15 posts tagged “musings”

Elton found himself a new best friend after busting one of his tyres recently. A quick call to the Automobile Association sent this mechanic with a really odd first name over to his place. Well, it wasn't so much odd as so mundane a name that you wouldn't really name someone or yourself that. Boy. What kind of a name is Boy? Like how many sisters must you have that your parents have either no clue what male names sound like or figure they'd just differentiate you by gender? More importantly, does that mean you have a sister named Girl?

But, strange name aside, Boy the mechanic seems to be excellent at his job. After the brief encounter they had over the tyre, Elton decided to pay him a visit at his workshop to get more of his car fixed.

So all in all, it set him back $900 to get everything fixed. His bumper, the leaking pipes, the engine, the works. Even added two fog lights in just in case all the street lights should ever go out and we have to drive by the illumination of his lights. Now, I feel a need to stress that last bit was at Elton's insistence.

What was impressive was how Boy took the time to explain, in detail, exactly what needed to be changed, why, what were the different grades of the parts available and whether it's worth it to skimp or better to splurge. He also gave a timeline for how long the whole thing would take (a grand total of two days), called to confirm on the day itself if the car would be finished, and gave Elton back a cleaner car than what he brought in. Even the floor mats were vacuumed. A black oil mark some other mechanic left inside the car was gone, though its more stubborn companions remained, somewhat diminished.

This is quite a drastic departure from the one other mechanic Elton dealt with, who was, sadly, his old classmate. Communication was limited at best, and there was no such detailed explanation. It was pretty much a don't-ask-don't-tell sort of situation. Good, in that you won't spend money on anything other than why you brought it in for. Bad, in that you have no clue what condition your car is really in. The car's been to that workshop a number of times already, but some chronic problems (like all three pipes were leaking, there was no freon left, which was why the aircon was not cold, the rubber on the windshield wipers had hardened, and the tyre pressures were all too low) were never identified, much less fixed. The worst part was not knowing when the car would be fixed, and it often took the better part of a week and much calling before you'd even find out what was going on.

So now the car seems to be purring along better now, and Elton was so incredibly pleased with his very detailed, itemized receipt that he showed it to me with all the pride of a kid with a glowing report card. Pretty obvious he'll be going back to Boy's workshop in the future. (I'm not paid for this, but hey, I'll take the good karma for it - Boy's workshop is at the Caltex Station along Lorong Chuan, just outside Serangoon Gardens. In case you're looking for a good mechanic.)

On the topic of service, my parents bemuse me. They're both sales people; Dad sells mattresses, Mom sells furniture. So you'd expect them to understand what annoys sales people on commission the most; making one guy do all the work, explaining all the details to you, then going somewhere else to buy the thing. Unfortunately, that seems like what they plan to do.

We're thinking of trading in our old massage chair. It's so old, it's of the generation where the rollers had fixed paths, and you'd better be 5'7" with broad shoulders or it'll hit you in all the wrong spots. Nowadays, all the chairs have adjustable rollers so it doesn't matter what size you are. We've been thinking of that since the new chairs came out, but trading in wasn't an option previously.

Now though, it's possible, and we can get a pretty good price for our old chair. The new one is still going to set us back by a few thousand dollars, but it's not so bad. Out of the generosity of my heart, I said I'd pay for the chair.

Since Dad bought the chair originally, we had to clear it with him because replacing anything he bought without getting permission first is just asking for a week, maybe two, of him glowering around the house. Good news was, he agreed. Bad news, he insisted on checking with the vendor at his workplace if they could give a better price.

It turns out we can get it for 10 percent less at his workplace, but only if we pay with a certain credit card that I don't own. Well, I used to, but I canceled it a long while back (what? I wasn't using it).

So now, the thing that bothers me the most is, I gave that sales person my word that if we were to get the chair, I'd get it from him. It's just not fair that he took all the time to explain everything to us and we just up and give his commission to some other dude. I know it doesn't benefit me in the least, but I've also lived in a household where my parents come home and complain about customers who do exactly that (sales people talk; don't think they don't know your sneaky ways). This guy may be just some stranger doing his job, but he's someone's son, probably someone's husband.

My hesitation to get the chair from Dad's workplace made Mom think I have no intention of changing the chair, transforming her into this gruff barking person. Whenever she's annoyed, it sounds like she's trying to imitate a big dog barking when she talks, with this bass, hollow quality to her short, antagonistic sentences.

Thing is, I want to change the chair. And I have no problems with paying $400 more (it's on zero percent installment anyway, the extra bump is not that painful when spread out like that), not that I'll be able to get the discount anyway, since I don't have the credit card. The issue is, a) it's stupid saying I'll pay for the chair, then get Dad to sign it on his card, paying him back subsequently, and b) I'm breaking my promise.

I don't like to go back on my word. I don't give it lightly, and I can be prone to cutting it very close (basically, if I start phrasing things very carefully, you know I'm just trying to weasel out of it), but once I do promise something I try my damndest to go through with it. I blame it on reading too many fairy tales, since the fey don't lie, although they'll bend the truth till it's a hair from breaking. But it makes me feel like a good person, and I'll try to keep it that way.

Which is why I'm quite concerned for Kym at the moment. Our new careers aren't exactly working out, but she seems to be having a more difficult time than I at adjusting to the new culture. Her industry is a lot more technical than mine with so much to learn. (Truly, it's not difficult being a journalist, but if you can't write, you can't write.) It doesn't help that there's one particularly nasty person in her workplace. On the bright side, they're on the same rank, so she doesn't have to take orders from the bitch or anything. Then again, you don't have to be outranked by a bitch to be terrorised by her.

Over speakerphone, she told Elton and I about her problems at work, and asked if we could think of an alternate career she'd be better at. As much as I'd like to give her an answer, the truth is I have no clue either. I mean, I supposedly got my dream job, but I'm still dreading going to work everyday. I'm still thinking about things in a temporary fashion.

But because I said I would think on it, I'm thinking on it. And I'm hoping somehow I can at least point out a job she would like to do and be good at doing.

It's a good thing I don't have that many friends, otherwise I'll never get anything done.

My new netbook makes me feel rather Carrie Bradshawish when I blog. I rather like that, actually, except that the strangely reflective screen shows me a Chinese girl with short hair and specs (what, I wear them at home) rather than a Caucasian woman with curly blonde locks.

But stilll, it makes me have this feeling like I can come up with these thought provoking posts about life, love and lust.

Well, I'll try. That's sort of why I switched on the little guy.

Recently I keep reading about women who put love on the backburner, if not in the freezer to be reheated when they should eventually find a need for it. First up was Sugarbabe, the Book That Screwed Me Over. It screwed with my head enough that I went around feeling really weird for a very long time. I mentioned it before, but for a quick refresher, it's the supposed auto-biography of some Australian woman who had an affair with a married man and quit her job to be his mistress, until his wife found out and ended it. Jobless, she decided to be a sugarbabe, posting an ad on the internet and sleeping with men for a stipend. She found it important to stress the fact that she was only sleeping with one man at a time. I'm not sure it makes her any less of a whore.

What? Is that not the technical term for someone who sleeps with someone else for money? Disguise it as much as you like with the idea that you're just acting like a counsellor with benefits, that you're just providing a service, but at the end of the day, that is your chosen profession, so please, don't make too much of a fuss or get all offended when people break it down and call a spade a spade.

The reason why that book bothered me so very much is because she basically stated that all men will eventually sleep around, and that all women should just accept it.

Oddly enough, that statement doesn't bother me the way you'd think it does. I do actually agree with that. We are not meant to be monogamous, basic physiology sort of determines that. But because we have all these social constructs and morality issues, we insist on exclusivity in a relationship, we expect loyalty, we bind our partners to us in a contract that demands nothing less that complete faithfulness. There's a reason why men freak out at the thought of marriage; it's not that they think it'll curtail their amazing pussy-getting ability (hell, some of them won't be getting any outside of the poor gullible women they managed to con into being with them), but more the idea that if they slip up, they are contractually in the wrong. If somehow, magically, they fell down and accidentally plunged their erect dicks into some random cunt that happened to be just lying there on the ground, a mob of morally outraged people comprising of their family, friends and random other moral authorities can rush out of the bushes and condemn him for it.

The best way to explain why the book bothered me would be to relate this one strange question someone asked me. Am I a jealous person? I took a moment to really think about it, then said no, but I am possessive.

What's the difference? What gets me riled up about a potential rival isn't so much that my partner might cheat on me, but that the skank has no right to barge in on my territory. I get more hyped up about defending my turf than questioning whether my boyfriend loves me. I have no issues with my guy checking someone else out. Stretching it further, it may be that I may be able to accept my guy having someone else on the side, but should I find out about it, I will definitely have the need to assert my dominance by introduce the new girl's face into the pavement a couple of times. And after enough genuflection on her side and her admittance that she is nothing more than a sperm receptacle and that I will always be number one and she will know her place and stay lower than it, Granted, I may be outweighed by most women, but I figure if my guy's going to cheat on me, it makes little sense that he'll go for a heifer, so I should be able to take this hypothetical slut down.

So, after having to deal with that major mind fuck, I came across an article about trophy wives and trophy husbands, these Gattaca-perfect married couples who came together to merge their wealth, qualifications and good looks together in a very businessy transaction.

I guess it's all well and good for them. Hell, it's not exactly anything new either; the old money families have been doing that for ages. The idea of a vapid trophy wife really only applies for older men who got sick of their equally well-moneyed, well-educated and strong wives. THAT'S when they go for a younger, dumber, subservient chick with big tits. They never marry someone like that upfront. That's the way of the world, the way it has always been, and I'm just amused they think it's something new. Like part of them really enjoys the fact that they are making such a grown up, business decision and they just landed this perfect life by putting love aside. They pretend to be all jaded, all resigned to fate, when they're just secretly so damned pleased with themselves.

At least, until their perfect husband has a little something something on the side, with someone who may not be as well educated, rich or perfect, but makes your robot husband feel passion like he never has before. Then they freak out, flip out, yank out the marriage certificate and demand loyalty. You are only supposed to fuck me! Me and my perfect pussy! Yeah right, sweetheart. Being the First Wife is your chosen profession, go suck on your giant solitaire diamond ring in your corner and face the facts; just because you two have no passion doesn't mean your rich, good-looking husband can't find someone who gets his blood heated.

I'm not saying that the First Wife has no right to get upset. I'm just saying that's the way it is. You enter a marriage as a business transaction, you can't even say that you love the man, much less that you enjoy sex with him, so can you really get on your high horse and be morally upset when he chooses to outsource the things you can't provide? Should you not, in fact, be sort of grateful that you don't have to deal with that part of his needs? Shouldn't you just be thankful if he manages to pick someone who doesn't push for anything more, like your position?

Things don't have to be that way. Really, they don't. That fairy tale marriage is not completely impossible, so long you stop thinking it has to fit the stereotypical fairy tale. I don't have the answers, but I believe a large part of it would be just to be realistic. Be the best you can be for the other person, and don't take it personally if that isn't good enough. Remember they have a choice of who they want to be with, and be glad if they choose to be with you. It's not easy, that's why we come up with conventions like marriage and monogamy to tie people 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.

Yes, it's another post about shoes. Talk to the title, the text don't want to know.

You'd think after 25 years of having to wear shoes, I'd wise up about how to pick them. I think I finally have. And because I'm such a nice person, I'll even share it with you.

And here it is, the only tip you'll ever need when it comes to buying shoes.

If you put it on, and it hurts, don't buy it.

Really, it's that simple. Backhand the sales girl who tells you it'll stretch, do your best Mr. T. impression ("I pity the foo who has no fucking brains."), and walk out of there. Shoes do NOT stretch. The ones that you need stretched are the ones that will not budge a millimeter. Those are the stiff sort, usually made of patent leather or some other such material. Even if they are the right size, they will kill your feet after less than an hour of walking around in them.

That's not to say you'll never wear a pair of patent leather heels. Just make sure the material flexes. For some weird ass reason, some shoe manufacturers choose to stiffen the sides and back of the shoe with cardboard. As though without it our feet would be a shapeless blob of flesh. It is NOT necessary, people. AT ALL.

I feel a need to post this after buying three consecutive pairs of shoes from Charles & Keith that hurt. Yes, I know the obvious question is why the heck did it take THREE pairs before I decided to give up. Well, they're really quite pretty. And I've got their discount card. In other words, I thought with my other head. Guys have a pretty obvious other head they think with, and it's all about finding their next field to plow. Let's call this their Fuck Head. Girls have another head that you can't see, but makes them do stupid things like buy pretty shoes that hurt their feet, date assholes who should be so lucky to even breathe the same air as them, and keep their mouth shut even when they're in the right. This is what I call Fucked (in the) Head.

Well, I managed to cure my other head of two out of three of the main problems. Which isn't too bad.

As much as I would like to support our homegrown brand, I find little reason to. It's affordable, $30 to $50 for a pair of shoes. Nowadays the designs available are pretty trendy (there was a period of time they had NOTHING except kitten-heeled sandals, of the sort the Shenton Way admin assistant types like to wear). And their size range is quite good.

The problem is, they hurt. They do have stuff that don't hurt, like their flip flops and their sneakers, but if I can't even buy a pair of ballet flats that are comfortable, there's something very wrong here.

The other day, I went for my cousin's wedding in a pair of gorgeous creamy pink and beige patent leather peep-toe pumps (if you're drawing a blank, just imagine high heeled covered shoes with the front bit cut out so you can see my first two toes)
from Charles & Keith.  By the end of the night my feet were so destroyed, my blisters had blisters. No, really. I didn't believe it myself until the one on top popped and I noticed there was one underneath it.

That was the first pair. The second pair: black patent leather Mary Janes with a four inch heel and a zipper across the strap (high heeled covered shoes with a strap over the top of the foot). That pair I purposely bought a size larger because the proper size squished my toes. Unfortunately, just one size larger equals too damn big. And I got blisters from those too, thanks to all the friction.

The third mistake, which I bought the day before yesterday, is a pair of black and gunmetal patent leather ballet flats with bronze coloured rivets. I don't know how this is possible, but the heel area pinched so badly because the material was so stiff, I couldn't even walk properly. Hello new blister.

Probably a good thing Elton isn't into feet either. We'd be having a pretty dry spell otherwise, considering the state of my poor feet.

Yes, I know that the common factor is the patent leather. Look, the reason why there are so very many women's shoes is because looks are everything. Otherwise we'd all be wearing Dr. Scholls. And besides, shiny leather doesn't necessarily equate pain, as I found out.

Determined to find shoes that looked good and didn't hurt and didn't expect me to sacrifice my first born, I went shopping again. And I found it in the most unlikely place; Far East Plaza.

Far East Plaza (not to be confused with Far East Shopping Center) is a haven of very many tiny little shops. Level One, especially, is a wonderland. It is THE place to go shopping. There's air conditioning, cleanish toilets (I usually hop to the hotel next door or the DFS opposite if I want really clean ones), lots of shops and lots of cheap cheap stuff that don't always look cheap. It's like a filtered version of Bugis Village; less crap to sift through, but at slightly higher prices.

Thing is, most of the shops at Far East tend to bring their stuff in from North Asia; China, Korea, Japan (not much). And apparently, they all have tiny feet over there. Their largest size was often 39, and there is no way in hell that is really a 39. It felt like they just made a whole bunch of 37s and stamped on different numbers.

But in recent times, things have changed. There's a shop called Trendy Zone on Level One (see, there's this giant putrid neon yellow sign that says Level One) that I always head to. They have my size and beyond (they stock up to 42s), the shoes look great, and they're so ridiculously cheap, I handed over $50 for two pairs of shoes and still had change. Two bucks worth of change, might you, not ten cents.

The best part; they're comfortable. I bought a pair of grey ballet flats with an Oxford design and a pair of (wait for it) black patent leather high-heeled Mary Janes. The difference between this pair and the pair from Charles & Keith? They fit, and they flex. The shoe moves with my foot, the material bends, and it makes a world of difference. According to the sales girl, her friend who works in a bank and has to stand all the time bought that pair, then came back and stockpiled another pair because it was so comfortable.

I know I've got two pair of MJs now. And this hurts you how?

In other news, I went for this monthly alumni gathering my faculty has. It's great, in that we get free food (nachos, buffalo wings, calamari) and free beer (and it's really good stuff that they brew themselves). Unfortunately, I knew no one there, because no one from my year had the decency to show up, except one girl whose name I can't remember.

I went there because at an interview I attended, I ran into a guy from my school. We had a brief conversation, and agreed to meet at the gathering to chat a bit more regarding the job I was applying for. I didn't take that job, but I figured I'd still meet up because it's a Thursday and Elton was busy getting his ass dragged all over the Punggol river (Spawn took the boys wakeboarding).

It was weird, talking to him. He reminded me a great deal of my younger self. Idealistic, with weird principles and a bizarre need to be edgy. By bizarre need to be edgy, I mean this strange desire to be awkward, because something that's awkward and ugly has to be genuine. Kinda like those pictures photogs like to take of ugly people; surely, that is truth.

We're the same age, but since he's a guy, he lost two years to a bald, green, gun-toting hell. And that two years made such a huge difference. If I ever doubted that my stint as a stewardess made me grow up, talking to him proved it to me.

Like me, he started doing a job that wasn't his dream job because it was the first thing that fell into his lap. Seeing that I nailed mine, he asked how I went about it. As I described how I went through the interview, he kept saying things like, "That's too smooth" and "That's a bit too slick". One would think I went in there in an evening gown with a glass of martini and a cigarette in those long holders and did a Marlene Dietrich impersonation.

Thing is, I wouldn't have conducted myself in the same way two years back. I would have been a lot more formal, a lot less assertive, and much too prone to rolling my eyes. Even then, I was too emo for my own good, constantly thinking that everybody's hypocritical and desperate to tear down the facades that everyone hid behind by making snarky comments. It was quite passive aggressive and not particularly productive.

Confronted with the male version of my past, I wonder if he saw me as a sellout. That I'm one of those fakers who uses slick lines to get my way. Two years ago, I'd have viewed his job, the one I interviewed for, in the same way he does as a complete abomination, a crime against the journalistic integrities of blah blah blah. Now, if the pay had actually been decent, I'd have no qualms about doing it. Considering that I once threw a fit because the newspaper I wrote for insisted that I added this company (which catered this party the paper had) in a story I was writing, never mind that it didn't fit with my theme at all, I've come a long way, baby.

I guess the question is, am I a sellout? Is that a bad thing? Or have I just lost my idealism and come to grips with reality? Have I now really just come to realize the fact that if the shoe doesn't fit, don't fucking buy it and hope it'll expand?

I can tell you this much. Two years ago, I wouldn't have been able to play the game. I wouldn't have attempted to befriend my future bosses at all, in this attempt to maintain a professional relationship. Now, I know that just because I'm approaching them in a more informal manner and being all friendly doesn't mean I'm being fake. I actually do like them. And friendliness doesn't mean I can't maintain professionalism (the difference is telling them a one-liner summary and not a blow-by-blow account of your weekend if they should ask about it). Ironically, this supposedly smooth and slick me is a lot more genuine than the old me.

Hey, it worked. So what if I'm smooth?

What I miss about my old job:

• Leaving all this behind every few days.
  
• Having my own room in a five-star hotel where I can rock star out and be a slob.
  
• Shopping in places that have my size (Australia).
  
• Shopping in places that charge ridiculously low prices (Hong Kong, Taiwan, Bangkok, mainly)
• Eating authentic Korean food where you order one dish and they fill the whole table with kimchi and other appetizers, FOR FREE (Seoul, and oddly enough, Auckland).
  
• Feeling less guilty about buying branded stuff because it's just that much cheaper (Coach in US, LV in Paris, Gucci, Prada, Miu Miu in Milan).
  
• Krispy Kremes.
  
• Going through kickass drugstores where there's just sooo many things to look at (Japan, Korea, Taiwan, Hong Kong. I even feel happy going through Watson's in Singapore).
  
• Cold weather.
  
• How the hours are all broken up.
  
• Rimmel, the make up brand. (Australia, US, Europe).
  
• Primark in the UK.
  
• Roasted duck rice from The Gold Mine in London.
  
• Watching E! TV.
  
• Watching Cartoon Network. 
• Getting paid four times a month.
  
• Getting paid that much.
  

Things I don't miss:

• Flying off every few days.
  
• Missing out on shindigs.
  
• Having to cut my hair short.
  
• Having to put on blue eyeshadow and red lipstick AT THE SAME TIME.
  
• Having to wear that uniform (it's not the most comfortable thing).
  
• Working with morons.
  
• Working for morons.
  
• Doing the same shit every single time.
  
• Waking up in a strange room.
  
• Being away from Elton.
  
• Hours of trying to look busy.
  
• Cleaning toilets.
  
• Smelling stale farts.
  
• Pretending to be humble.
  
• Pretending to be stupid.
  
• Pretending to give a shit (sure, don't take your baby out of the bassinet. It's not my fault if you get mashed baby bits after the turbulence hits).
  
• Fixing Singapore Slings.
  
• Feeling lonely and not having Elton there. 
• Having to prepare for flights.
  
• Living out of a suitcase.
  

Everything I miss, I wouldn't go back for because I can still remember the dread of having to wake up at 4am to report for a flight. Or leaving on Fridays, realizing it's another weekend I can't spend with Elton. Transcience bothers me. As much as I can adapt, I still need some level of routine, some stability.

So no, I don't regret quitting.

I remember when I used to fly, some of the other girls had a thing for fridge magnets. Encountering that obsessive behaviour for the first time while I was in Milan, it sort of stunned me for a few minutes as I attempted to wrap my brain around it.

Fridge magnets. Why the fuck would you want to buy a fridge magnet? Aren't those the sort of things you get as free gifts then end up sticking on your fridge to keep notes up? For that matter, what the hell is wrong with a notice board that you have to use your fridge to leave notes? More to the point, why can't you just tell you family members to their face about something or give them a call?

Anyway.

The whole point of the fridge magnets is to have an electrical appliance that presumably everybody in the family and those who visit your house will go to at some point in time flaunt your well-traveled status for you. Unsuspecting guest goes to get a drink, is floored by your fridge sporting more metal than an army officer who single-handedly defeated enemy forces by rescuing the top scientist of the country, blowing up their major Death Star-like weapon and doing all this with nothing more than a Swiss Army knife and balls of steel. Then, while he's there gawking like a fool at your very many magnets accumulated from years of traveling, you can show up and say something pithy, like, "I just felt like having something to remember my travels by."

That's why we have cameras.

And it was hilarious, listening to the girls talk about the pitfalls of magnet collecting, such as how if you slam the door too hard, they might fall off, and how the metal sometimes rusts, leaving little brown circles on your poor fridge.

I guess it was a good idea when the first person came up with it. Then after that 7,000 other stewardesses couldn't come up with something more original and thus was born the lame ass I-can't-believe-we-get-paid-for-this-shit industry known as fridge magnet memorabilia.

Seriously. Couldn't you get something a little more functional? Like pens? Or coasters? I'd say T-shirts, but other than Amsterdam, I have not found another city that makes cooler souvenir shirts (I bought Elton that has these squares with silhouttes of curvy women in them with "Amsterdam's Famous Windows" on it. It looks like some sort of James Bond style art). Then again, Amsterdam's souvenirs are unbelievably cool, of the you'd get it even if you weren't a tourist level.

Then again, who am I to talk. Let's just dispel one of the myths about flight crew right now. When we travel for work, our passports don't get stamped, so we don't have stacks of passports with insane stamps from all over.

So without that sort of evidence, we turn to other things. Some to fridge magnets. Others to photography. Others to shopping (I stopped shopping in Singapore entirely, but that was due to cheaper prices and better fit, not a need to snobbishly claim that every article of clothing I had on came from foreign shores). I turned to those damned cabin crew luggage tags.

We have those on our check-in luggage, stating the destination, the date and the flight number. Each tag holds nine rows, so that's technically four flights (e.g. Osaka, Singapore, Sydney, Singapore, you get the picture). My very first tag was so kickass, it prompted one of the senior crew to beckon the rest of the flock around to gawk at it. It was something like Milan, Barcelona, Paris and some other flight I can't remember. That was when Milan-Barcelona was still a new flight.

I don't keep them in good condition though, which doesn't really make sense. Then again, by the time the tag gets taken off, it would have been through so many baggage handlers, it's usually furled up in a fetal position, sobbing quietly and praying that the pain will go away.

The other thing I kept pretty obsessively were maps. Usually the concierge will give you a free map of the city if you ask, or the hotel might provide one in your room (like the very cool pocket sized pop-up one in the Crown Promenade, Melbourne). I never left the hotel without one of these in my bag, mainly because I was shit-scared of getting lost in a strange city.

Yes, I know there's such a thing as Google Maps. But they come in handy, such as when we're trying to figure out where to stay in Melbourne.

Elton and I are going on a holiday. Don't ask us why we picked Melbourne. But it's cool, since he has friends there, there's a casino for him, and Valley Girl for me, the fantastic beef noodles at Mekong and Krispy Kremes. That's really enough justification for me.

As usual, we left it to the last minute, so prices are something stupid. Our attempts at penny pinching included strong-arming a travel agent and going on to those online price comparison sites with the two syllable names that sound like some African tribesman. The former whimpered that he still had a family to feed and couldn't lower the prices by too much. The latter defeated us by the sheer volume of crap we had to sift through.

And so we decided to help an honest man feed his family and satisfy our need for maximum pleasure, minimum fuss by going with the former. With the air tickets anyway. And going online to get our room. Usually cheaper if you book direct with the hotel via internet.

Which brings me to my point of how we spend our money.

At a dinner with another couple, we chatted about how men seem to be inextricably drawn to anything that has the three words of the title on it. Women sometimes go wild about limited editions, but collectibles don't really intrigue us as much. We're already make a point of collecting things like shoes and handbags, so really, it's just that you men are little behind on this acquisition trend. We know you don't need to label something as a collectible in order for it to be one.

But when it comes to pooling money together for something, we start to make weird choices. Like forking out four digit sums to go read a book on a beach half the world away. Or going to the zoo in, say, San Diego, when we couldn't be arsed to get our behinds to Mandai, a lot nearer and pretty world-class too.

Yes, travel baffles me, because I'm not certain why we would suddenly go out and do things we wouldn't normally do at home anyway. Just because it's in another country doesn't make it better. If you wouldn't take photos of yourself in front of those colonial-era shop houses in Arab Street, I don't see why you have to go post pictures on Facebook of you grinning like a fool with some old church you probably don't know the history of just because it was in London.

By the way, if you're on my Facebook and saw the deluge of albums I posted of my trips as a stewardess (no, without the uniform, you weird weird person), it was just me acting out against the many people posting shiny happy pictures of themselves. Like a visual "Fuck you, have you been to the places I've been? " sort of bitch slap. So what if you got a new dog? I petted a damn cool looking one. In Capetown. Neh ni neh ni boo boo.

Childish, I know.

It makes sense if it were something you don't get at home, or you're in the place of origin, like going to watch Muay Thai fights in Thailand, or the fucking Taj Mahal. Then sure, by all means, go for it.

But the thing is, most of the stuff you can get in any other country you can get in Singapore too. We just lack a H&M, otherwise we pretty much get everything here. Most of the things you can do in any other country, you can get it here too. If not, Malaysia has them, and it's so close by. So no, travel doesn't appeal to me all that much.

The only thing it does for me is to give me an adventure with Elton. The Phuket trip was initially a bit of a pain, but after we got over our neuroses and chilled, we came back thinking it was great fun, and we got to do a lot of things we never would do otherwise, like ride elephants and horses and see young children kick the shit out of each other. It's the shared experience part of it that I value enough to be up at 5am scouring those evil travel websites for a good deal.

I guess the reason why we do stupid things like buy fridge magnets, hang on to battered luggage tags and maps and take ridiculous gigabytes worth of photos is because we don't want to forget. But none of these memorabilia really compare to the actual memory of the event. That is about as special as it gets, so put down the bloody camera and actually go experience it.

A nice lady met with me on Saturday and listened to my tale. She asked me a number of pointed questions, made me examine what was going through my head, and gave me a clarity I didn't expect. I won't say I'm filled with joy about life, but I'm functioning more properly now.

One of the most important things she told me was something about a cognitive behaviour theory or something like that, which is the idea that towards any given stimuli, we develop thoughts about it, which influence how we feel about it, and result in us acting in a certain way towards it.

For example, some guy steps on your foot. You might think he stepped on it on purpose, which would make you feel angry, and might lead to you picking a fight with the guy. Or, you might think it was just an accident, which would make you brush it off, and go on to live your life like nothing happened.

She said the important thing is to catch ourselves at the thinking stage, and to develop different thoughts about the stimuli instead of going with just one, especially if the initial thought was a negative one that's going to lead to badness. Clearly, those aren't her words, since "badness" most likely isn't a term they'd encourage a trained counselor to use.

But of course, that's not always going to happen, so instead of stewing and letting the bad thoughts build up, it's important to communicate what's bugging you to the person involved. Because sometimes, it's really just a misunderstanding. Sometimes, the other person doesn't know what the fuck just happened, or why you're so angry.

And of course, there's a bad way of communicating and a good way of doing so.

You could storm up to the foot-stomper and say, "Hey, motherfucker, you don't go stepping on no people's foot!" (I don't know why, but the belligerent ghetto speak is the way I picture most verbal challenges. I think it's just too much American TV shows.) That'll most likely lead to the other person being defensive and getting aggressive back.

Or, you could go up and say, "Hey, you stepped on my foot." Most people would probably apologize, but if they get all snotty and go, "So what?" then refer to the earlier paragraph.

But the point is, but telling the other person what is bothering you, you stop the mind games. You stop picturing what might have been, you stop harping about the thing all day. You get it off your chest, you see what actually happens, and that's that. You let it go.

The other day, I picked up someone's handphone while walking along the street with Elton (he claims he saw it too, but I doubt it). So again, like the good samaritan that I am, I called the last dialled number with the intention of giving it back. Fortunately, last dialled number was Home, so that made my job a little easier.

Unfortunately, that was the end of the easy part.

The woman who picked up was most likely in her fifties, Chinese, and incredibly belligerent. The conversation we had was in Mandarin and quite fraught with difficulties, and it had nothing to do with our command of the language.

Woman: "Ha-low!"
Me: "Er, hello, I found this phone and I'd like to return it."
Woman: "Who are you?"
Me: "I'm just a passerby. I found this phone and I thought I'd give it back."
Woman: "Why are you calling?"
Me: "....I was walking along the street, I saw this handphone on the ground, and I called this number with it so that I can give it back."
Woman: "What are you talking about? What phone?"
Me: "This handphone that I'm using right now, this black Samsung handphone that I think belongs to maybe one of your kids or something!"
Woman: "Who are you?"
Me: "I'm just a passerby, you won't know me even if I told you my name, right?"
Woman: "What do you want? Why are you calling?"
Me: "Why are you being so fierce? (Because she was raising her voice at me and I was just losing my patience.) I found one of your kids' phone, and I want to give it back."
Woman: "(Silence for a few minutes. Most likely wondering if I was some con artist her most likely grown kids warned her about.) I'll call my kids and check."
Me: "Fine. Then when I pick up, you'll know which one lost their phone."

It took about a minute, then the phone rang.

Woman: "Hello, Hui Hui ah..."
Me: "Ah, so Hui Hui lost her phone."
Woman: "(Silence) Oh, so you picked up her phone."
Me: (rubbing temples) "Yes. And I am trying to return it."
Woman: "Ok, I'll call my son. You wait for his call."

The important part about this whole convo I'd like to highlight is the part where I called her out for being a bitch. After I said it, I had a omgwtf did I just do moment. On the bright side, after I said it, it did get her to stop and think. On the even brighter side, after I said it, I felt damn good. I felt so damn good about it, I didn't dislike her at all despite the fact that she was just downright rude in her tone.

Elton didn't get how I was able to step out of it. He felt outraged that I pretty much got scolded for trying to do a good deed. I tried to explain that since she was probably one of those heartlander auntie types who watch those sensational TV shows and think that young people are out to cheat them of their money, she was probably just defensive because she thought I was a telemarketer or something. He insisted that age was no excuse for being a bitch or being just plain stupid (seriously, HOW many times can I tell you I'm just trying to return the fucking phone?!).

I honestly believe that if I did not tell her off, I would've ended the conversation with her feeling vindictive and angry. I may not have gone through with returning the phone. I may even have held the phone hostage while telling off whichever one of her progeny that showed up to collect it what a piece of work his/her mother was.

But it worked out fine. I felt vindicated once I expressed how I felt because the way she kept ripping into me made me felt bad about myself, like I'd done something wrong. By telling her she was acting like a meanie head, it made me realize that yes, it wasn't me, it was her. I took away the mind games because I wouldn't have to go on thinking what might have happened if I'd confronted her about her nasty behaviour because I did it.

And yes, I returned the phone.

I could go on at length with the discoveries I made with my therapist about why I act the way I do, but to be honest, if you've read this blog, you probably know them already. So why the heck am I paying some person $80 an hour to analyze me? Because it's not enough to just know what the problems are. Hell, I knew what the problems are. I just needed a way to deal with them.

It was pretty much like what I'd expected. There was a couch, there was my therapist in her shawl and glasses with a clipboard and much sympathetic "mm" noises. There was me, talking about my problems with the tears and the tissue. There was "tell me about your childhood".

And one of the things I realized looking back at it all, is that the reason why I didn't see what bothered me so much was my desire to be different. Fact is, my problems are bloody clichéd, and deep down, I know that, and it bugged me.

But, as Elton said, the reason why certain things are clichéd is because they are true. It doesn't make them any less of a problem or any less painful to go through. Just because there are other people out there with the same thing doesn't invalidate it or make it any less special. In fact, it's sort of the opposite.

The reason why that bugged me is that I guess I think I should know better. Because I can understand the issues therefore I should be able to rise above them. If that were true, nerds would rule the world.

So my very pedestrian problems are that I've stopped believing in my abilities, I didn't get loved enough as a kid, and I'm using those old patterns I observed as a child to view everything in my life, which is doomed for failure, because, to me, those aren't exactly the best years of my life.

It's a self-fulfilling prophecy, where everything innocuous becomes a sign of something bad. And I have to break out of that. My predictions may be true, but it's just a "may be". And rather than setting myself up for depression even before the events run their course, it's a lot healthier to look at other possibilities, think on the issue in different ways, and communicating about it if it continues to bug me.

I'm going to try it out. It may be just mumbo jumbo psychobabble bullshit, but it's made me feel a lot calmer than I have in days. And I've actually had cravings for food. Goodbye, Zen alcoholic hotdog.

The Chinese have a saying, Losing Wealth To Avert Disaster. At least, that's about the most grammatical translation I can come up with. It's sort of our way of comforting ourselves when we lose money or something pricey or damage something that costs a lot to repair. It stems from the belief that our lives have been charted since birth and that we would have to encounter something or another at particular points in our lives, and our stuff decided to take one for the team instead, which is why we are not injured or dead.

I was reacquainted with this saying yesterday, when I lost my camera. It was a big bloody deal, because I love that camera. It's a Fujifilm Z100fd in this unabashed shade of fuchsia. It's so pink, guys turn gay carrying it. I bought it and the matching case in Japan about a year back and it's been faithfully recording my life ever since. I've not deleted the photos on it before because the memory card still has space. Thank goodness I do make a point of uploading my photos though. Oh ya, and it cost about $360.

Dad tried to comfort me by explaining the saying. Then he trumped it all by telling me the story of his accident. Really put things in perspective. It's not that bad to lose your camera; Daddy lost use of an arm.

I never really realized how much Dad believed in the whole idea of fate. Yes, he's Chinese, but there are so many of us who don't really buy into that stuff. I do, to some extent. Like Dad, I think the rough cast of our lives has been laid out, but the nitty gritty details aren't, and that we can do things to change it a bit. Like do good deeds to get good karma, that sort of thing.

And I think it does work. I couldn't help but respectfully remind the karma gods that I once picked up a handphone on a bus and returned it to the owner, purposely taking a bus to find him. And so when the cab company called and said the driver found the camera and was going to return it, I did a jig and thanked them profusely. The lady on the phone said the driver could drive down and return it to me now, but that I'd have to pay the fare. I thought that was only fair, kinda like a reward for his good deed. He could easily have sold it for much much more. I would have had to replace it for much much more.

So when the driver came, I doubled what the fare was, insisted he keep it, and wrote in to the papers and his company to compliment him on his honesty. Here's hoping that good deed also earns him some good karma.

But it's been a pretty bad spell all around this past week. Liangcai and Stella both broke out in rashes after some bad seafood, Stella lost her phone, I lost my camera (for a while), and, this is the most dramatic, part of the body kit on Elton's car broke off, thanks to this stupid car park curb. All I can say is, if these bad luck spells are just a taste of what might have happened, then thank the gods for their mercy.

And I've a sneaking suspicion it's not completely over. We were supposed to have game today, and usually that entails driving down to Orchard in his car. Since his car is in repair, I said we'd use my parents' car instead. Then just before time for me to get ready to go out, Elton calls and says game is cancelled since it's just two players, so no real point. Coincidence? Maybe. Quite freaky all the same. I don't think I should push my luck too far.

It's tricky meeting new people nowadays because the inevitable question of "what do you do?" has now become quite difficult to answer. I don't really care about what people think of me, but I can do without the negativity. There's a strange sense of envy, with a chaser of indignation. To borrow a line from the poor fucker who kena slapped on Dadagiri, HOW CAN SHE SLACK?!

Well, with my savings, that's how. I have not asked for money from Elton or my parents. I have not made a point of sponging off my friends. In fact, I met up with Kym and Nick tonight and I felt quite bad because I didn't pay for a single thing except the taxi ride I took to meet them. Nick was celebrating his new job and I sort of crashed the party because it was Friday night, Elton was meeting up with his old friends and I didn't want to be left alone at home. Nick's friends paid for my beer later then even sent me home. I was grateful for all that, but I felt uncomfortable at the same time, because the last thing I wanted was for any of them to even have a flicker of the horrible thought that I was purposely hanging out with them so they'd pick up the tab.

That's what happens when you get left alone on a Friday night.

Nick's friends, thankfully, didn't give me the third degree about my slackerdom. Or at least, they didn't make me feel like I should be ashamed of not working. I really appreciated that. I can't even get my fucking nails done without being asked when I would be getting a job. Bloody hell, I've got enough money to pay you and that should be enough.

I can understand the envy. When I was working, all I could think about was not working. Now that I'm on the other side of the fence, it's not really all that green here.

For one thing, having more time on my hands just makes it seem as though Elton doesn't spend all that much time with me and I start imagining that he's actually meeting up with some slut whore zhap zheng chao cheebye he started sleeping with while I was flying every time he says he needs a day to himself, or when he goes to play tennis on Wednesdays. Why else would he be so paranoid about me touching his handphone? Why else would he be messaging strange girls on Facebook and asking them why their relationship status is "it's complicated"? Why does he have so many strange women on his Facebook friends list? Why would he be chatting on MSN with the receptionist from his office? Why would he close Shu Cai Gong Zhu's message window so quickly while I was there? (And who the fuck uses an act cute nick like Vegetable Princess? Is she 16? Is it because she just lies there like one? If so, why on earth would anyone want to bother fucking her? Might as well get a blowup doll.) Why else wouldn't he tell me where he was going on his alone days unless I asked him? And even then, who knew whether his answers were true or some lie I had no chance of corroborating.

That sort of paranoia has been driving me nuts. It's been driving Elton nuts too. I'm trying to rein it in. At least until I find proof otherwise. And it never existed throughout the five years of our relationship, until now. Idle minds are the devil's workshop. Most of the time I'm just trying to find things to occupy my day with, until Elton gets off work and I can go find him.

For his part, Elton has been trying his best to assure me he doesn't have anyone on the side nor is thinking of cheating on me at all. Even though he hasn't exactly flicked through his messages to show me nothing weird had been happening, I figure he wouldn't be that patient as to deal with me in my throes of paranoia if he did have someone else. It's not like we're married and he had to give me half of everything he owned if we split. One could argue that he might just be afraid of being alone, but if he did have someone regular and she's a normal woman, she wouldn't like to share either. She'd be more than happy to have him all to herself.

So yes, the break isn't that great. Too much time to imagine things.

I've been trying to occupy myself, meeting up with my friends, my cousin, watching DVDs, picking up cross-stitch, reading, shopping, beating my own best score on Pathwords (damn you, Facebook), going for interviews, trying things out. Unfortunately, it seems I didn't land the role I auditioned for, nor is working at Citibank such a great idea. Kym managed to get an interview with Standard Chartered through a friend of a friend she has never met. Not with the friend, mind you, but with their HR people or their branch manager, I can't remember which.

Perhaps my path in life is to break it off with Elton, thus ending the need to worry that he's cheating on me, go find a rich man and be his mistress, thus ending the need for a job. If I had no emotions, that's the neatest solution to my problems. Unfortunately, I'm no robot.

Nick's friend asked if my boyfriend was sponsoring my break. In case you didn't see it earlier, I'm not taking any money from Elton. I still pay for my own taxi rides home, we still sort of Dutch things. He'll pay for dinner, I'll pay for movies, that sort of thing.

Not that he didn't offer. He did tell me when I was in the midst of quitting that whether I chose to stay on or leave, he'll support my decision, financially if need be. He reiterated it yesterday while we were cuddling. I wonder if it was because I did something that blew his mind.

Maybe it's the old family pride at work. When my aunt divorced my uncle, she insisted on not taking any alimony from him (guess which one is related to me?). Then again, that guy's so poor that whatever alimony he gives will pay for bus fares for the kids and that's about it. But it was bizarre because he was the one who cheated and she had every right to insist that, if nothing else, he paid for the kids' upbringing.

Thing is, I'm just not comfortable with the idea of taking money from someone. If Elton and I were married, then yes, I would take his money. I'd consider it an allowance for giving birth to his children and taking care of his house. But we're just dating. Yes, we've been dating for five years, but that just gives us licence to do stuff like fart without leaving the room, not insist that he pay for me, my parents and my hypothetical dog.

I guess I just like being financially independent so if I should discover that he did have a Facebook Fling after all, I can just up and leave. No attachments, no worries I can't sustain myself. That, and nobody likes a sponge.

So yes, envy away if you like. Take a break yourself and see if things don't start goin awry.

But the thing that puzzles me the most is the indignation. Why? Why are you so appalled that I'm unemployed and not looking for a job? I'm not in debt, I'm living comfortably and I'm not leeching other people. What's the problem?

The easy answer would be that it just doesn't sit well with their worldview. They can't imagine it because they wouldn't think of doing it themselves. It's sort of how you'll feel when you hear that your friend just upped and went to Yunnan to run his own bed and breakfast. (True story, that.) Shocked, stunned and full of "I can't believes". You'd think I said I'm a professional dominatrix, the way some people react.

In any case, I'm getting used to my bumming ways. The next time I'll get to do this would be when I retire. Or if Elton decides to marry me, earns enough for the both of us, and decides he'd rather me stay home and do the household chores and take care of the kid/dog/cat. I still have enough money for a while yet. Hopefully more good comes from this than bad. Worst case scenario, I'll be blogging from Woodbridge with a stick in my mouth.

So since the arrival of the pink DS Lite, I've been stylusing away like some supremely busy business executive, except I'm trying my darndest to stuff wontons with just enough filling but no more. Apparently my stylus likes them big, and Mama keeps giving me the flame-eyed look of polite WTF ARE YOU DOING TO MY WONTONS!

It's annoying, because you get rated on your preparation of each dish, and to get a gold medal, you need to be absolutely perfect (in which case you'll see Mama in her starry eyed expression of utter awe). If you do enough to pass, she'll just smile and politely applaud your efforts, and you'll be able to see her expression of disdain just split seconds before the screen changes. Ok, you don't, but it feels like she probably went off and bitched about me to the prawns or something.

So far, I've gotten gold medals on everything. Except the goddamned wontons. And the stuffed peppers. ARGH.

That perfectionist bitch.

If this isn't enough, the other game I'm playing is Trauma Center. Mind you, there is no way in HELL I'll be able to play that anywhere else except in the privacy of my own room with no one around to kachow me, which is why I haven't gone too far on that one.

It really does live up to its name. It's bloody traumatic when you suddenly get shoved into your first "surgery". Granted, there's a nurse that tells you what to do for the first few procedures, but then after that, you're pretty much on your own. And I hate the sight of blood. Like Cooking Mama, it also seems to like torturing you by making you draw circles. And mind you, that circle has to be perfect. Otherwise it just makes this annoying buzzer sound.

Still, I'm loving the DS Lite. The games are just hard enough to be challenging (I had to make spaghetti bolognese five times before I nailed it), but not hard enough that you have to look for walk throughs. Even the racing game, Mario Kart, makes me look like a pro. Just enough to entertain, but not enough to drive you nuts. Perfect.

I got Nintendogs a while back and now I've a German Shepherd called Pooky. It's another game I can't really play on the go, because a lot of it is voice activated, and you just look dumb shouting, "Pooky! Sit!" on a MRT train, even if you replaced Pooky with a supremely macho name.

Another one is Phoenix Wright, where you play this rookie lawyer (named...Phoenix Wright) and you go through trial. Again, moment of utter blurness as you get thrown into a courtroom and have to defend your friend who's up on murder charges. Basically it's a logic thing. They'll have pieces of evidence for you and you have to use them to point out inconsistencies in the witness testimony, which is how you win the case. It's quite amusing because the whole thing is like an episode of an anime, complete with super dramatic "OBJECTION!" and "TAKE THAT!" sequences where your speech bubble blots out the whole upper screen or your evidence gets flung into the face of the opponent. The coolest thing is that if you feel like it, you can actually shout "objection" instead of poking with your stylus.

In accordance with my time-honoured tradition of using the same title for multiple topics, I'd like to bring your attention to Dadagiri, supposedly the meanest game show around. I'd like to disagree. The meanest game show was the Pyramid Game, where you worked your way up to earn something like $1000 at the very top of the pyramid. Giam to the max, can?!

Anyway, the premise of the show is this. Apparently in India, college students are sadistic bastards who torture freshmen. So the contestants play freshies who have to go through a series of different tortures and the ones who manage to get all the way through win money to cover their therapy.

The reason why it managed to become such a big deal is because of this episode. The girl in the video is called Esha, Goddess (self-proclaimed, clearly). Her job is to dress up in costume shop dominatrix wear (seriously, her pants don't fit her that well) and spew insults at the contestants. Go on, watch the clip.

Seen it?

HOW CAN SHE SLAP? I kinda felt sorry for the guy, honestly. I'm not sure if physical abuse is part of the show, and I don't blame him for slapping her back if it isn't. I seriously doubt he signed up for getting beaten. It's one thing to make them dip their faces in mud and pick up crabs with their bare hands, but it's another to actually slap someone.

And the gang bang he got was...fucking scary lah. Was there really a need for the entire crew to swarm the guy and beat him up? I think he got the point pretty early on. But noooo, they had to make him reeeaaally sorry.

Granted, I believe very strongly that men shouldn't hit women. Margeret Atwood wrote, "'Why are you afraid of women?' I asked a group of men. 'We're afraid they'll laugh at us,' replied the men. 'Why are you afraid of men?' I asked a group of women. 'We're afraid they'll kill us,' replied the women." And it's true. If you put two average people, one man and one woman in a death match with no weapons, I have no doubt the man would win. Like cats and dogs. The physical difference is just too great for it to be a fair match, unless you're Jojo Sinclair fresh off the steroid bus.

Then again, I also believe very strongly that women shouldn't hit men either, without due cause. Like if the guy's trying to rape you or kill you, then sure, ram your acrylics straight into his eyeball (which, by the way, is apparently the best way to hurt someone, according to this self-defence instructor who taught me how to go, "Is there anything else I can say or do?!").

But I don't see why you can just go up to a guy and slap him because he's got a dick and you don't. I don't see why he's not entitled to slap you back. It's not like he's your cheating husband or he tried to molest you or something that called for a right hook with an open palm. It was uncalled for. Perhaps she was losing it because her insults weren't good enough to get a rise out of them.

Perhaps it's all just a publicity stunt. Hey, I'm sure not that many people Googled "Dadagiri" until this incident happened.