PICTURES = THOUSAND WORDS

 

I simply luuurrve this picture.

A mischievous Dad play-bullying our family dog.

A poor Tofu looking all comical and supposedly pretending to cry.

And a happy me grinning broadly because I find it all too awesomely cute.

Poor Tofu. Oh, my baby, he must be feeling absolutely bewildered, if anything. 

DOG!!!

Just the other day, I was hugging Tofu. Bringing his face close to mine, side by side, I popped THE question to Dad.

"Dad!!! Do we look alike? 我们像吗？ Cute???"

He replied, cool as cucumber, "Yeah, of course! Very alike. YOU LOOK LIKE A DOG!"






SIGH!




Dads ARE evil, didn't I already say so?

MOCK JEALOUSY

Biologically, we're constitutionally made up of 50% paternal and 50% maternal. Afterall, we did receive a copy of a DNA strand in each chromosome set from each parent.

I guess, I have a sound idea of where my crappy-ness stems from.

Dad has always been a smoker as far back as I can remember. When I was much younger, it was always one of the painful bones of contention between the two adults. Thus, in recent years, Dad has taken to puffing away in the bathroom; which is - of course - not very, well, smart.

"Dadddddd", I whined out of the earshot of Mum, "The bathroom stinks!!! How can I shower now?"

I sniffed at the air around him and exclaimed jestingly in mock horror. "Oh! 你也很臭 leh..."

Involuntarily letting out a bubble of suppressed giggle, he admonished in a mocking tone; punctured dramatically with an air of heartbreaking grievances, "啊~！ 养女儿真没用。长大后只会说爸爸臭!".

Yesterday afternoon, we were on our way down to the grooming center. I was pretty fretful over Tofu's welfare. I moaned and groaned and rattled on like a broken recorder. Would they be rough on Tofu? Would Tofu enjoy himself over there? Or would he moan and cry at being "abandoned"? Would they feed Tofu water and food? Should I have brought along Tofu's toys so that he can keep himself entertained? Am I going to miss him loads in the hours he's gone? I'm going to be so lovesick!!! And would he miss me too? Would he pin for my return? How would he look like after the grooming session? Will he be very handsome and smart-looking? How clean-looking would he be? He's going to be soooo handsome and dashing and clean and cute, right?

All of a sudden, Dad sighed pitifully.

“你很没有用！

每次一回到家就只会立刻找阿腐。 不见得你回来就找我。

还有啊， 养了你这么大， 都没听过你说我一声 ‘帅’。 现在只会一至说阿腐帅。

养女儿真没用啊！

早知道会这样， 以前你 baby 的时候， might as well 把你丢进垃圾桶啦！”

Dads are evil, I tell you.

THE DUMPLINGS WAR

"Do you realize," He commented in jest, "that you've been at it for nearly an hour?"



Earlier on, Dad were in the kitchen preparing dinner. Today is a free day for me; come to think of it, this week is a breeze (I only need to go back to Boon Lay only on Tuesday and Thursday)! I bounced to the kitchen to grab a cup of coffee. It was 3pm. He was by the sink, washing the veggies. I eyed the packages of frozen pork on the counter.

Dad has always been a wonderful cook. He would cook dinner before heading out for his evening shift work. This explains why, sometimes, I'll have a super early dinner at 4pm+ (well, the food is already there. Might as well eat. 早 吃 早 消 化。 Less fattening). How he manages and juggles both roles so well, I have no idea. For sure, it is taxing and tiring. Since I'm practically almost freed up from school, might as well put it to good use.

I took a pair of scissors, slitted open the packages, and emptied the contents into a clean bowl. "I'll jiak-par-lamg, ok? If it's nice, tell them that I'm the one who marinated it." I giggled, "If it turns out gross, it's you, ok?"

Squatting down, I opened the base cupboard. The eyes sweep across the different containers and bottles, while the brain mentally explored the contents in the refrigerator. Dad has always been a natural at cooking; he can put some weird ingredients together and, viola!

He just has this unknown talent in cooking; he has this magical touch. Momentarily, I wondered how would my marinate turn out. Normally, as a mediocre beginner, I would source out only recipes with raving reviews and try them out in my own leisure time. I don't have - yet - the expertise to solely go by the taste buds. Without a recipe to follow, I feel momentarily lost. This is a quite like a gamble. Concentrating, I wondered how well would the various combination of condiments compliment each other, while not being too overpowering.

Light soya bean. Sesame oil. Paprika pepper. Black pepper. White pepper. Sugar. Teriyaki sauce. The last choice of condiment - I admit - is purely out of curiosity sake and nothing else. Hey, if something had been done the same way thousands of time doesn't mean that it necessarily have to remain so all the time. Sometimes, a little change is refreshing and needed. It is good to be different.

I settled the bowl of marinated pork down on the dining table. Dad suggested, "Do it 水 饺 style. The meat filling seems to be alot. Won't be able to finish it all if it's done in wan tan style."

I deliberately plastered on a long-suffering look and whined. "I don't know la. Only wan tan style."

"Wah lau... So easy you also don't know?" He took a piece of flour cake and plonked a tablespoon of meat filling on top of it. "Like this lor, so easy." He folded it into half and proceeded to twist and pinch the corner.

"There! Ta-dah!" He lifted up his pork dumpling on his palm happily.

I pretended to evaluate his piece of work. "It looks ugly leh. Not like those restaurant ones." I decided, "I'll do it curry-puff style!"



And so I did. For the next hour. I made my virgin 水 饺; 30+ of them. While he fried some eggs and cooked a bowl of cai xin.

When he was done with the two dishes, I still had about 4/5th of meat fillings left. "You're such a slow-poke!" He teased.

"That's not fair! Yours is so simple, anyhow fold fold one; but mine is CURRY-PUFF style leh. Cannot compare!" I protested.

"Who asked you to make curry puffs."

"Looks more presentable and pretty, mah"

"Eat liao come out also the same thing, what."

"No lor," I lunged into a defense, "See ah... When you cook ah, must cook with the heart, you know? Cook with the HEART. Aiyooo..." Rubbish, I know, but I argued just for the fun of it.

A special a-la-carte plate of pork dumplings! 'Cos I prefer my dumplings steamed. Not boiled in some soup.

"You see, you see!" I beamed, "Pretty anot? Curry-puff style, leh!"

"Pretty also no use," Dad took a look and concluded grandly, "Mine is the authentic 水 饺. Yours are all curry puffs. The one that I made is the real one which look like the real 水 饺!!!"






Yeah, right, Dad. Try harder.



P.S. The meat marinate turned out great! =)

HOME-COOKED WITH LOVE

"So, I was waiting for the lift the other day." shared Dad, "The lift doors opened, and I stepped inside. The upstairs-neighbour was inside. We greeted each other. Then, you know what? She told me that just the other day, when I was cooking dinner, her little kid was telling her, 'Wah! 妈, the downstairs-neighbour's cooking very 香, hor?'" He preened brightly. "厉害 anot?! I cook, the neighbours upstairs also can smell!"



That's why I like home-cooked meals. Dad has always been a fantastic cook. The food is always great; but more than that, it is heart-warming. Nothing beats coming home to a meal that is personally cooked by a loved one. It is just different.

Nothing beats home-cooked meals.

HELP!

Using a magnet, Dad posted this letter up on the door of the bomb shelter for the benefit of all.




SHUCKS!


Somebody, please jio me out on Wednesday from 2pm - 4.30pm!



P.S. I stay on the 12th storey! No lifts?!?!? 完蛋！

P.S.S. I initially thought that Dad was scolding a certain vulgarity. (N.B.).

P.S.S.S. I don't have the heart to tell him that he has misspelled "wednesday". Kekeke!

YNWA

What? True what...

MAN U?

The younger brother went to catch the live match between Singapore and Liverpool last night with some classmates and their Geography teacher. Before he left the house last night, I dared him to bring Man U banner and wear the headgear of a devil's horns to the stadium. He told me to "go and die" in reply.

Today, I asked the class casually who went for the match. It's a good topic to build rapport with them. The boys totally lapped it up immediately. The instant they heard the word "Liverpool", enthusiastic cheers arose. A couple of boys raised their hands to indicate that they were there for the live match. A couple of the (physically-absent) boys chipped in and grumbled in disgruntlement about the cost of the tickets. I can't help but to chuckle. Boys!



Anyway, I was chatting with the younger brother a couple of minutes earlier. He was relating something which he saw in the stadium. One (a guy) was wearing a Man U shirt; worse still, it has the name "Owen" stamped across the back. Another (a girl) was in Chelsea shirt. I marveled at their... What's an appropriate word? Courage? Audacity? Stupidity? Insensitivity? Decisiveness? Oh well, whatever.

I've digressed. So, anyway, we were talking about Liverpool. Out of habit to irritate him, I began chanting "Man U, Man U, Man U".

"Eh... You don't follow the football scene, neither do you normally watch matches. So why are you still 'Man U-ing?'"

"Cos Man U is the first club that I liked, what. I'm very 痴 情 and loyal one, ok?"

"As if. Then tell me, which club is Beckham in?"

"Real Madrid". I preened smugly.

"Where is he now?"

"Eh... Still Real Madrid, lor. Not meh?"

"Wah lau! He's no longer there liao la! He's now in ******************** (I forgot what that club is called. Something that sounds like Something-something Galaxy?)".

"Then how about Yorke? Where is he now?" The younger brother refused to relent.

"Eh... Somewhere... Out there."

"He RETIRED liao lah!"



With that, he gave me a pathetic sigh.



Man, brothers are evil.





P.S. I think it's high time to switch interest to another club. Nowadays, (thanks to the brothers) I can list more Liverpool players than Man U players.

NEVER THE SAME AGAIN

Last night, the younger brother proudly showed me the display screen of his mobile phone. Set in the background is a picture of a Liverpool player soaring across the field with arms widely spread like an eagle. Stamped boldly across it is the word "You'll Never Walk Alone".



"You'll Never Walk Alone". He whispered in boyish reverence, fueled with fervent passion.



He is crazy over Liverpool. And I've been bombarded enough (brothers! Sigh!) to know that "You'll Never Walk Alone" is the "slogan" of the mighty football club. Man, I can even hum the tune of the song "You'll Never Walk Alone" (just don't ask me for the lyrics).

I glanced at the words showing on his mobile screen, and read it out loud silently. Then, just like a light bulb, a sudden, mischievous thought dawned.



"You know, have you think of it this way before? 'You'll never walk alone'. Doesn't it sound kind of... Perverted? I asked conversationally. "You'll never walk alone. Don't ever ever - not even for a moment - think that you're alone; you're not quite so. It sounds like someone's stalking you, doesn't it? Especially when you're walking home alone dead in the night? YOU'LL NEVER WALK ALONE. Freaky. Creepy".



He looked at me and burst out laughing - before asking me to shut up.



The word "YNWA" will never be the same for him ever again. =)

OF SWEAT AND SLUGS

On Thursday, because the trip to the gym turned out to be a flop, I went for an evening jog with the younger brother instead.

We jogged around the estate. While growing up around 2 BROTHERS subjects one to a lot of ribbing and teasing, the gratifying thing is that they tend to - in one way or other; most of which are, unfortunately, subtle - look out for the only sister. And it's really nice. Throughout the run, the younger brother kept turning around to check whether have I died yet on my progress. Past experience tells me that if I were to take a break and stop running, he would double back and push me from behind, all the while nagging urging, "姐, don't stop, don't stop. Keep running. You're not supposed to break the momentum and walk. Just keep running. Slow also never mind. Just don't stop." - which is precisely what happened the first time we jogged together. After that incident, till this day, I made it a point to - no matter how tired I am - never stop running until we've completed at least one whole round.



So, anyway, ever since I've had my LASIK surgery, this is the first time exercising after a 4months hiatus (hey! It was the doctor's order, mah! He said to refrain from exercising!). We were about to complete the round, and I was - of course - tired like anything by then. The younger brother looked back once again, and I - too tired to speak - gestured to make a right turn into our block. He shook his head, and pointed straight instead; suggesting to take the longer route back. It was a well-intended challenge. I threw him a whiny scowl and put on a tragic expression before murmuring my consent begrudgingly.

After the run, we went up to the apartment. Because I like traveling light, the both of us were stranded outside. We ended up sitting at the lift lobby, waiting for the parents to arrive home.



I thought it was a really nice moment. The both of us - tired to the bones and drenched in our own sweat; it was a yickie but yet - strangely - good feeling (must be the endorphin). I looked at him, and can't help but to feel an odd sense of satisfaction inside. Here is my younger brother - a male, fit and strong, 7 whooping years my junior, and on the school volleyball team. And I just completed a run with him, AND he's sweating and panting as hard as I am!

I looked at him again. It has been quite a good run. Drops of sweat were dripping down his chin; and dripping down my side fringe as well. My whole body felt so wet from the perspiration; I felt like a giant slug.

The both of us were so tired; we didn't talk. Then again, words are NOT always necessary. Sometimes, just doing recreational things together is already very magical by itself.



The parents came home about 10minutes later.



I took a nice, relaxing shower, and bundled up the wet hair into a turban. Laid down on the bed idyllically, angel-spreaded. The cup of iced Milo which I had prepared prior to the run was balancing on my belly. The fan was switched on at low speed, sending caresses of wind which felt so heavenly. The head turban, the angel-spreaded position, and a cup balancing on my belly. Ok, this may not be THE elegant pose of all times, but, hey, it feels so GOOD, and that's what matters. It is a quiet moment of tranquility; bringing along with it a beautiful tinge of peaceful victory. It feels like I just conquered Mount Everest. Ok, maybe, Bukit Timah.



That is, until the younger brother happened to walk past the room, poked his head inside, caught a glimpse of my peculiar position, and asked mockingly,



"OEI! You run until siao liao, is it? Want me to call ambulance?"

JOKE OF THE DAY

This is very slow, I know, but I only found out on last Wednesday that there is going to be a match between Liverpool and Singapore in... Ermmm... July? If my memory serves me correctly? (Ermmm, honestly, com'on? Is there even a need for this match? Isn't it obvious enough?)

I heard this piece of old news from the younger brother, who was very excited about booking the tickets. He was practically gushing over it.



Anyway, last night, after logging off from the internet, I went to the living room to take a breather. Sprawling slothfully across the couch, I munched on the dark chocolate cookies which were left over from the day's lunch at Subway. It was then I realized that they're showing the live telecast of a football match.

The younger brother eyed me suspiciously. "姐," he called out, "you know what is Tot?"

"Tottenham, lah!" Please, man, this is a piece of CAKE. Growing up around 2 MALE siblings certainly have some advantages. I used to play games like Championship Manager, Red Alert, Counter Strike, Final Fantasy etc. Well, how could I not? With 2 brothers, the category of games and entertainment available around the house is quite limited.

The younger brother looked genuinely impressed.

"Name me a Liverpool player, leh." He persisted.

Now, I know he's an arrant fan of Gerrad (did I even get the spelling correct?), and hence resisted giving that as an answer. I bit off a hearty chuck of the tasty cookie and contemplated momentarily. "Owen. Michael Owen." I chewed thoughtfully, and a sudden horror striked me, "Oh! WAIT! I take that back! He got transferred out, is it not?!"

"PLEASE, LAH! THAT IS LIKE A MILLION OF YEARS AGO ALREADY, LOH!" The younger brother exclaimed in exasperation. He threw me an incredulous look as though I'm a Martian who just landed on Earth, and proclaimed unceremoniously that I'm the joke of the day.



Crushed.



That's the thing about growing up with 2 male siblings and no sisters. You get ribbed at. Alot.


What can I say? I grew up in the era where Beckham was still handsome, still unmarried, and still had his wind-blown flyaway blonde, long fringe. Shearer, Scholes, Cole, Yorke, Solskjaer, Bergkamp, Fowler, and Sheringham were some of the better strikers I know of. Shay Given, Fabian Barthez, and that old old former-Man U guy (I can't remember his name. Gosh, has he retired already?) were rather good goalkeepers as I remember it. Neville and Butt were the only defenders I know and remember of to date. Ryan Giggs and the handsome Beckham were the 2 dunno-what-left-and-right-wings. Owen, oh yes. Owen was the handsome, young, and super-talented guy in Liverpool. Yes, this is the era I grew up in.


P.S. Okay, I just googled it out. NOW I remember. It's Schmeichel. Peter Schmeichel.

OLD FOLKS'

OLD FOLKS'


On Monday, I was just telling Dad not to purchase any of my meals for the time being, but vegetables such as cabbage instead. This is because I want to "cleanse" my stomach.

Now, I'm aware that there is no scientific research backing the claims of the supposedly health benefits of "stomach cleansing". But, oh well, considering that my bowel system is having a mini-riot of late, I figured that it might be good. In addition, I would like to experiment leading a healthier lifestyle - taking a short little break from the usual feasts of carbohydrates, MSG, sauces, condiments, and preservatives.

But because I'm lazy to explain all these in detail, I simply told him that I want to "cleanse" and "detoxify" the stomach.



Dad, instead, upon hearing it, coolly told me to "go drink Dettol and shake shake a bit".



I don't know. I'm thinking of an old folks' home. Hmmm...

JOLT

JOLT


I didn't blog about this because I don't have a habit of blogging about personal matters, but Mum was warded into SGH A&E 2 months back in early December. She just had a medical review at National Heart Center a mere 2 days ago. She is due for yet another checkup on the 19th.

The day she was warded, it was just a normal Thursday morning. I was having breakfast with Dad when he said that Mum got warded. She had experienced severe pectoral angina (chest pain) while working, and the company doctor promptly called for an ambulance.

I thought it was nothing much. After all, she got to the hospital and received prompt medical attention. The fact that she was well enough to give Dad a call to inform him of the news is assuring. After breakfast, Dad drove us down to SGH. We reached at 10am+. It was there and then, upon arrival at the hospital, when we learned that she is in A&E; and in Intensive Care at that. For reasons unknown, we were denied entry and thus, did not even catch a glimpse of her.

We waited at the common waiting area. Time ticked by, and the hours passed. As the hours crawl by, the firm conviction and easy assurance ebbed away bit by bit. I had not expected any of these. The long wait. Being denied entry. And being checked into not a normal ward, but A&E. Why is taking so long? Why not a normal ward? What are the medical practitioners tending to? Is it serious? If it isn't, why is it taking so long?

We were finally allowed to see her at near 5pm. She was on a drip, looking weak and tired. A medical personnel was manning one of the many machines engulfing her, scruntinizing an ECG graph. As he's an Indian, Dad has trouble understanding his accent. I took over the conversation - while Dad turns his attention to Mum - and learned that she has to be warded for another 8hours for further observation.

We went home at about 5pm. After a quick dinner, I grabbed my guitar and headed down to Riverwalk for PM for Sentosa outreach. Straight after PM, we had our guitar session. Halfway through the lesson, Dad called and said that Mum might get discharged at midnight. The guitar lesson ended at 10.30pm+. I loitered around Clarke Quay for a while before heading down to Outram Park.

I reached Outram Park and followed the signage directing to the hospital. I rode up the escalator, and walked, and walked. Soon, I found myself in the middle of nowhere. Scanning the dark surroundings, I wondered momentarily whether am I going in the right direction. The knowledge that the Center for Forensic Medicine is somewhere near the vincinity is slightly unnerving.

My shoulder was starting to hurt; and the load of the guitar felt increasingly heavier. It was already minutes shy of midnight. This hospitalization, all of these, was happening at totally the wrong time, the wrong season. It was just adding on to all that has been increasingly piling up. The co-ord. The refusal of stripping. The personal problems. The doubt. The discouragement. Stranded in the middle of nowhere, not knowing even where exactly am I, and armed with just the guitar by the side; there was this heavy, weird feeling of being alone, orphaned. Slowing down the pace, a part of me wanted to squat down right there and then and cry and call for SOS. It would be nice to be weak, to cry, and have some concern, and lap up a bit of good old fussing once in a while. The idea of having someone cabbing down in my time of need at my request to somewhere this deserted in the dead of the night, and to collect and accompany me on this trip, was so temptingly comfortable.

Maybe it's pride or stubborn-ness or the fighting spirit at work, but the feeling of conceding and bowing down to defeat this easily is disappointing. It may sound foolish, but at that point of time, it's seemed to be a classic moment of either you break, or you don't.

Ignoring whatever feelings, I ventured on forward; not knowing even if it's the right direction or if it's the right thing to do. What if I get kidnapped? What if I meet some pervert? Before long, I came to this deserted carpark. An empty carpark in the dead of the night is so mightily and unbelieveably freaky. I walked on further, and from a distance away, finally saw Block 1 of SGH. It felt like spotting a mirage in a desert.

The ground level of the hospital building was so frighteningly isolated. Except for a couple of late visitors, there were barely anyone else around. The only sounds were that of my wedges "click-clock-ing" against the floor tiles. The shops, the pharmacies, the stores were all closed for the night. The clear reflections reflecting off the glass of the shops on both my left and right were so eerie.

I relieved my long-suffering shoulder of the guitar shoulder strap, and carried it by hand instead. It was getting increasingly heavy as the minute passes. I chose not to listen to the iPod, preferring to have my 5 senses on the alert. Don't turn and look even if you hear anything weird. Just walk. Don't get distracted by the reflections. Don't look. Just walk. Smile, be easy, just walk. If someone taps you on the shoulder from behind, just run. If something floats pass in front of you, just run. In the opposite direction. As fast as your legs can carry you. Don't dump your guitar while you make your fanatic getaway. You'll have to go back for it later. Hold it tight; hold it well. Be cool and calm and don't think too much and just continue to walk.

I reached Block 4 safely, in one piece. Taking the lift, I got to the A&E level. It was like entering a different world. Unlike the ground floor, it was full of people, bustling with activity. I made an enquiry at the counter, and got the updated ward details.

Found and located my mother easily. She was awake, but still on the drip. Now that it's just only the 2 of us alone, the reality of everything seemed to punch me in the face. It seemed so surreal. The IV drip. The medical equipments. The heart monitor. The pulse rate. The BP readings. The atmosphere and environment. The people in lab coat. The bitter smell of medicine. The hospital bed. The woman lying on it. My eyes followed the fluctuating line on the heart monitor as it moves along. I listened to the accompanying beeping. I read the BP readings and pulse rate. I looked at the steady flow of droplets in the IV fluid bag. I felt the cool air of the air-conditioner. I breathed in deeply, and deliberately etched into memory this moment. Instead of a million things flashing by the mind as how it's usually and typically depicted on TV shows, my mind was clear instead. Crystal clear. With the exception of a couple of things, my mind was totally blank. Nothing matters, anymore. At least, at this point of time.

The nurse came, and drew the curtains for some privacy. I was left on my own again. I wrapped my right fist around the neck of the guitar; happy to feel something of strength. The small piece of wood feels so solid; it gives a sense of assuring stability, bringing with it a pull back to reality.

Minutes later, the nurse drew back the curtains. My mum was now off the drip and ready to be discharged.

We cabbed home later that night, and I came home - hopefully, subtly - a somewhat different person.

1 MILLION

1 MILLION


Yesterday afternoon, some friends - of which 3 are male - came over to our house. We hung out in my room for a couple of hours before leaving the flat.


Upon reaching home later at night, the parents asked which - among the 3 - is the boyfriend; so that they'll know from whom to collect the 1 million dollars, so as to sit aeroplane, go sunbathe in Hawaii, go Japan eat sushi, and drink sake.





I replied that ALL 3 are. Cool as cucumber.

SOME THINGS JUST DON'T CHANGE


As people grow, they change. Years bring about changes. Characters get mellowed. Personalities get tamed. Mindsets get renewed. Tempers get tapered. Physical features get sharpened and more distinctive-looking. Priorities gets readjusted accordingly. Maturity gets developed.


But some things just don't change.

Food, for example.


Since young, I've never liked oranges, pomeloes, sour plums, hor fun, egg yolk, sharks' fin, cockles, and watercress. 22 years on, i still hate them as much as - if not, more than - before.


Conversely, certain food get me hook, line, and sinker ever since the maiden time they enticed my taste buds. Coffee, for one. Chwee kueh, for another. And of course, Coffee Bun, and Taiwanese Sausage. PL and LT used to particularly enjoy teasing about how I'll always succumb to purchasing at least one, and taking ages to finish one whole sausage. Good food must slowly savour, you dunno meh?!


And I really love mushrooms. Shiitake mushroom. Straw mushroom. Button mushroom (a.k.a. White mushroom). Winter mushroom (a.k.a. Enokitake, or Golden Needle mushroom, or Velvet Foot). Cloud ear fungus. King Trumpet mushroom. Oyster mushroom. Bring it on!





Whenever the family attends dinner banquets, birthday celebrations, or wedding dinners, the elder brother would get the whole of my share of sharks' fin soup. In turn, because he dislikes it, I'll get his share of mushrooms. I've never managed to decide who has been getting the better deal throughout the past 2 decades.

Mushrooms are also not cheap one, you know?

But it looks like I've got the shorter end of the stick. I think sharks' fin soup is more costly than mushrooms.

=(

THE CONFESSION OF THE HANGERS


Dad always comments that I can make a mini business out of my wardrobe. He suggests that I go "lelong lelong!" at pasar malams. I always rebut, saying that it's mainly because I seldom discard old garments. Some of them have been with me since Secondary school days! "Of course they would accumulate over the years." I protested. "But still!" He grunted, "Then throw some of the old ones away, lor". But, what a waste, isn't it?


Because of this, ever so often, I find myself in constant lack of hangers; EVEN THOUGH I've already hung at least two pieces of garment per hanger for most hangers. Some of the more magnificent ones have up to four garments!

And at times like these - when I'm really at the end of my tether and die die also cannot "squeeze out" one spare hanger no matter how hard I try - I would sneak into my brothers' room, smuggle one out, and make it mine (mainly because I dare not "kapok" my parents'). Ever so often (ok, maybe about just once per every few months), I would discreetly "steal" a hanger and "import" it over to my room. Just like today, for instance.

It's really easy, honestly speaking, considering that the elder brother is out most of the time. The younger one, oh well, often has his back facing me (playing computer games, of course) and is too preoccupied to be bothered with what the genius me is up to.


I'm bad, I know. But it's really convenient! I need not go out and purchase my own. Save time, and save money!!! It's a habit that I try to kick off but, just like coffee, I keep reverting back haplessly. I have no idea how many I've pilfered thus far, but most probably it's less than five (ONLY!!!).

In any case, men can make do without a couple of hangers. Women can't. We need all that we can lay our dainty hands on.





Thank goodness the elder brother has the mightily good temper of a saint's. He is good natured, and seldom flares up. ME? Step on my tail on a bad day, and I'll CHOP! off your head and bestow upon you a "no shadow" kick. And if it so happens that I have not a liking for you, or if your face bears some unfortunate resemblance to lizards or cats, I might even throw in a "xiang long 18 palms". FOC.

My elder brother, sigh! Where to find a brother like him, you tell me? He has been keeping quiet all these while, while I go about doing my sneaky business.





Either that, or he has yet to notice the missing hangers. Hmmm...

I WAS BORED





Yesterday evening, while I was folding the laundry in my parents' room, a couple of stray thoughts captured my attention.

I wonder, what are dreams like?




When deaf people dream, do they dream in sounds? In their dreams, do people communicate by using sign language too?

How about those who are born colourblind (and I mean full-blown colourblind, with only white and grey and black)? Do they dream in colours? Or are their dreams also only in white, grey, and black?

And for those who are born blind, having lived in darkness all their lives, do they actually have dreams? Or do they only have dreamless nights?



I realize - like it or not - all of us are, to a certain extent, limited by what we know. We are limited by facts; by our already-conformed mind; by what our senses tells us. It requires more effort to think out of the box.
Purple will always be purple. Yellow will always be yellow. Black will always be black. I cannot imagine describing the sun as green, or having brown clouds and pink penguins. Tell me that oranges are purple in colour, and I'll poke your eyes.



But on the other hand, because these facts are absent in the first place, the minds of such people - in a way - are not conformed or limited.
Look at Ludwig van Beethoven, born in 1770. Despite losing his sense of hearing at a young age of 26 (he suffered from tinnitus), he still went on to compose great and admirable music like Fur Elise.
Look at Helen Keller, born in 1880. Though not born blind and deaf, she was inflicted with an illness (suspected to be either meningitis or scarlet fever) at the tender age of 19months, which left her both DEAF and BLIND. But yet, she's the first deaf-blind person to graduate from college, and published several writings.




Similarly, for those who are born blind or are colourblind, surely they know that in this world there exists colours such as red, pink, blue, orange, purple, yellow and etc. But, what they know of are just head knowledge. WHAT colours do they exactly see in the eye of their mind? Perhaps it's some other beautiful colours that neither you and I can ever think of.

Those who are born deaf, what noises and sounds do their limitless and free-reining minds conjure up? Could it be some beautiful, soulful, and harmonious music that sound totally ethereal and out of this world?



Indeed, there is no denying the sheer power of a free-reining, unlimited, and unbridled mind.


So intriguing.
What do deaf, blind, or colourblind people dream of? Do they even dream in the first place?



I know you must be thinking that I'm crazy to be thinking about such silly and senseless questions. But, like I've said, I was bored.





Anyway, while I was taking this picture, Dad happened to walk into the room. He caught me doing what I was doing, and exclaimed in mock exaggeration, "KANNA SAI! Fold a bit of laundry, need to take pictures ah? Fold laundry only, need to tell the whole world, is it?" He joked.

As an afterthought, he added, "Then I everyday cook dinner for you all, why you never call SPH?"









"I DESERVE TO BE INTERVIEWED!" He concluded triumphantly.

OF LITTLE WISHES AND HOPES


This Wednesday evening, I went out with my younger brother to Vivocity. We have plans to catch What Happens in Vegas at 4.25pm. It's been ages since he last been to a movie. We reached early at 3.30pm, and headed straight to GV Vivocity to collect our pre-booked tickets. With approximately an hour break in between, we had a quick lunch at Burger King.


It was his first time eating at BK.
I recommended TenderGrill. He likes it.




GV Vivovity.



The movie is a really entertaining one. It had me in stitches half the time. And yes, after watching What Happens in Vegas, it makes me feel sooo enticed to throw caution to the wind and do something totally crazy and drastic. Something that'll POP! the eyes out of everyones' sockets. On second thought, however, my better senses prevail.

Happy endings ONLY happen in fairytales, and oh yes, out of movie scripts. It's one thing to do something ridiculously crazy and have things unexpectedly worked out in the end; and it's ABSOLUTELY YET ANOTHER to do the same ridiculously crazy thing and having it NOT work out in the end; and having to bear the consequences, aftermath, damages, ridicule, anger, and regrets. In summary, it's just not worth the trouble.

Unfortunately, like most homo sapiens on Earth, I only live once. And unfortunately, some mistakes are just too costly to be made. Such as our personal salvation, for example. Or a wrong marriage to the wrong person, for another. Thus - evil as this may sound, but I sincerely mean no malice - I am often secretly pleased in my heart when I hear things such as, "so-and-so has broken up", "they're no longer together", or "I am/she is/he is/that person is no longer attached".

"This is actually good news in disguise!" My head voice rejoices silently and celebrates discreetly.


Afterall, if something is just not meant to be, then it is always good to draw a close. The earlier the better, as a matter of fact.

I might regret saying this some months or years down the road, but ending a relationship - for whichever reasons - would, I guess, make me feel grateful and thankful. It SIMPLY means that he is just not the one. Oh, he might have been a good choice, but my Father knows that he is not the BEST choice. And it makes me feel assured, because ending a relationship simply means that I'm not settling for the second best. Ending a relationship also simply means that He has someone else in mind who suits me better.

Afterall, I only have one life to live. And some mistakes are just plain too costly to be made.





The movie ended at 6.30pm. We adjourned to the "balcony" after that. The view is so breathtaking! I had originally wanted to find a nice spot, sit back, relax, and hold some meaningful conversations while basking in the tranquil scenery; with the setting sun drape as the background. But Lady Luck was not on my side that day. It rained pretty heavily early in the afternoon, and the floor was pretty wet.



I had a wonderful time overall. And I believe my brother had, too. At his tender age, it takes little efforts and time (and money) to keep him happy. It's easy to add some "colours" to his life. At the end of the day, he enjoys himself; and me on the other hand, feel satisfied at my role as the elder sister.

Little wishes and hopes are easy to be met for kids his age. That is, before his dreams start involving bigger gadgets, flashier cars, fatter paychecks, roomier apartments, exotic countries, and sexy women.

LEARNING THINGS


Just the other day, I was lying on my bed, angel-spreaded. I was a little tired, but not to the extent of exhaustion. It just feels so nice and cozy to just simply lay in the warm comforts of my springy bed and defy something great and phenomenal called gravity. I laid on my back, looking up straight to the ceiling.

I was thinking of nothing in particular. Just taking a rest, while the face of the Earth continues its activities. Accompanying me was the constant tick-tock-tick-tock of my bedroom clock.



And I realized that, in the past 5 years since my family has moved here to this new apartment, never once had I changed the batteries in the clock.

No, not that I own some magical clock. Neither does that it operates by solar power.




My parents must have been changing the batteries for me. Climbing onto a chair. Taking down the clock. Changing its batteries. And finally putting it back.

Even though nowadays, I've adopted the habit of checking for time on my watch or mobile phone; rather than the clock. I seldom even look at the clock, as it tends to be neither very accurate nor reliable - especially at times when it's running low in battery energy. Thus, when the batteries run out of energy, I hardly bother to purchase a new pair and get the clock up and running again. But I deliberated against taking that useless clock down, because its frame is simple and uncomplicated. With its silver-plated frame, the clock - as a whole - looks sophisticated and elegant and thus, it adds a touch of class to my room.

But neither of my parents know how useless that looks-good-but-not-so-good-to-use clock is. They just change the batteries for me accordingly. Faithfully. Dutifully. Silently. And the clock resumes its usual tick-tocking once again.




Sometimes, we don't have to look too far just to find love. Love is all around.
So often, if only people would slow down their hectic pace of life in exchange for a moment of solitude, we'll discover and learn so much more things in the latter.
Instead of dwelling in self-pity or focusing our eyes on what we don't have in life or working our ass off just to lay our hands on the latest IT gadget, we'll realized that love is - more often than not - just right under our nose.
And at the end of the day, this is all that truly matters. It is the one and only thing that really matters.



Because, in life, love is one of the most ultimate and important things.

And because, in this race of life, love ultimately prevails and wins over everything.

GOOD FRIDAY? BAD THURSDAY.


If it is anything, the day started badly as early - and as soon - as it can. Mindful of this morning's Principles of Spectroscopy term test at 9am, I had every intention to reach school earlier than usual. Unlike the norm, I opted to take the train instead of the usual bus (bus concession, mah), and reached Harbour Front Station at 8am. The straight-bus-journey from Harbour Front to campus is typically 15minutes. Assuming a bus frequency waiting time of 15minutes, I had expected to reach campus at 8.30am; and relished satisfactorily - with a hint of smugness - at the 30minutes luxury of sashaying my way to the location venue.

But, as the saying goes: man propose, God disposes. There were no buses at bus stand 963 when I reached the terminal. 10 minutes passed by. Another 10 minutes came and went. As the snake of queue at the bus stand gets longer, apprehensiveness and anxiety dawned. As time ticked by, I nearly hyperventilate. And finally, before my life gets shortened dramatically and I drop dead, a bus 963 - at long last - FINALLY turned into the terminal. By the time I managed to get my ass on a bus 963, it was already 8.30am. AND IT WAS RAINING DOGS AND CATS AND MONKEYS AND WHO KNOW WHAT ELSE. Traffic was, needless to say, slower than usual. And the fact that there were a lot of other people at other bus stops waiting for the slowcoach of a bus 963 did not help either.

I reached campus at 8.55am on the dot. Quickening my step and not even bothering about the umbrella, I speed-walked across the field and finally arrived at the Faculty of Science. Racing over to LT21 near Block S5 and peeping through the door, something just doesn't feel right. For one, the students look unfamiliar. For another, they were not seated at alternative seats.
Feeling ruffled, I called up a friend who had taken the test earlier (the cohort was split into 2 groups to take the test; one at 8am, and the other at 9am). And, surprise oh surprise, the actual location is LT23, which is near Block S8.

I nearly hyperventilate for the 2nd time of the day. GOSH! It was written on the online announcement board that the test will be held at LT21. Gosh. Apparently, the venue has changed and apparently, somehow, I had missed the notice. Serves me right for skipping classes.

Aghast, I doubled back to Block S8, and reached at a grand 9.07am. Wet. Breatheless. And panting. HOW CAN ANYONE TAKE 1 HOUR TO GET FROM HARBOUR FRONT TO BUONA VISTA BY PUBLIC TRANSPORT?! YOU TELL ME!!! And after all my efforts of arriving early at school! Grrrgg...


And, just like in movie blockbusters, there's always Sequel 2, and Sequel 3, and Sequel 4. Everyone knows that good things happen in a string of events and unfortunately, so do bad things too, apparently. After finishing the paper at 10am, I decided to make fruitful use of my 2 hours break before the next lecture. Thus, I went over to CBLC (the computer and printing lab in campus) with the intention of polishing up the laboratory report which I had completed hurriedly the night before. After getting myself an unoccupied computer and plugging in my earphones listening to, of course, DBSK, I rummaged through the front pouch of my bag for my thumbdrive. And realized, to my silent horror, that I had left my thumbdrive at home for the first time of my life! AND THE THUMBDRIVE CONTAINS ALL OF MY SCHOOL STUFFS! AND MY LABORATORY REPORT IS DUE TODAY BY 5PM!

Picking up my cellphone, I called Bro on his mobile phone. That guy's lucky to have afternoon classes. Saddled with 8am lectures from Monday to Friday for 2 consecutive semesters and having to wake up at 5.30am just to attend them, oftentimes I've felt maliciously and insanely jealous.

BUT today's special. Beautiful hope replaced the ugly envy. If the spate of "bad luck" graciously decides to end here, chances are that I might wake Bro up from his sleep and pester him to log on to my laptop and send me the required files via Email.

Of course, I've mentioned that today's a Bad Thursday. The bustling of traffic over the phone killed something sacred and beautiful that's called hope.

I hang up the phone, and flirted with the brilliant idea of handing in my laboratory report in softcopy form; because honestly, I really have no wish to get penalized for late submission. Instead of printing it out nicely and dropping it into the pigeon hole by 5pm - which is a plainly impossible task, how would my laboratory instructor react if I were to submit my assignment by emailing it to him in Word Document format when I reach home after school, and ask him to print it out himself?

That's right. Ridiculous is the word. Preposterous is a more fitting one.


I sighed deeply. Desperate situations call for desperate measures. This is the ultimatum; the last resort.
When you're in sticky situations, always call Daddy.


What follows is a brief excerpt of our conversation.

SL: You've reached www.yahoo.com? Ok. Then at the right-hand side of the page, do you see a small tab button box with the words "Mail"?

The Daddy: Where?

SL: At the right-hand side. It's grey in colour.

The Daddy: Oh! Got, got. Found liao. Click on it?

SL: Ya. Hang on, I'll SMS you my email ID and password.

The Daddy: Wait ah, I'm keying them in now. *Daddy spells out as he types* ...i...n...8...6. Password. [asterisk asterisk asterisk] (Writer's note: Due to the sensitive nature of the contents, you should understand)

SL: No, no. L. Got one more. You missed out the last alphabet. L.

*5 minutes later, without much hiccups, we signed in smoothly.





SL: Ok, you're now at the Welcome page, right? Somewhere on the top left-hand corner, do you see a small grey box with the words "Compose"?

The Daddy: Don't have leh.

SL: Where are you at now? What is your screen showing?

The Daddy: (he described what the web page is showing, but I don't understand)

(giggling) SL: Never mind. Then on the left-hand side of the page, is there a word "Inbox"?

The Daddy: Ya.

SL: Click on it. (Writer's note: at least this ensures that we're on the same page now) Now, look a little above the "Inbox" button, do you see a small grey box with the word "Compose"?

The Daddy: Oh ya.

*after guiding him in keying in my email address in the "To:" box, the moment of the dreadful task of uploading arrives.





SL: Ok. Do you see a grey box with the words "Add Attachments"? Click on it.

SL: And now appears a small windows popup, right? On the left side, got a lot of panels right? Click on My Computer. Then on the menu, double-click on D:/ drive. Then double-click on the file folder "NUS".

The Daddy: Double-click? So I press both buttons on the mouse together at the same time, is it?




I grinned. Double-click = press both buttons on the mouse simultaneously.
CAN THIS GET ANY CUTER? ^_^




SL: No, no. You know the normal way you click on a mouse using your index finger? Double-click means that you click fast fast. Click 2 times. Fast.

The Daddy: Still got to click 2 times ah. So funny. So ma fan (trans: troublesome).



Anyway, it took Dad a couple of tries to attach the document. When he failed to attach it successfully on the first attempt, and because we're lost in communication, I simply told him to close the Add Attachment popup box, and start over again so that we're on the same footing. And he groaned miserably, "Wah... Then I have to go through the double-clicking thingy again ah?"


The whole process took 30minutes. After I received the Email, I sent an SMS.

SL: Received liao. Thanks!

The Daddy: Good. I clever, hor?




... ... ...

I contemplated replying something along the line of having a good teacher for guidance, and was typing halfway through the sentence when I decided to switch to a better line. A shorter sentence with lesser words, but stronger impact.


Very smart. Like me.