34 posts tagged “rant”

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.

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.

One of my embarrassing past-times is reading Xiaxue's blog. Her name usually evokes such disdain and derision among people we know that it makes me feel ashamed about it. Kinda like masturbation. Everybody does it, but nobody wants to admit it.

I read her because she's actually quite funny. It's not Pulitzer material, but it's about as evocative and cathartic as it gets when she goes off on one of her ranting sprees, and she tends to rant about things that bug me too.

Like smoking. I'm a little more moderate in that I don't actually mind the smell. Dad smokes, so it pretty much stopped registering as a smell to me quite a long time ago. I don't have a problem if people light up in front me of. I do have a problem with being suddenly deserted when they all go off to smoke together, and you have to sit there and babysit their stuff.

And you know they aren't just puffing furiously to get the nicotine in their system; they're most likely chatting away and you, with your healthy pink lungs, are missing out on all that conversation. And they could be talking about you.

Yes, one of my problems is my fear of being left out. It's weird, but there you go.

Recently we went out to celebrate a friend's birthday. Of the group, only Elton and I didn't smoke. So every so often, the whole bunch of them would troop out for a smoke and we'd be left there, trying to defend our nice corner table at Supperclub against the Sunglasses gang. (Yep, because the lighting in Supperclub is so fucking glaring.)

Its a bit of a drag, because you're left feeling like a little kid and the grownups have gone to do more fun things.

I guess the simplest solution is just to join them, but I don't feel the need to smoke. It's expensive, it fucks with your skin (seriously, some of the models I had to work with on that F1 gig were so chao lao it's like their heads were grapes slowly transitioning into raisins with all the fine lines), and it involves fire. I've been burnt by cigarettes twice and I always cringe around smokers who gesticulate with a cigarette in their hand. And I don't like the spit build up that occurs when you take a puff.

Of course, I've tried it before. That's how I can make an informed decision. I think that's going to be my rationale if they should ever catch me with pot.

I mean, it's one thing to have an addiction, it's another to have to inconvenience your friends on your night out together. What if I were addicted to sex and whipped out a vibrator every hour on the hour and disappeared off to the bathroom? Or even worse, did it right there on the table? Ok, what if I looked like Quasimodo and had that addiction? Uncomfortable, to say the least.

Thing is, smokers sort of expect that kind of tolerance from non-smokers. We can't help it is their rallying cry. Well, you can. I could say that women can't help menstruating and having PMS, so therefore we should be given days off every month and be acquited of all road rage incidences and over-zealous circumcisions because of that. We really can't help it, it IS biological.

Smoking isn't biological. And you were the one who got yourself addicted to it, so stop whining. It's not like a crack team from Philip Morris tied you down and forced you to smoke at gun point until you got hooked.

I'm not saying you have to quit. I'm just saying be a little more considerate. Slap on a patch when you've got company. Smoke faster if they really are just overpriced stickers. It's just irritating having to wait 20 minutes to resume a conversation, especially when it's obvious you cheated by having another conversation outside.

Part of my upbringing resulted in a strong desire to not impose on people. I try not to make a mess, make too much noise, and usually am a gracious guest. (Unless, of course, you get me drunk, in which case it's your own damn fault.) I can't really shop with other people because I'm not comfortable making them wait for me.

Which is a reservation that not everybody has. I used to fly with this bunch of people occasionally. Of the bunch, there were two women, who had no mercy and no concept of time. I lost count of the sheer hours the rest of the group would wait for them while they shopped. And they had the tendency to pick really shit shops that none of us were interested in.

Honestly, it's just fucking Gap. They sell basics. And you're just buying a beanie. There aren't that many varieties or sizes to choose from. It's not that fucking expensive. HOW the FUCK is it possible for you to spend an HOUR buying one?! Look, if you put it on and in that first minute it doesn't look good, you're not suddenly going to be able to change your bone structure in the ensuing 59 minutes that would result in it looking better on you. Really.

And the best part is, after making us wait that long, they just breeze in with their purchases and say, "Thanks for waiting!" and move on, as though we just did a quick pee stop. Really, I'd expect at least a performance that warrants a Golden Globe nomination and a free lunch.

If you're wondering why we don't just leave them be, all I can say is, you don't piss off the queen bee. That, and I was the lowest of the low in the group, and mine is not to question why. Mine is just to die of boredom.

It was good training, in a way. I used to show my disgust with things quite quickly. My face was Macbethian in its inability to hide what I was feeling. It wasn't that I couldn't, it was just that it seemed so much more fun to stir shit up by letting people know I thought they were shit. As though my life was being filmed by invisible cameras and I'm actually starring on my very own Trunanashee show.

I've stopped that, mainly because I grew out of it. But I know a lot of people, especially guys (Elton's guilty of this), who do it. They'll roll their eyes when you're trying to tell them what bugs you, and it doesn't fucking matter what sort of concilliatory statement they make after that, because right there and then with that nifty ocular movement, you know they don't give a shit about you.

Perhaps that's the point, they want you to know.

Always trust the body language and the actions over the words, unless you're dealing with an actor, in which case trust nothing. And then they wonder why their attempts to calm you down don't work.

I guess they might rationalize their "slip ups" as a silent protest against your unreasonable behaviour, but really, it just smacks of sheer stupidity. It's really not that tough to hide your true response. What are you, like, trying to earn cool points with the invisible audience?

Even if you think the other person is bat-shit crazy, damage control first, then try to win your case. It's really not a very difficult formula, and one you HAVE to practice if you're in customer service of any kind. Yes, this includes all them professional white-collared people like doctors and lawyers and business executives.

I'm not saying that we should lie to people, but THINK about your response before you do it. All it takes is a split second dirty look for people to hate your guts.

I used to have this really cushy part-time job as an actress for medical exams. Part of becoming a doctor is having good bedside manners. Or at least, not terrible ones. And so one of the exams is a role-playing exercise where they go through getting medical history from a patient, breaking bad news to patient families, and other stuff.

Unfortunately, I never got the fun stuff. Apparently one of my friends got so riled up by one of the doctors she actually threw a bedpan. I'm not sure if it was at him. Or if it was clean. They say he not only told her that her hypothetical husband was dying, he insinuated that he brought it on himself.

I agree. Fucker.

One time, I was stationed in the medical history section. The good candidates were professional, non-judging, and explained what might be the problem. One guy fucked it up so bad, I actually looked around for a bedpan to throw. He actually asked if I had other sexual partners, after I'd told him I was supposedly happily married with two kids.

The kicker was that after I expressed a bit of outrage, he actually went on to insist that it's entirely possible that my symptoms were a result of an STD and that either I cheated or my husband did.

I swear that I presented the symptoms to all of them in the same way. And all the rest of them got it right. I have no idea how he managed to mistake gall stones as an STD.

See, if he'd backed off after I got pissy, considered other possibilities and approached from a different angle, he would not have failed both components. Getting the diagnosis right was one point. The other was dealing with me in a way that wouldn't result in the hurling of various instruments around the room. But noooooo, he's some big shot doctor and HAD to be right. Moron.

Yeah, I know these aren't really habits. I just like the title that way, k?

Only in Singapore does a girl get it so good. There is this beautiful beautiful thing known as Ladies Night, where just by virtue of having two X chromosomes, you get get into clubs and drink yourself till you stagger outside to puke into a drain FOR FREE. Of course, you have to also beat away the very many underaged international school sluts who sneak in by blowing the bouncers to get your watered down tipple, but hey, a free drink is a free drink.

Ladies Night originated as a marketing ploy to boost business on slow nights like Wednesdays when people don't really want to party since they've got work/school the next day. They figured, draw in the ladies, and the men will surely follow. I'm sure other countries have it, but I'm not certain the free drinks thing is available everywhere. It's like the sister of Aircrew Nights, when serving twits at 40,000 feet suddenly becomes a rewarding occupation.

I, unfortunately, am not a fan. I can count the number of Ladies Nights I've been to on one hand and still have fingers to spare. For one thing, it really does feel like some ghetto high school prom where the average pregnancy age is 14 at some places. For another, I've never really been into clubbing.

I just don't see the appeal. You get stuck in some cramped, dark place, where the music is so loud you can't hear yourself think, with a bunch of sweaty people, and you have to pay to get in? I'm sorry, if I want to get drunk, it's a lot cheaper just to hit the hooch section of a 7 Eleven. And it's absolutely ridiculous if you go with friends you've not met for a while and you attempt to catch up there. The music will always fade out when you're trying to say something potentially embarrassing, like, "YEAH, I JUST WAXED!" Nobody's going to believe that you're talking about your car.

What especially gets to me is the sheer desperation that rises from that crowd like the stink of body odour. Or maybe it's just the body odour and I'm anthropomorphizing it. There are so many hungry glances and revealed body parts it's like a meat market. It wouldn't be so bad if the people were at least hot.

Sometimes the attention is sort of nice. It's kinda insulting if you've dressed up to go out and nobody looks at you wondering what you look like underneath. But really, it can be even more insulting when they check you out, then proceed to check out a complete dog with the same level of lechery. Some standards, please. I don't care if we're of a different race. We do NOT look the same, dammit.

That's the thing. The chao ang mohs clogging up our quays like some throwback to the colonial days, when they arrived by the boatload in their jodhpurs and their pip pip tally hos. I'll admit, they add to the decor a little, because it's pretty boring just looking at black hair, black eyes and yellow skin all the time, but seriously, it's like the dregs of the Western countries have come to invade our lands and plunder our riches and diddle our women.

I'm sure there are genteel ang mohs around, and being the civilised people they are, Boat and Clarke Quays aren't quite the sort of place they frequent. No, it's those who can't get laid in their own country by virtue of being butt-ugly, fucked up or complete dickheads that go to those places and make nuisances of themselves. Heck, they're expanding. Kym ran into one the other day at Velvet Underground who got into a fight with the people at their table after shouting, "You lousy Chinese bastard! I'm going to fuck all your women!"

The sad truth is, if you are Caucasian, you can get laid here very easily. Even if you've got Swiss cheese for brains, like this ex-colleague of Elton's. Even if you don't look Caucasian, all you need to do is speak with an accent and you'll find that many doors, among other things, will open for you, like they did for the Spawn with his from the seedy docks of London accent. It's so easy it's scary.

And I look at these women with a bit of disbelief. Have you no QC? The day I sleep with an ang moh guy who wears bermudas with white socks up to mid-calf and white sports shoes will be the day I become a prostitute. Or the day I get Roofied.

I'll admit, I do understand the attraction. It's just something different. To us, the blond-hair-blue-eye thing is exotic, the same way our slanty eyes and darker skin is to you (ok, I'm as pale as a white girl, but I'm talking in general). The accent is intriguing too, whatever it is. Except maybe Australian. Especially Scottish. I had one Scottish passenger who I made a point of serving just to listen to him talk. It didn't matter that I couldn't understand half of what he was saying, it was pretty fun making him repeat himself. And it's nice to have to look up to a guy for once. The number of Singaporean guys I know who are taller than me is three. Andy, and two bouncers. Then again, they're bouncers, so being larger than your average bear is sort of a prerequisite.

Yes, now I know not all ang mohs are tall. Except for maybe the Netherlands, where I just saw a wall of chests, sometimes navels. It does make you wonder if they make the same sound as a felled redwood when they've had a little too much of the magic brownie.

But I've never quite seen the appeal of dating one. I guess because there's so much of me he wouldn't get. Even Elton at times gets lost in translation. Trust me, my writing on this site is as English as I get; in daily conversations, I speak fluent Singlish.

Small digression. If you weren't born overseas and you didn't stay there for an extended period of time, such as over a decade, you have no right to come back and irritate our ear drums with your fake ass accent. Please, for the love of god, stop attacking your tongue with a curling tong before you get out of the house. Four years studying in London does NOT make you sound like the Queen popped you out from her hoochie. And just because the person you're talking to has an accent doesn't mean you have to put one on as well. We once made the mistake of getting Elton to ask this girl at a neighbouring table at Zouk Winebar what was the drink in the jug at her table. Half-white boy got "Vodkar crysters" in response. No, darling, it does not aid in comprehension.

Small digression to my digression. For fear of sounding too Singaporean or unconsciously adopting the other person's accent, I tend to shut up around ang moh people. That, and most of the time they're older and talking about dull stuff anyways. Like art. Or housing. I had problems talking to Elton when we first started dating. Then I got in tune with his half-Chinese side and things became a little easier. Ah, those were the days.

There's just so much of my culture, my food (my favourite kway chap is like Fear Factor for them white people), my life that an ang moh just wouldn't understand or appreciate. Oddly enough, if they do appreciate it or act like they do, I find it rather fake. You know, like those oldish white women who go to India and exclaim how beautiful it is, somehow managing to ignore the shit, the dying children and the flies.

I'll fucking hate having to translate myself all the time, or explain things that are so obvious to me, or realize I can't share certain jokes because it's just not funny in English. And it's even worse when you get to the meet-the-friends stage, because they may have invented English, but they sure don't speak anything like it when they're in a group, and you're standing there like some mail-order bride with a daft smile on your face because the least you could do is look friendly. It's like watching Snatch without subtitles.

And no, I cannot understand Snatch without subtitles. You try making sense of what Brad Pitt is saying.

So it's pretty ironic when my fellow Singaporeans call me a kantang (Malay for potato, our version of a banana) or accuse me of having an accent. Sure, I did go through a stage when everything Western was cool. I was a kid then and McDonald's was god's gift to children. I grew up reading Enid Blyton books, because even my own parents aren't too good at reading Chinese (fact, I read Chinese better than my dad). I wanted my currency to be in pence and pounds and go to boarding school and have midnight feasts and dress up in winter clothing.

But I grew out of it. I'm not sure exactly when the transition began, but I started to really appreciate my roots. I like going to Chomp Chomp for sambal stingray and oyster omelette. I love my Hokkien music. I enjoy the simplicity of Singlish. It's not just being Chinese, it's being Singaporean, and I can't imagine giving all that up to go live in some country where no one will speak my dialect with me. (Seriously, all those Chinese people in San Francisco and London are mostly Cantonese. I do NOT speak Cantonese, dammit.) I still appreciate Western stuff, like American TV shows, but I'm not obsessed with them.

I've got nothing against women who date ang mohs. I have something against women who date men only if they are ang mohs. There is a difference.

Although if we let this rampant mixing go on, Russell Peters might be right.

That is the name of this horrendously childish and racist game that apparently Chinese kids play, but I was completely unaware of for some reason. My childhood games were more along the lines of "catching", because in the typical Singaporean manner, it was only sensible to name the game after the action one had to do to play it. I'm not entirely certain why we couldn't just call it tag like the ang moh kids.

Then again, I was puzzled for ages by the "twist" thing, until I figured out through a friend's blog it was probably a bastardized version of "peace", complete with the two fingers, which we mispronounced into "twiss", then "twist", and made it our own by sporting crossed fingers to ward off the "catcher".

But for the uninitiated, Bayi Simi Sek works by spotting a Sikh guy and pinching your less perceptive friends and making them guess what colour his turban is and you only let go when they get it right. According to Elton, they have a Sikh guy in the office who's quite a fashion plate and he turned up in a polka dotted one one day. One of the receptionists sported an insane bruise for the next week or so.

Yes, it's horribly racist. But it's also a testament to how rare Sikh guys with the full wrap are. If we played Tudung Simi Sek we'd never get anything done.

Speaking of colours, I had an "enlightening" conversation with someone who told me she got people to paint to express their emotions. It wasn't anything new, really, the fact that different cultures saw colours in different ways, and how colours can have different meanings for people.

But it did give me inspiration for this post, so let's hear it for small talk.

Let's talk about the colour red. Red is the colour of the tape I am having to deal with and the colour I am seeing thanks to said tape. As I mentioned, I managed to get a job offer. Any semblance of relief and gratitude evaporated when I realized they wanted me to fill in forms. Many many fucking forms, all asking the same thing, but in different formats so I can't quite copy and paste. The corporate soul-sucking little bastards.

In desperation, I called my friend who got into the same company before I did and asked her how she dealt with it. Apparently she too lost her patience with that nonsense and just, in her words, "anyhow anyhow fill in lah". I mean, honestly, how the heck am I able to give you a nice flat figure of what my pay used to be when it ranged by hundreds of dollars? If I happened to do a number of long flights or good medium hauls (i.e. Japan or Australia), then pay's good. If I had a number of turnarounds or shit long haul flights (i.e. Dubai-Istanbul), then too bad. It's still good, but just not as much.

So I followed her shining example and just gave a random figure based on agaration. Screw you, bureaucracy.

Grey is the colour of my mood. I had a total of two interviews with that company before they offered me the job. The first one was fantastic; I left highly optimistic, thinking I've found a nice solid career I can work in for the next decade or so. The second one left me entirely depressed and wishing I could go be someone's mistress.

After talking with Elton, I decided to dismiss most of the doom and gloom as their method of discouraging the half-hearted and just go with it, since opportunities weren't exactly practicing a B&E chez moi.

Except that Elton somehow got it into his head that I need to pursue a writing career and started setting up meetings for me with magazine editors.

Now, it is unbelievably sweet of him to do so. The only problem is, I'm feeling this incredible inertia towards the whole thing. I'm not even sure why. If he did it a month ago, when I was still thinking of the whole thing, I probably would have jumped at it. Or at least displayed a little more enthusiasm.

But at this point in time, it's like I've already put my reservations aside and am standing on the edge, ready to dive into the shark pool and he asks if I want to go see the dolphin show instead. Part of me is more than willing to start running for the dolphin show. But part of me thinks that I've finally managed to grow a pair of balls from nowhere and am now ready to man up and do something that I've never done and had never dared to do before.

I recognise the wisdom in his words. This is not a job I will be happy at. I should be able to tolerate it, but I'm not sure it'll bring me any joy. It is not something that makes use of my talents, and I should try to get paid for what I'm good at. Since the mistress thing is out and I'm not quite Mediacorp material, I guess that leaves writing.

With luck, I might be able to find a job in the magazine business before I actually have to start work in November. And now that I've actually had a proper thought about why the heck I feel so blah about trying something else, I realize that it's the old fear coming back again; I don't dare to try because I'm afraid I'd fail. And because it's something that I actually want to do, I'm even more afraid I wouldn't get it.

Yeah, I agree, it makes as much sense as standing in the rain so I'll get sick and be able to force my loved ones to bring me to Swensen's (YES, THAT AD IS FUCKING STUPID). Or like refusing to let my boyfriend drink teh peng because Allswell drinks are better for him and he'd better do it because I love him (THAT AD IS FUCKING STUPID TOO). And in order to avoid being labelled FUCKING STUPID by some other blogger out there, I decided to take the plunge and go watch the dolphin show.

(I just love confusing you with my many metaphors.)

And because I'm the single most efficient person I know, I sent out my CV to two companies, tapped on a friend for the email of another person I know (but was never close to), and hopefully will get to meet with a bunch of magazine people to hear about what life is like as a writer. I know you're ragging on me about the two companies part. Buddy, I'm in Singapore. There are only two companies.

Ok, I exaggerate, but the actual number isn't that much bigger.

Here's hoping you'll see my writing in a whole new different format.

Russell Peters is coming to Singapore! He'll be here on 3rd and 4th November, and tickets are just FUCKING expensive. I'm not sure I want to spend $79 to see a dot moving around. I'm not sure I want to spend $149 to stare up his nostrils. I think maybe the DVD would be a lot more enjoyable.

The reason why that line is so hilarious is because I'm Chinese, most of the people I know are Chinese, and I've never, ever heard anyone say that without it being a Russell Peters reference. I've no idea where he got that from. I know the Cantonese don't have a line like that. And the Hokkiens are more likely to ask if you've got testicles ("Boh zi si boh?! Kan ni nao eah..."). The Mandarin version, well, I guess there is a song, sort of, that goes something like "Be a good tough guy, everyday must be strong." (What? You so kiang you translate that stupid song lah. "Zhuo yi ge hao han zi, mei tian yao zi qiang") But it's not quite right.

Speaking of Chinese men, I was incredibly disturbed by an episode of this Taiwanese talkshow that I occasionally watch. The topic was, "When the wife controls the money: benefit or bane?" There were two couples on the talkshow, the guys being the celebs, the wives being the CFOs of the household. At the end of the show, I've come to the conclusion that Taiwanese men are wimps.

Hey, don't blame me man. Maybe you guys should check the content of your talkshows before you broadcast them all over Asia.

Apparently in Taiwan, it's common for the wife to control the bank accounts. The husbands work, then meekly hand over all the money to their wives, who then give them an allowance. AN ALLOWANCE LEH!!! What are you, in primary school?! Anyway, the rationale to this system is that the men have a tendency to spend on stupid things or lend their friends money when they can't really spare it, and more importantly, men can't exactly cheat on their wives if they don't have enough money.

I tell you, it's a Chinese thing. Somehow EVerything comes back to money.

Although it does make sense, in a way. He can't exactly buy his way into another woman's panties, with upfront cash or expensive presents, if all he has is $500 a month. Ok, that's in Singapore dollars, it sounds a little less sad in Taiwanese money, $10,000, but it translates to the same, because a pair of S$17 shoes costs NT$390 over there.

But at the end of the day, and I'm surprised the hosts didn't ask this question, do they still feel like men? Do their wives look down on them? Do they secretly wish being banged into the kitchen table by some macho macho man who'd smack them if they even dared ask to look at the bank book?

It's bloody emasculating. Not only do they work their asses off to make that money, but they have to ask permission from their wives to access it? What is that? I thought the Guo Min Dang were the guys who went to Taiwan. This smacks a little to much of Stalin's revised system. Work your little peasanty hearts out, give us all your crops, and maybe we'll give you two potatoes in return. You're his wife, not his mother.

To be honest, I'd much rather my future husband have money and run the risk of him splashing it on some family wrecking slut, than take it all away from him and wimpify him. At least in scenario one I have the chance to play the wronged housewife, down to the cock-chopping revenge therapy part. Scenario two just leads to many many painful marriage counselling sessions.

The most disturbing thing was, one of the wives kept going on and on about how her husband was a failure at managing money, always buying stupid things and lending his friends large sums of it. Which would have been fine if she just stopped there. Then she went on to say that at least she spends money "correctly", by buying things that are of better quality, such as branded bags which she carries just to make her husband the celeb look good. Best part is, she lies to her husband about how much a bag costs, so Chanel suddenly got downgraded to $400 rather than $4000. And she kept on whining and whining about how unromantic her husband was since he didn't buy her Valentine's Day presents and all she got was four Ferrero Rochers.

Look woman. You give him $500 a month. What the fuck do you expect him to buy for you? On that $500, he scrimps and saves to have a little horde, which you seem sooooo intent on finding and confiscating (she did that TWICE). Once he bought you a ring. Granted it was this super obiang gigantic black pearl ring that was so big it slips off your thumb, but hey, would it hurt to give him some encouragement? Instead she was on that show, telling the whole world about how useless her husband is. Gooooood work. Besides, it's not your fucking money to begin with, is it? It doesn't matter that he has no taste; you're buying your own goddamn Chanel bags and LV shoes with his money anyway.

No, I don't think these women are justified in treating their husbands this way. You didn't work for that money, so you don't have to right to keep all of it. If your husband insists on buying truly useless things (like pieces of wood from some old train track or some truly ugly furniture), the issue is the lack of communication, not that he has too much money. He feels the need to sneak behind your back to buy that crap the same way you feel the need to buy branded bags and hide them in your closet and not take them out till later. Because both of you have gotten so touchy about money that it's stopped behind just a simple representation of the things you can have but a thing of power.

Money is nothing. It's just a social construct we developed because toting around cattle for trade was just too cumbersome. It's just printed paper, that's all. Sure, it's important, but we sometimes go overboard and place waaaay too much importance on it.

All I know is, if I were a man, and I earned all the money for the household, I'm keeping control of it. Do the right thing.

Ok, enough angst. I bought a new bag today! And of course, it had to be from the one store I decided to pass up on my bag hunt in Far East Plaza a few days ago because I was tired and it sold cheap-ish bags and I thought I came to the right conclusion that cheap bags suck. And I'm not just saying that because I'm a bag snob.

Ok, I'm a bag snob. Since I got my LV Saumur, it has been hard to me to go back to normal bags. Why? There really is a difference in quality. And because your bag isn't all the way down at your feet, you get to appreciate that difference in quality. The hardware is just better, for one. Despite the sheer number of buckles on my Saumur, I've not gotten scratched by them once because they always sit closed. Opening and closing the buckles are easy too, because of the little ring that lets the tongue slide in and out smoothly on the buckle. (Ya lah, I said tongue and slide in and out. Get over it. What are you, 12?)

Cheap bags just feel cheap and look bleh. It's not the price that's the issue, it's the material and the make. I don't like thin flimsy bags that flake after a while. I don't like lining that runs all over the place so small items sometimes get lost in a fold of lining. I don't like hardware that hurts me. But, believing deeply still in the fact that price does not good quality make, I embarked on my search of a cheap (less than $100) but good bag.

And I found it. It is a brown cavernous faux leather bag big enough to store a pack of hyperactive chihuahuas. There are two flap pockets on the front, two flat zip compartments above that, two zip pockets on the side, one flat zip compartment on the back, and then the giant main compartment that includes one handphone pocket, one flat pocket, and one flat zip compartment at the back. The hardware is all brass (or so the shopkeeper said), no buckles but just rings and zips. The better not to leave you bleeding with. Perfect for when I feel like doing major shopping. Or when I'm reading books bigger than my Saumur can handle. And all for just $39.90. Boo yah!

A lot of guys don't get why girls are so hung up on their bags. Here's why. It contains our whole freaking life. It's everything we need to survive in a day. It's like a female version of testicles. Sure, it boils down to a wallet, a phone, keys, some essential stuff like balm, but the organization of how you carry all that around is very telling of a woman's personality.

Some people, like Kym, are very light packers. They can make do with tiny handbags that still have space in them. They're usually spontaneous people, ready for everything. There's so much that life has to offer, so they're ok with carrying very little of what they have, because there's so much more to get.

Others, like me, believe the Boy Scouts have the right idea. Be Prepared. In any given day, my bag contains:

• my wallet,
• card case (because I don't want to keep my EZ Link card in my wallet and lose it by tapping and not keeping properly),
  
• key pouch,
  
• necessities pouch (with lip balm, facial blotters, plasters, comb, lip stick, perfume atomizer and pantyliners),
  
• handphone,
  
• umbrella,
  
• book,
  
• tissue paper,
  
• pen,
  
• sweets,
  
• fan (pink $2 thing from Daiso),
  
• hand moisturizer,
  
• sunglasses,
  
• camera,
  
• plastic bag (for keeping the umbrella if it rains),
  
• MP3 player and earphones (in a separate pink pouch),
  
• bluetooth headset,
  
• enviroment friendly bag (this cute pink thing with black poodle shapes I got from AMK Hub),
  
• toothpicks in carrying case,
  
• and if it's that time of the month, tampons in a cute metal tin (also pink and black)

I'm prepared for rain, shine, heavy shopping, boredom, and whatever life throws at me. More or less. And mind you, that's after I trimmed down. I used to have even more stuff in my bag. I'm not that spontaneous a person; I plan out my day before I leave the house and I get upset if things don't go the way I planned. I carry my life around with me because I'm afraid of what might happen if I didn't. I ought to let go, hang loose, but that's when you end up sitting around for hours waiting for something or someone with nothing to entertain yourself with. Of course, if I had a Nintendo DS Lite I might be able to do away with some things, like the heavy books.

The thing about bags is that it is this eternal search for the Perfect Bag. The one that's big enough you can lump everything in, but isn't too big or bulky that people keep pushing you around using it on a crowded bus (resPECT the LV, you cows!). That's free form enough that you can fit a big item in, but has enough compartments to keep all your things from jumbling into one big mess. That's solid enough that it feels stable, but not too heavy that it kills your shoulder. And of course, it must go with everything.

For me, it's my Saumur. But it just isn't big enough that I can stuff a magazine in. Which is why I now have the Big Brown Bag. Why not get a Neverfull, you ask? Because everybody and their auntie has one. And it's a stupid bag.

(Honestly, the next woman who tells you the Neverfull is a great bag is trying to justify the fact that she spent almost $1000 on a silly leather tote with strings for straps. There are no compartments, just one big hollow bag, so all your stuff can have a mass orgy. The straps are ridiculously thin, so if you fill it up with enough stuff for that amount of space, the straps dig into your shoulder and it fucking hurts.  And it only comes in the classic monogram. The only thing I own in classic monogram is a coin purse cum key pouch that I didn't even want to buy in the first place, but was convinced by stupid stewardesses that I shouldn't buy two of the same, since I can swap with my mother. My mother has not let go of the Mini Lin version since that morning she took it off my hand. Classic monogram is for people who want everyone else to know they're carrying LV. Or they're Indonesian tai tais who were carrying stuff in that material for ages and can't bring themselves to change.

While we're on the topic, e-NOUGH with the Speedies, people. What are you, fashion lemmings? It makes sense if the bag is functional, but the Speedy is another retarded bag. The opening is so small you scratch your hand on the zipper everytime you stick your hand in it, if it's in a stiff material. If it's not in a stiff material, the bottom sags and the shape goes out of whack once you put things in. One girl advised me to get it and just put a piece of cardboard at the bottom. Why on earth would I want to spend almost $1000 on a bag and have to go hunt down some piece of cardboard just to make sure it looks ok? It should come with its own fucking piece of cardboard, dammit.)

I respect my bag the way one should respect the thing that carries your life around, whether the bag of the day is my Saumur or some random tote I got for $20. I guard it with my life. I rarely put it on the seat next to me, preferring to have it on my lap. One would think I was in Malaysia. (No, seriously. That is a place where they'll rob you of your handphone if you put it on the table by punching your girlfriend's face so you're torn between chasing them and helping your black-eyed girl. Do NOT fucking put your bag ANYWHERE else except on your lap.) Which is why I judge people based on their bags.

Then again, I judge people based on helluva lot of things.

I think less of people who carry generic bags. I think less of people who carry stupid gimmicky bags (a teddy bear as a bag works if you're four; beyond that, you'd better be retarded). I think less of people who carry lame ass pseudo-branded bags from Carlo Rino or Bonia. I think less of people who carry crappy obviously free gift bags as their main bag (it's not so bad if you're using a free gift tote as an environmentally friendly shopping bag. In fact, that's a good thing and I think more of you). I think less of people who carry obviously fake imitation bags. If it's that good I can't tell the difference, then I can't really judge you for it. I think less of people who carry expensive (looking) bags then dress like Giordano Potato-chips. ResPECT the LV, dammit.

I'm impressed by people who carry unique looking bags. I'm impressed by people who carry bags that go with their clothes. I'm impressed by people who carry bags that are of good quality. Doesn't have to be from one of the big houses, but zippers that work, buckles that stay shut, leather that doesn't flake is good enough. It's kinda upsetting this list is so much shorter.

Then again, that's sort of why I have so much to talk about. Shiny happy people tend to blog in short spurts of photo-filled joy. You want words, look for the angry and bitter misanthropes.

So I finally went to watch Money No Enough 2. And the first thing it made me want to do after exiting the crowded cinema hall (no shit, it's been two to three weeks and the hall was still packed. Then again, it might be because everyone waited till Tuesday because it's cheaper to watch a movie) was to look for a job.

And mind you, not just any job, one that paid well.

It brought home the ugly truth that I'm an only child, and while I don't have to fight with anyone for my parents' attention, time and money, it also means I'm the only one who's going to responsible for them in their old age, all the way down to the funeral and beyond. And I don't want to be stuck in a situation where I can't afford to take care of them.

I'm not doubting my parents' financial planning skills; I assume they're investing for the future too. But I don't want to be some useless schmuck who has to end up borrowing money from them instead of being able to let them have a good and happy life in their old age.

It's not too much to ask for, is it?

And so the time has come to bite the bullet, face the music, smell the coffee and come to terms with the fact that passion is all well and good, but money makes the world go round. It's not the acquisition of money that gives me a high; it's the security that comes with a fat bank account and the knowledge that even if my parents should go off in the messiest fashion possible, complete with adult diapers, Alzheimer's and whatnot, I won't have to resort to dumping them in an old folks' home.

Have you SEEN an old folks' home? Have you been IN one before? They're fucking miserable places, where these old people all sit around waiting to die, waiting for their children to come visit, waiting for bloody Godot. They're not the sort of hip retirement villages you see on TV in the States, where all these energetic old people redo high school. Those retirement villages are fine; you go there, you make friends your age, and it feels like a perpetual holiday. But old folks' homes are like living morgues. And I will sooner whore myself in Geylang than let my parents have to go through that.

Yeah, dramatic, I know. But the day I have to admit my parents into an old folks' home will be the lowest day in my life. That is the day I will look at myself in the mirror and say, "You are nothing but a fucking failure", and there will be no inner voice that will protest it, because then, it will be true.

So I am willing to do a job I can tolerate that pays me well. I won't say hate, because if it pays well (and by that I mean like five digits a month), I probably can't get to the level of hate. I'll probably become really fat because I eat when I'm upset, but hey, I'll just pay for lipo to get it all out.

Elton said he came to terms with that fact a while back, that passion and doing what you like got dumped by the wayside around the time when he realized that you work to get money, so just do work that gets you more money. I found that scarily mercenary. I saw the point, but I kept hope alive, wishing for some sort of balance. Hey, J. K. Rowling did what she liked, and now she's one of the richest women around. So did Oprah. I'm not asking to get on Forbes' list, I'm just asking for enough to take care of my loved ones and myself in a comfortable fashion; surely it can't be that difficult?

But it is, my dears. It is. Ugly ugly fact of life. We're stuck on an island that doesn't pay the more frivolous seeming jobs well at all. One episode of The X-Files costs US$1 million and up to produce. One episode of random Channel 8 drama costs a hell of a lot less. And if you've got a bit part, you better bring your own clothes. And your own lunch. Our local actors and actresses make their moolah from endorsement deals, not from acting. Why the heck else do you think they still stay in HDB flats?

We have one broadcasting company that owns all the main TV and radio stations. We have one publishing company that owns all the major newspapers and magazines. They're not going to bother paying you more just because you asked for it. They're going to pay you however much they want to pay you.

And unfortunately, since I suck at ping pong and sports in general, I seem to have run out of options of jobs that I can be good at, will have fun at, and actually pay. Well, there is one more, but I think if I took that option I'll shame my parents even more than if I were shit poor.

Good god, please tell me I don't have to go crawling back to the airlines.

Just after I made my intentions known to Elton that after September (since I did get the very cushy and well paying gig after all) I intend to start work in a bank, Stella MSNed me that her friend asked if she knew anyone interested in getting into banking. Within minutes I'd sent my CV off to some guy I didn't know from some bank in hopes of getting employed.

Unfortunately, I did the Wrong Thing, according to Elton. I should have checked who the CV was going to, which bank was employing, what sort of role, etc, etc, because the last thing I wanted was for some guy at some recruitment agency to machine gun my CV off to many different banks and have bitchy HR people come to the conclusion that I must be desperate for a job and not give me the time of the day after that. Serves me right for being efficient.

How, like that? No brain how to make money? All that hairspray must have bimbo-fied my brain. Perhaps whoring myself is my only feasible option after all.

My parents prided themselves on not pushing me at all. I was probably the only kid in my class who had no tuition, no special classes and no extra-curricular activities. After school, I went home, I did my homework, I watched TV, I read my books, and I went to sleep. They didn't push me, so I didn't push myself. I did the bare minimum, just what was required and no more. I took just six O Levels, just three A Levels, just enough to move on to the next stage, didn't gun for any scholarships, didn't even get top grades with my very light work load. In fact, I always got just the grade after the maximum. If it was an A, I got a B. An A1, I got an A2. An A*, I got an A.

So maybe that's my fate in life. Just enough and no more. Forever more I'll be drawing a salary that ranges from $3,000 to $4,000 (because somehow, EVERYBODY doesn't want to talk about exactly how much money they're getting, you lousy fuckers, you), even when we're all old and the class valedictorian is the editor of the Straits Times and some other random dude owns a freaking golf course and some other overachieving woman I went to kindergarten with is the next Ho Ching. Go on then, fate, make all the random classmates nobody even remembers into starlets (do any of you VJC people even remember Joanne Peh being in Arts?). Keep me down. Just enough and no more. Just pretty enough, but not enough to make money with. FUCK YOU FATE! You CHAO CHEEBYE!

There are days I wish I were dumber, so at least I don't know of a life beyond the one I seem to be unable to get out of. Or that I could be contented, actually believe in the lie that rich people lead sadder lives. But I'm not, and I know better. But not enough to actually become one of them.

Just enough and no more. SMLJ indeed.

It's a fact that if you're Caucasian and desperate for sex, you just need to make your way to Asia. I'm not sure how well it works for the women (and whether Caucasian women consider Asian men to be date material), but without fail, if you're ang moh (the Chinese slang for "red haired" or Caucasian. I know, not all of you have red hair, I'll be sure to scold my ancestors for you), you will be able to get laid. You have to be one kind of an idiot or have ridiculously high tastes not to be able to go home after a night out at, say, Clarke Quay, without some love-you-long-time chick on your arm.

If your standards of beauty aren't high, it's not an issue. If it's just sex, it's lagi less of an issue. If you like them small, dark with long hair and a weird way of speaking English, then, my friend, you're in the right place. There's a wider range here because we've got girls from all over the region, so if you don't feel like Thai today, there's Vietnamese, Filipina, Cambodian and even our very own Singaporean. Though the last set tends to harbour more illusions of having a long term relationship that ends with them getting a green card (or whatever colour your country prefers to use for new residents) through you.

So come one, come all, come in both senses of the word. Welcome to SINgapore.

It's a fact that irks our local boys. The ang mohs come over, earn so much more, bang all the girls, and, if they earn enough, get wooed to become Permanent Residents. They, on the other hand, get the shitty deal of two years of National Service, have to constantly go back for reservist training, work their ass off to get girlfriends, then get cheated on by said girlfriends who go off to bang random ang moh after a night of hard partying at Clarke Quay.

Look like shit? No worries, you just need to be Caucasian. No dress sense? That's ok, I've seen so many couples consisting of a tall Caucasian man in berms and high socks and trainers (NOT ok dressing, people!) and a tiny pocket sized troll with combed down hair (you know, if those plastic trolls had their hair combed down, they look just like them. With the dark skin too). No social skills? That's fine, they're not into conversation anyway.

It all boils down to a matter of how upfront you prefer your payment to be. There's Orchard Towers for those who know it's a transaction regardless and have no issues with it. Then there's Clarke Quay and Zouk for those who prefer to lie to themselves and pretend they picked the chick up with skills and good looks rather than by plying her with enough alcohol to inebriate an elephant.

If it's just sex, I'd rather you just do the upfront payment. Because to be honest, it can be fucking irritating otherwise. Having to deal with the put on accents and the dull conversation and the coy good-little-Asian-girls-don't-fuck nonsense. Yeah, and Santa gives me presents every year. If that's not enough, once you end it, however long it may be, you might find that your little friend suddenly becomes like chewing gum, as though something or someone has to imitate the banned confectionery. Very sticky, and very vengeful. One of Elton's ex-colleague, this thick as bricks Aussie, dated this Korean girl who was renting a room from him. He ended it, and she refused to move out until the lease ends three months from now, and has made it her life's mission for these three months to make sure he sees no action within those four walls.

One would almost pity him, except the twit violated the sacred rule of not shitting where you eat. Or rather, not dumping where you stay. Then again, he's got the memory of a goldfish and the libido of a mayfly (fuck like you only live today!); he's the only person I know of who has been through that STD test where they stick this tiny little umbrella like thing down your pee hole to take scrapings from your urethra. Sounds painful? Our good friend had to do it three separate times, because once wasn't enough for him to learn his lesson and WEAR A FUCKING CONDOM.

What? Just because most Asian women look prepubescent (as opposed to non-Asian women who start looking old in their teens) with tight little va-jay-jays (that's just cause they're small sized) doesn't mean they're definitely a fresh Tetra-Pak. If that girl's so willing to go back with you after just a couple of hours of hanging out in a club, do you honestly think the only action she's seen is with her fingers and maybe a cucumber? (Asian girls too shy to buy dildos. And they're fucking expensive, the bloody things.)

I'm fine with all this nonsense going on. So long I don't suddenly get an expat neighbour who brings home a different girl every night then proceeds to bang her senseless and inflict my ears with their ridiculously loud lovemaking, it's fine. Please keep the fuck noise to a minimum, for the sake of your neighbours. (That could be like some new campaign, complete with a sign with gagged stick figures in various positions.)

What I'm not ok with is the stupid cow eyes these goddamned expats keep giving me when I'm just out to have a good time with my friends. Just because I'm Chinese, relatively hot and dressed to kill does NOT mean I'm just going to fall at your feet because you're of a different race. Just because you're a different race doesn't mean I'm suddenly blind to the standards of beauty; I can tell the difference between Brad Pitt and Danny DeVito, thank you very much. I can see the thinning hair on the top of your head even though you're taller than me. And I can tell if you're some stupid loser who has less in the bank account than I do despite being a decade older. If you fail on all the criteria I'd hold for men of my race, you're not going to pass just because your skin is white. Go fuck yourself, cos I sure ain't fucking you.

I hate the assumption they hold that all Asian women want them. I hate that look they give you where they're mentally undressing you and imagining your cum face. Oei! My cum face is only for Elton to see, ok?! I don't even want to look at it (because, I dunno, it's just kinda weird)! You no get to imagine it, you fucking gweilo! (What? Just borrowing some love from our Hong Kong friends.)

It's not that I wouldn't date an ang moh (heck, Elton's half of one), but I just can't stand the whole attitude the vast majority of them have about how Asian women are easy. Agreed, some would be more than happy to spread their legs for a milk-white cock, but assuming that all of us are like that would be like me saying all Americans are stupid. Ok, let's not just target them. Like me saying all Caucasians are hairy and stinky. (Which, by the way, is a misconception possibly derived from the fact that they seem to prefer showering every other day, which is just disgusting in our hot weather.) Not true, right? So stop doing it to us, dammit!

A friend commented in a post a while back that Chink is the new Black. So true. So since we're on the topic, I'd like to suggest some QC in future Asian-influenced films. Please, if you're going to have a number of Chinese people in the flick, MAKE SURE THEY ALL SPEAK THE SAME KIND OF CHINESE. There's normal Mandarin, the sort you hear when you come to Singapore or go to most parts of China, then there are the multitude of dialects that are completely different languages. Cantonese, of the sort you hear from most Chinese people in the States (especially San Francisco), is NOT CHINESE. Outside of Hong Kong and the people who come from Hong Kong, only the Malaysian Chinese really use it. That's IT. So STOP ASSUMING all of us speak Cantonese, because we bloody don't.

Watching The Mummy 3 was so painful because of the bad pronunciations. Honestly, there are soooo very many talented actors and actresses who are Asian and who speak way better than that (myself included). Why stick to the same few who just torture our eardrums? Listening to Russell Wong yell, "Zi you!" made me want to bang my head on something. That, and wonder why he was yelling "purple oil" (zi3 you2) instead of "freedom" (zi4 you2). Mind you, the only person whose Chinese was any good was Jet Li, and his English sucks. Yes, even that Michelle Wong butchered our language. We do have Karen Mok, Coco Lee and our very own Fiona Xie who are effectively bilingual. Fiona even has gigantic Asian titties for your ang moh fanboys to jerk off to.

Please, leave the Asian films to us. Either that, or employ casting directors who speak the language.

One would think that I don't like expats. That's not the case at all. I like them in general, Caucasian or otherwise. Same way I like people in general. I just hate being seen as nothing more than a sex toy by an entire racial group. Because really, no other group really rubs it in as much. Then again, maybe that's because no other group has that level of success with one night stands here.

(It's fucking racist, but Chinese people here generally don't think of Indians as dateable, perhaps due to the threats from our very un-PC grandparents that they'll sell us to the mangkali (Indian) man if we don't behave. Of course, with age that no longer holds true, and many of us have dated Indians at some point in time. But that line is still drawn at local Indians who are Singaporeans but with darker skin; the expats just have such a strong accent and a propensity for endless debates that there's still a major cultural difference. We just don't talk that much. And most people find that accent funny, it's not just us.)

So move your eyes up to my eyes and stop imagining my cum face, you manslut.