The Other Side Of The Fence

I have almost always lived in an apartment. After my parents separated, white picket fences gave way to lift lobbies and access cards. When we went out we simply locked our front door and drove off. No windows to close (how can a robber climb so high?), no gate to lock and no security system to arm.

Life in the various apartments I lived in were an extension of my days at the golf club where my parents left me most of the time. Hours were passed in the pool, roller skating in the huge parking lots and exploring the staff quarters with expatriate kids.

People look at me sympathetically when I tell them of my formative years spent this way. But I was happy - no tuition classes to dread, no garden chores to attend to, and best of all, no neighbours to intrude in my life.

When I got married and moved into a house with a garden, it all seemed so picture-perfect. That is, until the walls started leaking, the roof started falling and the damned neighbours started poking their judgemental noses inside.

Yesterday, the doorbell rang two minutes after I rolled out of bed. It was an Indian woman in her fifties, a neighbour from a few doors down, complaining that my dog shits outside her gate all the time and when her husband drives out, he squashes it with his tyres and as a result, drives to work every morning with my dog's poo scenting his way. I apologised profusely and promised it would stop. I added that if it had happened so many times, that perhaps, she ought to have let me known sooner. Anyway - that was all sorted out amicably when her husband, an uptight accountant-looking man with numbers stuffed up his arse, who had not been listening to the conversation, stomped over and proclaimed in his most menacing tone that he had taken photographs and will send them to DBKL and how he and the other neighbours had all been thinking about what to do with my dog. Meanwhile, his wife kept hushing "Kumar! Stop it..!"

Nothing like a hostile episode to start the morning off. I think it was Kumar that needed to be kept on a leash...

On my left is Mrs C, a geriatric from the dinosaur age - a typical specimen of the first batch of homeowners who bought these houses when they first came up in the '70s. They have never moved elsewhere, never upgraded their homes and are now dying off one by one to be replaced by yuppies who move in and turn the houses into something befitting of a Wallpaper shoot. She lives next door with her anally retentive thirty-plus daughter who never smiles. We all know what that one needs. When we first moved in, my ex-husband bit her head off when she turned up at our gate at 7am complaining that the rain water from our roof had been channelled to her side and was pouring on her driveway. Since then, they have been very cold.

On my right is C and her husband O who live there with their two boys and mother, Auntie A. They are nice but am I imagining it or have they been less friendly since the separation? You never know people even though you live next to them. C has mentioned how thriving my social life has been (how would she know?) and I am not sure if she means it in a nice way. I suspect she sits by the window and keeps a log because she knows everything I do ("how come you have been out all day?"); who came, what time they came - even what they say when they stand at my gate. When my ex-housemate and buddy, Ming, came to stay for a month, I could almost read their thoughts.

Across the road, they are pretty quiet except the husband sits outside staring at my house every night - meditating or what I don't know, so he definitely knows my comings and goings like a personal security guard. But then again, I did make the mistake of accidentally reversing my car into his wife's Kancil last year...oops...

Am I the nightmare neighbour living with fellow nightmare neighbours? Sigh...I just want to live my life my way and be left alone! That's the thing about house-living that no one prepared me for - neighbours. Am very tempted at this point of time to move into a condo (even if it is 900 sq ft) and wait the next fifteen years for a strata title.

Aiyohhh...Pain!

This morning, in between stressed out calls from overtly excitable beauty editors and cautious emails to high-ranking partners, I thought I could have a break by late morning. By 'break' I don't mean hanging out at the cafeteria with a teh halia and inhaling garlicky fumes mixed with the sickly floral detergent of the nearby loos. To me, a break is just how I like to start out the morning - that is by checking my emails and other people's blogs.

Today, I started my break at 12.07. After checking out various blogs and posting comments, I went on to explore further the wonder of Impiana Resort in Koh Samui. Wow, so much to read and such lovely beachy photos. Then I went to Air Asia, Berjaya Air, Asia Travel Mart, and before I knew it, it was 12.47. I blinked blankly mind before the awful realisation dawned on me that ZW needed to be picked up from school at noon!

I jumped up from my seat and furiously began shutting down my laptop and stuffing my overstuffed bags, yes bags, amidst a tangle of wires and files. I flew out of the office and decided to run down the 3 floors to the ground floor before running down another4 floors underground to my car because somewhere in the dim recesses of my mind, I was convinced that I am Superwoman and therefore faster than any elevator. Somewhere in between the 3rd and 2nd floor, the eye to brain to foot coordination malfunctioned and before I knew it, my life flashed before my eyes as I watched the cement steps come up to my eyes as I lurched forward, head first, down from the top of what must have been 20-odd steps and to land in a most ungraceful heap on the landing of Floor 2. I felt every step as I madly thrashed about digging in my knees, ankles, palms to stop but to no avail. It wasn't until I reached the bottom, skirt hiked up to my waist, that I realised that all the while, I had kept my head up to protect my face. You see, vanity is so ingrained in a woman that it is instinctive.

I got up as quickly as I could despite the searing pain; it was after all lunchhour, and I did not want to risk looks of horror from fellow colleagues at the sight of my thighs. I grabbed the contents of my overstuffed bags that were strewn everywhere - papers, brochures, tampax, ATM receipts - and hobbled down the remaining six flights.

You know, falling sure takes a lot out of you cos I was panting the whole way and when I got into my car, I felt like I had run a marathon. Then I proceeded to drive like a mad woman to pick up my son - the whole time having flashbacks to when I was 5 years old and my parents left me at school until evening after everyone had gone home and I shit in my shorts and my headmistress had to wipe my arse.

Thankfully, ZW, being the ultimate survivor that he is, was not the last one there. So there are other Mums like me who forget their children. In fact, he was having a blast with two other boys. Sister Barbara, bless her soul, conversationally commented on how well ZW's vocabulary had developed.

Bless his wonderful school and all its wonderful sisters.

By the time we got home, my two knees had swollen up to resemble light bulbs and my right knee hurts if I put any pressure on it. I have purple bumps all down the front of my legs that better be gone in time for my beach holiday this weekend.

So much for Ashtanga at 3. My knee cap may well crack doing the Warrior. How will I climb rocks on Weds?

Lesson learned - work, don't blog!

Time For A Wax

You know, it's true that When You Are Ready To Learn The Teacher Will Appear. Ie. fate works in mysterious ways to somehow make what you want to happen, happen. Like when you walk past Zara and see the dress of your dreams, ooh, some bank offers you a credit card with immediate approval. Or when you feel like your life is need of an overhaul, someone invites you to go rock climbing and you discover an interest you might want to take further.

The point of this is, I have been gagging for a beach holiday for a while now cos I'm the kind of person who needs to strip off every now and then and enjoy the caress of the sun, sea and sand (preferably in a swimsuit for the sake of the general public). Also, I think my son needs to get away from this urban jungle of TV and guns and hang with the outdoors. So, as I'm planning this holiday with my mates, another friend, Sabby, calls me up all the way from Kuching and offers me an all expense paid trip to Pangkor Laut for the weekend! How uncanny is that?!

Apparently, her best friend's Mum spent so much on her Platinum card that they offered her 3 free rooms in Pangkor Laut for her efforts. What the..???!!

Anyway, not one to complain, I am off next weekend and cannot wait! Time for a wax first though.

Will this apply to Prince Charming I wonder - so when's he going to turn up? (ya right - he no exist galfren)

W - whatever - anyway, it's been a pretty good week for me actually. Eg. Kevin is finally out.

Also, Edwin has thankfully agreed to take over my dog, Maya, who chewed, yes chewed my car fender - yes the bit made of metal. She is too young, hyper and deserves larger grounds, a Mummy who will pat her and feed her Science Diet even though she's a pariah. Edwin fulfills all of the above and will also be happy doing it. But she needs to be speyed first. Tell me, bitches need to have their periods first before they can be speyed right? Am I spelling "speyed" correctly? Or is it "spayed"? You see, good dog-owner I confess not to be, but writer I claim to be. Yet I cannot spell the word that means "infertiling" my dog.

Who cares?! I'm off to Pangkor Laut!

Great Nail Biting Exercise

Today, I ditched the duck-shit green sequinned leather heels and opted for filing my nails.

On a rock face.

Bee and I went rock climbing and it was FABULOUS! Of course, being the complete amateurs that we are, we failed to achieve the climber look - no lean bod, no chalk bag, no cool climbing gear.

But when you are hanging off a rock face with nothing holding you there but your fingers and toes (let's forget the belay for a second), who cares?! Who cares that your butt looks like the size of a boulder from the bottom? Its fun, fun, fun!

Well done to my mates over at Camp 5 - Asia's largest indoor climbing gym - friendly people - excellent walls.

Go for it! My endorphins are still raising hell! See you at the top - so gonna be a climber!

The Answers Are Not Here

Phew...what a weekend.

Actually, what a Saturday night. After 3 weeks of doing the 'home' thing, I ventured out into the sparkling urban jungle that was teeming with F1-packed bars, rum chasers and skimpy tops. Luna Bar was especially hot - I refer to the temperature - it's as if they kept the air conditioning off on purpose to up the ante of F1 'fever'. Tanned white girls may look good all glistening and damp but not so of the two Asian girls (me and Bee) standing in what must have been the hottest corner of the bar - with sweat trails running down our cheeks and oily noses gleaming despite the dim lighting. The icy cold whiskey water helped and we drank those pretty quickly. No cute men, did not meet anyone of interest.

Which is why we decided to venture out to Cynna - in search of a good time and answers to questions we can't figure out. Cynna was a blur of pumping hip hop beats, more skimpy tops and Dior handbags. Bee, Ming and I sat outside while Justin flitted in and out being the social butterfly that he is. It was hot, I was on another plane of reality and I felt like a fat girl squeezed into a skimpy top trying to be thin. More beers to numb the unbearable reality that is clubbing in KL.

After a while we had enough and popped downstairs to have a bite. Well, several actually. Did you know the restaurant downstairs has the best hokkien mee ever? It was 4am and pork is always a good idea at ridiculous hours.

It was such a relief! Why is it that clubbing is sometimes the refuge you need and at other times like a family dinner you can't wait to get away from?

On Sunday - woke up feeling awful and spent the rest of the day recuperating. Barked at my Mum at dinner time and will spend the rest of the week regretting it. Gosh, the self-sabotaging situations I get myself into!

Treadmill Highs, Porn And Other Exciting Stuff

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Sick Of Beauty

I am stressed and pissey this week. In order to pay off my mounting debts (ski holiday, shopping spree, roof falling down, etc), I am taking on jobs that I would not normally touch with a bargepole. There is a reason why I left the beauty and fashion industry and this week, I am reminded of it over and over again.

I am writing and coordinating an advertorial for a new makeup line. The writing is done but God was it booooring...who cares what goes in a lipstick? I can't believe so much care, thought and money went into the description of a light-reflecting mosituriser. And science! So much science and technology and research!

And God, I hate organising shoots! Choosing models, getting the photographer - who of course works out of some studio in Kepong or Puchong or some other foreign land. Makeup artists and hair stylists and all that blah blag crap. The shoot is this Friday and will take SIX hours! What am I going to do for six hours with three Eastern European models and a broody photographer?!

I CANNOT wait for this week to be over. I don't know why I am dreading Friday so much but I guess I have just moved on. Shoots do not fascinate me anymore. It's not at all glamourous. It's superficial, utterly pointless and most of all, fake. Nothing about the finished shot is real. So why all the bother?

I need a drink - Saturday night anyone?

From One Zara Collection To The Next

This weekend, I did things that made me happy. Well actually, it began on Thursday night at a frou frou party at Frangipani. Did I ever mention how a bit of frou frou is good for the soul? Sometimes better than chicken soup. It's nice to go out (in itself, a rare thing for me), dress up (also rare) and be completely silly (not rare) with mates I have not seen in ages. I also fell in love with a man only to discover he is gay (I appear to be desperate and gaydar-less) but I got over it and had a fabulous time. Thank you to Chris and Eddie for the lovely free drinks, though I should have ditched the champers for those lethal sour apple martinis instead.

More frou frou to follow. On Saturday, I dumped ZW in Megakidz and went shopping with Mum. We only did two shops (guess which ones?) but still managed to take hours. In the afternoon, I took my Jordanian/German/Swiss (by birth/nationality/residence) friend from university to hit the shops again. On Sunday, after the gym, it was back to the shops again. You know, the two satanic ones. I even managed to find things I had not seen the day before and proceeded to spend my birthday gift voucher (courtesy of Sharon and Mel) on yet another black halter neck - people have white shirts, I have black halter necks. And no, I do not like white guys.

So, you can see a trend here no? It wasn't until over Sunday lunch that me an my two trusted weekend girlies started dwelling about our lives. Maybe it was the yummy yun tai (braised fatty pork) or maybe it was the gorgeous shade of vermillion (of the pork and the shoes in Zara) but what had been nagging us from the back of our minds, all came out.

Is life to be lived from one Zara collection to the next? True, I love shopping and could do it anytime, any day, any country but I can't help but think as each weekend passes, "Is this it for me?" Is this life as I will always know it? To live from one weekend to another. To whittle precious tme away waiting? Does the buck end here? What will my gravestone say? Will it be sponsored by MNG?

My Mum told me that as soon as I started to walk as a baby, I was ready to conquer the world. When I was 10, I told myself I had to finish my first book by the time I was 12. When I was 18, I told myself it would be SO embarrassing if I did not make my first million by the time I was 30. At 21, I already had names for all my 10 children (all beginning with the letter J).

What happend after that I really do not know. What I do know is that now, at the of 32, I am completely and utterly Lost.

Where the hell am I and where do I go next? Knowing that you went off track is one thing but not knowing whether you should head north, south, east or west next is where it gets pretty scary. How could you not have an inkling of what you want to do with your life or what makes you happy? Or what you suck or are good at for that matter?

Where's the cause to exist for? The meaning?

Obviously I am going to need to strain the brain a bit over this one. I envy people who just somehow know what they are going to do the minute they leave university. Or those who 'fall' into their careers and although bitch about it non stop, manage to find enough good in it or superhuman tenacity to stay on. Or people who are just plain happy working the week and shopping the weekend. Week in, week out.

I am hopelessly dissatisfied with my life as I am living it. I am not unhappy or depressed or anything like that. Just dissatisfied. Where, who, what, why and all that is still beyond me but this just cannot be it. There has to be more.

Maybe ZW and I will move to Seville and grow oranges. I don't know.

Dana Reeves 1962-2006

Dana Reeves 1962-2006

Speaking Of Rules

You know, I am just such a fan of self help. When you are blur (I prefer 'clouded') like me, it helps to have someone spell it out for you. Friends are generally good at this, but often they are the same age as you and simply lack the maturity to perceive things that are true and simple. No offence to the pillars holding me up - you are obviously doing a great job, cos I am still standing (in my Rockin' Reptile Mentos-green sequinned fuck-me heels).

May I be cheesy and recommend a couple self help books? Sorry, I cannot help it - if you find something that works for you, there's no harm in sharing right? And anyway, it's my blog and I will be pedantic if I so wish.

On Life
The Rules Of Life is a personal code for living a better, happier, more successful kind of life. It's written by Richard Templar and is available at MPH. I've so far learned about shopping for quality, not price; the importance of dressing like today is important; looking after myself and pruning my stuff regularly. So simple yet when I was reading it, I found lightbulbs turning on in the dim recesses of my mind and I was suddenly nodding to myself and looking generally quite stupid. I shall no doubt be blogging more about these individual rules once I attempt to put them into practice instead of just reading about them.

I can't wait to get to 'Contentment is a high aim', 'Have a little respect and forgiveness for your parents' and 'Be part of the solution not the problem'.

Hmmmm...

On Snagging The One

OK girlfriends, the best seller The Rules by Ellen Fein and Sherrie Schneider was given to me before I was married and I must express my intense frustration at still not having read it because it came so highly recommended that it was immediately snapped up by someone who passed it to someone else who passed it to someone's sister etc etc. So whoever currently has my copy of The Rules, give it back, cos it would be nice to read about how its suppoesd to be done.

The book's popularity has lead to online help. It's comforting to know that they even have support groups for those of us who really needt he help. See you there!

Meanwhile, here are some rules from the book you may want to take note of:

1. Realize that you may not meet Mr. Right naturally and that you therefore must take social action immediately even if you don't want to.

2. Remember, the first three visits are really nothing more than three dates... and on the first three dates we don't have sex with a man or have him stay at our place overnight.

3. We know this is hard to accept, but it's not that he hasn't called because he's busy, or because you didn't smile or talk enough (or did too much). It's not that he lost your phone number. The bottom line is, if he hasn't called, he's not that interested.

4. Close the deal! Rules women do not date nen for more than two years. If you've followed The Rules, your man probably loves you and wants to marry you. Your problem is not if he marries you, but when! If it's been more than a year, see less of him and think about dating others. You've already spent more than a year waiting for him to propose; do you have another year to wait?

5. Love may be blind, but Rules girls are not stupid! How does he act in the relationship? Is he cheap on dates? Is he critical of you? Remember, The Rules are not about marrying the first man you are attracted to who calls you by Wednesday for Saturday night and buys you flowers. It's about marrying your own personal Mr. Right -- a man whom you love and whose character you admire and can live with.

So go forth and propogate. Yes, from the little that I've read from the book, and the lessons I have learned from relationships, they make sense!

Who's Got McPheever?

So what's the concencus so far? Katharine McPhee is of the view that the judges let alot of good voices go and let in alot of pretty people instead - which explains the presence of Becky O'Donohue, Stevie Scott and Heather Cox in the top 24. But let's give the Americans some voting credit for a change (they may get their presidential elections wrong but when it comes to Idol, they aren't too far off). But on the other hand, poor Jose 'Sway' Penala who must have lacked the 'likeability' factor despite a not-that-bad voice.

It appears that 'likeability' or 'the X-factor' are terms synonymous with good looks - politically correct alternatives if you like. No doubt, it's a popularity contest and talent is just one of the many factors that determine who stays in and who gets on the plane home. But if that's the theory, it's good to see the likes of Mandisa and Taylor Hicks still in the running.

I am a big Taylor fan, although I'm convinced he has a spastic condition in there somewhere - he is oddly likeable. I am also rooting for Kinnick, despite screwing up big time this week, her sense of style is enough for me to want to see what she'll be wearing next week. Kellie will not win the contest but she is a hoot ("I'm a mink!", "I had a salmon!") and Paris is amazing.

You know what's funny... Zhiwei was looking at the photos of the contestants on Idol On Fox and pointed to Kevin Covais. He turned and asked me "Who is that little boy?" Children speak their minds, unlike Paula Abdul.

I don't see what the fuss is all about with Chris (sorry Edwin) and Ace makes me look like a big, burly man. I personally think that Simon hot the nail on the head about Gedeon's smile and that Elliott will make it to the final.

My guess of the Final 12? Katharine, Lisa, Mandisa, Melissa, Kelly, Paris, Taylor, Elliott, Ace, Chris, Bucky, Gedeon. Sniff...bye Kinnick - I don't think the image of you eating hog's intenstines is going to do it for the American people. It might pull in the Chinese vote in Asia but not in LaLaLand where pasta sauce is known as either 'red' or 'white'.

Oscar Yahs And Nahs

Every year, around this time in March, I miss working in Astro. Cos I wouldn't be desperately waiting for the press interviews to be streamed over on my very slow internet connection but watching it LIVE ON ASTRO from my table.




Anyway, bitching aside (really?), scrutiny of the dresses will have to come later at the repeat (honestly in this day and age). Meanwhile, after a quick Oscar glance, my two favourite dress this year has to be the one worn by Uma Thurman (doesnt she look fab>!) and the one worn by Diana Ossana, one of the writers of Brokeback Mountain - writers do have such good taste. And what's with the electric blue wave this year? Honestly, it's about time - that shade of blue looks good on everyone (check out Jada Pinkett Smith

...

This year's Nay, surprisingly has come from Charlize Theron who usually looks pretty good in everything. It doesn't so much make her look bad, it just looks bad. And there's also always Helena Bonham Carter

Well that's just first looks. More tomorrow!

What Women Want

I am pretty confident in asserting that the one thing most women fancy over Mr Darcy, is a pair of pretty shoes.

I am right now, typing away with my new classic black ponyskin mules on my feet and am quite convinced that I would much rather be buried with them than a life-sized doll of Matthew MacFadyen, however convincing the likeness.

There was a time, when life was overshadowed by baby clothes and bloated feet, when I thought that I no longer had any feeling for shoes. And so for many years, I settled for comfotable flats and even bought myself a pair of (I know...don't hate me!)... Hush Puppy work shoes. How strange where life takes you and tries to fool you for a little while.

Yesterday, I walked into avery dangerous place. It's called a shoe shop. Of course, I don't think shoe shops in general, are dangerous. Bata, for example, poses absolutely no threat to my safety. But Rockin Reptile in Plaza Damas is my equivalent of Frodor's Mordor.

If you get the chance, stay away (even from its website www.rockinreptile.com). I was not so lucky and managed to escape only after spending RM700+ on 4 pairs of shoes, which I daresay, priced between RM130-RM210 per pair is actually a steal - they are after all real leather/ponyskin/suede etc and are one-off designs that you will not find outside a Rockin Reptile shop (which to date thank goodness, is only one). The shop only has one pair of black shoes (which I bought) and is a fun parade of all things colourful (my other three pairs are: a green and silver pair of wedges, a pair of Mentos-green sequin leather evening fuck-me shoes and an adorable pair of burgundy and pale pink low-heeled leather pumps which I bought cos they remind me of my friend Poesy (as you can see, any excuse).

The shoes are designed by a team of in-house designers, one of them is Malaysian, and made in Hong Kong. New stuff comes in every two months and since they just got a batch in, the next batch will be in in about 6 weeks' time.

Can I just say that they are incredubly comfortable and I have not stopped stroking my ponyskin mules this morning. I almost want to take them to bed with me.

This is what happens when you are deprived. So ladies (and male lovers of shoes), do not surpress the urge to buy shoes. When you feel the need to, just splurge cos God knows what will happen if you end up like me. Look for the STarbucks, head up the outdoor escalator next to it. Pass Yogazone on the right - it's further down on the same street.

How Could I Have Not Blogged About This!

Matthew MacFadyen portrays a side of Austen's Fitzwilliam Darcy never before seen. A tragic, sensitive and socially inept awkward Darcy has women, who dragged their feet to watch yet another installment of the classic, swooning and swelling like balloons. Watch it! Watch it! Fall in love over and over again with every long lost look, every wrinkle of the brow and every hint of a boyish smile. Let me save you, Darcy! Let me be the one! We love men who live with issues and torment! We love men who love us secretly who can't show their feelings! Huh?? Revelation! Darcy is a Chinaman inside!!!