Part of my role in preparing for an upcoming youth conference is being part of the drama team that will present a few pieces of varying length to the delegates. For the first time since, oh, ever, I'm also going to act as more than background scenery.
Paradoxically enough, I find that acting demands a lot more authenticity from the actor than most people would usually think; on the flipside, I think most of us do plenty of acting in our day-to-day lives.
How many of us dare to let our guards down to the people around us? I think we'd be shocked if we knew the truth about the people we see every day (and ignore for the most part). We have our civilised mini-conversations, we exchange pleasantries, but it stops there.
We were throwing around ideas for those plays, and one of those was to end each play not with a concluding statement, but with a question.
After the emotional upheaval I've been through in the past few weeks and months, my question for anyone (and not necessarily from me) is:
Would you still love me if you knew who I really am?
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Saturday, April 01, 2006
Category chaos
Prejudice is funny.
Not laugh-out-loud, early-Jackie-Chan-era-movie funny.
Funny, like, "Why like that wan, ah?" funny.
I think we tend to try too hard to organise people into categories we can understand. Just so that the realisation of each person's uniqueness doesn't overwhelm us. So that we can find some point at which we can identify with that person, because though we may not want to admit it, someone who's not like me may not be someone I want to know.
Or maybe we deliberately make the categories even narrower to suit our biases and prejudices. "I don't strike up conversations with people who clean toilets for a living." "I don't have friends who wear embarrassingly misspelt counterfeit designer clothes." "I don't want to be acquainted with anyone who wears sandals over socks." And gradually, the categories narrow even more and it gets harder and harder to find someone who meets our standards.
And one day, we wake up and realise we don't make the cut anymore.
Not laugh-out-loud, early-Jackie-Chan-era-movie funny.
Funny, like, "Why like that wan, ah?" funny.
I think we tend to try too hard to organise people into categories we can understand. Just so that the realisation of each person's uniqueness doesn't overwhelm us. So that we can find some point at which we can identify with that person, because though we may not want to admit it, someone who's not like me may not be someone I want to know.
Or maybe we deliberately make the categories even narrower to suit our biases and prejudices. "I don't strike up conversations with people who clean toilets for a living." "I don't have friends who wear embarrassingly misspelt counterfeit designer clothes." "I don't want to be acquainted with anyone who wears sandals over socks." And gradually, the categories narrow even more and it gets harder and harder to find someone who meets our standards.
And one day, we wake up and realise we don't make the cut anymore.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
A not bad day
First, I made it all through the day at work without falling asleep in flu-drugged oblivion.
Then, I got to go to the brother and sister-in-law's place, mainly to see Mudslide but also because it's nice to just visit with one's siblings, isn't it? Yummm... apple crumble with butterscotch sauce doth sweeten one's lips so much. Ta, people!
As you gather, I had dinner there. When all I was supposed to do was stop by and play with a furry cat for half an hour, then pick up something simple for dinner on the way home. Ended up eating assam fish and four-angled beans on rice, instead. Oooh wait, that wasn't quite the end; the end was the apple crumble. Mmmm. Apple crumble.
And every now and then, I would call Mudslide out of whatever dark corner she had crawled into, and get her to roll over so I could hear some purrs, and when she slunk back into the corner I would have another bite of apple crumble.
Did I mention that was really, really tasty apple crumble?
Note to self: Must learn how to bake more things than just bread-and-butter pudding made out of last week's crusts.
And to make the day extra sweet, I picked up the copy of The Blue Day Book that Pink chi-chi got me during her last trip to Houston. How many people have two families' worth of nice people caring for them? I am blessed.
Then upon reaching home I almost collapsed in gratitude when I realised I'd been driving with an expired road tax sticker for over a month, but that's a story for another day.
Mudslide does cute
Then, I got to go to the brother and sister-in-law's place, mainly to see Mudslide but also because it's nice to just visit with one's siblings, isn't it? Yummm... apple crumble with butterscotch sauce doth sweeten one's lips so much. Ta, people!
As you gather, I had dinner there. When all I was supposed to do was stop by and play with a furry cat for half an hour, then pick up something simple for dinner on the way home. Ended up eating assam fish and four-angled beans on rice, instead. Oooh wait, that wasn't quite the end; the end was the apple crumble. Mmmm. Apple crumble.
And every now and then, I would call Mudslide out of whatever dark corner she had crawled into, and get her to roll over so I could hear some purrs, and when she slunk back into the corner I would have another bite of apple crumble.
Did I mention that was really, really tasty apple crumble?
Note to self: Must learn how to bake more things than just bread-and-butter pudding made out of last week's crusts.
And to make the day extra sweet, I picked up the copy of The Blue Day Book that Pink chi-chi got me during her last trip to Houston. How many people have two families' worth of nice people caring for them? I am blessed.
Then upon reaching home I almost collapsed in gratitude when I realised I'd been driving with an expired road tax sticker for over a month, but that's a story for another day.
Mudslide does cuteWednesday, March 22, 2006
The hardest story I've had to live
I sent in two entries to a story contest about cancer, and both were shortlisted to be winners. Unfortunately, the contest rules stated that one person can only win one prize. Phooey. Well actually, not phooey, because I knew this from the beginning and I didn't join the contest for the prizes anyway.
I think the organisers got it right in deciding not to announce the winners in reverse sequence as if it were the Oscars. I like the way winners of the big prizes were announced side by side with winners of the not-so-big prizes. Unfortunately, this meant I had to do the gracious beauty pageant runner-up thing when I turned out not to be the grand prize winner. You know, reflex hug, air kiss on both sides, fan frantically at eye area to stop mascara from running... Nyah uh! Not on your life! It was all I could do to keep from smacking the winner on the back because she was so flippin' inspiring! However, I do know my own strength and didn't want to send her spinning across the room like the Tasmanian Devil so I gave her a genteel smile and light pat on the back.
Take a couple o' minutes to read the prizewinning entries here, you won't regret it.
And if you want to read mine special... sniff... sniff... aww you're so sweet! You really do? I mean, really really? All right, here you go... read the full versions on the organiser's website, ya hear?
Excerpt from "My Mother's Victory" (the one that officially won)
"I believe [my mother] won the battle against cancer. She died surrounded by people who loved her. Cancer may have destroyed her body, and numerous medical procedures weakened it, but the experience of those two years only strengthened her spirit. She made her peace with God weeks before she died, while her mind was still lucid and unaffected by pain-relieving drugs. She left an immeasurable legacy, the memory of her colourful and vibrant personality, which will remain with her family and friends as long as we live. Cancer may have shortened her life, but it cannot diminish its influence over those of others who knew her and who hear her story. That was and is my mother’s victory."
Excerpt from "Seven Ways to Help Someone You Love Deal with Cancer" (the other one)
"Ever hear the story about the dinner party which went on all night with an uninvited pink elephant seated in the room the whole time? The large pachyderm ate, drank, squirted water and snot out its trunk at guests and left large “packages” around the room, but everyone was too polite to state the facts. That this intruder was making a significant mess of things, that it would take some effort to get rid of it, and that they would be glad to help the host to get rid of it in any way possible.
"Cancer can be a pink elephant of sorts – until the host (patient) decides to come clean and talk about it. Don’t deny your loved one his or her need to share the questions, doubts, fears and hopes that will arise after the diagnosis. The rare times that my mother spoke of her disease to me, I could tell she was touched that I never tried to change the subject but just listened. Never underestimate the value of a sympathetic, listening ear."
Click the link above to get to the full stories!
I think the organisers got it right in deciding not to announce the winners in reverse sequence as if it were the Oscars. I like the way winners of the big prizes were announced side by side with winners of the not-so-big prizes. Unfortunately, this meant I had to do the gracious beauty pageant runner-up thing when I turned out not to be the grand prize winner. You know, reflex hug, air kiss on both sides, fan frantically at eye area to stop mascara from running... Nyah uh! Not on your life! It was all I could do to keep from smacking the winner on the back because she was so flippin' inspiring! However, I do know my own strength and didn't want to send her spinning across the room like the Tasmanian Devil so I gave her a genteel smile and light pat on the back.
Take a couple o' minutes to read the prizewinning entries here, you won't regret it.
And if you want to read mine special... sniff... sniff... aww you're so sweet! You really do? I mean, really really? All right, here you go... read the full versions on the organiser's website, ya hear?
Excerpt from "My Mother's Victory" (the one that officially won)
"I believe [my mother] won the battle against cancer. She died surrounded by people who loved her. Cancer may have destroyed her body, and numerous medical procedures weakened it, but the experience of those two years only strengthened her spirit. She made her peace with God weeks before she died, while her mind was still lucid and unaffected by pain-relieving drugs. She left an immeasurable legacy, the memory of her colourful and vibrant personality, which will remain with her family and friends as long as we live. Cancer may have shortened her life, but it cannot diminish its influence over those of others who knew her and who hear her story. That was and is my mother’s victory."
Excerpt from "Seven Ways to Help Someone You Love Deal with Cancer" (the other one)
"Ever hear the story about the dinner party which went on all night with an uninvited pink elephant seated in the room the whole time? The large pachyderm ate, drank, squirted water and snot out its trunk at guests and left large “packages” around the room, but everyone was too polite to state the facts. That this intruder was making a significant mess of things, that it would take some effort to get rid of it, and that they would be glad to help the host to get rid of it in any way possible.
"Cancer can be a pink elephant of sorts – until the host (patient) decides to come clean and talk about it. Don’t deny your loved one his or her need to share the questions, doubts, fears and hopes that will arise after the diagnosis. The rare times that my mother spoke of her disease to me, I could tell she was touched that I never tried to change the subject but just listened. Never underestimate the value of a sympathetic, listening ear."
Click the link above to get to the full stories!
Monday, March 20, 2006
Speaking damage
Recently, I was at a Christian event where the speaker recounted a painful event in his youth when someone passed an insensitive comment about his appearance. He didn't look at his image in the mirror for 2 or 3 years, I forget which.
What I found disturbing was when he concluded the story with the statement that from then on, he has made it a point never to pass comments on another person's appearance, people laughed. When he elaborated that this is because you never know what damage you'll cause with your comments, they laughed again.
Now, I have made fun of someone else's acne before. I was a little brat, maybe about 8 or 9 at the most. I regretted it when I was a little older, maybe because by then I had to deal with acne myself. Now that I'm quite a lot older, I regret it because it was just plain ugly, having a laugh at the expense of another person's feelings.
But the audience at this event were mostly adults. Well-educated adults. Groomed, successful, eloquent. Those whom I know, I like a lot. Shouldn't they know better?
The powerful tongue
It made me wonder, how many of us actually care what effects our spoken words will cause? King Solomon said once that life and death are in the power of the tongue, and they didn't name him the wisest man ever for nothing.
Malaysians in particular, I think, are good at saying what they think, and hang the consequences. Why else do you hear people telling children they've just met, children they don't even know, "Wah, so fat lah you, you like eating a lot, ah?" Or the infamous "Why you don't eat [fried chicken; chocolate; peanuts, etc]? Scared of pimples ah? Ya lor, oily skin like you, better be careful."
Did I somehow miss a memo that was passed round, giving all of us free licence to say whatever we please about anyone we like?
We're supposed to be civilised. Could we maybe learn to let up on each other and give up the childish tendency to make remarks about an acquaintance's skin/body size/dressing/eating habits unless we're actually asked for our opinions?
'I'm not going to feel ugly all by myself!'
Sadly enough, I think, the real reason why so many Malaysians feel they must make negative comments about other people is that it's the only way they can feel good about themselves. Somewhere along the way, our society has failed to make known that it's all right to be and love yourself, warts and all.
Maybe if every single person in the country, from the auntie who sweeps leaves off the road to the big deal corporate director, knew how beautiful and unique he or she was, we'd all just be a lot happier.
And social occasions would be much more fun because we'd know that nobody was going to remark that we'd gained weight since coming back from overseas, or suggest a special face cleanser to get rid of blackheads.
What I found disturbing was when he concluded the story with the statement that from then on, he has made it a point never to pass comments on another person's appearance, people laughed. When he elaborated that this is because you never know what damage you'll cause with your comments, they laughed again.
Now, I have made fun of someone else's acne before. I was a little brat, maybe about 8 or 9 at the most. I regretted it when I was a little older, maybe because by then I had to deal with acne myself. Now that I'm quite a lot older, I regret it because it was just plain ugly, having a laugh at the expense of another person's feelings.
But the audience at this event were mostly adults. Well-educated adults. Groomed, successful, eloquent. Those whom I know, I like a lot. Shouldn't they know better?
The powerful tongue
It made me wonder, how many of us actually care what effects our spoken words will cause? King Solomon said once that life and death are in the power of the tongue, and they didn't name him the wisest man ever for nothing.
Malaysians in particular, I think, are good at saying what they think, and hang the consequences. Why else do you hear people telling children they've just met, children they don't even know, "Wah, so fat lah you, you like eating a lot, ah?" Or the infamous "Why you don't eat [fried chicken; chocolate; peanuts, etc]? Scared of pimples ah? Ya lor, oily skin like you, better be careful."
Did I somehow miss a memo that was passed round, giving all of us free licence to say whatever we please about anyone we like?
We're supposed to be civilised. Could we maybe learn to let up on each other and give up the childish tendency to make remarks about an acquaintance's skin/body size/dressing/eating habits unless we're actually asked for our opinions?
'I'm not going to feel ugly all by myself!'
Sadly enough, I think, the real reason why so many Malaysians feel they must make negative comments about other people is that it's the only way they can feel good about themselves. Somewhere along the way, our society has failed to make known that it's all right to be and love yourself, warts and all.
Maybe if every single person in the country, from the auntie who sweeps leaves off the road to the big deal corporate director, knew how beautiful and unique he or she was, we'd all just be a lot happier.
And social occasions would be much more fun because we'd know that nobody was going to remark that we'd gained weight since coming back from overseas, or suggest a special face cleanser to get rid of blackheads.
Friday, February 17, 2006
Sunny Surprises
Today was my first day back at work after 3 days on sick leave.
Barely had I started up my PC when my mobile rang. The caller was from some courier service and he wanted to verify my office address before delivering something to me.
Not-very-clued-in-me thought: "Did I arrange for some doctor to send me a CD-ROM containing his presentation on bed-wetting, then forget all about it?" ... followed by, if I were a cartoon character, one of those symbols that looks like a little dust bunny. You know, all black and woolly and thick; the universal symbol for "where has my brain gone, and who do I pay to get it back?"
Then my phone rang again. This conversation was much more entertaining, although it confirmed again that I am hopeless at Malay.
I won't bore you with the details, but any conversation with the sentence, "Kamu ada nampak Kafe Leo tak? Atas ada singa punya... bukan, Leo... Leo... ya, kepala singa. Bukan, atas ada kepala singa punya..." is quite worth noting.
For the benefit of my non-BM-speaking readers, the translation of that is, "Do you see Leo Café? There's a lion on top... no, Leo... Leo... yes, a lion's head. No, there is a lion's head on top."
Talk about surreal.
After a few more phone exchanges, I realised that although Mr Bedwetting CD Delivery Man or whoever he was might be no more than 100 metres away from the office, but he would never get there because we Don't Have a Signboard.
I went out on ground level and found that...
He was delivering a bouquet of flowers from Kenny!
What a nice surprise. Bright, shiny, happy sunflowers surrounded by these berry-looking things (I'm a bookworm, not a botanist) and tied with cheery yellow ribbon and jute fibre.
Barely had I started up my PC when my mobile rang. The caller was from some courier service and he wanted to verify my office address before delivering something to me.
Not-very-clued-in-me thought: "Did I arrange for some doctor to send me a CD-ROM containing his presentation on bed-wetting, then forget all about it?" ... followed by, if I were a cartoon character, one of those symbols that looks like a little dust bunny. You know, all black and woolly and thick; the universal symbol for "where has my brain gone, and who do I pay to get it back?"
Then my phone rang again. This conversation was much more entertaining, although it confirmed again that I am hopeless at Malay.
I won't bore you with the details, but any conversation with the sentence, "Kamu ada nampak Kafe Leo tak? Atas ada singa punya... bukan, Leo... Leo... ya, kepala singa. Bukan, atas ada kepala singa punya..." is quite worth noting.
For the benefit of my non-BM-speaking readers, the translation of that is, "Do you see Leo Café? There's a lion on top... no, Leo... Leo... yes, a lion's head. No, there is a lion's head on top."
Talk about surreal.
After a few more phone exchanges, I realised that although Mr Bedwetting CD Delivery Man or whoever he was might be no more than 100 metres away from the office, but he would never get there because we Don't Have a Signboard.
I went out on ground level and found that...
He was delivering a bouquet of flowers from Kenny!
What a nice surprise. Bright, shiny, happy sunflowers surrounded by these berry-looking things (I'm a bookworm, not a botanist) and tied with cheery yellow ribbon and jute fibre.
It has taken me several tries over 12 hours to get this picture uploaded. If not for the cheery, uplifting presence of the sunnies, I might have drowned the router by now.
Monday, February 13, 2006
Profound Words That Must Be Recorded
"The power of master ahgugu can heal a tousand moomoos." - [e]
Some things just don't need explanation, I think.
Monday, February 06, 2006
Marriage and the Postmodern Single
Having just read an article about why more and more Malaysian women are staying single well into their 30s and 40s, I've come to a few sad conclusions about the Malaysian Single of the Noughties. I think it applies to the men just as much as the women. Here goes.
Disclaimer: The following piece is a representation of a large number of Malaysian Singles. It is by no means a description of any one individual, nor a sweeping statement about the whole group. I have the greatest respect for people who are single for reasons other than those stated here. Whoa momma, maybe I should have studied law, after all.
He/she is selfish. Life has been kind to him/her. He/she has the time, money and energy to spend all day working and all night shopping, partying, working out and hanging out with friends. Plus, without a family to support or contribute to, there's plenty of cash left over for overseas holidays. Why would anyone want to take on a life partner who would have problems with one's weekly bowling junkets with the boys/girls? Worse still, there might even be...children in the future! Nasty little helpless dependents; what kind of maniac would trade a fat wallet and sunshine-filled days for a lifetime of being concerned for, just imagine, someone else?
He/she has illusions of immortality. A common thread among the interviewees is, "Maybe when I'm older..." I wonder if it's occurred to any of them that it may not be so easy becoming a first-time parent when one's body, mind and soul have had the benefit of a few decades' living? Besides the ubiquitous biological clock every woman is supposedly equipped with, 30 years on Earth is enough to turn one into a hardened, cynical bag 'o dust. Hardly ideal parenting material. Or life partner material, for that matter.
On top of that, who ever guaranteed that "older" would even happen? True, barring the odd car accident or terminal illness, today's young adults can expect to live to at least 80 or so. But having made the choice to stay single and pursue the god of expensive things, will they enjoy their old age so much? At age 60, will they find themselves desperately lonely and longing for the company of the young adults who would have been their children if they'd made different choices in their 30s? Or, having left youth behind so long ago, will they find themselves unable to communicate with the children they finally had when they were pushing 50? I think Solomon, who's been pushing up daisies (or whatever vegetation there is in Bethlehem) for millennia now, had good reason to say, "Like arrows in the hand of a warrior, so are the children of one's youth." (Psalm 127:4)
His/her priorities are way off the mark. Career? Travel? Fame? Independence? In moderate doses, they're all good things to work for. But at the end of the day, you can't take it with you. Old age, illness, injury or infirmity can end a promising career in less time than it takes to whistle Dixie. Memories of sailing on the sparkling Mediterranean, backpacking over the Andes and seeing the sun rise on Angkor Wat will fade faster than a dream the day Alzheimer's moves in. As for fame, whether one gets Warhol's predicted 15 minutes or much, much more, it's not likely to last longer than a decade to a century after one's death. Is 10 to 100 years of fame really worth exchanging for the living legacy of a close-knit family?
Finally, he/she has a Thing against the Opposite Sex. It's as if the Men and the Women have each erected a fort. Messengers steal between the two, trying to see what the Other Side is really after. Sometimes, the Messengers realise that they're really after pretty much the same thing after all, and both defect to the land called Marriage.
Back at the forts, things are getting less and less civil. At Fort Femme, the women are up in arms over the porcine species yet to be recognised by Science, namely, the Male Chauvinist Pig. Based on true stories that happened a long, long time ago, the myths told in the fort get thicker and thicker. "You'll never have a life to call your own!" "He'll expect you to cook, clean, take care of the kids, and pick up after him!" "He won't want you to have your own career. He'll resent it if you earn more." "Even if you could work outside the home, you'd still have to do all the housework." Before long, isolated incidents get passed off as the norm. Variables are mistaken for constants. Flaws that can either be talked through or overlooked are now assumed to be as vital a part of the Man as his... uh... lungs.
Over on the Men's side, meanwhile, words are flying even thicker. "You'll never have a life to call your own!" "She'll expect you to bring home the bacon... and the Tiffany's." "She won't want you to stay in touch with your friends. Every second, morning, noon and night, will have to be accounted for; Heaven help you if forget who you ate lunch with last Saturday."
Both sides have their points. Malaysian men are, on the whole, still carrying around a large portion of their forefathers' misogynistic baggage. Many women are also living with the legacy of grandmas, mothers and sisters whom they wouldn't recognise out on the street because they haven't been out of the house since the wedding.
Nevertheless, it doesn't have to be this way. I may have heard of a woman who choked to death on chocolate but if you think that'll make me stop eating the stuff, think again. Similarly, you'd think that today's yuppies — women and men alike — would have the good sense to tell apart the exception from the norm, to weigh the total benefits against the total cost and to make a decision not only for their own good, but for their families, for society and for posterity.
Disclaimer: The following piece is a representation of a large number of Malaysian Singles. It is by no means a description of any one individual, nor a sweeping statement about the whole group. I have the greatest respect for people who are single for reasons other than those stated here. Whoa momma, maybe I should have studied law, after all.
He/she is selfish. Life has been kind to him/her. He/she has the time, money and energy to spend all day working and all night shopping, partying, working out and hanging out with friends. Plus, without a family to support or contribute to, there's plenty of cash left over for overseas holidays. Why would anyone want to take on a life partner who would have problems with one's weekly bowling junkets with the boys/girls? Worse still, there might even be...
He/she has illusions of immortality. A common thread among the interviewees is, "Maybe when I'm older..." I wonder if it's occurred to any of them that it may not be so easy becoming a first-time parent when one's body, mind and soul have had the benefit of a few decades' living? Besides the ubiquitous biological clock every woman is supposedly equipped with, 30 years on Earth is enough to turn one into a hardened, cynical bag 'o dust. Hardly ideal parenting material. Or life partner material, for that matter.
On top of that, who ever guaranteed that "older" would even happen? True, barring the odd car accident or terminal illness, today's young adults can expect to live to at least 80 or so. But having made the choice to stay single and pursue the god of expensive things, will they enjoy their old age so much? At age 60, will they find themselves desperately lonely and longing for the company of the young adults who would have been their children if they'd made different choices in their 30s? Or, having left youth behind so long ago, will they find themselves unable to communicate with the children they finally had when they were pushing 50? I think Solomon, who's been pushing up daisies (or whatever vegetation there is in Bethlehem) for millennia now, had good reason to say, "Like arrows in the hand of a warrior, so are the children of one's youth." (Psalm 127:4)
His/her priorities are way off the mark. Career? Travel? Fame? Independence? In moderate doses, they're all good things to work for. But at the end of the day, you can't take it with you. Old age, illness, injury or infirmity can end a promising career in less time than it takes to whistle Dixie. Memories of sailing on the sparkling Mediterranean, backpacking over the Andes and seeing the sun rise on Angkor Wat will fade faster than a dream the day Alzheimer's moves in. As for fame, whether one gets Warhol's predicted 15 minutes or much, much more, it's not likely to last longer than a decade to a century after one's death. Is 10 to 100 years of fame really worth exchanging for the living legacy of a close-knit family?
Finally, he/she has a Thing against the Opposite Sex. It's as if the Men and the Women have each erected a fort. Messengers steal between the two, trying to see what the Other Side is really after. Sometimes, the Messengers realise that they're really after pretty much the same thing after all, and both defect to the land called Marriage.
Back at the forts, things are getting less and less civil. At Fort Femme, the women are up in arms over the porcine species yet to be recognised by Science, namely, the Male Chauvinist Pig. Based on true stories that happened a long, long time ago, the myths told in the fort get thicker and thicker. "You'll never have a life to call your own!" "He'll expect you to cook, clean, take care of the kids, and pick up after him!" "He won't want you to have your own career. He'll resent it if you earn more." "Even if you could work outside the home, you'd still have to do all the housework." Before long, isolated incidents get passed off as the norm. Variables are mistaken for constants. Flaws that can either be talked through or overlooked are now assumed to be as vital a part of the Man as his... uh... lungs.
Over on the Men's side, meanwhile, words are flying even thicker. "You'll never have a life to call your own!" "She'll expect you to bring home the bacon... and the Tiffany's." "She won't want you to stay in touch with your friends. Every second, morning, noon and night, will have to be accounted for; Heaven help you if forget who you ate lunch with last Saturday."
Both sides have their points. Malaysian men are, on the whole, still carrying around a large portion of their forefathers' misogynistic baggage. Many women are also living with the legacy of grandmas, mothers and sisters whom they wouldn't recognise out on the street because they haven't been out of the house since the wedding.
Nevertheless, it doesn't have to be this way. I may have heard of a woman who choked to death on chocolate but if you think that'll make me stop eating the stuff, think again. Similarly, you'd think that today's yuppies — women and men alike — would have the good sense to tell apart the exception from the norm, to weigh the total benefits against the total cost and to make a decision not only for their own good, but for their families, for society and for posterity.
Monday, January 30, 2006
Random words, random pictures
I haven't had much time lately to do typically Ren things, namely write, blog, take random pictures, sort them into painfully organised folders, etc, etc.
But hooray! It's a brand new year, just two days old (I love being Chinese) and a public holiday to boot. It is Monday, I'm sitting in front of my notebook and unlike the occasions when it's because I'm too dizzy to drive to work, I'm free to write about something that isn't related to nappies or delayed speech, and I don't have to keep checking my e-mail every 5 minutes to make sure I haven't missed anything important.
So what shall I do now with all this beautiful time before me? I'm due to go out later this afternoon with my siblings from my 'other' family.
Since I've just taken the past hour beaming photos from my PDA to my PC, one by one because without a memory card there's no way to mass-copy them, I shall stick some here. The latter part of 2005, through the lens of my little .31megapixel PDA camera.
First of all, phonedoggy and his owner wish all readers a happy and fulfilled Year of the Dog!
Time to move on to other pressing matters now, like getting ready to go out. More randomness tomorrow, I hope.
But hooray! It's a brand new year, just two days old (I love being Chinese) and a public holiday to boot. It is Monday, I'm sitting in front of my notebook and unlike the occasions when it's because I'm too dizzy to drive to work, I'm free to write about something that isn't related to nappies or delayed speech, and I don't have to keep checking my e-mail every 5 minutes to make sure I haven't missed anything important.
So what shall I do now with all this beautiful time before me? I'm due to go out later this afternoon with my siblings from my 'other' family.
Since I've just taken the past hour beaming photos from my PDA to my PC, one by one because without a memory card there's no way to mass-copy them, I shall stick some here. The latter part of 2005, through the lens of my little .31megapixel PDA camera.
First of all, phonedoggy and his owner wish all readers a happy and fulfilled Year of the Dog!
Hmm, he looks optimistic as he peeks out at the year to come... looks like it's full of hard work, lots of laughter, good times with family, friends and furries, some struggles, some tears, but overall, I'm sure it's going to be good.
What next? Why, it's a mooncake. This mooncake spent a while on the Endangered Foods list. The danger ended around late August 2005. (It was a very tasty ending.)
Wise man say: When hats too heavy for head, hang on wall instead.
Fine, I have no idea what the meaning of that is supposed to be, but they do look pretty glowing on the wall that way.
My beautiful birthday flowers... (I did say I haven't had time to organise my photos for a while now!)
And my beautiful birthday... uh... non-cake.
Time to move on to other pressing matters now, like getting ready to go out. More randomness tomorrow, I hope.
Thursday, January 19, 2006
The Traffic Riddle
This is a problem that has puzzled and stumped many Klang Valley people for years. Today, while driving to work, it hit me again. What is it about the Federal Highway that makes for such erratic traffic conditions that it makes the Bermuda Triangle as mysterious as my bathtub?
Some mornings, I manage to sleep through two alarms. That’s saying something, because I can be a light enough sleeper to wake up if the next door neighbour’s kids drop a water bottle on the floor. These two alarms are annoying enough to wake the dead (figuratively speaking), especially the one on the old-fashioned bell-‘n-hammer type Pooh clock on my dresser.
So after sleeping through two alarms, I’m finally wakened by sunlight coming in through my window. But because my room faces West, by the time that happens it’s well past 8.00 am.
(Yes, I’m sure all these details have something to do with the mystery of the Federal Highway. Everything is connected. Never underestimate the invisible links between visible things. There, now I sound like my lecturers in uni. Or at least, like someone who’s spent too much time in traffic.)
So by 8.45 I’m ready for work. Jump into the car and whizz off to work, and somehow, I’m parking my car at 9.00 on the dot. Which means I reach the office at 9.05, which is late, so I resolve to leave the house earlier.
Which brings in the paradox. This morning, I dropped Kenny off at his office and took his car, which he kindly lent me since I’ve lent my car to Pops.
(We have complex transportation arrangements.)
At 8.30 sharp, I reached the part of the highway which on those sleep-delayed days I hit only at 8.52.
And there were cars queued up all the way back to Holland, or thereabouts.
And I parked my car at…
… 9.00 sharp.
Where do all those cars which are on the road at 8.30 go that by 8.45 they’ve virtually disappeared? I mean, I’m not saying “half a dozen cars in sight at any one time”, I’m talking about, “shopping mall parking lot 1 week before Chinese New Year”. I’m talking about moving at the rate of 5 minutes per cm. It can’t be that at 8.43, all drivers come to the unanimous decision to just not be there. It’s just not possible to drive all those cars away from that point on the highway, whether by exiting or by progressing further, because the traffic extends to the exit and all the way down this long, long road.
I don’t know. It’s just weird. Makes me wonder what time I have to leave the house in order to enjoy clear traffic and get to work on time.
Some mornings, I manage to sleep through two alarms. That’s saying something, because I can be a light enough sleeper to wake up if the next door neighbour’s kids drop a water bottle on the floor. These two alarms are annoying enough to wake the dead (figuratively speaking), especially the one on the old-fashioned bell-‘n-hammer type Pooh clock on my dresser.
So after sleeping through two alarms, I’m finally wakened by sunlight coming in through my window. But because my room faces West, by the time that happens it’s well past 8.00 am.
(Yes, I’m sure all these details have something to do with the mystery of the Federal Highway. Everything is connected. Never underestimate the invisible links between visible things. There, now I sound like my lecturers in uni. Or at least, like someone who’s spent too much time in traffic.)
So by 8.45 I’m ready for work. Jump into the car and whizz off to work, and somehow, I’m parking my car at 9.00 on the dot. Which means I reach the office at 9.05, which is late, so I resolve to leave the house earlier.
Which brings in the paradox. This morning, I dropped Kenny off at his office and took his car, which he kindly lent me since I’ve lent my car to Pops.
(We have complex transportation arrangements.)
At 8.30 sharp, I reached the part of the highway which on those sleep-delayed days I hit only at 8.52.
And there were cars queued up all the way back to Holland, or thereabouts.
And I parked my car at…
… 9.00 sharp.
Where do all those cars which are on the road at 8.30 go that by 8.45 they’ve virtually disappeared? I mean, I’m not saying “half a dozen cars in sight at any one time”, I’m talking about, “shopping mall parking lot 1 week before Chinese New Year”. I’m talking about moving at the rate of 5 minutes per cm. It can’t be that at 8.43, all drivers come to the unanimous decision to just not be there. It’s just not possible to drive all those cars away from that point on the highway, whether by exiting or by progressing further, because the traffic extends to the exit and all the way down this long, long road.
I don’t know. It’s just weird. Makes me wonder what time I have to leave the house in order to enjoy clear traffic and get to work on time.
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