It made me feel really blessed this Christmas to have such a great friend in her.
Mrs Sawada, Merry Christmas!
Monday, December 24, 2007
Touched
Today is Christmas eve, and I received yet another a surprise parcel from Hiroko. It contained a box of delicious Aomori candied apple slices, a Christmas card and her very own custom-made New Year postcard.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Not Your Pet
I like my Facebook despite detractors calling it 'a total waste of time' (which I can attest to) and 'only for those with no life' (excuse me?!). I feel quite at home with the 111 people I know enough to add to my Friends list, and I enjoy throwing cakes in their faces once in a while, or leaving virtual post-it notes to cheer them up. Indeed, most of my closest and most outrageous friends are on FB, and they make FB-ing a whole lot more fun. That was how I became a convert. Having said that, I think it is still important to stay vigilant and in control of our lives, virtual or not. And practice cyber-sanity, no pet rearing.
Call me a prude, but I had to draw the line when people start to think I'm some unwanted kitten from SPCA. That's was exactly what I found happening to me this morning when I logged in to my Facebook account. It sent me a notification saying someone actually owns me as pet.
Initially, I thought it was probably a close friend with a sense of humor. But no, it wasn't. Although I have a general lack of mental facility to remember faces and events, I do quite well with names, and I was quite certain I've never seen my so-called new owner's name in my entire life. Yes, I had just been sold to a complete stranger.
I was tempted to delete that Human Pets application immediately, which I had previously added without much thought (as with many other FB applications), purely as a favor to a friend who had wanted to earn some points. But I didn't want to offend the poor guy or appear unfriendly to a fellow FB-er. After all, I did put myself up for adoption unwittingly. I deliberated for a while, and decided that I really didn't want to be kept. I clicked on the 'secretly escape' button and the rest is history.
Friends, in case you see a missing pet notice, don't turn me in.
Call me a prude, but I had to draw the line when people start to think I'm some unwanted kitten from SPCA. That's was exactly what I found happening to me this morning when I logged in to my Facebook account. It sent me a notification saying someone actually owns me as pet.
Initially, I thought it was probably a close friend with a sense of humor. But no, it wasn't. Although I have a general lack of mental facility to remember faces and events, I do quite well with names, and I was quite certain I've never seen my so-called new owner's name in my entire life. Yes, I had just been sold to a complete stranger.
I was tempted to delete that Human Pets application immediately, which I had previously added without much thought (as with many other FB applications), purely as a favor to a friend who had wanted to earn some points. But I didn't want to offend the poor guy or appear unfriendly to a fellow FB-er. After all, I did put myself up for adoption unwittingly. I deliberated for a while, and decided that I really didn't want to be kept. I clicked on the 'secretly escape' button and the rest is history.
Friends, in case you see a missing pet notice, don't turn me in.
Sunday, December 09, 2007
Not Really Mothers' Day
This is something I wrote years ago in my ugly brown jotter book. I rediscovered these thoughts while going through the junk I was about to clear out. Somehow, when I read it again, it seemed like I was reading someone else's words. This is why writing is so fun.
Yesterday was Mother's Day and I hope everyone's moms had a terrific time.
For me, I wished my mom a Happy Mother's Day and had a simple supper with her last night. That was about it, since we are having our weekly dinner with my sister and brother-in-law tonight (as usual Monday is our family day), plus two weeks ago I had already bought her the deepfryer she wanted from Robinson's.
But that is not the point. What I really want to share here is a thought that had dawned upon me in between watching the heartfelt wishes and giant carnation displays on TV.
Why on Mother's Day and not on our birthdays?
Just think about it, a child's birthday should be more significant to a mother because that is also the day that she would think, "Gee, I gave birth to my baby today x years ago!" Probably the most memorable, if not painful, day of her life.
Also, the official Mother's Day date is different on each year (and celebrated on different days throughout the world!), which is such a pain in the a** to remember. It doesn't make a lot of sense at all.
On the other hand, maybe it's just to make the fathers feel better, coz 'third Sunday of June' isn't exactly a breeze either. Now we know.
Yesterday was Mother's Day and I hope everyone's moms had a terrific time.
For me, I wished my mom a Happy Mother's Day and had a simple supper with her last night. That was about it, since we are having our weekly dinner with my sister and brother-in-law tonight (as usual Monday is our family day), plus two weeks ago I had already bought her the deepfryer she wanted from Robinson's.
But that is not the point. What I really want to share here is a thought that had dawned upon me in between watching the heartfelt wishes and giant carnation displays on TV.
Why on Mother's Day and not on our birthdays?
Just think about it, a child's birthday should be more significant to a mother because that is also the day that she would think, "Gee, I gave birth to my baby today x years ago!" Probably the most memorable, if not painful, day of her life.
Also, the official Mother's Day date is different on each year (and celebrated on different days throughout the world!), which is such a pain in the a** to remember. It doesn't make a lot of sense at all.
On the other hand, maybe it's just to make the fathers feel better, coz 'third Sunday of June' isn't exactly a breeze either. Now we know.
Saturday, December 08, 2007
Carbon - Would You Buy It?
No ladies, I am not referring to your diamonds.
It's about the recent Virgin Atlantic move to offer passengers carbon offsets alongside in-flight duty-free items. Although the initiative hasn't taken off in Asia yet, I already wonder if Singaporeans will actually pay a fee for own carbon emissions, or even be remotely interested in how large their carbon footprints are. My guess is, people would probably shrug it off since it's optional. And if the offset is made compulsory, most Singaporeans will see it is a penalty rather than their responsibility, and trust me, they will make a lot of noise. A LOT of it.
It's sad to see how our nation has developed, and how it hasn't at the same time. I always had this rosy picture painted of us being abreast of issues of the world because we have quality media coverage and a large number of highly educated and well travelled Singaporeans. However, it seems to be contrary in reality. Granted, many go through the motion of reading their papers daily, but what information they are picking up is debatable.
The majority of local readers are reading news for updates on what affects them most personally and directly instead of focusing on the fundamental issue. They want to know, say, how a new labor policy is going to affect them. Will they lose their jobs? Will they get a pay increment? But they probably couldn't care two hoots about the social repercussions of a large foreign work force or the extent of our country's widening rich-poor gap. At least not until something tangible takes form.
For a relatively developed nation like ours, such general apathy is actually quite appalling. Maybe it is a syndrome of hardware growing faster than heartware. After all, mindsets take time to develop, and money apparently doesn't take so long to generate, so let's be patient. Take heart, for there is also a strong minority out there who is genuinely concerned about the world and its well being, and doing their best to make a difference. That's all we need, just some belief.
So for the rest who are still unsure, take your time, ponder over your carbons.
It's about the recent Virgin Atlantic move to offer passengers carbon offsets alongside in-flight duty-free items. Although the initiative hasn't taken off in Asia yet, I already wonder if Singaporeans will actually pay a fee for own carbon emissions, or even be remotely interested in how large their carbon footprints are. My guess is, people would probably shrug it off since it's optional. And if the offset is made compulsory, most Singaporeans will see it is a penalty rather than their responsibility, and trust me, they will make a lot of noise. A LOT of it.
It's sad to see how our nation has developed, and how it hasn't at the same time. I always had this rosy picture painted of us being abreast of issues of the world because we have quality media coverage and a large number of highly educated and well travelled Singaporeans. However, it seems to be contrary in reality. Granted, many go through the motion of reading their papers daily, but what information they are picking up is debatable.
The majority of local readers are reading news for updates on what affects them most personally and directly instead of focusing on the fundamental issue. They want to know, say, how a new labor policy is going to affect them. Will they lose their jobs? Will they get a pay increment? But they probably couldn't care two hoots about the social repercussions of a large foreign work force or the extent of our country's widening rich-poor gap. At least not until something tangible takes form.
For a relatively developed nation like ours, such general apathy is actually quite appalling. Maybe it is a syndrome of hardware growing faster than heartware. After all, mindsets take time to develop, and money apparently doesn't take so long to generate, so let's be patient. Take heart, for there is also a strong minority out there who is genuinely concerned about the world and its well being, and doing their best to make a difference. That's all we need, just some belief.
So for the rest who are still unsure, take your time, ponder over your carbons.
Blur Queen
If you recall from my previous blog post, I am also Miss Mess Queen. So that makes me a double-title holder. Sigh. If only this was a beauty contest.
About being Miss Blur, all I got to say is, it really isn't my fault. I am absolutely certain that at some point in time, I was abducted by aliens and hence had my intellectually superior mind altered in some big experiment, leaving me with a half empty skull that has trouble processing memories lasting more than two seconds.
Mmm... What was I saying again?
Ha ha. Alright, things aren't that bad yet, I was just having a little fun writing silly stuff like that. But seriously, I am quite a loser when it comes to remembering things. Big things, small things, they all elude me.
Just barely three days ago, I had left my passport in an airplane seat pocket and conveniently forgot all about it. I then happily swapped seats and spent the next seven hours not realizing what I've done. Fortunately, I always have eagle-eyed friends to watch over me. At the end of the flight when we were all standing up, waiting to leave the plane, Irene coolly walked up to my original seat and pulled out my passport -- leather cover, boarding pass, the entire works. The same thing happened to me another time, also when I was on board a plane and about to disembark. Trusty Huifen pulled my passport out from in-between two seats. On both instances, I swore not to do it again. Obviously, my swearing didn't help at all. I was just as hopeless.
Misplacing items, remembering the wrong names, mixing dates up, misadventures like these happen to me all the time, and I've since gotten used to being a blundering idiot. I just hope I don't frustrate my friends too much.
To you all, thank you for being my guardian angels. Just bear with me until I get a chance to speak to those aliens. I want my brains back.
About being Miss Blur, all I got to say is, it really isn't my fault. I am absolutely certain that at some point in time, I was abducted by aliens and hence had my intellectually superior mind altered in some big experiment, leaving me with a half empty skull that has trouble processing memories lasting more than two seconds.
Mmm... What was I saying again?
Ha ha. Alright, things aren't that bad yet, I was just having a little fun writing silly stuff like that. But seriously, I am quite a loser when it comes to remembering things. Big things, small things, they all elude me.
Just barely three days ago, I had left my passport in an airplane seat pocket and conveniently forgot all about it. I then happily swapped seats and spent the next seven hours not realizing what I've done. Fortunately, I always have eagle-eyed friends to watch over me. At the end of the flight when we were all standing up, waiting to leave the plane, Irene coolly walked up to my original seat and pulled out my passport -- leather cover, boarding pass, the entire works. The same thing happened to me another time, also when I was on board a plane and about to disembark. Trusty Huifen pulled my passport out from in-between two seats. On both instances, I swore not to do it again. Obviously, my swearing didn't help at all. I was just as hopeless.
Misplacing items, remembering the wrong names, mixing dates up, misadventures like these happen to me all the time, and I've since gotten used to being a blundering idiot. I just hope I don't frustrate my friends too much.
To you all, thank you for being my guardian angels. Just bear with me until I get a chance to speak to those aliens. I want my brains back.
Friday, December 07, 2007
Japanese, Or Not
I have a strange affinity for Japanese things. It's really not the kind of fervent passion that you see in people chasing the Japanese culture. I'm just not the pursuing type. Rather, it is an innate familiarity that I had somehow developed for a culture that seems so different to many others.
I'm not quite sure how I did it. Maybe I was born with a Japanese gene by mistake, or maybe it was those Japanese beers. Whatever it was, I took it for granted and didn't think too much about it. It was not until I went on this recent media trip to Japan with fellow Singaporeans that I realized just how strange it was for me to be so at home with quirky Japanese ways.
For example, I did not learn how to bow and exchange pleasantries in the Japanese fashion. I simply did. I'd say a quiet "itadakimasu" when I start eating, and "gochisousama" when I finish, even when I eat alone. When it gets cold, I'd let out a "Samu(i)!" under my breathe without thinking. They all seem so natural to me. And I definitely did not grow up taking baths with strangers, but I love to. The practice of communal bath grew so much on me that I began to feel melancholic if I had to take my shower in solitude.
Now there are some truly Japanese things that do not go down so well with me. Take sashimi for example. If you have already read my previous blog posts, you'd have gotten an inkling that Japanese food isn't quite my cup of tea. And if you're thinking, "What about those ramen and stuff?" Let me tell you that ramen is originally Chinese. So are gyoza dumplings. There you go.
So in conclusion, despite having quite a bit of Japanese in me, my stomach is essentially Chinese.
I'm not quite sure how I did it. Maybe I was born with a Japanese gene by mistake, or maybe it was those Japanese beers. Whatever it was, I took it for granted and didn't think too much about it. It was not until I went on this recent media trip to Japan with fellow Singaporeans that I realized just how strange it was for me to be so at home with quirky Japanese ways.
For example, I did not learn how to bow and exchange pleasantries in the Japanese fashion. I simply did. I'd say a quiet "itadakimasu" when I start eating, and "gochisousama" when I finish, even when I eat alone. When it gets cold, I'd let out a "Samu(i)!" under my breathe without thinking. They all seem so natural to me. And I definitely did not grow up taking baths with strangers, but I love to. The practice of communal bath grew so much on me that I began to feel melancholic if I had to take my shower in solitude.
Now there are some truly Japanese things that do not go down so well with me. Take sashimi for example. If you have already read my previous blog posts, you'd have gotten an inkling that Japanese food isn't quite my cup of tea. And if you're thinking, "What about those ramen and stuff?" Let me tell you that ramen is originally Chinese. So are gyoza dumplings. There you go.
So in conclusion, despite having quite a bit of Japanese in me, my stomach is essentially Chinese.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Can't Do It For Food
I don't normally do food reviews for a few really good reasons.
Reason #1: No photos for illustration.
If you are a true foodie, you'd understand my predicament. I have absolutely zero control over my enthusiastic taste buds when confronted with highly delectable food. Out of ten times, I'd forget to take pictures a good eight times. Even if I remembered, it would be a tad too late. Before I can say "cheese!", the damage will have been done, and any enticing presentation of a dish will inevitably be ruined and reduced to an appetite-inhibiting splotch. Garnishes overturned, meat dissected, gravy dribbled all over. Not a pretty sight, especially for a food review.
Reason #2: Lack of recollection of details.
I am not one for note-taking during the course of my meal. In fact, I think that is counter-productive to fully appreciating food. The hand, at the fine moment of food tasting, is for holding cutlery, not stationary; the mind, at the same said moment, is to be experiencing pleasurable sensations, not sidetracking to remember the right spelling for exotic ingredients.
Hence, without the aid of a trusty notebook, it is quite unlikely for me to remember a thing about really good food. I wonder how anyone can. Especially those who can list every single detail from the price of the entire menu down to the types of tableware used in presentation.
Reason #3: Lack of words for description
How do you say something tastes really good, other than saying it tastes really good? Pardon my bluntness but I do find words like oozing (warm chocolate cake), slippery (udon), firm (fish) and bloody (steak) quite disgustingly sexual, or medical, or both.
I don't know about you, but to me, mind-blowing orgasmic food (some people prefer to describe it this way) just ain't something you can recount and retell with precision. (Which is also why I can't understand people who blog about their... ahem, other orgasmic-inducing pursuits.) The joy of eating is an intimate personal experience, quite indescribable in words. You can't just tell someone how good it is, he's got to try it for himself.
So my conclusion is, food bloggers must be food lovers who have remarkable self-control or a remarkable memory. Or they are not real food lovers at all, just people who find eating otherwise too boring. Whatever it is, I know I can never aspire to be one, and I shall count on the goodwill of these industrious people to write good reviews so that I know where to go for my next... errr... pleasurable moment.
Reason #1: No photos for illustration.
If you are a true foodie, you'd understand my predicament. I have absolutely zero control over my enthusiastic taste buds when confronted with highly delectable food. Out of ten times, I'd forget to take pictures a good eight times. Even if I remembered, it would be a tad too late. Before I can say "cheese!", the damage will have been done, and any enticing presentation of a dish will inevitably be ruined and reduced to an appetite-inhibiting splotch. Garnishes overturned, meat dissected, gravy dribbled all over. Not a pretty sight, especially for a food review.
Reason #2: Lack of recollection of details.
I am not one for note-taking during the course of my meal. In fact, I think that is counter-productive to fully appreciating food. The hand, at the fine moment of food tasting, is for holding cutlery, not stationary; the mind, at the same said moment, is to be experiencing pleasurable sensations, not sidetracking to remember the right spelling for exotic ingredients.
Hence, without the aid of a trusty notebook, it is quite unlikely for me to remember a thing about really good food. I wonder how anyone can. Especially those who can list every single detail from the price of the entire menu down to the types of tableware used in presentation.
Reason #3: Lack of words for description
How do you say something tastes really good, other than saying it tastes really good? Pardon my bluntness but I do find words like oozing (warm chocolate cake), slippery (udon), firm (fish) and bloody (steak) quite disgustingly sexual, or medical, or both.
I don't know about you, but to me, mind-blowing orgasmic food (some people prefer to describe it this way) just ain't something you can recount and retell with precision. (Which is also why I can't understand people who blog about their... ahem, other orgasmic-inducing pursuits.) The joy of eating is an intimate personal experience, quite indescribable in words. You can't just tell someone how good it is, he's got to try it for himself.
So my conclusion is, food bloggers must be food lovers who have remarkable self-control or a remarkable memory. Or they are not real food lovers at all, just people who find eating otherwise too boring. Whatever it is, I know I can never aspire to be one, and I shall count on the goodwill of these industrious people to write good reviews so that I know where to go for my next... errr... pleasurable moment.
Lost Things
I got a little sentimental last weekend when our home was finally sold. Not that I minded the sale; I was eager to move to my spanking new apartment after all. But somewhere deep down inside, it hurt to say goodbye to this familiar place where I grew up in, the safest and warmest I've known so far, for a good twenty-odd years.
At this point, I've got to admit that I am a sucker for old things. Books, clothes, jewellery, furniture, anything. You'd find me happiest thrifting at a surplus shop. Even when I buy new items, I like them to look like they have been used forever. I would try to wear and tear down my belongings as soon as I lay my hands on them. My motto: The tattier, the better! I'm absolutely not a leave-that-film-protector-on-my-cellphone/digicam/Ipod-to-prevent-scratches kinda girl. Instead, I leave clear, deep impressions on my stuff like how animals scent-mark their territory, as if to say, "IT'S MINE, IT'S MINE, IT'S MINE!!!"
Maybe it's prehistorical human instinct and I'm just less evolved, but I prefer to think of it as an affectionate attachment to my belongings. To me, used items have the ubiquitous quality of being exceptional. No two are the same. New things start off looking bland and characterless, but over time, moments add up and relationships develop between men and their things. Then one day, they become precious. Precious with lots of memories. And I dig memories.
So, I'm an oldie and I like my things ancient. That's why I'm feeling rather melancholic about the loss of my old abode. I'll miss viewing the brilliant sunset colors out of the creaky old window. I'll miss looking up at the uneven plastered ceiling when I'm lying sleepless in bed. Most of all, I'll miss being able to come up to the door step and just step right into my "home".
The precious thing is no longer mine.
At this point, I've got to admit that I am a sucker for old things. Books, clothes, jewellery, furniture, anything. You'd find me happiest thrifting at a surplus shop. Even when I buy new items, I like them to look like they have been used forever. I would try to wear and tear down my belongings as soon as I lay my hands on them. My motto: The tattier, the better! I'm absolutely not a leave-that-film-protector-on-my-cellphone/digicam/Ipod-to-prevent-scratches kinda girl. Instead, I leave clear, deep impressions on my stuff like how animals scent-mark their territory, as if to say, "IT'S MINE, IT'S MINE, IT'S MINE!!!"
Maybe it's prehistorical human instinct and I'm just less evolved, but I prefer to think of it as an affectionate attachment to my belongings. To me, used items have the ubiquitous quality of being exceptional. No two are the same. New things start off looking bland and characterless, but over time, moments add up and relationships develop between men and their things. Then one day, they become precious. Precious with lots of memories. And I dig memories.
So, I'm an oldie and I like my things ancient. That's why I'm feeling rather melancholic about the loss of my old abode. I'll miss viewing the brilliant sunset colors out of the creaky old window. I'll miss looking up at the uneven plastered ceiling when I'm lying sleepless in bed. Most of all, I'll miss being able to come up to the door step and just step right into my "home".
The precious thing is no longer mine.
Friday, November 09, 2007
The Dichotomy of Self
I am the embodiment of extremes. Well, I guess there's nothing wrong with it.
Two minds, two stances, two halves of an identity;
Never compromising, only winning or losing;
One way or another, it has got to be.
Good or Evil? The angel and devil plays
Hide-and-Seek, Police-and-Thief;
Within one entity, a dichotomy.
Not unlike the push and pull of gravity;
The true and false of assumptions;
The null and alternate hypotheses.
Not unlike the left and right of crossroads;
The maddening to and fro of traffic;
The rising and falling of tides in the sea.
As sure as each breath taken in and out deeply;
The heart muscles expand and contract, rhythmic;
Such is it, the Yin and Yang of nature's harmony.
Two minds, two stances, two halves of an identity;
Never compromising, only winning or losing;
One way or another, it has got to be.
Good or Evil? The angel and devil plays
Hide-and-Seek, Police-and-Thief;
Within one entity, a dichotomy.
Not unlike the push and pull of gravity;
The true and false of assumptions;
The null and alternate hypotheses.
Not unlike the left and right of crossroads;
The maddening to and fro of traffic;
The rising and falling of tides in the sea.
As sure as each breath taken in and out deeply;
The heart muscles expand and contract, rhythmic;
Such is it, the Yin and Yang of nature's harmony.
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
Meat, Give Us Meat
It was a hilarious weekend. What was supposed to be a genteel lunch get-together turned out to be rather disastrous. Six pairs of pretty pumps, three designer handbags, and a smart casual dress code, all waltzing gracefully into the green serenity of a cafe-in-the-park, thinking just how holistic it was to bask in some sun and phytoncide for a change.
Moments later, we fled.
No, it wasn't the mid-day sun, nor the lunch crowd. It wasn't the music they were playing, and it certainly wasn't the color of their furniture either.
It was the VEGETABLES.
We spent a good ten minutes staring horrifically into the Menu of Are You Serious Vegan Food before finding our voices and blabbering incoherently about the severity of the situation.
NO MEAT.
Gosh, I did not intend for that. Luckily, it didn't take long for us to devise a new strategy, not when we had the alpha male with us - the man who make the decisions and ate a darn lot of meat. We had unanimously decided to ditch that forsaken Cafe of Mock Meat to go somewhere else with a lot of flesh and blood. Well, the pregnant lady has got to get her proteins...
So it was with much anticipation that we transported ourselves in record time to the nearest carnivorous haven, where the greens were where they were supposed to be - garnished under the meat. It was an old, uninspiring coffee shop packed with ravenous like-minded foodies like us, savouring various animal body parts with much glee and a lot less style.
But never mind style. The food is good, and we were all happy. That was despite us having to devour tricky trotters and licking off near invisible fish bones while clutching handbags tightly under our arms and perspiring our makeup away. What is a little discomfort compared to the euphoria of tummy satisfaction? Suddenly, the world seemed much more agreeable.
We ended lunch with a few big burps and very hefty stomachs, and I made a mental note to check for meat in the menus in future. A true carnivore never makes such an abominable blunder. Rather no food, then no meat. I have let my friends down.
Apologies to all vegan friends. I hope you didn't retch after reading this. I'm just really not a leaves and roots kinda person, so leave me to my fried chicken, and you can have the coleslaw.
Moments later, we fled.
No, it wasn't the mid-day sun, nor the lunch crowd. It wasn't the music they were playing, and it certainly wasn't the color of their furniture either.
It was the VEGETABLES.
We spent a good ten minutes staring horrifically into the Menu of Are You Serious Vegan Food before finding our voices and blabbering incoherently about the severity of the situation.
NO MEAT.
Gosh, I did not intend for that. Luckily, it didn't take long for us to devise a new strategy, not when we had the alpha male with us - the man who make the decisions and ate a darn lot of meat. We had unanimously decided to ditch that forsaken Cafe of Mock Meat to go somewhere else with a lot of flesh and blood. Well, the pregnant lady has got to get her proteins...
So it was with much anticipation that we transported ourselves in record time to the nearest carnivorous haven, where the greens were where they were supposed to be - garnished under the meat. It was an old, uninspiring coffee shop packed with ravenous like-minded foodies like us, savouring various animal body parts with much glee and a lot less style.
But never mind style. The food is good, and we were all happy. That was despite us having to devour tricky trotters and licking off near invisible fish bones while clutching handbags tightly under our arms and perspiring our makeup away. What is a little discomfort compared to the euphoria of tummy satisfaction? Suddenly, the world seemed much more agreeable.
We ended lunch with a few big burps and very hefty stomachs, and I made a mental note to check for meat in the menus in future. A true carnivore never makes such an abominable blunder. Rather no food, then no meat. I have let my friends down.
Apologies to all vegan friends. I hope you didn't retch after reading this. I'm just really not a leaves and roots kinda person, so leave me to my fried chicken, and you can have the coleslaw.
Saturday, September 01, 2007
Friday, August 31, 2007
Up In The Clouds, Those Books
I have habit, a small pleasure really, to always buy a paperback from the airport bookstore each time I travel. And on its first page, without fail, I'd scribble the date and city of departure before I start reading.
It may seem like a mindless entry, and in fact it really is. But I am so used to the routine that I find myself obsessing about it the moment I step into an airport, so much so that I get frantic when I can't find a decent title to procure. Then, I'll spend another ten minutes pacing around the bookstore aisles and wringing my clammy fingers in anxiety before settling for one with a dubious title such as "The Deafening Whisper" or "Antartica - More Than Ice", after watching about a dozen transit shoppers come and go with a copy of it each. The logic behind this is, better to read a lousy book than to be airborne without any. Another one of my quirky little philosophies.
Thus, you can imagine how many books, good or otherwise, I have stashed away all these years from my travels. They have become my proud collection and many of which are so enjoyable that I read them over and over again. And each time I do, I would take a quick glance of my entry on the first page and reminisce fondly of that particular trip. Yes, most people use photographs, postcards or journals to remember their vacations by. Not me, I use books. Somehow my brain seem to recall better by aligning memories with trashy book content.
So it was with my life's greatest regret that I left a paperback, one that should be part of my collection, in an aircraft once. You may think it's a forgivable offence to lose a book by slotting it to oblivion in the heinously deep front pocket of your seat, but hell no, I did nothing of the sort. I fell asleep after reading three lines of the prologue and simply let it slide down the empty space between my arm rest and the wall of the aircraft. Most of all, it was just a one-hour domestic flight from Toyama to Haneda Airport. Not the best excuse for nodding off in a most unglamorous manner, much less to lose a brand new novel that was a potential good read. Utterly disgraceful.
Now, I've learnt to be more careful with my books by spending those dreadfully long pauses between touchdown and the seat belt sign going off, committing myself to checking and re-checking my articles. "Passport, hand-carry, book... passport, hand-carry, book..." That's how I remember. These days, I never lose my books anymore, although I had subsequently left behind a scarf, a pair of sunglasses and a couple of muffins, all in the same deep, dark aircraft front pocket.
Well, try as we might, we can never be perfect, can we?
Ahhh... I forgot to mention my favourite habit of using the little stubs left of boarding passes as bookmarks when I read. I sincerely think that's what the airline people invented them for. Clever.
It may seem like a mindless entry, and in fact it really is. But I am so used to the routine that I find myself obsessing about it the moment I step into an airport, so much so that I get frantic when I can't find a decent title to procure. Then, I'll spend another ten minutes pacing around the bookstore aisles and wringing my clammy fingers in anxiety before settling for one with a dubious title such as "The Deafening Whisper" or "Antartica - More Than Ice", after watching about a dozen transit shoppers come and go with a copy of it each. The logic behind this is, better to read a lousy book than to be airborne without any. Another one of my quirky little philosophies.
Thus, you can imagine how many books, good or otherwise, I have stashed away all these years from my travels. They have become my proud collection and many of which are so enjoyable that I read them over and over again. And each time I do, I would take a quick glance of my entry on the first page and reminisce fondly of that particular trip. Yes, most people use photographs, postcards or journals to remember their vacations by. Not me, I use books. Somehow my brain seem to recall better by aligning memories with trashy book content.
So it was with my life's greatest regret that I left a paperback, one that should be part of my collection, in an aircraft once. You may think it's a forgivable offence to lose a book by slotting it to oblivion in the heinously deep front pocket of your seat, but hell no, I did nothing of the sort. I fell asleep after reading three lines of the prologue and simply let it slide down the empty space between my arm rest and the wall of the aircraft. Most of all, it was just a one-hour domestic flight from Toyama to Haneda Airport. Not the best excuse for nodding off in a most unglamorous manner, much less to lose a brand new novel that was a potential good read. Utterly disgraceful.
Now, I've learnt to be more careful with my books by spending those dreadfully long pauses between touchdown and the seat belt sign going off, committing myself to checking and re-checking my articles. "Passport, hand-carry, book... passport, hand-carry, book..." That's how I remember. These days, I never lose my books anymore, although I had subsequently left behind a scarf, a pair of sunglasses and a couple of muffins, all in the same deep, dark aircraft front pocket.
Well, try as we might, we can never be perfect, can we?
Ahhh... I forgot to mention my favourite habit of using the little stubs left of boarding passes as bookmarks when I read. I sincerely think that's what the airline people invented them for. Clever.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Saturday, August 25, 2007
That Day With Dad
I do not have many fond memories of doing things with my dad. Well, he's great and all, just never very involved in the things I do. Throughout my school years, Mom was the one to depend on. Of course, Dad provided the dough, and all is well.
Being highly independent bordering on being autistic as a kid, I was quite happy sticking to the status quo, but nevertheless always quietly envious of the other kind of father-daughter relationship I watched on TV. You know, the kind where Dad actually plays basketball with Daughter and gives her advice on what to wear to the prom? Yeah, the non-existent kind, at least to me.
Well, there were times when we had moments together, but always with Mom around, making us a wholesome family of three (occasionally five, when my equally wholesome sister and brother-in-law were with us). Other times, we hardly had anything to say to each other. It seemed that I took after Dad, and the two of us alone at home would mean a silence overkill.
So, it was with great apprehension that I welcomed that day which I got to spend some time out with him while my mom thrived in her shopping elsewhere round the globe. Actually, it wasn't even a big deal because we were just supposed to get some official things done at the bank involving a property purchase. We were on task and done within an hour, and because I had to work later in the day, there was effectively only a couple of hours to spare in between.
And what did we do? We shared a Subway sandwich and coffee between us (Dad's first taste of my college staple), window-shopped at a furniture mall and exchanged pointers at an electrical appliance store. It was the best father-daughter bonding day I've had.
My dad is so cool.
Being highly independent bordering on being autistic as a kid, I was quite happy sticking to the status quo, but nevertheless always quietly envious of the other kind of father-daughter relationship I watched on TV. You know, the kind where Dad actually plays basketball with Daughter and gives her advice on what to wear to the prom? Yeah, the non-existent kind, at least to me.
Well, there were times when we had moments together, but always with Mom around, making us a wholesome family of three (occasionally five, when my equally wholesome sister and brother-in-law were with us). Other times, we hardly had anything to say to each other. It seemed that I took after Dad, and the two of us alone at home would mean a silence overkill.
So, it was with great apprehension that I welcomed that day which I got to spend some time out with him while my mom thrived in her shopping elsewhere round the globe. Actually, it wasn't even a big deal because we were just supposed to get some official things done at the bank involving a property purchase. We were on task and done within an hour, and because I had to work later in the day, there was effectively only a couple of hours to spare in between.
And what did we do? We shared a Subway sandwich and coffee between us (Dad's first taste of my college staple), window-shopped at a furniture mall and exchanged pointers at an electrical appliance store. It was the best father-daughter bonding day I've had.
My dad is so cool.
A Few Things
Actually, more than a few things. Every time I chance upon a great topic or something memorable, I commit it to memory so that I can perhaps put them down in this blog one fine day. As you can see, that fine day is long overdue and those 'mental notes' just keep piling up.
With keen alikeness to a computer overloaded with too much inconsequential data, my pathetic brain slows down to a pace just marginally faster than my current PC. (Trust me, this is saying a lot.) Well, I have only this many neurons until some smart fellow from the valley finds a way to upgrade my RAM.
In face of such a major brain-stalling catastrophe (actually, my remarkably slow PC bothers me more, but well...), I've decided to take the cue from IT and adopt the 'back up-and-reformat' strategy. All I've got to do now is to start the painfully slow process of backing up -- writing what I've been meaning to, for the longest time.
First, let me recapitulate... ... ... ...
Oh, just great. My mind is stalled and I gotta reboot. See you in a minute.
With keen alikeness to a computer overloaded with too much inconsequential data, my pathetic brain slows down to a pace just marginally faster than my current PC. (Trust me, this is saying a lot.) Well, I have only this many neurons until some smart fellow from the valley finds a way to upgrade my RAM.
In face of such a major brain-stalling catastrophe (actually, my remarkably slow PC bothers me more, but well...), I've decided to take the cue from IT and adopt the 'back up-and-reformat' strategy. All I've got to do now is to start the painfully slow process of backing up -- writing what I've been meaning to, for the longest time.
First, let me recapitulate... ... ... ...
Oh, just great. My mind is stalled and I gotta reboot. See you in a minute.
Monday, July 02, 2007
Sunday, July 01, 2007
Shizen Yoga
Shizen means nature in Japanese. For the past one week, I have been living au naturel (I mean spiritually, not physically naked or anything) in Kichijoji, attending daily yoga lessons at Shizen Yoga studio B under the guidance of several wonderful instructors.
Kichijoji is a hip little neighborhood in the outskirts of Tokyo with an arty, offbeat culture that results in numerous indie establishments and a slight un-Japanese-ness. From the minute I stepped out of the train station, I knew that a yoga school in this area would be the right way to go.
And indeed, I was right.
The studio is nestled in the quieter side of the neighborhood among quaint little boutiques and private residences, with just a simple grey sign to indicate its presence. I was a little apprehensive as I made my way up the open stairway to the second floor and pulled open the slightly ajarred door, but I soon felt right at home when Sachiko-sensei welcomed me with her bright "konnichi wa".
Studio B, from what I understand, is smaller than studio A and hence caters for smaller classes. There is no shower facilities, in-house snack bars or fanciful fixtures offered by larger chain health clubs, just a simple washroom and a changing area marked by pieces of cloth hanging from the ceiling. A wall-to-wall cupboard stores a good supply of mats, blocks, belts, blankets and bolsters for class participants. The environment is clean, quiet and minimalistic. All the right combinations for pure, unadulated yoga.
And so it was, I was soon breathing and bending at the close supervision of our instructor, together with five fellow participants. Nothing was too easy or too difficult as Sachiko would demonstrate variations of a single pose and then promptly advised us which to follow depending on our level of fitness and flexibility. By the end of my first lesson at Shizen, I was looking forward to my next. I must say, Sachiko really did well to stretch my muscles, as I actually ached quite a bit that night.
In the very same manner, I became student of Madoka and Reiko as well. Though the instructors share a similar philosophy, they have different personalities that shone through in every class. No two classes were the same, as each sensei has their own style and there was always a different focus or a new pose to touch on. Madoka opened me up to an enlightening perspective on yoga and meditation, while Reiko radiated power and confidence through her sturdy moves.
My fellow classmates at Shizen too, made my experience unforgettable. Whether it is sharing thoughts and laughter with each other, attempting to balance hefty butts on our arms or simply lying on our mats in sweaty togetherness toward the end of each session, they were good company and inspiration. There is nothing more motivating than knowing there are great people like these who practise yoga. And as a bonus, I even met a fellow Mac alum - Madoka's sister, Michiru - at Shizen, halfway round the globe from Minnesota. Yes, yoga really does wonders.
As Shizen's founder Dominica puts it, yoga is about the discovery of oneself; I was beginning to discover, bit by bit, my own physical, mental and spiritual state of being through each breathe and step I took. This experience, though totally new to me, felt really comforting and rejuvenating under the wings of Sachiko, Madoka and Reiko.
Thank you to all of you at Shizen for your patience in providing English explanations, your kind words of encouragement, your generous smiles and genuine passion in yoga. I had a truly wonderful time and I hope to be back soon.
Kichijoji is a hip little neighborhood in the outskirts of Tokyo with an arty, offbeat culture that results in numerous indie establishments and a slight un-Japanese-ness. From the minute I stepped out of the train station, I knew that a yoga school in this area would be the right way to go.
And indeed, I was right.
The studio is nestled in the quieter side of the neighborhood among quaint little boutiques and private residences, with just a simple grey sign to indicate its presence. I was a little apprehensive as I made my way up the open stairway to the second floor and pulled open the slightly ajarred door, but I soon felt right at home when Sachiko-sensei welcomed me with her bright "konnichi wa".
Studio B, from what I understand, is smaller than studio A and hence caters for smaller classes. There is no shower facilities, in-house snack bars or fanciful fixtures offered by larger chain health clubs, just a simple washroom and a changing area marked by pieces of cloth hanging from the ceiling. A wall-to-wall cupboard stores a good supply of mats, blocks, belts, blankets and bolsters for class participants. The environment is clean, quiet and minimalistic. All the right combinations for pure, unadulated yoga.
And so it was, I was soon breathing and bending at the close supervision of our instructor, together with five fellow participants. Nothing was too easy or too difficult as Sachiko would demonstrate variations of a single pose and then promptly advised us which to follow depending on our level of fitness and flexibility. By the end of my first lesson at Shizen, I was looking forward to my next. I must say, Sachiko really did well to stretch my muscles, as I actually ached quite a bit that night.
In the very same manner, I became student of Madoka and Reiko as well. Though the instructors share a similar philosophy, they have different personalities that shone through in every class. No two classes were the same, as each sensei has their own style and there was always a different focus or a new pose to touch on. Madoka opened me up to an enlightening perspective on yoga and meditation, while Reiko radiated power and confidence through her sturdy moves.
My fellow classmates at Shizen too, made my experience unforgettable. Whether it is sharing thoughts and laughter with each other, attempting to balance hefty butts on our arms or simply lying on our mats in sweaty togetherness toward the end of each session, they were good company and inspiration. There is nothing more motivating than knowing there are great people like these who practise yoga. And as a bonus, I even met a fellow Mac alum - Madoka's sister, Michiru - at Shizen, halfway round the globe from Minnesota. Yes, yoga really does wonders.
As Shizen's founder Dominica puts it, yoga is about the discovery of oneself; I was beginning to discover, bit by bit, my own physical, mental and spiritual state of being through each breathe and step I took. This experience, though totally new to me, felt really comforting and rejuvenating under the wings of Sachiko, Madoka and Reiko.
Thank you to all of you at Shizen for your patience in providing English explanations, your kind words of encouragement, your generous smiles and genuine passion in yoga. I had a truly wonderful time and I hope to be back soon.
Saturday, May 26, 2007
Gadget Girl
I'm a Gadget girl, in a Gadget world.
Memory sticks, life's fantastic...
Oh yeah, Houston, I have a problem. I'm totally into my gadgets and it's leaving me bankrupt and luvin' it. Well, almost bankrupt, but definitely loving all of it.
Between now and my last blog post on how I was infatuated with the Creative Neeon, then subsequently the iPod Nano (and yes I eventually bought one) , I've managed to amass a good number of high tech toys: a Panasonic digital video camera, an iLuv stereo docking system ipod, a Kensington remote control for wireless presentations, a Sony Ericsson 3G-cum-3.2 megapixel Cyber-shot lens multimedia phone, a Penpower Handwriter - a pen and tablet set for handwritten input, and a Creative 2-in-1 keyboard that has both computer and black-and-white musical keys on it.
Cool huh? You don't think so? Well, I think they're awesome... BUT still, not half as awesome as these items on my current MUST-HAVE list:
Good planning. Wish me luck.
Memory sticks, life's fantastic...
Oh yeah, Houston, I have a problem. I'm totally into my gadgets and it's leaving me bankrupt and luvin' it. Well, almost bankrupt, but definitely loving all of it.
Between now and my last blog post on how I was infatuated with the Creative Neeon, then subsequently the iPod Nano (and yes I eventually bought one) , I've managed to amass a good number of high tech toys: a Panasonic digital video camera, an iLuv stereo docking system ipod, a Kensington remote control for wireless presentations, a Sony Ericsson 3G-cum-3.2 megapixel Cyber-shot lens multimedia phone, a Penpower Handwriter - a pen and tablet set for handwritten input, and a Creative 2-in-1 keyboard that has both computer and black-and-white musical keys on it.
Cool huh? You don't think so? Well, I think they're awesome... BUT still, not half as awesome as these items on my current MUST-HAVE list:
- Sony VAIO TX56 - For surfing the net and blogging on the go. The free wireless@SG hotspots, its featherweight size (in laptop relativity), and the stylish carbonfibre (the same material that Ferrari cars are made of. I mean, how neat is that?!) casing are perfect reasons why I just have to get one to complete my wardrobe.
- Nikon Coolpix S200 - For taking 7.1 megapixel shots on the go. My current 3.2 megapixel phone camera and an antique fat bodied Sony Mavica is just not good enough for serious arty farty types like me. (Not the niftiest one in the market, but hey, that's all I can afford!)
- Nokia N95 - For its wireless internet connection and 5 megapixels Carl Zeiss Tessar lens. Now, now, before you start explaining how I do not need the N95 as the Vaio is wifi-enabled and the Coolpix is way ahead in terms of picture resolution, I must remind you, as a blue blooded gadget royalty, that the N95 comes with GPS and maps of various countries. Absolutely essential for survival in this time and age, and beyond.
- Apple Airport Extreme Base Station - Just its name alone is gratifying to any gadget enthusiasts. Of course, the best deal is that it allows me to connect all my toys wirelessly with each other, and with the internet. Need I say more?
Good planning. Wish me luck.
Friday, May 18, 2007
Cook My Sashimi, PLEASE!
I pride myself on being a self-made connoisseur of good food.
Misunderstand me not, for I am not a snobbish nor a fussy eater. I've had my fair share of plain tasteless to downright revolting culinary experiences, and I'm actually quite easily contented by simple, unexciting dishes on most uneventful days.
The only thing that makes me a real foodie is my unrelenting passion in finding out about and tracking down good food, wherever it may be. Suspicious looking street side hawker fare in Bangkok, classy Ritz afternoon tea in London, dingy diner breakfast in the States, I've conquered them all. Even in Singapore, I'd travel across the country (albeit a very small one) just for that great Hainanese chicken rice chili dip, or risk getting heat stroke by walking from Orchard to Botanical Gardens in the blazing sun for that rack of lamb roasted to perfection.
Alas, there is one big regret in this gastronomic pursuit of mine. That is, I absolutely hate raw fish. With this revelation, I have a strong urge to weep and bow deeply to the Japanese to apologize for my horrendous inadequacy. I sin, in the eyes of millions of sashimi lovers, each time I gag when I see or smell raw seafood on little wooden plates.
In the unfortunate event of me being force led into a sashimi restaurant, I would have to ask for flasks of hot green tea to wash the slimy fishy mess down my throat, half hoping that the piping heat from the tea would actually flash cook it in split seconds (well, it didn't, but it did cook my throat to a medium rare). If I get lucky, I might be able to get through the night by pretending to concentrate hard on creating the optimal mix of wasabi and soy sauce. Since I'm mostly not a lucky person, I've swallowed quite a variety of raw things (I still can't bring myself to say 'food') to date.
The most memorable (and coincidentally, also the saddest) experience I've had was the time I went to a yakiniku, or BBQ, restaurant in Nagoya. It was a dinner which I had been looking forward to, and it didn't disappoint. Not until the beef liver dish came up. If you know me quite well, you'd know that I'm really crazy about liver. Pork liver, duck liver, goose liver, chicken liver, whatever... At this juncture, I'm sure you're feeling really happy for me, but let me tell you that NO, one does not eat BBQ beef liver in a BBQ restaurant! You eat it raw. Oh yeah, red, dripping wet raw.
Thus, it is with greatest sorrow that I placed a slice of raw beef liver gingerly onto my tongue while miserably watching that lovely BBQ fire crackle in unknowing excitement. I cursed silently as the piece of liver french kissed its way down my throat. To add insult to injury, I had to finish the entire plate as I was sitting at the counter bar where half a dozen Japanese diners had their eyes on me, nodding approvingly at my valiant attempt. And it wasn't even cheap.
To this day, I am still bent on conquering my fear for all things raw, in a bid to become a true gourmet. Once in a while, I'd boldly try a slice of sashimi from my dinner companion's platter, but it will always end in the same fashion - me reaching out for my tea cup frantically just before I throw up.
So, minasan, give me shabu shabu, sukiyaki, tempura, anything. Just keep that sashimi away from me, unless there's plenty of hot green tea. Please.
Misunderstand me not, for I am not a snobbish nor a fussy eater. I've had my fair share of plain tasteless to downright revolting culinary experiences, and I'm actually quite easily contented by simple, unexciting dishes on most uneventful days.
The only thing that makes me a real foodie is my unrelenting passion in finding out about and tracking down good food, wherever it may be. Suspicious looking street side hawker fare in Bangkok, classy Ritz afternoon tea in London, dingy diner breakfast in the States, I've conquered them all. Even in Singapore, I'd travel across the country (albeit a very small one) just for that great Hainanese chicken rice chili dip, or risk getting heat stroke by walking from Orchard to Botanical Gardens in the blazing sun for that rack of lamb roasted to perfection.
Alas, there is one big regret in this gastronomic pursuit of mine. That is, I absolutely hate raw fish. With this revelation, I have a strong urge to weep and bow deeply to the Japanese to apologize for my horrendous inadequacy. I sin, in the eyes of millions of sashimi lovers, each time I gag when I see or smell raw seafood on little wooden plates.
In the unfortunate event of me being force led into a sashimi restaurant, I would have to ask for flasks of hot green tea to wash the slimy fishy mess down my throat, half hoping that the piping heat from the tea would actually flash cook it in split seconds (well, it didn't, but it did cook my throat to a medium rare). If I get lucky, I might be able to get through the night by pretending to concentrate hard on creating the optimal mix of wasabi and soy sauce. Since I'm mostly not a lucky person, I've swallowed quite a variety of raw things (I still can't bring myself to say 'food') to date.
The most memorable (and coincidentally, also the saddest) experience I've had was the time I went to a yakiniku, or BBQ, restaurant in Nagoya. It was a dinner which I had been looking forward to, and it didn't disappoint. Not until the beef liver dish came up. If you know me quite well, you'd know that I'm really crazy about liver. Pork liver, duck liver, goose liver, chicken liver, whatever... At this juncture, I'm sure you're feeling really happy for me, but let me tell you that NO, one does not eat BBQ beef liver in a BBQ restaurant! You eat it raw. Oh yeah, red, dripping wet raw.
Thus, it is with greatest sorrow that I placed a slice of raw beef liver gingerly onto my tongue while miserably watching that lovely BBQ fire crackle in unknowing excitement. I cursed silently as the piece of liver french kissed its way down my throat. To add insult to injury, I had to finish the entire plate as I was sitting at the counter bar where half a dozen Japanese diners had their eyes on me, nodding approvingly at my valiant attempt. And it wasn't even cheap.
To this day, I am still bent on conquering my fear for all things raw, in a bid to become a true gourmet. Once in a while, I'd boldly try a slice of sashimi from my dinner companion's platter, but it will always end in the same fashion - me reaching out for my tea cup frantically just before I throw up.
So, minasan, give me shabu shabu, sukiyaki, tempura, anything. Just keep that sashimi away from me, unless there's plenty of hot green tea. Please.
I Have a Sloth for a Sister
So where shall I begin?
Maybe with a disclaimer, just for my personal safety. For the record, it is in no way derogatory that I call my own blood sister a slow-moving arboreal edentate (meaning almost toothless, if you're curious) mammal that does nothing but attempts to finish chewing two leaves in its mouth before the sun sets... and rises again.
And if it helps, may I also emphasize that she got the lovely nickname from her husband, by absolutely no fault of mine.
Believe it or not, I actually find the term rather affectionate and quite darn cute. It never fails to amaze me how good my sister is in adopting such a surreal tempo. And pray, it is indeed amazing when you consider Ms. Sloth's most un-sloth-like past as an enthusiastic gymnast and athlete in her school days. Those were her golden days of many quick moves and nifty footwork. She could have been Ms. Puma then.
I'm not sure what exactly happened but somewhere down the line (after one marriage and many many pound cakes later), she morphed into what she is today - the human equivalent of a creature that moves so painfully slow that it may as well be in reverse. You'll have to watch her really closely or you'd think she stopped dead midway in her track. Meet her at the start of the day and you'd know what I mean. The true epitome of S-L-O-W.
To be fair, I not a quick person either. It probably runs in the family, where lazing around is a highly desirable pastime. It's just that my sister is at the more extreme end of the BUMMER spectrum. I've got a lot more to catch up.
To Yanni the most successful sloth in mankind and the glory of our family!
Maybe with a disclaimer, just for my personal safety. For the record, it is in no way derogatory that I call my own blood sister a slow-moving arboreal edentate (meaning almost toothless, if you're curious) mammal that does nothing but attempts to finish chewing two leaves in its mouth before the sun sets... and rises again.
And if it helps, may I also emphasize that she got the lovely nickname from her husband, by absolutely no fault of mine.
Believe it or not, I actually find the term rather affectionate and quite darn cute. It never fails to amaze me how good my sister is in adopting such a surreal tempo. And pray, it is indeed amazing when you consider Ms. Sloth's most un-sloth-like past as an enthusiastic gymnast and athlete in her school days. Those were her golden days of many quick moves and nifty footwork. She could have been Ms. Puma then.
I'm not sure what exactly happened but somewhere down the line (after one marriage and many many pound cakes later), she morphed into what she is today - the human equivalent of a creature that moves so painfully slow that it may as well be in reverse. You'll have to watch her really closely or you'd think she stopped dead midway in her track. Meet her at the start of the day and you'd know what I mean. The true epitome of S-L-O-W.
To be fair, I not a quick person either. It probably runs in the family, where lazing around is a highly desirable pastime. It's just that my sister is at the more extreme end of the BUMMER spectrum. I've got a lot more to catch up.
To Yanni the most successful sloth in mankind and the glory of our family!
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Every Pi Has Its Day
Happy π Day to all!
Did I just see you do a double take? Now, blink no more, for it is indeed the Pi Day on this fourteenth day of March! If you've been oblivious to the existence of such a special occasion, fret not! According to my own statistically intelligent guess, for every 1000 people out there,
No. of people who know about Pi ≈ 143π
No. of people who know that there is a Pi Day ≈ 2π
No. of people who know the exact date of Pi Day ≈ π
In case you are interested, π is an irrational real number and is equals to 3.14159 26535 89793 23846 26433 83279 50288 41971 69399 37510 ... ... (it's an infinite decimal expansion, so if you're bored, this can keep you busy for a long time) With that, for those who prefer to work with integers, the above equations translate to just approximately 3 out of 1000 people who are aware that today is Pi Day. Not many celebrate the greatness of this mathematical constant, I must say.
For me, I've just learnt about it barely five minutes ago, and am very glad that we all grow wiser with age, even though I do not have much to do with this magic number anymore. How on earth did anybody figure this critical but deceivingly cute little symbol π out, I really do not know, but I salute them, nonetheless, for giving us this special day. Oh, and by the way, it's physics genius Albert Einstein, and my dear friend Albert Tan's birthday too.
Hap-Pi Birthday to both!
Did I just see you do a double take? Now, blink no more, for it is indeed the Pi Day on this fourteenth day of March! If you've been oblivious to the existence of such a special occasion, fret not! According to my own statistically intelligent guess, for every 1000 people out there,
No. of people who know about Pi ≈ 143π
No. of people who know that there is a Pi Day ≈ 2π
No. of people who know the exact date of Pi Day ≈ π
In case you are interested, π is an irrational real number and is equals to 3.14159 26535 89793 23846 26433 83279 50288 41971 69399 37510 ... ... (it's an infinite decimal expansion, so if you're bored, this can keep you busy for a long time) With that, for those who prefer to work with integers, the above equations translate to just approximately 3 out of 1000 people who are aware that today is Pi Day. Not many celebrate the greatness of this mathematical constant, I must say.
For me, I've just learnt about it barely five minutes ago, and am very glad that we all grow wiser with age, even though I do not have much to do with this magic number anymore. How on earth did anybody figure this critical but deceivingly cute little symbol π out, I really do not know, but I salute them, nonetheless, for giving us this special day. Oh, and by the way, it's physics genius Albert Einstein, and my dear friend Albert Tan's birthday too.
Hap-Pi Birthday to both!
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Monday, March 12, 2007
A Self-Righteous Blogger
Some people ask me, why do I blog so much about nothing in particular? A very important person (read: my boss) once said that a blog is good and should be encouraged if it provides others with useful information. Well, mine doesn't, considering that it is about "nothing in particular", so I guess it is officially one of those trashy and redundant blogs.
I should be damned.
With due respect, even though this is how they would probably view my blogging business, I do not quite see it in that light. I prefer to think of it as reflective conversations with my inner self, and these conversations take on the form of a blog for very good reasons.
First of all, I do not keep a journal, simply because I have really bad and inconsistent handwriting that is too shameful to leave behind in this world in case I die. Secondly, I think it is rather ludicrous to keep talking to myself, and therefore I'd like my friends to listen in too. Thirdly, I live in the digital age.
And I must stress that I do not write about nothing in particular, even though it is sometimes quite nondescript. In fact, I write about very important things - of love, of hope and of chivalry. In case you've missed all that, then I'm sorry, you're just very dim. No offense.
I should be damned.
With due respect, even though this is how they would probably view my blogging business, I do not quite see it in that light. I prefer to think of it as reflective conversations with my inner self, and these conversations take on the form of a blog for very good reasons.
First of all, I do not keep a journal, simply because I have really bad and inconsistent handwriting that is too shameful to leave behind in this world in case I die. Secondly, I think it is rather ludicrous to keep talking to myself, and therefore I'd like my friends to listen in too. Thirdly, I live in the digital age.
And I must stress that I do not write about nothing in particular, even though it is sometimes quite nondescript. In fact, I write about very important things - of love, of hope and of chivalry. In case you've missed all that, then I'm sorry, you're just very dim. No offense.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
A Walk In The Woods - An Excerpt
For all its mass, a tree is a remarkably delicate thing. All of its internal life exists within three paper-thin layers of tissue, the phloem, xylem and cambium, just beneath the bark, which together form a moist sleeve around the dead heartwood. However tall it grows, a tree is just a few pounds of living cells thinly spread between roots and leaves. These three diligent layers of cells perform all the intricate science and engineering needed to keep a tree alive, and the efficiency with which they do it is one of the wonders of life. Without noise or fuss, every tree in a forest lifts massive volumes of water - several hundred gallons in the case of a large tree on a hot day - from its roots to its leaves, where it is returned to the atmosphere. Imagine the din and commotion, the clutter of machinery, that would be needed for a fire department to raise a similar volume of water to that of a single tree. And lifting water is just one of the many jobs that the phloem, xylem and cambium perform.
It is quite a rare occasion for me to stop midway through a compelling book, but I really want to share this with you. It may just be a goofy recollection of Bill Byson's courageous attempt at walking the Appalachian Trail, but if you, like me, have read his works, I'm sure you'll appreciate how he'd always throw in nuggets of seemingly trivial knowledge which are, in fact, most humbling and thought-provoking. I would even go as far as to say, philosophical.
If there is a reason for me to get so sentimental, it's probably because I am the sort of person who live in awe of science. Or rather, of nature. However, as a true urbanite, my stance on the magnificent works of nature have always been just to maintain a respectful distance. I was never really motivated to know more about how their intricate clocks tick. In a way, I am a half-hearted naturalist, one who laments about the declining state of our environment, and yet basks shamelessly in the luxury of the industrialized civilization. And I know, many of you are just like me.
Hence, I feel a pressing need to pause and share some of these little things in the book that bring us back to thinking and feeling what we have not been thinking and feeling for a long time. The trees, the birds, the insects, the raindrops... All that are so insignificant to our daily lives, and yet so unbelievably amazing, and so very crucial to our existence.
At least I think we owe it to them. Let us marvel for a while.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Guzzle... Guzzle... Guzzle
Sob. I miss my beer.
For the record, I am not a recovering alcoholic. I was never an alcoholic to begin with. I am just a social drinker whose beverage of choice happens to have healthy head of foam and plenty of calories.
A brief history of my drinking habit - it duly started when I turned eighteen, the legal drinking age in Singapore. Being still in the midst of weaning off juvenile soft drinks, the natural choice of liquid for me was sweet cocktails with fancy names, which I drank not so much because I enjoy them, but more by default since most of my friends were drinking the same.
One could tell that I wasn't really into them by the way I associate each drink with the mixers - tonic, Coke, juice... rather than associating them with their respective types of liquor. Frankly, I couldn't tell gin from tequila, rum from vodka. Yeah, I was that clueless. I wouldn't even know if someone gave me methanol. Very quickly, I lost interest in liquid concoctions of various kinds, and from then on, there was no looking back. It was only beer for me.
Contrary to popular belief, my beer-loving ways were not a result of my days in the US-and-A, as Mr. Borat calls it. Well, it could be, if I had been living in sunny California or tropical Florida. I was, however, buried knee-deep in the great Midwestern snow, where steaming hot chocolate was the rational way to drink.
Anyway, it was at the royal age of twenty when I got officially inducted into the Empire of Kirin, Asahi and Sapporo. I was fresh in Japan and everyone out there was out to get me drunk. In fact, I think they were out to get everybody else drunk. At dinner parties, I was greeted first with traditional Japanese bows (maybe to apologize in advance) and then basins full of namabiru to shove my face in. It wasn't that difficult, really. Once you're halfway through, the i-ke, i-ke chants sound like heaven harps playing under water. Or maybe, I was just drowning in beer.
Soon, I was addicted. Beer time was equated with friends, laughter and many silly games to boot. As my alcohol threshold became higher and my face redder, I slowly perfected the art of coupling beer with yakitori, ramen, okonomiyaki, edamame... It was culinary at its highest. At least, it was the kind of art that I could deal with.
Now, back in Singapore where beer is more expensive and yet less entertaining, I have cut down on my beer binging ways. In fact, it had come to a complete halt since my asthma came back last year. That is why I moan about missing my beer, missing the way I guzzle it down and let out a big "aaahhhh...." of satisfaction.
Well, I'll just have to make do with my diet Coke for now. At least there is no beer belly to worry about.
Bottoms up!
For the record, I am not a recovering alcoholic. I was never an alcoholic to begin with. I am just a social drinker whose beverage of choice happens to have healthy head of foam and plenty of calories.
A brief history of my drinking habit - it duly started when I turned eighteen, the legal drinking age in Singapore. Being still in the midst of weaning off juvenile soft drinks, the natural choice of liquid for me was sweet cocktails with fancy names, which I drank not so much because I enjoy them, but more by default since most of my friends were drinking the same.
One could tell that I wasn't really into them by the way I associate each drink with the mixers - tonic, Coke, juice... rather than associating them with their respective types of liquor. Frankly, I couldn't tell gin from tequila, rum from vodka. Yeah, I was that clueless. I wouldn't even know if someone gave me methanol. Very quickly, I lost interest in liquid concoctions of various kinds, and from then on, there was no looking back. It was only beer for me.
Contrary to popular belief, my beer-loving ways were not a result of my days in the US-and-A, as Mr. Borat calls it. Well, it could be, if I had been living in sunny California or tropical Florida. I was, however, buried knee-deep in the great Midwestern snow, where steaming hot chocolate was the rational way to drink.
Anyway, it was at the royal age of twenty when I got officially inducted into the Empire of Kirin, Asahi and Sapporo. I was fresh in Japan and everyone out there was out to get me drunk. In fact, I think they were out to get everybody else drunk. At dinner parties, I was greeted first with traditional Japanese bows (maybe to apologize in advance) and then basins full of namabiru to shove my face in. It wasn't that difficult, really. Once you're halfway through, the i-ke, i-ke chants sound like heaven harps playing under water. Or maybe, I was just drowning in beer.
Soon, I was addicted. Beer time was equated with friends, laughter and many silly games to boot. As my alcohol threshold became higher and my face redder, I slowly perfected the art of coupling beer with yakitori, ramen, okonomiyaki, edamame... It was culinary at its highest. At least, it was the kind of art that I could deal with.
Now, back in Singapore where beer is more expensive and yet less entertaining, I have cut down on my beer binging ways. In fact, it had come to a complete halt since my asthma came back last year. That is why I moan about missing my beer, missing the way I guzzle it down and let out a big "aaahhhh...." of satisfaction.
Well, I'll just have to make do with my diet Coke for now. At least there is no beer belly to worry about.
Bottoms up!
Things Fall Apart
I've studied Nigerian writer Chinua Achebe's novel of the same title when I was in secondary school. While most of my classmates hated it, I have to say that it had some kind of emotional impact on me. What exactly is was, I couldn't tell then, but I was deeply grieved. Somehow, the strange Igbo African dialect rang with natural melancholy.
I remember most clearly, the scene in which Okwonko decides that his chi, along with the rest of his tribe, has deserted him, and he hangs himself. From a man of bravery, to a man of lonely death, there is no sorrier destitution than the betrayal of his own kind. The betrayal against his every belief, all that have long been forsaken by his own people. And that, is just because Okwonko's world has changed. Changed for the better, some may say. Or maybe, simply changed because nothing doesn't.
Change isn't sad. Hopelessness is. And hopelessness, I dare say, comes from within, when one perceives that he has been deserted, when it is he who has walked away.
I believe that things fall apart. They all do. But I do also believe that things come back together too. If you'd just hang around long enough for it to happen, and amuse yourself in the meantime, things ain't all that gloomy. Now, if only Okwonko knows better.
I remember most clearly, the scene in which Okwonko decides that his chi, along with the rest of his tribe, has deserted him, and he hangs himself. From a man of bravery, to a man of lonely death, there is no sorrier destitution than the betrayal of his own kind. The betrayal against his every belief, all that have long been forsaken by his own people. And that, is just because Okwonko's world has changed. Changed for the better, some may say. Or maybe, simply changed because nothing doesn't.
Change isn't sad. Hopelessness is. And hopelessness, I dare say, comes from within, when one perceives that he has been deserted, when it is he who has walked away.
I believe that things fall apart. They all do. But I do also believe that things come back together too. If you'd just hang around long enough for it to happen, and amuse yourself in the meantime, things ain't all that gloomy. Now, if only Okwonko knows better.
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer
Things fall apart, the centre cannot hold
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world- William Butler Yeats
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Friday, February 23, 2007
I Lied
Samantha, you'll be okay.
Actually, I didn't know if she was really going to be okay. For a split second, I even thought she might die. There she was, eyes rolled over, body cramped and twitching, with vomit spilling from one side of her mouth onto the pages of her activity book. The cutest little girl in my Primary One class looked frighteningly ill. And all I could do is to tell her something I wasn't even sure of. Don't worry, you'll be fine, and Mommy will be here soon.
So much for my years of first aid training. Really, years. Three as a student police cadet, two as an outdoor activities instructor (Christ, I even gave a first aid lecture to student leaders), and another training as a certified Red Cross volunteer. Yet I was so distressed know not how else to help the poor girl except to call the office for help.
I tried to carry her out, but she was too stiff. I couldn't insert anything in her mouth to prevent her from biting her tongue, as I couldn't even pry her clenched teeth apart. She was burning with fever and all I could do was to wipe her down with wet tissue. I never felt more anxious and helpless in my entire life. I felt totally useless.
Looking at the girl now, bubbly and healthy again as she once was, I am relieved, but also guilt ridden. I dread to think of what the whole episode may have developed into instead. I wasn't the reliable teacher who could protect her. I was just a liar who got very lucky by God's grace. And I realize, I've got a long way to go from here.
Samantha, I'll work hard on being Teacher, I promise.
Actually, I didn't know if she was really going to be okay. For a split second, I even thought she might die. There she was, eyes rolled over, body cramped and twitching, with vomit spilling from one side of her mouth onto the pages of her activity book. The cutest little girl in my Primary One class looked frighteningly ill. And all I could do is to tell her something I wasn't even sure of. Don't worry, you'll be fine, and Mommy will be here soon.
So much for my years of first aid training. Really, years. Three as a student police cadet, two as an outdoor activities instructor (Christ, I even gave a first aid lecture to student leaders), and another training as a certified Red Cross volunteer. Yet I was so distressed know not how else to help the poor girl except to call the office for help.
I tried to carry her out, but she was too stiff. I couldn't insert anything in her mouth to prevent her from biting her tongue, as I couldn't even pry her clenched teeth apart. She was burning with fever and all I could do was to wipe her down with wet tissue. I never felt more anxious and helpless in my entire life. I felt totally useless.
Looking at the girl now, bubbly and healthy again as she once was, I am relieved, but also guilt ridden. I dread to think of what the whole episode may have developed into instead. I wasn't the reliable teacher who could protect her. I was just a liar who got very lucky by God's grace. And I realize, I've got a long way to go from here.
Samantha, I'll work hard on being Teacher, I promise.
Monday, January 01, 2007
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