Tuesday, April 26, 2005
From today I declare a longstanding feud with TGI Fridays, the Subang Parade one, in particular, and even more in particular the duty manager on tonight. His name is Fabian.
We were celebrating the birthdays of Karen and Sook Yee. Kenny Chia had reserved a table for 10.
I was the earliest to arrive. Touting a sling bag on my shoulder, Fujifilm s6000 around my neck, a potted plant in a plastic bag in one hand an my phone in the other, I arrived.
"Oh, reservation under Kenny Chia? Your friends have already arrived," The slight, Indian girl took me to the back of the restaurant. She motioned to a slightly drunk group of Chinese businessmen.
"No, this isn't my group," I said. She apologised profusely and whispered fiercely into her walkie talkie 'eh, wrong la, where is her table,'
She made the same error again, this time motioning to a table with two small children.
Apologies all around, with a few other waiters joining in the chorus. By that time, Chooi Li had arrived and they had similarly been shown to a strange table.
Outcome, the restaurant was deeply apologetic.
Fabian (Yeah, now he makes his appearance in the grievances of tonight) showed up with gleaming teeth and a white shirt. Another round of 'sorries' ensued.
"Well, how are you going to make up for it? A free drink, maybe?" Chooi Li cheekily asked.
"Sure!" he said, and fetched some menus.
"But remember, it's just for the two of you!" he reminded.
We nodded. I ordered a banana shake -RM16.90 and Chooi Li a marguerita - RM17.90. I noticed in passing that the prices of the drinks were nearly equivalent with the prices of the food.
Our drinks arrived.
The waiter who brought it said 'These two drinks on the house!" We accepted with a smile.
All went well until the bill arrived. Chooi Li and I were billed for our 'free' drinks.
"A simple misunderstanding," I said confidently. We asked the waiter serving us to fetch Fabian, who we jokingly referred to as 'our friend.'
A long while later, the waiter came back saying he couldn't locate Fabian.We told him about the billing mistake. He took the bill back, and a while later Fabian appeared and they had a heated discussion while poring over the bill. It dragged on for 10 minutes.
Just let me say here that many staff were not very articulate, not enthusiastic, and didn't really sing well. The jokes were lame. The food was not nice. Lee Yng couldn't eat it. "Bland" she said. Others left large portions untouched.
10 minutes later Fabian strode up to our table without a smile on his face It's as if his mind was already made up about us - like 'These customers are going to make life difficult for me, nevermind, I'll show them"
Oh thinking about this does make my blood boil.
He said he said no such thing about free drinks. He said we agreed to free desserts, not drinks. He said he made it clear.No smile, no reasoning, just plain moronic stubborness.
We argued. Witnesses heard the waiter say 'These two drinks on the house'. Chooi Li and I denied any mention of dessert. He had the audicity to say 'you guys agreed on free dessert. You didn't order any, too bad,"
It made things a little worse knowing I'd just withdrawn my very last RM50 from the ATM. The Maybank ATM was not working so I had to withdraw with MEPS, which charges an extra dollar. In my bank there was a grand total of RM1.68. And my next paycheck is a month away.
I had ordered the cheapest thing on th menu, the World Famous Friday burger. Incidentally the patty was crumbly (there is no better way to describe it) and tasted like cardboard. The bread was soggy, literally, and the bacon strip (there was a measly one) was not cripsy, but rock hard. I am not exaggerating when I say a shard of it got stuck in my gums and it was rather painful. The tomatoes were nice though.
Fortunately for Fabian, I love Jesus.
On the way back, in the car, I was so incensed, so overcome by anger. I began running through things I should have said to that snivelling liar, when I decided to take a deep breath and pray.
Shouted in tongues, asked God for peace. I also refrained from asking God to wreak havoc on Fabian. Instead I prayed that he'd be blessed. God knows he needs all the blessing he can get, with a rotten attitude like that.
If anyone of you goes back to Friday's Subang Parade, and you see this guy called Fabian who dresses in a white shirt and has a sleek smile, tell him that he was an ass, but I forgive him.
And I declare I will never go to Friday's again.
We were celebrating the birthdays of Karen and Sook Yee. Kenny Chia had reserved a table for 10.
I was the earliest to arrive. Touting a sling bag on my shoulder, Fujifilm s6000 around my neck, a potted plant in a plastic bag in one hand an my phone in the other, I arrived.
"Oh, reservation under Kenny Chia? Your friends have already arrived," The slight, Indian girl took me to the back of the restaurant. She motioned to a slightly drunk group of Chinese businessmen.
"No, this isn't my group," I said. She apologised profusely and whispered fiercely into her walkie talkie 'eh, wrong la, where is her table,'
She made the same error again, this time motioning to a table with two small children.
Apologies all around, with a few other waiters joining in the chorus. By that time, Chooi Li had arrived and they had similarly been shown to a strange table.
Outcome, the restaurant was deeply apologetic.
Fabian (Yeah, now he makes his appearance in the grievances of tonight) showed up with gleaming teeth and a white shirt. Another round of 'sorries' ensued.
"Well, how are you going to make up for it? A free drink, maybe?" Chooi Li cheekily asked.
"Sure!" he said, and fetched some menus.
"But remember, it's just for the two of you!" he reminded.
We nodded. I ordered a banana shake -RM16.90 and Chooi Li a marguerita - RM17.90. I noticed in passing that the prices of the drinks were nearly equivalent with the prices of the food.
Our drinks arrived.
The waiter who brought it said 'These two drinks on the house!" We accepted with a smile.
All went well until the bill arrived. Chooi Li and I were billed for our 'free' drinks.
"A simple misunderstanding," I said confidently. We asked the waiter serving us to fetch Fabian, who we jokingly referred to as 'our friend.'
A long while later, the waiter came back saying he couldn't locate Fabian.We told him about the billing mistake. He took the bill back, and a while later Fabian appeared and they had a heated discussion while poring over the bill. It dragged on for 10 minutes.
Just let me say here that many staff were not very articulate, not enthusiastic, and didn't really sing well. The jokes were lame. The food was not nice. Lee Yng couldn't eat it. "Bland" she said. Others left large portions untouched.
10 minutes later Fabian strode up to our table without a smile on his face It's as if his mind was already made up about us - like 'These customers are going to make life difficult for me, nevermind, I'll show them"
Oh thinking about this does make my blood boil.
He said he said no such thing about free drinks. He said we agreed to free desserts, not drinks. He said he made it clear.No smile, no reasoning, just plain moronic stubborness.
We argued. Witnesses heard the waiter say 'These two drinks on the house'. Chooi Li and I denied any mention of dessert. He had the audicity to say 'you guys agreed on free dessert. You didn't order any, too bad,"
It made things a little worse knowing I'd just withdrawn my very last RM50 from the ATM. The Maybank ATM was not working so I had to withdraw with MEPS, which charges an extra dollar. In my bank there was a grand total of RM1.68. And my next paycheck is a month away.
I had ordered the cheapest thing on th menu, the World Famous Friday burger. Incidentally the patty was crumbly (there is no better way to describe it) and tasted like cardboard. The bread was soggy, literally, and the bacon strip (there was a measly one) was not cripsy, but rock hard. I am not exaggerating when I say a shard of it got stuck in my gums and it was rather painful. The tomatoes were nice though.
Fortunately for Fabian, I love Jesus.
On the way back, in the car, I was so incensed, so overcome by anger. I began running through things I should have said to that snivelling liar, when I decided to take a deep breath and pray.
Shouted in tongues, asked God for peace. I also refrained from asking God to wreak havoc on Fabian. Instead I prayed that he'd be blessed. God knows he needs all the blessing he can get, with a rotten attitude like that.
If anyone of you goes back to Friday's Subang Parade, and you see this guy called Fabian who dresses in a white shirt and has a sleek smile, tell him that he was an ass, but I forgive him.
And I declare I will never go to Friday's again.
Friday, October 29, 2004
Last Sunday was Gloriously Hot, Fabulously Bright.Tong walked out the door into the sunshine that morning to go to work.
"Dammit. Every time I go to work, it's sunny. Everytime I don't have work, it rains," he said. I agreed sympathetically.
A few hours later Nikko came by. Both of us stood at the sliding glass door, watching Troy. Troy was lying in the glow of the small strip of sun which was able to find its way through the thick wooden fence. When the strip of sun moved, he woke up and shifted his furry body accordingly.
The enclosure he lives in is small, about 4 by 3 metres. Half of it is tiled, the other half is covered by once white pebbles, now turned brown. Stained by dog shit. A stark plastic green kennel stands carelessly in a corner. The whole surface is littered with large scraps of cloth, plastic, shredded junk mails and newspapers, tattered chunks of sponge from a bed he ripped up, two weeks of dog shit (some mushy, some firm) and a lot, lot, lot of flies. The place stinks to high heaven.
It's not the best condition for Troy to live in, but his owner, a working guy, is too busy to clean up. I did not intend this to be a piece lambasting irresponsible pet owners, so allow me to take a deep breath, swallow my anger and force a smile.
I'll save that piece for another day.
Anyway.
Nikko and I saw how Troy desperately tried to absorb the meagre sun rays and we were overcome by pity. We decided to bring him out to the front yard, which was larger, grassier and received a high dose of sunlight. The only problem was, there was no front gate, and Troy was prone to dash out onto the path, unheeding.
"We'll put him on a leash" said Nikko.
"But his leash is so short," I replied. Indeed, it was only a meter long.
"Let's make it longer,"
"How?"
"I don't know."
"I'll find some string"
"Yah!"
"Yah! Then he can run around in the grass in the sun."
"Yah! Find a lot of string."
I rampaged through the house, opening drawers and scrabbling in old boxes.
"What about this?" I said, clutching a telephone wire.
Daniel told me not to be daft. "He'd bite through it in a second," he said.
"Can I cut the strap off this bag?" I asked.
"That's a Guess bag leh. Better not cut it up."
I was about to drag a heavy hose out when it dawned on me that it was so heavy, Troy would be probably be strangled to death. That would kind of defeat the whole purpose of looking for string in the first place.
I continued my search.
There is a storage shelve in the house, where all kinds of boxes are stored. I have never looked in those boxes and I doubt they have been touched since the group moved in a year back. A rather heavy layer of dust lay on the surfaces.
"Can find or not, Jess?" Nikko called from outside.
"Still looking!"
I pulled out boxes from the dusty shelf. Extension cords, power drills, old books, picture frames, Redken shampoo bottle (still half full), clothes and other such things surfaced. Still no string. I went through box after box with no success.
One last box remained to be inspected. It was on the bottom right, right next to an old table frame. I pulled it out and opened it.
Lo and behold! A great cloud of insects erupted from the box, enveloping me in a haze of wings and squishy bodies.It was fortunate my reflexes were quick. I clamped my mouth and eyes shut on time, leapt up and flailed my arms wildly.
"WHAT THE HELL!" I shrieked as I stood aghast, watching the winged ones slowly settle down again.
"What happened? "What, WHAT?"
"Who shout? Who shout?"
People were running down the stairs, from the garden, from the hall.
"ONE MILLION FRUIT FLIES!" I said quite loudly. "In there." I nodded at the box.
"What's inside?" Everyone wanted to know.
I squared my shoulders and marched back to the box. It was filled with many miscellaneous things, but the flies were congregating on a cheap pink plastic bag. I made my eyes a mere slit and gingerly lifted open one end of the bag.
The contents were black and mushy. A gooey brown sludge rain down the sides. Another flurry of fruit flies scattered. I stepped back.
"I... I don't know. It's.. it's black and mushy... smells like rotten... rotten..." I couldn't place it.
Jamie went to the box.
"Oh my God. It's bananas." she said."BANANAS! How long have they been there Goodness"
"Damn long!"
"You mean the goreng pisang that time? That was in the beginning of semester man!"
"How long ago?"
"Three months!"
"How did the box get here? Why no one throw away? Aiyoh!"
A trail of brown sludge had already penetrated the box and was making its way slowly towards us.
Long story short, we threw the offending box away. Jamie mopped up the putrid brown sludge. I sprayed half a can of disinfectant and air freshener in that area of the house. Nikko went outside because she couldn't breathe through the fumes.
The fruit flies, deprived of their home for so many months, settled thickly on the surrounding shelves and lime green ceiling. I tried blowing them away with a powerful table fan, but they wouldn't budge. I tried spraying them with disinfectant but they merely flew away and settled down inches from their original spot.
I grabbed an old newspaper and hit into the very heart of the fruit fly community.
WHAM! I killed three. The rest settled down again and I hit them again.
I threw back my head and laughed wickedly.
WHAM WHAM WHAM!
DIE DIE DIE!
Another one bites the dust!
I chased them nearer and nearer to the glass door.Jamie came along and grabbed a rolled up newspaper herself. We launched ourselves into full scale attack, dragging chairs around so we could stand on them to reach those on the ceiling.
We reached full frenzy at the glass door, where the stupid things kept trying to get outside to freedom, not knowing that the transparent glass prevented them from passing.
A few hours passed. There was still an odd fly here and there, but we'd eradicated the bulk of the population.Jamie and I plonked down on the rattan chairs we'd been dragging about and took a deep breath. Our newspapers were ragged and stained in a hundred places with fruit fly juices.
"Well Jamie. Looks like we had a fruitful day." I said.
"Was there a weak pun intended?"
We both laughed together, just like at the ending of every episode of SpongeBob SquarePants.
"Dammit. Every time I go to work, it's sunny. Everytime I don't have work, it rains," he said. I agreed sympathetically.
A few hours later Nikko came by. Both of us stood at the sliding glass door, watching Troy. Troy was lying in the glow of the small strip of sun which was able to find its way through the thick wooden fence. When the strip of sun moved, he woke up and shifted his furry body accordingly.
The enclosure he lives in is small, about 4 by 3 metres. Half of it is tiled, the other half is covered by once white pebbles, now turned brown. Stained by dog shit. A stark plastic green kennel stands carelessly in a corner. The whole surface is littered with large scraps of cloth, plastic, shredded junk mails and newspapers, tattered chunks of sponge from a bed he ripped up, two weeks of dog shit (some mushy, some firm) and a lot, lot, lot of flies. The place stinks to high heaven.
It's not the best condition for Troy to live in, but his owner, a working guy, is too busy to clean up. I did not intend this to be a piece lambasting irresponsible pet owners, so allow me to take a deep breath, swallow my anger and force a smile.
I'll save that piece for another day.
Anyway.
Nikko and I saw how Troy desperately tried to absorb the meagre sun rays and we were overcome by pity. We decided to bring him out to the front yard, which was larger, grassier and received a high dose of sunlight. The only problem was, there was no front gate, and Troy was prone to dash out onto the path, unheeding.
"We'll put him on a leash" said Nikko.
"But his leash is so short," I replied. Indeed, it was only a meter long.
"Let's make it longer,"
"How?"
"I don't know."
"I'll find some string"
"Yah!"
"Yah! Then he can run around in the grass in the sun."
"Yah! Find a lot of string."
I rampaged through the house, opening drawers and scrabbling in old boxes.
"What about this?" I said, clutching a telephone wire.
Daniel told me not to be daft. "He'd bite through it in a second," he said.
"Can I cut the strap off this bag?" I asked.
"That's a Guess bag leh. Better not cut it up."
I was about to drag a heavy hose out when it dawned on me that it was so heavy, Troy would be probably be strangled to death. That would kind of defeat the whole purpose of looking for string in the first place.
I continued my search.
There is a storage shelve in the house, where all kinds of boxes are stored. I have never looked in those boxes and I doubt they have been touched since the group moved in a year back. A rather heavy layer of dust lay on the surfaces.
"Can find or not, Jess?" Nikko called from outside.
"Still looking!"
I pulled out boxes from the dusty shelf. Extension cords, power drills, old books, picture frames, Redken shampoo bottle (still half full), clothes and other such things surfaced. Still no string. I went through box after box with no success.
One last box remained to be inspected. It was on the bottom right, right next to an old table frame. I pulled it out and opened it.
Lo and behold! A great cloud of insects erupted from the box, enveloping me in a haze of wings and squishy bodies.It was fortunate my reflexes were quick. I clamped my mouth and eyes shut on time, leapt up and flailed my arms wildly.
"WHAT THE HELL!" I shrieked as I stood aghast, watching the winged ones slowly settle down again.
"What happened? "What, WHAT?"
"Who shout? Who shout?"
People were running down the stairs, from the garden, from the hall.
"ONE MILLION FRUIT FLIES!" I said quite loudly. "In there." I nodded at the box.
"What's inside?" Everyone wanted to know.
I squared my shoulders and marched back to the box. It was filled with many miscellaneous things, but the flies were congregating on a cheap pink plastic bag. I made my eyes a mere slit and gingerly lifted open one end of the bag.
The contents were black and mushy. A gooey brown sludge rain down the sides. Another flurry of fruit flies scattered. I stepped back.
"I... I don't know. It's.. it's black and mushy... smells like rotten... rotten..." I couldn't place it.
Jamie went to the box.
"Oh my God. It's bananas." she said."BANANAS! How long have they been there Goodness"
"Damn long!"
"You mean the goreng pisang that time? That was in the beginning of semester man!"
"How long ago?"
"Three months!"
"How did the box get here? Why no one throw away? Aiyoh!"
A trail of brown sludge had already penetrated the box and was making its way slowly towards us.
Long story short, we threw the offending box away. Jamie mopped up the putrid brown sludge. I sprayed half a can of disinfectant and air freshener in that area of the house. Nikko went outside because she couldn't breathe through the fumes.
The fruit flies, deprived of their home for so many months, settled thickly on the surrounding shelves and lime green ceiling. I tried blowing them away with a powerful table fan, but they wouldn't budge. I tried spraying them with disinfectant but they merely flew away and settled down inches from their original spot.
I grabbed an old newspaper and hit into the very heart of the fruit fly community.
WHAM! I killed three. The rest settled down again and I hit them again.
I threw back my head and laughed wickedly.
WHAM WHAM WHAM!
DIE DIE DIE!
Another one bites the dust!
I chased them nearer and nearer to the glass door.Jamie came along and grabbed a rolled up newspaper herself. We launched ourselves into full scale attack, dragging chairs around so we could stand on them to reach those on the ceiling.
We reached full frenzy at the glass door, where the stupid things kept trying to get outside to freedom, not knowing that the transparent glass prevented them from passing.
A few hours passed. There was still an odd fly here and there, but we'd eradicated the bulk of the population.Jamie and I plonked down on the rattan chairs we'd been dragging about and took a deep breath. Our newspapers were ragged and stained in a hundred places with fruit fly juices.
"Well Jamie. Looks like we had a fruitful day." I said.
"Was there a weak pun intended?"
We both laughed together, just like at the ending of every episode of SpongeBob SquarePants.
Monday, October 11, 2004
Yesterday I bravely rode a bicycle to Oakleigh.
I went through a checklist before peddling off.
Helmet
Check. I found a nice purple one while rummaging through an old cupboard. It had 'tyrant' printed on both sides. Blew off the dust and placed it on my head carefully like a diamond tiara. It was a few sizes too large, which made me look very much like a mushroom. Whenever I moved it wobbled like one of those nodding dogs people put on their car dashboards.
Sunnies
Check.
Bicycle
Check. It was Jeremy's. $100 from K-Mart. He kindly lent it to me. I felt very smug after I adjusted the seat to make it lower, with a real monkey wrench.
Map
No check. The friggin Melway was so heavy. I had a good look at where I was going and committed it to memory.
Cycling skills
No check. The last time I went cycling was in Canberra. It was dusk and I was lost. I was wearing black track pants, a black pullover and dark grey shoes. My bicycle had no lights. I was cycling the wrong way against traffic on a busy roundabout. Lights from oncoming cars blinded me every few seconds.
"Young lady, what you're doing is a bit dangerous," said a tramp on a bench.
Navigational skills
No check. I once lost my way to Daniel's house after we've been going out for two years. His house is 5 minutes drive away, and I've been there at least a million times. I have also driven to Seremban from my house trying to get to KLCC.
Common sense
No check. I'll give you proof in a second.
SWOOSH, I was off.
I soared the streets like a bird, gasping happily in the warm sunlight.
This is what I was made for, a child of God enjoying his splendour and majesty. Basking in the beauty of spring in full swing, the budding roses, blossoming daisies, flurry of sparrows, why ... I could, I could...
ACK.
I fell off the bike while trying to navigate a sharp corner. The seat got skewed a bit, but I didn't realise it until much later, when my inner right thigh got uncomfortably sore.
My knees kept knocking on the handles. I winced each time it happened.
How the hell does someone taller than me ride this bike without permanently disabling his knee joints?
I couldn't quite reach the brakes with my thumbs.
I guess this bike is made for someone with bigger hands.
Then I got lost. Made a mental note never to trust my memory again. Commit map to memory indeed. Bollocks.
Happily cruised downhill for a happy 5 minutes before realising it was the wrong street. I panted up back the hill for 15 minutes. And it does not help that I don't know how to work the gears.
A well meaning man directed me to the right path. He looked at me funny.
Must be my stupid purple helmet
A 45 minutes more than my estimated time later, I disembarked at Oakleigh. Had a bit of problem locking the bike up. The chains were stiff, and the key didn't seem to fit. In my effort to chain the helmet along with the bike, it clattered noisily to ground twice.
When I finally locked it, I realised the post I was chaining it to was about as tall as the bicycle. This defeats the purpose of locking it up in the first place, as a thief could easily lift the bicycle over the post; chain, helmet and all.
Considering all that had happened so far, I was reasonably perky. Took a quick peek at my reflection in a shop mirror and smiled. One perk of a helmet 5 sizes too big is that it doesn't flatten your hair.
Headed home in the fading sunlight. I competently rang my bell at a couple walking their dog. I fell down only once more, on a gravel path.
I reached home in high spirits. Leaned the bike on the wall while I did my warm down. It clattered down a minute later, creating a rather loud noise.
I realised my ass was sore, and both my knees. I rolled my track pants up, and saw two huge bruises on both my knees. They were a ugly purple.
I showed them to Jamie.She recoiled like a slug sprinkled with salt.
"Ooch, ouch. Looks so pain. Ooch," she repeated it five times.
I showed them to Tong.
"Wow. Looks like they're smiling at each other." he said.
And of course I showed them to my sympathetic boyfriend of four years. He laughed cruelly and called me a silly loon.
"How you cycle la? With your knees ah?" he pretended he was going to hit them, just to make me shout.
"Oi. Pain ah."
The next morning before he left for work he had a funny look on his face as he motioned me to come look at something. I went over to him. He was standing next to the bike.
"Did the bike look like this when you mounted it?" he asked. He looked ready to burst.
"Um. Yeah. Why?"
"The entire front part is the wrong way round," he started howling with laughter.
It was true. The front end light was facing back.
"Omigosh. Don't tell anyone. I'll die," I said.
No wonder I kept knocking my knees on the handles.
No wonder I couldn't reach the damn brakes.
No wonder I kept falling down.
No wonder that man was looking at me funny.
He laughed all the way out the door.
Today I am cycling to Oakleigh again. And this time I'll get there without a scratch.
I went through a checklist before peddling off.
Helmet
Check. I found a nice purple one while rummaging through an old cupboard. It had 'tyrant' printed on both sides. Blew off the dust and placed it on my head carefully like a diamond tiara. It was a few sizes too large, which made me look very much like a mushroom. Whenever I moved it wobbled like one of those nodding dogs people put on their car dashboards.
Sunnies
Check.
Bicycle
Check. It was Jeremy's. $100 from K-Mart. He kindly lent it to me. I felt very smug after I adjusted the seat to make it lower, with a real monkey wrench.
Map
No check. The friggin Melway was so heavy. I had a good look at where I was going and committed it to memory.
Cycling skills
No check. The last time I went cycling was in Canberra. It was dusk and I was lost. I was wearing black track pants, a black pullover and dark grey shoes. My bicycle had no lights. I was cycling the wrong way against traffic on a busy roundabout. Lights from oncoming cars blinded me every few seconds.
"Young lady, what you're doing is a bit dangerous," said a tramp on a bench.
Navigational skills
No check. I once lost my way to Daniel's house after we've been going out for two years. His house is 5 minutes drive away, and I've been there at least a million times. I have also driven to Seremban from my house trying to get to KLCC.
Common sense
No check. I'll give you proof in a second.
SWOOSH, I was off.
I soared the streets like a bird, gasping happily in the warm sunlight.
This is what I was made for, a child of God enjoying his splendour and majesty. Basking in the beauty of spring in full swing, the budding roses, blossoming daisies, flurry of sparrows, why ... I could, I could...
ACK.
I fell off the bike while trying to navigate a sharp corner. The seat got skewed a bit, but I didn't realise it until much later, when my inner right thigh got uncomfortably sore.
My knees kept knocking on the handles. I winced each time it happened.
How the hell does someone taller than me ride this bike without permanently disabling his knee joints?
I couldn't quite reach the brakes with my thumbs.
I guess this bike is made for someone with bigger hands.
Then I got lost. Made a mental note never to trust my memory again. Commit map to memory indeed. Bollocks.
Happily cruised downhill for a happy 5 minutes before realising it was the wrong street. I panted up back the hill for 15 minutes. And it does not help that I don't know how to work the gears.
A well meaning man directed me to the right path. He looked at me funny.
Must be my stupid purple helmet
A 45 minutes more than my estimated time later, I disembarked at Oakleigh. Had a bit of problem locking the bike up. The chains were stiff, and the key didn't seem to fit. In my effort to chain the helmet along with the bike, it clattered noisily to ground twice.
When I finally locked it, I realised the post I was chaining it to was about as tall as the bicycle. This defeats the purpose of locking it up in the first place, as a thief could easily lift the bicycle over the post; chain, helmet and all.
Considering all that had happened so far, I was reasonably perky. Took a quick peek at my reflection in a shop mirror and smiled. One perk of a helmet 5 sizes too big is that it doesn't flatten your hair.
Headed home in the fading sunlight. I competently rang my bell at a couple walking their dog. I fell down only once more, on a gravel path.
I reached home in high spirits. Leaned the bike on the wall while I did my warm down. It clattered down a minute later, creating a rather loud noise.
I realised my ass was sore, and both my knees. I rolled my track pants up, and saw two huge bruises on both my knees. They were a ugly purple.
I showed them to Jamie.She recoiled like a slug sprinkled with salt.
"Ooch, ouch. Looks so pain. Ooch," she repeated it five times.
I showed them to Tong.
"Wow. Looks like they're smiling at each other." he said.
And of course I showed them to my sympathetic boyfriend of four years. He laughed cruelly and called me a silly loon.
"How you cycle la? With your knees ah?" he pretended he was going to hit them, just to make me shout.
"Oi. Pain ah."
The next morning before he left for work he had a funny look on his face as he motioned me to come look at something. I went over to him. He was standing next to the bike.
"Did the bike look like this when you mounted it?" he asked. He looked ready to burst.
"Um. Yeah. Why?"
"The entire front part is the wrong way round," he started howling with laughter.
It was true. The front end light was facing back.
"Omigosh. Don't tell anyone. I'll die," I said.
No wonder I kept knocking my knees on the handles.
No wonder I couldn't reach the damn brakes.
No wonder I kept falling down.
No wonder that man was looking at me funny.
He laughed all the way out the door.
Today I am cycling to Oakleigh again. And this time I'll get there without a scratch.
Tuesday, February 24, 2004
Oh!
Who lives in a pineapple under the sea?
SPONGEBOB SQUAREPANTS!
Absorbent and yellow and porous is he!
SPONGEBOB SQUAREPANTS!
If nautical nonsense be something you wish...
SPONGEBOB SQUAREPANTS!
Then drop on the deck and flop like a fish!
SPONGEBOB SQUAREPANTS!
Ready?
SPONGEBOB SQUAREPANTS!
SPONGEBOB SQUAREPANTS!
SPONGEBOB SQUAREPANTS!
SpongeBob.... SquarePants!
haha.
(excerpted from http://www.spongebobworld.com/themesong.htm)
Here I am, a grown up 23 year old painstakingly checking the Astro guide for the next episode of SpongeBob. Here I am, a graduate from Malaysia's premier research institution, chortling my head off as the four-cornered one dissolves into a yellow puddle at the prospect of leaping down a 1000 storey diving board.
Here I am, a supposed 'role-model to the younger ones', getting into an argument with my 7 year old sister because I want to watch SpongeBob and she wants to watch Sabrina the Teenage Witch. Here I am surfing the net for the SpongeBob theme song and singing along with uninhibited gusto
"I'm older than you so I can do anything I like," I said to Faith's indignantly open mouth. Hah. Veto power. Then she went to play with mama's makeup.
Oh, but SpongeBob is irresistable. He's so pure, and so lovely and his intentions and emotions are always so genuinely portrayed in his large, round long lashed eyes. His underpants are so cute and they fit on his square yellow body like a second skin.
When he's happy, I'm happy. When he's sad... well, I'm still happy because I know he's going to be happy eventually.
Besides, when he's sad, his tears squirt out in a small torrent vertically from his eyes and floods his home (where he lives with his supergenius pet snail who meows). This of course is all the more profound because he lives under the sea.
Dexter's Laboratory, Ren and Stimpy and Sheep in the Big City all have me hooked. And from the gushing compliments I hear from my fellow early-twenties friends, I am not alone in this embarassment.
I guess the cartoons have developed a lot since my early days. Or maybe I just never grew up.
Who lives in a pineapple under the sea?
SPONGEBOB SQUAREPANTS!
Absorbent and yellow and porous is he!
SPONGEBOB SQUAREPANTS!
If nautical nonsense be something you wish...
SPONGEBOB SQUAREPANTS!
Then drop on the deck and flop like a fish!
SPONGEBOB SQUAREPANTS!
Ready?
SPONGEBOB SQUAREPANTS!
SPONGEBOB SQUAREPANTS!
SPONGEBOB SQUAREPANTS!
SpongeBob.... SquarePants!
haha.
(excerpted from http://www.spongebobworld.com/themesong.htm)
Here I am, a grown up 23 year old painstakingly checking the Astro guide for the next episode of SpongeBob. Here I am, a graduate from Malaysia's premier research institution, chortling my head off as the four-cornered one dissolves into a yellow puddle at the prospect of leaping down a 1000 storey diving board.
Here I am, a supposed 'role-model to the younger ones', getting into an argument with my 7 year old sister because I want to watch SpongeBob and she wants to watch Sabrina the Teenage Witch. Here I am surfing the net for the SpongeBob theme song and singing along with uninhibited gusto
"I'm older than you so I can do anything I like," I said to Faith's indignantly open mouth. Hah. Veto power. Then she went to play with mama's makeup.
Oh, but SpongeBob is irresistable. He's so pure, and so lovely and his intentions and emotions are always so genuinely portrayed in his large, round long lashed eyes. His underpants are so cute and they fit on his square yellow body like a second skin.
When he's happy, I'm happy. When he's sad... well, I'm still happy because I know he's going to be happy eventually.
Besides, when he's sad, his tears squirt out in a small torrent vertically from his eyes and floods his home (where he lives with his supergenius pet snail who meows). This of course is all the more profound because he lives under the sea.
Dexter's Laboratory, Ren and Stimpy and Sheep in the Big City all have me hooked. And from the gushing compliments I hear from my fellow early-twenties friends, I am not alone in this embarassment.
I guess the cartoons have developed a lot since my early days. Or maybe I just never grew up.
Why is premarital sex such a big deal to the Christian faith?
Growing up in Sunday School I learnt about pleasant things like rainbows and God's love. Come puberty I attended youth groups with pimply gawks like myself. There we addressed this whole issue of boys and girls and yada yada yada.
"Ah, now I know everyone has been waiting for this part," a facilitator with slightly buck teeth beamed at us. "How FAR should a dating couple go PHYSICALLY?"
He draws a box.
"Okay look at it this way. IN the box is all the stuff you CAN do. The white and grey areas. Outside the box is all the stuff you know is wrong. The black area. This of course, as we all know, is premarital sex," he explained.
Of course there are spiritual people fn the group of gangly youth who nod sagely.
And it's accepted as that. By default. Premarital sex is totally wrong, no questions asked.
But why, and what is the theology behind it?
OOOH theology. The sense we try to make out of godly things.
Our earthly marriage is a symbol of God's marriage to the church. The church is the bride of Christ, correct?
After marriage, there can be no extra marital affairs (another cardinal sin taken for granted many a time). Why? Because in our relationship with God, there can be no other gods. There can be no others. We are faithful to God as he is faithful to us. And because earthly marriage is likened to Jesus' marriage to the church (which is us) spouses must be faithful to one another.
Now, about premarital sex.
We are married to Christ after we accept Him as Lord and Savior, correct? Before that, we are like light and darkness. Cannot mix. Cannot have union at all. Union is only possible after marriage. Therefore, following the same symbolism, premarital sex, a union of two bodies, is cannot happen before marriage.
Okay I sense a flaw.
Light and darkeness cannot mix, it being physically impossible. But the union a male and female is not impossible in the same way. It's wrong, yes, but it can be done. WIthout much problem actually.
In fact, easier to be done than not to be done, ain't it?
But anyhow we could look at it from the point of view that to have premarital sex is breaking God's perfect law, which kind of tallies with the light and darkness thing.
And breaking that law brings with it guilt and distrust in the family unit.
Growing up in Sunday School I learnt about pleasant things like rainbows and God's love. Come puberty I attended youth groups with pimply gawks like myself. There we addressed this whole issue of boys and girls and yada yada yada.
"Ah, now I know everyone has been waiting for this part," a facilitator with slightly buck teeth beamed at us. "How FAR should a dating couple go PHYSICALLY?"
He draws a box.
"Okay look at it this way. IN the box is all the stuff you CAN do. The white and grey areas. Outside the box is all the stuff you know is wrong. The black area. This of course, as we all know, is premarital sex," he explained.
Of course there are spiritual people fn the group of gangly youth who nod sagely.
And it's accepted as that. By default. Premarital sex is totally wrong, no questions asked.
But why, and what is the theology behind it?
OOOH theology. The sense we try to make out of godly things.
Our earthly marriage is a symbol of God's marriage to the church. The church is the bride of Christ, correct?
After marriage, there can be no extra marital affairs (another cardinal sin taken for granted many a time). Why? Because in our relationship with God, there can be no other gods. There can be no others. We are faithful to God as he is faithful to us. And because earthly marriage is likened to Jesus' marriage to the church (which is us) spouses must be faithful to one another.
Now, about premarital sex.
We are married to Christ after we accept Him as Lord and Savior, correct? Before that, we are like light and darkness. Cannot mix. Cannot have union at all. Union is only possible after marriage. Therefore, following the same symbolism, premarital sex, a union of two bodies, is cannot happen before marriage.
Okay I sense a flaw.
Light and darkeness cannot mix, it being physically impossible. But the union a male and female is not impossible in the same way. It's wrong, yes, but it can be done. WIthout much problem actually.
In fact, easier to be done than not to be done, ain't it?
But anyhow we could look at it from the point of view that to have premarital sex is breaking God's perfect law, which kind of tallies with the light and darkness thing.
And breaking that law brings with it guilt and distrust in the family unit.
Monday, February 23, 2004
It was breakfast over roti canai last Sunday morning.
Papa, mama and me.
Papa and I were discussing the merits of cabbage juices as a method of permanent gastric pain healing. The roti man delivered our orders. Papa asked them to ta pau four more to go. We resumed our discussion.
Mama sat there, chewing thoughtfully. After some 10 minutes or so, she broke into the conversation.
"We are all but worms and maggots," she announced loudly, seriously, determinedly.
If nothing else, the proclamation meritted a stare, which I unthinkingly gave.
"One mouth for food to go in. One tube, one hole for food to go out. Worms have it, we have it too," she said earnestly.
With that, she raised her head to the sky and fixed a blank look in her eyes, which were opened wide. She opened and closed her mouth rhythmically and noiselessly like a goldfish. Her chin quivered and shook from left to right. Her hands cupped and shoved air into her mouth.
It was the perfect impersonation of a mindless, unthinking maggot, whose sole aim in life is to eat and survive.
"We are all but worms and maggots," she repeated nodding, satisfied that she had proven her point beyond reasonable doubt.
Then it was silent.
After a while, papa and I continued our conversation on the merits of cabbage juices as a method of permanent gastric pain healing. Mama continued chewing thoughtfully.
Papa, mama and me.
Papa and I were discussing the merits of cabbage juices as a method of permanent gastric pain healing. The roti man delivered our orders. Papa asked them to ta pau four more to go. We resumed our discussion.
Mama sat there, chewing thoughtfully. After some 10 minutes or so, she broke into the conversation.
"We are all but worms and maggots," she announced loudly, seriously, determinedly.
If nothing else, the proclamation meritted a stare, which I unthinkingly gave.
"One mouth for food to go in. One tube, one hole for food to go out. Worms have it, we have it too," she said earnestly.
With that, she raised her head to the sky and fixed a blank look in her eyes, which were opened wide. She opened and closed her mouth rhythmically and noiselessly like a goldfish. Her chin quivered and shook from left to right. Her hands cupped and shoved air into her mouth.
It was the perfect impersonation of a mindless, unthinking maggot, whose sole aim in life is to eat and survive.
"We are all but worms and maggots," she repeated nodding, satisfied that she had proven her point beyond reasonable doubt.
Then it was silent.
After a while, papa and I continued our conversation on the merits of cabbage juices as a method of permanent gastric pain healing. Mama continued chewing thoughtfully.
Friday, December 26, 2003
When I am 60 years old and surrounded by respectful grandchildren, I want to know that I earned that respect.
I don't want them smiling politely merely because I'm old and haven't got long to live, but because I've achieved something in my life that rocks them, shakes them, thumps them... impresses them.
But that is not my main reason for wanting to travel the world on as few RM as possible. It's because doing it resonates some deep string in my guts. Spiritual enlightenment aside, seldom have I been happier than tramping the noisy streets of a land where I know not the language and am roughing it out on an alien bed.
And what better time to do it than when I'm young and free, without the burden of kids to suckle, a husband to pander to, a 9-5 job to tie me down?
What better time to do it than when I have a meagre bank account, when each day is a new miracle of survival, where God's grace and protection is living proof of his existence?
When my limbs are strong, when my heart still yearns for adventure, when my memory still holds some capacity, when my love for talking to people has not been clouded by the necessity of deadlines, deadlines and deadlines.
I can still trek 8 hours into the jungle, crouch on a flat rock to warm my hands, see joy in digging a temporary latrine with a rusty spade. I can still ask directions to the toilet with universal hand gestures and clutch a lonely planet guide in the middle of a bustling city. I can still look stupid and be excused because I'm young, I'm wild and I don't give a shit what people think.
I look at a rundown motel with squeaky springs and clogged bathrooms and laugh because I saved RM1 by bringing my own sleeping bag. I feel joy giving a thumbs up to a toothless, wizened man who insists on serving me his hottest curries. I knot a bandana on my head with the help of a cracked mirror, knowing that it'll keep the little hairs from tickling my nose during the long bus ride to the market.
Can't growing old and boring wait until invited? It will surely come knocking on my door, but I feel like turning my back and running away from it, into a far land where I can't hear that knock no more.
I don't want them smiling politely merely because I'm old and haven't got long to live, but because I've achieved something in my life that rocks them, shakes them, thumps them... impresses them.
But that is not my main reason for wanting to travel the world on as few RM as possible. It's because doing it resonates some deep string in my guts. Spiritual enlightenment aside, seldom have I been happier than tramping the noisy streets of a land where I know not the language and am roughing it out on an alien bed.
And what better time to do it than when I'm young and free, without the burden of kids to suckle, a husband to pander to, a 9-5 job to tie me down?
What better time to do it than when I have a meagre bank account, when each day is a new miracle of survival, where God's grace and protection is living proof of his existence?
When my limbs are strong, when my heart still yearns for adventure, when my memory still holds some capacity, when my love for talking to people has not been clouded by the necessity of deadlines, deadlines and deadlines.
I can still trek 8 hours into the jungle, crouch on a flat rock to warm my hands, see joy in digging a temporary latrine with a rusty spade. I can still ask directions to the toilet with universal hand gestures and clutch a lonely planet guide in the middle of a bustling city. I can still look stupid and be excused because I'm young, I'm wild and I don't give a shit what people think.
I look at a rundown motel with squeaky springs and clogged bathrooms and laugh because I saved RM1 by bringing my own sleeping bag. I feel joy giving a thumbs up to a toothless, wizened man who insists on serving me his hottest curries. I knot a bandana on my head with the help of a cracked mirror, knowing that it'll keep the little hairs from tickling my nose during the long bus ride to the market.
Can't growing old and boring wait until invited? It will surely come knocking on my door, but I feel like turning my back and running away from it, into a far land where I can't hear that knock no more.
Sunday, October 12, 2003
I hate being sick.
Today is Sunday. I've been sick since Monday. That makes it 6 days, just about the longest I've been sick in my life exlcuding chicken pox and mental ailments (my mental state has been a lifelong affliction).
Many people think that I am a woman of principles because I refuse to take medication. Sometimes my fever gets so high I could fry an egg on my forehead and warm up a bathtub of water. The amount of phlegm and mucus I excrete could fill out (and pass off for) a freshly baked custard pie. I could be coughing till my ab muscles stand out like twin peaks. And yet, I tell my concerned friends, "No la. I don't take medication. I just drink a lot of water and sleep a lot. A LOT."
They think that I am a believer of natural therapy. A follower of my mom's teachings, an aspiring natural foods nutritionist. Either that or they think I'm a firm believer in the Christian Science cult, that believes that healing is the matter of the mind. Or they believe that I trust only in Jesus to heal me, so that I can give Him all the glory when I'm healed and not some fad of medical science.
But no, the truth be heard. I'm just deathly afraid of swallowing pills.
My older sister can swallow 5 pills at a go. Large ones too. My best friend Sue can down something like 10 panadols at once. Some people don't even need water to help the pills down. Just pop in a handful, throw the head back and swallow.
For me, the whole thing is an ordeal requiring the highest level of psychological, mental and physical preparation.
First, I look at the pill. I size it up, pressing it between my fingers to try make it smaller than it is.
Quite small this pill. I can do it
Hear that pill! You're going DOWN!
Then I look for a scissors and cut the pill into four or 2, depending on size. But it MUST be cut. Why, cutting it is half the battle won.
Sometimes if I'm lucky, in the process of cutting, one half flies off and gets lost. If so, I take it as a sign that God doesn't want me to eat that half. You can tell that I don't spend very long looking.
Then I fill a large glass of water, very full. Next to it must either be a kettle of water or a jug. That is just in case the glass of water is drained and I still have a half-disintegrating tablet at the back of my tongue.
Water done, pill-cutting done, it's time to take a little break. I usually hold one of the largest fragments of that pill in my hand and walk around the house, talking to some housemate or other, reading some grafitti on the wall or looking at the lizards. And of course all this time I'll be fiddling with the fragment, coyly breaking off little bits of the rough edges, which I discreetly shed as I go along.
Then it's back to the kitchen, where it's just me, the water and those dastardly pills. I stand at the table, one hand on cup handle.
Pop in pill.
Take in large gulp of water.
Throw head back.
Try to coax pill to back of throat.
Feel pill starting to disintegrate.
Try swallow pill along with first mouthful of water.
Usually fail.
Drink more water.
Still doesn't work.
Pretend to chew (this enables my mind to believe I've chewed the pill into smaller fragments, thus making it simple to swallow, like a mouthful of rice)
Bitter taste at back of mouth getting very bad.
Try again.
If still doesn't work, I'm like what the heck, just chew it and swallow, drink all the water in the cup and half the water in the jug, then look for a candy bar.
And don't forget, that's just the first fragment.
Shudder
Those cylindrical pills in those slimy plastic cases (with powder inside) are the worst. They're huge. Impossible to swallow, though I believe there's a theory somewhere that those slimy things make it easier. The one thing good about them is that they keep the bitter taste in a bit longer, but once they wear out, the bitterness is near unbearable. In cases like that, I open the capsules, mix the powder with some syrup or something and have a candy bar handy.
My room mate Ei Lynn, a regular pill-popper herself, always recommends me a variety of pills when she sees me curled up in a ball of pain and discomfort. She seems not to see the look of stark horror in my eyes at her suggestion.
You know, the kind of look people get when they think they see a dark, sinister figure at the foot off the bed in the middle of the night, and keep their eye trained on the thing willing it not to move but not daring to shift their gaze?
I think taking pills actually make me sicker than I'd be without them. It's emotional trauma.
Besides, like my mom said this morning, "Don't take panadol. They'll clog up your arteries."
Today is Sunday. I've been sick since Monday. That makes it 6 days, just about the longest I've been sick in my life exlcuding chicken pox and mental ailments (my mental state has been a lifelong affliction).
Many people think that I am a woman of principles because I refuse to take medication. Sometimes my fever gets so high I could fry an egg on my forehead and warm up a bathtub of water. The amount of phlegm and mucus I excrete could fill out (and pass off for) a freshly baked custard pie. I could be coughing till my ab muscles stand out like twin peaks. And yet, I tell my concerned friends, "No la. I don't take medication. I just drink a lot of water and sleep a lot. A LOT."
They think that I am a believer of natural therapy. A follower of my mom's teachings, an aspiring natural foods nutritionist. Either that or they think I'm a firm believer in the Christian Science cult, that believes that healing is the matter of the mind. Or they believe that I trust only in Jesus to heal me, so that I can give Him all the glory when I'm healed and not some fad of medical science.
But no, the truth be heard. I'm just deathly afraid of swallowing pills.
My older sister can swallow 5 pills at a go. Large ones too. My best friend Sue can down something like 10 panadols at once. Some people don't even need water to help the pills down. Just pop in a handful, throw the head back and swallow.
For me, the whole thing is an ordeal requiring the highest level of psychological, mental and physical preparation.
First, I look at the pill. I size it up, pressing it between my fingers to try make it smaller than it is.
Quite small this pill. I can do it
Hear that pill! You're going DOWN!
Then I look for a scissors and cut the pill into four or 2, depending on size. But it MUST be cut. Why, cutting it is half the battle won.
Sometimes if I'm lucky, in the process of cutting, one half flies off and gets lost. If so, I take it as a sign that God doesn't want me to eat that half. You can tell that I don't spend very long looking.
Then I fill a large glass of water, very full. Next to it must either be a kettle of water or a jug. That is just in case the glass of water is drained and I still have a half-disintegrating tablet at the back of my tongue.
Water done, pill-cutting done, it's time to take a little break. I usually hold one of the largest fragments of that pill in my hand and walk around the house, talking to some housemate or other, reading some grafitti on the wall or looking at the lizards. And of course all this time I'll be fiddling with the fragment, coyly breaking off little bits of the rough edges, which I discreetly shed as I go along.
Then it's back to the kitchen, where it's just me, the water and those dastardly pills. I stand at the table, one hand on cup handle.
Pop in pill.
Take in large gulp of water.
Throw head back.
Try to coax pill to back of throat.
Feel pill starting to disintegrate.
Try swallow pill along with first mouthful of water.
Usually fail.
Drink more water.
Still doesn't work.
Pretend to chew (this enables my mind to believe I've chewed the pill into smaller fragments, thus making it simple to swallow, like a mouthful of rice)
Bitter taste at back of mouth getting very bad.
Try again.
If still doesn't work, I'm like what the heck, just chew it and swallow, drink all the water in the cup and half the water in the jug, then look for a candy bar.
And don't forget, that's just the first fragment.
Shudder
Those cylindrical pills in those slimy plastic cases (with powder inside) are the worst. They're huge. Impossible to swallow, though I believe there's a theory somewhere that those slimy things make it easier. The one thing good about them is that they keep the bitter taste in a bit longer, but once they wear out, the bitterness is near unbearable. In cases like that, I open the capsules, mix the powder with some syrup or something and have a candy bar handy.
My room mate Ei Lynn, a regular pill-popper herself, always recommends me a variety of pills when she sees me curled up in a ball of pain and discomfort. She seems not to see the look of stark horror in my eyes at her suggestion.
You know, the kind of look people get when they think they see a dark, sinister figure at the foot off the bed in the middle of the night, and keep their eye trained on the thing willing it not to move but not daring to shift their gaze?
I think taking pills actually make me sicker than I'd be without them. It's emotional trauma.
Besides, like my mom said this morning, "Don't take panadol. They'll clog up your arteries."
