The Mopho Life

Phones have come a long way, haven't they? From a simple child’s cup-and-string (though I have no firsthand experience of this as my cup-and-string phones never worked) to today’s mini mobile wonders, some of which look like little more than an eraser-sized mess of buttons.

I remember my dad’s first car phone, an odd white contraption whose number started with “334”. I often wondered who called him more frequently on it – his clients or my mother. She once embarrassed him when she called him on the car phone and said, “Hello, Nut!” With him in the car at that point were three middle-aged male colleagues of his who were tickled to no end when he explained later that it was a pet name my parents had for each other.

I wonder if people still have car phones. The last time I saw one was in the movie Bowfinger when Steve Martin’s character embarrassed himself when he ripped out a car phone and pretended it was a mobile phone, during which time the wire slipped out of his sleeve and dangled tellingly from the phone. Maybe that’s all car phones are good for – embarrassing people.

I’d resisted getting a mobile phone as long as I could. (Can I call it a “mopho”? I’ve always wanted to do that…nah, will stick to “handphone” like the rest of Singapore.) I was happily using a pager for a few years, trying not to succumb to my mother’s pressure for me to start using a mobile phone, as I had an accurate guess as to who would be the one calling me most frequently. I don’t remember why I finally caved in and got my first – a Nokia 3210, or The Brick, as some people called it. Not that it was very big, but it was heavy. Still, it was a good, hardy phone that lasted almost four years before number 5 on the keypad called it quits.

We all have many stories revolving around mobile phones. Here are some of the memorable ones I have, in no particular order.

Go BEEP yourself, preferably in front of the client

I had a colleague called Cynthia for awhile, an unpleasant person who had a talent, among others, for finding fault with everyone and everything around her and bitching (not complaining, bitching) about it vehemently. She also had an awful attitude to working with others.

One group of clients comprised a committee of ten people or so, so our meetings usually had a total of 13 people, including my boss, Cynthia and myself. During one particular meeting:

1) Her handphone rang loudly and she took the call in the meeting room. I assumed it was an important call, like from a supplier, until I heard her accent change dramatically and figured it was her British boyfriend.

2) Awhile after that phonecall, a message arrived on her phone with a loud BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP, and she proceeded to reply it…while ignoring the proceedings of the meeting, and then later asking me what happened (trying talking to someone who’s trying to take minutes for a fast-paced meeting and you’ll have an idea how I felt). Not wanting to interrupt the client, I motioned for her to turn off her phone, to which she just grinned humourlessly, and then did nothing.

3) Her phone goes BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP again, and she replied it again. Assuming that she hadn’t understood me earlier, I wrote on a piece of paper, “Turn off your phone” and showed it to her. She took one look at it, and pointedly turned away from me and the piece of paper.

Lovely person, isn’t she?

Told you my mother would call

This is a scenario that would happen up to a few times a week when I was working full-time.

I would be at my desk most of the working day, getting up only to get a drink. And then, at some point, I would decide to visit the ladies for ichiban business. Upon returning to my desk after all of two minutes in the loo, I would see a missed call on my handphone. Yes, my mother. I would return her call, to which she’d say, “Where were you??!! Oh, the toilet? Why are you always in the toilet?” I swear, within weeks of joining whichever company I’m at, all my colleagues know about my mum, and most would have picked up her calls to the office after failing to reach me on my handphone.

Mothership calling

Sorry, this is a mother story again. Some background here. My previous house had two storeys, and since my mum chose to spend most of her time in her upstairs bedroom, she had to either shout to get our attention, or find some other means. And some other means she did find. First was a loud remote beeping system that could be activated with two devices, one of which she kept in her room, the other in her car. She developed a system of beeps for different members of the household: quick, repeated beeps for the maid; a single beep for my sister; slow, repeated beeps for me. Later, she tried using an intercom system to communicate between rooms.

After moving into an apartment, we figured she wouldn't need any such devices. Wrong again. There’s a very loud device in the dining room that plays Für Elise in a doorbell-like tone, and the volume is enough to startle me from within my room. That’s for her to call the maid.

And as for me…she calls my handphone. From two rooms away. So, dear friends, if you’re ever with me in my house and see that I’m receiving a mobile call from my home phone, don’t worry, no one in my family is insane. My mother’s just trying to intercom me.

Wait…just as you are thinking that I find mobile phones the bane of civilised society…I’d say you’re right. But, like many an idiotic loony, it has its redeeming qualities sometimes.

“I love you”

…is all I need to see to make me smile from the inside out, even if it’s just an SMS.

Will I?

Am listening to this song now, and I ask myself, when my turn comes to see death coming for me, will I ask the same?

Will I lose my dignity?
Will someone care?
Will I wake tomorrow from this nightmare?

"Will I?" from the musical Rent

Mask

[I hadn't intended to blog, but this idea came to me and I had to jot down what I had. It's a very rough sketch of my idea, and I'll take time to refine and develop it later.]

Every person wears a mask. Everyone knows that, though some may seem not to. It's just a matter of deciding whether they'll accept another person at mask value.

Some people wear different masks for different days of the week, some for different people they meet. Some wear the same mask for days on end, some for decades. Some people fool themselves into believing that they have no mask, that what people see of them is what they really are. They're wrong of course - that's the mask they wear for themselves.

Jin wore a carefully crafted mask, and she kept it on most of the time. It had a lovely, ceramic-like quality, with delicate facial features painted on to achieve an overall effect of cold innocence. A first glance would give a casual observer an impression of a young woman just emerged from her chrysalis of girlhood, serenely unaware of the existence of human malice and not inclined to find out.

But Jin wore her mask improperly. She fooled only the most naive or apathetic of acquaintances, or those who were too self-absorbed to look too deeply into anyone else.

For all the care she put into crafting her mask, Jin neglected the most important aspect of a mask – it must fit the one who wears it, or at least appear to do so. Jin’s mask was ill-fitting, and her body did not learn how to move with the mask. She wore her mask like how a brightly-dressed circus clown would have worn a stark, solemn Noh mask.

It is an uncomfortable encounter if you should meet someone whose face never quite matches up to what their body is telling you. Jin was such a person. Few people could reconcile the tight, wary body language she subconsciously carried around with the soft, accepting impression her face gave. If you weren’t sure what to think of her, all you had to do was shake her hand.

Most people who shook Jin’s hand immediately saw the disparity between the calm, innocent face they saw and the touch they received. Jin’s hands were almost always sweaty, but they were never cold. If you extended your right hand to her, she would thrust a moist, warm hand into it, and, unlike most people with sweaty palms, she would grasp your hand tightly. While you resisted squirming out of her strange grip, you might raise your eyes to meet hers. And there, if you were sharp, you would catch a glint in her eyes that you would not have found pleasant at all, in spite of the generally innocent arrangement of her face. And if your intuition were spot-on, you might even come to think that she delighted in your discomfort in the tight, wet grip of her hand.

For in crafting her mask, Jin forgot about her eyes. A well-crafted mask can lend its effect even to the only naked part of its wearer’s face. Jin’s mask left open the windows to her soul, and she wrongly assumed that no one would look in there if they had her mask to look at. She wrongly assumed that if she kept her mask cold, innocent and beautiful, she would be able to hide from the world the gleeful malice that really lay beneath.

Is it regicide if she's the queen only of this house?

Today is the first time I've raised my voice at my mother, and as an aftermath, I'm sitting here crying my eyes out only because I can't do anything else to vent my rage. I can't even cry loud enough to be heard. I can't throw my soft toys around like I used to as my current room is too small. I can't punch the walls like I used to because she's in the next room and she'd hear and she'd get even angrier that I'm showing any anger at all.

Over what? Over suddenly accusing me of answering back to her, when I thought all we were doing was chatting. This, after spending most of this week accusing me of neglecting her, of being inconsiderate, being rude, not spending enough time with her, of arguing with her (i.e. my gently-expressed views did not suit her). All this, after I spend almost all of my meals and days with her (weekdays included since I'm freelancing), after making sure I sit and chat with her at least once a day, after scheduling my weeks and days around her plans, after putting up with her giving me shit about how SHE feels MY relationship should be.

As it is, I try not to talk too much if I know what I'm thinking isn't something she'd agree on. But it seems that these days, there's almost no telling what will set her off, or what will get her to start picking on me on the stupidest, littlest things.

(I can hear her now slamming things around in the next room.)

I usually don't want to blog about anything about parents or bosses. But I really, really, REALLY need to vent somewhere. I've absolutely no one to talk to about this now. I was tempted to run out of the house just now and call my sister from outside, but the dowager would've seen me go out and start up some fresh hell about what a bad daughter with what a bad temper I am. Anyway, she beat me to the punch, as a minute later, I heard her dialling the phone next door. There's only one number she would dial that requires more than 20 digits in it and it's obviously my sister.

And I wasn't even shouting, just raising my voice a bit - that's not even up to the volume I'd use to call for someone one room away. But yes, according to her, I was shouting at her. According to her, only she has the right to shout around here.

Earlier today, she implied that I was being selfish for doing 'my own things' rather than accompany her to buy CNY sweets in Chinatown today. The 'my own things' in question is actually a freelance job I've taken up that has unexpectedly required me to work on it most of today, and I need to call my client as well. As such, I had to ask her if we could go to Chinatown next week instead of today, and after all, CNY is still almost three weeks away. And sure, 'she understands'. 'Understands', as in, very, very reluctantly compromised to go alone, after trying her darndest to make me feel awful by using guilt trips and snapping at me. And by the way, I didn't really expect my project to end by today in the first place, I just told her that the beginning of the week was impossible and that I preferred next week, but she insisted to go today. And some twisting of my words was definitely what she did along the way, and no, I'm not allowed to defend myself, because that means I'm arguing.

And this was just a part of today's carnival. Can I just tell my client I can't do this project today because I'm sick (of my mother)?

I hate sounding like an angsty teenager who's suddenly decided to start raging against her parents. But if living like this and worse for my whole life has given me sulking adolescent angst, then anyone who doesn't like it can EAT ME.

I'm 26 years old and thoroughly SICK of being a little rag doll not allowed to think, speak or act like anything other than what my dowager wants. REPRESSED is one of the most understated words you could use for me. Like I said, patience is gone and is no longer in Kansas. I'm not sorry for having raised my voice. That was long-overdue, and not even a percentage of what she deserves.

Greetings and Fumigations

Today is not a good day. First I have domestic tensions, which does nothing for my closet temper (any show of displeasure is unacceptable, hence all anger and resentment must be concealed at all times, resulting in a very angry, very repressed Daffy). For added fun, I have full-on PMS-induced impatience, angst and greatly shortened fuse.

And the finishing touch - a freelance job that's driving me a little batty. No matter that it's a subject matter and writing style that's new to me, I can usually handle new things well enough. But after four loooooooooong meetings and dozens of comments and revisions later, I'm getting just a tad tired. Sure, I've handled finicky clients before, but not quite like this. Yesterday, I sat through a long meeting with one of them and received comments on my first draft, which pretty much resulted in my having to re-write most of it, which isn't really anything unusual. And then, I check my email today, and found emails from five other people who, upon being forwarded the draft, decided to send their own sets of comments. AND I'm supposed to call another person tomorrow for HIS input. Suffice to say, it'd be a challenge to fit all the differing comments and suggestions. 4,800 words suddenly seems very tight for all the extra content requested.

Calling poor Kelvin didn't help either. Patience is no longer hanging on by a very thin thread - it has snapped off and is whirling around the vortex at winds up to 200mph. The worst thing about having PMS is that I often end up snapping at people who try to help by offering solutions, when all I want is someone I can just bitch to without having to answer to all their questions and suggestions and defend my thoughts. Hence, with each new suggestion he made about what I should do, I only got more and more impatient and angry, and even angrier that I couldn't show that I was angry because he meant well. By the time I was done holding my tongue as fast as I could (and it wasn't very fast), I reckon he was a little upset and I was fuming worse than ever.

At this point in time, I'm feeling positively homicidal. Did I mention I'm having PMS? And that there's absolutely no chocolate in the house? Going out for apple cinnamon prata with ice cream topped on doesn't sound bad at all...except that it's raining. Again.

And I have work to do.

Any masochists out there offering their services right now? I need to vent...

About me

I received this questionnaire email some time ago, apparently passed on by those bored at work to those equally bored at work. I'm pretty sure most of us have done something of this sort some time or other, so you get the idea. I'm bored again now, so here goes.

1. Name as it appears on your birth certificate: Daphne Ong Beng Hui
2. Nickname(s): Daffy, Daffy Duck, Creature, Monster, Hui Hui, Ah Beng, Destroyer
3. Parents' name(s): Ted & Valerie
4. Number of candles that appeared on your last birthday cake: 8 (2 big, 6 small)
5. Date that you regularly blow them out: 30 October
6. Pets: My IBM
7. Hair color: Black, with bits of white, dammit
8. Tattoos: No
9. Piercings: Both ears
10. Favorite colour: Deep, dark red
11. Hometown: Singapore
12. Current residence: Leonie Hill
13. Favorite food: Hard to choose...durian?
14. Been to Africa? No
15. Been toilet papering? No
16. Loved somebody so much it made you cry? Of course
17. Been in a car accident? Not really
18. Croutons or bacon bits?: Croutons
19. Current car you drive: Mum's Celica
20. Favorite movie? As Good As It Gets
21. Favorite holiday: The longest one
22. Favorite day of the week: Friday night
23. Favorite word or phrase: Aurora
24. Favorite toothpaste: None - brushing is a necessary evil
25. Favorite Restaurant: Book Cafe
26. Favorite flowers: Dark orange gerberas
27. Favorite drink(s): Sex on the Beach, Long Island Iced Tea at Black Angus
28. Favorite sport to watch: Tie between gymnastics & Olympic diving
29. Preferred type of ice cream: Cherry Garcia by Ben & Jerry
30. Favorite Sesame Street character: The honkers
31. Last book you read: Wicked
32. Favorite fast food restaurant: Some taqueria my sis brings me to in Santa Cruz. Love their burritos
33. When was your last hospital visit? My own: 1992. Just visiting: early 2003
34. What color is your bedroom carpet? Some tough, transparent thing under the chair so it won't scratch the parquet floor
35. How many times did you fail your driver's test? Once - it really wasn't my fault!
36. Who is the last person you got email from before this? Dilbert Daily Comic
37. Have you ever been convicted of a crime? Nope
38. Which single store would you choose to max out your credit? Ross
39. What do you do when you are bored? Play computer games/Xbox
40. Name the friend that lives farthest away from you: Oliver in Germany (if family counts, that'll be my sis's family & friends in Santa Cruz, CA, USA)
41. Most annoying thing people ask? "So when are YOU getting married?"
42. Where are you working now? At my desk (freelancing)
43. Favorite all time TV show? Tie between Frasier & Simpsons
44. Last person you were out to dinner with? Kelvin
45. What's in your CD player right now? Soundtrack to Rent
46. PC or Mac?: PC
47. One of the biggest things you are thankful for right now? The internet

The Pseudo Purity Test

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Sleepless before dawn

It is almost 5am and I am unable to sleep. There is music in my head and my mind won't be quiet. All the soft words I need to hear, the yearning melodic strains I want to hear, the gentle touches I need to feel in the lonely hours of the morning - all undulating inside my head. It is quiet and I'm alone at this ungodly hour. There's no one to talk to now, and the silence feels empty against the fullness of my thoughts. I'm not sure about the purpose of me blogging all this at this point. I guess it's the thought that maybe someone somewhere will know what I'm feeling now, so I don't feel so alone.

I realised one of the most heartbreaking feelings in the world is to be next to someone you love and still feel utterly lonely, when holding their hand won't take away the yawning gulf that lies between the two of you. You may reach out, but while your hand may touch their skin, all you feel are the bricks of the fortress they've built around them to keep you out. You may speak to them, but it may feel like calling into a broad canyon and all the response you get is the fading echoes of your own voice.

Emotional independence is something I realised I can never let go of, even if I want to, even if I'm in a relationship. For the moment I start to loosen my grip, the hurt is sure to follow very closely. It is tiring, depending only on yourself in all your times of need. But I find it's even more tiring to depend on someone else. Still, sometimes, when I find it hard to keep tears away, when my will has been weathered down, when my own arms can't keep me warm enough, I find myself wishing so much that I could lie helpless in comforting arms, curled up in the security of someone who will be strong enough for me to be vulnerable with, just for that moment. That someone will see my need and draw me to him, simply because he knows I need it. It's like being able to unclench a muscle that's been tensed for far too long and the unspeakable relief and comfort that it brings.

But vulnerability and dependence, no matter how fleeting, are luxuries few can afford.

It's hard knowing there will always be only myself to rely on.

Photos!

We always knew Sean was a little devil in disguise! This was taken on Halloween evening as we were having dinner after trick-or-treating (notice the little tail sticking up behind). Yes, that's the cauldron in which he collected candy. No pictures of myself, though - the photographer/videographer is, as a rule, almost always left out of pictures. Sigh. Anyway, me in a fringed mini-dress and electric blue feather boa ain't exactly a sight for cameras, even for Halloween.

Finally done uploading some of the photos from my trip here:
http://community.webshots.com/user/andromeda_carina

Couldn't fit everything as Webshots has a 240-photo limit, so these are the ones I like better. Enjoy!

Missing

My sister just flew off today, bound for home in Santa Cruz, after two and a half weeks here in Singapore. Before that, I'd spent three and a half weeks with her in Santa Cruz. So total time spent together was six weeks. You'd think that'd be enough to make one happy, innit? Not quite. It now feels all weird and quiet without her and little Sean around. Everything feels a little dead now in the house, and I can't help feeling like there's suddenly not very much to look forward to.

The 3.5 weeks in SC was a rare chance, and it'll be a long while more before another (those who know me and my situation well would understand). I guess it's hard to be almost permanantly thousands of miles away from the person I'm closest to in my life.

I tried not to cry at the airport as they were leaving, and held it in all day after that. I waited through the evening and night, and finally cried in the shower where no one would see me. It felt almost like I was 12 years old again and my sister was just about to leave Singapore to study in Iowa. It almost felt like I was back at the airport 14 years ago, holding on to that tiny stuffed lamb that she'd given me as a going-away present, holding back the tears and then spending the next few weeks bawling my eyes out. If I'd known then that she'd never be back to stay, I bet I'd have been a whole lot more upset.

When I got back from the airport earlier and stepped into the house, it was too quiet. The mess of toys Sean left behind was almost done being cleared away, the sofa bed had been folded away and the shuffled furniture shifted back into their original places. It was strange stepping out of my room later and not see my sis sitting at the dining table reading a magazine or with a kooky grin on her face and a corny wisecrack, and not hear the clatter of toys and Sean's garbled chatter.

My sis had also said it'd be weird for her going home and not having me there. Sigh. The Pacific Ocean is too large for us. July will take too long to come when I'll be visiting again.

I've got to go look for that little lamb, which I suspect, with a sense of dread, has been misplaced over the years.

Who did I meet today? Loads of people - I watched Rent today at Kallang Theatre. Rather muffled sound system, I must say. Anyway, let's pick one person. A young woman with short hair and a peach-coloured blouse sat in front of me. Who is she? Maybe she's a Lynn.

The Trip Home

The house lights came on and Lynn stood up, feeling her legs stretch satisfyingly after the long performance she'd just sat through. She patted her short, cropped hair, carefully making sure that no errant strands stood out. Her fingers encountered her left ear and she gently grasped the little hairs on her sideburn between her middle and ring finger and, making a delicate little arc around the curve of her ear, tucked the hair behind it. She brought her fingers back and tucked the same little hairs behind her ear, following the same little arc. And she repeated. Arc, tuck. Arc, tuck. Arc...

"Your sideburns are gonna look the same no matter what you do with them, dearie." Her friend's teasing made her pause for a moment; and then she finished her fifth and final tuck before reluctantly putting her hand down.

The walk up the aisle towards the auditorium exit was relatively easy as there were no steps. She had a single phrase from the musical stuck in her head, and it repeated itself over and over in her head like a broken record. Seasons of loooooooove. Seasons of loooooooove.

Upon reaching the foyer, she stopped in her tracks to examine the floor. Good - it wasn't tiled.

She headed for the stairs, and then paused again at the top, causing a few annoyed people behind her to step aside to go around her. Lynn looked at the long, continuous flight of stairs, wondering how on earth she should know which foot to take the first step with. Uncomfortably, she realised she would just have to take a chance. Alright, left foot first. As she approached the bottom of the stairs, she was mildly dismayed to see that she had made the wrong choice. Firmly holding on to the handrail, she gingerly skipped the last step, hence succeeding in ending the flight of stairs on her right foot. Relieved, she bade her friend goodbye and set out to find the bus stop.

Small cracks and occasional fissures on the pavement kept her looking downward most of the way to the bus stop, fixedly scanning the white concrete for imperfections. She carefully stepped over every line and crack, always with her right foot, never making any contact with the lines, tiptoeing where necessary. It was a long walk and a bright, hot day, and she started to feel tense and tired of squinting at the pavement. She was relieved when she finally reached the bus stop.

Once under the comforting shade of the bus stop, she checked her watch - it was exactly thiry-eight minutes past five in the evening - then looked up to watch for the bus. Under her breath, she counted, "One, one thousand. Two, one thousand. Three, one thousand..." When she reached sixty, she checked her watch again. It was exactly thirty-nine minutes past five. With a small smile of satisfaction, she started counting again without pausing. "One, one thousand. Two, one thousand..." Before she was through with her sixth set, the bus arrived. She checked her watch - it sixteen seconds shy of forty-four minutes past five in the evening.

The bus door opened and she saw there were three steps leading up, so she took the first step up with her right foot - right, left, right. Just right. Walking down the bus aisle, she was annoyed to find her Usual Seat by the fourth window on the right side taken. Annoyed, she sat down in the seat next to it, taking care not to touch the arm of the passenger sitting next to her. As the bus rumbled along, she felt increasingly insecure sitting by the aisle. She gave a sidelong glare at the offending person who had taken her Usual Seat. She started tucking her little sideburn hairs behind her left ear repeatedly in sets of five, growing more nervous with each passing minute.

Seasons of loooooooove. Seasons of loooooooove. She had liked the tune when she first heard it, but now it was like a housefly buzzing around your face that you couldn't get rid of. Seasons of loooooooove. Arc, tuck. Seasons of loooooooove. Arc, tuck...

When her stop came, she gratefully dashed off the bus, embarking on another five minutes of flight-footed avoid-the-pavement-lines fun.

When she finally arrived at her front door, she took off her left shoe, then her right, and then placed them on the shoe rack, shifting them about until she was sure they were perfectly parallel to each other.

She fished out her key and put it into the keyhole. She held her breath, and then quickly turned the key counterclockwise, shoved the door open, hurried inside and slammed it shut.

She released her breath and twisted the latch. That was one. Remember, we only need one. She regarded the latch for a moment, her hand hovering over it. Unable to resist, she unlatched the door, and latched it again. Two. Unlatch, latch. Three. Unlatch, latch. Four. Unlatch, latch. Five. Done.

She turned around to find her father watching her over his newspaper from his couch in the living room. He shook his head and muttered something about her being a silly girl before looking down at his paper to continue reading. Relief washed over Lynn. She was finally home.

Back from the other side of the Pacific

Back from Santa Cruz on Saturday, and still jet lagged now...which is how I've come to be writing a post before 8am. Just a short note for now, and little something from the trip.

The cloud formation in the picture above was from an imposing front that was passing through, which had brought with it rain and chill those 2 days. I was a lucky witness to its edge passing through at sunset, which produced yellow skies, a double rainbow and unstable, boiling clouds like these. Think I must have taken almost 30 photos in the 20 minutes I was outside, beneath this behemoth. Was pretty awesome, especially since I've only seen clouds that look remotely like these when I saw pictures of tornado-producing systems, but tornadoes extremely rarely occur in California.

Will post the rest of my photos when I have time. And it WILL take some time, as I took more than 400 photos!

[Update: I've since learned that these are mammatus clouds.]

I've decided to write little stories about people I meet every day, or at least the possible stories.

Red

The young woman behind the counter looked up from her cash register and laughed as the customer in front of her wondered aloud if she was buying too many red things for her boyfriend. "He looks great in red, you see," the customer explained. The cashier grinned and proceeded to fold the red sweater and stuff it into a yawning plastic bag. "Thank you for shopping here and see you again," she chirped as the customer walked away from the counter.

Allison hadn't laughed because the customer's boyfriend looked great in red. What stirred her mirth was the memory of herself, not too long ago, having once bought too many red gifts for the one she loved. Oh yes, the personage of her affections looked divine in any item of red, be it red shirts or red shoes. Allison once had her life saturated with sights and thoughts of red. After all, red was the colour of passion, and of love. And Allison certainly loved with a passion. Thoughts of her love consumed her waking moments. She woke each morning never remembering her dark, troubled dreams in the night, and she liked to think that her dreams were of her one true love. She went out each day looking forward to seeing her love resplendent in red.

But she also learnt one thing - that red, not green, was the colour of jealousy. She knew the hot, pulsing redness that enveloped her mind and the world around her upon the realisation that the one she loved would look in every other place for love except with her. She found that red was the only colour she saw behind her eyelids whenever she shut her eyes to drive out the sight of the one she loved caught in tender, intimate moments with another.

Red was also the colour of rage, and of blood. Allison learnt this all too well in the times when jealousy turned to anger, and she could hardly bear the heat that seared inside her. She also learnt this each time she slowly and lovingly etched the name of the one she loved onto the pale skin of her wrist. She found that the trick was to draw blood each time she carved over cuts that had healed - each new scab would make the beloved letters of that cherished name stand out thicker and clearer.

Allison remembered the Saturday she arrived home to find a pile of returned gifts sitting at the foot of her front door. She felt her heart grow hot as she stood looking down at the haphazard stack of objects in shades of scarlet, burgundy, cherry, wine, rose, coral, russet, vermillion, sanguine and rust. Among the gifts, every item in dizzying shades of red, were woven bracelets, hand-drawn cards, soft toys, heart-shaped boxes, scented candles, cloth roses, pretty slippers, dainty little panties, and one lock of strawberry blonde hair bound with a crimson ribbon. The sting of rejection spread its poison over her rapidly until she felt her entire body on fire. She knew all the gifts had been returned by one person - the woman she loved and desired for her own. One item stood out from the rest; it was not a returned gift. It was a simple sheet of white paper and it stood out pale and sober among the tumble of red madness. Allison picked it up and read the three lines written on it. "You sicken me. Stop sending me things. I'm not like you, you lesbian shit."

Vehement scarlet flooded her senses as her rage loosed in a stream of lunatic screams. She lunged at the pile of returned gifts and dug her fingers into them, ripping some, hurling others, pounding at whatever remained. She hardly noticed the arms that came to encircle her and restrain her thrashing limbs. The following chain of events never stayed in her memory, and all she could now recall was coming to her senses and realising that she was in the living room of her home, her arms and legs held down by her father, her mother and her brother who were grimacing with the effort. As she stopped struggling, she saw the expression on her mother's face change from distress to horror and disgust as she slowly moved her hand away from her daughter's left wrist where the long sleeve had hiked up during the struggle, staring at the bulging, pink lines that marred the skin there.

A shake on her shoulder broke her from her reverie. "Closing time, Ally. Stop dreaming," muttered the store manager before walking away.

Allison tucked a stray lock of her strawberry blonde hair behind her ear and, with a heavy sigh, closed the counter for the night.

Unseasonable warmth

I guess the weather here in Northern California (and maybe even the rest of the US) has decided to be nice. It's been unusually warm these two weeks, with lots and lots of sunshine, and not-too-cold evenings. It's been warmer than when I came in late summer! I wonder if I'll get a right-side tan from sitting on the passenger side of the car for long hours...

Finally got a chance to see Big Sur, or at least the northern part of it. Did a short drive (about 45 minutes) down to Big Sur from Monterey where we went to see the truly amazing aquarium (yes, again). The view from one of the land's-end points is really breathtaking, and standing almost on the edge of the sheer, towering cliff was rather dizzying. I spent a lot of the drive with my camera out the window and trying to catch the best of the scenery. The curving, winding coastline with its huge cliffs, sheer drops, crashing waves and historic bridge crossings made for exquisite views, even with the sun utterly merciless on that hot, hot day.

I would've spent more time outside the car just enjoying being there, but travelling with a toddler comes with a price, and little Sean was obviously unhappy at being cooped up for the long drive - the drive was made long by ridiculous roadworks that made our car ride over an hour longer than it should have been, and Santa Cruz is 40 minutes away from Monterey as it is. But at least I finally did the drive down, which was something I'd wanted to do for a long time. Well, my sis did the driving, anyway - I just sat there snap-happy and gawking out the window.

Today we went to West Cliff...again. The seals were out in full force, whooping away while clamouring on and off their favourite little Seal Rock just slightly off the coast. The surf was so-so, but that didn't stop a sprinkling of surfers from taking advantage of the glorious weather (then again, awful weather doesn't seem to deter them either). Walked maybe half a mile down the beautiful cliffside (which is contantly eroding - seven years ago when I first visited it, the coastline was at least 30 metres out from where it currently stands). After that, drove down to see the monarch butterflies at the Natural Bridges State Park. It wasn't a fantastic turnout today, compared with other times when they covered the trees with their lovely orange wings. Still, it's nice to just look up at them and wonder at their extraordinary lives.

Saw another fireball during the drive back from Gilroy the other night. That meteor was pretty amazing, lasting a few seconds and so brilliant that I initially thought it was an aircraft in the sky. At first, it barely registered in the corner of my peripheral vision as a bright spot like an aircraft coming in our direction. Then, after shining for a couple of seconds, it suddenly did a super-speed nose dive and vanished in a flash, causing a stir of excitement in the car and exclamations of, "Did you see that?!!" I love California.

Meteor madness

I saw a meteor from the plane the other night (it was probably a Leonid, maybe a Taurid), which is rare since the shades had to be drawn on every night flight I'd previously taken. I was gawking at the starry display from above the clouds when I saw the fleeting silver streak, ending in a quick, bright fireball (it's not as dramatic as it sounds; it's a way of describing the type of meteor). Another moment of perfection and awe, sealed behind my eyes for a long time to come.

Hope this year's Leonid shower will be a decent show, though estimates predict only a moderate display at best. The peak is forecasted for around 10am EST on this coming Thursday (17th Nov), which would be 8am for me here and way after sunrise. Moreover, the moon will be full and outshine many of the meteors during the dark hours, and the peak ZHR probably won't be much more than 15. Anyway, I don't hold much hope that Tom will be able to bring us out to the hillside or a darker spot along the coast, considering that someone will have to stay home with little Sean.

2001 really takes the cake as the best Leonid show ever for me and for many other viewers, breathtakingly spectacular during the peak with several meteors streaking across the sky at any given time, some ending in magnificent fireballs that left long-lingering trails. I was really lucky to be out at a dark spot facing the ocean at the time; it had been horribly cold and I was sick (the whole time, I clutched a flask of Throat Coat to ease my cough), but it was still one of my most unforgettable experiences. Having to pee during that trip wasn't much fun, though - there was no public commode anywhere near so I had to do it in the dark on the grass just off the road. It's no fun having to take off my pants in the cold, to be careful I didn't splash on my shoes, and to make sure I didn't step on the spot where my sister had gone before I did. And to hope no other car came by right at that moment and shine its headlights on my pale, freezing butt.

Stars

It is cold tonight where I am in Santa Cruz, CA. And although the fog didn't roll in tonight, a gossamer layer of clouds is slowly gathering more substance and obscures more of the night sky by the minute. It didn't rain today, though, so the chill isn't as bad as last night.

I miss the stars. I saw them the first night I arrived back here, but, as usual, only first night lucky - every other night has been either foggy or rainy. Otherwise, when it is clear, the night sky here is embroidered with a shimmering canopy of stars. It's certainly not free from light pollution here, but it's a great deal better than in Singapore where you'd be lucky to spot anything fainter than 2nd magnitude. In the hills of California is where I caught my first, breathtaking sight of the Milky Way like silver mesh stretched out across the sky of black velvet.

I've had a long love affair with the stars. Their luminous beauty drew me to them and, like a truly attractive lover, it is their depths, complexity, being and character that made me fall in love with them. I love to know how, like us, they're formed out of minuscule almost-nothingness, thrown into being by either the gentle persuasion of gravity or the violent collision of colossal forces, sometimes both. I love to know how nebulae, their nurseries, can both glow in dazzling colours and throw black curtains over the light of those behind them.

Many nights I spent lying on hammocks or with my head tilted back over a chair or simply raising my face to the heavens while standing up, just gazing up at those seemingly perfect points of light, knowing them to be imperfect, and loving them for it. In my days of deep darkness and despair, I raised my eyes upward on clear nights, and my soul lifted in joy both serene and passionate at the same time, peaceful and bursting with celebration at once. Armed with maps and my trusty 10x50 binoculars, I learned how only one kind of love can be one-sided and yet be nurturing, fulfilling and all-encompassing.

If stars could sing, I can almost hear the music they would conjure. I imagine them in serene chorus, alto and mezzo-soprano voices joined in wordless aural beauty, their long-sustaining chords ever-changing and never-dying. Not some strange, celestial ringing as some artists have conceived, but each heavenly body having its own distinct voice and its own emotion, blending seamlessly with those of its sisters.

Beslan Bedlam

I feel so stupid. The Beslan school siege occurred more than a year ago and it barely even registered in my mind till today. I only vaguely recall reading a bit about it in the news last year, but it didn't seem as big a deal as the theatre incident further back.

Then today, I saw a 2-hour programme on Discovery Channel about the Beslan incident, and it totally shocked me. Somehow, reading about the blah-blah numbers who died in blah-blah incidents doesn't register as strongly as seeing them for yourself, even if you're seeing them second-hand.

Images of ordinary, living people being thrown into such abject tragedy can be very powerful, especially when they are children. Watching a small girl casually point out where her friend had been sitting before getting shot is profoundly unnerving. Right about the point where half-naked, filthy, wounded kids were shown being rushed to the hospital in tears, I started to cry. It was difficult to stop myself from bawling while watching the dramatic show-down footage when hostages, kids, gunmen, weeping relatives and dead bodies started to flood the screen in chaotic succession.

This picture of these schoolboy hostages weeping just following their rescue really struck me. It is the enormity of what they were witness to and barely survived, and what will haunt them for the rest of their lives.













There's little to say when faced with violence and political crappiness like this. It reaffirms my belief that humankind is pretty much an awful species. I love my mind inside that oversized brain, but the same grey matter produces such appalling behaviour in this particular species of animal. I think we evolved so far that we're starting to devolve.

Images courtesy of www.beslan-2004.front.ru

Eye see you

I realise there's a type of eyes that really has an effect on me. Hint: it's in the eyelids.

This is my left eye.

The type of eyes that strikes me is of those that have eyelids rather like my own - begin single-eyelided but un-taper to double. The more pronounced the un-tapering, the more striking I find them.

I was reminded of that this evening at a wedding as I saw an old acquaintance that I'd always thought rather cute. (I digress: My friend said an odd thing when I told her so. "But your boyfriend looks nothing like him." To which I replied, "Just because I like pretty wallpaper doesn't mean I want to date it." So yeah, I may be attached but I'm not dead, and eye candy remains purely eye candy. Takes more than a face to fire my engine, kiddos.) Cute guy in question has eyes somewhat like that, as does an ex-colleague of mine. I find eyes like that rather unnerving actually, almost like their gaze is more intense, more soulful, more searching, like they're trying to tell you more than their mouths are saying.

I was once in love with a guy with eyes like that. His eyes would haunt me even long after I'd closed my eyes and he'd gone. Each time he looked at me silently, I found myself in the uncomfortable position of being frozen by his gaze and feeling naked before it, almost making me want to break the silence by enquiring aloud, "What are you asking me?"

But that is another story and shall be told another time, if ever.

Hotmail booboos

Hotmail did it again. The 250MB inbox promised by Hotmail has been brewing for the longest time and yet most of us don't have it yet.

Not that I'm complaining, since I don't use it for personal stuff. Junk mail accumulates there too quickly - I gave up my REALLY long term Hotmail email account because I was getting a minimum of 50 junk mail a day...and a lot of it didn't go into the junk mailbox, and when I set junk filters to maximum, my personal emails got filtered there too. When you can't win, screw it and get a new one.

Anyway, to get back, I find myself amused by their declarations once more. The first was the same experience as Kelvin, who penned it here: http://darkholme.blogspot.com/2005_09_04_darkholme_archive.html#112614619590212692. I'd received that email in September which promised the inbox upgrade "by the end of August". Interesting concept of time.

The other was the email received today.












And this is the current size of my inbox (the 2nd email in my inbox with the subject "Your Inbox is Growing!" is the abovementioned email):






C'est le Hotmail.

Echoes of a piano

I hadn't heard the theme from The Piano for a long time. I'd even forgotten to put it under "Favourite Music" in my Friendster profile. It's been an even longer time since I stopped to think about what it used to mean to me, the effect it used to have on me.

I'd loved it from the moment I heard it when I watched the Jane Campion movie, but wasn't a profound part of me yet at the time. It took a lonely piano and the soft voice of the first man-boy I fell in love with.

It wasn't my fingers moving over the keys, nor the rousing music that they conjured. It wasn't the warmth of the afternoon nor the unique smell of someone else's home, the kind that you never find in another. It wasnt the feel of the cool tiles under my left foot nor the brass pedal under my right, nor the little ornaments and photo frames that lined the top of the piano which fleetingly crossed my gaze.

It was the feel of his gaze on my back, the electric awareness of his presence a few feet behind me. His gaze was almost a physical sensation, a gentle warmth on the back of my head, following the length of my hair, flowing over my shoulders and down to the small of my back and the back of my arms.

"The Heart Asks Pleasure First" is its name. Its music was pure, flowing torrents of passion that filled you and lifted you, creating such longing that you felt like your heart would break. And when it was your hands that made such music, you could feel its power through your fingers and your arms as you raced through its depths, its crests and its rip tides.

I played it on the day I found love, on the piano that sat in the house of the man-boy. That night, he whispered that his piano still lay uncovered and that he watched it, remembering the day, remembering my fingers on it.

From then, whenever I heard it, I thought of him and his voice. Whenever I heard his voice or was with him, I heard it in my head. Memories of lying next to him watching him sleep, the music playing softly on the hi-fi, washing over me in those moments of timeless perfection.

That love is long gone, so completely that it no longer so much as tugs when I think about it. When the music plays, it is not the man-boy that I remember. It is not the strains of a once perfect love that dominated my life so completely and destructively that fills my mind. It is the image of a time gone by, of a part of me that lives but has metamorphosised, of the power of the music that holds sway over my mind and my soul as I let myself drown in its depths and mourn as its last notes trail to its end.

Who lights up who?

I'm suddenly reminded a single, radiant moment when happiness ruled true and pure, even for a moment. It wasn't some dramatic event. It wasn't even like I'd won any lotteries, gotten any presents, received any compliments or had any wishes fulfilled.

It was a smile. Or rather, two smiles.

I no longer remember what Kelvin was saying that made me break into a smile. I didn't think that it was anything extraordinary until I saw the look of pure delight that suddenly lit up his face in reaction to my mirth. He looked as if he was so utterly charmed by the way my smile had dawned on my face. His own face was radiating with untainted joy, the type that requires no rhyme nor reason, nor requires any conscious thought. As I looked at him, I felt his smile light up my heart and complete my own smile. We sat there in that moment of circular joy, delighting in each other, enjoying the voiceless, senseless happiness that flowed between us.

All this in a strange, unforgettable, inexplicable moment.

Freeeeeeeeedom!!

(I couldn't help thinking about Mel Gibson's blue face when I typed that header)

I slapped my resignation letter on my boss's desk on Wednesday, and I couldn't feel better about it. I've finally quit after I first said I "didn't intend to stay for long" about a year ago. So you can say that my resignation is one year overdue. But my reasons back then were different from what they are now. Noting that this is a blog for anyone to freely read, it's probably not a good idea delve into the specifics of my reason for leaving. Suffice to say I've had it right up to here.

Intense workload aside, it had been an enjoyable job with lots of potential. However, it's never easy to navigate around Someone who maintains a bias against you through no fault of your own. Some may say it was bad luck, but I think it's just the nature of Someone that attracted a rojak of ass-kissing, back-stabbing, favouritism, hypocrisy and standoffs that resulted in me being caught in a crossfire. In any case, this is a really ridiculous amount of politicking in such a tiny company (there're seven of us currently, including 2 directors). I realised not matter how much effort I put in, no matter how much I try to ignore Someone, no matter how well I produce, I'll never come to anything here because Someone doesn't want me to.

I'm really not used to be prejudiced against. If anything, I'm more used to blending in with the wallpaper than being pressed down by biases. Hence, it totally mystifies me that someone can have it against me. For what? I've no idea. A product of Someone's biased nature I suppose, which manifests in every aspect of Someone's life anyway.

Hence, I'm outta here as soon as I humanly can. I'll leave the rest of them to their politics while I enjoy a well-deserved break.

Music fuels the savage appetites

Isn't it amazing how much effect music has on us? I thought about this as I told my friend that I was laaaaaaaaaaaazy to do something - that made me think of that silly song that contains this line: "Iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii'm thinkin' that I'm laaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaazy".

Music is so absolutely potent, and has the potential to dictate what we feel as we listen to it. Listening to Yo-yo Ma's rendition of Bach's cello suites can make you melancholy one moment and make your spirit soar the next. Popping in jazz can make you slump back and chill in a matter of seconds. Modern Talking can make your feet lead you reluctantly but irresistably to the dance floor (this is called a guilty pleasure). Sade's husky voice may well make you wanna pounce on your partner and start making out.

And Harry Connick Jr makes my skin tingle with his sexxxxxy voice!

When I'm out, I have this weird thing where I'm very aware of whatever music is playing...which is why I suffer for the 10 minutes that SIA airplanes take to taxi from the runway to the terminal - SIA insists on playing muzak while the plane is taxiing. Even in crowded, noisy eateries, I can always perk up when I hear a fave tune or suppress a barf reflex when I realise it's Michael Bolton's constipated exertions.

I have a theory, based on what I think I'm observing:

When I was a teenager, (teeny bopper boy bands aside,) the grunge movement was in full swing, and radiowaves were filled with the sounds of angsty bands talking of hurt, pain, anger, suicide, the dark side of human nature, and whatever made you listen and think, "OK, I think I'll go slit my wrists now." The result is as Bart Simpson so aptly put it: "Making teenagers depressed is like shooting fish in a barrel." Depression was the hallmark of being a teenager, slouches, pouts and all.

These days, the mainstream popular music that teenagers like is mostly R&B with their "gigolos", "ho's" and general boyd fest. And the way I see it, it seems to have coincided with the general sexualisation of youths these days. No longer do I see the genre of the angsty teenager moping about with their underwear showing. Now I see that showing as much skin as possible is the rage, and being as sexy as possible is the main preoccupation, at least compared to eras before (hmm....except maybe the Roaring 20s, and that never quite took place in full swing in Singapore).

On the plus side, the Ah Beng and Ah Lian subspecies seem to have died out, except for their cheesy techno-pop music that still plays in some stores - the last Ah Lian hold-outs, I reckon.

This is not to say teenagers aren't angsty or suffer from unhappy identity crises anymore, just that the emphasis has shifted according to tastes, and, I believe, music. Music has such effect on how people feel about themselves and the world, and surely affects general moods and perceptions. (By the way, I think that the 90s hoo-haa about subtle messages being played backwards in heavy metal music is a load of crock - talk to me backwards and see if I know what the hell you're saying.)

R&B is certainly not what it used to be. It was absolutely fab in the 60s and 70s with blues-type bands and groups that called themselves The-Somethings. It took a dip in the 80s with sappy, Lionel Richie-type crooning, but was still not too bad. It was almost fab again in the 90s with groups like En Vogue, Salt-n-Pepa, and the even the ballads were pretty good, or at least OK. These days, I'm not sure if they're singing or rapping about anything else except prostitutes, sex and guns. Whatever happened to classy divas like Sade? Bring back Aretha Franklin and Wilson Pickett!! If you can raise Ella from the dead, that'd be absolutely loverly...but that ain't really R&B anymore anyway.

I just ate a muffin. Feeling surprisingly full after, especially since I ate no lunch to speak of, unless you count a cup of carrot-and-apple juice and a few sips of soy milk. Was a nice-ish chocolate muffin...but then again, anything tastes great when you're hungry I suppose.

Am on a probably futile attempt to lose some weight before my friend's wedding next month. Haven't seen this group of friends for years, and the last time I met them was 5kg ago. Sigh, the ravages of time...and too much festive and holiday and stress-relief and PMS eating. Yeah, PMS really sends my appetite through the roof, and chocolate suddenly gives me meaning in life for a week each month.

Geez, I'm sounding like a weight-conscious neurotic. Sad but true that many of us are. Really worried when I grow older I'll get afflicted with stuff like diabetes, cardiovascular disease, die of angina at age 40, have half my bowels yanked out due to colorectal cancer, etc. Most of all, I'm worried that I'll have a waistline to rival Henry VIII's by the time I'm middle aged.

Funny, but that got me thinking about a silly poem I wrote when I was 11 about the ghost of a queen (I had been picturing Anne Boelyn while I was writing that). The teacher questioned me if I'd written that myself, the first of a string of teachers who asked me the same thing at various points in my academic life. It's kinda flattering on one hand, yet rather miff-ing on the other not to be trusted at the only thing I'm sure I'm good at.

7.37pm, mid-September

Am sitting in the office now, eyes feeling goddarned tired, probably because I'm not used to wearing both mascara and tinted moisturiser for half a day. That, and the confounded airconditioning. Am wearing a black knit top that I thought I looked great in when I first got it, but took a look in the mirror earlier and realised that I look remarkably different in it after a pasta meal.

Bummed a little of my time in the office just now, just very much not in the mood to work. Decided to see if anyone else on the internet remembers how the "When the Jews return to Zion" prophesy got fulfilled in The Omen (1976 horror classic about a freckled kid who turns out to be the devil's son). Googled it, no help anywhere. Am too lazy to watch the entire movie to look out for it. Anyone knows? Anyone? Never mind.

This is the sweetest comic strip I've ever seen, makes me wanna go "Awwwwwwwwwwwww!!" It's from way back in 1990, but remains a classic for me.

I'd been out of touch with the news of late, so I got a shock when I read about the huge disaster in New Orleans and the Mississippi. I knew there was some hurricane somewhere, but for it to finally wreak havoc in the Big Easy was a fatalistic shock. Not that it's unexpected, really. New Orleans was an accident loooooong waiting to happen, what being in the hurricane zone and a large part of it being below sea level. It's spooky because I just saw a documentary on a plane ride just a month before that spoke about New Orleans being at huge hurricane risk.

Double spook by the fact that one of my oldest and dearest friends pretty damn near went to live there. Grace had been engaged to Liam, who lives and works there, but broke off the engagement some months before the wedding, which would have been in September last year. We're a little worried, since she hasn't been able to contact him since we heard about the disaster, and I hope it's only because of the power and phone outage - hope he's fine and well. In the meanwhile, I'm pretty glad Grace averted this herself, though it took an unfortunate circumstance.

Mundane Schmundane

Seems like almost everyone around me is going through some sort of upheavel or exciting phase. The tally:

2 office romances
1 new relationship with an older woman (ok, slightly older)
1 'one day stand'
1 job lost (accompanied by heaps of office drama)
1 working for free in an office with EVEN more drama than Days of Our Lives
1 person passed away (sincerest condolences to the Goh family)

Do weddings count? If so, make that 2.

And these are just the friends I've managed to stay in contact with the past 1 or 2 months through my crazy schedule. I seem to be the only one leading a 'steady' life at the moment! While steady is good sometimes, it gets boring after awhile. So it adds spice to hear about my friends' interesting lives! It's great to hear people you care about telling you about their latest adventure, and to share in their joys or sorrows.

And people, there's no such thing as "gossip" - only "collective sharing of experiences". So fire away to this listening ear!

Indulgence galore

I got a slightly botched pedicure during my trip. My sis and I were trying out this new place that had some opening offer. The first sign that all was not well was when I kept feeling little stings as the pedicurist was trimming my cuticles. Next sign was when I noticed a drop of blood welling at a spot on the big toe on my right foot. Undeterred, she dabbed off the blood, not a word said, then continued. Not only did the rest of the pedicure sting (try dabbing nail polish on an open cut and you'll see what I mean), she didn't bother sterilising the cut. I would've said something if I weren't feeling so cold, courtesy of the salon leaving the door open on a chilly day, and if only the Vietnamese lady actually spoke any English. She didn't seem to comprehend "Ow!" very well.

Next sign was an hour after I reached home. Apart from realising that the colour wasn't quite what I thought it'd be (I don't usually go for sweet colours), I noticed a wee bit of base coat that was applied a little beyond my right pinky toenail and had dried on the skin. I gently started to use my fingernail to try to peel that bit off...and the entire coat of nail polish came off - see exhibit on the left. So I've been going around for a week with one bare nail on my pinky toe.

Today I'm gonna treat myself to...GODIVA!! Got four pralines, two for me, two for Kelvin who's being a sweetie and accompanying me for dinner tonight. Ah, just the sight of that little yellow and gold bag gets my heart a-flutterin'.

Just went to a product launch today - VGO's V12 Cyber Relax massage chair. It's less 'cyberish' than it sounds, and what's cool is that I got to try it out! Oh man, if only my folks hadn't already bought that other chair last year! This one was pretty awesome, with rollers that kneaded my back all the way down to the small of my spine. The number of massage combinations is pretty amazing, and the lovely young lady that sat next to me explained every little detail of the massages she let me sample and patiently answered my dozens of questions. I felt kinda bad, though, as I was the first to sit down to try and the second-last to get up! I could certainly use more of that as part of work!
(Image courtesy of worldofsports.com.sg)

Hardware makes me tick

Woohoo! I've got a new keyboard-and-mouse set! They're both wireless and ergonomic, and the keyboard comes with a whole lotta buttons for the ultimate lazy computer user. Check it out.
Yes, I know it's a cheap thrill. But hey, hardware always gets me ticking. Excuse me while I salivate at the sight of a new gadget.

It's excellent to shop for computer stuff in San Jose as it's cheaper there than in Singapore for most things. Fry's is this big electronics place that always has deals and mail-in rebates. I was so tempted to get a 100GB hard drive and casing for less than US$200, but didn't get to go to Fry's this trip. Anyway, hand-carrying it would've been less than a lark, as I had to carry this baby (above) back as well - the keyboard is longer than it looks and didn't fit into the roll-along bag I had. So instead, I carried it on a cheapo canvas bag whose straps ripped even before I boarded the flight.