And the horse will help you

Lunchtime meeting ended. I debated whether to stick around, read and write in my journal, or go home to do my reading and journal writing.

Opted for home. My thinking, reading and writing spot (aka bed) wins out every time.

Walked up the road towards where my car was parked. Spotted familiar yellow rear bumper and walked towards it, pressing the little button on my "bweep bweep" alarm/lock remote control.

It didn't bweep.

I pressed again.

No bweep.

Suddenly observed that each wing mirror has one of those little round 'blind spot' mirrors stuck to it. Realised that I was now standing next to a car that didn't belong to me and trying to open it.

Quickly recovered composure and walked further up the road to where Spunky, had it a brain, would probably be thinking, "Where's your brains, woman, I have these huge horses on my side and you don't even notice if they're not there?"

Oh, right. The horses. Next time I misplace my car, that oughta be my #1 clue. The horses.

Things That Make Me Happy

Things are getting hot (the way they get hot for turkeys close to Christmas) at work, and now that I’m about to leave for home I’ve decided to compile a list of Things That Make Me Happy. Just to keep me sane, you know.

1. Dancing
2. Psalm 91, New King James Version
3. “Who Am I” by Casting Crowns
4. Dark, bitter chocolate
5. Fuzz therapy from an upside-down, purring cat
6. The Story Girl by Lucy Maud Montgomery
7. Mua chee
8. Doodling
9. Smiles from happy dogs
10. Daisies
11. Sunrise in the hills
12. Sunset on the beach
13. A good nap
14. Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, 3rd movement (especially if I’m the one playing it. Especially good when anger and other strong emotions need venting.)
15. Writing in my journal
16. My soft toy collection
17. Daydreaming
18. Calvin & Hobbes by Bill Watterson
19. Designing blank books
20. Nyonya beadwork

Linguistically challenged

I am a failure.

I wasted 11 years of my life.

I want them back.

One teensy-weensy phone call in Malay was more than I could handle. I stuttered so badly that even a stutterer with a name like Lelulelouise Lewis would sound positively clear next to me. I managed to get my message across but had the person on the other end of the call been an examiner for the SPM oral paper, I would never have passed my SPM.

I am still amazed that I somehow got a Grade 1.

But still, this means that I wasted 11 years of my life in school, struggling with a language that many dedicated teachers over the years tried hard to teach me. Oh, how they tried. But although I got the basics of grammar and a simple vocabulary that should get me by in the markets (wet, not stock), it is still mostly foreign to me.

Best of all, it was the language of instruction for all subjects when I was in school so my comprehension of practically every subject was probably about 30%. I still don't know how I made it through school.

Some other countries' public school systems offer ESL classes to "linguistically challenged" students who don't come from an English-speaking family.

Why didn't anyone offer MSL classes when I was in school? My 3 years in kindergarten where we learnt the ABCs (which I'd mastered long before thanks to my clued-in parents), 123s and other basics did not prepare me for the sudden barrage of Malay-medium teaching, all day long, when primary school began. It took me a term before I even began to understand the teacher. Thank God, she was a nice, understanding teacher who took a liking to me and explained every sentence in English before making me write it down and say it Malay. Otherwise I'd probably have reached Form 5 still writing my karangans in English.

Yep, it's a wonder that I managed to graduate from the public school system. But I still feel like a failure after this morning's phone call.

A language maligned

I can barely read the local papers without cringing these days.

It seems having to deal with news of murder, crooks ripping off helpless old ladies and natural disasters is not bad enough.

The editors have to let bad grammar, mis-spellings, awkward headlines and downright bizarre phrases through to make my newspaper-reading experience a painful one.

Does anybody CARE about the English language anymore? Or is it going the way of the dodo? Someday soon, we’re going to hear young adults say over their teh peng glasses, “English? Oh, yeah hor, I think larst time sure got one langwich call like dat wan.”

Not so much as a note of mourning will be heard for the language when it finally gives its last breath and dies. Not even 10 seconds of respectful silence will be observed. Not here, anyway.

Why do I say so? Because judging by the standard of English in Malaysian newspapers (and most magazines) today, nobody cares that the language is being mauled to pieces on a daily basis. Apparently, it doesn’t matter how the language is being spoken, as long as we… especially we in the developed state… SPEAK ENGLISH! H’RAY! Break out the bubbly, we’re officially “educated”! And “developed”!

I find it hilarious that the country’s most widely circulated and read English daily has a one-page column on all things English — speaking and writing it correctly, common misuses, etc.

I only find this hilarious because if I didn’t laugh about it, I’d cry about what they’d done to the language in the rest of the paper.

The pink book said!

When I started primary school, my mother bought me a “homework book” to write down all assignments in. I suppose the little pink paperback was her way of making the sudden shock of rules, nasty older students and teachers from a different universe a little more pleasant on me.

One of the first few pages had this “Arabic quotation” (if any Arabs read this, please verify the accuracy of the quote for me. Thank you.):

He who knows and knows that he knows,
He is wise. Follow him.
He who knows not and knows he knows not,
He is simple. Teach him.
He who knows and knows not he knows,
He is asleep. Wake him.
He who knows not and knows not he knows not,
He is a fool. Shun him.

Like Calvin of my favourite comic strip, I wish I could open a roadside stall selling “The Plain Truth”. Imagine this: “Hey, you! You act the grand lady but your grandma at the fish market speaks better English! Looks and smells better, too! That’ll be RM100, please.”

Likewise, there are people who, upon having their English corrected, get all flustered and indignant and insist that they've got it right. How much is it worth to tell them, “Hey, if you were an Arab in the old days, you’d be a fool. Since you’re a Malaysian in the Noughties, that means you're just plain stupid! Ha ha ha!”? Pity I don't have the privilege of being small and cute, no matter how annoying and mouthy.

Like someone who mentioned that a certain project will be publicised through “many mediums”. Correction: “You mean media?” “No, MEDIUMS.” “But… [pausing for reflection upon seeing annoyed look that I would dare to correct her supposedly good English] OK, mediums.”

The high price of diplomacy

It was on the tip of my tongue to say, “Huh? You’re going to hire all those poor out-of-work temple clairvoyants as sandwich men now that they’re in between festivals? So kind!”

I think I’d have paid at least a ringgit to be able to say that right then.

But my ensuing silence, though difficult to keep, was probably worth a few ringgit more.

What a waste of time!

When I was little, I used to worry my parents with how quickly I could read.

From the age of about 7, I could finish one of those Enid Blyton short story collections in a day or two. (Two was if I had a lot of homework and ballet class). At my nanny's house, I would drag out maybe half a dozen issues of Readers' Digest from the 60s and 70s and read them all in one afternoon after school. OK, I didn't read the whole thing, I generally skipped the parts about practical advice for parents and 7 warning signs your car is trying to give you.

Now, at this beautiful age of 25, I am still able to read quite fast.

So with a very long weekend brought on by two consecutive public holidays, I thought I might as well spend a whole day reading (with some guilt-driven cleaning in between). And I managed to finish a book I'd begun on Wednesday evening. Yay!

Boo
Except that it was a very, very lousy book. It left me with such a bad taste in my mouth that I almost feel I must read at least one Anne of Green Gables book as an antidote. Why was it such a bad book? Oh dear, let me count the ways.

The Plot
This writer must have stumbled upon the literary equivalent of MSG. Evidently, he doesn't know the secret of making a story tantalising and delicious in its own right, so he needed to throw in plenty of violence, quite a lot of foul language, disturbing references to deviant sex, and annoying negative racial stereotypes. Just as in real life, the flavour enhancer monosodium glutamate leaves me nauseated, thirsty and otherwise ill for hours, so did this book leave me. Another book by the same author that I was considering reading now sits next to my bookshelf looking less appealing by the minute. For more reasons why, read on.

The Characters
This guy really has no respect for the human race. Out of all the ethnicities, occupations, abilities and disabilities, appearances and personalities possible, he managed to make up:

• a male protagonist who's, naturally, white, college-educated, attractive and healthy, with claustrophobia as his only disability (claustrophobia is quite a common malaise among protagonists, although it's more common in the movies among women who get caught in elevators with psychotic dark men.)
• a female lead character who's white, slim, attractive, healthy and believes "the world is one" and does a lot of yoga
• an ambiguous, villainish character in a wheelchair who has a hard, unapproachable and downright creepy countenance and personality (what, are all wheelchair users so bitter thanks to infirmity? I don't suppose there's any chance of a cheerful, mentally healthy, intelligent protag in a wheelchair?)
• a token "coloured" character whose exact ethnicity is not given, but who has a thing for violent killing, hates organised religion, enjoys hurting women and has other creepy traits that are seldom explained in detail, but rather suspiciously mentioned in close proximity to repeated descriptions of his skin colour
• and numerous others that it's just too tiring to describe

The Language
I've said before that I'd read a book with no plot if the language was beautiful enough. To me, a good book is one that doesn't necessarily end with all the loose ends tied, all the bad boys dead or sent to prison and the protagonists in bed together. (I have noticed that in Contemporary Popular Novel Land, people who are married seem to be doing all they can to get rid of their spouses and see sex with them as the most revolting thing on earth, whereas the attractive person they get to share hair-raising adventures with is seen as pleasure on legs. Until, of course, they get married. For what happens next, see the beginning of this parenthesis.)

Therefore, I felt thoroughly patronised and insulted at this author's use of rambling, pseudo-artistic, look-Ma-I'm-deep sentences, lengthy intellectual speeches delivered ad lib (will someone please tell me how people in deep crisis can be so profound and not even stutter, leak boogers or cough ONCE???) and introspective first-person reflections that read as smoothly as a Standard 1 pupil's holiday composition.

The Credibility
Most of all, I was irritated at the half-truths, misrepresentations and sweeping statements used to describe people and organisations. Actually, I wouldn't be so hissy with all that if the author wouldn't take himself so seriously. I could practically read between the lines and see him writing himself in as an additional character, applauding every self-serving sentence and saying "SOMEBODY NOMINATE ME FOR A BOOKER!"

So that's one day wasted on a book that has not educated, entertained or uplifted me. It raised no critical questions in my head, did not at any point cause me to identify with any of its characters, and most of the time made me wonder how many coats of lacquer it would take before it could be used as a doorstop. But then I wouldn't wish such a dreadful ornament on even the home of my worst enemy. So now that I've finished it, I can return it to its rightful owner and hope he will share at least some of my reaction.

Oh, it's so terrible to suffer in silence after the trauma of a bad book.

I suppose it could have been worse. I could have been a slow reader.

Just imagine!

What if I'd been born a fish
With fins and scales and slimy gills
And chased 'round coral just for thrills?

Or perhaps an Indian princess
With sequins for dust and diamonds for toys
And a pet elephant to impress the boys?

What if I had grown up to be
A dancer who twirled and sprang in tights
Too spent by life to enjoy all its sights?

What if I were anyone else
Not just plain me, but say, an elf
Imagine, I'd never know myself!

But though it's sad, I've heard some say
That many never get to know
Themselves and not the ones on show.

So since I'm me and not a fish
Or any of those other things
I'm that happy, I could just sing!

And get to know the me I am
And be the best me I possibly can, for
Just imagine the horror if... I were a man! :o)


The author has no prejudices whatsoever against men. She's just very glad she wasn't born one, because if she were, it would be very much harder for her to express her love for satin and lace, ballet, stuffed toys, and all things pretty. There is, after all, room for only one Elton John in this world.

I also take this opportunity to thank my father, mother, grandmother, brother... what? Wrong script?

Thank you, God, for choosing to make me me and not something/somebody else.

Back to school

An appointment for work brought me back to the campus that holds two educational institutions, one of which is where I spent 3 years studying for a degree I was never sure I wanted. I knew I wanted a degree; I loved studying; just that in those three years in that school, I never had one of those mushy, warm-all-over moments when I thought, "I love this beautiful place and I can't bear to think of graduating and leaving it for the big, bad world."

Because, actually, it's not a beautiful place. I used to describe my university as "a pimple on _____ College's butt". With age has come greater tact, and now I would only go so far as to say it's an extension to the original building that was built with more consideration for economics than aesthetics. The original college had the frontage. We had the... never mind. And still, our parents had to pay more than double (a LOT more than double) of what a comparable course would have cost elsewhere. "But there you don't get degree from this Australian uni, some more this is an offshore campus." (That came from the counsellors, and we believed it.)

The "perks" of attending this offshore campus rather than a local college, besides the exorbitant fees, were: 1) our very own set of restrooms; 2) our very own entrance to the library (they knocked out a few feet of wall, put in a door and called it 'our' library); 3) the occasional reminder that students at the onshore campuses had it much, much cushier. During communication lab classes, they got to go to the computer lab. We had an extra tutorial to make up for the computers in our lab not being equipped for whatever it was we were supposed to do.

About twenty of us graduated from my class in this university. I'm pretty sure there isn't a single one of us who was sure the experience and subsequent degree were worth the money. Things haven't improved much since then, yet the uni has no shortage of prospective students. It makes me wonder if it all makes sense: my parents paid a bundle so I would go to uni and learn a little more than what I would have learnt if I hadn't gone to uni; now that I've graduated, that knowledge is supposed to help me earn more so I can save up and one day send my kids to uni...

All that said, though, I admit I miss the structure and constant challenges of academia. Given the chance (and the moolah), I would go back to school any day because I'm not done learning yet and university does force you to learn faster, think harder, understand better.

Yup, I'd love to go back to school. But even though today's visit sparked off some serious nostalgia, ("Ooh, the bookshop! That's where we laughed for five minutes over that coin bank in the shape of a couch with two penguins on it!"), I am quite sure of one thing.

I won't be going back to that school.

How strong?

My thumb drive came home on August 31 after having been missing for a few weeks.

Its cap has just been found, in an even more surprising place and way.

Some people travel halfway around the world looking for miracles in statues that weep, drumskins that continue to grow fur, and gold dust that appears mysteriously.

I've known for a long time, and just been reminded, that miracles are seldom so elusive, expensive or exclusive. Nor are they always lofty and abstract.

Cheesy Analogy Time
Imagine a father demonstrating his strength to his children by lifting a 2kg watering can and helping them water their potted plants. The children are impressed, and from now on they'll have this equation in their minds: Daddy = Strong! Actually, Daddy can bench-press 350 without blinking, but they won't understand that. It won't matter much to them, either.

But their flowers need watering, and Daddy has done it for them.

As for me, I don't know what the equivalent of the bench press is.

But finding that little blue piece of plastic after four months sure made my day, though it isn't even a strain on that Heavenly bicep (figuratively speaking). More importantly, it inspired me to ask daily for more demonstrations of Fatherly strength.

The Secret of Balance

It was a busy day at the office. The in tray was full. The out tray was full. A mysterious person, who could be identified only by the spiky black hair visible above the stack of paper, came every half hour to empty the out tray. Who knew where to. The recycling bin in the back alley, probably.

From in tray to out tray, out tray to alley. (Or at least it seemed that's where my life was going)

I reached for another sheet from the in tray. Paused. The in tray was no longer there.

I looked around. I realised it was I who was no longer there. I mean, at my desk at work. I was now sitting behind a table about the same size, but instead of a partition board with cute animal photos all over it, on the other side sat a jolly little man wearing a hat that looked like it was made out of a paper bag.

Welcome!
"Welcome to Felicitous Fortunes! Good fortune or your money back. What can I predict for you today?"

I stared in shock, wondering what would happen back at work when the spiky-haired person came and found the out tray, for once, empty.

"Cat got your tongue? OK then, how's this? Have you heard the one about the guru who owned a hot dog stand?"

Silence from me.

"Come on, come on, it's a good one! Guess what the customer says to the guru! Guess right and I'll throw in a free 'good luck in the workplace' figurine." He gestured towards a shelf on the other end of the room, stacks of boxes with words like "Love Life Booster", "Prosperous Business Money Plenty" and "Every RM1 coin Received in Change From Coffee Shops Sure Authentic, 100% Guarantee Accepted by Banks" on them.

Silence. Then, at the sight of his fat, complacent, happy little face, something in me snapped.

I don't want your figurines. I don't want your fortunes. I just want to go back to work, to a job I actually enjoy, yes, that's right, enjoy, so I can do my work and after that go home and work on my other projects, and when I'm done with that I can spend about 5 minutes with my family before I go back to work overtime. And don't you, little fat man in paper bag hat, dare ask me why I must do so much.

"Why do you feel you have to do so much?"

That was it. It must have been the stress, because of course I'm not usually a hitting kind of person. The little fat jolly man was too heavy to make it across the room, but his paper bag hat made it.

And then...
Seconds later, I found myself back at my desk. No need to even say 'There's no place like office, there's no place like office...'

In retrospect, I really wish I hadn't hit him. Because the fat man did have a point: I do feel compelled to do more than I need to, and it's making me so edgy that I can't even take a joke from a jolly commercial clairvoyant. From that day on, I resolved to keep my work and outside commitments, relationships with humans and God in the proper balance (in increasing order of importance).

The moral of the story?
If you want to have some balance in your life, it's best to strike a happy medium.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is strictly coincidental.

No mediums were harmed in the writing of this story.

Comrades for the Overthrow of the Packaging Proletariat

A few weeks back, in a moment of foolish weakness, I succumbed to the pretty packaging of a certain brand of biscuits bearing a copyrighted Japanese cartoon image (and her bunny and strawberry friends).

Thanks to the professional pictures on the box, I also believed that the biscuits would be of equal quality, munchy-wise, to another brand I shall henceforth remain loyal to. The latter's biscuits are offered in more flavours and embellished with proprietary panda images, which I find just as pleasing to the eye. Why not please both eye and palate at the same time, rather than the following scenario which happened when I tried to eat the biscuits pictured above?

Me: (Opens box and tears open foil package within)
Good, Brainy Voice (see earlier post on the purchase of these things): Now we'll see who's right.
Me: (Pops biscuit in mouth)
Tongue: Whoa momma! What is this stuff?
Teeth: Can anyone say "lao hong" (Hokkien for "leaked air", ie gone soft)?
Tongue: Has my job function changed? Because I sure feel like a trash can!
Stomach: Hey, watch your mouth. You think you have a lousy job, you come and talk to me.
Intestines: !
Stomach: You guts don't even think of saying anything!
GBV: Heh, heh (in complacent tone)
Eyes: At least they're good to look at.
Other body parts: Choi! Who's talking to you?
Me: Sigh. What's it take to get a decent cartoon-decorated cream-filled biscuit these days?