Hot, Hot Night

Wooee. A hot night and a hot race was the SingTel Singapore Grand Prix over the weekend. Me and gal-pal Debby hit the F1 party scene thanks to tickets (pictured) courtesy of Adam, who had won them at a media event. Thanks a whole bunch, Adam, we had ourselves a whale of a time.

30 Years of Lego People

I can't remember if I ever had Lego's Mini-men, myself, as the toy was a luxury. But I'm sure my cousins did, and I do remember building houses for these little people oh, some 20-odd years ago.

Back then the mini-men were just that - mini men. Now they're mini people with jobs, lives, communities and history. The first was a policeman, and see how they're getting on now, with a high-tech station, as pictured.

There's four million of them, and they're 30 years old. To celebrate, there's a website showing a 60-second stop-action clip of mini-men in history, as well as other titbits for Lego fans.

So as New York Entertainment magazine puts it, Happy 30th birthday to the Lego Miniman, who enters a fourth decade of being accidentally swallowed, lost in the back seat and stepped on by an irate, barefoot adult. (I'm sure we've all been there...)

Winds of Change Overhead

The winds of change have caused the first reported casualty: A China Airlines flight to Bali hit turbulence while flying over Malaysia, injuring 30 people, two seriously. One of the passengers is said to have suffered a spinal fracture.
According to an AFP report, the Boeing 747, flying at an altitude of 11,280 metres, dropped 60 metres in 10 seconds in the incident on Saturday. It said the airline reported being in Malaysian airspace at the time.

Hmm, I guess the politicking and ISAing have create ripples in the world.

The Little Devil wants to run a marathon

The Little Devil is really little, if you don't know by now. I'm "five feet in heels", something I say when people ask my height, and petite. In that sense (I'm making the excuse beforehand), I've always thought I wasn't built for long-distance running. Just look at marathon runners, and triathlon athletes - they're tall, big and bulky, with huge reserves of fat to draw from when they're "running on empty", plus huge lung capacities (my lungs are small, thus I always have extra air when scuba diving).

In school, I've only competed in sprints - the 100m dash, 200m at the most. Get me to run 400m and I'm dead halfway round the track. Running 5km would take me more than an hour.

But as old age creeps, or rather, gallops up on me, and I can't sprint in record-breaking times anymore, I thought I'd try to develop some long-distance stamina to get fit and toned. Thus the (day)dream of completing a marathon, and even a triathlon.

Tell you the truth, the dream has been ongoing for years now. And nothing much has happened towards its fulfilment. In early 2000s I ran (or walked) the charity Terry Fox Run, still taking about an hour to complete 4.5km (those hills around Lake Garden are murder!) and last week I took about 45 minutes to saunter the streets of KL for the charity Rat Race organised by my company (it felt a little less than 4km). Oh, now that I think of it, I actually registered for the Penang Bridge marathon in 1999 but didn't go (sheepish grin).

And those charity runs were only 4km. A marathon is 10 times the distance. Seems like an undoable task. The Greek soldier Pheidippides, who had been credited (in some accounts) with running from Marathon to Athens to announce that the Persians had been defeated in the Battle of Marathon, managed to run into the assembly, announced "we have won" and promptly keeled over and died. Not very inspiring, huh?

Inspiring, though, are people who have succeeded, if not in elite 2-hour and a bit times, within the set time limit for certain marathons to get a medal (pictured), or if there are no limits, before they open the streets back to traffic, at a pace of 13 minutes (or 14) per mile (1.6km).

If you don't reach a certain cut-off point, runners have to take to the sidewalks, or in cases like the Marine Corp Marathon, hop aboard the strugglers' bus. (That would definitely be me. In high school in Kuantan, when we were doing the 11km Teluk Chempedak to Balok run, my roommate and I took the strugglers' boat!).

And that's the marathon. What more the triathlon, with 3.8km of swimming, 180km cycling and a full marathon to boot in the long-distance or Ironman event. Gal-pal Debby (she of the Miz Cool moniker) says she wants to do this, too, but needs a serious kick up the nether regions to even start training.

Well, I'm afraid I've got sad news... or let's call it another excuse. I've got a bum knee. A bum knee is something which can be used in any or all instances as a reason for not doing something. Just ask some men.

This bum knee developed in 1996 when I was on holiday from uni (let's call it skipping a week before Winter holidays) and touring London with cousin Rozi, her future hubby Meri, Meri's sis Leen, cousin Ziad and Meri's friend Azreezal. I didn't know how it developed, but maybe the cold didn't help. Walking down a flight of steps, there was a sudden ache in my left knee which meant I could not bend it without grimacing.

It has come and gone since then, usually when I've exerted myself. Coming down Mount Kinabalu in 1999 was complete agony, even when favouring the knee meant crab-walking (going sideways) all the way down. In the AXN Challenge in 2005, it started hurting about an hour into the race, thus I was walking/limping/hopping for the next seven hours.

Colleague Pat (whose own knee was ruined by squash) suspects I've got cartillage damage. Thinking about it, I thought it could be from years of school sports and doing the dash, especially without stretching. Or maybe, he says, some people are more susceptible to osteo-arthritis than others.

Anyhoo, seeing as Malaysians do not have easy, or cheap, access to physiotherapists, I doubt the problem will go away, and pushing through the pain might make the problem worse. Sigh. So in the end, will the dream remain a day dream? For the time being I can only sit here, with my knee elevated to relieve the ache, and wonder.

I Turned Around and You Weren't There

I just learnt that I can't work alone. Unsupervised, yes, but not alone, especially when the work regards writing. An essay, article or headline, I work better if there are other people around.
When I was a reporter at The Sun, there was always a hubbub of people talking, asking for advice, in some cases yelling, that this was never a problem. Not so much that I noticed, as I seldom did my writing at home. Then it was on to subbing, still with many people around me.

Most recently at the Brunei Times, when I got back into writing feature stories, there was colleague Arfa, and then Juli, off of whom I bounced ideas. Sometimes they didn't even need to say anything - all that was necessary was a pretence of being heard and the answer was there, whether it was the most perfect word for a headline or a sentence structure which would not make me sound like a moron.

It's like those proverbial "at the tip of my tongue" things - what you're looking for is there, you just need an impetus to bring it to the fore, and usually this involves sounding out a query. But maybe I just like the sound of my own voice... hmmm...

Well, anyway, I'm on my own now. And I'm struggling. I've been trying for weeks to work on the article for my high school reunion this weekend, and I have come up with nothing. Nada. Zilch. Satu kejadah pun takde apa-apa. And I despair at the idea of freelance writing, thoughts of which I'm entertaining for some extra dosh.

But I can't write by myself. I sit at the desk I've put up by the window in my room (pictured) and stare at the blinking cursor on a blank page, then stare out at the bit of swimming pool and garden down below. In front of me are my clothes on the rod hanger, and they're not really into having conversations. To my left is my bed, with not even a teddy bear to feign concern. And when I turn around, there's nothing but an empty wall. And no one behind me.

I guess I'll just have to heed my own words, usually said in a hoarse whisper to Juli when she goes home late a night: "Jangan Pandang Belakang."

There's a Butt Naked Male in My Room

And here he is. The troll with the rainbow coloured hair.

I can't remember when I got it, or who gave it to me, or even whether I bought it myself. Dates me though, doesn't it (I'm that old - LOL)

I'm sure it had a name. Probably Rainbow Troll, knowing unimaginative little me.

Well, it's been in a box these past two years, and somewhere among my belongings the years before that - just part of some stuff which survived the multiple culls in my transient life.

It was a bit manky, so I gave it a bath. I even washed its hair and put in some conditioner. Now it has silky, flowing locks - wait a minute...

When Love is Gone

When love is gone, why does it have to hurt so much?
There’s a gaping hole where the heart used to strongly beat
A punch to the solar plexus that makes it hard to breathe

When love is gone, why is there such a feeling of loss?
There are no more calls to ask about your day
No smile, or touch, or kiss that used to wipe those blues away

When love is gone, why does life feel so empty?
There is no longer the one you used to end the day with
No hopes, nor dreams, nor happy-ever-after to live

When love is gone
The sunshine flees and the skies can only weep
And when he said, the love is gone
I cried myself to sleep.

This is a great breakup song, by Malaysian rock queen Ella and her bro Korie.
It's entitled "Pergilah Sayang", which, for want of a better translation, means:

"Fuck off, love, and leave me alone". LOL.

Meaning of the lyrics (roughly translated):

It felt wonderful when love was found
Falling in love and making promises
saying how much we loved each other
together we laughed and cried

But now all that's just a memory
You left without a word

Where are those promises you made
that we would live our lives together

I'm letting you go, even though it hurts
let me be alone
tears are my only solace
I'll keep everything as a memory

Fuck off, love, leave me alone
Let go of the memories between you and me

Cat's gonna get you

Isn't this cute? Looks like the cat is going to pounce on your head any time now. I've got it as my PC wallpaper.

I got this pic here, a collection of cat pictures from the internet. See also here for more kitty kat poses. Though I like the natural photos rather than the doctored ones.

Nation in Panic After Cat Terror Incident

WISCONSIN: Terror struck home in the small town of Millwood, Wisconsin as a cat ruthlessly attacked a bird yesterday. Sheriff Doug Bungy said, "It was carnage, that's what it was. A more monstrous crime has never been committed here in all the three hundred years our fine town has stood."
Media outlets were quick to jump on the terror bandwagon, with claims ranging from Dan Rather's story stating that the cat acted alone to Fox News's report that it was trained by Osama Bin Laden to attack small birds in Afghanistan.
Debbie Lynch was witness to the carnage. "I saw the cat, it looked like one of them normal cats, you know, and it stalked the bird. I thought it was looking at the bird like a person looks at a painting in a fancy museum, then there was the blood and the screaming and the gore. Only now do I truly know the horror of war", she said.
Investigators on the scene have taken forensic swabs and called in specialist counselors to deal with local trauma. George Mellors, who runs the local hardware store said, "We have had nothing like this here, ever. This used to be a quiet town. Now it is the very epicenter of hell. Its like something out of a Stephen King book, apparently. I dont read but my daughter do."
The cat was believed to have fled the area by jumping over a fence and hiding in some shrubs. Anyone with further information should contact the FBI.
The following information has been posted in all local post offices, police stations, and pet shops:
Description ; Cat. About a foot long. Walks on all fours. Sometimes uses the name Tiddles. Has tail. Black and white. Approach with extreme caution or bowl of milk.
This is not the first time feline related terror has stalked the local streets. In November of last year, a small kitten was seen ruthlessly attacking a small woolen ball. According to an eyewitness, "the ball was just sitting there, and this kitten or whatever it was pounced". The ensuing chaos caused many innocent members of the public to step over the wool. Gordon Blacksmith commented, "I heard on the radio that there was an incident, and I went to see. The kitten seemed to be planning the attack, hiding in some shrubs, and then it leapt on the wool. There but for the grace of God go I", he said.
Also last November, a cat was seen lurking in a tree, and worried residents thought it could be a sniper. In December the town turned into a triple terror hot spot with the disclosure that a goldfish had been under surveillance from a small group of fur ball extremists for over half an hour. "This town isn't safe anymore" said one resident, who wished not to reveal his identity, "You can't walk down the street without some cat looking at you. You don't know if they're going to come up to you, expecting a pat on the head, a stroke or something altogether more sinister, like abuse. Who knows what "meow" means? It could be a signal for a terror outrage or a request for more tuna. Or, God forbid, a mixture of the two." -- The Fake News

Cute, innit? News satire, also called fake news, is a type of parody presented in a format typical of mainstream journalism. According to an entry in Wikipedia, the goal of news satire is to make social commentary in a form that provides entertainment. Samuel Clemens, aka Mark Twain, was even made (in)famous because of his believable fake news.

For more examples of fake news, eg Atkins Diet Fanatics Assault Cookie Monster and School Bans Paper From Area Schools, go to The Fake News or The Spoof. The entries are generally humorous but can be offensive. Be warned that out-loud laughter may be a consequence.

Play It Again, Sam

There are songs that you like for a short time.
There are songs you never wish to hear again.
There are songs that make you cry and those that make you sigh,
Songs that make you smile, if only for a while.

There are songs that transport you to a time in your life that was bright and beautiful, where most things were weird and wonderful, and where you found yourself blissfully happy and carefree.

That time for me was in lower secondary school.
The song was Man Bai’s “Kau Ilhamku”.

It goes like this:
Beribu bintang di langit kini menghilang
meraba aku dalam kelam
rembulan mengambang kini makin suram
pudar ilhamku tanpa arah

Sedetik wajahmu muncul dalam diam
ada kerdipan ada sinar
itukah bintang ataupun rembulan
terima kasih ku ucapkan

Izinkan ku mencuri bayangan wajahmu
Izinkan ku mencuri khayalan dengan mu
Maafkanlah oh..
andai lagu ini mengganggu ruangan hidupmu
kau senyumlah oh.. sekadar memori kita di arena ini
Kau ilhamku

This song always made me happy though I wasn’t quite sure why. Then the other day while I was having supper, I heard another melody. Though it was not "Kau Ilhamku", there was an echo of it.
Suddenly, I stopped flipping through my magazine and just stared off into space. The other song was still playing, but what resonated in my soul and through my head were the bars of Kau Ilhamku and a feeling I had not experienced in over 15 years.

It was there in front of me as clear as the peanut butter sandwich I was eating.

A school field. Sitting in the grass. A blue sky above. Me and my best friend Az. And the memories and feelings came rushing back.

She was in a sense my inspiration, as we used to trade ideas. We were then quite prolific little writers, although our work would never stand up to literary review. There was always something to write about, some idea we were teasing into being. She had her imaginary friend Emma (I never knew her personally, of course), supposedly a green-eyed, raven-haired beauty who was the protagonist in her stories.
I had my main character Ana (Raja Putri Syarhana Farhani) with her blue eyes, strawberry blond locks and a dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose, (I guess we had our own ideals about beauty), slated to be the girl who won over the boy everyone wanted. (Well, maybe not everyone, in Form Two it was just me and Az drooling over our class monitor Fuad who was tall, fair and quite cute).
Ana was the heroine who was supposed to grace the pages of my first novel. Ana with the elder brother whose name I still use when signing my sketches. Ana with the loving Caucasian mother from whom she gets her beauty and colouring, and slightly authoritarian Malay father. Ana with the wonderful house and mixed upbringing and poor Bahasa Melayu, which is the reason she gets tuition from the boy, who later finds himself enthralled. And on it goes.

And there were other stories. Some which came from songs we listened to, some based on the people we knew (and had a crush on), some from homework and some just pulled out of our fertile imaginations.

Those times are long since past, but the memory of them never really go away. It’s something that lies dormant until resurrected – by a melody, by a phrase, by a face in the crowd.

It is there, just below the surface. The memory of a friendship. A memory of a song.

Sometimes you just have to play that song again.

Mz Cool and Gang at the Big Lake

Location: Tasik Loagan Bunut, Sarawak

 

My car is in Europe

Well, Si Merah (for the colour red) seems to think it is, as it gave up spewing cold air through the air-cond vents and instead decided that the driver in equatorial Brunei needed a heater.

It was truly a horrendous experience, as the windows don't really open (old cars have windows which fall out sideways) and we were building up steam inside the car. At 1pm, local time, just after the sun was at its zenith, the inside of the car was hotter than the weather outside.

Not too hot to be funny though. Passing a sign for the Giant hypermarket, the first to open in Brunei (on March 22), my passenger Juli said Giant must be the hottest thing in Brunei right now, before adding: "But not as hot as Si Merah!"

I wilted.

Can I borrow your mother?

My mother has been gone now for 18 years, three more than the 15 during which she was in my life. And yet, why are the memories still there?

Why do I still dream of her, and during these dreams sometimes totally forget that she has passed away? Sometimes in these dreams I rationalise the years that she's been gone - in one dream she had to "disappear" (like in those movies where people go into protective custody) for several years, in another she lost her memory, and in the others she was just there. No real explanation. I had my mother - the one who died when I was 15 - and we did the normal mother and daughter stuff.

Is it me? Is it a subconscious calling out into the darkness of the mind for my mother?

My daylight soul would dismiss this in the first instant. I'm a grown adult. I don't need my mother. I barely knew her, and when she was around, I only knew her as a mom who worked odd hours for the Malaysian News Agency (Bernama). She was a bit tough with us kids (she had a bit of a temper - probably where I got mine?) and hardly seemed to be at home. We were brought up mostly by the maids.

But I do remember once she ran over our kitten and bought us toys to soften the blow when she broke the news. And she and my dad often took us on holidays, when I suppose it would be easier to travel without kids along.

And when I went to work at Bernama, I found out more about this woman my mother. Well-liked, friendly, a good sense of humour - all the things a daughter would never really know, even if she were still alive.

Do I regret not having a mother? Maybe up to a point. In a Malay (or Asian) society, mothers are not the "best-friend" confidantes they are made out to be in Western books or movies. Do we really talk freely about our boyfriends, our periods, our expectations of the first night of marriage, for instance? Can we discuss our bodies, our confidence in our looks or talents, our dream of meeting this great good-looking guy who can make the earth move? Can we ask how Mom and Dad met, how they fell in love and how will I ever get over this jerk who dumped me?

And yet ... I find myself daydreaming of finding a man with a mother who will love me like mothers should.

Today, March 28, is my mother's birth date. Just after midnight, I was going through some of my jewellery, and picked up the jade bracelet that once belonged to her. I don't know if she ever wore it or it had been bought for investment. I've never worn it (it's too big) and it's been sitting wrapped in red paper, in a blue velvet case, for the past 18 years. It's one of several things that I have of hers, picked up after Dad remarried.

So I have my mother in snatches of memory. In items left behind. In the eyes of friends who knew her better than a daughter ever could.

But really, I don't have a mother at all.

What, no cup holders?

It's so common to have cup holders in cars nowadays that it's probably not even mentioned in the bumf for a new vehicle just hitting the auto market.

I think it's quite a new phenomenon (relative to the more than 100 years that cars have been tootling around on Earth), as the car I'm driving, a Toyota Corolla hatchback from 1984 (pictured), doesn't have this little, but very useful, gadget.

I forgot all about this though, when I dropped by the Thye Foodcourt in Gadong after work for a takeaway cup of teh tarik. Having just recently been on a roadtrip in a Toyota Hilux (a pickup truck, of all things, has cup holders - I bet those come with adjustable supports in case the vehicle goes head over arse) and noticing that my pilot had his teh tarik at the ready by his side while driving, I cheerfully carried my plastic cup of tea into the car - and then realised I had no place to put it.

So it went between my legs for the drive home. Not such a great idea when you're driving a manual and have to change gears. Not much better that short me has to sit far forward to reach the pedals and the steering wheel keeps bumping into the cup.

I ended up with a teh tarik-flavoured crotch. Not remotely as kinky as it sounds. Thank goodness I had a layer of my new cotton-rayon dress and another of Levi's to keep me from getting scalded.

Sigh, the trials and tribulations of a girl in search of a great cup of teh tarik...

And the award for most comments goes to...

OK, so Blueberry keeps complaining that I don't publish her comments. Yeah, I have to agree with her. I hardly get comments, so I don't make the effort to publish them. And then her first comments were from weird "anonymous" so I didn't bother.

And I thought, who reads those comments anyway? I don't. Blueberry, if you want to get in touch with me, you'd be better off sending an email. Those I reply to.. well, some day. Or just SMS me. I promise, when I have credit for my phone, or when I don't think texting is a pain on my stupid arthritic fingers, I'll send you a reply.

Anyway, here for the pleasure of Blueberry and all those people who read my blog (that's you, Ghoul), here are Blueberry's latest comments:

On the tag called Josephine:
Oi perempuan! Aku ni dah lama tak tinggalkan komen kat blog ngkau nie sebab aku benci bila komen aku tak keluar (not published) dan tak dijawab oleh engkau. So adakah sekarang ni ngkau dah tech-savvy sikit atau still blur kacang macam dulu jugak?...Syoknye Mek Jo duduk Kelantan! Makey budu tiap harilah camtu!!! Healthy dia nanti, awet muda you! Budu kan ada banyak anti-oksidan.

Answer: Heh heh, I'm still as tech unsavvy as ever. See, I have not even figured out how to link your blog to mine, and I've read the step-by-step instructions a zillion times. I don't even know how you managed to put some music on your blog! Anyone who has the slightest sympathy for this tech-forsaken being, please offer to upgrade my blog for me.

And I don't know how Jo is doing as I haven't heard news for a while. But I bet she likes budu (a fermented sauce made of anchovies).

On the marathon tag, Blueberry wrote:
Wah!!! Hebatnya!!! Eh bukan dulu masa kat KL ko pernah lari marathon gak ke? Ni marathon mana plak nie? Dahsyat ko ye, sungguh berstamina!

Answer: Nah, I never did a full marathon. That one I did in KL was the Terry Fox Run, which was only 4.5km but took me an hour of huffing and puffing to complete. I'm supposed to be training for a proper run, of which I'll write about, I swear, once I finish this pizza and get off the couch.

On I'm A Summer Girl:
Wey Fashionista! Amboi amboiiii semenjak kawan baik dengan orang-orang kaya kat BSB tu bukan main fashion-conscious lagi kau yea... When are you coming back? Are you not coming back? Aku rindu kat kau lah... Nak pegi makan-makan dan story-story dan bolehlah aku amik gambar potret kau di dalam frivolous outfit kau tu!

Answer: The "fashionista" unfortunately isn't sure about getting back to KL even though I am in SERIOUS need of retail therapy. Just been reading through Trinny and Susannah's "What you wear can change your life" and realised I'm a two-colour girl, and they are always boring colours. Cream and maroon, or cream and green, or red and black. There is a whole universe of colours out there and I don't know how to match them. Sigh.

And Blueberry, your pictures are amazing.

And since I still can't link Blueberry's blog to mine, anyone who wants to read about the "Cheerful person, harassed employee, stubborn daughter, eccentric sister, stingy aunt, devoted wife and broody mother" who has some really funny things to say, visit her at blueberrymusings.blogspot.com.

Was it a car or a cat I saw

Darling Jo (Josephine), who is now living with a new family in Kelantan. She's now called Mek Jo (read with a Kelantan slang, if you please) and has more room to roam and make friends.
This was taken during the actual eight-hour road trip from Kuala Lumpur to Kota Baru to send her off. Mostly she sat quietly in the back, but would start to miao if I made eye contact. She's not really a car cat.

Hook, Line and Sinker

I used a great line on a guy just yesterday. Well, I'd like to think it was a good line.

After an initial "feeling things out" phase, and on a third kinda-date (we're friends), I asked him: "What magic are you using? I couldn't stop thinking of you yesterday".

He was a bit speechless at first, and I thought there was an awkward moment (as I had said I only wanted to be friends). Then after the conversation had meandered through other topics, he suddenly asked "So what were you thinking about, when you were thinking about me?"

Hah! Caught him.

Schumi and the purple teddy

Haha. Dirty minded people! These are my cute teddy bears, a Russ one from Shashi and Little Schumi from Nik.

I Am A Summer Girl

Reading through the August edition of InStyle magazine was an eye-opener. In Summer girls V Winter women, it says being a summer or a winter isn’t just about the colour of one’s hair or skin. It’s more about personality (laid-back vs prim) and being comfortable with the kind of clothes you wear (T-shirts vs silk blouses).

And instead of being boxed in by what some may call a stereotype, I think it’s liberating to understand the kind of person you are and the clothes that suit your attitude.

Aside from being a late bloomer in fashion anyway, having bought my first pair of Levi’s at age 32, I had always been unsure of how I wanted to style myself and the look that I wanted to portray.
Yes I am a journalist, but unlike Kate Adie and her flak jackets while on the frontline, I’ve never been close to a warzone – not even a hint – that I can safely say combat boots and cargo pants are a required uniform. The only time I was about to be sent to the nearly-jungles of Perak, when the rebels stole M16s and ammo from the Army outpost and hid in the jungle, the crisis was over and the baddies caught (and shot), before I had even started to pack.
The only justification I had for being uber-casual, as some journos are portrayed, was when I started out at The Sun newspaper and I was covering crime and spot news – police stations, mortuaries, floods (not once), fires (but we were outside, far away and unheroic), murder scenes (nothing as dramatic as CSI) and a landslide. Even then, being uber-unchic, I wore boys’-cut shirts, unflattering trousers and unsexy hiking boots, as I didn’t have a car and walked everywhere. Though it felt like an unnecessary evil – other reporters in the line still managed coiffed hair and heels! – I found myself, twice when I wore baju kurung and proper court shoes, clambering over a mountain of confiscated game machines and trying to skirt puddles and huge patches of sopping red earth of a construction site to view a body encased in cement.
So then I graduated to normal reporting, but I still didn’t have style. I wanted the polished, million-dollar businesswoman look so that people would take me seriously, but with a petite “nearly five-foot” frame and a youthful face – I’m in my 30s but appear 20, if you squint a bit – I think I look like I’m playing dress up with Mom’s clothes.

And being flighty, sometimes I wanted the girlie look, or the gypsy, or the bohemian, or the French chic, or the British classy… well, you get my drift.
Being almost five-foot tall is not that great, either, when it comes to buying clothes off the rack. My proportion is off – shorter body, longer legs, flat front and back – so shirts would ride up at the waist, sleeves go down to my knees, waistbands look like Erkel’s and hems trail in the dust. I fit into European sizes for children, but most outfits in Asia’s a la European boutiques (like Somerset Bay) didn’t fit into the career-girl mould.

And don’t let me go back that far into college days – long flowy skirts and blouses with huge ruffles should have a sign that says “not for you, shrimp!”.

So I meandered along, gaining a bit of fashion insight along the way, enough to buy low waisted Levi’s – which still don’t fit that perfectly in the bum, by the way – and narrower shirts, cutting a long dress to make a shift, a number of high heeled shoes, almost figure hugging kebaya dresses and watching The Devil Wears Prada several times to get more clues. But I still had a thing for blazers and suits, the evils of “power dressing” getting ahold of me.

Then the lightbulb moment from the pages of InStyle.

I am a Summer! Though not blond, I love the sun, preferring to burn (I tan after only 5 minutes) rather than be cooped up in perpetual winter (as I was when studying in the UK). I carry itty-bitty handbags which only fit my cellphone, pack of cigs and cash – I don’t have a wallet – I don’t have a pouch for makeup and I’m not too bothered if my hair curls at the ends and doesn’t look like it did after an expensive salon wash and dry. Of course, I’d never look as good in slouchy trousers and sloppy T-shirts as Jennifer Aniston, and I’d never wear short skirts, but I am kinda like what is written in the magazine about Summer girls, that they “own 70 dresses and a handful of flimsy jackets, none of which match their shoes, and they never wear tights”.

Ok, so it’s not spot-on, but I do understand why my crisply ironed shirts tend to turn out rumpled as soon as I take them off the ironing board, unlike Gwen Stefani’s look, why I can’t quite pull off a cream silk blouse and tight skirt which are oh-so Katie Holmes and that I’d never end up on the red carpet as glamorously as Gwyneth Paltrow.
It’s just not me!

So what do I do now? Embrace the Summer girl-ness of me, of course, especially with this part of Southeast Asia being a perpetual summer (apart from Brunei’s current unpredictable foul, stormy weather).
Maybe a good cut of jeans, as really, not everyone is a Levi’s girl, empire line top, some loose gypsy-esque (but not too frilly) blouses, baby doll dresses (worn a bit conservatively over jeans, of course, never mind that it’s supposedly out of fashion), and a sunny attitude (now, that last one is a bit of a stretch).
But I’m thinking I can’t give up the power-dressing altogether, so maybe a blazer over a frivolous outfit – staid over fun, but with panache.

What do you think? Can this newborn Summer girl find some fun in the sun to beat the chill winds of a fashion winter? I definitely think so.
Watch out, world – the Summer girl cometh!

A Girl and Someone Else's Camera

Just a short entry because people have been complaining that I haven't updated my blog in yonks.

Well, anyway, this is me when I was covering the Miri International Jazz Festival in May.

The pix was taken by Sarawak Tourism's Gustino, who is obviously a wonderful photographer as he made me out to look quite good. Ha! Can I get him to do all my pictures, I wonder?

Ode To The Guitar Player

‘Twas such a sight that greeted me
You with a guitar on your knee
A single pluck, a simple strum
My heart was beating like a drum
And then when you began to sing
The music went afloat on wings
It touched my heart and gripped me tight
I felt like I was lost in flight

Those days, those nights came rushing past
The friendship that had held us fast
Your presence filled my lonely soul
And kept at bay the crippling cold
The laughter sweet and joy aflame
Which never left me quite the same
All the mem’ries had close I kept
And in these thoughts I basked, except:

The song, the verse, the rhythm played
The melody that had me slayed
Was not for me, not part, not all
Though it had held me in a thrall
Without a word goodbye of leave
You did my heart asunder cleave
And as the song died with a trill
I realise … I miss you still

When the phone rings in the night

It’s in all the TV shows, it’s in all the novels: when the phone rings in the middle of the night, we know it’s not good news. A death in the family, a car crash, a fire which burnt someone’s house down to the ground.

Maybe in today’s 24/7 lifestyle, the fear of the past-midnight call has been diluted. Much so that it’s not as taboo to be calling your friends late in the night to talk about a date that went bad or to invite him out for a drinking session at the kedai mamak. In fact at 2am you might not even be asleep yet, and a ringing phone does not instil in you the heart-thumping fear and does not make your mind conjure up 20 different scenarios of tragedy in that three minutes it takes you to pick up the receiver and say a breathless and worried “hello”.

But it is the post-midnight call of bad news that compels families, and friends, to immediately come together in a way that nothing else will. Drop everything else, sleep be set aside, forget an early morning meeting that you have to be up for – when the call comes, you are there.

My mother died in the afternoon all those years ago, so the round of phone calls was performed in the light of day – not as urgent, with people coming staggered throughout the rest of the day at their convenience.

But I remember staying at my aunt’s house when once the phone rang past the witching hour. I picked it up and another uncle, sombre in voice, asked to speak to my aunt. There was muted conversation, an exclamation of surprise, a slow click as the receiver was put back in place. My younger cousin had died.

And the family came together at once, bundling all the sleepy children, protesting or not, into cars for the drive to my uncle’s house. Some still in pyjamas, some hastily dressed in ill-matching clothes – it was no time to preen and look pretty, as people tend to do during day visits.

This was the very soul of ziarah, visiting the ill or paying respects to the dead. It is not for the dead that we come, but for the living. It is not for what we can bring them – the nicely packaged basket of fruits or box of chocolates locked away in closed stores – it is us, and we are there. The family grouped from all over, some a mere hour’s drive away, some taking more than four hours to get there. But they came, wasting no more than an hour from receiving the call to setting out.

Funny how death should be the reunion-maker. Have you ever tried getting your family to a get-together for a celebration? Hours of phone calls to pick a good day, adjust schedules, set a time convenient for all. And try it with friends, that’s even harder. Choosing a good place to meet, juggling dates and times, getting the usual last-minute cancellations because of other pressing matters.

But death just comes without warning. No appointments, no asking if everyone’s free on that date, no RSVPs and no reminder calls not to be late. And not even considerate enough to do it before midnight.

Living mantra

Keep calm
Control temper
Be nice
Appreciate others
Maintain friendships
Remember God
Cherish self (pictured right)
Eat right
Stand tall
Enjoy life

Sustainable pledges?
We'll see

Forgot two:
Go shopping
Buy shoes
Can do?
Most definitely!

New bf for old

Dear BD,

I just wanted to tell you that I’ve got a new bf now. I know I really shouldn’t slag you off, seeing as you were faithful as my bf at one point, but really, my new bf is so much more satisfying than you ever were.

In the past of course I revered you, as I thought that you were the one and all that and hoped you’d be my bf forever. I mean yes, you picked up after me, you cleaned up my messes, you put up with all that cat hair uncomplainingly and were there when I needed you.

However, I have to say that with time, you were giving me more stress than pleasure.

I mean really, though I could take you almost everywhere with me, especially in those narrow, tight places, you could only perform for about 10 minutes before being spent, and then it took you more than eight hours to recharge your batteries. Your suction capability was good but I could never get you to apply yourself in those hard-to-reach crevices which needed so much attention.

And towards the end, you even refused to recharge your powers without me having to fiddle with your bits, which I really didn’t have the time or patience to do.

Now you’re with my sister, and though I’ve warned her about your failings, she insisted that she would be happy with you, so I hope you’re serving her well.

It took a while, of course, for me to decide on getting a new bf, and though I thought of getting one just like you, I figured I needed a better model. My new bf is bigger than you and although is at times ungainly, makes me happier. When plugged in, my new bf can go on and on all day, giving me utmost satisfaction.

You might think I’m settling for less because my new bf doesn’t have as illustrous a name as yours, and I agree up to a point, but I guess that’s just how it goes.

An Aifa vacuum cleaner can never compare to a cordless Black & Decker Dustbuster, but that’s life.
I’ll never forget you, of course, but I think I’m going to be happy with my new best friend.




Sincerely, the little devil.

Eyes on Stalks

I have a stalker. An honest-to-God stalker. No, really. I’m not being paranoid, well maybe not much.
I was a bit paranoid when I got home late the other night and opened all doors and looked into all corners of my apartment in case he was lying in wait for me. This is a bit irrational as he couldn’t really get into my third-floor unit unless he jimmied the lock on the grilled door (this would have made too much noise), stolen my keys, turned into Spiderman and scaled the wall or abseiled from the roof (not probable in his case but what I would definitely do).

However, I have not been imagining that he has been standing for minutes at a time in the compound of the Shell station in front of my apartment building looking up at my unit. I’ve caught him at it a few times, and he was there again the other night, pretending to play with a cat. I saw him as I was out on the balcony chatting with my next-door-neighbour Dave, whose balcony overlooks mine. And he was watching unabashedly all the way as I went down the three flights of stairs to my colleague’s waiting car for a late night meal, which resulted in the apartment sweep when I got back.

I know I wrote lovingly about Rangga standing outside Cinta’s house in the movie Ada Apa Dengan Cinta in my entry That Melting Feeling, but this does NOT in the least strike a sentimental chord in me. Not even close to the romanticism of Romeo and Juliet’s balcony scene, either. And I know I was lamenting the lack of single men here in Brunei, but this is not my idea of an eligible male.

The thing is, he is a security guard attached to my office and the area in which my apartment is located, and some people might say he’s just “doing his rounds”. But I seriously think standing in the same place time and time again and gazing straight up at my apartment is not in his job description. It’s bordering on psychotic and an invasion of my privacy.

It started out pretty normal. I say hello to the guards once in a while as I enter or exit the office building. Then one night, going home late, it started to rain, so he offered to walk me home with an umbrella. At the stairs to my place, I tell him it’s ok, I can make it up by myself, but he insists on accompanying me “to check if everything’s all right”.
Outside my door I again had to politely but firmly thank him, saying that I was quite confident of being safe and went in. I heard him loiter for a bit outside my door, then he left.

However, he came back up and rang my doorbell! This was nearly 1am – he claimed to be bored and since my lights were still on, he thought it would be just peachy to come and hang out. I said no.

Pretty creepy, I thought, and only later, when I caught him staring from that favourite spot at the Shell station, that his earlier remark as he was sending me home made sense. He had asked me what I was doing up so late some night before that, as he saw that my lights were on. And that fit, as the only way he could ascertain if my lights were on was if he were loitering at that very spot at the petrol station.

Vain me would just shrug it off and revel in the thought that I have a stalker, but private me is very upset. I don’t like the idea of this man keeping tabs on whether I’m home, awake or asleep. And what is he standing around for anyway – waiting to get a glimpse of me if I went out on the balcony or as I walk about in my apartment if the curtains are not closed? Creepsville Central!

I’m really unsure what I should do. Some colleagues think I should take it up with his supervisor or my boss, as security guards are supposed to make me feel more secure, not less. But some think it could just make matters worse (as I said, some may just say it’s his job and dismiss my fears) and if I ignore him, he might just tire of the game and stop.

Right now, I’m keeping an eye out for him as I want to get a picture of him in his stalker dude mode. Further ideas are welcome, but what I really want to do is keep a video log of the frequency, timing and duration of his little “on duty” night watch sojourns.

Now if I can only get my hands on a good video camera...