And Then There Was Light

It's not what life flings at you but what you unconsciously ask life for. Often, it's not bad luck's fault that it rains down on you, but quite likely that you created that black cloud in the first place. Sure, there are times when you slip up on banana peels that can't be traced back to you, but generally, I believe that things happen because you make it.

This weekend, during a break between the yellow and purple routes, there was a parting of the clouds. I had a chat with a friend about relationships - of course, what else? Topic of our lives, no?

We had both come to the same conclusion - independantly. A moment of light - or enlightenment? We concluded in all sincerity that there is no man out there for us and may never be. And I don't mean that in a manic depressive Wah Lai Toi victim way. Meaning that right here and right now, there will be no man.

Taking into consideration the person that I am now, the experiences I have lived, the values that I hold, my set of non negotiable priorities/issues/baggage/ideals, etc - I truly believe that there is really no one who will match up to what I am looking for.

Well, there is one little proviso - maybe, maybe this person does exist - but he's herding cattle somewhere in Texas (just watched Brokeback - sigh). No where near KL and not about to pop over - so that's about as likely as hail in Bangsar.

My friend and I have been conditioning ourselves to a future of singledom. (For me, it's even involved seeing sense in network marketing - unimaginable 4 years ago). So you see, you will see what you need to see, when it is time to see it. When you really need an answer, the solution will present itself. When you are ready to learn the teacher will appear.

Forever single is not so bad. It's not conventional. But the whole old maid thing is so passe. She died happy didn't she? CEO of her mind, body and soul, right? I mean, it's not as if we are dateless - there are always those, but there will no more mind-blowing connections.

A little sad, yes. But you know, in this past year, I have connected with so many amazing people who have in one way or another nurtured my battered soul? And I believe that as long as you seek what you truly need, it will come.

Which brings me back to my first point.

That is, that it cannot be that we are so unattractive, so baggage-laden, so uncaptivating that no one wants to shack up with us. It cannot be that ALL the good men have been taken or that not a single ounce of talent exists in this town we live in. Others find ideal mates, why can't we? Why is it when we were young and open, there was potential at every turn but now not one?

It boils down to this. It's what you ask of life without knowing you've asked for it. It's about the message you send out to the universe. It's about which station you are at on this railroad of life. Right now, I'm docked at Grand Central Me. My focus is within - for the first time in my life, I am acknowledging this person who lives in my head - the person who's been trying for the last 32 years to get a word in edgewise - Me. Getting to know me, getting to like Me. Before I just crammed copious amounts of grease into my mouth assuming that's what I wanted. These days I ask.

So if these are my priorities, what messages must I be sending to the universe? "Busy. Not here." Despite the wishing that the white knight will come striding in. Despite fantasising about the Italian count. Despite reserving my heart for Keanu/Brad/Jake, no matter how hard I wish, the message is still "Busy. Not here".

And that's no wonder why the ideal person has not come along. It's not bad luck. It's not cos I'm fat. It's not cos my life is meant to be bitter. It's right now, wrong time.

A Marked Woman

I am finally going to get my tattoo done. After almost a year of huffing and puffing about it, needle will be scraped on skin.

Gasp...I'm petrified!

But one has to do what one has to do. The body is but a mere vessel is it not? One that bears the marks of our life as we have lived it. Battlescars if you wish, or little souvenir trinkets to remind us of our little trips?

No, will not have a skull or Powerpuff seared in to my skin as some have. I have chosen a couple of peonies instead. Yes, I want a section of my mid-back to resemble parts of your Mother's Straits Chinese porcelain that has been sitting in the back of your dusty cupboard for the last 30 years.

According to Datin Seri Kee Ming-Yuet in her book Straits Chinese Porcelain, the peony is :

"...the King of Flowers or 'flower of wealth and honour' and is perhaps the most esteemed and beloved flower among the Chinese. Like the orchid, it is a symbol of spring and female beauty, and of love and affection. It also stands for good fortune and nobility."

Sounds a bit like me, I reckon...(wink wink)

Datin Seri also goes on to add:

"Paired with the phoenix in numerous Straits Chinese porcelain example, the 'phoenix and the peony' os a symbol of the bride and celebrates everything that the Straits Chinese consider desirable in a bride - femininity, faithfulness to her husband, filial piety, chastity, youthfulness and female beauty."

In light of my decree nissi granted just this week, my peonies shall be blooming happily on their own without a phoenix. Which is just as well, saves me some pain.

Why, some ask. Basically, I just like flowers. They are pretty and peonies are about as pretty as pretty gets. And I like the colours of Chinese Straits porcelain - rich hues of emerald, pink and blue. And I've always wondered about having a tattoo so why not marry the ideas and have a pretty little picture on me, always? Besides, if it's going to be on my back, I will probably forget it's there half the time. And if heaven closes its gates on me because of my markings, then I'll just burn in hell with my peonies and half my friends (AND Slash from Guns 'N Roses!)

No biggie. Just do it. Pain? Oh puhleeasse...

The Writer And The World Around Her

(A celebrated novelist, yes. Nevertheless, the work of Jane Austen is universally acknowledged to be grossly insular. As Europe rages on in war, Miss Austen writes of love affairs, of pride, prejudice, sense, sensibilities and abbeys in the country, as if the ambitions of one Napoloen Bonaparte in his quest to take over the continent was occuring somewhere in the upper reaches of Northern Sumatra. Except for the peppering of a few Generals and of course, parties held by the local regiment, Miss Austen's novels are of a pretty county existing in insolation from the rest of the world. I shall not fall into the same fate with this blog and will therefore attempt to make mention of what some argue to be the most celebrated event of every four years. I thought it was the crowning of a non-South American Miss Universe, but I guess I am outnumbered in so thinking.)

I'm sitting at work. There is World Cup talk all around me. Maxis SMSes me a coded message of abbreviated lettering and numbers every morning.

Er...I just dun geddit lor...

Be Careful What You Wish For

I thought I had not posted for a couple of days and only just realised it's been a week. Time is a tornado, a vortex of blur, spiralling and spilling out of control around me, as I sit in the eye of the chaos, seemingly still, but really just out of sync with the calculation, always at awe that it twirls so fast and wondering what I have to do to catch up to speed.

I hate to sound like a cliche that my parents should take credit for, but lately I just can't help myself. Like beginning sentences with "Back in my day...", or "The music nowadays is just not what it used to be...", and especially relevant to the topic in question, "Once you hit your thirties, time really starts to fly..." I guess before I know it, I'll be sixty and celebrating my 25th wedding anniversary to God-knows-who in a ballroom wearing some sequinned number, a broccoli perm and peach lipstick.

Which reminds me of an Eliot poem I once studied at school - in the year 1990 - called The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock:

"I grow old...I grow old...
I shall wear the bottom of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach."

I still remember a conversation I had in 1989 with my two best school friends - Mary Mzumara from Malawi and Moira Buchanan from where else - Scotland with a name like that! We were wishing so hard for next year to come for then we would finally be sixth formers with our own rooms! We would be out of the baby house and in Farish with the big girls! That was what? 17 years ago! Oh God...

Take heed of what you wish for. Is it really what you want? The last time I filed my bills was not last month - it was last year. The last time I went into the pool with my son was not a few weeks ago, it was before Christmas. The last time my car was due for a service was thousands of miles ago. The last time I was at my ideal weight was not a few years ago - it was 11 years to be precise - yea, I have been on a diet for that long.

I don't believe I'm the only one who has misjudged the time. I challenge you to go on and do some calculations of your own. Take a reality check and wait for the truth to slam you right in the face!

Love! How Splendid!

Remember when you were a teen and you really really fancied someone? The boy on the same school bus, the jock with the floppy hair that everyone else had a crush on, or better still, the school head prefect?! If I had a cup of coffee for every crush I've had, I'd be just a ditzy as I am today, except with justification.

Unrequited 'love' holds such beauty. It's innocent, delicate and above all, honest.

With an impending divorce and a love life (so far) good enough to resemble the shantiest of towns, I am a cynic and a true believer of calling a spade a spade. I do believe in the concept of a soul mate, but I also believe that there can be more than one and that they do not necessarily appear in the form of a romantic other. I believe that husbands cheat on their wives at least once and that for wives, sex will eventually become a great time to ponder about what to cook for dinner. I believe that most people eventually 'exist' in relationships rather than bloom.

But alas, the ubiquitous Infatuation is like the gentle yet persistent tickle that gets you giggling at the end. It cracks any stoic face, any stony demeanour, any solid wall that refuses to let anyone in or out.

I did not think I had fallen so hard that I was unable to love again. I'm a surprisingly fast healer - just a swab of friendship and some ego-boosting massages and I'm good to go and fall in love all over again. Come what may.

So yes, I really, Really, REALLY fancy someone and it's making me giggle incessantly. Don't get me wrong, it is really quite unrequited. But there's beauty in appreciating from afar. Stealing glances behind boulders. Trying to stand out yet shirk from attention. Attempting to sound intellectual yet melting like butter at the knees. And he doesn't even know.

I'm blushing, flushing, chewing on my gum, and feeling like I'm thirteen again. And I'm loving every minute of it!

Tagged 3 : All About Me

Thanks to sweetie darling Starlight, I am saved from having to create new ideas from scratch. Honestly, not that it's a chore, but rather work is and there's much of it at the moment.

So anyway, here's a nother MeMe, "borrowed" graciously from the one and only Starlight.

The 10 things that make Rafleesia a Happy Bunny:-

1. Luxury
Call me a shallow materialistic capitalised label ho if you wish but nothing puts a genuine smile on my face faster than stepping out of a cool new Beamer in Christian Laboutin heels and a Tom Ford outfit, on to the steps of Chateau Marmont for a damn good all-expense paid meal of plenty of foie gras and a fine bottle of aged plonk.

2. Connecting with someone. I mean, really connecting. Ie. I look into your eyes, I see where you are coming from, I totally get it. And vice versa. I haven't met anyone who has blown my mind off for a while - years.

3. The house all to myself for a few hours where I can let it all hang out. Eating something sloppy with my hands in front of the telly watching something brainless like a James Bond re-run or the Best Whatever Resorts on DTA and wearing my ugliset (but comfiest) pair of shorts and a singlet ala coffee shop style.

4. Clean mornings
Sweeping aside the curtains after a night of heavy rainfall to the sight of a sparkling KL skyline with undiscovered horizons. So inspiring to do great things.

5. Rock climbing properly, rock climbing propoerly, rock climbing properly.

6. Having a great drunken DMC (deep meaningful conversation) about anything (life, the situation in the M East, the correct way of cooking moules mariniere, etc) with a random punter.
7. Embracing my inner superbitch goddess with my friends.

8. Doing good work.

9. Connecting with family members and coming to the realisation that I actually really like them. When everthing's good at home, it's good elsewhere.

10. The Great Outdoors - Sky. Earth. Awe. God. It must be.


(PS. I know it's only supposed to be ten but I can't get rid of these two cos they really bring me joy.

11. Smelling my son's head - I swear it's sooooo addictive.

12. A table creaking with food for me - this really really makes me very happy.)

Tagged 2

For those of you without iPods - sorry, I mean MP3 players (cheeky!) - this is a fun alternative. Beware! It can be pretty er... deep, if you know what I mean. I stole this of Starlight's Blog, who after a month of self-imposed exile in an ashram in the Himalayas, has retured enlightened and tagged!


I AM The Great Pretender.

I JUST NOW ate my packed lunch at 9.30am and am wondering where my next meal is coming from.

I SAID too much and not enough.

I WANT happiness and a luscious home in the Hollywood Hills.

I WISH for happiness and a luscious home in the Hollywood Hills.

I HATE durians, fish heads, snakes, swans, eels, catfish, snakehead fish and people who lie.

I MISS the carefree years.

I FEAR being 40, not having another child and never being slim again.

I HEAR there's a cure for every fear.

I WONDER what will happen if I use my lavendar marinade on chicken instead of lamb.

I REGRET nothing.

I AM NOT as great a writer/cook as I think I am.

I SING loudly and badly at karaokes to the misfortune of my friends which is why they haven't conceeded to my pleadings to go lately

I CRY hardly ever now except for last night when I sobbed uncontrollably to The Family Stone - what a brill movie.

I AM NOT ALWAYS as uptight. There are times when I am chilled. Usually that's when I'm drunk or someone else is entertaining.

I MADE it to the top of the pink route yesterday (even though I cheated on one step).

I WRITE best when I am in mid-tragedy.

I CONFUSE easily with numbers. Not very clever in that department.

I NEED to get off my big fat arse and live.

I SHOULD save more and spend less. Think more practically and less frou frou. Make plans instead of daydream. Want instead of wish.

I START to really miss my son when he's not with me and rock climbing if I don't do it at least twice a week.

I FINISH too many cigarettes on a night out.

Kampung

Considering we showcase our skyscrapers off to the world and promote our city as a shopping destination, Kuala Lumpur is essentially, a self-glorified kampung. Of course, it's cooler to let on to your mat salleh friends that we have a higher flagpost than they do, as well as the largest indoor rock climbing gym in Asia. Despite our Big Apple aspirations, in reality however, we are a backwater town that somehow made it big.

KL is a city where the seven degrees of separation theory gets flushed down the drain. That's just DTA bull. In KL, within two degrees (or lesser in many cases), you are likely to have already hit an ex-crush or ex-husband or ex-whatever. For me, I discovered that the hottie that my friend and I were checking out in a club turned out to be the fat little boy I was too 'cool' to acknowledge in my early teens.

I find that the kampungness of KL is magnified in the context of romantic liaisons. Who hasn't experienced, in some variation or other, the ex who went on to date the one that was dumped by your current one who turned out to be the one who you kissed on the dance floor when you were thirteen who was the one that married the one that you dumped? Complicated? Can be. Too close for comfort? You don't say. I wouldn't be surprised that we are all related to each under a perverse family tree that morally and legally, teeters on the edge of acceptable boundaries.

It is a town in which it world serve your best interests to conduct some form of detailed research on a potential snog/shag/boyf/girlf/business partner before any part of your body (or in the case of business partner, wallet) starts grooving to their vibe. Unless you already know him/her, full biodatas including what his/her parents do/did for a living, his/her car ownership history, wealth in bank and complete list of exes including one night stands or just snogs are easily available from friends. It is a town of small social circles, all within the subsets of each other, so basically, if you have run yourself up a bad rep as a player or once upon a time had the misfortune of passing on a particular nasty STD, you can jolly well run, but you can't hide. Even if you run to the outer rings of KL, such as Perth or London, you can still be easily traced.

I recently discovered that an ex-fling is dating a girl who dated another ex fling, who also dated an ex secret admirer who's sister I had lunch with last week. Our potential conversations in my mind are not only hilarious and dangerously revealing, but also causes me to feel as if I have known her all my life.

I suppose its just one of those things that makes KL as wonderful as it is. Who would want to love in a city of strangers? Where you could date a serial killer without knowing it or worse, sleep with someone who could well be your half brother or sister and never know it.

Miss Boring

Nothing to report. Seriously not done anything this week.

No climbing cos have been over-ambitious and sprained my ankle trying to climb like a pro and therefore cannot perform any sporty activity.

No partying cos nobody asked me out. No significant person(s) has(ve) called.

No shopping cos a) have no money and b) ZW has been completely under the weather with a lung infection and I have been playing nurse (and what a bad one I am).

No gossip cos all my friends have a life/love interest and are bored calling me cos I don't.

No interesting meals cooked cos have been PMSing and indulging in super unhealthy fast-food junk instead.

The highlight of my week, if you can call it that, is that I downloaded loads of American Idol final songs on to I Tunes only to realise that I can't transfer them to my iPod cos my computer is f**ked. Oh yes, and watching XMen, which was about as fun as the week got.

It's Saturday and if the day is anything to go by, I shall be in bed by 9pm.

Have a good weekend y'all.

The Ups And Downs of A Long-Term Relationship

When you are committed to each other, it's a given that you are in for a life of compromises. You may not like the way by which the other operates and they of you. But still, you persevere 'cos you are in it for the long haul.

Such relationships can be emotional roller coasters - pleasure followed by doldrums, shock, horror, happiness, pain.

I have been in this relationship for 10 years now and it has been trying at times. I am referring, of course, to my long term partner in pain and trustee of my fortune - Maybank.

We've been through alot together since I first opened my savings account when I got my first job back in er...1996 (don't calculate, just accept). I knew from the moment I took my first number ticket that read "589" that it was the beginning of a relationship wrought with disappointments.

Yes, there were times when it was hard - especially the time one Monday morning two years ago when I received a called from an officer informing me that my account was overdrawn. Actually, she did not inform, she yelled and like a furious mother-in-law, summoned me to top it up by noon before she slapped on any finance charges. And still I took it, despite it being the first time my account had ever been overdrawn. I refused to leave Maybank... simply because it saves me from having to cross the street to reach its black and yellow offspring ATMS - they really are all over the place - and because I derive great satisfaction from the words "KLCC branch" printed on my cheques.

But there have been good times too. The first time ever being just last week actually when a cheque I banked in was rejected because it left out my Chinese name. The lovely officer over at the Sri Hartamas branch banked it in for me when it arrived back from the clearing house, saving me a trip. See, their strategy is well thought out - treat your customers mean so when you actually do your job - not well mind you, but the act of doing it catches them by so much surprise that praises can't help but gush forth.

So just when I finally found happiness, I was quick to be robbed of it. Today, I logged online to see if my RM1000 cheque had gone through only to discover, to my shock, that my current account reflects a balance of RM-0.71! Typo error? Surely it cannot be!

I tell you - my emotions are just being toyed with for fun! How much more of this can I take before I take my fortune next door?

Reliving The Past

Long weekends are always filled with such apprehension don't you think? All that pressure to do something special just because we have a whole extra day free. I spent the run up to Wesak Day surfing for last minute deals and getting stressed out that everything was fully booked. I think I got it from my Dad who itches all year long for any excuse to set off for a good time. I was doomed to a miserable weekend as friends boarded flights for long weekends in Phuket and I was summoned for a brain storming meeting on a public holiday.

All was not lost though. Strangely enough, this weekend, I found myself on a little trip myself - down memory lane and I ended up having a whale of a time. Swashbuckling light-saber encounters, a forgotten black book and a bit of frou frou can do wonders in lifting a run-of-the-mill weekend out of the present and into the past.

It started off on Friday night, which was wild as I stayed up till 3am rekindling my crush on Luke Skywalker in Return of the Jedi. I remembered watching it for the first time on the carpeted floor of the RSGC Main Lounge as lust-struck teenagers fondled each other in dark corners. Obviously I was not one of them because I remembered the movie well. I whooped when the Emperor fell to his death and kind of imploded into a blue flame and cheered alongside the Ewoks when the Battleship Planet (or whatever it's called) exploded in space. Would you believe it I actually teared when Darth Vader removed his dreaded mask, marking the end of an era and revealing to the world, his lovely hunky Hayden Cristensen face, whitened by years behind the persona of Darth Vader (and lots of compact powder) and welcoming a new epoch of light, democracy and hope. It was a momentous moment for me, sitting in my room, in my terrace house, in Kuala Lumpur.

On Saturday, Bee and I met up with Fishball, a blast from the past - a mate we used to party and wakeboard with before thirty-somethingdom and its accompanying "too much work, too many responsibilities" excuses separated us. Fishball is a hoot and hasn't changed except that he's skinnier now. He was just as drunk and as fearless as before and being driven around the sweaty, party-going streets of KL by him whilst under the influence of alcohol was a mad but strangely nostalgic thing to do. Not to mention, rather fun (in a roller coaster sort of way).

After short stints at Frangi and Chynna, we ventured into the land of Frou Frou in the form of a Barbarran night held at Bond. Apparently Barbarran night means 80s music which is news to me because I was way too wasted back in those days to realise what was playing. Bond was like a meat market, packed with the obligatory skinny young things but refreshing also, with the presence of old meat, like me and Bee for example. It was a relief to see so many old friends (old as in I have known them for so long) and just chilling comfortably by the bar was strangely relaxing (how I achieved this at a club so crowded sardines would have complained, I don't know). A far cry from the real Barbarran days where there was always an overwhelming pressure to "work the crowd". Bee and I flicked our rebonded hair, drank lots of vodka and flirted with lots of men and they weren't all younger than us! Hahaha!

Hungover and seriously deprived of sleep the next day, I stuffed myself with a huge Overseas lunch (1 1/2 bowls of rice and lost of char siu!) and made the unwise move to rock climb. I figured that all I needed to see me to the top was a bucketful of enthusiasm and a brand new Black Diamond Focus harness (in S may I add - yes, yes, I know it's a unisex harness but I live off cheap thrills). Yea rite - I completely bombed! I was so shit. Since then, I have slept and slept and my muscles are still aching from pushing myself too hard. Lesson learned: do not rock climb when hungover and tired. Duh! Common sense to some, big hard lesson for me.

Bee has been delving into the secrets of the past, reliving memories from her life from 5 years ago. She is a library of information with all those records shestores in the form of her diaries. She has publications that date back to when we were 12! Reading excerpts from it is normally hugely embarassing - it's a "I wore what?", " I fancied who?", " I did that?!!!" kind of experience. Not recommended unless you are ready to face your demons. Apparently she says we were "popper" than we remembered and partied in a way that was not normal for people to do. That explains why we are the old hags we are today!

I am actually looking forward to a nice normal week in the present, with work to catch up on, cheques to collect (hopefully), ZW to ferry around (would you believe I was hanging out at Kuen Cheng school at midday yesterday?!) and meals to plan. Speaking of reliving the past, this week, I am looking forward to Grease The Musical - that should be a real hoot! Flashback to teenage years dressed as Madonna singing to '50s music and falling majorly in love with Kenickie (or however you spell his name).

It's fun to relive the past no? In my frou frou state on Saturday night I noticed that Bond is planning to host a series of "nights" in August, Faces Night, Phase 2 Night. Viva Night in particular caught my eye. I wonder what music they will play then? See you there!

The Invitation of the Oriah Mountain Dreamer

It doesn’t interest me what you do
for a living.
I want to know what you ache for
and if you dare to dream of meeting
your heart’s longing.

It doesn’t interest me how old you are.
I want to know if you will risk
looking like a fool
for love
for your dream
for the adventure of being alive.

The Definition Of You

I pose a question to you.

Is it possible, truly possible, as in have you ever experienced it yourself, to be completely happy being alone? I speak of course, with reference to being alone, romantically.

We can all be alone for a day or whatever and actually relish the silence. But if you were like me, and often hear the chatter of inner demons in my head, I know for a fact that I couldn't exist happily without my close friends and family nearby for too long. But the test has been whether I can do so without the presence of a 'significant' other. I realise that ever since I set a sail on the ship of relationships, I have never got off on a port of call. Let's get off this Love Boat imagery - what I'm saying is that since I had my first serious boyfriend at university, I've always been in a relationship. Yes, of course, I've had periouds of singledom, between boyfriends, but always in short spurts of a couple of months.

Seriously single now for significantly longer than that, it has been a test for me. I realise that I have always defined myself by the person I was attached to. Of course, the details are too personal to elaborate here, but this is something all girls ought to consider. I have friends who have not been single since they were 14 and cannot imagine being so. I wonder if they face the same dilemma as career women do when they 'retire' to raise the kids. Alone with their true selves all of a sudden, with no namecard nor name alongside yours on a party invitation to define you, who indeed are you?

The Current Chapter

Life has been mad. I'm currently in fifth gear at the moment and if there were a sixth, I'm sure I'd rev right up. I don't know where I'm heading or where I just came from. I think the bottom half of my body is still stuck light years' away and the top half in mid-zoom to the current. See...I don't even understand what I am trying to say.

Piles of work, crazy schedules, traffic jams, bills after bills, unfiled taxes etc etc have left me constantly tired - as in, I couldn't even bring myself to watch American Idol last night cos I couldn't keep my eyes open. And I must the only Desperate Housewife fan who hasn't tuned into a single episode this season. Just when one thing is finally settled, another unexpected issue arises. It's a frenzied time and likely to be so till year end.

I suppose it's better to live a life full of activity than to live one that is empty. And empty is definitely not what my life is about. I often find myself biting my nails nervously on Sundays or when I have nothing to do. There must be something to do, something forgotten. Heck, I can't even relax in a spa! Once, I was checked in for a four-hour treatment and I practically frayed the towels on the massage bed from sheer boredom and frustration - coming from a spa writer!

The only things that keep me sane? Blogging. Cos I get to express my madness and in a way, put things in perspective at the risk of being laughed at (what a thrill!). Climbing. Wicked walls to expend my nervous energy and for the incredible adrenaline high from conquering what seemed unconquerable. Falling asleep with my son. Watching him transform from bouncing ball to sleeping dragon with silent breath and falling in love with him over and over again. Being a bimbo bitch with my friends. For comic relief, for being able to let down the mask of pretenses and for all its honesty. Everything else is a job. Everything else is something I have to do to get from where I am now to where I want to be.

But mind you, I'm not unhappy. I'm not ecstatic (as in crazy in love happy) but I am fairly happy. And life, despite its crazy madness, is a sea of emotional calm. Not still or ripple-free but definitely not in mid-tsunami like it has been! And that's always nice. To have an uneventful emotional life. My emotions are so overused they could do with a hiatus. But fingers crossed, not for too long. After all, what would life be if not a compilation of chapters filled with laughter, tears, anger, love, hate and all its cousins?

A Heel-less Heaven

Sorry to disappoint but there is no news. Not of ARA anyway.


Not that Edw and I are sitting on the edge of our seats or anything. But like I said, we are "hingeing"... with every new job scheduled, every new commitment made, we wonder at the possibility that it may not be fulfilled. Who knows?

Meanwhile, as the wait continues, the tricks continue to play on our minds - well, mine anyway. Do I want to bring it up again? Am I making too big a fuss? Do I want it that much? Is the future of my life's happiness hanging on a reality show? Shit, I don't think we're in, dammit we are sooooo in it's unreal.

Whatever. Yes, it is unreal.

Meanwhile, my food bingeing continues, as a response to stress, anxiety and a hotch-potch of mixed feelings yet to be identified. It's been a curious weekend.

A weekend of having to face the dreaded ex. A weekend of discovering broken promises. A weekend of curt questions and evasive answers. A weekend of revisiting my parent's divorce, in my mother's words.

Without going into too much detail, in essence, the issue is this: where do you draw the line between protecting a child from the same bad experiences you faced as one, and dictating the life of someone that is out of bounds to you now? If you are confused, imagine how I feel. There is a constant tension of wanting to let go of the past but not being able to do so completely for fear of upsetting the mental and emotional health of the little tot asleep next to me in bed.

The weekend ended with an interrupted night's sleep. Of waking up with a stuffed nose, to the sound of a downpour, to listening out for sounds of a leaky roof, to sleeping with my mouth wide open and drying it out, to waking from a disturbing dream of reconciling with an ex-fling! The clutter is growing again up there and I feel an incredible need to spring clean it by scaling the walls of Camp 5 - its all literally driving me up the wall!

Nevertheless, I continue to feel optimistic and in a funny way, happy. Alone and unbound by emotions and consideration for another, I am for the first time, truly happily single and unprepared at this stage, to give up my liberty for another half.

I roll around the bed happily by myself, watch MTV without shame, eat whenever and whatever I want, dress for me, my time is for me to choose, and all the things in between. I love the power of my own strength. I love having a new relationship to work on - the one with myself - where a spade is called a spade - and having TOTAL CONTROL over it. I also haven't indulged in my previous favourite past time - crying - I haven't cried for almost a year except for a little sniffle last week at the thought of leaving ZW to shoot ARA - if ever that happens!

In an odd kind of way, I am slowly learning the art of detachment. Of facing the stark reality that no matter how many children you have, how close you are to your family and how many mates you have around you, how many people report to you, how happy your 50-year old marriage is, you die alone. In the same form you came into this world (albeit with a few battle scars in the form of wrinkles, shrivelled breasts and the like), you will exit it. You may be buried in a coffin filled with Manolos but your soul travels beyond its confines sole-less - to a heaven or a hell of barefeet.

It's a reality that many of us take a lifetime to face. And I'm glad, for me anyway, that I am taking the first few baby-steps of approach.

I have lately been surprising my ditzy self with bulb-lighting revelations that can only be a result of divine intervention. I am thinking I must celebrate with a visit to Top Shop which currently has the most gorgeous spring summer collection that I have seen in a long while! If heaven (or hell) is indeed heel-less, more reason why I should wear them to death while I can right?

Wait

It's Wednesday night and I just realised that I have not posted an entry about the ARA auditions. Well, actually there is not much to say because Edwin and I signed a very thick confidentiality agreement that day. One thing I can say is that the experience has left me mentally exhausted. After two nights of over 8 hours sleep each, I am only today, feeling a little human again. I don't how my nerves will survive the race at this rate with all its accompanying excitement and anxiety.

To be honest, I am in two minds about the whole thing. Assuming we get selected of course. One part of me is sitting up straight going "What were you thinking?? You can't just disappear for weeks and leave all your responsibilities unattended?!" The other part of me wants to whack the responsible part to a pulp. As in "Hello what kind of idiot have you become to pass up such an opportunity?! Stop being so damned boring and live a little!"

So you see, I am a little stressed out with this possible forked road looming ahead. We should know by the weekend. Comfortable dead lines could suddenly become uncomfortable. Money would suddenly need to appear from nowhere to pay bills ahead of time. Bosses may start to look at me differently. And the biggest dread of all? A son may forget who his mother is.

Big, BIG sigh...we shall wait and see.

Long Live

Listening to Runrig's Loch Lomond (a relatively known Scottish band that enjoyed big success in the late '80s and continue to do so now), when suddenly, a deep feeling of something hit me squarely in the chest. I thought maybe I ought to cry to get rid of it but no tears came and it proved to be fruitless except to stupidly distort my face in an expression of half smile and half cry. You know that distant look of pleasurable pain that people wear when they recall forgotten memories.
It was a feeling that I had not felt in a while and it took a few moments to analyse it; meanwhile Runrig carried on pelting about the bonnie banks of Loch Lomond.


"You take the high road and I'll take the low road/and I'll be in Scotland before you/where me and my true love will never meet again/on the bonnie bonnie banks of Loch Lomond"

I appreciate Scotland and its bonnie banks as much as the regular tourist does. In fact, as I write this, I am suddenly stuck with the realisation that I have never even seen the shores of Loch Lomond - the vast expanse of water I recalled as I listened to the song are the bonnie banks of Loch Ness instead, home of the famed marine monster.

Loch Lomond moved on to some Gaelic song that I didn't understand but nevertheless succeeded in transporting me on a virtual time machine back to the late '80s when I was a wee lass in England. There is such an ethereal and romantic quality to their music, so familiar that I could almost feel the shiver of coming autumn.

Yes, it takes a Scottish band to exhume my English life. You see, one of my best friends at school, Moira Buchanan (Scottish nonetheless), introduced me to Runrig (notice all Scots just LOVE their homeland - her eyes used to well up in tears just at the mere mention of haggis). Anyway, Runrig became long forgotten until they sprung to mind again one day when I was straining my brain for songs to download. After a decade of showy, gimmicky, synthesizer-infused American music, Runrig's simple honest guitar rifts really brought it all back for me.

The feeling was nostalgia. I miss England! Especially so during the anthemic choruses.

For seven of my formative years, it was where I lived. With 10 months of the year spent there, watching the seasons come and go as I slipped from teenager to twenty-something, England came to be pretty much, home.

I miss school dinners (believe it or not!), my polyester school uniform that used to sizzle with static on cold winter days, sitting on old radiators to warm my forever-cold fingers, climbing out of windows and sneaking through holes in fences, smoking on snow-covered baclonies, playing lacrosse on ridiculously cold frost-covered fields ("Miss...you want me to put on a short skirt and run around out there??!") and later at university, rowing on the River Wear at 6am with ice covered oars.

I miss the dank smell of my college bar, the smell of Persil on a ex-boyfriend's pink and green indie shirt. Sweaty frenzied 80s bops, boisterous rugby songs, Tainted Love on the dance floor, braving 9am lectures in pyjamas and a jumper with accompanying hangover, spitting black olive pits into the river, mooning my butt at passing tourists from the shore, cold cold wintry winds, hot hot summer days.

Buying cheap Cab Sauv in a box, light nights in the summer, watching Neighbours with a roomful of people, singing hymns in chapel, nipping down to 'town' on Saturdays for Salt N Vinegar crisps, the trek from High Street Kensington through Hyde Park to get to the beef brisket noodles in New Kam Tong on Bayswater, salt beef sandwiches from Selfridges, really good taramasalata, the sudden gust of musty underground air of an approaching train, lying on the pavement on Kings Road watching the well-heeled strut by, catching Les Miserables from discounted upper circle seats of the Queen's Theater - so steep that if you sneezed you may land next to one of the cast members.

I miss the English and their obsession with tea and ale and how they keep their filthy Doc Martens on when lying in bed. How they make witty jokes to show off their intellect. How, in my time, baseball caps and coloured jeans were all the rah rah rage in the small northern univeristy of Durham.

England, London in particular has changed. It's less conservative, less grunge, less posh. It's all metro and uber and Euro. My contemporaries are probably balding, stuck in important jobs in the city and have swapped partying in Ibiza for vacations in Florida with the kids. Life as it was back then can never ever be re-enacted. Episodes and stories have become random newspaper pages caught by the wind, allowing you fleeting glimpses now and then of a life past but never the reliving of the complete saga. I will never stand on the edge of Malham Tarn, inhale the cold autumn air, gasp at a passing deer in the silvery moonlight with James' Sit Down topping the charts and snog the will out of the unforgettably cute public school boy next to me.

Old age is making me melodramatic.

I have no doubt that one day I will look back at the present and feel a pang of nostalgia hit me the same way listening to Runrig has. I don't wish for life to return to the way it was. After all, life is a moving train that stops at many stations but you can never get off for long. It's a one way journey that is bittersweet when looked back upon. I only wished I had embraced it more back then. I had merely lived it without truly savouring it.

Thank goodness for memories. And bands like Runrig.

Tagged

A new game probably invented by Apple so people will find a use for their iPods but fun for a laugh. Go to your music player of choice and put it on shuffle. Say the following questions aloud, and press play. Use the song titles that come up to answer each question. NO CHEATING!

Here's what I came up with when I did it. Not sure which was more mind-boggling - trying to extract meaning from the shallow or trying to figure out how a cool person like me ended up with such a weird taste in music...

How does the world see me?
Yellow by Coldplay – yes I guess that one was obvious!

Will i have a happy life?
Shake Your Willies Out by The Wiggles – I guess that’s a yes?!

What do people really think of me?
Riders of the Storm by The Doors – Storm Rider as in survivor?!

Do people secretly lust after me?
Making Love Out Of Nothing At All by Air Supply – haha! Story of my life..

How can I make myself happy?
A Whole New World (OST Aladdin) - ah, to travel!

What should i do with my life?
I Think I Love You by Constantine Maroulis - ??? Join American Idol?!

What is some good advice for me?
Through The Barricades by Spandau Ballet - er sounds serious...

What do i think my current theme song is?
Electric Blue by The Cranberries

What does everyone else think my current theme song is?
White Lines by Duranduran - I'm no junkie!

What song will play at my funeral?
Pure Shores by All Saints

What type of men/women do you like?
Everything I Own by Bread - haha yes, I like everything they own!

What is my day going to be like?
Come Pick Me Up by Ryan Adams - somebody puhlease come pick me up!

why am i here?
I Want To Break Free by Queen - too true

what will people remember me for?
I Want To Be Inside Your Heaven by Carrie Underwood - huh?

what song will i get stuck in my head tomorrow?
I Want To Be Inside Your Heaven by Bo Bice - huh??! please noooo - I can't stand the song - I don't even know what it's doing in my iPod!

are there people outside waiting to take me away?
Disco 2000 by Pulp - yayy...are we going to a parteee?

what will this year be all about?
Here I am by Air Supply - er...I think I have too many Air Supply songs

Terminal Junkie

I have a dirty little secret to share.

Apart from occasionally bingeing on mayonnaise and fried onion sandwiches, I am also a Spider Solitaire addict.

Yes, my name is Candice and I am a Spider Solitaire addict.

And I mean addict to the core. As in, people at the office think I am working, but I am not. The frown on my face is from the stress of the Big Fat King sitting on top of my Ace. I may have stories that were due in yesterday but my palms are sweating from not having the will to close the fucking window!

I play Spider Solitaire at least 10 times a day and since progressing to the most difficult level of 4 decks, I have yet to win anything in a while. And the more I don't win, the harder it is to tear myself away. I am at it like a cow to grass, just feeding off the screen, in the same position day in and late into the night (cause of my insomnia). Alsways buying time - 5 minutes more, when the minute hand reaches 45 or when I win next...

If someone msn-s me in the middle of a game, I feign too much work to chat. Or if the phone rings, I ignore it. I get ratty of I don't have my daily ration. I just want to be left alone in my own Solitaire Confinement.

It's a horrible horrible little addiction. I am ashamed for its not even an intelligent game.

Once upon time, before I was a Spider Solitare addict, I was a Mahjong Quest addict. But then I couldn't enjoy the addiction because I kept worrying that the ITS department would discover that I had illegally downloaded the game, so I switched to something legal - hence my current situation.

At the rate I am going, I will soon have to invest in glasses. Do you know that when I'm involved in a boring conversation with someone but am too polite to turn away, I often subconsiously engage in a game of Spider Solitaire over their faces. They think my glazed look is one of awe and interest, but actually, I am dragging and pasting all over their eyes, nose and mouth.

Am I a weirdo all by myself or do we all have dirty little LOSER secrets?

Why Exes Should Remain Exes And Other Amazing Revelations

I've had three hours sleep, lungs that are on the verge of collapse and a hangover the size of the African continent.

So much for the new gym-going, lettuce-munching, lean mean machine new me. This is the second time this week I have been plastered and the fifth day in a row that I have made lame excuses for the eating binge (I prefer emotional eating disorder). It took me 2 hours to get dressed last night - everything was too tight. Sabby tried to help but even her tops that can hold in her enormous boobs could not accomodate the oozing layers of my inner blubber.

Thank goodness I invested in those tailored woollen trousers - they made me glisten in sweat the whole night but at least they fit.

Last night was fun though. In celebration of the news that Edwin and I have been shortlisted for the Amazing Race Asia, I went out and had a big night. Started off with a very civilised visit to an art gallery where an artist friend was debuting a solo exhibition. Highlight: meeting Chong Siew Ying - artist of Monorail and Frangi fame. Lowlight: Too many exes in a small confined space and I felt waves of claustrophobia.

After usurping copious amounts of free wine, Sabby, Fat Shit, Long Lost Ex and I went to La Bodega in Bangsar for a gig. Good music. Good company (met up with Sabby's Kuching mates of Bling identity - see previous entry). Good champagne shots.

Moved on to Mambo Jambo with the addition of Beyonce Knowles where - would you believe it or not - we could not get in! What the...? We drowned our sorrows with lychee martinis on the terrace at 3am and Long Lost Ex and I embroiled ourselves in our habitual drunken Mambo row and he spent the rest of the evening sulking. Tell me, is it normal for exes to still fight?

I suspect not and am more convinced than ever that certain exes should remain in the store rooms of our lives. Filed away in the dusty memory cabinets far far back in our subconscious. You see, as part of my search for inner calm and happiness, I embarked on a mission to clear past bad karma. One of the many resolutions I made to myself was to ensure amicable closures with all my exes (not many so therefore a deceptively simple task). I think I have been quite successful with the exception of Long Lost Ex and Soon-To-Be-Ex - both of whom have personalities that stubbornly refuse to conform to my plan. I'm not sure what the problem is but I guess our collective emotional issues are just too entangled a mess to be sorted?

I don't know, and actually, I'm not too fussed. If it canot be sorted, best to just leave it alone. At least I have tried and my part is done. For me, that is sufficient bad karma tai chee-ed away from me.

Besides, I have my life to lead and the Amazing Race Asia audutions this month to think of. What am I going to wear??! You know, I'll be damned if Edwin and I don't make it to the race - how could they like us on our demo tape and not in real life right? I know we will make good TV in our matching hot pink track suit bottoms with Candy on the booty (available at La Senza if interested).

Kiasu? You bet! Here we come, the Race has begun!

The Rich Get Richer and the Poor Poorer

I've been meaning to give my two cents' worth on wealth for quite some time now but never had the opportunity. You would have thought that with the grave my finances have managed to dig for itself, I ought to be mourning my own funeral, but I figured since it will be a slow death, it may as well be as painless as possible.

And with that pihlosophy, I embarked on a completely Hedonistic holiday, that would have made any celebrity diva proud. I had mentioned before that this was an all expense paid trip to Pangkor Laut Estates? In case you didn't know (because I didn't), Pangkor Laut Estates is not the same as your regular Pangkor Laut. I could very well have gotten used to having my own personal villa, chef, butlers, driver, MPV, pool, jungle, dining room, etc, etc You mean there were other guests at the resort besides us? I hadn't noticed...

The first night was a blast. We decided to battle out our chor dai dee skills in the jacuzzi...penalty was of course downing the 1-litre vodka-spiked mango and pineapple juice cocktail that we concocted, followed by the barrel of sake that was warming in the jacuzzi with us. There was booze, bling and lotsa healthy KL vs. Kuching vs. Japan rivalry going on. After 8 hours of hip hop video bling and enough noise to bring the house down, we called it a night - I slept at 6am that morning. As for ZW? Let's just say that as an example of my new age mothering skills, he was still up at 2am watching his Mr Men DVD on the laptop next to the jacuzzi, listening to his Mum get pissed.

But he took revenge the next day by waking me at 8am to go to the beach. Despite the size of our estate, we sneaked out not wanting to wake the night creatures that were still deep in slumber. We joined the other guests on Emerald Bay and ZW squealed in delight at the open expanse of beach and water before it started pissing it down with rain and thunder and we ran back to our waiting MPV for shelter.

The next day was promising. After the American breakfast that chef whipped up for us, ZW and I ventured out again to an empty Emerald Bay at 9am and spent the morning almost believing we were in Barbados. (Note: good holiday reading is Plan B by Emily Barr about a man who leads two lives - one in London with his wife and kid and one in France with his mistress and kid - neither family aware of the existence of the other - not unfamiliar a plot but somehow gripping as I squirmed my feet n the sand at the bastard's tactics and rooted for the unsuspecting women who triumphed ultimately, as Good does over Evil.)

Back at Estate Eight, the booze up continued...beer for breakfast, beer for lunch...bikinis, tits, bikinis, smokes, bling.....

It was a shame to leave - ZW had so much fun with his personal Japanese-Swiss nature guide giving him lessons in ant migration, snail trials and the use of tree roots as swings. We had a resident clown who provided jokes on tap, a Playboy Bunny to flash a bit of cleavage when a seedy mood required it, Beyonce Knowles to bling BLING it on and a French diva to add that je ne sais quoi quality to the whole show. Oh yes, and me, Mummy. What an entourage!

And now I am home in KL, sunburnt and back to the reality of chasing unpaid invoices. Driving around, the city seems glitzier as lit billboards and the flash of indicator lights blinded me temporarily. Back on the estate, the blanket of night was so undisturbed that it was frightening and awesome at the same time.

The holiday was a welome respite to my urban life. I got to look up and see sky without the interruption of a skyscraper. Enjoy a hot sunny day in the shade of foliage. To get mindlessly drunk and not worry that my son was being kidnapped by Indonesian robbers. ZW discovered the wonder of nature, the saltiness of the sea and that sand can get up his backside. And we did it all in tha lap of luxury. Thank God for wealthy friends!

I spent yesterday afternoon at the hairdresser - after severe exposure to the harsh cold of the Alps and the salt-baked sun of the islands, my ends had given up and not split in half, but in fours and fives. The blonde streakes are tired and despite having been rebonded, my hair had rebounded by adopting its natural frizzy state. Now I have freshly trimmed and multiple layered hair the colour of Kit Kat - yum!

And today, when I rock climb I shall imagine the ocean beneath me, sea spray on my heels and coastal wind rustling my hair and hang on very tight on my pedicured red toe nails should I plummet below and land on my belayer, Bee.

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!!!

I Am Beautiful, No Matter What They Say!

We are so critical of ourselves.

Flicking through old photos at 1am this morning, I was caught up in a torrent of memories. How could I have forgotten about Babu's luscious Michelin arms? Or the time Bee, Edwin, Kamal and I took porn pictures of ourselves in London, nine years ago? Or that we did take pictures on that family trip to Sydney. Or about that box filled with photos of an ex-boyfriend - done so that I could lock the hurt away and open it again years later only to chuckle. And chuckle I did!

Of course, everyone looked younger, slimmer, fatter and with less grey. That's inevitable. But what dawned on me was just how critical of my looks I have been. Pictures of myself that once repulsed me were turning out to look quite good after all. Especially the preggy photos and those taken just after Babu's birth. Of course, the fat arms, double chin, bloated tummy and all did not miraculously disappear, but they weren't really the focus after all. There were other things in the shot that I had sub0consciously photoshopped away.

I remember thinking at the time that I had to be the ugliest mother alive. I hardly typified the image of the new slim mother taken with soft-lense, that dripped of sentiment and nostalgia. You know, the ones of your own mother taken back in the 70s - skinny, glowing and perfect. I distinctly remember feeling regret for Babu cos he would one day have to look back at his photos as a cute baby with his fat ugly mummy. Talk about post-natal delusion!

At 1am this mornig, staring back at me was, albeit a chubby, but nevertheless sweet, happy mother. The nostalgic and sentimental qualities were all there. I really was too harsh on myself.

Yes, some of the photos were taken during times of trouble, where aches were covered up with grins but you know, there is beauty in pain, relief in hurt and sweetness in sorrow. It isn't all bad.

stuffed and dazed

SMILE!

Lost & Found

It's here

I've been looking all around the world to see what I can find
Broken promises
Empty dreams
People washed away by extremes
But now I find
It's looking me in the eye

- Edwin Sumun -

Smiling In The Face Of Adversity

People believe that there is nothing of value in celebrity magazines but gossip and unflattering pictures.

But i disagree. I think there are valuable lessons to be learned from the fledging lives of celebrities, only that they are hidden and that When You Are Ready To Learn, The Teacher Will Miraculously Appear!

Flicking through US Weekly or NW Weekly or some other, I chanced upon a photo of Sienna Miller (bless her Bohemian chic), in a fantastic gown holding an umbrella in the rain. Her dress, which looked like silk to me, was splased with rain water. Her head was thrown back in laughter and the caption beneath said "Sienna Miller smiling in the face of adversity". Checking the date, I noted it was an old edition. We tend to circulate these publications around in the family for toilet purposes and by the time they get to me, they are a bit dated. I realised that the adversity referred to was the humiliating nanny scandal.

So there you go, in the face of a scandal, go out there and smile, smile, smile! Everyone will love you more for it. Of course, she had a fancy gown and glittering diamonds around her neck to cheer her up, but still she could have sat at home instead. But she didn't. Credit where credit is due.

So, last night, I picked up on Sienna's cue. Despite hearing some more rumours about my marriage and pending divorce that seem to get more ridiculous by the day, I ventured to mambo and smiled, smiled, smiled!

Not that is was that difficult. It was nice to be out. Ironically, it was raining and Sabby and I had to share an umbrella with a parking attendant. We were obviously not in gowns but in jeans. Nevertheless I had my armour on - a spanking new rose quartz around the neck soaking up all the negativity.

And funnily enough, after a while, it became kind of fun. Sabby was as entertaining as ever. Her giving a blow job to a beer bottle never fails to kill me. I actually danced - sober! It became hilarious after a while, especially when Footloose came on and I felt those groovy 80s moves come back as if they never went away!

The Simple Life

You know it was such a drag yesterday, having to skulk into my car, issues in tow and driiiivvveee all the way into town.

I pretty much got sick of it and told myself off.

I'm so glad for hands-free sets cos otherwise passing drivers would have thought (correctly) that there was a mental case in the car talking to herself.

So anyway, I reckpn that if I ever decided to leave writing as a profession altogether, I'd make a pretty good counsellor. Cos I kicked my own butt. And I'm pretty much OK now. No more blues.

I told myself that its alright to wallow a bit - cos I needed to grieve/mourn/whatever the situation but when it starts hetting out of hand, enough already! So the idea is to stop feeling sorry for myself and to just get on with doing what I need to do to get better.

So simple yet its a conclusion that has taken me (and many others) a while to arrive at. Its true what they say: When You ARe REady To Learn, The Teacher Will Appear!

Hate Feb 14th!

And it's fucking Valentine's Day too innit??!

I'm Feeling Bluuuueee!!!

I really am. It must be hormonal. But smiling seems stupid when you are crying inside. And the suicide thoughts are back again. You know... as in what would be the best way to go?

Maybe cos turning 32 has more implications than I expected? Or maybe its just the natural downer everyone feels after a holiday? It can't be because its the end of a fling (when you didnt feel anything during). Some people believe that its the reality of my impending divorce hitting me.

I wish my emotions wouldn't get in the way all the time. Makes it hard to sort out the logic. When I think about my future rationally,. ie. what I have to do to pay my bills, what I plan to cook for dinner, etc, I can be quite sane.

But when I get ahead of myself and wonder oh my god am I going to die alone? Will I ever have another child? Is there happiness in this universe? - then I get a little hysterical and end up weeping like a sad git.

So pathetic. I am so not impressed with myself.

It's so melodramatic and unbecoming of a brave and ferocious tiger.

Set In My Ways Already?

You know, I'm not really the type to miss home.

Never have, but am not so quick these days to say, never will.

I mean, its not exactly cool is it when you are on a fabulous holiday, skiing down the Alps in your K2s and Oakley sunglasses ('cos its too sunny and warm to wear goggles darling) and wishing instead that you were sitting in a Lucky Garden coffee shop. Eating yong tau foo and drinking soya bean. In your slippers.

The older I get (and I am not merely using these words for the sake of it...it pains me not only to sound like my parents but even more to admit that they are indeed right) the more biting I find the cold, the less I want to tolerate potatoes every night, and the more I crave comfort.

I missed the simple things about home. Like space. Being barefoot in my own home. Having skin that still resembled skin even if I don't moisturise. Literally not cracking up when I laugh.

I'm not saying that I dislike holidays. But 2 weeks is about as much as I can handle at each go. I can no longer live out of the suitcase like I used to. Drink vile local brews in the name of discovery. Or run for any more trains!

I need a break from my break. I had a fabulous time, improved my much-needed-improving-skiing, spent quality time with my Dad and step-mum, discovered the beautiful cities of Geneva and Zurich and familiarised myself with the ivory altars of certain train station toilets.

But, I am glad to be home sweet home. Cuddling ZW in bed yesterday was the best. But it's the best because I was deprived of it for a while. ANd best also because he was deprived of it for a while and did not wiggle away.