So Elton's present kicked so much ass, it's probably a good thing he has a Christmas lunch with his family, because I'm just too busy playing with it at the moment.
I'd been talking about a netbook for the longest time, pretty much since I started my new job and had days when I was stuck in town for hours between appointments and wishing I could work on my articles instead of wasting time. It's not because I'm hard working; I'd much prefer to do work during office hours so I can do my own thing after. I do NOT like to be working after the sun goes down, which is actually a good thing, because I'm driven to be more productive.
Yes, I already have a laptop. Unfortunately, it's a really old Fujitsu that has 20GBs hard drive and has completely lost the ability to shut down without me holding down the power button till it emits this little whine and goes black. The battery is so dead, it lasts for about an hour even on normal web surfing. And, as light as it is, it's still a shoulder killer.
And so, on the day of Christmas (I have no clue how you guys count it), my sweetie gave to me, a HP Mini. It's so cute and small, the wire bag I'm using to store the wires is almost three quarters the size. Elton picked it because the reviews on Cnet Asia are pretty good; the keyboard is as big as it gets on a netbook, making for comfortable typing (which is true, it feels like a normal full-sized keyboard, and is even better than the stupid Mac one I have to use at work).
I'm still in the midst of exploring it, but so far the main specs are a 60GBs hard drive, 1GB RAM, 1.5GHz motherboard or something like that. It has a built in camera and two USB ports, a SD Card reader, and one dubious looking HP USB port thingy, no idea what it's for. I'm trying to download the essential software for it, managed to waste a ridiculous amount of time on the paid version of AVG. The free version works just as fine, honestly.
What did I get for him for Christmas? An air purifier. It wasn't much of a surprise, since I physically blocked him from buying one so I could get it for him. What the hell do you get a guy who keeps buying everything himself?! And mind you, it's not just me who had problems with getting him something for Christmas; Yvonne, long time friend, was tearing her hair out and defacing his Facebook wall in some attempt to find inspiration for a present.
I found out by accident that apparently I'm the only one who buys stuff for my boyfriend's family. I've been doing that for a few years now, since I'm a sweet and generous soul. Actually, I just find it weird that during Christmas, I'll give him some big ass present and have nothing for the rest of the gang except greeting words.
Anyway. Even if your partner just gave you socks for Christmas, it's the thought that counts. Really. The thought there are more generous and thoughtful people out there.
Naturally, around this time, wish lists are made. Here's mine.
1. To have the super power that woman in The 4400 has to take a super realistic mental holiday that lasts as long as she wants while only seconds pass in real life.
2. To be able to fly on my own power, not in a machine of any kind.
3. To be able to teleport any distance.
4. To age very slowly and have a long life expectancy and be really healthy.
5. To live happily ever after with my one true love.
So generally, I'm running on a fantasy/sci-fi theme here. What? Like if someone could give you anything you could possibly want and you'd ask for something mundane like money? Really? And what currency, pray tell, considering how everything seems to be crashing left, right and center? How about, to always have the material things I want? Isn't that what money does for you? You gotta refine the wish, can't just say something like, to always have what I want because then you'll start having love-sick morons hanging around who might shoot you or something cos they got jealous.
If you're completely baffled at why I put that strange super power as number one, well, that sort of lumps in four and five together. And it fits in so nicely with real life, without being real life. On that mental holiday, you can do what you want, go where you like, have all the time in the world to just relax, after a stressful day. Imagine, after each day of work, you could just go on a vacation that lasts for weeks, even years if you like. Suddenly work isn't so bad after all.
And see, if your super powers were something more real-life based, it could end up being nothing more than a parlour trick you can't make money off of, or something that would really complicate your life, with government agencies hunting you down to work for them or to kill you off. That quiet little power would let me go on with my life and be the most well-adjusted person ever. I like it.
The books always go on about how eternal life has the cons of the people you love growing old and dying around you. That mental vacay power lets you bring people in with you, so you and your partner can have all that time together, but you won't have to leave without each other. I mean, I guess you could always wish for eternal life for the both of you, but what if you got sick of each other after, say, the first 50 years of so? Makes it kinda tricky to move on.
About number two. Well. I've always wanted to fly. Some of my best and most frustrating dreams are of me flying, but I can't go beyond a certain height. And I always have wings in them. I'm sure it means something to those dream analysing people out there, but I've not bothered to figure out what it means, since I dream so often and I can't remember most of it anyway.
The truth is, far out as this sounds, I've always believed in magic. And I believe that we can't really touch it because we're too far removed from it. It was probably around a really long time ago before we got all industrial and technological. I believe it still exists, just beyond our reach, and that there are others out there who believe in it too.
Carl Jung posited the idea of a Collective Unconscious, kinda like this giant server shared by the whole of humanity that consists of everything we've ever imagined and thought about. Some things, which enough of us believe in, manifest themselves all over, which is why ancient civilisations share certain myths without any way of communicating, like dragons and angels.
I know it sounds crazy, but it may be coming back. The 4400, Heroes, god knows how many superhero comics and novels. All these super powers are really just another sort of magic. A much more limited sort, but still, magic. One of the games I used to play was called Shadowrun, where one day normal human society as we know it was transformed and magic re-exerted itself. Maybe that might happen. I can only wish.
I have come to the conclusion that just because you like to eat at a restaurant doesn't mean you should go into the kitchen. I used to absolutely love reading magazines. It was my monthly treat to myself, walking out of Kinokuniya with a sack of mags, anticipating the quiet evenings in the comfort of my bed flipping through the glossy pages.
Now though, I look through them with a critical eye, breaking down the sections, the layout, how the articles are written and so forth. Whatever joy I used to have about them has been sucked away. On the bright side, that saves me a lot of money. Well, that, and the fact that if it's published by us, I get it free anyway. That, and it frees me up to read other things, like books.
One of the unfortunate side effects of being in the business is that you realise it is a business. As with any publication, we have to offer our advertisers a little something extra because they are the ones who pay us. Six dollars does not even cover the price of paper, ink and glue that makes up the magazine; we get our money from the ads you see in them. It's not so bad if your advertisers have things worth talking about, but when it's just plain shit, I find myself hard pressed to even come up with two sentences.
The thing that bothers me the most is the fact that non-advertisers get shunted aside. Violently. The harsh reality is that every inch of space in a magazine is precious publicity we can't just give away to someone who doesn't advertise, unless the product or service is that remarkably special. And face it, for my section, it takes a lot to stand out.
Being the newest of the new, I have the unenviable task of writing snippets, those short little write ups about what's new in the market. I also do other things, but that's my monthly bugbear. It feels like I'm trying to fit a watermelon through a donut hole. Every month, the sheer amount of new stuff, press releases, product launches and so on is unbelievable. I am about as neat and organised as it gets and even then my workspace looks like a beauty company just exploded all over it. So the cruel cruel fact is, the advertisers get featured, the ones that don't wait their turn. I do play favourites, pushing the ones I like higher up the list, but even then, they may not make it if there's no space.
Which is why I've decided to put the ones I love here. I don't see why I can't, since I've tried them personally, found them amazing, and can't write about them for work. Actually, I'm going to shift over to Blogger for that, because who knows, I might be able to make it bigger than just a hobby and Vox isn't the most customisable blog engine. I'll still write here about other things, but for all the beauty stuff, go over there.
At work, I am a little different from my usual self. I'm not as loud, not as outspoken, not as enthusiastic. I find that my normal level of enthusiasm doesn't seem as welcome, since they seem to enjoy affecting a cynical nonchalance towards all things. I do feel a little bit like Ugly Betty, sans braces and suspect fashion sense. I seem to get along almost everyone at work, but of course, I don't know what they Meebo their friends about me. Colleagues are like family; you can't really choose who they are, and you're stuck with them even if you can't stand them. Sometimes it works out well, sometimes you become really efficient at your work so you can get out ASAFP.
But as the Channel 8 scriptwriters will tell you, any family will have its evil elements. Kym had the misfortune to encounter one of them.
Now, before I go on, I must explain that Kym comes across to most women as a threat. She's beautiful, with generous assets and cat-like eyes that give her a (sorry girl, but it's true) slightly bitchy appearance. If you don't know her, you may think she's one of those bitchy women who steal boyfriends and husbands for sport. The truth is, she couldn't be further from that; she can't help being born looking like a bombshell.
To be honest, when I first met Kym, I didn't expect that we'd be friends, mainly because she was hanging out with this girl who I disliked on sight. Things took a change a couple of months into training (we met at our old job), and we started being friends. Looks aside, she is a very sweet person who couldn't steal a free brochure to save her life. The only worry you could possibly have about her around your guy is your guy hitting on her, not the other way round. She values friendship so much she still keeps around some really toxic friends who keep slyly putting her down and making her feel bad about herself. The only vice she has is the fact that she loves gossip, though she doesn't go around spreading malicious lies.
Which is why I found it absolutely baffling that one of her colleagues hates her guts enough to send evil messages about her to others. I find it even more baffling that she managed to send that message to Kym. That takes skill.
And I have no clue why she would dislike Kym that much. She's been nothing but nice to that girl, even helping her to photocopy their course notes and whatnot. Unfortunately, I don't know enough about the situation to comment further, but I am pretty riled up that some bitch out there is talking shit about my friend.
What I do know is that that girl is seriously insecure. Truly, it takes one heck of a childhood trauma to hate someone when they've offered you nothing but kindness and friendship. Having checked out her Facebook page, I'm even more convinced that Kym is just a convenient target for her to take her self-esteem issues out on.
Kym is, literally, attractive. When we go out together, I harbour no illusions that the guys are checking me out; my appeal sinks in a little later after I've had time to unleash my witty charm. I have a feeling that girl doesn't like playing second banana. If that doesn't make it irritating enough for her, Kym's just a naturally friendly person who gets along with most people, and from her looks, that girl seems incredibly uptight. There's even a really good one of her frowning, that'll fit perfectly next to the dictionary entry for PMS. Ah, the wonders of Facebook.
Normally I'd go on, but I'm trying to cut down on negativity. I get enough of it as it is.
I think that's probably why I started loving pink a while back. I can't remember exactly when it started, but I find that surrounding myself with pink things puts me in a happier mode. And people encountering my wall of pink usually react in two ways; they smile or they gawk. Either way, they sort of forget what they were pissed off about for a while.
And now I've added another new pink gadget. I traded in my stupid ass HTC Touch Diamond for my new LG KF350, otherwise known as the Ice Cream phone.
First, what was so stupid about the Diamond? Despite being such an "intelligent" phone that apparently allows you to do everything, it doesn't allow you to do some very basic things, which I've ranted at length before, so go read the archives. For that price tag, I shouldn't have to trawl the net for third party software to message groups of people at a time. It hung, constantly, it was quite buggy, it required more steps than an advanced tap dancing class to do basic things like call someone from your address book or to send a message. All that, for a supposed business phone. And, AND, they wasted valuable tab space on things like weather reports. Yes, because I live in Singapore, country of ever-changing seasons.
Technically, I downgraded getting the Ice Cream, but it fits so much better with my life and functions so well, it feels like an improvement. LG used to have retarded OS that was about as user friendly as an instant detonation grenade. But the Ice Cream's OS is a drastic improvement. It's like the bastard child of Sony Ericsson, Nokia and Samsung, taking the best of each. It's like Sony Ericsson in terms of the menu layout, Nokia in its SMS functions, and Samsung in its cutesy display and sounds. Everything is customisable, including the external LED light display, which you can design by picking out the dots under the settings.
It's not as high-powered in that it doesn't have 3G or WIFI, but I can't remember the last time I made a video call or linked up to a WIFI signal outside of my house. It has a 3mp camera, no flash, unfortunately, but that's what cameras are for. It has an expandable memory using micro SD cards, supports MP3 playback, has an FM radio and supports Java games, so you can download and put them on.
But what I really really like about it is the design. It's very much like those clamshells that Docomo produces, very slim with a nice big 2.2 inch screen inside and a keypad with big tactile keys that make messaging so much easier. I am vehemently against touchscreen phones; they make messaging hell. I got the one in pink, obviously, and it's this lovely pastel shade like strawberry ice cream. The inside is white, with silver trimmings, and the keypad lights up in pink.
And the reason why I started using PDA phones in the first place - to put in appointments with greater ease - is completely satisfied by the Ice Cream. Sony Ericsson has quite a lengthy page-by-page process for this (at least, the older phones did), but its so easy on the Ice Cream, I may just do away with the planner I bought. Or not.
I got it for $338 WITHOUT a contract at the Singtel retailer at Rivervale Mall. It's similarly affordable at other places, but I went there because they gave me a good trade in price for my Diamond. Heck, I even got money back.
See, pink does make people feel happier.
As I was putting my face on, Elton came over to examine the proceedings and also to potentially tickle me. Fortunately, I was putting on my eyeliner, so had an excellent reason to tell him to not try anything funny.
E: Ah hah! So you cannot move, right?
Me: Forced movement does not count as part of my move.
E: (silence) Did you just quote a D&D rule at me?!
Me: Yup. True sign of nerdism.
E: Nerdism, a religion born of the 21st century.
Me: No lah, I'm sure there were like cavemen nerds.
E: (laughs) How is that possible?
Me: It took a nerd to invent the wheel.
E: Why did it have to be a nerd? It was probably some slacker farmer.
Me: Nah, it was a nerd caveman, slacking at home while the other cavemen were hunting. He was probably trying to make dice.
That said, I'm quite impressed by the creativity of gamers. Now that there's the 4th edition of D&D out, a great deal of fan-created stuff have been flying all around the internet. And it goes beyond just character sheets (we had those a long time ago, because the character sheets in the books really suck, and it's almost like a legacy they feel they must carry on); people are coming up with these "power cards" and bases for miniatures and crib sheets. One dude even made this template that you can cut out, stick, and have an envelope for your power cards right there on your sheet. Anything to make the gaming experience a little easier.
Elton started a 4th ed D&D campaign a few weeks ago and I'm having fun. As a 3rd ed gamer, I find it a little difficult to let go of the rules I've grown up with. But I have to say, I do like some of the changes to the rules.
One of the main complaints was that the game has become too simplified. True, it's no longer as customizable, but the good thing is, it's a lot more forgivable. It used to be that we planned things out backwards, starting from level 20 and figuring out what you needed to qualify for whatever prestige class you wanted to play. If you wasted one of your feats on something stupid or put your skill points in the wrong skills or just took the wrong class, you might not be able to get into the class you wanted, hence the need to plan things out beforehand.
For 4th ed, you can retrain all you want, which means you can let things be a little more organic and just go with the flow. Which is good, when you have a full time job and don't have the time or energy to put that much effort into gaming anymore.
What I really really like is the fact that tanks aren't useless anymore. It used to be that tanks had a difficulty in getting the bad guys to focus on them and not, say, the party caster. Now we get a whole host of funky abilities (yes, I play a tank in a group full of guys), and it's so very dangerous to ignore us. My current character is a water genasi swordmage and I'm just loving it. Even at level one, we've got a number of tricks up our sleeves.
Gaming with a bunch of guys hasn't been an issue for me, I guess mainly because I've been gaming with the same bunch of guys. The core group, Elton, Peeyush, Dzaki, hasn't changed, and the rest I've gamed with in one way or another, so they're used to me. In general, they're pretty ok. I guess maybe because all of them are older than me and had time to grow up. I've known this bunch for seven years already, so they've had sufficient time to stare at my tits and move beyond them.
But there are some gamers I wouldn't play with, mainly because they'll do things like a) overprotect my character, even when I'm playing a tank or b) make it a point to kill it. I've heard horror stories of GMs asking a girl playing a female character for her character's menstrual cycle, because "wild beasts might be attracted to the smell". (At point of writing, Elton went, "You're kidding!" over my shoulder. I'm not.)
I guess it's really a matter of how socialised your geeks are. There are some who have never, and I mean, NEVER had any female contact in their lives beyond their mother, and those are the sort who'd ask for your character's menstrual chart. Thankfully, the guys I game with have had girlfriends before. Maybe girlfriend for some, but hey, at least they had some action.
Which is why I'm a little bemused by this female gamer who wrote a book about her gaming experiences and is now the resident female voice at the D&D headquarters. How incredibly unlucky must she have been to be able to write a book about her shit experiences? Why is there a need for a female perspective on D&D? The extent of my girliness in my gaming career has been a fully pink set of stationery, pink frosted dice (courtesy of Elton. I used to have a set of red ones that I can't find anymore), and an aversion towards classes and races that have ugly pictures. But I've not exactly interpreted rules in a "female" way or thought, "Hmm, how can I make the barbarian more girly?"
Then again, I guess she deals with the menstrual chart bunch, who think we're aliens anyway, so perhaps there is a need for a so-called female perspective on the game. So long they don't blame us for the game dumbing down.
As a beauty writer, I can safely tell you that what ages a person the most is being the Prime Minister of Singapore.
I don't usually follow politics. Except for the Big Three, I wouldn't recognize most of the local politicians even if they shook my hand and kissed my hypothetical baby. But catching a glimpse of Mr Lee in the papers today made me wonder for a while if the art people screwed up and put in his father's picture instead. Until I recognized him amidst the white hair and wrinkles.
And he hasn't been on the job for THAT long. It's been a couple of years, but the 56-year-old looks at least 10 years older. In just four years, his hair, which had been lightly grey at the temples, is now nearly completely white. The wrinkles are more deep set, the skin more crepey. I'm tempted to send him a tub of Biotherm Force Supreme anti-aging face cream except they might mistake it for some kind of attack.
Poor guy. And Mr Goh who was there before him underwent the exact same I-just-got-my-life-sucked-out-of-me process as well, just after a few years in office. The elder Mr Lee was actually a pretty good looking guy during the Merdeka period, pretty forceful and intense looking with much less dramatic eyebags. There's just something about that job.
And it's ironic, because to the common man, they'd probably think the job isn't too much of a hassle, mainly because all we see is the PM going to some event, smiling for the cameras, giving speeches. We don't see the background work, what goes on in their daily lives. Besides, they've got so very many men in white working under them, how stressful could it be?
In a way, it's kinda like my job. Both of them. A trainer once commented that stewardesses are like swans, all graceful and beautiful, but paddling away furiously underwater. People think that journalists, especially those for more frivolous subjects, like politics and crime, must have such easy lives, going for press conferences, getting free stuff, living the glamourous glamourous (oh the flossy flossy) life. I must say, I have a knack for picking them.
What they don't see is the hours opening a vein at our computers, attempting to find the right words, the right tone, the right angle to tell a story. The vicious edits, the copious rewrites, the desperate attempt to get it all in before the deadline. And mind you, we're actually good at stringing a sentence together.
But the thing is, it's not just the writing, it's the sourcing for the information to write on, the hunt for the pictures to use (I swear, I should've just worked on my Indesign skills and gone to be an art person instead), and the random other stuff that I have to do before I can actually write that's time-consuming and demoralizing.
One of the random other stuff is attending press events. I have no problems if you drag my ass out for something that is productive and cannot be communicated over the phone otherwise. You do NOT call me out there, make me wait for an hour before you get the show on the road, then reveal just ONE lousy product, and attempt to beef it up with some tangential sideshows that have absolutely no bearing to the product. We get a transport allowance we hope to keep most of. We don't get paid that much to begin with. Unless you're going to chauffeur us over there, think very carefully, because if I get pissed off, do you honestly think I'd still write a glowing recommendation?
The other thing is that these events are like a series of house parties featuring the same people. The hosts differ, but the core guests are the same bunch of writers from the same bunch of magazines. It's tough starting out because these people have known each other for a long time. And they've established a culture of their own that is completely baffling to outsiders.
For one, they're always late to events. ALWAYS. Coming on time is a sign of n00bness. It's something the PR people anticipate, and I've actually caught them out a few times, still not completely ready yet, when I arrived on the dot. I'm not sure whether it's some power play to remind the PR folk that we are the Gatekeepers of Knowledge or whether it was just bad habit that became institutionalized, but those are the rules. So you can go on time, stand around and look foolish for half an hour or more, or you can just go late, and settle in just as the presentation starts.
For another, they develop a visual filter that prevents them from making eye contact with people they don't know, as though strangers have a tendency to place inconvenient, irrefusable, impolite requests on them as soon as they catch their gaze. I know you're surrounded by the people you know. But how is it possible that you can manage to ignore me when I'm standing less than five feet away, looking straight at you with a smile on my face?
And mind you, I'm not exactly easy to ignore.
I have no qualms going up to random strangers and introducing myself. I have moments of shyness, but I'm an exhibitionist at heart. But it's just frustrating when you have to behave like a pushy credit card salesperson and literally stick your hand in their face just to get them to look at you. Despite their pally demeanour and their wacky photos of themselves in the last page of their magazine, there's one title whose editorial team is quite severely stricken by this odd blindness. Then again, maybe that's why; being so overexposed must result in a lot of people coming up to them and blathering on and on, so maybe it's some kind of defense mechanism they have.
The result is that I feel left out. I wouldn't go so far as to say ostracisized, but definitely left out. I can pretend to be one of the air-kissing gang, but that's just not who I am. I like meeting people, but only if they're open to it. If a gentle tap on your shell doesn't get you to come out, I'm not going to push it - hey, there are people out there who'd love to meet me.
I find it a matter of manners and emotional intelligence; whenever I'm part of a larger group and there's someone new, I introduce myself to them, especially if the person that brought them there is a social retard and doesn't do the introductions first. And I'll talk to them, get them to talk about themselves a bit. It doesn't matter if you don't give a shit, just display some interest. They may sometimes turn out to be interesting. After that person feels like you know them a little, they're more relaxed, they feel like they've built some commonality with the group, they're less likely to feel left out.
And I'm an only child. Where did these people grow up? In isolated mountaintop villages? It's a party, goddamn it. Having private conversations in one corner with your close friends is exactly what these things are about.
I digress, massively.
The third thing about the culture is to constantly function under this overall aura of chaos, flitting from one event to another with a number of goodie bags in tow, endlessly bemoaning and comparing the extent of work and the ridiculous hours you're putting in at the office.
Work is busy. It's supposed to be busy, that's why it's called "work", and not, say, "striking the lottery". And it's hard to understand how it can be so busy when most periodicals are released on a monthly basis and the newspaper journalists have to come up with a paper every day. If you took most magazines, ripped off the ads, we'd have less content than a newspaper.
A large part of it is the multiple meetings that has to be held before a magazine is published. The brainstorm meeting, where your ideas get shot down, the follow up meeting to see whether after investigation any of the surviving ideas passed muster, then smaller meetings to nail down exactly what goes into subsections. Then there is the waiting for the companies to send us their stuff to write about. PR people, please note. The earlier you get them to us, the more likely it'll get in. There's no last minute red-light special. You aren't marketing a world war. We work on issues two months in advance, which means now, even before Christmas, we're talking about Valentine's Day.
To be honest, I'm not certain how to streamline the process any further. And since I can't offer a suggestion, I won't knock the system too much.
I was told a large part of the job is all about time management. What job isn't? It's simply a matter of treating writing as less of a creative process and more as a task you have to quickly finish. That, and managing PR folks and their fervent belief that getting you to their event will result in a definite accolade for their thingy.
But as drawbacks go, my job doesn't have too many of them. As compared to my old job, at least I'm here all the time. After a bad day, I can go find Elton and cuddle with him. I'm able to go for shindigs. I get days off on public holidays. The simple joys of regular work that you white-collared folk can't begin to appreciate until you've done shift work.
I have an unabashed love for gadgets. And no, they don't have to be pink for me to gush all over them, although that helps.
Recently I've been thinking of changing phones. For one thing, my current job uses Lotus Notes on a Mac, which translates into I can't be arsed to even try plugging in my HTC Diamond (running on Windows Mobile 6) to see what happens. That, and I am outraged by how this supposedly high tech phone can do practically everything, EXCEPT let you customize the bloody alarm clock tone. Or the SMS alert tone, but that's not so bad, since I usually have my earphones in and the vibration tips me off.
Let me explain how crucial it is for me to wake up the way I prefer. I hold grudges. Fact. It's not nice, it's not mature, and it's not good for my health. Little things set me off, and it doesn't have to be a personal attack, it just needs to piss me off, then I ride the pissed off wave for a loooong time.
So when I can't wake up to a soothing tune, I spend the rest of the day being pissed off. And there's nothing soothing about the default tones the Diamond has for its alarm. I spent a long time cursing the goddamned Taiwanese company, until I realized its not their fault; Windows Mobile is retarded.
I swear to God, I Googled "windows mobile alarm mp3" and variations thereof till the sun came up (no, literally, then again, I started at like 3am) when I first got the phone. There were a couple of third party softwares out there that promised to allow MP3s as your wakeup call except they insisted I pay, sometimes stupid amounts, or they didn't work. Not much luck, much cursing ensued, and I was suddenly grateful that my job had irregular hours on alternate days, so I didn't have to set my alarm that much.
Most importantly, I didn't have to wake up in the morning. Consistently. Day after day. If you can't tell, I'm not a morning person. Except staying up for the beginnings of it and sleeping straight through the rest.
So now that I've started at this pseudo-office job, waking up everyday is tough enough without having either an inaudible or a banshee-esque alarm tone making it harder. I came thisclose to trading in my phone for a Sony Ericsson slider Walkman phone. And to be honest, the only reason I didn't was because I can't really go back to that level of n00bness anymore. I would get the Xperia X1, but it's a lot chunkier than my current phone and I really don't like slide-out Qwerty keypads. Messaging with one hand is impossible unless you have ridiculously long thumbs.
Figuring I can't just give up without one last fight, I Googled again. And found it.
It being SpoonAlarm v2.0 by the Spoontools. It's a small app, pretty simple, but it works. And it's free. Of course, it would be nice to donate a little something something to the guy via Paypal; if everyone who got the app gave him a dollar, that would still count for something.
And because I'm so damned happy, I'm going to make a donation. Once I verify my Paypal account.
Make sure you get v2.0 though. I downloaded the earlier version before I found v2.0 and it didn't work all that well. For one thing, when selecting your alarm tone, it didn't differentiate between picture files and music files and showed you every single bloody thing you have on your phone. For another, it didn't allow for recurring alarms, so you had to set it every day. The new version fixes all of that. If the first thing that goes off is your Windows Mobile notification sound, go switch it off under sounds and notifications. Of course, this might annoy you if you use reminders. I don't. So I'm happy.
So now my phone is more or less complete.
I did another search and supposedly, you can sync Lotus to a Windows Mobile phone via third party software. But to be honest, it's just too irritating having to use Lotus to begin with (it's really not the prettiest thing around, is it?) for me to attempt to fiddle with it. That, and the fact that it's running on a Mac just brings on a wave of despair. Besides, I use Gmail and Google Calendar (this lovely thing called mail forwarding) and my phone has WIFI and 3G and Opera, so I just get online and browse.
I was going to end off this part of the post with, "And now all that remains is fixing the fact that I can't create contact groups so sending SMSes to multiple people is a bitch", except I did a quick search and fixed it.
Get Group SMS is a freeware that just adds an additional option to the menu bar for you to select a group. The tricky thing is, you need to sort your contacts (or the ones you'll be SMSing en masse all the time) into "categories" first. I find it a lot easier to do this on your PC with Outlook first (just select the people, click Edit, then Category, then select the category. Go to the Master Category List to make up your own), then sync it to your phone. From there, if you're adding new contacts, just edit the category portion to save yourself pain in the future.
This is why, at times, I feel like I'm really a guy.
One of the things about my job is that there are times I'm not in the office at all. PR people constantly cajole us out for press conferences or events to launch something or another, or we need to go out and interview people or review places, things like that. It's not a bad thing, generally, because there's usually free food or goodie bags or some sort of a treat, like champagne at 10am, free flow, mind you. Oh, such a hard life.
But it can be quite a pain when your deadline is a couple of days away, the event is a big hoo hah over one small thing that you're not going to use for the article that's due anyway, and you have enough events that day that it makes no sense to go back to the office, but you've got an hour or two to kill in between them.
Which is why I'm contemplating getting myself a netbook. They're small, they're cheap, they let me go online supposedly anywhere, and they give me word processing power on the go. I know Sitex is on now, but braving the bargain hunting crowd is a little too much for me. (Singaporeans love their IT fairs. And their food fairs. In fact, a fair of any kind usually sees a pretty good turn out, unless there's admission fee.) Besides, they're cheap to begin with; I'd rather keep my dignity and fork out a little more then go squash with hoi polloi on my precious weekend.
The only thing is, I can't quite decide how low to go with my netbook. I'm not willing to spend more than $700, but it's got to have at least 80GBs memory, and be fast enough that I won't start tapping my fingernails on it (which is something I constantly do with the Mac at work, driving people nuts, no doubt. Maybe if I do it enough, they'll mob the IT guys and make them change my computer). I can do without silly things like a built in camera (yes, because I'm going to video call who, exactly?), but I KNOW for a fact that I'll be tempted by little nifty stuff like that.
Why can't I have a cheaper obsession?
One of my cousins is celebrating his first child's first month today, and I'm not there because I'm not exactly feeling too good and it would kinda suck to pass something on to the poor kid.
In case you've no clue what is up with this first month thing, it's a Chinese tradition to sort of tell the whole world they've had a kid and involves eggs dyed red with food colouring and hair snipping and whatnot. To be honest, I'm not entirely certain how the whole thing works, and the ceremony differs from household to household, but the generals remain the same. Though now, people moved away from just red eggs to giving out cakes, which I like, because for some reason, I feel guilty about buying a whole butter cake and scarfing it down.
What? Butter cakes are nice.
The idea of childbirth scares me a little, mainly because we were made to watch this video of it from the gynae's perspective, complete with this sharp scary pair of scissors going in to snip the woman's perineum. Yes. WTFOMGOUCH indeed. We were also told that if the cut wasn't made (I think the term is epistomy), the area might get torn, which may make healing more difficult. To which we exchanged glances and thought, if a pregnant woman managed to get on board and give birth, someone at the ground staff level wasn't doing their job right.
Then again, considering the sheer number of people wandering around, I guess its not such a deal breaker after all.
The idea of having kids scares me a little too. What if they turn out to be a disappointment? Or complete total brats? It's this fear that makes people go around complimenting ugly babies for fear that if they speak their minds, they will get retribution in the form of fucked up offspring. Do you know how to not have ugly babies? Don't fuck ugly people. Don't fuck if you're ugly. Or fuck, but please have mercy and either use protection, or save up for the kid's plastic surgery fund. There you go, problem solved.
Rationally, I know this sort of stupid ass superstition is just that, some lame social construct we come up with to stop people from voicing out not-so-charitable thoughts that may be very well valid. Look, Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie can go around telling people their kids are ugly but they're still going to have a ridiculously good looking kid because the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. And even if they do manage to get the worst mix of their genetics out, I'm sure they can afford to buy the rugrat a new nose.
But as much as I managed to turn out pretty, uh, enlightened despite my parents (I love them, but honestly, sometimes they can be a little cheena. That's the Chinese version of redneck), some of that shit still stuck. So while I'm looking at a kid thinking holy shit, those two should NOT have gotten it on, I have a lingering sense of guilt and fear that because I'm having that thought, I might black out when they present me with my offspring. It doesn't make a lot of sense, but there you go.
I do want kids at some point in time, that point being pretty far off right now. I want there to be people to cry at my funeral. What? And you guys want kids because the government says we need more people. Yeah right. Boil it down, and it's really just that I want to give birth to my own old age care system. It sucks being one of those old people with no family and no kin and no one to miss them if they should just die in their tiny one room flats or in a void deck somewhere, sleeping on cartons. If you have kids, especially if they're not too dumb or selfish, at least there's someone there for you.
It's like the ultimate guilt trip. I will give birth to you, bring you up, be all "unconditional" with my love, and you will wipe my wrinkled ass when I'm old and I can't do it by myself anymore. And everybody will be all judgmental if you don't do it. Woopee.
I mean, if you want love and affection and another living being who needs you, pets are way more low maintenance. But they lack opposing thumbs and don't really live that long, so you're very much on the care taker side of the equation. Only by spawning your own kind can you have the satisfaction of saying, "I am your mother. I can make you, and I can break you." Or rather, "Wah si lim lao bu. Li si leh kiam pah si boh?" That, and they usually go on to work, earn money and take care of you instead.
Of course, there always are those who go against the trend. It's especially true when you have a lot of kids.Three and more equals people pushing the responsibility around, and no one wanting to have the old bag at home. First borns and only children tend to have a greater sense of responsibility, but they also can get resentful when too much pressure is put on them. Especially if there are other children who get away with not doing anything. Why should I have to clean up Mom's pee when my little sister doesn't have to? they ask themselves. That's when the hot potato parent game begins.
The trick is to remain independent. Work out, live healthy, try not to have to be in a position where you have to depend on anybody, but set things up so if you need to there's a safety net to fall on. Plan B. Plan Babies. Doesn't always work out, but at least its there.
As much as possible, I'm trying to be there for my parents. Even though there are times I feel like running head first into a wall.
Like yesterday. I've been working for two weeks now, and one of the perks of being with this company is free newspapers and magazines, since, well, we print them. But like anything starting out, it's nice to hope for a smooth beginning, but it's safer to expect some false starts.
Our newspaper arrived for a total of two days. Then stopped for about five. I didn't really care because I don't have time to read the papers anyway. We never got papers before and I read them once in a blue moon, when the planets are aligned and there's nothing much else to do, so not getting it was not a big deal. My parents didn't exactly read them either. In fact, Dad's a lot more into the Chinese rags.
So I had probably one of the weirdest conversations with my mom yesterday that I've ever had with her. I'd picked up one of the two copies of the papers on the table, thinking the delivery must have arrived and someone went to buy one by mistake. Mom tells me that both she and Dad brought them home, and the delivery was not made.
She then went on to complain about some hypothetical newspaper thief who must be taking our papers sometime between when they arrived and before I left the house at 7.45am. And that I should just call my HR person and tell them to cancel the delivery if it was just going to someone else. She said she'd called the newspaper delivery number on Thursday, the day before, and told them I, new and hardworking member of the company, am entitled to and should get my daily paper on my doorstep, and they said they'd get it to me on Friday. But there were no papers on Friday. The outrage!
And I'm there, on page two of the main section, wondering where the heck did all that angst about not getting the papers come from. Firstly, its free, so it's not costing us anything anyway. Secondly, when the hell did they suddenly get so hard up about reading the news? Such PASSION in ensuring they get their daily dose of what's going on in the world. Thirdly, how the hell did she know what number to call?
In any case, the papers came again this morning. So I guess that'll be the end of that. Unless the delivery guys screw it up again.
I think one problem a lot of parents have resolving in their head is that after the first ten years or so, your kid is no longer an amalgamation of your spunk and her egg. They still go around thinking they're the Almighty Parents, Creators of Life, when the truth is, that kid is a separate being, with an independent thought process, which may come up with ideas such as the people who gave birth to it are pretty flawed. There's no special power you have over your kid that you can go, "Do this, or else..." and expect them to cower like you just held up a lump of Krytonite in a menacing manner. Or else what? You gonna vacuum your kid back into your hoochie and break him down in a bunch of cells?
If you're not a likeable person, better pray you have dumb kids, or make sure you ingrain a nice big dose of guilt, because if you have any common sense, you're not going to stick around if your dad's an asshole who gambles, drinks and beats people and your mom puts you down so hard, you wish your dad used protection. Same for your kids. Just because they were born in a different decade does not mean they'll think that differently.
How many people do you know like visiting their folks, or live near to them? Those who have a choice in the matter, that is? Housing is expensive enough in Singapore that we still stay with our folks till we're in our thirties or forties, not moving out until we get married.
It's quite a big problem, really. People don't talk about it, and there's no study for it, I don't think, but I believe the fact that people are still staying with their folks well into their thirties is infantilizing them. Like seriously, your twenties are meant for wild parties and exercising your libidos. That doesn't work out so well when you have to sneak home in the dead of the night praying no one's still up and having to have sex really quietly, shoving your partner out the door once the fluids have been tissued off.
And when that part of your life gets delayed, you find people in their late thirties still trying to act all young and hip at clubs. I'm not saying just because you're on the other side of 35 that you have to stay home and read with your bifocals on, but by that age, you should be the cool, matured, older person who chills in a corner, watching the desperate twenty-somethings rush around looking for something to hump with an amused look on your face. There's really nothing sadder than some nervous 40-year-old man with no game coming on to a hot young thing with his bald spot and his brand new Toyota Corolla, trying to get her into bed after tiptoeing past his mom's room in the little flat they share. At least have the decency to spring for a room at a hotel. It doesn't even have to be a good hotel. At least there's no worry of being caught by an old woman in her pasar malam nightgown.
That's probably why our society is repressed. A lot of folks here get uncomfortable talking about sex. I'm talking about those bland people who make up a very large part of our society. Those who have problems enunciating properly and adopt this weirdass accent when speaking to someone clearly from the States or other far flung ang moh countries. The women turn to sluts, thinking they can fuck their way out of this depressing life, the men turn to porn and misogyny, because if you can get them, hate them.
A lot of Singaporean men have this Madonna/whore way of viewing women; their girlfriends or wives have to be so pure, they don't even know where their vagina is, but the women they covet are those who really put their sexuality out there, in your face, making their two big points. And there's so much resentment/desire/envy all wrapped up in one scary serial killer combo A meal, it's a good thing we cane the crap out of rapists here, because prison just isn't a good enough deterrent.
Seriously, look at the forums and you'll be shocked at the sort of mentality some of these men have. This girl cried molest while overseas because this guy friend she was staying with in the same room in the same bed touched her inappropriately. Was it a smart thing to have a guy you have no intentions of sleeping with in the same bed with you? No. But naivety and stupidity does not mean she deserves being molested. That girl got shortchanged by the common sense fairy, but the way some guys attacked her on those forums when that news broke was just flat out cruel. They go beyond questioning her intelligence to saying stuff like how she should have been raped so at least she'll have something to complain about and how she's a whore who probably just got upset because she offered herself legs wide open and the guy didn't want to touch her and so on.
It's disgusting, how they play out their little fantasies based on the misfortunes of others, and feel the need to share them with the world. Especially when most of them are probably these grown ass men with adolescent little minds, buying teddy bears wielding big plush hearts for their insipid girl friends with their long hair and their makeup-less faces and their gold anklets and their stupid sissy names like Ting Ting or Ying Ying or some shit like that. Good god, woman, if your name sounds like someone just dropped cutlery, get another name. And WHAT is with the gold anklets? I know they put it on when we're kids for some random reason I have no clue about, but did you have to keep it on? And you can't claim ignorance, because there's no way that's the same one they strapped on you when you were a kid. It's ugly, it's cheena, so please, take it off even if it means sawing your own foot off.
And that's why I think I'll start off with maybe a dog before I really have kids.
Considering the Great Wall of Text that is my blog, it's hard to imagine that I would be at a loss for words. But I am. And it's driving me nuts.
First week of the Dream Job wasn't too bad.After a brief orientation, I was thrown into the deep end. Write. Now. Except I wasn't too sure what I was supposed to write, and in what sort of a tone. And it doesn't help that the qualities I appreciate in material goods, them being Cheap and Good, are not so important here, where the target audience probably owns skin care that could pay for the monthly installment of a small car.
Still, I'm not complaining. Too much. If anything, I'm just frustrated at myself for staring blankly at my computer, writing and rewriting and junking it all away to start afresh. I'm just supposed to come up with four lousy pages and I'm having such difficulty coming up with the words. It's like extracting teeth with no Novocaine. Like taking a shit with no fiber intake. Like plucking your eyebrows for the first time.
(What? I'm working for the beauty section of a magazine now. I can't just keep talking about disgusting bodily functions. I'd go with "Like a Brazillian wax with a trainee beautician" but I've never actually gone for one, so I wouldn't know. I do remember Elton's screams when I plucked one single strand of hair from his eyelid. So scarred was he, his brows remain in manly, unkempt fashion.)
See, I can't write in this pseudo stream of consciousness way for work. There is some editing process here, but not much, really. I write almost exactly the way I talk under normal circumstances. Yes, I talk a lot.
It's not that I can't adapt to a different tone. It takes time. And an actual knowledge of what that tone is. I get comments that I need to cut down on fluff, then I flip to back issues for inspiration and I see stuff like, "Fortunately, bubble gum eye colours kept girls from looking like over-enthusiastic American Idol contestants". Uh huh.
I don't have a problem with sentences like that, in fact, I think it injects some personality into the writing, makes it something you'd connect with better. It's also strangely easier to come up with, because your brain is in a happy place, making jokes and giggling, if a wrinkly blob of human tissue can giggle. It's when you start second guessing every other word you write, every phrase you come up with that you get stuck. Your brain basically goes, "Fine, fuck it. Fuck YOU." then goes off for a extended smoke break. And you're there, staring at your screen, wondering why you can't even write a page when you churn out shitloads of stuff usually.
Which is why after five days of typing and flipping through press releases and calling PR people to ask what the fuck was it that they wanted to say in their press releases, I'm here, still writing. It's different though. More relaxing. No need to send it on to get it sent back with vague comments about needing to change it. HOW, woman. HOW do you want me to change it. I'm so frustrated with not being able to write with my usual speed and ease that I can't even bring myself to make it a question.
I think a large part of my vexation stems from the fact that I just don't want to screw this up. And because I'm so worried I'll screw this up, my cocksure-ness about my mad skillz with teh English got drastically diminished. That really just does not help. I need to remind myself that my title is "writer". There are people whose titles are "editor". Let them look through and cut down. Just churn first.
The other thing that really got me demoralized is the fact that we use Macs. I am a PC person. I fucking hate Macs. Yes, you heard me, you hippie one button piece of plasticky shit, I fucking hate Macs. This so-called "intuitive" interface is NOT intuitive AT ALL. WHAT, pray tell, is wrong with the control and alternate keys? WHY do you have to add a fucking "Apple" key to the mix? I hate that I have to use the apple key; it makes me contort my hand in an uncomfortable manner. I hate that the mouse the ancient iMac I inherit has no scroll button. I hate that things don't run properly on Macs, like CDs and my thumb drive. I hate that I can't just right click. I hate that things are hidden in weird ass places. Why is it so difficult to see how big a file is? Why isn't there a "properties" option when I right click on it? Why does the keyboard suck so much?
It got me so pissed off, I brought my own mouse on day two after I discovered that the IT guys aren't big on changing the peripherals for you. I'm still stuck with this disgusting keyboard my predecessor managed to jaundice with god knows what by god know how, but I'm thinking I probably can't just stick any old keyboard in, since it wouldn't have an apple key.
But seriously, why Macs? It's not like we're in the art department. We use Microsoft Word most of the time, for crying out loud. Is it because its cheaper? It certainly isn't faster.
Other than that, work is good. The team is small, and they're all decent people. I think I notice a correlation between the busyness and maturity. The less busy work keeps you, the more likely you are to be bitchy, because the politics are the only thing that makes work interesting. It's a good thing our office is so inundated with stuff that people are just desperately trying to stay afloat. We don't have the time to come up with soap opera-esque storylines starring the people you know.
The thing about journalism of any kind that bothers me is the disorganization. One of the main qualities of what makes something news-worthy is timeliness, so you may have planned things out, but some asshole's going to come up with something new and you're going to have to write about that inconsiderate piece of shit, screwing all your timelines and plans. Every beauty magazine will have a section featuring new products or news about products (limited edition, charity whatchamacallit, new packaging, etc.), and writing this section is a pain in the ass, I can tell you that now.
Why? Because it's never ending. You'd think you got it wrapped up, then something else comes along and you have to shove it in. You're all ready to start working on another article, and a new pimple cream gets thrust in your face. Great. Fantastic. JUST what I needed.
And I hate clutter. I HATE clutter. And my work section is as neat as it gets, and I'm still bothered by it. We just get so much stuff and not enough storage place for it all. Walking through my editor's area is like traversing a cosmetic minefield. Everybody tries to be special with different packaging and different bags, and special press releases.
But really, I'd be so much happier if there was a nice fixed format so it's less time-consuming to organize things. Because seriously, we're obliged to go through everything anyway, so if your press release puts the important stuff out there straight up like a nympho on a first date, we're more likely to write about your product with less resentment. There's nothing worse than struggling through some shit release only to find out there's nothing new or exciting about it, like when the clothes come off and you realise it's ABNT (all bra no tits).
Speaking of clothes, the $300 I spent on my new work wardrobe is starting to do a Lehman. On the bright side, the clothes are still there. Everyone dresses quite casually, fashionably so, but jeans are ok. It helps, because now my work wardrobe has expanded dramatically.
It's kind of intimidating though, because the fashion team sits opposite me. The stylist is right next to me. If you think about it, these people are the final say in what is fashionable, for our magazine, at least. I witnessed them critiquing the jacket this girl had on, and I think she went to cry herself to sleep in a corner somewhere.
Although so far, I've hear good things. My cheap leather bag I got from some random push cart, my ten dollar rose-gold square faced watch, my knit cropped turtle-neck poncho all got good comments. I'm waiting for them to gasp in shock at some particularly unfashionable thing I might own.
But for all the stereotypes about fashion people, they're not snobby. There was no cliquish excluding-the-new-girl juvenile crap. And they don't go around dissing what people have on; that girl with the unfortunate jacket was a friend of the fashion editor, and it was more of a friendly joke than an order to take off the offending item and burn it.
Perhaps one of the reasons why I have problems writing for work is because I'm doing it while the sun's still up. I wonder if I can convince them to let me work from home. Hey, if I turn in my stuff by the deadline, that's what's important, right? You don't really give a damn if I do my writing at 3am in the morning.
Gotta go now. Testing this boob cream for work.
Elton took his dad and I to the gun range today. He now knows better than to piss me off ever again.
It's my first time at a gun range. This was in the boondocks of Bukit Timah, where there's enough wilderness that you won't accidentally shoot someone in the flat opposite. The gun range was a small one, and they only did trap shooting there, where this clay target goes flying out away from you and you have to try to hit it with your shotgun.
For most Singaporean guys above the age of 18, guns aren't anything new. They learn to use M16s in the army, after all. But I managed to somehow go to the range with three guys (the Spawn joined us as well) who did not serve in the army. And I think I did better than them. On my first time, mind you.
It sounds impressive, until you realize that we were using 12 gauge shotguns that fired 350 pellets, and all it takes is three to break the target. The pellets fly out in a 30 foot diameter, so all you need to do is to aim in the general direction of the thing and shoot.
Which was probably why I was so good at it. No brain required.
The instructor kept advising the guys to not think, just shoot. I was doing it already. Complete natural. Once the barrel of the gun is somewhere close enough to the target, just fire. You don't have to line up the sights or anything.
I was so nervous I was trembling and giggling like I always do. The shotgun was quite heavy. For me, at least. The guys had no problems. I missed my first shot. Then I hit the second one straight on, disintegrating the damn thing. And then I was hitting quite consistently from then on.
I didn't realize it until the instructor pointed it out, but I was doing what they called ambushing the target. For the sort of trap shooting we did, the target always flies out at a certain trajectory away from you, give or take a few degrees to the left or right. Because the gun was heavy and I had problems moving it, I just aimed roughly where the thing would fly past and took a shot when it did. It's supposedly harder, because your arms have to stay steady, but I'm just built weird.
Cheating, perhaps, but hey, it worked. On the first detail (25 cartridges, one box), I hit maybe about 50 percent. On my second one, I was hitting 70 percent. And the missed 30 was because I tried to do it the "proper" way. The instructors were chuckling away behind me, going, "This one ambush queen, this one." Yes, I'm damn proud of my new title.
It was especially cool because I was the only girl there at the time, so naturally, the guys looked to see if I was any good. When I figured out the trick behind it and started being quite the crack shot, they started paying attention. I felt kinda sorry for this other guy who got there before we did, had his own ear plugs and everything, and kept missing his shots.
So yes, I'm gooood. I'm fucking fantastic. I'm gonna move to the States, buy me a large area of land and purposely put lots of pricey items lying around so I can break out my shotgun and yell, "PULL!" when the burglars come a-visiting.
Thing is, I like being good at things that people generally think girls won't be as good at. Like driving a car, or fixing gadgets (I managed to hook up Elton's dad's DVD player to the TV when their entire family couldn't do it), or shooting things. There's always the initial shock factor, then after that you become one of the boys very easily. They don't give you as much bullshit, and they don't dare to dismiss you. You can hold your own in the conversation, and they know better than to shunt you away so they can do men's talk.
Some women get into the all boys' club by acting like a guy. You know the type, all professional, all uptight, all tranny who forgot her estrogen pills. They're usually extremely aggressive, thinking that the manly way to do business is the only way to do it, and that translates into every other part of their life.
It just looks so unnatural it's wrong. And it makes people, even men, feel uncomfortable.
Then there are some who get in by pretending to like guy activities. Like soccer. I swear, the number of girls who pretend to like soccer is shocking. Look, it's a shit game. It's a shit boring game with wimpy guys who fall down and roll around at a touch that usually ends with a fat load of nothing. Rugby, now that's a sport.
But that's just my opinion, and in some people's opinion, it's a beautiful game. That's fine.
I just can't stand it when some major soccer league rolls around and all these football hos come out of nowhere and start making inane comments about the game, as though they know what they're talking about. Yeah, they support Manchester United. Like they can even tell you the name of one of the mid-fielders. More likely scenario is, they show up, they scan the place for cute guys, then they ingratiate themselves when their target by claiming to be a supporter.
There are some girls who are really into the game. That's fine. But if you're not the sort to stay up to watch matches all by yourself or with friends that do not include a guy you have the hots for, you are not a fan, don't kid yourself.
And look, getting some guy to explain to you the off-side rule does not constitute being in the club. In fact, if you don't understand the off-side rule, you're so not in the club, you're standing in line around the corner of the block.
These girls really piss me off because they tend to ignore you if you're not a guy. Are you really that hard up for a man you can't even take a few minutes to chat with me? And they also tend to hate me, because the guys talk to me, about things that these girls don't understand.
The only thing is, for girls like me, we have our own set of problems. Before I learnt to dress up, I was always one of the guys. And that was it. They just didn't see me as anything more than a brother. After I dressed up, they didn't see me as a brother anymore, and I needed to prove myself by kicking ass and taking names. Then after that, they'd include me, but they'd also be kinda wary of me. Argh. I'm kinda like Bubbles, cute and sweet until I beat 37 kinds of crap out of you. It makes dating tricky.
One of the problems with keeping anything in the bathroom too long is that the mildew gets to it eventually. I've gone to the bathrooms in some people's houses and didn't dare consume any of the food on their table after that. Yes, I judge you by your hygiene. I especially freak out when I see reading material in the toilet. Like, what the fuck, man? How long do you take in the bathroom that you need reading material? Do you, like, not eat enough veggies or something?
So yes. The mold got to my razor. And I felt incredibly repulsed by it and had to get a new one.
Like most women, I fell for their marketing shtick and bought Gillette's Venus when it first came out, this particularly curvy razor that's really just a feminized version of their old Mach 3. If you compare it to the Mach 3, it's kinda like the kiddy version. Have you seen scissors for children? Yeah, same design concept. "If we put enough rounded edges on it, then the little girls won't cut themselves. Too much."
It was cool, because it had this little holder that stuck to the wall that also held the spare blades you might need in case shaving one leg alone blunted the current one. Of course, after I bought the original, I noticed two things. A) the blades for the Mach 3 cost about $6 less, and B) they released a pink version. Assholes.
But I thought, it's ok, it's not like I'm going to carry my razor as an accessory. I can own one thing that is not pink.
(Yes, the massive majority of my stuff are pink. Deal with it.)
My mom never quite understood my need for a razor. I inherited the family trait of hairlessness on BOTH sides. I've seen women with more hirsute legs than my dad. It sounds great, until you realize that you can shave, wax, thread, zap, pluck, blast (ok, maybe not blast) hair off, but there isn't much to put hair on.
And when I say hairless, I mean without makeup, my eyebrows are faint suggestions. They're there, but you can't see them unless you're standing about five feet away. It severely limits my activity choices, because the last thing you want is to emerge from the pool a la Ursula Andress and scare the crap out of little children. On the bright side, I don't really have to do much prep before I head for the pool.
I guess I'm lamenting my lack of hair because I've never had to resort to anything more drastic than a few swipes of my trusty Venus. Things might change if I should ever have to endure someone ripping off hot wax from my hoochie.
And so, with that disturbing thought, let's move on.
Thinking that now I can buy the Venus in pink, I headed for my neighbourhood drugstore to grab one. Except they didn't have it. Apparently it's limited edition or something. So I stroll on by to the men's section, and I spot the Fusion Power Phantom. Mind you, not only does it have five blades to shave you into baby smoothness and a sixth blade to cheer you on, it also sends micro pulses to make your hair stand up, AND it has a fucking stealth mode. At least, I assume that's what the Phantom part of the name is for. How kick ass is that?
Comparing it to the three wimpy blades on the Venus, and the fact that they didn't have the pink one, I decided to go with the Phantom. If nothing else, it has twice as many blades. And the so-called micro pulses makes the thing vibrate. If I still traveled, that multi-functionality comes in quite handy.
SIX BLADES leh. Why the fuck do you need SIX blades to shave your face? And why don't women have a version of that? We have just that much more real estate to use it on. Think about it. How big can your face be? My pits alone pretty much sum up your entire face. AND I still have legs. Not that I need it that much, but there be some girls out there whose calves should never see the light of day without some sort of depilatory treatment beforehand.
My hairlessness means I only need to shave my legs once in a blue moon and when I feel like it. I used to think of it as a bit of a shame, having watched one of my hairy female cousins casually use those wax strips to rip off her leg hair. At that point in time, I wanted to do that, because it seemed so fun. As you can see, the operative word is "used".
But recently, it became a little depressing. I know that with age, your metabolism slows, but your appetite sometimes didn't get the memo. I knew I'd gained weight, but most of my clothes still fit and I'm a master at layering so no one (except for my aunties, perceptive evil women) actually came up to me and pointed it out in that quaint Singaporean way, "Ay, you got fat huh?"
Small digression, Singaporeans tend to be just plain clueless about this. Like the Spawn says, they'll point out to you that you have a zit on your face. Yes, because I got up this morning, brushed my teeth, showered, got dressed and came out and at absolutely no point in time did I look in the mirror and notice that my face has a zit on it. We need YOU to bring it to our attention. Woo. Give the guy a medal. Morons.
So it used to be that about five strokes would cover the front of my thighs (what? For all the bigness of the Venus' head, most of it is just plastic and not blade). Now, it takes an extra one. I used to be so damned skinny, my thighs wouldn't meet at all when I put my legs together.
It's not that the weight gain is a bad thing. I like the fuller ass that comes with it. And so do many appreciative men I walk by, apparently. I like to catch them out occasionally, like suddenly just turn around and watch them get whiplash from snapping their heads in a different direction. It's cool, it's cool. I firmly believe that if I bother dressing up, you should bother checking me out. Have you seen girls who clearly put on their sluttiest outfit and got completely ignored? That's just sad man.
It's just, I really wish the weight gain was not so targeted. It's like I did spot training but with food. Krispy Kremes straight to the muffin top. Lasagne adding mass to my love handles. I can't sit down without my thighs fanning out in these pale fleshy slabs. The outside of my thigh still has that nice line down the middle, some definition. The inside of my thigh is a whole different story.
Which is why I finally got off my new found ass and went for Yogalates at the overpriced yoga centre I signed up with aeons ago. I had been pretty regular once, and managed to get to a point whereby I could touch my toes without too much problems. Now, I'm back to flailing at mid-calf level while the instructor is coaching the rest of the class to rest their foreheads on their knees and grasp their foot with their hands. What's wrong with you, woman? The skull is NOT connected to the knee bone for a good reason.
Yogalates is exactly what you imagine it to be. The bastard child of yoga and pilates. And there's this one instructor at the centre who runs it like the bastard child of yoga and aerobics. It's good, in that one session with her and you walk out feeling like you got into a bar brawl and someone sucker punched you in the gut. It fucking hurts to sneeze after that. It's bad, in that it fucking hurts to sneeze after that.
If you've ever felt the need to get rid of your gut, pilates really is the way to go. A lot of guys sneer at it, because it has no manly stuff like chunks of metal to haul around. But I've seen the few brave guys who come in for class, and their faces will turn blue, then purple as they tough out the exercise, before they flop on the mat looking like someone just released their balls from a vise. It's really tough, and it's really targeted, and it's just damn efficient.
Speaking of men working out, two of my best guy friends used to hit these gyms run by the National Sports Council. They didn't require membership, entrance fee was just a few bucks, but they were very pared down gyms, and some of them were quite old and not too well maintained. Elton asked why they didn't go for the more modern gyms with better equipment instead and they said other than price, those swanky fitness joints just seemed kinda gay. Working out should be more edgy and manly, not all slick and nifty. Like if you don't need to get tetanus shots after using the weights it's not manly enough.
So, Yogalates. The centre I go to has pilates classes, but the problem with them is they're usually filled with these scary women with iron abs. And I always feel like the slacker who collapses after 40 of those pseudo-crunches and the rest of the class is going on to 100.
It also has yoga classes, but they're filled with women who have rubber bands for bones. And the yoga instructors are a perverse bunch as well. They'll get you to (try to) touch your toes, resting your forehead on your knee and, this is the best part, relax. How the FUCK am I supposed to relax? I'm like turning a really unhealthy shade of crimson and sweat is pouring off my forehead like I'm this new fixture from Grohë and I'm no where even NEAR my toes and you want me to RELAX?
Or, as one instructor says, trelax (he's from India. He also wants me to touch my "toech". I would, if I knew what the heck it was).
So Yogalates is a nice mix. There are still insane people who do crazy shit like Ihavenobonessana just to warm themselves up. Show offs. But in general, the extreme cases prefer to go to the "pure" classes. That's perfectly fine with me. If I have to go get exercise to lose weight, I don't need you to come in and fuck up my self-esteem any more by smirking while I struggle to pretzel myself.
The centre also has dance classes, which I avoid at all costs. There's a Bollywood dance class. Coconut trees optional. Or maybe that's for the adwanced students. Chinese people, in general, aren't too good at dancing. Sure, there are some freaks of nature who can get down and move it all around. I mean, we're one of the largest populations in the world. Sooner or later genetics will give you a Yao Ming. But most of us don't got no rhythm and we don't know where our hips are.
I'm not too good at dancing. Fact. I drink enough, and I think I'm damn good at it. What I lack in skill, I make up for in enthusiasm. I discover that's usually a good tactic for most activities. Yeah, you know what I'm talking about.
But my point is, you don't exactly get sloshed before attending a dance class, even if it's a Bollywood dance class. There are steps to follow. And without alcohol, the cover of darkness, strobe lighting and the ability to just shimmy any old how and call that freestyling, I look like a right fool attempting to do the energetic shoulder shrug thingy. Laugh all you want about their crazy overacting and their unbelievable story lines, but those people can dance.
Even worse, there's also a belly dancing class. I attended that twice, and swore never to go back. For one thing, one of the instructors has a waist the size of my wrist. And she has shit taste in music. Like really really bad music. Take elevator music, put a techno beat to it, and that's what she wants us to dance to. Seriously, woman. With so very many kick ass tracks out there, I fall to my knees in the pouring rain and shout "WHY?!?!" to the heavens regarding your dubious taste in music.
The first time I went, I couldn't help but notice that the attendees were clearly really into it. All except me and this other lady, first timer as well, had on these shimmy belts, sashes with a lot of metal plates and bells on so every ass shake resulted in a loud jangling sound. Some even had on full regalia, with baggy chiffon pants and dance shoes straight off the set of I Dream Of Jeannie. One lady looked old enough that she might have stole it off the actual set.
So while everyone else looked really pro (and I mean professional in the traditional sense of the word) shaking their bon bons and jangling away like some perverse orchestra, I felt like I was doing it all wrong.
I went back again a few months later after a shopping trip in Hong Kong yielded a shimmy belt. Do not ask me why I had to go Hong Kong to buy a shimmy belt. I was there, it happened to be there, and so I bought it.
Armed with my new tool, I went for class again, with much confidence and great excitement. My ass made noise when I shook it, and it was gratifying. Except it being a dance class, we had to check ourselves out in the mirror a lot to make sure we were doing it right. And everytime she asked us to do a body roll, I did more of a body bend. She came over to help me attempt to isolate the different muscles of my abs. "Contract this part first, then release that while you contract the middle part," she coached.
I tried my best, I swear. She gave up after realizing that my fat just glued everything together in a not too malleable chunk. And I was too ashamed to ever go back again after that.
It's ironic, really. The activities that supposedly help you lose weight are difficult to attend unless you're actually fit and skinny. Maybe it's a good thing I got those six blades to go over the new found lands.
