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Have fun, meet people & find love.
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Not for Hindus ... just kidding. Random thoughts, comments on anything that takes my fancy. Strictly a my opinion only & if you do not like, don't read, agree to disagree & go away happy. No flames, (flamers OK), request for photo/green card/webcam action etc please.
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| For The Girls Only - Hairstabation |
May 11, 2008 9:44 pm
Mood: Vain, 32 Views |  | Blokes, you've been warned. This is not the post for you ... unless you are debutanteB, who will probably go into an opiate stupour of pure delight now.
I am going to talk about hair.
Plays Hairspray.
I hate my hair. It is thick, unruly, frizzy, about 60% gray (yes I know ... it is hereditary) and I would lop the whole lot off if I could.
I spend rather a fortune on it to maintain the length which I need for my work and to ensure that it does not all fall off from all the colouring I inflict on it to cover my grays.
I try to use products that I can find in most of the countries I go to but there is one item that I would insist on wherever I go. I even bring it to all the hair salons I patronise as I felt there was no substitute.
It's Keratase Chrome Relax hair masque which was one of the few things which could turn my stubborn locks into silky, soft and fairly unfrazzled tresses. I would always have a couple of the shocking pink jars of hair savers in my bags wherever I travelled. American Express Card would have been envious at how I truly could not leave home without it.
The problem with Keratase Chrome Relax is that it is not easy to find. In many places in Asia, you can only find it in the more exclusive hair salons and many of the retail shops that supposedly sell it are peddling counterfeits. I know as I can smell a fake Chrome Relax the moment the cap is twisted open.
It is also rather expensive considering how quickly I run through it. About US$40 a pop, and it is quite a small pop too. Each jar lasts about 10-15 applications depending on the length and thickness of your hair. Mine is quite long and thick so I am lucky if it lasts 10 washes.
So this time around, I travelled in a real hurry and realised to my dismay that I had left my precious in the last city. It was an emergency. I had a migraine and needed to wash my hair to feel better. But I could not do so without a proper conditioner.
And I generally do not trust hotel shampoos and conditioners.
It was also the wee hours of the morning so I knew I would not be able to get my Keratase Chrome Relax at that ungodly hour.
In desperation I called down to the concierge. I knew they owed me for the fiasco earlier that day so I pulled the beleaguered, hard-done-by -guest act.
"I have such a terrible migraine. It's from the rude awakening and humiliation of the scene this afternoon. I really need to get rid of it."
"Oh dear. We are so sorry. Can we bring up some Panadol for you?"
"No, no. I am allergic to Panadol. And I have already taken some Tylenol but it is not helping. My migraine will probably go away if I wash my hair."
"Oh ... but our hair salon is closed for the day, ma'am. "
I blinked. I really had not expected to go to the hair salon or for them to arrange for a hair dresser at that time of the night. Wow, they must really want to suck up to me.
"Er, that's fine. I can wash my own hair as I do not want to bother anyone. But I did not bring my hair conditioner and my hair is very sensitive. Oh my head ..."
I know I am laying it on thick but hey, it usually works!
"Ma'am, I can try to get your conditioner. You just tell me what it is and I'll go and find it for you. You want tea or something to make you feel better until we find it, ma'am?"
"Tea would be lovely. Chamomile please. And it's Keratase Chrome Relax Hair Masque. If they do not have the masque, I can settle for the conditioner."
I settled back to await their call that they could not find it.
Sure enough, almost 30 minutes passed before they called to report sadly that they could not find it anywhere. But one of the staff had a suggestion. She was coming up to my room to show it to me.
I was puzzled. And intrigued. And still had my migraine.
A young girl came up and introduced herself as Nora. She had a bright orange bottle in her hand. Clairol Herbal Essence Citrus Lift conditioner that apparently has tangerine, lemongrass and aloe vera in it to make the hair radiant and soft. Better yet, it is tailored for dry or coloured hair.
I looked at it dubiously as I have not used Clariol Herbal Essences products since I was a teen. And discovered they dried out my hair even if they smelt heavenly.
Nora was very sweet and earnest, assuring me that her sister is a hair dresser who highly recommends the conditioner. Apparently, I had sent the hotel into a bit of a panic with my request and in desperation, Nora had awoken her sister to ask her for her advise on how to placate me.
Nora's sister staked her reputation that I would not be disappointed in the Citrus Lift and that she would pit it against my beloved Chrome Relax.
Wow, brave, fighting words.
"OK, I'm game. If my hair gets fried, I am going to sue you guys, you do know that?"
Nervous giggle.
So I chased her off and went about washing my migraine away.
I'll tell you this. I think the Clairol Herbal Essence probably costs about US$5? I am not sure as I have not bought any hair products from the pharmacies or retail stores in ages. But I am now going to alternate the Citrus Lift with my Chrome Relax.
Citrus Lift for daily use and Chrome Relax for weekly or bi-weekly treatment.
Bloody hell, I have been spending a fortune on Keratase for years and now I discover an upstart that has overthrown it. Who says you need to pay a king's ransom for the same result?
In fact, I think the Citrus Lift gives my hair a tinge more silkiness than Chrome Relax. It is now my new Holy Grail.
I must thank Nora with a nice hamper before I leave for helping me save a fortune and my hair.
Brilliant stuff. Pleased as punch. And walking out of here like a shampoo ad, swishing my hair all over the place.
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5 Comments | |
| I am a Fox Vixen ... Apparently |
May 11, 2008 5:09 am
Mood: Bleary From Disturbed Sleep, 113 Views | There I am, minding my own beeswax, soundly napping to resuscitate my appetite when I hear an impatient pounding on my door. Followed by someone leaning on the doorbell.
What on earth?!!
I am never good when I just awake so I half stumbled, crawled out from beneath the sheets and meandered drunkenly to the door.
Peeking through the tiny spyglass, I saw the distorted visage of an unfamiliar female behind the door. I say distorted not only because of the convex lenses that warps all faces into a pointy fish face but also because the woman looked really ugly with fury.
Cautiously I opened the door to ask through the latch.
"Yes, may I help you?"
"You effing biatch! You w&^re! Where's my husband?"
"Eh? What? What husband? What on earth are you talking about?"
She kept throwing one insult after another, her shrill voice rising higher and higher as her command of English sludged drearily over the same four- and five-letter words.
I could feel my confused blurriness giving way to mild annoyance. I was woken up for this??? I am going to be one cranky cow tonight, that was for sure.
"Look, you crazy half-wit. I have no idea who your husband or you are for that matter, but you are seriously pissing me off and I advise you to get away from this door before I lose my temper."
She responded by trying to stick her arm through the narrow aperture of the door to claw my eyes out.
By now, some of the other hotel guests were out of the rooms to watch the antics of the psycho. I saw hotel security and staff dashing towards us so I decided to open the door.
I happened to have Hakim with me.
Once the door opened, the rather chubby Chinese woman lunged through without taking a good look at me.
The me who was wielding Hakim and settling into position.
Door opens, woman is open, WHF side kicks her right in the chest into the opposite door. Then I moved forward to point Hakim into her stomach.
"Don't move. In fact, do not speak unless I tell you to. My hand might shake and you could end up with a liposuction you did not want."
Hotel security started to turn their attention towards me now, thinking I am the psycho and tried to talk me down.
I assured them I was only defending myself and I was not going to lose my temper yet and skewer her but I wanted some answers and then I wanted them all to vamoose so I could continue my nap. But I was fast losing patience and if they got in my way I was really going to let loose with Hakim.
"You. Who the hell is your husband?"
She gave some Chinese name.
"Never heard of him. Why do you think he's with me and shagging me?"
She screamed that she knew he was in Room XXX with his ... she used a bad Chinese word equivalent to a woman's part.
"Stop shouting or I might lose my grip on Hakim. Either talk softly or scream loudly when I get frightened and lose my grip. I frighten easily you know."
I looked at my room door. Right number.
"You can see there is no man in my room other than Hakim. That's the sword's name, by the way. Has not been a man in there other than the bell boy bringing my luggage."
"You lie! Look at you! Of course you must be a fox vixen. You probably hide him somewhere! Where is he?!!!"
Wow, a fox vixen, eh? That's the Chinese slur for women who seduce hapless men, usually of the married variety. They typically look like some harlot from a bad American soap ... wait, is there such a thing as a good one? Sorry .. tangent ...
Gee, the insult has struck me so much to the core, I can feel my grip on Hakim loosening.
"Oy, watch it! Do not know your husband and am certainly not hiding him. And what do you mean look at me? How rude! Right, call your idiot husband right now to check his whereabouts."
By now she is starting to think she's in mucho trouble and it is a much quieter woman who called her erstwhile husband on her mobile.
I swear, all heads turned when we heard a mobile ring behind us.
It was like a scene from a farce.
A man in a bathrobe with a woman in matching attire were in the passageway a few doors away. As he reached for his mobile in his pocket, he realised he had just been busted.
Crazy, jealous wife was so infuriated, she actually swatted Hakim as she rose from the floor and lumbered angrily towards her new target. Everyone followed except me and one hotel security staff.
I rolled my eyes and he apologised profusely.
I told him they owed me one and they better make sure I am appeased or I might sue them. And then told him to go away for now as I wanted to go back to sleep.
Of course, after I returned to the calm of my room, I could not sleep.
Such drama and excitement. It can only happen to me.
Wait a second, the cow did not even apologise to me! Ah, feck it. I rather not have to hear her strident voice or see her or her faithless spouse anywhere near me again.
And to think I stayed at a hotel today because I wanted some peace and quiet. Right.
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12 Comments | |
| Feed Me, Seymour |
May 11, 2008 12:10 am
Mood: Bloated, 117 Views | I feel like Audrey II.
I'm not sure if it is because I look scrawny or I emit such happy noises when I am eating that it prompts people to want to feed me all the time.
I was just telling MM's hubby, Sir LongSufferingHubby, that I am lucky to get free food or special treatment a fair bit. Like the time I met an old gf at an Intercontinental for lunch and was approached to try a special menu from a visiting 3-star chef from Spain. On the house.
We thought they would give us a pan of paella or some tapas but out came a 6-course meal that was so heavenly that it blew my friend's diet right out of the water. We had been in the right place at the right time when it was part of a food festival and the chef was apparently looking for some customers to test out his new menu.
Score!
Another time was when I was dining alone at one of my favourite pizzerias and the lady chef was testing out a new dessert pizza. I happened to be sitting near the ovens where she was working and she offered the entire banana, dark chocolate and almond flaked concoction to me.
She instantly became my new best friend.
Another time I was on a date at a Japanese restaurant and the owner was an elderly Japanese lady who is a phenomenal chef. My date had worked in Japan for a long time so he did the ordering but for some reason, the owner thought I was the Japanese expert. She decided she liked me and kept sending her son out with little titbits and flasks of sake from different provinces for me to try out.
My date became jealous and I decided he was a twat. I went back to the restaurant sans lame date a week later. She fed me more sake and yakitori ... on the house.
So I am fairly fortunate but of course, this just happens once in a while although I wish it was a daily occurrence!
So, after I told Paul this, I discovered I had been a real doughnut and forgotten an important engagement.
My absentmindedness required some rather annoyed people to arrange for a plane to come out and get me and to fly me back today. The price was that I had to perform much longer than I initially agreed upon and I had to have breakfast with them.
Why is breakfast significant? Because these people eat the kind of breakfast others have for dinner. The breakfast table is about 4 feet long. And it is filled to the edges with food.
I love food but I have a strange quirk. I do not really eat breakfast. I do if I know I have a long day of workshops and classes ahead of me which means I have no time to stop to eat. But even when I eat breakfast, it is fairly light. Well, for me anyway.
Maybe a couple of Eggs Benedicts, half a toasted croissant or bagel with cream cheese and strawberry jam, milk, coffee, OJ (yes, all three), occasionally a single slice of bacon if I am exceptionally hungry and an apple or slice of cantaloup.
I cannot force down a large breakfast as I need to stay light and ready to work when I hit the studio. After that it is coffee, coffee and more coffee and maybe some trail mix, muesli or power bars or muffins and chocolate bars through the day till I have time to have a proper meal. And lots of milk and water to keep me going.
So, breakfast with the Miffed Malaysians was punishment to me. For forgetting. I ate. And ate. And ate.
There was the continental breakfast. There was the German style breakfast because they remembered I was from Germany. There was the full English brekkie because they knew I was English. There was the French version as they knew I was a foodie. There was the local Malaysian brekkie which means there were Chinese, Malay and Indian options available. And there was gado gado which they knew I love because it reminds me of my grandmother. There was also Japanese sushi and sashimi because they knew I love Japanese food.
Breakfast lasted almost 3 hours.
I felt like I was 3 months' preggers when I rolled off my chair and crawled painfully to my room to pack. I was glad they were flying me back to Singers in a private plane as I think any commercial airline would not let me on due to overweight and excess luggage.
I swore I will not eat for a week.
But when I arrived in Singers a few hours ago, I realised that I needed to have dinner as I was doing the footy thing tonight and the lounge area did not allow real food and only finger foods. I did some fast calculating.
I should eat something before I ensconced myself on the sofa with my shisha and beers to watch the matches. But I wanted a nap as I am knackered. OK, buy some food, stick it in the mini-bar and have that before I go out. Good idea.
So I went to a food court to get some ginger beef and rice take-out.
The lady at the food court was just opening up her stall so I asked if she was open for business yet, smiling winsomely so that she would say yes and I did not have to do another walkabout.
She looked rather startled and said yes so I ordered and was happily tapping my feet to a song on my iPod when she gestured to me to collect my food.
My Chinese is uncertain and her English was fairly non-existent.
As I paid her for my food, she snapped at another customer who was trying to hurry me out of the way so he could order. Then she smiled and asked me,
"Chicken curry good. You want?"
"Er, no thanks as lots of yummy food here," I lifted the packet of beef & rice and smiled happily.
"Little bit. I give you little bit. You like?"
Wow, free food. Score!
I nodded like a eager little kid offered candy and a ride on a roller coaster. Yes, please!
It was not a little bit of chicken curry she gave me.
When I returned back to my room, I discovered it was a big arse bowl of chicken curry with two chunks of chicken breasts and some potatoes.
I stared at my haul and remembered.
I can't eat as I am still ridiculously bloated from my Feast of Folly at brekkie.
OK, maybe a nap will revive my killer appetite.
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10 Comments | |
| On Food and Policing |
May 8, 2008 8:21 pm
Mood: Bemused, 209 Views | Last night I had dinner with some Japanese clients, who brought me to a Korean restaurant where we pigged out on bimbab, grilled meats of all sorts and hot pot.
I thought it was a little unusual that they brought me to a Korean restaurant but I suppose it is because I have gained a reputation for being a bit of a foodie.
Most times, the hosts or the people I meet will try to bring me to the local food hot spots or exotic cuisine. Or they will always tell me about the delectable treasures to be found. Each visit offers a new Aladdin's cave of culinary delight.
Yesterday night was no exception. I'd been told of a Japanese eatery with the most authentic and delicious chanko and I am determined to try it out before I leave. And another friend told me of a new Indian restaurant opened till midnight with the best Indian food outside of India.
Right, another one to add to the list. It's a pity Sir LongSufferingHubby, aka MM's hubby, is only around for a couple of days or I would drag him with me. Still we are cramming two dinners and dessert into tonight and a hot pot lunch tomorrow.
I am fortunate that people are cognizant that I like to try new things and prefer food that is interesting, indigenous and totally delicious. It has prompted them to try to one-up the list of special eateries.
Chinese friends would bring me to the best Chinese restaurant to try the in-house century egg that is made by the chef from a special recipe and technique that makes the eggs wonderfully soft, silky and creamy, yet with the distinctive bite that startles and entices the taste buds without offending the senses.
They would drive 40 minutes to a remote estate where they serve the most unctuous ox marrow in a headily spiced broth. They thrill to the opportunity to teach me how to eat this unusual delicacy and it is a noisy and exuberant table of pleased hosts when I express my delight at this unique taste and experience.
Malay friends bring me to the largest smorgasbord of Indonesian nasi padang I have seen outside of Indonesia. They order such an array of food that it requires two long tables groaning at the weight of our greed.
Indian friends bring me to a Japanese restaurant serving the best yakitori in town and we run through the entire sake menu. They have offered to bring me to a Vietnamese restaurant this time where they have the tastiest pho and coffee they promise will rival ours at the cafe. Now that is a throw-down I have to sample.
Last night, Sir LongSufferingHubby, Justine and I spoke at great length about the ills of Singapore. Justine is the local expert on all the dastardly going-ons and devious shenanigans of his country. We gasped and widened our eyes at some of the truly, unbelievably underhanded stories.
It was perhaps a cap on the evening that as Justine sent me home, we saw loads of policemen roaming the streets. I'd noticed them earlier when I was having dinner with my clients. They were out in force, lugging their guns as they trolled the busy streets of the tourist belt. An unusual sight that only happens when a terrorist warning, potential drug bust or major international conference involving some royalty or super power is concerned.
The last time I saw such a force of policing was when that Mas Selamat bloke had done a runner. I asked Justine if he had somehow made it back just to play cat and mouse games with the local authorities, to further the embarrassment.
I was reminded of the days after 911 when I was here for disaster recovery conferences. We were actually assigned a coterie of Gurkha guards and the local semi-police security force. I have never been comfortable with gun-toting bodyguards. I have always felt that I might be in more danger from them than whichever misbegotten person who might wanna take a shot at me.
The police in Singapore has also never impressed me.
The ones Justine and I saw were obviously part of the riot patrol as they were wielding the clear shields of self-protection. Justine remarked sarkily that they seemed more interested in checking me out then scouting the streets.
What is going down in Singapore?
It is interesting that a small island with such an obsession with food is also a land easily buffeted within and without. I am going to be extra careful when I go out with Sir LongSufferingHubby tonight. My spidey senses tell me something is brewing. Perhaps it is best to avoid the large tourist areas and keep to safer heartlands of culinary discovery.
It would really suck if our pig-out was interrupted.
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10 Comments | |
| Prey's Anatomy |
May 7, 2008 9:13 pm
Mood: Flight Instincts Taking Over, 286 Views | I've mentioned that I detest doctors. This was instilled in me even before I worked with them.
One of my earliest "real" jobs entailed consulting to doctors and the medical industry. It meant I spent a lot of time in hospitals and in the company of doctors.
You hear and see a lot about the medical profession that takes away any desire to enter a hospital unless you are almost on death's bed ... when you know they might well finish the job.
There are the medical students who pay about 3 pennies per cadaver, if it is a "nice one" with fully formed muscles and fairly newly harvested, and complain about the lack of female cadavers. You hesitate to ask why they want a female one.
They chop off hands and feet and place these in hapless students' beds as a prank. They force the cadavers upright to use coat and bag hangers. They hang bags of fruits from the wrists and other parts.
You really realise that life is cheap but death is even cheaper.
When they graduate, they are not much better.
There was once a very high ranking specialist from the largest hospital who used to visit my office every afternoon, six days a week. He was a very lonely man married to a woman whom everyone knew only wanted his money and spent all her time with her dance and singing instructors. Who were coincidentally male, young and seemingly single.
He was a big, fat bloke with a cantankerous, foul temper and a sarky sense of humour. I liked him.
He would lumber into my office every day, Mondays to Fridays, at around 3pm after lunch and his rounds. Clutching the local tabloids and a plastic bag of wrestling videos, he would plant himself in one of the chairs outside my room and start asking everyone what they were doing.
He spent hours in our office till he had to go home to an empty house where he would read his papers and watch his wrestling videos. Then he would have dinner and wait for his wife to come home. Most nights he would pretend to be asleep if she stumbled in smelling of thick perfume and smoke in the wee hours of the morning.
We never let on we knew that this was his daily routine.
At about 3.30pm, he would decide I had ignored his presence long enough and yell for me to make his coffee. I had made the mistake of making him a cuppa once when the usual assistant was out of the office. He declared it just the way he liked it and refused to let anyone make him a cup of coffee anymore. Apparently he even refused to drink coffee if I was not in the office and would wait for me to return. When I was out of the country, he would torture the poor assistant till she cried over her poor coffee-making skills.
Yes, the man was an inveterate bully.
He seemed to like me for some reason and loved ribbing and teasing me. We shared the same birthday and celebrated together every year I was with that company - that perhaps made him feel a bond with me. He also demanded that I had lunch with him every Saturday before I left for the day and once told my then-boyfriend that he had to wait his turn to see me.
One day, he was regaling us with some gossip (he loved his gossip) when his pager beeped insistently. He picked up one of the phones to call back and we saw his eyes widen, him start from the chair and dash out of our office with a hurried, "Gotta go!"
Stunned, we concluded that a patient must have been on the verge of death to require such swift movement from the usually slothlike professor.
At around 5pm, he returned, smiling gleefully and with a naughty glint his eyes.
We asked him if the patient was alright.
Huh? What patient?
Didn't you run out to attend to some dying patient? It seemed so urgent.
Oh, no, no! He giggled like a giddy schoolboy.
The call was from another doctor in a nearby hospital. A plastic surgeon. A mate, obviously. Who'd called because he had entered his operating room to see a famous female singer on his operating table. She was there for a boob job.
So he made a call to all his doctor mates to tell them he had Ms So-and-so-Diva with her breasts literally in his hands. And he invited them all to rush over to have a look at them. Before and after.
So, a bunch of middle-aged doctors drove in droves to see this clueless songstress' tits while she lay trustingly to enhance her image.
A year or so later, I met her in a club. It was incredibly hard for me not to stare at her tits the whole night. I was so embarrassed and mortified for her and she must have been wondering why I kept averting my eyes from her chest area. I was never totally comfortable with her after that as the memory of her humiliation and violation always preyed on my mind.
When some doctors tried to set me up with some of the younger residents and specialists, I flat out refused. The coffee-loving physician also vetoed the idea. He glared at all would-be matchmakers and applicants and declared,
She is too good for you lot. She would be better off with a street vendor from the alleys of Calcutta than us doctors.
Physician, know thyself.
Why this post? Because someone is trying to set me up with a doctor and could not understand my resolute refusal. It's a good thing I leave this afternoon.
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18 Comments | |
| Doctor, Driver, Cobbler, Wife |
May 7, 2008 2:29 pm
230 Views | I dislike doctors. I try to avoid them at all cost. But for some reason, I seem to attract them.
Some of my best friends are doctors. I have no idea how that transpired but I suspect it was a sneaky conspiracy to deceive me as to their true occupation till I had began to like and admire them as normal human being, whereby they spring the nasty surprise that they are dastardly doctors.
Evil.
Tonight, some friends had a small farewell gathering for me. At a table of 6, three of them were doctors.
The conversation circled continuously around the medical profession, mostly due to the self-absorption of two of them that they are the nucleus of everything.
One kept boasting of her achievements in medical school, being the best student, the most popular girl, the fact that she travelled weekly between cities with a bone-set and that she is the top surgeon in her city.
Very quickly, I was reminded why I find doctors boring in general.
But she did emit an interesting factoid in the midst of her masturbatory oration. That there are so many doctors in India that she has met some who became cobblers.
If you are not familiar with the Indian caste system, cobblers are considered the lowest of the low. It is a shocking turn of affairs and demonstrates how educational qualifications may not be an effective tool against the vicissitudes of life.
This prompted the other doctor to inquire how many medical graduates are churned out annually in India. It appears it is an average of 110 for each university.
This may not seem a lot at a superficial analysis but when you considered how big India is and how many universities there are, it is a significant amount.
The curious doctor shook his head but informed us that it is worse in Egypt where the average was 7,000 medical graduates in a year. So, many of them become taxi drivers.
We shook our heads sadly.
With my head bowed and my eyes downcast, I pondered the fact that the first, self-satisfied doctor could have been talking about herself.
For all she waxed egotistical about her accomplishments, they are in the past. And now she is a hausfrau who spends her days waiting for her husband to return from work and buys jewelry she does not wear to pass her time. She meddles in astrology and numerology and decorates her house halfway before she loses interest.
Her scorn of the doctors-turned-cobbler was a little ironic, I thought.
But I keep my thoughts to myself and smile winsomely as she continued to bestow the glories of her past upon us. I try not to let my pity show.
With each chiselled gem of self-valuation she dropped into her basket of discontent, I could see her rising bitterness and foaming regret.
My usual irritation and disdain at such delusions of grandeur seep gradually away as a burgeoning sympathy coloured my view of her words and tone.
There goes I but for the grace of God.
Please let me always find passion in what I do and how I do it.
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2 Comments | |
| Voice of God |
May 7, 2008 2:16 am
Mood: Bemused, 268 Views | Had lunch with an old friend who bemoaned the rising prices of property in a time when they suddenly found themselves with three properties on hand.
Having been a hausfrau for a long time, the prospect of having to return to the workforce just to manage the mortgages on all three properties is a horrifying one with much dramatic rolling of eyes, grimaces and woeful quivering of lips.
In other words, she was having a ball lamenting her fate.
She's a funny kid with a droll sense of humour and a self-professed love of doing nothing but shopping and lunching.
Their current house is next to a church that is frequented by the yuppies and bourgeoisie. Every Saturday and Sunday, the cars line up right up to their gates, both illegally and legally parked as their owners enter en mass into the house of God to hear His word.
Usually, the devotees would drive their poshest cars to church even if they live within 15 easy walking minutes' distance. It is an opportunity to display their wealth and positions.
We made snarky gasps of amazement that they did not have chauffeured cars as that would eliminate the need for parking. Trust the nouveau riche to be clueless.
Anyway, her husband is a Catholic but she is a forcibly converted one who is more comfortable in being spiritual than religious. She occasionally goes to church with him under duress and with the promise of a nice prezzie after.
So, having to deal with a battalion of cars blocking their gate and street when they leave for Sunday brunch is a reprehensible crime to her.
She recounted how she would call the police to remove the vehicles as a Sunday routine.
I commented that it was a trite bit unChristianly, driving her into a tirade against th equally hellish behaviour in blocking their way in and out of their own estate.
I jokingly said she should just take a loud speaker into the church. Get her husband to tome in his deep, authoritarian voice,
"Hark, would the driver of vehicle no. XXXX please remove your car from the gates of heaven. Amen."
Which would prompt some to declare they heard the voice of God and others to start jotting down the numbers so they could buy lottery.
She piped in that some might even burst into hallelujahs.
It was two rather hysterical women who rolled out of the restaurant for some coffee and cakes.
I am sure we are driving straight to hell after this.
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9 Comments | |
| Watching Footy As a Bridge |
May 6, 2008 10:29 pm
Mood: Rested, 217 Views | Our friend T is so embarrassed since the fiasco with the wife.
Originally a bunch of us had made a standing appointment to return to the main cafe for the Man U/Chelsea match on 21 May. He was supposed to be one of the group booking the prime seats of the house.
I am not a footy fan by any means but I watch it so I can hang out with my friends and relatives. And anyway, Chelsea has been playing a rather decent game recently so I have started to cheer for any southern team playing Man U. Just to get the rest's goat.
So I knew I would be back for the weekend. And I knew T would be too embarrassed to show his face in any of the cafes for a long time.
It is unnecessary.
Friendship means forgetting.
I sent a message today.
Yo, T. Made booking for prime seats on Sunday for the Chelsea/Bolton, Man U/Wigan games. You up for it as will reserve a seat for you? Let me know.
No mention of wife. No mention of the hours spent at the cafe with her. No comment about all the dirty linen she wafted in our unwilling faces. No questions asked.
I doubt he will turn up. But if he did, we would have a couple of beers, smoke a couple of cigars and talk about the games. As normal.
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| Wife Manual Version 1.0 |
May 5, 2008 11:53 pm
Mood: Beyond Knackered & Totally, 348 Views | This has been a week beyond exhausting. Dramas abound and I find myself mired in things I have no wish to be touched by. It has been very disturbing and I can feel my reclusive tendencies threatening to take over.
First was a disturbing rumour about a close friend's marriage which made me reprimand someone for the first time in a very long time in the most cutting way.
Then yesterday night, we spent almost 8 hours counselling the wife of a friend despite all our attempts to avoid involvement.
Our friend, T, had been a regular at one of our restaurants for many years and has become a friend despite all our busy and often disparate traveling schedules. In fact, we were even privileged enough to be invited to his wedding, which turned out to be one of the most unhappy, strained and blatantly angst-filled wedding we had the misfortune to attend.
After the wedding, which was many years ago, we never saw his wife again. We were given the impression that she was doing her doctorate back in UK while he had business in Asia.
Last night, I managed to catch up with my erstwhile uncle who was making a brief detour in the same country. It was supposed to be a quiet supper and early (for us anyway) night.
Then he receives a call from T's wife. We were flabbergasted. We did not even know how she found out he was in town. We were surprised she was in town for that matter.
She was in some distress and asked that she come to the restaurant to speak with my uncle as she had left T and he was apparently dogging her tail. She needed some place to escape to and needed to speak with my uncle, whom she claims T respects beyond anyone else in this world.
I started making signs to vacate post haste and it was with much desperate cajoling that my uncle managed to persuade me to back him up. Sigh.
Our natures are such that we do not like getting involved in other people's personal issues and dislike being privy to things that would disturb the equilibrium and peace of our sanctuaries. But our inborn sense of hospitality and graciousness forbade us from asking her not to come.
So we waited. We prepared our shishas and coffees for a painful night ahead.
She came. She complained. She exposed her husband's lies which we always suspected but never questioned or insinuated since it was just water off a duck's back. She accused. She pleaded battery and abuse.
We nodded, murmured in the right pauses and basically kept our opinions to ourselves.
We messaged the husband that she was in our territory and since they had brought their dirty linen to our doorsteps, we would be impartial and objective mediators.
He apologised and curtly said the ball was in her court. He sent her a messaged bitterly thanking her for destroying his reputation and image with his friends. He did not come to collect his runaway wife.
The ball was in her court and we were cautiously sympathetic without committing ourselves, with typical diplomacy.
We were also desperate to get rid of her as we both have flights to catch the next day and we were very tired.
She refused to budge and kept rehashing the same questions and complaints. 4 hours later, while we were talking about shishas and T's adoration of his time spent with us in the quiet haven of our restaurant and our company (something she was virulently jealous of), we had a breakthrough.
She did not have Wife Manual Version 1.0.
For an Indian woman, she had absolutely no idea how to be an Asian wife to a typically Asian man.
With much slapping of our foreheads with our palms, my uncle and I gave her brief synopsis of the chapters in Wife Manual Version 1.0. We kindly refrained from bringing up more advanced pointers from Wife Manual Version 3.25, republished as of March 2008.
She talked back to him. He is a man who can never be wrong and dislikes and refuses to accept anyone's naysaying in any form. We usually dealt with this by laughing at him. She dealt with it by shouting at him. Which apparently gets her beaten up.
We simply said we would have left him, while laughing at him while we sued his pants off.
She just complained and went back for more.
She made nasty comments about his beloved mother. Never, ever insult the other's parents no matter what happens. It is rude and shows superbly bad upbringing and manners.
My uncle and I were appalled and could only exchange wide-eyed looks of shock and horror at her bad behaviour.
She harped at him about the hours he went out, came home, or kept at work. We told her he was an extremely independent man who did not like being questioned and monitored. She should just lay out his night clothes, towels and slippers for when he returned from his extremely gruelling hours at work, and if awake, run his bath and just make him tea or coffee without questioning his movements.
She said it was unfair and feudal. We nodded sagely and agreed but that was the culture he was from. You married him knowing this. You either live with it or you walk.
At this point, we were just hoping she walked to the nearest hotel so we could go back to ours. We were knackered just listening to her.
I am a woman but I could see how and why T would rail at her. Despite my wild streak of independence, I was raised to be the perfect wife by a very old-fashioned grandmother. I know all the rules, the dictates and subtleties of winning the marital game. Logically. Rationally.
I just choose not to accept it. I reject it wholeheartedly with every atom in my being. And I refuse to play the game.
T's wife is spoilt, unreasonable, whiny, ungrateful, nagging, selfish, inconsiderate, boastful and remarkably silly for a highly-educated woman and professional. She has also never been taught how to be a wife.
The fact that my uncle, a man incidentally *roll eyes*, had to read her song and verse from Wife Manual Version 1.0 is something I think is highly embarrassing for her.
She also did not listen despite our reiteration of our recommendation of her next plan of action. She kept nagging us and yet when we voiced them reluctantly, she would nod and then ask us again.
We were incredibly tired of her by the time the darkened skies broke to allow the first pale blue rays of careful enlightenment. She called him. He ignored her calls. My uncle called and he did not answer. I refused to call.
In the end, we had no choice but to take her out for breakfast and after some nervous haggling, my uncle lost the toss and had to bring her to his hotel for her to check into. I refused point-blank to have her at mine.
He is stuck with her now and I gratefully escaped. We both depart today, leaving her to stew in a misery and dilemma of her own device.
While we are in full sympathy, if indeed T does physically and verbally abuse her, we think she puts herself in the position of a recurring victim.
Wife Manual is something most women in Asia or with an Asian heritage (even a half-arsed Eurasian one like mine) were brought up with. Even the wealthiest and most sheltered daughters of the finest houses are taught rudiments of this.
Or at least that was how it was during my time.
She is only a couple of years younger than me but I find it unbelievable that Wife Manual Version 1.0 should have become a limited edition.
It is not so much that we should study it so we can subjugate ourselves to a lifetime of servitude to our spouses but so we can understand the expectations and emotional upbringing many men in Asia possess.
Like my grandfather used to tell me, know thy enemy as thyself and a hundred battles fought will be won.
I am going to go into much needed seclusion soon as I dislike the negative shrouds of emotional turmoil brushing against me.
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| Well Meaning Knife In the Back |
May 4, 2008 3:47 pm
Mood: Shaking Head, 391 Views | Sometimes, good intentions are killers.
I seem to have the singular knack of incurring wrath just by being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Which inspires well-meaning people to try to rescue me. Which then leads to greater ire when the perpetrators are thwarted or lambasted by these would-be rescuers.
It sounds like a warped fairy tale.
Clueless dancing princess gets engaged to perform as a guest artiste. Resident dancer gets totally pissed off. Ignores clueless dancing princess who has more than a decade's experience on her and actually used to coach at her school. Resident dancer makes faces and pointedly snubs her senior.
Clueless dancing princess does her job and buggers off.
At a concert where Resident Dancer was a mistress of ceremony and also the person responsible for calling the lights and sound checks, she conveniently forgets to inform Clueless Dancing Princess of lights check on day of performance, cuts the announcement of Clueless Dancing Princess' number to a single line, reduces the spotlight of the latter's dance to 2 feet and also (allegedly) somehow managed to arrange for one of the light bulbs to explode just before the princess' item, knowing that she would be dancing on bare feet.
Unfortunately, things just conspired to work out in Clueless Dancing Princess' favour as the short announcement endeared her to the audience who had been bored stiff with everyone's long-winded self-promotion and the long programme, the small spotlight meant Clueless Dancing Princess could not dance out too far and so avoided the broken glass and also created a super dramatic effect and exhibited her skills in being able to dance in such constraints.
And the ultimate insult was when Clueless was awarded thunderous applause while Resident Dancer garnered lukewarm and reluctant, polite claps.
It did not help that the manager reprimanded Resident Dancer and admonished her for being rude to foreign guest dancers.
So Clueless Dancing Princess leaves the kingdom unaware of all this and arrives in the neighbouring kingdom to be told that Resident Dancer has called a jihad on her prancing arse.
Right. No worries. Clueless makes a note to avoid Resident Dancer for a while.
Then she receives a call to invite her back to perform for yet another show. Er ... no thanks.
Why?
Your crazed Resident Dancer called a jihad on me.
What???!!
They go and tell her off. And double the price to entice Clueless Dancing Princess back into the bunnyboiler's territory.
Then Clueless remembers that the husband of bestest pig-out mate, Princess EatsaLot, would be in Resident Dancer's kingdom at the same time. Hmmm, OK, mebbe I will go back and dance for one night and go pig out with Sir LongSufferingHubby.
Clueless' ladies-in-waiting are concerned and predict all sorts of dire acts of vengeance Resident Dancer will inflict on her. Burnt or hacked costumes, broken music CDs, accidental-on-purpose tripping or stepping on ankle to cripple her, broken glass on floor as she walks by ...
They decide to take turns to guard Clueless on the trip back to the kingdom of crazy dancers.
Clueless Dancing Princess is bemused but still only mildly perturbed.
Then another guest dancer for the same establishment calls. She was doing fairly regular shows there and was an ex-student of Z, the local psycho dancer.
Apparently, Z had initially arranged for her dancing princesses to perform there but had, in some misguided fit of insanity, decided to dance there herself. The managers were so horrified they cancelled the contract immediately.
Then they discovered beauteous Princess F who they approached to grace them with semi-regular performances.
All was seemingly well till Prince F, hubby of Princess F, noticed Z stalking the place. She did not announce her presence or approach her student but instead sent nasty messages throughout the next few days accusing the beleaguered princess of crimes against art, mankind, her, religion and the lot.
She insulted the princess' parents for not bringing her up right, her dressing, her morals and it became such a nasty volley of personal insults that Clueless Dancing Princess developed an instant migraine just reading them.
Princess F, not being a wilting violet and more a violent cactus when riled, hit back.
All this would really not be of any real concern to Clueless Dancing Princess except for one line of questioning that Z kept throwing at Princess F.
Who was the dancing princess who danced on that date and has been asked to return again?
Uh oh ...
Princess F, in an attempt to protect her dancing princess friend, hurls a venomous insult back that the identity of the dancing princess is of no importance or any business of hers except to know that she is a 100 times better than Z was and that is why she is invited back.
Yes, Clueless banged her head with her palm when she read that too.
So, now Clueless not only has to worry about sabotage from Resident Dancer when she performs on that one night, she has to contend with a possible violent outburst from Z who will inevitably turn up to create a scene.
Joy.
Clueless is going to go pig out now. | |
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