cina lah!" for writing this article although I am born and raised here in Malaysia, am a good citizen and paid my taxes.

I don’t know who taught young impressionable children such crude words because I don’t think children innately address other human beings as Chinese pigs. Some older men, especially teachers like my father, would tell these kids off – “kurang ajar” (which means lack of manners). That does not seem to stop these children, who behave rudely and are truly kurang ajar. These fat little kids often shrug and walk off with their ais potong (ice lolly), unperturbed by everything, totally unremorseful of what they have said.

*
So don’t worry if you wish to google for “Chinese” and “pig” because generally we, Chinese have been addressed as such at least once in our lifetime. You won’t find any of us picketing anywhere near your embassy because we are too busy earning money. Most of us have big hearts and larger pockets. We don’t mind sharing a certain percentage of our hard earned money. All we want is a peaceful country and we will shut our eyes to injustice and swallow resentment, just as long as our handbags get bigger and our cars get flashier.

It's logical conclusion, you see. If we were annoyed by the callous remark, we would have taken it to the streets. We would have protested and made sure that people around us know that it is offensive to the Chinese community. We would cooperatively make our voice heard through forums and discussions. We would write to the newspaper or do as I am doing, write something a little more positive, to bring about a healthy discussion about the state of our affairs. Alternatively we could vote in better representatives. But since none of the above has happened (other than my annual Merdeka post), it is safe to say that you can search for the words "Chinese" and "pig" in any search engine of your choice.

As for the Malays, I hope you will refrain from searching for the words “Malay pig” because they are not pigs and they find pigs offensive. Please show some more respect for them. Malaysians (generally) are a tolerant bunch and I hope that you are able to tolerate them too, despite being non-Malaysian. So remember to be a civic conscious netizen. Don't word search "Malay pig". The act is offensive to all of us.

*
This is my Merdeka post and it carries many messages within its string of words. Happy Merdeka and may my homeland grow and prosper forever.

Should this article ever cause a stir in the Malaysian teacup, I know full well that some Chinese I know (with very thick gold chains) will nod his head and say I deserve to be punished if I wrote this article because I have insulted someone or something. Perhaps they will even use the most common trump card, which is to accuse anyone who disagree with them that he is inciting hatred. It has happened before, you see. But do not be quick to blame the Chinese if he prefers to shut his eyes to injustice, so that he could line his pocket thicker. He has paid a huge price.

People who cannot see the underlying message in this post might nod their heads and ask me to apologize for writing this post. These people have either sold their souls to profit their bank balance or they aren't quick minded to understand the message I am trying to convey. I strongly believe that intelligent people will recognize that I have no intention to insult anyone or anything. Smart and civilized folks will see what lies within myself is a passion for my country and a love for my people.

This post flowed from my burning heart. Young people who clamp up and do not voice their concerns are not helping our nation much. It is true what our nation’s founding fathers said. Freedom isn’t free. There is always sacrifice for something as precious as freedom and justice. My question is, "What have you done for your country today?"

***
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We Are 49 Years Old Now And What Have We Achieved?

Mourning

2007-08-20T08:29:00.000+01:00

~ Hey There Delilah, Plain White T's

I missed Alex and so two weeks ago, I had wanted to write him an email. How fortunate it was for me that Alex wrote before I did. And soon the emails flew back and forth between time and continents and here we are, two weeks later, chatting like old friends. Each email starts off offbeat and sunny, with greetings and sharing of news. Then like a roller coaster past its first peak point, the email will then tumble into a bloody tirade of emotions, tears and frustrations. It is safe to say, each email is a wordy mess.

We seem to be mourning for our relationship. Instead of the usual "I love you" endings we used to send each other, we now end our emails with "I have a hole in my heart that I know not how to fill". And then we feel a sense of great despair – a sense of loss that we don’t have any words for.

Thus far he had sent me some old photos of myself to remind me who I was when I first knew him. Most were photos taken in the summer, in his mother’s wall garden with beautiful flowers everywhere. We were both so exited and happy in those photos.

And now all we have are these…

We had wonderful conversations that seemed endless on these chairs. Their arms used to touch each other as Alex and I used to lean over to kiss and hug each other. Now these chairs represent all that is in our hearts – a sense of loneliness and lifelessness as the chairs grew apart.

Once I wrote a list of what I enjoyed with Alex. I know that I wrote the list because here is the photo of the note on which the list was written. That is my handwriting and it must have been written last summer. The list was short, consisting of only three items. I am sure that there were more to come, if only I had the time to write them all down.

And if I had to write them down now, I would add:

The way Alex made me laugh. Eg: how he thinks that fat girls will love him best because ‘there is no love like a fat girl’s love’.

Immaculate taste. I can trust the man to tell me how my bottom looks in anything. And Alex will tell the truth.

Chasing each other up and down the stairs like a pair of kittens playing for fun.

How we watched House and Scrubs in bed.

How Alex fed an injured fox and managed to tame it enough to be his pet.

Alex bought crates of tuna cans to prepare for the end of the world…

The list would go on forever and would include, ‘I rather tell people that we are breaking up because you want a baby. It makes everything sound more tragic and girls will want to date me.’ I never really understood his logic but I always loved his sense of humor.

This post has no ending, so I will end it with Alex's email for me today.

*
I'm glad I made you laugh...

So many words said getting a smile from you. I enjoyed teasing you too much, delighted in that little squeal of indignation, seeing you huff puff, and then tickling you better. Almost the entire basis of our relationship...

I would like to be over there shopping for a house with you, using my inflated expat salary to live the life of luxury. Alas just fantasy for the moment. Five years time i will be doing it with some other girl, and you will have found what you wanted with someone else.

Makes me sad, still miss you everyday.

*

Hey there Delilah
I know times are getting hard
But just believe me girl
Someday I'll pay the bills with this guitar
We'll have it good
We'll have the life we knew we would
My word is good

Hey there Delilah
I've got so much left to say
If every simple song I wrote to you
Would take your breath away
I'd write it all
Even more in love with me you'd fall
We'd have it all
~ Hey There Delilah, Plain White T's

The Interview That Was To Be

2007-08-08T05:29:00.000+01:00

Today I’ve decided to talk about something other than emotional blahs. I think my mind needs to take a break. Actually my heart needs to take a break from all the thinking.

I find that time passes by very quickly. I don’t know whether it is because I have been immensely busy or if it’s because I am a little older now and older people feel that time passes by swiftly. Which is why they stop wasting time pursuing irrelevant things in life such as clubbing and shopping and decide to invest their time in baby farming.

I am not keen on baby farming at the moment, so I think I must still be quite young.

*
If you are wondering what I receive in my mailbox, I will now tell you that I receive a decent number of emails from readers who want to ask me a question or two. Most of their questions are of their personal relationship. I don’t think I am a guru in this relationship business although I was described as a relationship and sex guru in a magazine recently.

I think most readers write because they feel a need to connect. They are compelled to share their stories, the very same way I am propelled to share some of mine. I sincerely think that many already know the answers. They just wanted to hear it from someone else. Just like how I know the answers to my questions and yet I seek for readers to empathise and love me.

So as you can see, you and I are not too different at all. I might even be brave enough to say that we are all sitting on the same boat. The only difference is our destinations, which might differ and for most of our lives, it will remain unknown. Which clearly makes living a really happening course of action to pursue. You don’t know which boat you are rocking.

And if for a moment you think that I am a whole lot chirpier in this post, I will have to agree with you. Somehow there are lots of things to celebrate at 6 p.m. after a good day at work.

But that is not the thing that I want to share with you today.

*
The next question I often receive through my mailbox is my choice of books. Somehow many of you think that I must be very bookwormy since I want to be a writer. Quite a good deduction, I must say. However the deduction is quite untrue. I can never call myself a bookworm, mainly because I don’t consider myself to be one.

I enjoy reading quite a bit and when not buying books, I spend my spare time reading them. On any given day, I read a collection of two or more books. I mean, just look at my list of MiniBoyFriends. If I can keep a few at one time, you can be sure that I can juggle 3 books at a go. And true to form, I have 3 books by my bed stand at the moment.

Purchased on impulse a few months ago, I began reading Haruki Murakami’s collection of books – Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman being the first. If I have to choose one of them as a representation of myself, I would choose “A Folklore for My Generation: A Prehistory of Late-Stage Capitalism”. Somehow that particular story represents all that is in me. Other favorite stories include "The Kidney-Shaped Stone That Moves Every Day" and “A Shinagawa Monkey”.

You can imagine how I felt after I read that book. Oh my god, this is my guru. Oh yes, I found out that day that my book (when it is finally written) will be classified in the same category as Murakami’s. And Elliot Perlman, when I read his “The Reasons I Won’t Be Coming”. Honestly, won’t you want to know what the reason was? I was.

*
I was stuck in traffic for the majority of Friday. I was in Clark at 12 noon, Makati at 3 p.m. and somewhere south of Manila at 7 p.m. It was quite a fascinating place, although I have been told to be extra careful when there. So I kept whatever little gold nuggets I had on before taking off at 7:20 a.m. to the Philippines.

Saw the smallest volcano, inactive of course. It was how I imagined it to be - a pristine ring of green in the middle of the sea. Something like a giant green donut, I guess. Then there were the locals, with their faces similar to the Malays here in Malaysia. ‘They are Malays too, just that they’ve migrated to the Philippines,’ said the locals. So the pretty Philippino Reah or Eia looked like the doe eyed Maya Karin from Malaysia.

So does this mean that the Philippino Reah gets special rights too? Seeing that she is afterall from the same bloodline as Maya Karin.

*
'Excuse me. Are you Sandara Park?'

'Erm, no I am not.'

'You look like Sandara. She's a popular actress here in the Philippines.'

That strange conversation happened more than I could keep track. Almost every single local I spoke to told me that I looked like an actress loved by many Philippinos, Sandara Park. Some online articles described her as an actress without substance. So I guess Sandara is like the Korean version of Paris.

And thanks to the security guards manning the gated community where I stayed, many of its residents started to visit my host's house, waiting to see Sandara Park having BBQ dinner. If you have been asked more than a dozen times if you were someone else, you would be curious to find out how that person looks. So I googled for Sandara when I returned home and found a photo of Sandara.

I am sorry to inform you that I do not resemble Sandara Park. Not even on my best hair days.

There is some resemblance if
you squint your eyes a little....

*
I have been thinking of Malaysia’s 50th year of independence. Specifically I have been thinking of what I am supposed to write. Several thoughts have been looping in my mind but I am still quite undecided. By now, you must have noticed that I have quite an opinion for almost anything under the sun and I have always some personal thoughts regarding the state of ‘we are not a secular state’ Malaysia.

I am also wondering how on earth are our universities going to compete with world class universities if we keep stuffing them full of people who are not qualified to be there in the first place.

I think I am quite colour blind. I think all poor people should be helped and I would be most happy to vote for the next politician who would offer true assistance to the needy. The last I have heard, the Indians are still living in derelict conditions in the rubber estates. I wished more could be done for the natives, who by definition, are the true prince of the land.

*
Whatever happened to my MiniBoyFriends? I am mighty happy to say that I saw MiniBoyFriend R about 2 Saturdays ago. We went for a drink and he promised to have breakfast with me on Monday, which he did not. So if you are reading this, you should be feeling really guilty.

Actually, not. I think people grow up and move on. Just like last night when D called me up for a chat. He was bored. Yes, the manager of a rather swanky drinking hole was bored and he looked for me for supper. But I was already sitting in bed with my favourite Murakami book and was not too eager to jump out of bed, like I used to.

The short conversation made me think of very pleasant and colourful nights. It was approximately 4 years ago when we met up but it feels like it was ten years ago. Strange how we get up one day and just decide to do some other thing. Namely, I have decided to move on to other things in my life. I guess the moment we realise that we are quite mortal is the exact moment we grew up. We can't live on forever and we develop priorities in life. We give up some to get some other. I won't call it sacrifice. I think it's just how life is.

But I still like my shoes high and my clothes tight. That bit of me stays forever. So even MiniBoyFriends come and go but the bad girl stays forever.

Someone asked me if he could do a feature me in a local female magazine. Whilst a little tight on time, I found no harm in doing so. Gentlemen’s agreement, isn’t it so? Then I found out that he had replaced me with some other bloggers while I was stuck in a traffic jam from Clark to Manila.

All I can say is thank you for thinking of me in the first place. Sorry that it didn’t work out and that I didn’t answer those questions on time. It doesn’t matter. Some other opportunities would pop up again, I guess. Till then, this is the interview that was to be.

****
Do you have what it takes?
You might notice that the template has changed. You might also notice that the banner isn't appearing at all. Can someone help me with this? I would appreciate a pretty banner for the above or just to help me stick my lousy design into the template. Thank you in advance.

Since 1975

2007-07-26T08:41:00.000+01:00

I remember a long time ago when I was a little girl, perhaps way before my two brothers were born, I lived a relatively blissful childhood. Those early childhood years were spent in Tampin, where both my parents worked as high school teachers. We lived in a little house on stilt, wooden and green. It had a nice garden with a mango and a rambutan tree. The windows were from floor to ceiling and the floor creaked whenever my tiny feet ran across them.

My father told me that he drove a white Volkswagen Beetle when I was very little. This, I cannot remember. There are no photos of that car to remind me of it. I however remember the red car my father drove, mainly because I have a photo of it. Next to the porch where the car was parked, there was a little swing. My father made that swing for us to swing the evenings away.

My father's red car in Tampin

It was an idyllic time, spent chasing boys in the preschool, climbing trees in the garden and exploring my parents’ cupboard. I do not consider myself a naughty child but my parents swear that I was horribly disobedient. Smart in the wrong way, my mother said time and again to her friends. And they shook their heads in total disbelief that a girl was more naughty than their little sons.

*
To understand me, you must first understand my parents’ relationship and how it has affected me until today – in both positive and negative ways. However I will never blame my parents for my own fuck-ups. My fuck-ups are entirely my responsibility. I do not believe in shifting the blame on anyone other than myself. That is what I have always believed in. Strong personalities do not cry and blame others. Strong personalities ride the waves in life and overcome and I am such.

My parents were high school teachers. My father taught English and Science and my mother taught Mathematics. They first met when my father taught a pretty girl in her senior year. My father was a dashing young man, just 8 years older than my mother. They met, fell in love and then they got married. To this day, my mother blamed her stupid choice of a life partner on the fact that she was too young and way too naive when she met my father.

They were married on the first day of 1975 and I was born 13 months later. My mother became a mother at the age of 25. She then studied and trained as a teacher while I was a toddler. Throughout my young years, my mother warred with my paternal grandmother (that would be her mother in law). And for years, my mother argued with my father over the old lady.

Throughout her married life, my mother experienced immense disappointment. She felt let down by my father, who was supposed to love her and cherish her. Instead she felt that my father loved his mother more than his wife. This story is common, I know but what I know is not common are the repercussions of the thirty years of arguments. Even as a young child, my mother taught me never to trust men. You have to work hard for yourself and not let any man bully you, my mother said for years.

*
The funny thing is, I never experienced that with my father. I am my father’s only daughter and he cared for me when I was really little. I have many memories of afternoons spent playing games and watching my father on the tennis court. There are albums of my childhood, testimonies to the bond that my father and I shared. I cannot even begin to tell you which childhood memory I loved best.

As terrible as he was, according to my mother, my father was perfect to me. And he loved me and I knew it. So when my parents argued, I would step in and tell my mother to get over it. ‘You cannot harp on the same issues since 1975,’ is the line I say to my mother whenever she argued with my father.

Yes, my mother had every right to argue. She was right most of the time. My father was careless in his love, divided between loving his mother and his wife. My father was wrong because he failed to protect and nurture my mother through the early years of their marriage. However there is no resolve if she insisted on talking about something that happened 30 years ago.

My relationship with my mother has been strenuous at best. To her, I was born disobedient and ungrateful. Her measure of my love was based on my loyalty towards her. I must have been born with a set of opinions at birth because my mother heard my opinions of things from the day I could speak my mind. And for having my personal beliefs and opinions, I have not had a good relationship with her.

But my relationship with my father has always been good. Till today, I know that I am his favourite child. Out to buy dinner from the night market, my packet of dinner will have something extra that no one else had. The list of favouritism includes my favourite piece of fried chicken or extra vegetable because I am a spinach freak.

*
‘Do not side for your father. You think your father loves you?,’ my mother asked one day. She was sobbing, her hair in a mess. She was a puddle of tears one morning when she, again, felt that my father did not love her enough. I came downstairs to screams from both sides and I just calmly told my mother the same thing I told her for years: ‘Move on with your life. You cannot live your life based on something that happened 30 years ago.’

‘You think your father loves you?’ Those words were like venom, injected into my veins. ‘Your father did not want you even when you were in my stomach. He wanted to throw me and you out of the house when he had not even seen you. What sort of man throws his pregnant wife out of the house?’

And so she began to tell me a story; a childhood story that I cannot remember because I was not even born yet. My mother was heavily pregnant with me when my parents argued one day and according to my mother’s story, my father told her to leave the house. Now I understand my mother's anger towards me. My mother was angry with me for all the years that she thought that I have been ungrateful. That I loved the person whom she considered had ruined her life. That I have not shown my loyalty towards her because she was the one who bore me and stayed in an unhappy relationship for the sake of me.

‘You think your father loves you? Your father did not want you.’

*
If you have never been told that you are an unwanted child, I can honestly tell you that the knowledge is not pleasant. If you are going to be a father or a mother, please do your future children a favour and spare them of such information, even if it is the truth. A child should never be told that he is not wanted.

I walked away from the living room and I could hear them wrestle on, like the way they do for all the years that I can remember. I do not remember crying or feeling anything in particular. ‘So Miss Otto, how do you feel now that you know that your father did not want you when you were little?’ I asked myself that question for days.

I was present at their next argument again. Often time their arguments were over minor things such as my father forgetting to buy a certain breakfast something for her or he disagreed with my mother’s opinion. Those acts and some others, according to my mother, clearly showed how much my father did not love her. Thus confirming that she was right all along. Since 1975.

‘You know what? I don’t care if my father did not want me when I was little,’ I said to my mother. ‘It does not matter because I know that my father loves me NOW.’ I think those sentences shocked both my parents. ‘I forgive my father for it. It happened a long time ago. Now he is a changed man and I know for a fact that my father loves me.’

*
You always have choices in life. There is no such thing as ‘no choice’. You have made a decision and the decision was a ‘no choice’. There are always options and alternatives in life. The choice is in your hands.

You can choose to cry and sulk over something that happened a long time ago. Or you can choose to let go. In my mother’s case, she can choose to appreciate what she has now – a man that is willing to change his ways and try to win her heart. But my mother chooses to relive the 1970s and even though my grandmother has passed away last year, my mother cannot let go.

Yes, life is a bitch. Life is not fair. Yes, you were right and she was wrong. So what? What do you want? You want the old lady to tell you that she was wrong? That she was sorry? She is dead, she cannot say anything to you. And as far as she is concerned, she too, has moved on to another phase in her life through her death.

If you can just stop for a moment and open your eyes, you will see that everything is good. You have grown children, all who are responsible, intelligent and working. You have a reasonably healthy body and you have sufficient finance to live off. You have a man who still drives you around and takes you wherever he goes. He is not perfect. He learns from his mistakes. The key word is change. If he changes, then you must let go and understand that with each sunrise, a day brings fresh hope for a new beginning.

*
I could hate my father forever. How can any man disown a young baby? What can I do wrong as a little baby, other than I burp, spit milk, cry and dirty my diapers for 20 hours of every day? What did I do to deserve a father who is willing to send his pregnant wife away? I can be angry forever and I even have legitimate reasons for so.

But I choose to look beyond those days and see what I have presently. I have a father who listens intently to my stories, the way he does when I was little. I have the company of a 63-year-old man for teas and breakfasts. He eagerly shares stories of his fishing trips and until today, my father is the happiest man, even when he did not catch any fish bigger than the size of his palm. My father is no further than a phone call away. I have tested this idea - I have sobbed on the phone at 3 a.m. because I had bad cough. That happened 2 or 3 years ago, so I am not joking when I say that my father is a nice bloke. He made mistakes like all young men do. The difference is my father changed and now he is a good man.

Forgiving someone and letting go of the past are two very difficult things to do. It is hard to overcome anger and hurt but you have to deliberately choose to forgive someone, if you want to be happy in life. I know it is not the easiest thing to do in life. Some of you might now say ‘Oh Otto, that was such a little thing. You are not walking in my shoes. I have a terrible life and I have such injustice done towards me. Yours is nothing.’

Well trust me, honey. You have not walked a mile in mine. Forgiving my father was easy. Forgiving someone who took my innocence away was far more difficult. How do you forgive the man who single-handedly mishandled you so much that you feel that you can no longer trust men? How do you forgive the man who threatened to murder you and chased you around with a knife? How do you forgive the man who climbed over the gate and attacked your front door with a hockey stick? How do you forgive the man who robbed your brothers of their innocence when they were less than 12 years? How do you forgive the man for the trauma he has caused you and your family?

It is not easy. But life offers you choices and I chose to let go. I cannot live unless I let go of everything that has happened in the past. I purposed in my heart to forgive and move on with my life. The past has happened and I cannot change it. But I have control over my present and my future. I dare say that one of the more significant points of my life is the day that I talked to my father about it.

‘I should thank him for all the horrible things he did to me. I would not be where I am now if it was not for him. I have done so many things that I never dreamt before I met him. For one, I would not love myself as much as I do if it wasn’t for him.’

I learnt to accept the past for what it was. Everything happens for a reason. I could choose to make it a life lesson or I could drown in the past sorrow. I chose to make use of the experience and that was my choice.

*
So life is truly simple actually. It is made out of choices. Even your ‘no choice’ was a choice. You can either hold a grudge or forgive. I rather choose to forgive because forgiving everyone for all the injustice done towards you will set your soul free to live and love again.

Or you might one day wake up, old and grey, and you realise that you are still living a memory 30 years ago. Time has moved and the earth has changed. The only person reliving the bad memory is you. And that’s a lonely place to be.

***
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A story of the man I learnt to forgive.

The End

2007-07-11T08:52:00.000+01:00

While lying in bed last night, all my eyes saw was the little room I slept with Alex in Sevenoaks. How the blue was just the right shade and how the white would bounce of the walls. Yes, I remember now. He painted the room just before I visited him three years ago.

As I thought about this more, I saw the white paper lantern hung in the centre of the room and insects appeared, one after another, as I thought a little more. A few were buzzing around the lantern, searching for where the rest were; in the lantern, nearer to the source of light. I saw the window ajar and closed it in my mind, the way I do whenever I laid in the bedroom, on the bed with my seven pillows.

The whole room smelled of Alex. It was distinctive male smell, very musky and not so floral at all. I am in no way implying that Alex smelled bad. He smelled like the rest of his species – manly. The room was crammed with his books and mine with lots of my shoes under the bed. There was a white cupboard filled half with his clothes and the right side, mine. There was a crumple at the centre of the dark blue carpet, where the walking traffic was heaviest. That must be the reason why it was crumpled. And when I closed my eyes to sleep at night, a faint light was visible, glowing from the Apple Mac, which was put to sleep.

Usually we watched an episode of House or Green Wings, which were short episodes of about an hour each. The last time we laid in bed together to watch something, it was a Chinese movie entitled "Dumplings". Alex had excellent taste in things and his choice of movies never disappointed. Alex tucked into his side of the bed when the movie was over while I arranged my pillows to form a little nest. I had a pink blanket, which I used in the summers under the thinner duvet.

*
Years ago we slept naked together. We never minded how we looked or smelled. I do not even remember if he snored in the first few years we were together. We slept, cuddled like little kittens for tenderness. When it was cold, Alex slept on my side of the bed to warm it up whilst I brushed my teeth or changed out of my clothes.

As the years rolled by, he slept in his dark blue cotton boxers and I slipped into t-shirts and panties. I began to mind us sweating on each other. He had large European nostrils, so can you imagine what I felt when he slept next to my ears. I felt as if a fan was next to me, blowing at 100 km/hr. I found it bothersome the way he breathed into my ears whenever he hugged me to sleep. So I slept in my little corner, away from him. Soon my nest grew bigger and wider. Now I cannot even tell you when we began to sleep as two separate entities on the same bed.

Don’t get me wrong. Alex and I make great friends. We have fantastic conversations and I guess we still would, if we were talking. We hardly argued with each other. Often we shared similar taste in things and would accommodate each other, if our opinions differed. We liked the same eclectic things though I think Alex was more pragmatic of us two. We could talk forever, if we wanted to.

We complimented each other many levels. I would not go so far as to say that we could complete each other’s sentences because I think we never did. But certainly we enjoyed each other’s company very much. For the longest time, Alex was the rock in my life as he provided me with the stability (and craziness) that I craved inside.

*
In retrospect, I guess you can say that I should have seen this coming. But I promise you that I did not. I never dreamt of a day when I will no longer be with Alex and until today, I shut my mind so that it cannot dream about it. Now I despair whenever I think about Alex and I. Whatever happened to the sunshine and happiness we bathed in years ago? Are we forced to grow up with the clouds of future commitment and age issue looming ahead?

Why I did not realise this earlier, I do not know. So do not ask me what my mother asked me since I returned home. ‘What is he giving you? You need to plan for your future.’ Obviously my mother was spot on. I must admit my mother was right however sore as I am with the notion. She was talking about all the things that I held in my mind and the difference between the mother and her daughter was, my mother spoke while I tried to hide.

Now you would think that I would cow to my mother since I share the same concerns as my mother do. Nope. I have been ultra defiant in my replies. ‘Alex might not have given me anything materially but he has given me happiness that you do not know. I have been happy for all the years that I am with him. Can you say the same?’

Yeah, I know. Stabbing my mother’s heart, picking at her emotional troubles is quite the terrible thing for a daughter to do but I have to protect my heart. And I have to protect Alex because all I said was true. Alex gave me so much happiness in the years that we have been together. And I will never allow anyone to say anything bad about him.

*
Last night was the first time I sat and reflected on the relationship I had shared with this Scottish man. He is no longer the boy I knew 6 years ago. I was 25 when I met Alex on an island and he was merely 21. He was a boy and now he is a man. He used to bum around, travelling and then sharing a business with me. Now he wears a tie and goes to work. On weekends, he cleans the toilet and washes his Monday to Friday work clothes so he can wear them the following week again. Alex is a thrifty boy.

When we met, I was a little girl, dancing the nights away, riding in the cars with boys and hopping from one party to another. Life was crazy and it was exciting. When I put on my high heels on weekends, everything was buzzing with anticipation and excitement. And it was okay that way.

Now I am a grown woman and my life has changed. I have to make decisions for myself, decisions that are crucial for my future. What I do in the next 24 months will influence the next 20 years of my life. Where do I call my home? Who should I share my life with? What should I do to secure our future together? When will I play mommie and who would be there to support me when I do?

*
Sometimes when you open your eyes and heart and dare stare into your past, you will see many beautiful things. You will things that you wished you could do again and then there are things that you wished you would never. There will always be heartbreak and disappointments but you will also experience great joy and happiness. And if you are lucky, you will share everything with someone you love.

Life is like a river flowing on and on, even when you feel like you are stagnant, like a puddle of water. That is the beauty about living. The only thing certain about life is uncertainties. You can plan for your future but you will never know what the future brings until the future becomes today.

It was difficult to let go. If I have to think about it again, I do not think I will let Alex go. It is a very difficult decision and until this minute, I dare tell you that I do not think about it much. I keep myself busy and occupied, so I can take a rest from everything and just trust that life will bring me something.

Maybe my future is with Alex. Maybe it will not. But whatever it is, I have realised that it is beyond my control. I cannot count and plan for everything. Everything has its time. So the plan is to get on with my life and do my own thing. Do not bother too much for the future but allow life to bring me whatever blessings it has in store for me.

So I ended up doing the most ironic thing that one can do. I contradicted all that I had worried about. I worried about my relationship but I chose to abandon it. Abandoning it seemed like the most logical decision. I knew that I would straggle the relationship (or myself or Alex) if I stayed on. Take a step back and let everything flow. I am sure I will catch up sooner or later.

Alex asked what happens if circumstances changed and they were not favourable to us. As it is, circumstances are packing up like a mountain against us. It cannot be any worse. And if my relationship with Alex ends, then I guess an end is an answer too.

The Watch

2007-07-06T10:59:00.000+01:00

There is a watch that sits in my top drawer. It is no longer working. It is so old and worn out but still it sits in my top drawer. Each time I open my drawer, I remind myself of its life story.

*
The watch wasn’t special. It wasn’t any of these fancy watches you see these days. It was an ordinary black strap, white face Casio watch, I bought myself a long time ago. I can’t remember when exactly I bought it but I remember who I was with when I did.

The guy’s name was Alan and he was my friend. He was my friend for the longest time and then he became my millennium boyfriend. Yeah, I have had quite a few boyfriends and it seems to me that time is easiest to measure using boyfriends as a timeline. So now I can confidently tell you that the watch must have been at least 7 years old.

The watch wasn’t special but Alan was. He was the first man I loved because he loved me more. It might sound selfish to you but trust me, this arrangement works in the woman’s favour. Loving a man more always spells disaster.

*
‘Why didn’t you fix the watch?’ I asked him. It was 2 weeks since the watch needed a change of battery and I was waiting for Alan to do it for me. Not that I am spastic or anything. I could have done it all on my own but somehow my mind was quite firm on the decision that Alan should be the one to change it.

Somehow along the way, I determined to use it as a test. Somehow I had associated his love for me on this act. The more he delayed, the more I saw that he did not love me. He would have changed the battery by now if he loves me, I thought to myself. Each time I pestered him, he would just mumble some excuse. As days turned into weeks, I grew impatient and one day, I cried.

‘You don’t love me,’ I sat, facing the other side of the room. I did not want Alan to see me cry. He reached over to hold my hand but I withdrew myself from him. If he had loved me, surely he would have changed the battery for me by then. 2 weeks is a long time to wait and I had waited for Alan to proof how much he loved me.

‘I love you so much,’ Alan said, reassuring me that everything was okay - that he loved me and that I was just being silly. The more he denied my feelings, the more hurtful everything felt and soon I was convinced that he did not love me anymore.

If he loved me, he would do it for me. How difficult is it to get to the shopping mall to change a damn watch battery? I can do it myself but I want Alan to do it for me. If he does it, it means that he loves me.

*
The issue became sensitive and I was upset with his behaviour. It was unlike Alan to delay doing something so simple. I set an expiry date for him, 2 full weeks but he did not manage the simplest of tasks set for him. In my eyes, Alan had failed as my partner. He would have done it quickly if I was important to him and since he did not get it done, it only meant that I wasn’t.

I drove to the shopping mall and I fixed the watch. By doing so, I became more angry and upset. I vented my frustration and disappointment on Alan. Oh how my heart bled knowing that the man I loved did not love me enough to even fix a damn leather watch for me.

My heart began to doubt how much love Alan had for me and if he was able to help me through with life. And for a long time, I withdrew myself from him and did not communicate my feelings to him. All Alan did was to cuddle up and kiss me. ‘I love you very much.’

*
‘Happy birthday, Otto,’ he said. It was a few weeks since the watch incident. By then, I had forgotten what the fuss was about. I was my usual chirpy self and we were celebrating my birthday with a group of friends. It was in an Italian restaurant, now I remember.

After everyone had left and we were alone, Alan passed me a box. It was my birthday present and he asked me to open it. Gleefully I tore open the wrapping paper and opened the box. It was a sweet pink Guess watch, just the kind that I liked. I looked at the Casio watch I wore on my right wrist and then at the pretty watch Alan bought me.

‘Happy birthday, Otto,’ Alan said and then he gave me a peck on my right cheek. And then I understood everything that had happened. Alan secretly bought me a new pink watch when he noticed how old my old Casio was. He wanted to give to me as a surprise birthday present and that explained why he did not change the battery, like I had wished he did.

I gave him a hug and I apologized for what looked like a spoilt child’s behaviour in previous weeks. I looked at my watch and then at the new in the box. It was then that I realised something very important.

*
Now whenever I open my drawer, I will see the watch. It is the black one, the one that I had changed its battery. The pink watch was misplaced somewhere unknown. And the lesson I learnt is this.

Women often make the mistake of doing everything too hastily. We are taught to be equals and to be independent. Sometimes we are so independent that a man has no opportunity to show his loving side. But what is love other than creating opportunities for that special someone to love and care for you? I learnt to allow a man space and time to show his affections. Not my way but his. Not my time but his. And you know what? These men never failed once.

Versions of Reality

2007-07-03T11:17:00.000+01:00

“Do you want to go for the Rain Forest Music Festival?” It was at the end of the end, just as we were finishing the buckets of beers, when the prolific painter posted the question. “Good musicians and artists like Anteras will be there. Come on, y’ll. It’s the 10th anniversary.”

The thing about me is I am quite a boring person in real life and if I had to be stuck next to someone for 72 hours, it had to be with someone who would understand me enough not to straggle me. Like MiniBoyFriend R. So I sent him a sms asking if he would like to join me for a weekend in the middle of the rain forest. And we could sit in the bathtub sipping vodka like the good old days.

What were the good old days? They are so distant that it feels faint. All I have now are good new days. Days that are long but exciting. Days that fill me up with happiness. Days that I have selfishly robbed of my lover and days that I spend happy on my own.

To be perfectly honest, I still feel rather vulnerable. Which is why I am not writing much and when I do, the stories are often obscure and light. There are a lot of things going around me at the moment, perhaps moments that I do not wish to bare to the world. It’s easier for me to bare my chicken drumstick thighs than to talk about my private life at the moment.

Though there is something that I would like to share and perhaps the story is an indicator of everything that is happening around me.

*
You know the big hoohaa over the film The Secret and the subsequent book of the same title? I have always been weary of sales persons and sales tactics, often thinking that they are insincere and rather gimmicky. On the surface, this Secret seemed like positive thinking repackaged for the 2007 folks. There is no such things as a free lunch, so I do not expect the world achieving peace anytime soon with the release of this book.

But like every other sucker out there who is helping the authors get even richer, I bought the book. You have to give credit where it is due. These people conceived the notion of prosperity based on the creation of a book called The Secret. I think they deserve the brand new Jaguar or Aston Martin that they are driving right this moment as I am talking about their book. All of us have 24 hours and they have spent theirs conceiving the book and now reaping the success from their labour.

I bought the book during my last date with MiniBoyFriend R. We went for some coffee and I bought the book because it was on the main table in MPH. Did the book choose me or did I choose the book? I am not sure about who chose who – the book choosing me or I chose the book – but what is certain is that the book had its highs and lows.

No surprises that the book turned out to be positive thinking, dragged out from the 80s closet and repackaged and renamed. Everything is going retro, so why not positive thinking, eh? It spoke about gratitude and giving, which if you look closely, looked ripped of the pages of the Bible. No surprises there either.

What caught me by surprise were some ideas that were suggested within the book. Suddenly I realised that I did a lot of the things that were mentioned in the book, such as visualization exercises. One of my favourite pastime is dreaming up new things – new career, new house, rearranging my dream furniture, what it is like to buy the S40 I saw two weeks ago etc.

I call them games and I play them often. And I play them real. If I opened a business in my head, I had business plans and budgets written out. I would research and check for the possibility and viability of the venture. I would calculate even the success/failure rates, what I could do with the profit etc. It’s an elaborate world in my head and in my mind, I have opened boutiques, jewellery stores, franchise chain of my current business, bars and restaurants.

This game I play in my head is quite unique to myself. None of my friends visualize ideas and dreams as frequent or detailed as I do. So it is no surprise that I am known as the dreamer among my friends. But these dreams and fantasies I created in my mind are very detailed, including colour schemes, furnishing, budget, price per item and staff.

According to the book, one can birth new things in this world by visualizing them. If you want a million, you visualize a million. If you want a slim body, you visualize it into existence. If you want a happy relationship, you imagine how it is like to be in that relationship. The list is endless and limitless.

The other thing that is heavily mentioned is life attitude, which is formed by your core beliefs. These are inter-related and affect your life far greater than you think they do. How you approach life and problems will influence your emotions, which in turn sets the tone for how you deal with various aspects of your daily life. Set in a chain of motion, they will influence each other, either making the day better or worse, depending on your outlook in life.

It caused me to think of my core beliefs. What I hold true in my heart and what I honestly feel about values. How you set your world is how you will experience it. For example, a woman who believes that mushrooms will give her rashes, mushrooms will. Mushrooms will not give anyone else rashes but her. If a man thinks that eating piping hot fried chicken will give him sore throat, eating piping hot fried chicken will. It would not affect anyone else but him.

And for the very same reason, some traditional Chinese will suffer from sore throat when they consume “hot” dishes and coughs from “cold” food. These “laws” do not apply to other races and especially not the Europeans, who find these “laws” alien.

So does this mean that you can smoke 2 packs of cigarettes and live till 75, if you visualize it in your mind every morning and night? I am open to the notion, so please drop me an email if you happen to be this 75 year old healthy man or woman who smoked 2 packs of ciggies for the last 30 years of your life, surviving till your ripe age because of great visualization skills…

*
And these are my core beliefs. Read them and perhaps you will understand why I am the way I am.

I always believed that I will achieve great things in life.

I will achieve anything I want to, if I put my heart into it.

I blame no one but myself if I failed to achieve something that I desired. It means I had not desired it truly. (refer to #2)

I lead a life that is colourful and vibrant – a life that has no regrets and enough stories to keep me smiling when I am old, sitting on a rocking chair.

My world is only limited to everything and anything that my mind can conceive.

I will write at least one book in my lifetime. (This has now changed to "I am writing at least one book in my lifetime" after reading The Secret.)

I will only get better as I grow older.

Everyone believes that they are special. As Freud said, this is the super ego in all of us. But I believe this so strongly that it literally feels as if my whole being is vibrating this frequency. That is the only way I can describe the stirring in my heart.

*
Life is an illusion. You are whatever you dream to be. It exists only in your version of life and perhaps it is not true for others, only for you. But who cares if it’s pertinent to others or real to others. All that matters is you because at the end of the day, you are the only one who will taste the sweetness or bitterness of your life.

"Everyone wants to feel important. You must remember that.
Even mad people are important in their versions of reality."
~ Otto

***
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Limitations And More

Extraordinary Madonna

Extraordinary Madonna

2007-06-24T01:40:00.000+01:00

If the success of a party is measured by the percentage of hangovers the following morning, I can say confidently that our Mid Summer’s BBQ party by the swimming pool last night was a roaring success. The party was ended abruptly when The Bachelor collapsed into a heap of snores at about 2 a.m. He literally collapsed onto the floor and whatever pain he must have felt caused by the fall was certainly numbed by the red and white wine, port, countless cans of beers and vodka shots.

I was speaking to Ed, my Romanian friend when it happened. My first reaction was to laugh and I have my reasons to. The Bachelor had been dancing on the swimming pool podium for more than an hour, putting on a routine common to beach parties, the light show. The only exception was there were no lights at the end of his fingertips.

Anyway, I kicked him a little, thinking that he was putting on his usual show. He did not budge, so I turned him over. The Bachelor was being not so bachelor. He was asleep and snoring at 2 a.m. Such sins.

BestGuyFriend and Ed took him back to his apartment while the rest of us girls got up and dispersed the other two Germans. One was drunk and the other was drunk and asleep.

‘Are our company so boring that you are asleep, sir?’ I asked one of them earlier in the evening.

He opened his eyes and smiled. ‘No, it is not. I won’t describe myself as being bored just because my companion on my right isn’t speaking much to me at the moment. I think she’s excellent company and should be here again tomorrow night when I organize a Bavarian BBQ,’

The 11 of us were invited to the next party, which I think will be cancelled on the account of everyone’s hangovers at 11 a.m. Sunday morning.

*
Hey, I just realised something. I devoted the first section of this story to talking about how everyone was dropping like flies during last night’s party. I swear to you, it was a grand party with a blazing BBQ grill since 7 p.m. and basically too much to drink.

Everyone was relaxed and the atmosphere was just right. The group of us mingled well. I could have proudly written that I spoke to everyone last night, if not for the architect’s wife, who is definitely ignoring me. I am not too sure why she is doing so but I am well aware that I am being ignored since the beginning of time. As if I had stepped on her tail. Maybe she thinks that I stepped on her husband’s coattail or maybe her husband has been thinking of stepping on mine…

*
Slumping next to me, BestGuyFriend lit his Marlboro Lights and started puffing like his usual self. ‘What is happening?’

‘I can’t do this anymore.’ I just let loose. All the words, every emotions and thoughts came streaming through. It felt strange talking about such private matters in such a huge public place, where even the walls have ears. But it didn’t matter. Everyone asked why I had returned to Malaysia early this year and I guess it was time to tell.

I am no longer satisfied with a relationship that is so far away. I do not want to be in a relationship where I am with the person for 6 months of the year, at the most. It used to work fine but it is not working for me anymore. I need something more than just 6 months of a year. I want companionship and love all year round. I need support and devotion, things that one receives in a relationship.

‘You are business woman,’ BestGuyFriend said. I have heard that word a million times but somehow it sounded more profound when he uttered those words to me last night. ‘At your very core is an entrepreneur. You are very independent and successful at what you do. On a social scale, you sit right on top.’ His right index finger was pointing at an imaginary ladder and according to his finger, my spot was the top spot.

‘Even architects and bankers have bosses above them. You have none. You are the boss. You are the universe and you make your own rules.’

‘Yeah but that doesn’t mean I don’t get scolding. I have clients to please too and they are a handful at best.’

‘Nonetheless you are on top. It had made you very independent and opened vast amount of choices and opportunities to you – opportunities and choices that not many other people have, especially girls.’

I tried denying what BestGuyFriend spoke about. I do not own a single expensive bag. I drive a 12 year old Wira with dents that represent the whole of Asia. I do not wear designer dresses and I have not appeared in Tattler or the business section in major newspapers. But BestGuyFriend insisted that what I had was luxury; the luxury of time, freedom of choice and at the end of the day, financial freedom through a business that I am absolutely passionate about. It had given me the confidence that I do possess and the elevation in the social circles that I move in.

It had given me even the ability and time to write you all these stories.

‘You are a very independent woman.’

*
Independent. Independence have, throughout human history, been celebrated. It was a cause for joy and celebration. Malaysia is celebrating its 50th year of independence and all Malaysians are joyous of the occasion. And in the last month, 3 men have described me as being independent. Not just independent, like a girl who is able to drive herself here and there, owns her little apartment and lives on her own. What they spoke about was total independence.

‘You are very independent. You are far more independent than many European girls that I know. Why are you suddenly demanding? If you want, I can squirt you full of babies and you can go have a baby in Malaysia and be happy with it.’

‘I know that I can have a baby on my own. I don’t need you or any other man. But what is the use of a relationship if there is no support and I am expected to do everything on my own anyway? I might as well do it like Madonna.’ I was referring to Madonna’s fitness instructor who donated his sperms for Madonna’s first child, who turned into a very beautiful and sultry Lola. He has no paternity rights at all and plays no part in raising her.

If I have to do it like Madonna, raise a child on my own without any support from the father, I rather do it with a very hot Latino. At least his sperms could contribute some physical beauty to my unborn. But that isn’t what I crave. I crave for emotional support from the man I call my life partner. I want him to stand by me as I will stand by him. I want to be around him and I want him to be around me. I want dinners together and weekends together. I want to be able to feel vulnerable and secure at the same time. Isn’t that what love does?

If I have to do everything on my own, what the fuck is the use of a man? Companionship? I have just been told that I can have a bucket full of sperms and play Mary Poppins on my own in Malaysia. Not the best answer to give to a very hormonally challenged 31 year old who is freaking out because she thinks that she has to take charge and do something with her life before she is seriously too old to have a child. And I have to cough up my own diaper and milk money. So what the fuck is the use of a man?

Most women either get emotional support or financial support from men. Some women, the lucky ones, will receive both or a compromise between the two. As it turns out, I will receive hardly any because I am independent. Thank you.

*
‘You are very independent. That’s why I like you,’ The Bachelor said one day when I asked him why he rather my company than other more available girls, such as my good friends, E and Jane.

Doomed if I am not and damned if I am. Why don’t men seem to realise that women, no matter what social or financial standing they are, crave for such a simple thing called love? And love means much more than just seeing you whenever they are free. Love is appreciating and supporting each other daily. Love makes everything lighter because you can share. And just because you think I am independent doesn’t mean that I do not need someone to be tender and care. It doesn’t mean you can chuck me out in the streets and know that I will survive.

I know I will survive but I would like to think that you would love me enough and keep me in the warmth of your presence and arms anyway. Okay, this one is another strike out, I thought to myself.

*
‘You are a very independent woman,’ BestGuyFriend said. ‘You would have been happier if you were just working in Kota Raya as a cashier. If you were a cashier in Kota Raya, you would appreciate Alex more if he brought you to the UK to stay with him because it meant that you would live 10 or 20 times better than on the streets in Pudu Raya.’ His cigarette smoke disappeared into the air. If only he could make my pain disappear.

‘Alex could have brought home a Thai girl but it would be very difficult for him to do so. It was easier to go out with you because you will socialise easier in London than a Thai prostitute. You have your own career and your own money, so he never has to worry for you. In very short words, you were very easy for him.’

BestGuyFriend could have very well described me as being slut easy because that was how I felt. I am an easy relationship. Well thank you for letting me know. It’s 6 years too late but I guess better late than never. It’s easier to have a relationship with me because I am less demanding than the girl who screamed murder when you don’t buy her the very new and very expensive bag. Whatever happened to liking a girl for her intelligence? Or tits, at this rate.

‘You are so used to being special and extraordinary, you won’t feel comfortable doing normal things. You are this high on the social ladder.’ Again BestGuyFriend was pointing to my spot in the social ladder. ‘And you need a man who is also on that top spot on the ladder. Now all the boys here are on the top spot because they are the cream of all the expats and locals and you don’t like the local boys.’

‘Correction! The local boys don’t like me,’ I said. ‘They can’t stand the sight of me and especially my thoughts and opinions on things.’

‘Ok, so the local boys prefer their porcelain dolls,’ BestguyFriend adjusted his storyline. ‘You are left with the expats and let’s just say that you did break up with Alex and start dating one of the boys here. What happens when his contract expires? Will you be content playing expat wife in another country? Will you be able to go back to his country and be ordinary?’

I didn’t get what he was trying to tell me. It took a while before I did. I think it took me the amount of time it did because I didn’t want to own up to what I had to.

‘Are you willing to go back to London or Stockholm or Munich and just be ordinary? Take the bus like everyone else. Own a house mortgage and try living within the constraints of his very ordinary salary? Can you be a housewife?’

‘It depends what sort of housewife. There is clearly a difference between a housewife in wooden shack and one in a 2 storey house in the middle of the city,’ That was me defending myself and refusing to admit the truth.

‘I don’t care what sort of housewife or career woman. My question is ‘Are you willing to live an ordinary life in an European city?”’

‘I,’ I paused for a few seconds consideration of what I was about to say, ‘I have never been ordinary and I do not believe in living an ordinary life.’

*
‘See that podium,’ I pointed to the one in front of me, where the racers begin and end the Grand Prix. ‘I will sit on that podium next year sipping champagne, if you don’t treat me right. I know where I belong and what I can achieve.’

He patted my head and then he said, “Extraordinary…”

"Like teaching a cat to fetch a ball.
Obedience is just not in their nature."
~ Alex's comment on his relationship with Otto.

Strange Business

2007-06-14T08:21:00.000+01:00

I can’t write. Maybe I can write but I fear what my last paragraph will tell me. Many things are happening around me, all at one go and I am trying hard to hang in there. Things are catching up in the business, so I have been very busy with work. In my personal time, things are also changing and moving.

I think people call this growing up.

Growing up is a strange business. You see, grown ups always think that they are right and just at about 15, you do really believe that you are always right, hence the deduction that you are all grown up at 15. Then at perhaps 20 you realise that you are not so right about growing up at 15. When you spread your wings and see beyond your parent’s house gate, you think you are grown up. Guess what? You are still wrong.

You think that you are a smart ass kid, all streetwise and tough in university. You have your car to cart the girls around and you have your private room to shag your latest bunny. Obviously you think that you are grown up then. But you still aren’t.

Are you all grown up when you receive your first pay cheque? Nope. Are you grown up when you moved into your very own house? I don’t think so. This growing up business is quite elusive, I think. You always think that you are grown up when you reach a certain stage in your life but the reality is, you haven’t grown up as much as you thought you did.

You might think that I am all grown up. I vouch for this fact too, if not for the fact that I am discovering that I am not quite done with the growing up process yet. And I am beginning to realise that perhaps I will never be fully grown up. The definition of growing up changes as I mature and I can’t seem to grasp the concept for more than three nano seconds.

I have been the hopeless one – the one who never grows up. But even as hopeless as I was, I realised that there comes a time when I have to slow down and think a little more than just enjoying a drinking night with the boys on the weekend. Each decade brings about different stages of life and I think I can’t escape the great big “3” that is staring at me right in the eyes.

I think more about home life these days. I can’t wear the 4-inch heel around town the way I used to. My calves romantically ache for the comfortable pair of Aldo flats. I prefer staying in on weekends, spending evenings having private meals with friends and having quieter nights. It is embarrassing when some pimply teenager asks for my phone number. Or name. I am beginning to feel my age. Don't give me the "oh age is nothing but a number" bullshit. That's the crap you console yourself with on the day you discover your nipple rings are making friends with your belly button stud.

Oh the great shame if I don’t know how to carry myself at 31. No more dancing on bar tops. No more drinking vodka like an athelete consuming water after a 40km marathon. Bear some skin but in a more dignified manner. Tuck in my fleshy tits into the bikini and dress a little more responsibly. No more causing accidents to young blooded drivers in, around and about the city. That torch should be passed on to the younger ones.

I am not ready for a baby but I am thinking about it. Let me tell you a little secret. I secretly bought a pregnancy and conception book from MPH a month ago and I read through some of the pages. Whoever said pregnant women look great is a liar. Pregnant women look awful with their inch long nipples.

But it hasn’t deterred me from reading more and finding out the options for myself. I might not want a child now but I am exploring the prospect. Oh good Lord, no one comes to About Nude Not Naked to read about pregnancy fats and stinky babies. ANNN is about having fun, celebrating singlehood while longing pathetically for her hairy English (he's Scottish to be precise) boyfriend, Alex and entertaining perhaps 3 other boys on the side (just for fun).

Yeah right.

I think I have reached a critical time in my life. The point where you stand at the edge of a great emotional waterfall and you can choose either to continue standing on the edge and let everything pass you by or to take a bold step and fall. And if I take the fall, will I drown in the waters below? If I hold my breathe long enough, will I float back up or will the tides sweep me away?

I don’t know the answer and that’s why I have refused to think for the past two weeks. Which honestly, explains why I have not written since returning from Wroclaw.

*
“Hey, why are you back so early?” my head of staff asked me when I turned up for work on Monday. “Usually you will be in London until August or September…”

“I need to work,” I gave a short reply.

“Why are you home?” my parents asked me almost daily and each day my reply is the same. “There are lots to do at work.”

Some times they decide to poke a little deeper. It is as if they have deliberately pecked at my emotional wound, gnawing it deeper and wider, exposing my weakness for all to see. It feels as if they are biting for the juicy bits, hoping that it will make it into this weekend’s gossip sessions at a Starbucks near you. How much more vulnerable can one be?

The Wind Made Me Do It

2007-06-02T09:27:00.000+01:00

Welcome back, sir.

It is approx. half 8 in London on a Saturday morning. I have successfully woken up 7:30 a.m. daily no matter what time zone I am in. I jump out of bed, shouting for my laptop so I can go to work. Ok, so I don't literally shout but you know, my mind somesort like ache for the familiar iBook and my fingers start crawling like tiny spiders on the keyboard.

Was in Wroclaw the whole of last week, which was beautiful. Girls there were beautiful, so the 8 boys I was with were getting more action than their pants could handle. The dining and clubbing scenes were fantastic. Oh my god, it was like heaven! Perfect weather at 30c minus the humidity in Msia. How much better can you get?

I should be going back soon. There are tonnes of things to do, both in my business as well as rearranging some stuff in my personal life. I need to get myself a proper house with a dining table. I can't sit on a coffee table having TV dinners forever.

The strange thing is I never had TV dinners until I met boys. My parents' household had civilised meals at the dining table, every day for every meal. Where you talk about your life and routines etc etc. Boys somehow enjoy getting stupid in front of the TV. It is yet another habit that I do not practice on my own - watching TV or getting stupid.

It annoys me to no end. I am the sort who enjoys going out, sitting out in the open and watching people doing their stuff. Am vouyeuristic by nature, I think. I guess it is no surprise that I want to write. I love to read and I spent countless hours buying books that I hope to read some day. Currently I am alternating between two books. You know, some days you just fancy one over the other.

That makes me fickle minded, I suppose. My mother warned me about this when I was a teenager, changing the furniture in my bedroom every 30 days or so. "You are the sort that can't settle down."

Suddenly I am reminded of the movie Chocolat. I am not like this by nature; the restlessness I feel in my heart every so often. I do not bugger off after a period of time because my heart told me to. It wasn't me. It was never me. I think I understand Vianne Rocher.

The wind made me do it.

xoxo,
Otto

What Happens When The Nude Goes For A Holiday With Eight Boys?

2007-05-30T13:19:00.000+01:00

"The most beautiful girls are in Poland," he said, then putting out his cigarette.

"The last Polish girl I knew had blue eyeshadow and looked like a Russian girl peddling flowers," I said. "Hmmm I somehow remember very short skirts and platforms..."

*

The flight to Poland was 1 hour and 45 minutes but the difference between the two cities could not be more vast. Perfect weather when we landed in Wroclaw. The boys went out for a drink the second they dropped their bags in the hostel. Ruska 51 is the best place to party as I soon discovered. You could hop from one club to another, never leaving the street. You go in at 10 p.m. after dinner and you emerge in the full sunlight at 5 a.m. Andy BB and Joe even managed to stay up all the way till 8 a.m., served by pretty Polish girls with chopstick legs.

Alex could not have chosen a better time to tease me about my miserable drumstick thighs. "Babs, you feeling fat, is it?" he purred. I felt like smacking him, which I did.

Eight boys and one girl sat at the town square, which was one of the largest in the world at midday. The boys suffered from whiplash by sight of all the hot girls in the shortest shorts and skirts. "Fuck, check that one out!" Mike said, biting his lower lip. The young woman was wearing a slim cut white blouse and a short skirt, with nice high heels. She was beautiful so beautiful. Mike adjusted his Oakley glasses and tried to flash a friendly smile.

Boys. Given half the chance, they'll hump anything mountable.

*
Wroclaw (pronounce: "row-slav") is a beautiful city, filled with green parks, museums, cosy cafes and spectacular restaurants. The whole experience is affordable, with the most delicious meals costing approx. RM120. Simple meals can be had at Kurna Charta, a hotspot for travelers looking for a cheap meal. Meals start at approx. RM10 for pierogi (dumplings) and soups.

Nightlife is amazing. Some clubs are open 24 hours. As night falls, the famous street Ruska 51 comes to life with people queuing for a spot in different clubs. The music in Metropolis was fantastic and I left the place at 5:30 a.m. Beer cost approx. RM8/bottle. I can't list the price for vodka cocktails since I have not paid for a single glass.

Somehow the Brits decided to punish Wroclaw with their awful stag and hen night parties. The nine of us shared our Ryanair flight to Wroclaw with a bunch of men who cross-dressed as nuns. Very Sound of Music. None of them shaved their hairy legs. The groom was made to wear a black latex suit, with its side laced. One evening while we sat on the town square, we watched some dude dressed in Borat's green swimwear. Some guts, I tell you.

Some warning before you click "x" at the corner of this browser and make your hurried bookings to this party heaven. The city imposes a penalty for stupidity. Misadventures are tolerated and perhaps even laughed at but disruptive and destructive drunk behaviour will result in paying a 250zl (equivelent to RM300) fine and being locked up in a tiny room with other Borat-s.

All in all, Wroclaw is vibrant and colourful city. Worth at least one visit in your lifetime.

***
Related Links

Find out more about Wroclaw.

Musical Chair

2007-05-24T06:33:00.000+01:00

‘And when the music stops, you find a chair and sit,’ the lady in the hat said.

The birthday girl and twenty of her friends walked around the circle of chairs. Their tiny footsteps soon caught up with the music played. They froze the very second the music stopped and after a few bedazzled moments, they ran towards a chair. Some shrieked in delight as they sat on their chairs. Others clambered towards the nearest unoccupied chair.

The birthday girl ran for one and the moment she touched it, she lost the chair. So she ran for another, just three chairs away. Before she could even reach the chair, it was taken. By the third try, tears formed at the corners of the birthday girl’s eyes. Her mother came to hold her hands and guided her towards the side; the side where everyone stood and watched the little game.

The birthday girl stopped in her footsteps and she refused to walk away. She turned and looked at the game unfolding itself when the lady in the hat started to play the music again.

*
Ironic, I thought to myself. Sometimes life can be pretty ironic. PY, E and I were sat in our little corner in Starbucks. The two girls chatted away when my mind travelled to another day and time.

‘My husband forbids me from going out with Otto anymore,’ I imagined her saying. She was the 4th girl in our group and the four of us were good friends in the last two years of highschool. How we became friends was rather interesting. E and I sat next to each other since we were 14 and on the last year of our education, she had decided that we needed to concentrate on our studies. In other words, E decided that we should start doing homework and concentrating in class instead of exchanging notes about boys we liked.

And so one day I came to school and there sat this really tall girl with the sweetest dimples. Her name was Jane. E assigned herself to sit next to another girl and that girl was PY. And that was how four very different girls ended up sharing recess break together. We could not be anymore different but yet we were friends.

Jane somehow ended up in an accountancy course, far away in the north. PY attended Form 6. E went to work and I attended college. We kept in close contact. There were photos of us together during our 21st birthday, each of us sporting really ugly haircuts. There were even photos of us together in a toilet cubicle, taken the night before Jane left for Dublin with her boyfriend.

Education did its work on all of us. For Jane morphed from a teenage nightmare with dangling earrings (we are talking about the early 1990s, a time when even MTV videos were innocent) and tattered jeans into a beautiful and responsible young woman. She studied hard, graduated and worked in Dublin. She eventually ended up with the other non-Muslim in the course, a boy a year older than all of us.

It was this boy that turned into a man that she married ten years later. It was this boy that told her to stop communicating with me. It was this boy and her that decided that they were too matured and responsible to hang around a very irresponsible me.

Approximately four years ago, Jane and I stopped talking. It was as if we woke up one morning and decided that it was best that we did not talk to each other anymore. I had enough emotional baggage and I was quite glad to get rid of one. She said that I was wild and irresponsible as a 25 year old and I felt wronged by a very close friend. We just stopped talking.

But through PY and E, I heard news of Jane. She shared a house with her husband almost immediately when they tied the knot. They started working very hard and were promoted very quickly through two mega international companies. I was genuinely very happy for them despite all of us having gone our own ways.

You can say that I was this overgrown kid, still hanging out in the clubs with the boys. I had so many boys that I could rotate them for my meals and still had spare. Those years were spent fast and wild, sleeping only to wake up for yet another party. When the 3 of them settled down blissfully into their respective permanent relationships, I was this girl who had a new boyfriend every third year.

‘I don’t know what’s wrong with Otto. All the men were fine. SwedishLove was fine and she broke up with him,’ Jane lamented a long time ago. ‘And now she is going out with this new boy, Alex. He is fine too.’

*
The men were all fine. What made me wriggle uncomfortably every so often, I don’t know. But I know that I have to move on to another relationship. It was as if I had changed and grown, the men had to change and grow, mirroring who I had become.

Since leaving highschool, here are the counts of men that the four of us dated, had relationships and married:

Jane

One permanent partner, a boy a year older than us.

One boyfriend who drove fancy cars from his 2nd hand car company.

Currently happily married to a man 14 years older.

One man she loved, married and shared children with.

One boyfriend since her separation from her husband.

Otto

Alan, SwedishLove and Alex as permanent partners.

Seriously dated at least three other men (with the intention of forming lasting relationships).

A few permanent MiniBoyFriends such as BestGuyFriend, R and Adidas Boy.

Needless to say, I was the hopeless one in the group. I was the one who couldn’t form lasting relationships and I was the one who was crazy.

‘I tell you, this is what happens when you go to church as a teenager.’ Jane said a long time ago. ‘I was doing all this partying when I was a teenager and now that I am in my 20s, I am stable and Otto is like this mad teenager.’

*
Ironic, I thought to myself. 2007 is presenting itself as a year for pregnant ladies and a year for great break-ups. Great break-ups which included Jane’s, E’s, my boy cousin from my father’s side and a very young girlfriend who called me every now and then. PY and E were talking about Jane’s divorce and how it was affecting her. Every so often, E mentioned how she was coping with her own break-up from her Muslim boyfriend.

‘No future,’ E said, clasping her hands together. Their relationship blossomed at the same as Alex’s and mine and now 4.5 years later, they broke up and Alex and I are still hanging on together. Somesort.

The girls were concerned for Jane when she returned for Chinese New Year celebrations this year. She and her one permanent partner were filing for divorce immediately after the Lunar celebration. E’s boyfriend became their appointed lawyer. This event broke more than just a vow to love one another and a housing loan. It broke Jane’s heart. PY was worried for Jane because she looked depressed and was depressed for quite a few weeks.

‘Oh tell Jane that she will survive it. Better do it now when she is still young than when she is 45 with two kids,’ I said between licking the tasty cream off my coffee. ‘Consider this as a clean start in life. Look at it this way. Now Jane can choose someone that is suitable for her NOW, than to deal with an old love that was a reflection of her when she was 19.’

My mind was far away when PY and E were talking about E’s new life. 2007 is the first year that E is truly single. She had a permanent partner since she was 15. That’s like 16 years ago. My god, she had spent half her life with a man. Now she is spreading her wings and feeling so happy and adventurous. There were all these new boys that were calling E, confessing how much they were smitten by her presence and how much they had wanted to be with her.

‘Can you believe it? 5 different messages from different men, telling E how much they love her and want to be her boyfriend,’ PY said the following morning when we were having breakfast.

‘I hope you told E never to believe the crock men say.’ That was me dispensing advice to my girlfriend. ‘Men will say anything and do almost anything, just to have half the chance to get into your panties.’

*
Ironic, I thought to myself. Now all I hear during coffee breaks is the weekend adventures for two of my closest friends. How they’ve visited the latest club and have phone numbers stuffed into their hands. With much more money and financial freedom in our 30s, these girls are feeling the freedom that only a single woman could feel. How empowering and good it felt. How you feel that you could live forever.

‘This boy asked me to go to Tokyo with him. That boy said I could stay with him in Hong Kong while I nurse my broken heart,’ E said as she pointed at the photos of boys and what they had promise her in recent weeks. Her eyes were so full of life and she was so happy talking about them. One sneak peek at the boys and you could see that they were physically good looking and had the financial freedom that only came with men in their 30s.

The world has no limits.

I walked down that path and I had the boys. I still have the boys but I am telling myself to give up. Slowly I am giving all these up. It is time for me to move onto another level. I know that it is. I don’t know where I am going but I know that it isn’t shagging in some dingy pub toilet cubicle, next to puke. Those days were wild and those days are now gone. I want something more meaningful and I seriously think that my bones can’t take the vigorous shaking in the cubicle or shack.

*
All of us are participants in a game of musical chair. Life is like a game of musical chair and each chair represents a stage in our lives. There are no two same chairs as there are no two same stages in life. When the music stops, you and I are sat on different chairs.

Do not make a mockery of your friend’s chair. Do not say that your chair is the best. Once the music starts again, all things are fair. You might just end up on the very chair you despised. Do not look at your chair and feel that the world is lost. Do not feel lost. And when you are sad, do feel sad but do not feel too sad. One day you will change your chair and you will find yourself in a different stage.

Tick Frantic

2007-05-21T09:05:00.000+01:00

Ok, so I am frantic at the moment. I'm closing one building sales and in the process of negotiating for another. I haven't shaved my legs in more than 2 weeks. My eye brows make me look like a Chinese Brooke Shields. I haven't gone to the toilet in the last 3 days. Haven't written nor read anything in the last 2 weeks. But I somehow managed to eat fishball noodles every morning.

Will in London Heathrow Terminal 3 in less than 48 hrs time and hopefully I will be able to tick of my list of chores and start writing something soon.

*muah*