The Loose Goose

Absolutely Gutted

2012-02-02T01:43:00.001+08:00

Continuing to feed my desire to be somewhat proficient in kitchen skills, last week's dinner was all about steaming a fish. This wasn't something I had in my repertoire that included frying, grilling, or baking. Steaming was always something I never quite trusted because I'm one who always underestimates the power of steam. It's all gas after all. How much was it going to contribute to cooking meat? Never mind that it's capable of running turbines.

The other challenge was trying to decide on where I was going to get these fish without entering a wet market. The next best sanitized version would be a supermarket at the frozen good section where everything was nice and dry and I could safely navigate in heels and a cute outfit.

All the fish were neatly arranged on ice looking clean and presentable. In fact the pomfrets were especially presentable and looked ready-to-eat; all that it seemed to require was a bit of seasoning and, in this case, steam. I was so happy, as I picked up a selection to be weighed, thinking smugly that these ones looked so clean that had I gone to a wet market, they would all have been wet and slimy.

With everything ready, I was raring to go, and as a last minute confirmation, called my amazing cook aunt for advice.
Me: How long do I steam it for?
She: Has it been cleaned?
Me: Yes, it's sparkling.
She: Where did you get it from?
Me: The supermarket. Everything there is so clean looking.
She: Did you ask them to clean it for you?
Me: No, I thought it looked clean enough.
She: Is it a whole fish?
Me: Yeah.
She: Any cuts on it? Like the underside?
Me: No...
She: Ah then you've got to clean it.
Me: Um...
She: Run your knife down the under side and gut it.
Me: What?
She: And then scale it and wash.
Me: Uh...

Of course it had totally escaped me that fish might have guts too. I mean, my cuts of fish had always been fillets, deboned, in the past. And then I pick up a whole fish that looks like it's ready to eat, except that it's not? Who knew? With their glassy eyes that stare unblinking into space (even when they're alive and swimming), no arms, no legs, just floating around looking like mechanical mobiles.

Did I gut the fish in the end? Sure, with bare hands too. It was a very clinical operation and for a first-timer, it was a darn fine job. I had expected to be squeamish and all affected by it, but no. I could be a top notch fishmonger at this rate. Working at a wet market. So, if anyone were so much as to suggest that I'm not any kind of cook, I pose: hast thou disemboweled, with thine own hands, a chicken, a prawn, and a fish?

The fish was out of this world.

Dogsitting

2012-01-17T19:27:00.000+08:00

Because Trouble has been the cutest dog ever, and although he gets up to mischief a lot, he has a way of looking at you just so with eyes that seem to say "Not good? But you're not going to punish me, are you?", we've regularly discussed becoming a two-dog household. Many a time, the reason to justify this would be so that Trouble would have a playmate of his own kind, especially during the moments when he seemed to think I was his buddy or lady, situation depending. He enjoys wrestling with me and no doubt thinks I'm just another mate that magically learnt to walk on twos instead of fours, and who would a lot of times get down on all fours to play with him.

Each time we brought it up, though, Trouble seemed to get wind of the fact and would promptly mark his territory in places he's not allowed to. The ensuing work of cleaning the mess and giving him an earful would make us change our minds about getting another dog, and he would be well-behaved once again, although I'm sure I've caught him giving us a sly grin having accomplished his mission.

The neighbours had recently adopted a puppy that came from Trouble's now extensive family - a little brown floppy-eared nephew called James Earl Jones. I had on occasion played with him, and although Trouble had not yet met him directly, he has smelled his nephew on me; none too pleased neither violently mad. James Earl Jones' people were hosting a dinner and they weren't sure he was going to be able to cope with a crowd, so they asked if we could have him for a night. Of course we said yes.

When the day arrived, James Earl Jones was brought over in his tiny hamster cage minus the wheel and sippy cup. There was food and water and his favourite blanket in which he was curled up in. I was surprised when I got home that the cage stood alone with Trouble no where in sight. But then he heard me and came rushing out, heading straight for the hamster cage and looking at me as if to say "Do you see this? What is the meaning of this?" From within, James Earl Jones had stood up on unsteady legs, watching me, his tail wagging in greeting. Whom was I to greet first? The resident or the guest? The first conundrum, of many to come.

The tough part was trying to let James Earl Jones have a good time without Trouble feeling left out. Trouble, being about 17 times larger, was prone to scaring the wee mite with his exuberance. Having to constantly watch them and keep James Earl Jones safe at the same time was exhausting, to say the least. There were times when Trouble registered his protests of my attention to James Earl Jones by walking out of the house and sitting by himself on the lawn, his back to all of us.

James Earl Jones was a very nervous charge. He kept an eye out for Trouble all the time and only ever relaxed when Trouble was outdoors. Then he felt free to clamber all over me and gain confidence over his surroundings with each step. When Trouble came back in, James Earl Jones let out a frightened squeal and scampered back to my lap, trying to dig himself into the deepest recess behind me. Trouble would give him an annoyed stare. "What are you still doing here?" he seemed to say.

So perhaps we won't get a second dog after all - for now. It was nice having James Earl Jones over, but it was also nice having the knowledge that he will be returned. Everything was back to normal the next day as Trouble basked in the universal and undivided adoration that he has claimed his own. As I buried my face in his fluffy neck, he cuddled in and gave me a padded swat as if to remind me that my allegiance was to be wholly unto him.

Spirits, Patron of Vacations

2012-01-12T19:00:00.000+08:00

How can you not have a good time when great hospitality greets you? We were split into two rooms - Room 1, we dubbed "Credit Card", and Room 2 (ours) was "Bubbly". Room 1 incidentally housed Responsibility and The Underaged. Technically, Dizzle would have to have been absorbed into Room 1, but they had reached their limit, so he bunked with us, stationing himself by the phone.

When it rang, he picked it up and we tried to eavesdrop on a one-sided conversation where he managed to sound very business-like. It would seem as if he'd done this before:

Dizzle: Ah... for that, you've got to call Room 1.
Hotel: [unintelligible]?
Dizzle: Room 1, too, for that.
Hotel: [unintelligible]. [unintelligible]?
Dizzle: That you send to Room 2.
Hotel: [unintelligible].
Dizzle: Yes, thank you.

Then we waited for him to tell us what had transpired, but instead he leaned back and hugged a pillow with a self-satisfied smile.

Jizzle: What did you stick us with?
Dizzle: Oh nothing. They were talking about room charges. I forwarded them to Room 1.
Rat: What about the Room 2 bit?
Dizzle: Welcome drinks.
Rat: You know you can't have them.
Dizzle: Sure *cynical smile*

Then the door bell rang, and Responsibility walked in with Underaged Deb, eyeing up the room for evidence that we might perhaps have turned the room into some sort of Den of Depravity. Satisfied, she said "You do know we cancelled your champagne. No drinking on this trip."

Jizzle groaned. The rest of us laughed. Dizzle put on his most innocent look.

When safety had been restored, the door bell rang again and in walked a hotel staff bearing the most wonderful sight:

Xwinds

2012-01-11T09:51:00.001+08:00

In the travels of my childhood, there had always been a malevolent component to trips taken along the highway heading south. Whether or not it was a ploy to keep me still and in my seat, mum would ominously declare "Be still, this is cross wind area" and then point to the orange tunnel flags that stood on either side of the highway. Each time, they stood there hanging listlessly, and I would draw a breath of relief. It meant that we were not going to get hauled off the road by cross winds and would be safe once more.

These were areas where the hills that flanked the highway receded far away enough to make it seem like there was a treacherous drop on either side of the road we were on. The sky seemed to swoop down into the valley and everything was laid stark and bare. I was fascinated by the geography, as well as in awe of the potential disaster that could strike our little moving vehicle. So I sat quietly, hands clasped in lap, barely breathing as I waited for us to move back into safety, and then proceeded to become a right little monkey once again - till the next set of orange flags showed up at least.

As those trips became fewer and farther in between, the memory of those flags almost completely escaped the recesses of my memory. There were bigger more deadlier disasters in the world, and knowing that we were nearly always going to be consigned to being spectators of these events made cross winds seem like something remote that was not going to be as deadly as I had imagined them to be.

I had all but forgotten about it until a recent road trip my cousins and I took... heading south. It was right after dawn and the day was just beginning. We had decided to make an early start, and after stopping for junk food and money, were cruising down the highway, high on nonsense. I had the wheel and the rest were reclined in all manners of comfort, crunching on snacks, with Rat as "navigator"; she had the coveted seat and that was it. Through the chatter, I felt, but ignored, the fact that the car seemed to be moving away from my control. I peered into the sun and noticed that bunches of dry leaves were whirling about on the surface of the road - something I'd never seen before.

"Do any of you feel us moving sideways?" I asked finally when it got too much.

"Cuz... look at those trees" Jizzle said, scooting up to sit behind and in between the two front seat.

The oil palms looked as though their crowns were about to be snatched off, the only sign from within our vacuum that the winds were heading towards gale force outside. Dizzle sat in silence and Rat looked around languidly. He was perhaps scared; she perhaps did not care.

"Are we in cross wind area?" I asked, mesmerized by the scene and trying to hold the car centered at the same time. As if in answer to my rhetoric, the orange tunnel flags came into view but they were different this time; if you were letting your freak flag fly, this is how it would look. Never had I seen them full of air and standing stiff 90 degrees to the ground. We were definitely in the middle of a cross wind.

"Do you know how we should get through this?" Jizzle asked, trying to sound calm although I knew he was quaking. "You've got to open all the windows and let the wind pass through."

"Nah" I said, silently enjoying the turbulence. "You might get sucked out."

"No, really cuz, wind down the windows" he said, sounding a tad desperate.

"And slow down" Dizzle's voice came from behind.

We were moving straight on and some side-to-side component applied by the winds. I felt mild panic but was also intrigued at the same time. Had this happened years and years ago, would I have been terrified? I wondered what my child-self would have felt and done, especially since I would not have been behind the wheel at that time. And so I realized that having the wheel now made all the difference. I was not scared, but the rest possibly were (except Rat since she sat barely concerned throughout the 10 seconds we had to pass through). I'd like to think she had full confidence in me. Jizzle perhaps might have been less anxious had he been driving. Dizzle would have to wait a couple of months before he learns the awesomeness of being behind the wheel legally.

Thus we made it through a mini adventure, and it was good prep for what awaited us the next day when we almost lost our hearts and minds on the rides in Universal Studios. After that, no one was talking about cross winds anymore.

Whole Again

2012-01-10T00:19:00.000+08:00

I fell off my horse and have been incapacitated for most of December. Before that I had been purely lay-z. Well, no, not purely - I did output another novel in November but it required such herculean effort that I told myself then, and still maintain now, that never again will I do it. Of course, when November rolls around again this year that sentiment will be up for review.

Getting back to the horse accident story, that's just a fancy way of saying I picked up a bad neck and back injury that made any movement next to impossible. The horse... there is no horse. Never was. Someday, though, I might buy a horse. I realize the dangers of throwing offhand comments like that because it may actually come to past that someday I'll wake up in a farmhouse I own (you've got to have a farmhouse before the horse), and find a Clydesdale snorting in my kitchen window. Having a farmhouse is not even a real dream of mine.

It may sound as though I'm still on pain medication, but that could not be further from the truth. This week marks the first time in a very long time since I've felt wholly human again. No restrictive pain, no New Year Cold. Just the unencumbered motions of youth that most take for granted. I hated the long period of illness, but dare I say I'm glad I was made to feel aware of every limitation I was put through? Where even the catatonic state of slumber did not bring relief but literal tears of frustration? I know now that I appreciate being able to turn just my head instead of the whole body to take a look at something that is happening just over there.

So every day now I find myself appreciating every little skip and step I am able to make, and on the drive to work am happy for the sun that burns directly on my face, and yes it is PMStically hot, but are not the blue skies pretty?

Morning Walks

2011-10-09T18:23:00.001+08:00

Vitamin D and puppy love

Visitors from Other Places

2011-08-23T22:03:00.002+08:00

The colourful flags have been up in the neighbourhood for almost a month now. They are bold and fluttery with intimidating ocean-waves type edges, and to borrow a word from Monkey, rather intense. They were all rather scary to my 7-year-old self (and well into adolescence too), but these days they lend a kind of fascination that has been growing at the back of my mind for all things unearthly. The hungry ghost month - how exciting.

I'd always maintained that I didn't believe in ghosts. More of a move to convince myself rather than true conviction, really. I knew if I actually ran into one, I would... panic, to put it mildly. Then as mental capacity grew and logic kicked in - I am very sciency after all - I had the strength of theories, formulas, and extrapolation on my side. There are no such things as ghosts.

Even the miniscule number of 'inexplicable' events I'd experienced weren't really anything much - just minor happenings that could definitely be explained away, but from which I refrained just so I could say "Guess what happened to me??" at ghostly sharing sessions.

So, guess what happened to me??

Pi and I were on our way back to the office. It was around half 8 at night and we had just been to partake in a breaking fast buffet at a hotel nearby. Our portable office equipment had been left behind for safety reasons and were to be picked up on the way home.

First, in trying to get back to the office, we inadvertently stumbled onto a dusty road end the was eerily lit by orange street lights. Feral dogs were on hand to greet us, defiantly standing in the car headlights as if daring us to move forward. Then there was the sound of the far off baying of hounds. A jungle type arrangement loomed right in front of us. We managed to get out without causing any harm and were soon on the right road. "Wasn't that weird?" I said and Pi agreed that it was.

As we approached the office, it was quite out of the ordinary to find all the blocks darkened; there would usually be one or two people around putting in extra hours. It seemed like everyone had taken the opportunity of the buffet to hightail it out of there early. The lone source of light was turned on in the foyer. We walked in, chattering about the night's event.

"Do you smell that?" Pi asked suddenly, a half curious smile on her face.

"Yeah, I do" I replied. There was an unspoken agreement that we should not discuss it further.

"I don't get anything in here" Pi said as we entered our room, adjoining the foyer.

"Me too" I agreed.

We gathered our things quickly and left, passing the foyer again. This time we did not mention the smell.

When we were chatting online the next day, I asked her about it.

Me: When you asked about the smell yesterday, I smelled jasmine.
Pi: Me too!
Me: There aren't any jasmine bushes in the garden, are there?
Pi: No I don't think there are.

It was too curious. We didn't believe in the supernatural, but it seemed like an exciting story to tell, so we sought out MK and relayed the whole night's events to him. He's a good listener; he waited patiently till we'd finished.

"That's because there are two jasmine bushes in the garden, on either side of the porch. Hadn't you realised?"

We hadn't. In fact, walking past them every day, they had always seemed like nondescript plants - no hint of obvious blooms or scent. Of course we had to explore right away. And there they were, at 10 in the morning, in full bloom with the familiar heady scent. It was all a bit of a let down until MK said "We went down that dusty road too, but there was no sign of any dog."

"Are you sure?" I asked. "There were at least 10 of them just lying around. They couldn't all have dissapeared within the hour."

"There were none" he confirmed.

So, maybe there wasn't an authentic jasmine-scented ghost hanging out at the office, but those dogs had to have been spooks.

Inkblot Testing

2011-08-21T18:57:00.009+08:00

What to do on a rainy weekend? Take a test, of course. Here's what I did with a Rorschach's test from inkblot.org. Firstly, I was happy to see answers already provided that I could just pick the best from. But then I realized none of them truly matched what popped into my head the instant I set eyes on the inkblots. So I had to provide my own. Just for fun, though, I retook the test selecting only from the available choices to see how much of a difference it would make. Behold:

If I had to choose: I see a face in the card. A cow’s face.

If I had to choose: It looks like two distorted Eskimos playing “patty-cake”. More like chickens, but let's not split hairs.

If I had to choose: It looks like two double-amputees dancing. They’re cannibals, so they ate each others’ leg.

If I had to choose: Ha! This one is definitely an inkblot. Of a butterfly that’s been crushed by a bootheel.

If I had to choose: This blot doesn’t really look like anything to me. Can we have some lunch? It still reminds me of a vampire horse.

If I had to choose: It looks like a lawyer with his arms out, demanding money. Inexplicably with his pockets turned out.

If I had to choose: It looks like two evil garden gnomes, conspiring with each other. Or, you know, two sumo wrestlers with very thin waists.

If I had to choose: It looks like a Rigelian Brain Eater from Star Trek. Anything inexplicable is from Star Trek.

If I had to choose: It looks like toad that tried to cross the highway. At rush hour. At least it didn’t suffer.

If I had to choose: It looks like Indian shamans, dancing around a fire. Dancing with wolves. Doing jazz hands.

Results from own description:

Results from selected answers:

I don't know about the test results. At least they are consistent in their imprecision.

No Clean Clothes

2011-08-17T21:05:00.003+08:00

It was an exercise in futility. I was prospecting about in the closet looking for something half decent to wear and as I did the mental calculations realized why my efforts were in vain. Then the following conversation took place between me and the voice in my head:

Head : There's got to be something worth wearing.
Me : None. None I tell ya!
Head : How is that?
Me : Combination of factors really. No clean clothes...
Head : And there never will be unless you actually clean your clothes.
Me : Yes. Vicious cycle.

One of my favourite lines (give or take a paraphrase or two) from Notting Hill. I finally got to use it, unfortunately with a non-entity. It felt like a hole in one with no one watching. But still, the internal conversation made me giggle and reminded me of that very funny Welshman, Spike, from the movie along with his hapless English roommate, William, who falls in love and wins the heart of the famous American actress, Anna Scott.

I am well and truly down to the last of the clean clothes. That isn't to say there is nothing left for me to wear, but when the well-worn and comfortable pile dwindles to nothing, I will be forced to check into the newer and less familiar loot. The ones where some level of thinking is involved to mix and match and pair with relative success, success I have already achieved with the regular threads.

Thanks be to Eve (see: Eden, Garden of) for this sartorial conundrum faced by the modern day woman on an almost daily basis. As I sat there contemplating either getting down to cleaning the clothes or putting together new looks, a thought came into my head: what would Spike do?

Anna [ranting at William] : So the entire British press got up this morning and said "I know where Anna Scott is. She's in that house with the blue door in Notting Hill." And then you go out in your goddamn underwear!

Spike [walking into the argument] : I went out in my goddamn underwear too.

Swimming for Dummies

2011-07-05T23:30:00.005+08:00

Sometime ago, Razzie and I were having a conversation around the skill of swimming. We weren't swimmers as children; for some reason we never learned nor were taught. Not that attempts had never been made. Mum would not dream of allowing us to enter waters higher than 2 inches because it's been proven that is all one needs to drown effectively.

So we would be sent Dad as chaperon, who never needed to swim to catch us whenever we floated away. He would just extend one long arm and pull the floaty tires we were in, squealing like piglets, back to the safety radius.

As Razz and I had spent the intervening years more apart than together, I was curious if she had learned to swim. There was the store that sold funky swimwear and she stated that she absolutely needed to get some.

"Have you learned to swim then?" I asked.

"Still can't" she replied. "Attempts have been made, but I don't think it's for me."

I could relate to this. All the times trying to learn just led to me sinking like lead.

"Do you get tensed at the neck?" I asked.

"I think I get tensed but I'm usually too far gone to notice which part" she said.

One time, much earlier in life, I had attempted to get into the adult pool where the water would have topped up just beneath my chin. I would have had to be very careful to keep my head above as waves and ripples by the others could have easily gone over my head. Still, I'd wanted to try. Mum helped me slide in, and just as she let go, my foot hit the sloping edge between the wall and floor. Down I went.

Looking up from my watery grave, I could see Mum's hand extending down to me, and I reached out to grab it... but nothing, thanks to one Willebrord Snellius. Had I known light distorts travelling in different mediums, I would have reached up higher and caught her hand. That gave me my very first brush with death and Physics in real life, and when we were eventually taught about refractive indices in school, that was one of the few laws I picked up with ease. When kids say these days "Why do we have to learn all this for? It's not even practical!", I would tell them "But it may yet save your life someday."

"Maybe it's time we took it seriously. We might be able to do it then" I told Razzie.

"You know," she said with a sigh, "I don't think it will. One time my friend tried to teach me. And we spent a long time working on it."

"You must have made some progress, surely" I said.

"He admitted defeat. He said something I didn't quite know how to respond to" she said.

"What?" I asked.

"He said he knew of an instructor who may be able to teach me" she replied.

"Why don't you take it?" I said.

"Apparently this instructor had taught a kid with palsy how to swim. My friend thinks I might still have a chance to succeed" she said.

Coordinates 2

2011-06-14T23:17:00.003+08:00

When I wrote Coordinates, I never seriously thought I'd make it to the most populous country in the world any time soon. So adding 39° 55' 44 N 116° 23' 18 E to the list feels a little bit surreal. Of course, the more pressing question would be did I make it to the wall?

No, is the short answer. Sight-seeing was secondary to the primary business objective of the visit. Additionally, when time did open up a small window of opportunity, the weather forecasted thunderstorms with a zing of lightning added to illustrate the severity of the point.

Now I would not have minded risking life and limb to view something so historic, but somehow risking it alone did not seem so appealing.

Furthest North: 55°01'27"N 2°17'33"W
Furthest South: 38°29'S 145°14'E
Furthest West: ~~52°51'0"N 3°1'60"W~~ 42°21′28″N 71°03′42″W
Furthest East: 33°51'35.9"S 151°12'40"E

There is time yet for the wall. Just got to find kaki.

The Magical Sun Machine

2011-03-25T23:21:00.003+08:00

When Foosa! told us he had recently gotten a good deal on a washer/dryer unit, I was intrigued; it reminded me of a ~~monologue~~ conversation I had with Dad about a year ago. As has been previously established, I'm not big on household chores that is the standard expectation of females. Additionally, I still believe I'm too young to be expected to do them. However, here I am, every weekend, contemplating a load of laundry that needs to get done before the start of a fresh week, and if neglected will double in size the weekend after to unmanageable proportions.

The easy way out would of course be to send them to the cleaners, but I'm never convinced they will send my clothes back in good condition and the evidence is all there every time Rat grumbles over the state of her outfits that don't last as long as they should. I'd rather do it myself much as the process pains me.

I know I should feel so fortunate as to be able to let the machine do the job, and also for the luck of geography that this land is blessed with all the sunshine in the world, but every time the washer spins to a stop, I'd find every excuse to delay the inevitable hanging up of the clothes to dry. This involves tricks in the book that I feel I can get away with without feeling too guilty. Guilty because the person I'd foist this on to is Dad. He never complains. Ever.

"I have to make a quick dash to the mall right now" I'd say urgently. "Could you help me with the load once it's done? I don't want to waste the sunshine."

Or,

"I feel ill. Please?"

Or,

*SIGH!* "What a life..."

Or other variants of the like. He'd never question the authenticity of these claim and always set my clothes out to dry.

"Maybe we should get a dryer" I said that time last year because I was feeling bad for taking advantage. He did not reply me and continued unloading the washer.

"Actually we should get the washer/dryer combo" I continued. "Then we could have everything done in one go."

Still, there was no answer from him.

"Of course, that would mean we'd have to get rid of this one" I said, referring to our perfectly well-functioning machine. "No point in having two of a kind, right?"

At this, he gave me the look he reserves for very rare and special occasions.

"Don't be lazy" he finally said sternly.

I don't know if enough time has passed, and if now would be an appropriate time to tell him about the good deal I heard on that washer/dryer thingy. I shall ask him tomorrow while we do the laundry.

Too soon?

Pi/Tau

2011-03-15T21:51:00.008+08:00

Yesterday, the 14th of March (3/14) was Pi Day.

I would also argue that Pi Day could and should be celebrated on the 22nd of July (22/7). That would be more accurate, eliminating the inaccuracies of 3.142...

However, today I read an article titled "Pi Day Threatened by Tau Protesters"

The nerve. Isn't Tau just a half-Pi?

Or, one could even say, an incomplete Pi?

A New Reason To Celebrate

2011-03-08T23:57:00.003+08:00

It was a regular day at work when a message popped up from MK: "btw, happy women's day" and before I could reply, he quickly added "although i don't know what it's for". I laughed because I had no idea what it was for either and was surprised someone was wishing me, the first time ever.

To commemorate, I decided to walk a mile back in the shoes of women into the kitchen and bake. It's not something I do often, but somehow it seemed right today. And when I get wished for something, I'd like to know that I earned a right to receive it.

"It's International Women's Day today" I told Monkey just now.

"Oh. Happy Woman's Day then" he replied. Sometimes I celebrate days of no consequence, like "Happy Wednesday - It's Downhill From Now!" so this was not entirely surprising to him. If Google has a doodle, I might consider celebrating it, mood permitting.

"Thanks! You're the second person to wish me" I told him.

"Whaat?" there was almost a whine there. "How could I be second?"

"MK beat you to it."

"Oh. So what is it for?" he asked.

"I truly don't know. Maybe women's rights or something. It's the 100th year apparently. And this is the first time I've been wished. Must be quite auspicious."

"Like how? We have to wish you a hundred times?"

"No, it's the hundredth year."

I almost said that it was meant to celebrate women who have been oppressed all their lives. You know, those with no rights and little claim to anything. Maybe throw in equality, feminism, and all those other womenly things. I didn't think it applied to me. Was I surprised to learn that it celebrates women's achievements. Did folks actually start appreciating ladies a whole century ago? It seems too far back in time for the Enlightenment.

Well then, this changes things. I worked with puff pastry today. Happy International Women's Day to me.

Grounded

2011-03-01T22:49:00.007+08:00

The number of gadgets I'm tethered to have suddenly jumped in scale and I've no idea how I got here. On a subconscious level the theory on the best way to gauge this is by walking through airport scanning machines; 2 at most if you're in a lackadaisical country, and a gazillion otherwise. Speaking of which, aside from being patted down and shepherded through machines that will always, always go off even if you walk through it as bare as the day you were born, you will still be questioned funny little things like "Who packed your bags for you?". The girl replied the officer "I packed it myself." And he followed up with "And where did you pack it?" She replied in all Bambi-like earnestness "In my room, on my bed." A barely concealed grin showed before he let her board.

Fine. I'll admit that was me. Let the record show that I was not trying to be smart, merely helpful.

Anyway, wires. In the past, there would typically be one thing that I would have to consider switching off and sending through the scanner and that would be the cell. That alone was hard enough; first I'd have to fish through stuff to get it out. Being as small as a Tim Tam, this was quite difficult. Then once I'd got it out, I'd have to turn it off but if I did the normal way, it would emit a high pitched wail that there was no way I could mute, primitive as it is. So to get around this, I'd have to physically pop the back out and pry out the battery with a fingernail. Then pop it back it and send it along. As I did this, I would check that its accompanying charger cable was safely ensconced in the little cable bag.

On the other side, I would pick up the sleeping phone and try to switch it back on while suffocating it deep in the recesses of my carry on because of the equally high pitched wail it would make as it came back to life.

Then the number upped to 2 when I started lugging a laptop around. While not entirely complicating, it did add to my pre check-in routine; pull out phone, throttle to death, unzip case, pull out laptop, check cable bag for 2 chargers.

The last time though, I was a little stunned to note that the cable bag was now resembling luggage the size of a small pony. It even came with a list tacked on of what cables were contained within so that I could easily reference it without rooting around in it. Then it was something like Mardi Gras, but for gadgets; primary phone, laptop, back up phone, blackberry, AT&T-only phone, Android device. The cable bag held chargers for 3 phones, a laptop, a blackberry, an Android, a camera, 3 headphones for 3 gadgets, an i-Headphone, 3 USB charger cables, an i-Charger, and 3 universal power adapters.

If you were to connect them all end to end they would circumnavigate the equator roughly 3.7 times.

Don't Taunt My Dog

2011-02-16T13:26:00.005+08:00

We had visitors yesterday, some who minded dogs very much, some who didn't, and some who fancied themselves Cesar Millan, Dog Whisperer. The latter particularly got my irateness up because I did not care for how Trouble was being treated. Sensitive much? Perhaps, but seeing Trouble skip out of the way with confusion in his eyes made me think that although the person goading him thought he was being funny for the benefit of the audience, it did not come across that way at all.

Trouble is so charming that even folks who should not be fawning over him (albeit no touching), do. Rarely do they have to go to extremes to force affection from him. Friends who shower him with attention in return get his adoration as he goes to great lengths ensuring he receives a steady stream of stroking and pampering from them.

Taking him on walks affirms his popularity around the neighbourhood and underscores the lack of mine. There was the one time when a minivan slowed down as it approached us, passenger side window rolling down. I expected someone was stopping to ask for directions. Instead, a lady peeked out exclaiming "Hi Trouble! Are you out on a walk?". And then they drove off, leaving me staring after them. "Trouble," I said, looking down at the happy, tail-wagging dog, "who on earth was that?"

Cesar, if you visit us again, please:

1. Do not cat-call my dog; he has a name, and he is most definitely not a cat.

2. Do not yell when addressing him; he has perfectly fine hearing and would probably hear you from two streets over.

3. Do not give him commands; it is not your place firstly, and secondly, he will not understand why you're yelling at him.

4. Do not clap or snap your fingers to get his attention; he will ignore you and you will revert to #3, annoying me.

5. Do not repeatedly threaten to withhold your friendship from my dog; he really does not care either way.

Making Room

2011-01-03T15:16:00.002+08:00

I was a hoarder. The past couple of weeks have been spent, a little at a time, clearing out the entire house. Although, to be accurate, we are hoarders and I'm a contributor. How else to explain the boxes upon boxes of my life that were carted out from school through college through both universities? I don't know what I was thinking when I decided to keep all books, notes, and files - that perhaps someday I'll be called upon to deduce what's in a black box? I wasn't very good at it back then so I'm not sure how much it would have helped referring to the incomplete notes I had stashed away for a "just in case" situation.

Sorting through two decades of... crap is the word that comes to mind... is quite a telling exercise. Razzie was able to admirably extract her items from shelves and without a second thought dump them in the discard pile. Very zen-like. I on the other hand would hold on to mine a few seconds longer than necessary before parting ways. No doubt, I, the hoarder, slowed our progress more than she could tolerate.

"Let's make a deal" she said, as we contemplated the last unopened door. We were, by this time, suffering the consequences of having processed almost 4 hours of organizing; sneezing fits, watery eyes, stress headaches, and a puppy on immigration duty we had to try very hard not to trip over.

"What deal" I said wearily, at this point ready to agree to anything.

"We can go through this last bit really quickly, but only if you promise not to sort through it" she said, holding out her hand for me to shake on.

Despite the last 4 hours, I still hesitated.

"What if we threw away something we might need?" I asked, hands on hips.

"Have you ever needed anything from in there the last 20 years?" she asked with an expert eye roll. "Have you even opened the door?"

"Fine. What's the plan?" I couldn't argue with her logic.

"Open. Take. Throw" she said. "No questions" she added before I could say anything. "Shake" she held out her hand, and there was nothing more for me to do than to take it.

And that was over in 5 minutes. We had a truck full of boxes and bags to dispose - most of them, I couldn't help thinking mournfully, our adolescence and early adulthood. But it didn't feel as bad as I'd thought it would be. Everything felt lighter. Through all the sorting, I decided to keep only the things that really mattered. They were a manageable size compared to the 17 hundred other things I'd kept thinking that they meant something when they really didn't. Most of the things I wanted to keep close weren't attached to objects. And I could stop holding my breath.

Space, finally.

To Skin a Mole

2010-11-24T23:51:00.013+08:00

I did decide to take on the Great November Project after all. It wasn't much of an epiphany as it was confessing what I'd known subconsciously for a while; that I will be doing it. I had just stalled saying it out loud to allow for a last-minute back-out from a mildly petrifying prospect.

As I'd decided to go ahead with it, I knew what was required - for the first I must, absolutely must, get is a brand new notebook. As in the traditional papers and pen kind. Nothing is quite so charming as a fresh notebook, unlined, the smell of which drifts out as the pages are flipped. I have tons of these new and unused notebooks because although I always know what I would use them for, I can never quite have the heart to start using them.

But since I now needed a drafting notebook, I made plans to get one and that meant notebook shopping. There is an outfit that makes a tidy profit out of people like me. It's called Skinned Mole in pig Latin or a variant thereof*. The prices of their notebooks are appalling in a speak-no-evil-monkey kind of way. Granted they have that too cool for school look, they're still notebooks descendants of papyrus. Not anything off the periodic table. Only trees. Not even endangered trees at that. And they aren't renewable. Once they're used, that's it. Obviously when you pay with half a kidney to have something like this, it's meant to stop being utilitarian once it's all used up and start being an exhibition piece somewhere in the house. Even so!

For 1/5 the price of an original, I procured a lookalike that serves up everything. According to the checklist of what constitutes an original:

1. Bound in coated paper cardboard

2. Elastic band to hold notebook closed

3. Sewn spine that allows it to lie flat when opened

4. Cream coloured paper

5. Rounded corners

6. Ribbon bookmark

7. Expandable pocket inside the rear cover

8. Packed in a paper banderole
- whatever this is I'm sure it's DIY-able.

The thing that's so special about these notebooks are that they were used by the likes of Hemingway and Van Gogh and other artsy-type folks. Allegedly, of course. Has there ever been a self portrait of Vincent with his Skinned Mole? Or a Hemingway manuscript on original cream coloured, rounded edged paper? I could be totally wrong, of course, but have neither the strength nor energy to go looking for proof right now. I'm quite happy for someone in the know or into the sport of fact-checking to correct that particular assumption.

Next in line, rightfully, ought to be the 555 notebooks, gaining worldwide glamour as the "books used by the proprietors of small asian businesses in keeping track of inventory, customer tab, and 4-digit numbers."

*actually Moleskine

Still Small Voice of Calm

2010-10-27T12:41:00.004+08:00

The voices in my head have been unnaturally quiet of late. It may be that the busier I get, the less I have to say. Oddly disproportionate - but curiously enough I have found that idling appears to open my mind to all kinds of ridiculata, only some of which I would consider reasonable enough to write down. While a lot of the scholarly types would like to call this "having an active imagination", I prefer "bordering insanity".

As I approach the terrifying deadline of deciding whether to participate in Nanowrimo or not, I'm acutely aware that my muse, which is most definitely off having a holiday somewhere with no forwarding address, may not return in time for me to tackle 30 days of madness. Why not just start the project and see where it goes? I could do that. I could start writing something and not know where to take it. I don't mind not knowing what the ending should be before beginning. But.

But it would bug me to no end if I didn't finish it on time. And the pressure to find time each and every day to write about 2000 words (actually 1667 with spare change) is quite daunting. How to carve out about 2 hours a day to write something that the idea of which hasn't even formed in the mind? How not to succumb to sleep? How not to write something completely rubbish?

Putting all the melodrama aside, a missing muse is simply an excuse not to do work. I would like to think that when something particularly good flows from my fingertips, I can attribute it to my ingenuity rather than dictation from a free spirit, who no doubt has seen more of the world than I have. Of course, for the bad parts it would be great to have something to assign blame to - and this is where my muse would come in - but as I think I have a conscience, I wouldn't entirely enjoy doing that.

Do you know why I believe they exists? These muses? In the pre-internet age when I hadn't yet been to Paris and stood under the Eiffel Tower, and even if I had, would have been too young to understand much less write about the intricacies of what the ironwork looked like from standing beneath it and looking up, I described it exactly as it looked years later when I saw a photo postcard of the tower from below. I still have not been to Paris and done that, but it is definitely one of those Things To Do.

So, let me have exactly 2 days to decide how I will go about this. Will I take this on? And, if yes, will I muse it or wing it?

Trouble turns 1

2010-09-22T12:53:00.003+08:00

A Weekend in the Life

2010-09-13T19:57:00.004+08:00

Razzie was home for the weekend, Razzie who is attached to Orthopedics right now and managed to take 2 seconds off work so that we could attend a cousin's wedding extravaganza together. It was good to have her back and nice to have someone who laughed at all the same things.

Trouble, who is now a year old, has been recovering from preventive measures (no, not that). He has been quite territorial of late, but now that the meds are wearing off, he has more wag back in his jaunty little tail. Razz has warmed up to him a lot more than she was when in previously anti-dog mode. She kindly donated a portion of her cheeseburger to him and he went from humble and begging prior to growly and snippy after. She took it well and didn't regress, although she did let me know that Trouble was the exception. No one puts Trouble in a corner.

While she caught up on her sleep quota, Dad and I went to get kibble and more toys for Trouble. It was there we met a lovely not-so-little 4 month old Irish Setter who beckoned us with one large solid paw. "Come, come, come!" he seemed to say. He was half hanging out over the open top of his enclosure, he was that long. And when we neared him, he gave us unsolicited high 4s and sniffed our hands and took my wrist in his mouth playfully. If I were one to act on impulse, Trouble would now be cavorting with a new friend. Oh why must they be adorable so?

We spent the rest of the day retail grazing and topped it off with frozen yoghurt. As we left the place, I stubbed my little toe quite badly but after hobbling around for a bit, let it be. After all when it came to stubbing toes, I am a pro. It didn't let up however, and I asked Razz to take a look. Being on "holiday", though, she was all "the doctor is not in".

"X-ray it if you must" she said marginally bored. "They won't do it anything even if it's broken you know."

"How's that?"

"It's small. It'll fuse on its own."

"Hmm. I wouldn't like that. What if it doesn't heal the way it should?"

"You can always ask them to POP that tiny thing."

Despite the eye-rolling sarcasm, I considered this seriously: if they POP-ed it, how many signatures would I be able to collect on it?

We went on to attend the 2nd installment wedding dinner that night, me in 3-inch heels with no objections from Razz. After all fashion is a commitment. The entertainment was... interesting to say the least. Add to that the rest of the cousins reviewing each performance in varying degrees of pH causticity and we were helpless with laughter.

After sending Razz off at the airport this morning, it was time to visit a veteran doctor because the toe had doubled in size and was showing all shades of distress. I admitted the wearing of heels to her. She was forthright about what comes next.

"If you don't stay in bed and let me figure out what this is and it isn't fixed properly, you'll never wear fancy shoes again" she said, or is what I heard her say anyway.

L'horreur! That would never do, would it? Not with newly acquired boxes of shoes waiting to be worn. Which explains why I'm obediently in bed right now, medicated, and hanging around here finally with time to spare. A silver lining, I suppose.

Fountain Pen

2010-08-12T12:41:00.005+08:00

What a long time it's been since I last wrote with a fountain pen. An image of one lying carelessly over a piece of manuscript caught my attention as I flipped through a news site and suddenly I must have one!

The first and last one I owned was a navy blue Parker that Dad got me as we were going to learn to use them in school. I went to him because naturally he would know all about pens, having to sign important documents at work all the time. And also naturally, nothing but the best for me. I enjoyed (and still do) the research process as much as the purchase event. It was all very exciting - getting a pen that at first did not write, having to get an accompanying ink pot, blotting paper, and learning how to pump the ink in.

We were not allowed to use the pen for anything other than learning cursive. Everything else was to be written in pencil. Then came the day when we were finally allowed to use a pen in regular classes. Fountain pen to be exact. With blue ink. For some reason, pens of other nature were disallowed. Even so, we had to ask the teacher everytime she set us work. Hands waving wildly in the air, "Pen or pencil, teacher?". She would pretend to think about it for a while before replying.

Another thing we were restricted to was only writing with a fountain. On one of my lazy and mildly rebellious days, I decided to *gasp* draw with it, and reasoned that the teacher couldn't possibly call me up for doing something that minimally invasive. So I drew a rabbit in watery blue ink to accompany the piece on something I don't recall now. Probably related to rabbits in some way. As an afterthought, I added a carrot because the rabbit might be hungry, or maybe because the rabbit looked like an unlawful hybrid and the carrot would help identify it as unmistakably "rabbit".

When I got my work back, it had not been marked. Instead there was a big red haphazard circle drawn with much force (irritation? anger?) around my rabbit and its dinner with equally forceful words next to it "DO NOT USE THE PEN TO DRAW!". I tried to see it from her point of view. How was this blasphemous? Would the pen be able to distinguish between writing and drawing strokes? If the pen didn't care, why did she? That was the extent of my musings. I was just glad that she hadn't scrawled the more ominnous "See me!", which was nausea-inducing.

The next time we asked her "Pen or pencil?", it was a firm "pencil". And then she lectured us about misusing the Pen. And then we never got a "pen" permission for the longest time. Of course by the time we graduated to using pens full time in the higher standards, I had another "moment" and used a ball point pen. The fallout must have been apoplectic because I have no memory of it.

Parts of Smartness

2010-07-26T09:37:00.003+08:00

Note to self:

A verb is an action or state word.
A noun is a thing or person.
An adjective describes a noun.
An adverb describes a verb, adjective, or adverb.
A pronoun replaces a noun.
A preposition links a noun to another word.
A conjunction joins clauses or sentences or words.
An interjection is a short exclamation.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

Granted, it may seem that the knowledge of a 5th grader tends towards the broad spectrum of trivia, it would still be mortifying not to be smarter than one.

Re-reading a Classic

2010-07-21T16:51:00.003+08:00

Of late there has been more than the usual share of writings on Harper Lee's To Kill A Mockingbird. A lot of them were by people re-reading the book that is a staple of general education. Rare are the ones attempting the book for the first time in adulthood. The book turned 50, that's why. I had not re-read the book since the first time I'd done so years ago, and after coming across all these mockingbird articles, decided to dig up my old copy.

I knew exactly where it was - unlike most other books scattered all over the house, this one had always been there on the shelf under the stairs, never being picked up, always being pushed aside in the hunt for other books, just sitting there in its compelling matte black cover with nothing but a white title and the etch of a mockingbird in bright orange.

It was a usual mindnumbing day at school - just a tiny bit more special because I turned 15 that day. The girl I sat by, and who had been my constant desk mate since we were 13 and strangers, showed up with a gift-wrapped book for me. I knew books the moment I saw them because they were the most common presents I received. She wasn't the sort to indulge books in her spare time so I'm fairly certain the Mockingbird choice was purely arbitrary on her part.

The only interesting thing about it was its cover - and yet I felt compelled to read it. It was like some crazy internal challenge I had set myself for no apparent reason; any book that came to my hand had to be finished. I'm glad to say I've outgrown such games and am more selective about titles these days. Actually, I think I know why I did that. If everyone felt the same way, the book would never get read, and books had feelings, naturally, like all other inanimate objects, therefore I was doing them a noble favour in achieving their purpose in life.

Despite all that, I became engrossed. I liked Atticus so much I was afraid of losing him. And as the way the story goes, he's described as being older than most, had bad eyes, was slow in manner at times, all of which I was certain was leading to his premature death. And Scout and Jem would be orphans, shipped off to bad old Aunt Alexandra and forced to leave Calpurnia behind. If not by some terminal illness, then by a mob very much against Atticus' defending a black man accused of violating a white girl.

It was this dread that made me race through the book, turning pages quickly to get to the perceived cold hard end. It had to be endured and much better to live it through a story than in real life. I found that I liked the story enough, but the shadow of death had left such an impression that I sought to forget it as entirely as I could.

As I took it off the shelf last week, I reliased that the aim had been achieved. It might as well have been a brand new book in my hands - so complete was my lack of recall. Unfortunately I also could not recall if the book ended with a death. Growing up though does funny things to you. If this had been the first read, I wouldn't have had the anxiety I did at 15.

This time, the read was much more entertaining and leisurely. I made my own theories where none existed in the writer's mind - things that had eluded me in the past for lack of knowledge. For example, mockingbirds found by Darwin on the Galapagos Islands were in fact later come to be known as Darwin's Finches. In the book, it was a Finch who defended the mockingbird. I wonder how much of that coincidence was intentional.

Trouble, our puppy, seemed to approve of it too. That was one uncommon night when he calmed down long enough to rest a chin on my lap and listen to the opening chapter of something that was all about birds.

More Sheepish Than a Sheep

2010-06-28T10:51:00.004+08:00

However useless I may be in the kitchen, I make attempts to try out new recipes or satisfy a craving that pops up unexpectedly in the middle of the week. Last week was all about apple pie. It had to be relatively easy though as I didn't want to be bogged down by the effort and technicalities that entail making a pie crust.

By a stroke of luck, I came across a recipe that didn't require a crust. Just chop up the Granny Smiths, God bless her whoever she is/was, sprinkle the bits that would make up the caramel, then top up with an easy butter-brown sugar-flour crumble. All these should go into an unbaked pie shell.

Unbaked? You mean like those disposable foil pans? I had no idea where to get those (actually I do but that would have been beyond my commitment to the project) so I got a "permanent" pie dish. And lots of grannies.

I must say the prep went swimmingly, as did the baking. I say "swimmingly" in the most literal sense because as the end neared, I could smell the sweet scent of burning sugar. I was quite suprised to find that the pie was simmering and liquid was boiling over out of the pan onto the oven base (that was so much fun to clean).

Cutting through the pie, I was pleased that the top felt crunchy, and suddenly it yielded into a hot mess at the bottom. Perhaps this is what it would be like before cooling down? No matter. I was hungry and lumped a wedge of goo on a plate. Strictly speaking, it was a heavily deconstructed wedge. Like modern art.

But it tasted heavenly.

Then, one who shall not be named (alright it was Monkey) asked me what I used to make the shell? Here's how the conversation went loosely:

Me: What do you mean? I bought a shell.
Monkey: But what is it made of?
Me: Aluminium?
Monkey: I'm talking about the pie shell.
Me: So am I.
Monkey: How do you eat aluminium?
Me: What do you mean?
Monkey: The pie crust...
Me: I told you how I made that - flour, sugar, butter, crumble.
Monkey: OK, that's the topping. What about the crust? You know, the shell?

*silence*

Me: Oh.
Monkey: *maniacal laughter* Oh no you didn't!
Me: I thought they meant the shell. The thing you put the pie stuff in.
Monkey: *more maniacal laughter*
Me: No where was there even mention of a pie tin. How was I supposed to know they were two different things?

Not totally convinced, I turned to the net.

What is a pie shell
pie crust: pastry used to hold pie fillings.

Tragic, really.

Do You Believe In Ghosts?

2010-06-22T00:00:00.001+08:00

For the most part I don't. And then I do. And then I don't. And right now I kind of do, but don't even know why that is. It's quite possible that we live among finer creatures. In school, it was common for boisterous chatter to suddenly die away without reason and as everyone sat in quiet reflection, someone would pipe up with "the angels are passing". But angels aren't ghosts. Or are they? Ghosts with wings.
Many have related stories of close encounters and I listened with a mixture of fascination and dread, knowing with absolute certainty that had I been in their situation I would have died of fright. This I found to be interesting; on a number of occasions when I thought I was caught in a "supernatural" situation, I was far from afraid. It had to be the fact that I wasn't visually equipped. It had to be.

There I was very early one morning at school - so early that the sky was still inky and the classroom doors were locked. I was sat at one end of a dark corridor and the other end was lit up by a single fluorescent bar. For a reason that eludes me now, I was compelled to look down the end and quite expected to see one of the infamous school ghosts. And when I did see a hazy creature standing at the end, I didn't die like I'd expected to. I just squinted harder to get a clearer image. My glasses were in my shirt pocket, but I didn't want to get that focused a picture.
I turned the other way, counted to 3 and turned back slowly to see that the figure had grown taller in perspective but still was too far away to resolve. Crap, I thought. It's getting closer. So I turned away again. Please let it be gone. There was no fear however. Just curiosity. And when I turned back, it was gone.
Camp - notorious for wraithlike hang outs - provided the other experience. I woke up to the sound of silence. Everyone was asleep, and yet someone was not. Singing unaccompanied was the sweet voice of a girl at close range intoning "Welcome to the Hotel California...". Slow, haunting, and quite pure. "You can check out anytime you want..."

Once again, I didn't expire. In fact, I quite calmly climbed down from the top bunk and went to inspect which one of the sleeping girls was doing the deed. Sleep-singing, perhaps? My ghostly friend seranaded me as I went on the rounds. Incidently, none of them was awake. Then still not quite awake, I shrugged it off and went back to bed.
Finally one night I thought I was being personally visited at home when the edge of my bed was quite distinctly shaken. I wondered what I would see if I turned over. Nothing. And the shaking stopped. Naturally I didn't see anything. It was only a 7-second earthquake.

Animate Dust Jackets

2010-06-20T02:01:00.004+08:00

It is past midnight and work is just coming to a close. I am satisfied to see months of prep go out the door in a blaze of neatly packaged 1s and 0s. My book, on the other hand, is missing its clothes. What is it with dust jackets?

If only it weren't too late and I could be, not arsed, but initiated is the word to get out and look for it, the book wouldn't be right over there on the floor forlorn in its dusty skin. I have often wondered why a cover couldn't just be printed on rather than wrapped around - quite loosely at that.

However limited their function may be, I quite like them. After all, they keep the dust out, even if that's all they fundamentally do. But more importantly, their absence keeps the subject of the book hidden and reading in public becomes all the less uncomfortable when surrounded by eyesdroppers. What does it matter if you appear to be reading the OED circa 1960-something?

And the jackets, they befriend the dust bunnies to go off hand-in-hand on an illicit rendezvous, eventually to be found curled up together in a corner where the light don't shine.

Posh Convenience

2010-05-07T22:06:00.002+08:00

Numbers Are The Bee's Knees

2010-05-04T16:03:00.006+08:00

One morning, a person on a bike wore a tee shirt that had the operators +-x% on the back. It reminded me of the earliest languages I'd learnt in kindergarten; English and Math. German too, since "kindergarten" was the first germanic word I ever uttered, and spoke wrongly too as "kindergarden", not having a clue what "kinder" meant, but that every morning I was off to the "garden" for a grand old time of sandpits and biscuits (in a mutually exclusive fashion of course). I learnt the hard way when years (!) later a spelling test returned 1 point less than a full score because of that word.

I've just been on a tangent to the Western Ghats and back, it appears to be.

Which brings me appropriately back to numbers.

Numbers 0-9 are their own alphabet, as is A-Z in common English, and other symbols for other languages. If 0-9 are considered "alphabets", then 11 should be a word and 12,435,632 an even longer word. In my head, of course.

Negative numbers: The shock at learning about the existence of these rapidly gave way to the fun that could be derived from them. Talk about a -ve number and it made you feel, if not exactly be, smarter than most.

Imaginary numbers: In most cases (every case actually, except in electronics), this is denoted by i. To be a bit of a non-conformist with good reason, electronic math refers to them as not i but j. Alternating currents that follow a lovely sine wave have both potential and phase - and this phase part which is deemed "imaginary" is not at all imaginary in real life - in fact it kills just as well and efficiently as the "real" part of the current. To be ignored at one's own peril, ja?

Complex numbers: Adding both real and imaginary numbers will usually lead to an aptly-named complex number. Because life isn't already complex enough.

Interestingly, some comments sections in articles require readers to do a simple math equation captcha (e.g. 3+5=?) before publishing. For these, the total number of comments submitted usually equal exactly zero. Is this because a lot of people don't actually know what 3+5 is? Moderate with math, and there shall be far less of noise, white, red, or otherwise.

Haven't quite decided if this is a good or bad thing.

Domestic Whinging

2010-03-22T15:23:00.003+08:00

Cooking and cleaning is not my idea of domestic bliss. Lounging around while everything gets magically sorted is. With a book perhaps. A wistful regret that's been nagging me of late is the longing for childhood tastes but knowing, through much fault of my own, that I will never be able to have them again unless I got off the lounging and wishing and tried a hand in culinary engineering, both forward and reverse.

With the passing of time, food samples in the fridge from the days of yore have become quite scarce, if not inexistent. In the early days, a friend and I came across an old sample of tuna sandwich filling - she bravely tasted it and reeled off the ingredients that would go into reconstructing it. So, tuna sandwich - successfully preserved. This feat was followed by bolognaise sauce, and there it ends.

Through sheer boredom and desperation, I've turned to my mediterranean roots and conjured up a number of recipes that dad does not really care for but will have because I serve him them. The poor man has been the long-suffering guinea pig of my kitchen misadventures. I won't say that I love everthing I make, but I like them more than he does. Sometimes he must wonder why we differ so much. He likes his food flaming and spicy, and I like mine delicately flavourful, without being roasted in the fires of hell. We share a temper, but that's about as fiery as it gets.

It's nice and simultaneously distracting having assistance while cooking - in the form of Trouble, our newest member of the family and World's Cutest Puppy (I'm not kidding or being prejudiced in his favour when I say this). Where it might take too many paragraphs to describe his personality in its entirety, his theme song (Trouble by Lenka) tells of him perfectly.

Now that he's tall enough, he's fond of standing on hindlegs with front paws on the counter, inspecting every ingredient as I add them. Then, to get a closer look when I'm tossing them over heat, he'll hook his claws into my back pockets and look around my waist to see what's going on in the fire. It's a constant fox trot that we do; him trying to get ahead and me trying to block him from having his eyes taken out by hot oil and spices. If he had opposable thumbs, I would gladly turn over peeling, chopping and washing up duties to him.

And he would enjoy it, wouldn't he? Most males admit to "loving to cook" (and by extension, all associated tasks that come with) - the number of times being inversely proportional to that of females admitting the same. Why is that so?

Auf Wiedersehen, 2009

2009-12-31T23:59:00.000+08:00

Cheshire Katze

2009-06-05T22:38:00.006+08:00

November effort pays off in tangible proof today.

That'll Do Pig

2009-05-31T17:07:00.002+08:00

The generation before mine has such a non-affinity for technology that I found myself listening with interest as they tried to describe the internet and the things they could do with it. We were at my aunt and uncle's for dinner last night when they mentioned something about the state of their non-functioning internet service.

Perhaps they hadn't expected me to be able to do anything about it since they had previously asked the Men of the family to help and it hadn't worked out. Which is why they sounded tentative as they asked "You wouldn't happen to know how to fix it, would you?"

I said I'd give it a try.

Flashback to the early days when I took my first Beginners Computing test in school. The question went something like

A floppy disk is used to store ___________.

And I filled out something vague like

A floppy disk is used to store ___things___.

That cost me the full score, and when mum saw it she was mildly annoyed.

"Things? You mean like pots and pans?"

This, from a person who was part of the older generation.

The bottom line: I knew stuff in my head. I just wasn't as good translating them in real life.

So I was very sympathetic when I heard the elders trying to articulate what they thought could be wrong with the connection.

I went over this morning to set up a new connection for them that didn't require registration/username/password/infinite monkey theorem. It's a service that already exists for subscribers of the national telco. So, everything was up in a flash and they were once again connected to the virtual world in under 5 minutes.

When I came down the stairs to announce "It is done", I wasn't quite prepared for the praise that came along with it (and that's putting it mildly). Strangely, it wasn't the adulation that got me grinning from ear to ear. It was the way they looked so happy that their problem of two long months was sorted - without having to upgrade as they had been advised to all along.

Now I know how Babe felt at the end of the sheepdog trials.

Satirical Sentiments

2009-05-14T21:57:00.012+08:00

Mum's Law

2009-05-10T15:38:00.004+08:00

Mum's Law states that the probability of "must see Mothers' Day tv" showing narratives of mothers

a. trying to gain acceptance as a step (and succeeding)
b. fighting off a rival trying to take her place (and succeeding), or
c. dying (and succeeding)

approaches 1.

It used to puzzle me that watching shows every second Sunday in May made me feel strangely uneasy, but I couldn't place a finger on it because the brain hadn't yet evolved enough to catch on to the pattern. To pillage and parody that old song, sad movies rarely made me cry. It was mum who pointed it out with her characteristic infectious laugh.

From then on, we would scan the papers and trailers around the season to test this theory year after year and it never failed, enough to eventually turn Theory into Law. Each discovery brought on more chuckles. With life imitating art, it was with wry humour that I recently realised we had enough material for our own Mothers' Day Special. Would she find it as funny?

I love how she made me laugh.

The Simple Life

2009-05-04T12:26:00.000+08:00

I found more chocolate in the fridge yesterday unopened - which could only mean one thing: someone's just returned from a country that prides itself on producing chocolates stamped by the Queen. The odds, though, of the type of chocolate being dairy milk equals exactly zero. It will always be fruit & nut (0.7), exclusively some sort of nut (0.25) and everything else but dairy milk (0.05). Descriptions such as these are lost on diary products. I'd imagine it be better suited on a signboard over a pub that reads "The Fruit and Nut" or "The Almond and Hazelnut".

Perhaps it wouldn't do to buy souvenir chocs that have nothing in them but cocoa and milk. That is why people shop for the whole 9 yards - fruits, nuts, cookie, cream, jelly-like substance, rice krispies, and of course liqueur. If a base recipe can be "improved" upon, it will.

Take, for example, the humble donut. (Elucidation not required)

I hope someone thinks of including that big flat block of dairy milk nothingness in their shopping someday. Even if it doesn't match up to the standards of flavour and texture, it can just as easily be mounted up on a wall for a pin board/emergency stash.

Sometimes, simple is good.

Anon

2009-04-10T22:32:00.005+08:00

One of more famous authors in the world would have to be "Anon". Anon wrote a lot of things that made sense in a touching/humourous/ironic manner.

Leo Tolstoy simply said "If you want to be happy, be."

Winston Churchill suggested "We all are worms, but I do believe I am a glow worm."

Among all other illustrious names like Franklin, Schweitzer, Lincoln, Browning, and Frost, Anon's name would show up at regular intervals, unassuming in its four letters sometimes proceeded with a dot (.).

It was Anon who wrote "A characteristic of the normal child is he doesn't act that way very often" and "Born free, taxed to death." It is Anon who gets quoted more often than not. It is Anon who gets attributed for the works of others when their names fall just outside the reach of recollection.

Not much is known of Anon, who appears to come across as genderless and ageless but still seems to be very much in the business of writing as evidenced by new material even in the present ("Politicians will stand for anything they think others will fall for").

Then there was Virginia Woolf who philosophised "I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman."

Or was that Anon?

What on Earth is that?

2009-03-23T22:03:00.003+08:00

Mild bemusement verging on frustration has been in top order these past couple of days as I dashed around half the city looking for something called couscous. I dimly recall having seen it somewhere, although I can't place where exactly, except for the memory of the response I had when I spotted it. So I know where to get couscous the next time it strikes my fancy.

Well, fancy struck over the weekend. Actually fancy struck many times since I had some on a recent flight home (mmm... airline food...), and have been meaning to have some made ever since. The last time I had it was when flatmate, Blue, and I cooked some up years ago. There had never been a problem sourcing couscous there.

This time the recipe called for lemon, sweet potato, courgette, and couscous. The courgette, I thought, was going to be tricky - but reasoned that it could do without courgette if none was to be found. Imagine my delighted suprise when I saw courgettes, yellow AND green, sitting next to the cucumbers. A good sign, I thought, grabbing it off the shelf lest it dissapear before my very eyes. They had been so illusive in the past.

There was no problem picking up a lemon and three knobbly sweet potatoes. But there was a slight problem with the couscous. Because there were none. Asking around at all supermarkets within the immediate vicinity, not one person knew what it was. Everyone had the same look of "Quoi?" in their eyes and a befuddled "Couscous?", like I had made up a funny word. Over-eager salespeople who descended upon me as I entered scurried away nervously when I made my request known. Not one offered to look it up.

Had it been a lesser ingredient, like the courgette perhaps, I would have been willing to let it go. But Lemon Couscous cannot be had without the titular ingredient. The next best thing would be to invest the courgette in the ground and hope for a crop that yields the next time couscous becomes available - or at least known in this neck of the woods, though how in the name of all things Mid-Eastern this is possible here of all places beats me like a Sphinx riddle...

Literal Malaprops

2009-03-16T01:54:00.001+08:00

When Razz had her phone upgraded, she generously allowed me to pick a ringtone for all the times I would call her. We went through a list, mostly they were engaging but the song proper started a minute too long, by which time theory holds she would have already picked up my call and the song would have gone unnoticed. We never got around to agreeing on a specific sound when she returned to her flat-of-residence in the state-of-her-choice.

It had been a busy day one time after that when I realised I had missed a call from her. So, calling her back, we discussed her needs (they are mostly needs whenever she makes a call) and then suddenly remembering I asked her if she had assigned a special ringtone for me. "I don't remember actually picking one" I told her.

"It's Cake" she said briefly.

"Which one?" I asked, knowing her tendency to be extremely literal.

"What do you mean?" she asked, and I detected a hint of evasiveness in her voice.

"Which one of Cake's song?"

"Oh" she paused. "'Never There'."

"What? Why? Are you trying to drop a hint?"

She sighed in an exaggerated manner. "Where were you this morning when I called and you didn't pick up?" she asked.

"Away from my desk of course" I replied.

"See? Never there" she pronounced it like a vindication.

That is how I ended up branded by that choice of song - and I must admit it suits me just fine.

She used it again over the weekend when I "deserted" her during a shopping session. She had been looking at something and apparently turned to get my opinion, only to find that I "wasn't there" and therefore yet again had "proved her point". We were starving by this point, only to detour into stores on the way to grab a bite.

"I need to get the stuff on my list too, and I'm getting very disillusioned not being able to find them" I told her, explaining why I wasn't always hovering around.

"What you need" she said, slipping her arm through mine and walking us out, "is food. Then you won't feel so delusional."

"Disillusioned, I said. Not delusional."

She shrugged. "They're one and the same to me. You could very well be both."

We had ice cream.

Such is Life

2009-02-25T08:17:00.005+08:00

It is ironic how there's been close to nothing to reflect upon at a time when 17 million new things are happening. Yet, when life ambles on its routine, there is always something to think about in detail.

KPMG sent me emailed horoscopes today. When I was little, I remember reading all 12 whenever I saw them. Even though they didn't change my outlook for the day, it was a fun read. Then came a time when I'd read a handful of them - mine and some that were close friends'. Now it's come to a time when I only read mine. Even so, sometimes I give it a miss entirely. After all, it's a bit of a stretch to believe that about 5 hundred million other people would have the same fortune, or to be more precise, misfortune, as you. Even the entertainment value has diminished - except for the ones on The Onion:

Virgo Aug 23 - Sep 22 A wonderful romantic experience looms ahead for Taurus, which really sucks, as you're a Virgo.

Nice for the Taureans? Not so fast:

Taurus Apr 20 - May 20 Your quest for abs of steel ends tragically this week when you cut yourself in half with a welding torch.

It is raining outside and it would be ideal if it were a Friday night. For all the frenetic pace, this is one moment that has seemed to pause before the start of a new work day. I don't need coffee. I just need Time.

To.

Stand.

Still.

Laundry has been a bit of a challenge lately. Most people know better than to mix the red with the non-bleeds. Still, others heap them all together and the product is one "gone-case" and another "respectably salvaged" piece. It still has light patches of pink which isn't noticeable among the print, but it's the very same piece I mix with a second load of white the following week, thinking that if the pink won't budge, it's not going to bleed anymore. Or so it would seem. Right? Wrong. I share this sorry tale with Monkey. "I'm just puzzled..." he said, not finishing his sentence. "About my stupidity? So am I", I reply ruefully. To his credit, he does not ~~audibly agree with me~~ agree with me in any way, shape, or form.

n.b. edited to accommodate protests of individual in subject.

One-upping Weather Stories

2009-02-09T18:54:00.000+08:00

While everyone else in the upper northern hemisphere have been regaling tales of the horrors
of winter (10 inches of snow!), I've had nothing to offer except a lame "Oh yeah, it's quite
warm here - not terribly so, but hardly a cause for hardship." Boring, is what I would have
said otherwise but one does feel the need to try and match up to all the other spectacular
weather stories.

As it goes, yes, I feel left out. I was once an insider with equally nasty stories recounted
with relish at how rain and hurricane-type winds had to be endured at the same time. How
snow fell overnight and some unwitting building dweller washed his car in the courtyard the
next morning and turned the soft, flaky snow into hard, slippery ice. How the inebriated
housemate slipped and fell and smashed her formerly perfect teeth into a bloody mess
(unrelated to the ice or weather, but still a qualified horror story).

So it happened that I found myself in the middle of another "how's the weather" type
conversation last week. "Warm" I replied, "it's always warm. Sometimes it gets too warm and
so slightly uncomfortable." To which he replied "I wish we had that here. It's hovering
about zero. You're just spoilt for nice warm weather over there."

Perhaps. But how exciting would it be to be able to talk about unexpected snowfall in the
tropics? Or hailstones. Or some form of unstable weather condition that would have us all
glued to the Met Dept broadcast as if our very existence depended on it. No one ever talks
about the weather forecast here. A glance at the sky is enough to tell if there would be
light showers/thunderstorm later that day. Mostly though, it's relatively consistent.
Monsoon weather has, besides the flooding - which happens everywhere else in the world,
quite amazing displays of lightning and thunder. Still, no one ever talks about "that 2.2
million volt lightning last night."

The most that would be said on the matter is "SMART Tunnel flooded, again!"

Ho hum.

The Great Shoe Escapade

2009-02-08T18:24:00.003+08:00

What do you do when one half of a pair of shoes breaks in mid stride? This is what happened when Stork and I walked in 2 minutes late into the screening of Bride Wars - the only type of movie with the word "War" in it that I would watch. Not Star Wars, not War of the Worlds, and quite possibly not even a movie titled "Warsaw" if it ever gets made.

In any case, the cinema was pitch dark with no floor lights for guidance and no boys with flashlights to help find the way. Most inconvenient. That is how it came to be that my foot slipped awkwardly between the side stairs and the aisle seat, snapping the strap like a strand of thread. This particular pair was consigned to the tip anyway, so I was half pleased at the prospect of getting a new pair, and half unpleased at the thought of walking out of the movies when it ended dragging a foot along in a broken slipper.

As predicted, it was a wholly encumbered operation which then forced me to pick up the useless slipper and walk out half-shod - like no simile I can think of. Of course, there were curious stares as we left the place, me swinging the broken slipper along. The lady at the shoe shop eyed us with a sternness that was totally misplaced at the sight of the shoe in my hand and our helpless giggles as we picked out new shoes I could try on. I mean, firstly it was my shoe I broke, not hers. Secondly, its ridiculously funny to limp around a mall with only one shoe on. Those are cold floors.

"What size would you like?" she asked sourly as I tried on a display unit to check out what it would look like on my foot. I told her what I needed and she took the sample from me, turned it over and frowned at the number impressed into the sole. "This is size 4. Of course it won't fit you" she lectured me before trotting off to get me the right size. I looked at Stork and we gave in to another fit of laughter. I told her, of course I knew it was the wrong size. Every display sample is the wrong size. Always a 4 or a 5 or something midgety like that. But it's always the first sight of a pretty pair of shoes that would lead on to the next level of actually trying on the right size for both feet.

When the lady returned with the correct size (but wrong colour), I tried it on anyway just so her efforts would not have been in vain. In the end though, we left with a (different) brand new pair on my feet - the lady had softened up enough to offer me a bag to dump my old broken pair into.

"Thank you very much" I said, still laughing. She nodded primly and might have even smiled a little as we tumbled out of there. Maybe she grew to like us a little bit after all.

Doggy Tales Part 2

2009-01-29T17:41:00.000+08:00

During the usual take-15 I spent this morning sitting cross-legged on the couch having kiwi fruit, movement outside the door caught my attention. Fork mid-air, I turned to see a furry yellow/orange dog trot into the drive (like we owned him). He sniffed about the lawn and the car, walked right up to the door nonchalantly - still sniffing - and headed around the other side of the car. I whistled out to him, but he paid me no attention and soon emerged at the gate, sauntering out just as coolly as he did in. There was no owner in sight.

Dad was standing by the gate now, hands on hips, watching the dog, who totally disregarded him, with an amused smile. For a split second I imagined that was how it would be if I had a dog that didn't reside overseas. After washing up, I picked up my work stuff and went out to the car. Dad was still there.

"Did you notice the dog walk in?" I asked him, and he laughed.

"Yeah. Sometimes I've found him sitting on the lawn" he said.

"Breed?"

"Spitz and mongrel perhaps."

"Spitz and something else... Collie I think."

"Maybe. Looks like a good breed eh?"

"Do you think he has an owner?" I knew he had, but I was hopeful anyway.

"I'm sure he does."

And that was that. The last time I almost had a dog was when I rescued a black and white spitz that had fallen into the drain that ran outside the house. Out of doggy gratitude, he sat in attention outside the gate and ran behind my bike until we took him in. But for various parental reasons, he was sent off to a shelter. There was another spitz-mix with needs before that one and I'm beginning to infer that quite possibly, this is the breed that is meant for me.

More so than any other, they tend to get all spitzophrenic during THAT season though.

The Stuff of Nightmares

2009-01-26T08:40:00.002+08:00

I woke up early today when the sky was still black to a message from Razz wanting to know if I'd heard the lions. It has been a constant source of dark humour for her that I've had issues with Chinese New Year in general and lion dances in particualar from the moment I can remember. It isn't as trifling as it sounds - feeling ill all night before the dawn breaks; scuttling close to mum under the sheets when the firecrackers went off at 12am - signalling the start of my personal 14-day hell; having to be dragged out from under the bed to be fed breakfast; throwing up said breakfast.

Mum would try her hardest to wean me out of my fear. Dad on the other hand sympathised with the terror I felt and once while playing peaceably on the front step, I felt a pair of hand reach down and cover my little ears. It was he, picking me up from behind and carrying me back inside. Struggling at first, the annoyance I felt was immediately replaced by petrification when I heard the first strains of drums coming from down the road. He had seen them and tried to take me far away from it, all the time assuring that it would not come and get me.

About Razz though, I couldn't tell if she was afraid of them or not. Perhaps when it looked like she was, it was only because of the dynamics of siblings - the younger immitating the older. Sometimes she appeared affected, other times she couldn't care less. We were at a mall last year greeted by the echoing sounds of drums. She looked over at me and laughed.

"Your eyes have gone all big and scared" she said, which was absurd I thought because I don't fear them in that manner anymore. All the same, my heart beat very quickly. As we walked about, she would periodically immitate the drumming "absentmindedly" and then glance at me out of the corner of her eye with a sly smile. I asked her, could we step into Borders for a bit? Where there is a bookstore, she and I are opposites. She will try any which way to steer me away from the area where books are to be found. I like browsing. She, not so much.

"Are you sure you want to go over there?" she asked. "That's where the lions are." Not true, but she played the card anyway. We didn't go to Borders afterall.

Friends have also taken advantage of the knowledge for a bit of fun. One day, returning to my desk at work, I found 2 miniature lion heads sitting on either side of the screen. Suppressed giggles could be heard all around as I regarded this shocking but utterly funny sight, demanding whose idea of a sick joke it was. No one claimed responsibility and to this day I still mingle among them, not knowing who the Iscariot is.

Because of the way my radar works, Monkey too has developed a keen ear for the sound of drums. Where ever we may be, even if we were on the phone, he would try to drown out the sounds. He even made us watch a documentary on them to help give some perspective. Lately though, he mentioned the phobia getting to him. Being extra vigilant on my behalf is making him feel slightly nervous every time he hears them. I told him he's not allowed to - if I'm being strong for him where the Cs and the Ws and the BSes are concerned (not allowed to say or spell them out), then he has to help me out where the LDs abound.

Would I dare take an orange from one? I almost considered it with the 2 that visited the office. However, I did not take the chance on the offshoot that they might have turned rogue, gobbled me up and spit me out like wilted lettuce.

Coordinates

2009-01-05T16:33:00.002+08:00

Being away from home had me thinking about extremes; the latitudes and longitudes spanned through travel. Admittedly, they're not as far reaching as to say North Pole/South Pole/Dateline circumference. Nevertheless, it's nice to see numbers - especially when it links up to Geography.

Furthest North: 55°01'27"N 2°17'33"W
The Roman miniature of the Great Wall. Easily scaled, though not advisable due to it's World Heritage listing. If I never make it to China, having made it here fits nicely.

Furthest South: 38°29'S 145°14'E
Quite far down I could have watched the penguins come home if only I'd stayed around till 6.23pm.

Furthest West: 52°51'0"N 3°1'60"W
Out on an evening stroll when we suddenly came across signboards with place names commonly, though not exclusively, beginning with "Lla-" or "Llw-" and ending with "-wyn" or "ryn". A delightful, if unintentional, discovery.

Furthest East: 33°51'35.9"S 151°12'40"E
The place Monkey had an epiphany. I'm discovering it.

To Meander

2009-01-02T22:24:00.003+08:00

And before you know it, the new year ist hier. As is customary during the season, things got out of hand - but not in a bad way. Much as unintended, I got sucked in though protesting all the way. The Christmas tree... made a 24-hour appearance last year. The lights and decorations did not. On one of the trips to the mall, I came across a 5' tall plastic tree at least a decade old in one of the shops which seemed like an afterthought - as if the owners reluctantly decided at the last moment to show a little spirit. It had one tarnished bauble hanging off one of its sad, sagging branches - beating out my tree by a single trim. Yet mine looked finer than it had in years, standing tall and unlit. When I looked at it, I saw past Christmases. And even though it stood bare now, like a canvas, I caught glimpses of future Christmases and they were good.

Razz made it home in time for Christmas this time, the first we've spent together after 7 years. The last-minute flight cost half a kidney but was well worth it. That could mean two ways; either the flight was an expensive one or I have cheap kidneys. Depends on how you look at it. There was no time to spare with all the mall hopping she had planned, and we barely had time to sit down and talk but finally when everything was over we had a couple of hours that Saturday morning. Even then we didn't manage to chat. We were huddled up together, her feet propped up against my knees as I painted her toes and dried them with a hairdryer (doesn't work). We said nothing, not even when the heat got too much - she would just wriggle her toes and I would move the dryer before they could get properly singed.

As for Neujahrsgrüße, they were all one and the same - mass forwards of syrupy sentiments that are one size fits all. It's nice to be remembered, but then it's not very hard to put much thought in selecting the entire phonebook for a new year's broadcast. This was the only one that initiated a reply from me:

You are probably sick n tired of sugarcoated new year messages by nw. However
due to tradition n bla, bla, bla.. Happy New Year ! Have a good one!

Growing Things

2008-12-09T19:43:00.002+08:00

It's an art granted to Dad which has obviously skipped a generation. Although, I probably shouldn't say that as I have no inkling of Razz's planting skills. I don't even remember her growing bean sprouts on damp tissue - that standard Science experiment everyone in primary school tries. Perhaps it would be safe to say that both Razz and I have no green thumbs. Granted, my bean sprouts actually grew, and then they died from rot because I did not know when to harvest the crop.

We've got an array of plants growing in the garden, and so anytime I need something I would hand the seeds to Dad and he would try and get them to grow. The grapes didn't turn out, just like he had said they wouldn't but sowed them anyway because I asked him to. Neither did the apples and oranges. The lilies worked though, unfortunately inedible. The current project is cultivating cherry tomatoes. The next would be courgettes and leeks and other kinds that don't grow here. One of them is bound to defeat the laws of geography someday, and how will you know if you don't try?

To be honest though, I have unintentional green thumbs; the ones I don't want to have sprout, do. Onions, garlic, and potatoes under my care - destined for the frying pan - always grow roots and shoots undesired, unplanted, and uncared-for, thereby rendering all inspired, impromptu decisions to cook a meal utterly useless.

Doggy Tales Part 1

2008-12-07T13:04:00.003+08:00

Hippo and I share custody of an adorable 11 year old male labrador retriever who is just a sweetheart. Russ (the shorter and much easier version of his loooong name thanks to someone *coughs HIPPO!*) is what you call a dog of few barks.

Russ whines. If he gives a high-pitched whine, he requires some TLC, a slightly lower-toned whine would mean that he wants non-emergency attention and a very low-toned-almost-a-growl whine meant that his loved one is in danger.

Due to his bark-less nature, he exudes this 'wise old charming dog' aura which I must say, has left a good impression on many of the female dogs living in this neighbourhood. Many of the female ones would rush to the front of their gates to have a whiff of his manly (or rather dogly) scent and would start barking. Russ, who can be quite the cassanova, would almost always spread his 'love' by peeing close to the gates of every house that has a female dog. And I, being the responsible owner, would always have to bring a huge bottle of water along to wash off his 'love' (but the scent remains to the doggy noses). This happens without fail whenever I or my trusted dog-sitter, Big Little Wombat, takes Russ out for his daily walk.

However, it was a different story today. I took the cassanova for his routine walk and it seems that the neighbourhood doggy ladies have a new prince charming. A tall, snobbish looking blue eyed husky strutted past the gates and left his mark right over the spots where my wise old chap usually does! As both owners walked past each other, I can feel the tension between us. Russ is the King and should remain that way. But being the wise old one also means being easily pushed over. Instead of re-marking his territory, the good lad just peed next to the husky's area. As I walked on, I looked back and felt sorry for Russ. The ladies seems to be sniffing Mr Blue Eyes' love instead of Russ'.

Is this the end of his era? Hell no! I'll make sure Russ drinks more water before he goes for his next walk!

-monkey-

Das Problem mit Dummheit

2008-12-04T01:55:00.003+08:00

Among the rows of checkout counters typically found in a giant supermarket-type setting, there is one God-sent of a line that states something like "5 items or less". They should have more of these because the one counter tends to spawn a line so long that sometimes it would make sense to join the other regular lines.

Nevertheless, this is the counter that was made for me because the area I shop at has an "8 items or less" station which is pretty much inclusive of the number of items I normally check out.
Herein lies a conundrum: what does the term "item" specify? Are they 8 different items only, or also accepting of 8 items of the same sort; eg. 8 cans of Coke? Or would 8 cans of Coke be considered 1 item?

Either which way, the way one subscribes to any of these terms & conditions would very much depend on the content of their baskets (or trolleys), would it not? The guy who pulled out fourteen (14!) bundles of kangkung, separately priced, obviously believed that "x items of the same kind equals 1". The rest of us did not, and I'm willing to bet he wouldn't have either if the situation was reversed.

When I told Dad about this, he had a little story of his own to tell about the time not too long ago when he went to deliver his prescription slip at the hospital's pharmacy. A lady ahead of him had put her slip on the tray, so when he came along he put his on top of hers. She gave him a look before snatching up her slip and putting it on top of Dad's. Then they both waited and watched after some time when the pharmacist came to collect the slips, turned the pile upside down, thus dispensing Dad's medication first. (Around here I heard Nelson Muntz go "Ha-ha")

The moral of the story is had Charles Darwin included these two samples in his research, he may never have come up with the Theory of Natural Selection.

The Number Ten

2008-12-03T00:01:00.000+08:00

10
zehn
sepuluh
tini
umi
taha noa
hatu
padi
tehun
decam
thiine
dhen
tien
zaen
teh
te
zecce
arav
kumi
chi
ten

Happy 10th Hippo

-MONKEY-

Postcards from University

2008-11-21T22:23:00.001+08:00

Head Injuries, Cherry Tomatoes, and Novels

2008-11-13T22:34:00.003+08:00

Having decided at the last moment to participate in NaNoWriMo again this year (see little blue badge on the ~~left~~ right), I took it on like the brave trooper that I am, surging ahead with no plot in mind. This is a very common lament among its participants, most of whom struggle to reach the base limit of 50k words for a novel in the 30 days that November hath...

I attended a party, generically speaking, where not 5 seconds after arriving, someone brought a car booth door down on my forehead. I think it's dented (the door, not the forehead), but it could be an old dent. Naturally, I had to endure the indignity of walking around clutching an ice pack to my head and having to field questions about how the accident came to be.

On the upside, if there's anything I can correlate to the head injury, I managed ~5000 words the next day while nursing the sore head in bed. Quite a significant leap from the ~2000 per diem. Aside from that, I've feasted on an unnaturally high number of cherry tomatoes this week. All this, I'm sure, are contributing factors to the sudden acceleration in brain activity.

Of course, to whomever I regale this interesting bit of trivia I get in return a smart-mouthed answer about how I should probably suffer head injuries on a weekly basis.

Ha ha, people. Very funny.

Paternoster

2008-11-09T21:00:00.004+08:00

These days, safety is the biggest issue when it comes to anything. So much so, a lot of the thrills of life have been eliminated (think riding bicycles without helmets) and Paternosters. These are an old-fashioned version of the modern lift. Where lifts for the past few decades come equiped with doors and other sensors, the Paternoster, most common now in Europe - relatively speaking, has no doors. It travels up and down two exposed lift shafts in a building, and the only way to ride one is to hop on/off at your desired floor.

Of course there have been concerns about riding all the way over and across, ascending one way/descending the other. The question is, if ridden all the way across the top or bottom, will the person in the cabin be flipped over upside down? Or worse, be found lying in a mangled heap on the floor? This is a common prank played by those who know the answer on those who don't.

The answer, of course, is no. Once at the top (or bottom) the cabins slide sideways before heading in the opposite direction. The human cargo is left unharmed in the cabin.

New users are normally quite skittish about getting on or off. This is due to the fact that it is often difficult to first judge when to take the first step when there has been no prior experience to draw upon. One good tip is to wait till the floor is an inch or two, or whichever the user feels most comfortable with, above the standing platform (either the building floor or cabin floor - works both ways) before stepping on/off.

It is advisable not to wait too long before stepping on or off to avoid the grim situation as follows:

Finally, while Paternosters are better at managing traffic within a building (less waiting time for the lift to arrive at the waiting point), the trick to getting on to one quickly - for example on the ground floor - is to take the downward-headed cabin, ride across underneath and turn up at the ground floor, thus effectively cutting a long queue.

Stars in Captivity

2008-10-28T20:11:00.001+08:00

Very early this morning, we were out at Terminal 3 Subang to send Rat on one of her jaunts. It was like entering a ghost building - there was construction every where and we even managed to park right in front of the main entrance. There was not a soul in sight except for a token guard wandering the foyer.

The work in progress is called SkyPark and I have a feeling the finished product is going to be somewhat spectacular. Amidst the deserted hallways and exposed ceiling and silver tubes of aircon vents, we walked out into a vast area with ceiling that reached 2 storeys high and up there was a stunning white curved runway with hanging bits of exposed fibre optic strands twinkling like a galaxy of stars. It was quite a sight - one which I would like to see fit into the grand scheme of things once the renovation is over. But even now, it was hypnotising.

About a decade ago, I had pasted about 50 pieces of fluorescent plastic celestial bodies on the ceiling of my room. It was a back- and neck-breaking job, but I was determined to have the night sky in my room once the lights were out. They're still there, but now I've seen greatness and there was the thought at the back of my mind planning the next upgrade to my starry nights.

So I looked up kits for star ceilings and the budget broke bank. The cheapest kit was going for £183. And to think that I had access to all that during the fibre optics semester. For free. Knowledge is power, so they say. But cold hard cash would be a whole lot more useful right now.

"They're not fennels"

2008-10-26T11:41:00.002+08:00

The recipe called for fennel, which isn't the easiest thing in the world to get around these here parts. But I remember seeing a fern dad grew which looked a lot like fennel, so I went out to ask him about it.

"I'm looking for an ingredient. Is that fennel?" *points to the fern*

"What's fennel?"

"It looks like an onion... grows from a bulb..."

"Ah, no that's not a fennel then. It's not a bulb."

"But it looks like fennel leaves."

"It's not a bulb. These are bulbs" *points to long, thin leaves growing out of the ground*

I sort of knew what they were, but thought that maybe I was missing something hidden.

"What are they?" I asked anyway.

"Lilies."

Was he trying to tell me lilies make a good substitute for fennels?

Why Do They Dislike Brussels Sprouts So?

2008-10-22T18:27:00.004+08:00

For all the universal hating that goes on about this veg, I'm slightly dazed that I don't share the loathesome feeling. There isn't even have a cute childhood story to go with it - after all Brussels Sprouts are to the Western society what kangkung is to the East. I didn't like them, but I didn't hate them either.

Actually, there is a quasi-cute story about them which happened around the time I spent Christmas with my cousins who live on the Otherside. When my aunt brought out a bowl of just-steamed brussels sprouts, everyone physically backed their chairs away from the table. Then she asked me "Would you like some?"

"Yes, please" I said, because I like them and was secretly overjoyed they were on the menu. Also, it was the accepted way to respond to people who are relatives but are more like strangers because we rarely meet. My stranger-cousin looked at me pityingly.

"It's OK, you know. You don't have to be polite. Everybody hates them."

"But I really like them" I replied. I don't think I convinced him much. It's like how when you try very hard to convince others of something, only to try too hard that it comes across as unconvincing. Something like that.

They ought not be villified like that. It's the overcooking that releases the sulphur bits that causes the bitterness. When treated with tenderness and care, they are lovely. Just add cheese.

Posthumous Gains

2008-10-17T10:57:00.002+08:00

A few days ago, I received a call from a withheld number. Usually I tend not to respond to these sorts (see: telephonophobia), but on this day it was different. On this day, I was expecting a call from an unidentified person regarding the status of my internet line that had suddenly stopped working for no apparent reason. Unless you don't discount the lightning.

On a side note, lightnings have become increasingly impudent of late. Gone are the days when they stayed outdoors as they should - now they barge into houses as if they own it, with total disregard for arrestors. One popped into our bath and now Rat is traumatised about showers during thunderstorms.

Anyway, that's the reason I answered the call, because part of my life does depend on the internet. Imagine my pleasure then upon hearing the voice of an insurance salesperson. From AIG, no less. [Insert knowing look here]. I know! That was the exact same thing that went through my mind. Weren't they looking for a bail-out a few weeks ago? Well, they couldn't have got much out of it since they were now looking to me for an investment.

Here's the thing. I might have considered lending a helping hand, if only the rep didn't immediately launch into the subject of my death. I'm supposed to invest my living days, as the nature of insurances go, only to reap the benefits once I cease to exist. Not much of an incentive there. And I could be wrong, but I'm quite, quite sure Dad would much rather have ~~a thorn in his side~~ me around in person rather than a few hundred thousands representing my soul in currency.

I chose to let the sales pitch run its course, then declined it politely at the end and hung up. You can't agree to something you weren't paying attention to, least of all an organization that's barely staying afloat. It could get you into all sorts of trouble. Plus, all that talk about my mortality did not exactly put me in a generous mood.

Off the Menu: Turtles

2008-10-09T22:49:00.005+08:00

Recently, I signed away my right to eat turtle and terrapin eggs. It was in support of a campaign my friend, Adventure Lad, is a part of. He's the sort who gets to do very cool stuff - or rather actually does cool stuff with his life.

So after a week of turtle-saving on one of the islands, he came back with a stack of very interesting photos, and the petition. I signed it because I knew I wouldn't have a problem with keeping my pledge - something I take very seriously. "Let your 'yes' be a 'yes and your 'no' be a 'no', your 'maybe' be 'yes if I feel like it, no if I don't', your 'depends' be 'what's in it for me?'...". Exotic eggs are not an everyday meal after all.

Although, I did wonder what it would mean if I had one of those eggs but didn't know it was one I'd promised not to eat. Adventure Lad, with his furrowed brows, was stumped just as much as I was. It was just a hypothetical. If it isn't chicken egg, it would be pretty obvious. I'm very sure I will not sign for that. Not that anyone will be going on a chicken-saving mission anytime soon though...

"Wine dark", said Homer*.

2008-10-02T00:45:00.004+08:00

It's an incredibly clear night tonight. There are no dusty beams of light and dark grey clouds. Even the casino on the hill was visible from Sunway. That clear.

We've just come back from catching Mamma Mia! and it does not suck, like a lot of people have said. There was a lot of turqouise in a continuing blue theme throughout the movie, which is all very aegean or hellenic or a word like that.

Somehow the Greeks have managed to lay claim to that colour; it's as if they invented it. Sure Sweden and the azure Italians share it too, as well as others, but not as firmly.

Interestingly, Ancient Greek never had a word for "blue"...

* the poet, not the imbecile.

Learning to Say "No"

2008-09-16T13:46:00.003+08:00

I write this post from the comfort of my bed for I am ill. Not ill enough to not think, as you might have noticed. It's still work as usual - just with the added convenience of telecommuting. It's an option I've only recently begun to feel comfortable with - after all I went through secondary school never taking a single day off, and the same fastidiousness continued well into university and work.

Anyway, a lot of times it's difficult to say "No" to things you don't want or don't really need. These are some ways to learn how - start small:

1. Say no to fliers
Most people (I've noticed) feel bad about not accepting fliers from others. They take it, give it an obligatory glance, and then walk ahead, glance surreptitiously behind to see if the giver is looking before dumping it into the nearest bin. It's quite alright to decline (a smile makes it less painful) and keep on walking. They're not going to hold it against you. Well maybe they will for a fleeting second, perhaps calling you a name under their breath - but then sometimes friends I'm with call me a name over their breath for having been "rude".

2. Say no to "RM10 for 3"
There are these little incentives that encourage people to buy more than they intend to. The selling point is being able to get a third item for a lesser price. And people, in all their warehouse-hoarding glory, would immediately see the logic to buying in bulk. Rat and I each bought a hair band once, both priced similarly. The lady at the counter suggested we take a third item to meet the above sale. I said thanks, but no. She almost angrily ordered me to pick a third item. I said no again. After all, we did not have 3 heads between the 2 of us.

3. Say no to Up-size
"Would you like fries with that?" No, thank you. Just some gruel, please. "A sundae? An apple pie? A meal?" No, no, and no thank you. "Add a buck and get a large serving." No, thank you.
See how easy it is?

4. Say no to jeans 2 sizes too small
This applies to women, particularly, although I see a trend among men wearing tight fits. It's quite common to hear a salesperson urge a customer to try on a size that aims to hermetically seal ones lower appendages. I may be Hippo by name but am definitely not 'hippo' by proportions and yet have succumbed to the teeny tiny jeans - once. And then I swore, never again. It was only 1 size too snug but it was enough to feel like I was going to die like a lemming jumping off a cliff. All because I listened to people who didn't know what it felt like to have blood circulation cut off. Comfort over fashion. Any day.

5. Say no to the latest gadgets (iProducts/phones)
Because if you wait long enough, you will eventually win an iPod at a function and someone will gift you a phone for Christmas.

Countrywide Drill

2008-09-15T13:35:00.002+08:00

Today I was talking to Monkey when there sounded a siren in the background. It was Civil Defence Day down south and it was intriguing to actually hear something like this. We don't have preparations like this here after all. So I turned up the volume and pressed the earpiece closer to try and get a clearer sound. Apparently, the entire island is wired with these announcers that can relay messages to the public - a public warning system. The siren was meant to be proceded by a radio announcement to tell the citizens that a. war is impending, or b. this is just a drill.

Of course I made Monkey turn on the radio to catch the broadcast. After listening to a range of broadcasts as he turned the dial (it sounded like the turning of a dial) he declared that we had regrettably missed the broadcast and that if there really was a command to hit the bomb shelters he would have to start dragging out the supply of food for the upcoming festivities because there would be no space for "us humans". Which includes a dog and 3 cats. Which is also when I realised (again) that... he has his own bomb shelter! Knowledge like this takes a bit of prodding to be brought back to conciousness.

My storage contains stuff too, but it certainly does not double up as a bomb shelter. And if we face some state of emergency, how will we know?

All this has been very exciting.

Runcible Spoons

2008-09-10T21:11:00.005+08:00

The most complicated word I learnt as a child was "runcible". This came from the rhyme "The Owl and the Pussycat" about the love affair between... well, an owl and a cat. I don't remember how I committed this to memory but it must have had something to do with mum singing it and me repeating after her. She particularly stressed the "runcible spoon" bit.

"Not just any spoon, but a runcible spoon."

I never questioned the meaning, as was my habit when encountering new words. I just read them in context and guessed at their meaning. Most of the time, I guessed right. And that's how I got through life without using much of dictionaries. So "runcible spoon" to me meant "some sort of spoon" and it never went further than that. Except for the times when I demanded to have my dinner "with a runcible spoon". Then mum would produce the shiniest silver spoon that was only used for Special Occasions.

When technology caught up, I discovered the very, extremely useful define:{insert word} command in Google and have been much impressed with this lexicon-at-my-fingertips tool which let me look up words and their exact meaning in real time. And after all these years, it suddenly crossed my mind to look up the word "runcible".

I typed in "runsible", and Google was smart enough to enquire if I mean "runcible"? Ah, how clever you are Google, I thought as I clicked on the corrected word. No definitions were found for runcible. How could Google not find a definition for runcible? And guess who trumped Google? Wikipedia. And Merriam-Webster.

Both sources more or less corresponded with each other in citing its origin (The Owl and the Pussycat by Edward Lear) and that it had no basic meaning. It is, in fact, a nonsense word - although MW goes as far as describing it as "a sharp-edged fork with three broad curved prongs". The word can be taken to mean anything, really.

Hmm. Interesting.

What a runcible musing this has been.

New Day

2008-09-09T04:00:00.001+08:00

What does happen at 4am? There is the active12am or 3am window - being inexplicably woken up or something or other. 4am is one of those in-between times - you're either very much awake (from being inexplicably woken up at 3am), or very much asleep (after dozing off at 3.12am).

4am and work's just ended. Or is it just beginning?

Goodnight room

Goodnight moon

Goodnight cow jumping over the moon

Goodnight light and the red balloon

Goodnight bears

Goodnight chairs
Goodnight kittens

And goodnight mittens

Goodnight clocks and goodnight socks

Goodnight little house and goodnight mouse

Goodnight comb and goodnight brush

Goodnight nobody, goodnight mush

And goodnight to the old lady whispering "hush"
Goonight stars

Goodnight air

Goodnight noises everywhere .....

Mr. Welldon

2008-09-03T21:55:00.004+08:00

This was especially true of my Entrance Examination to Harrow. The Headmaster,
Mr. Welldon, however, took a broad-minded view of my Latin prose: he showed
discernment in judging my general ability. This was the more remarkable, because
I was found unable to answer a single question in the Latin paper. I wrote my
name at the top of the page. I wrote down the number of the question " I." After
much reflection I put a bracket round it thus "(I)." But thereafter I could not
think of anything connected with it that was either relevant or true.
Incidentally there arrived from nowhere in particular a blot and several
smudges. I gazed for two whole hours at this sad spectacle : and then merciful
ushers collected my piece of foolscap with all the others and carried it up to
the Headmaster's table. It was from these slender indications of scholarship
that Mr. Welldon drew the conclusion that I was worthy to pass into Harrow. It
is very much to his credit. It showed that he was a man capable of looking
beneath the surface of things: a man not dependent upon paper manifestations. I
have always had the greatest regard for him. - My Early Life, W. Churchill

Having read Churchill's autobiography a long time ago, Mr. Welldon frequently came to mind in the intervening years. And a lot more recently. In this day when people get jobs because they have "the right paper" or "took the right subjects", and not necessarily have "the right understanding", it frequently gets frustrating when you know you can do the job but are not qualified for it academically. If only they would let you sew buttons without a certificate in fashion design!

Interviews have always been the bane of my existance. I work in an industry that has absolutely nothing to do with the 2 degrees I worked hard at in university. And so, I am never certain of the terms and jargon and a whole lot of other things that I am required to know in this field that I swore I would never, ever, work in. I always say that I work intuitively rather than knowledgeably because I could never explain why I designed something a certain way.

There has been 2 types of interviews I've endured, and being the sort who does not take well to interviews, am quite prone to self-sabotage. Things I used to know would evaporate into thin air and I would be left there trying hard not to look like the ignoramus that I knew I wasn't. The first type of interview would be the one where I would finally convery along the lines of "I may sound like a total goon, but I can do this stuff". The second one would be the one where I didn't try to explain away my apparent lack of knowledge.

The first type would go on endlessly with the person digging deeper and deeper into work-related topics in hopes that the tougher the question, the quicker it will trigger some brain activity.

The second type would stop the pain and take a different track. The questions always opened up into something I could talk about - and they were mostly not work-related.

It was always the second type that I would be offered the job.

Sometimes, it's not just about someone being able to share your conviction that you have the common sense to see a task through. It's when they're able to discern it even when you, in yourself, don't know you have the ability to do it. Then they take you on anyway and let you prove them right.

Real World Monopoly

2008-09-01T12:37:00.002+08:00

We were playing Monopoly Here and Now, which is not very much different to classic Monopoly. The big (and painful) difference is the value of the currency. What used to be a start-up of $1,500 is now $2,000,000 - since this is the modern day version, inflation has been accounted for. It's all very nice and realistic, but the headache comes when it's time for cash exchange. The game set could have done well with an extra piece - a calculator.

Properties start at $600,000 for Cleaveland's Jacobs Field and cap at $4 million for Times Square, NYC. Some of the other locations in between include Mall of America, Centennial Olympic Park, Johnson Space Center, Disney World, Hollywood, The White House, and Boston's Fenway Park - the twin blue strip property of Times Square.

There were 4 players - the Accountant, the Bank Crony, the Debtor, and the Schemer. The most honest Accountant in the world got thrown into jail for "insider trading" as read his community chest sentence. That wasn't the least of his misfortunes as he kept landing on the $750k tax spot. The Crony managed to buy up "The Slums" as we called them and build hotels all over the place. AND she had 5 $5 million notes hidden under the blanket plus other small change. She also held Times Square. The Schemer held Fenway Park.

The Debtor came into debt by building a death trap along the red strip. First, he had to pay property taxes. And THEN he landed on the well-developed Slums. Going for broke, he sold his houses and took a $5 million loan from the generous Bank. The terms of repayment were forfeiting the $2 million at GO and paying and extra $200k for 3 rounds. Halfway through the first round, he landed in jail (quite happily) and collected rent from the rest, stealthily building up resources.

The Schemer had no other ambition in life other than to conquer the blue strip. Despite owning other properties which included the White House and 2 airports, it was the already-owned Times Square she had her heart set on. If not for anything else, she didn't want to be the one paying the rent. So she cut a deal with the Crony; Times Square in exchange for free rental and a 5% cut of rent paid by the Accountant and Debtor if they landed on either blue lot. It took a bit of convincing before this collaboration of convenience took place, much to the dismay of the other two. And a $7 million rent rate was sweet returns.

It didn't last long after that. Once everyone got what they wanted, the game lost its steam. The fun was in the acquiring and negotiating. Not so much the rent collection. And it is much more fun making up the rules rather than playing by the book. That's much more life-like.

Classic Monopoly is going to be quite boring after this.

Self Interview: Coffee

2008-08-20T11:09:00.002+08:00

What do you smell right this very minute? Coffee.

What does it remind you of? People who get orgasmic about their love for coffee.

Why don't you get like that? Because it isn't like the second coming. Or anything.

Do you hate coffee? No.

Do you like coffee? I would have it, but it's not the first thing I'd ask for.

Most overused coffee phrase? "You so do NOT want to see me before I've had my morning cuppa."/ "OMG I need coffee or I will DIE."/ any other variant along that line.

Response to that? *Rolls eyes* People, please.

A Park That Could Have Been

2008-08-16T15:44:00.002+08:00

We went out to the Lake Gardens today for a bit of fun, and also to play at being photographer. It has changed a little from the time I was last there. A lot more people around, but mostly in the playground. I remembered a tree house we sat in the last time, and we went looking for it. A minor snag though - it was already occupied by sleeping grasscutters.

That wasn't the only place we had no access to. Almost any park bench near an interesing scenery was taken up by a sleeping body, every single one of them employees of the park. If they weren't sleeping, they were sitting by the side of the path gawking obviously at passers-by.

It was nice to find a quiet green area preserved in the middle of the city. The moment we drove into the area, the city sounds died of almost instantly and the sound of crickets took over. We could see the tops of buildings through a clearing here and there, but they stood silent and unobstrusive, as if they were observing this area untouched by the surrounding hustle and bustle.

What is sad is, while it has been maintained to a certain degree, it doesn't expose its fullest potential. We stumbled upon a little oasis of water that stood unflowing simply because the mechanics behind it were either turned off or lying in a state of disrepair. Aside from the birds, of which there were plenty, we came across a squirrel, a lizardy thing, and 2 ducks.

Park benches, trees houses and even secluded paths were off limits as these seemed to be accepted sleeping areas for the tenders. Are we allowed to climb up and ask them to let us, the public, use it? Or do we leave as early as possible to reach the gardens fast enough to stake a claim on the ammenities meant for us?

Aliens!

2008-08-09T01:02:00.002+08:00

Do I believe in Martians? No. But I did enjoy the movie Mars Attacks! The whole camp story might be deemed too ridiculous to be counted as a proper movie, although it never pretends to be as cerebrally endowed as the heads of the martians in the movie. Who knew Billy Holiday's music resonated with their brains?

In any case, it is so stupidly funny that Razz and I have adopted certain bits of it into our daily conversations. When one gets annoyed with the other and wishes to bring the conversation to an end, we let out raucous martian-speak that never ceases to break up the argument with laughter.

If there is intelligent life out there in the universe, why haven't they made contact? Perhaps they are not as intelligent as us humans. We've been trying for decades with no results made public; what more can be expected of lesser being?

On the other hand, why go looking outer space for aliens when we have a rich example of aliens living in the ocean and on land too? They're non-human, with a certain level of intelligence. Maybe all life forms formerly inhabiting the Universe decided to call Earth, and specifically Australia, home, arriving on bits of meteor rock.

Duck-billed platypus, anyone?

p.s. Am on a Bailey's trip.

The Law of Surprises

2008-08-04T09:08:00.004+08:00

A bunch of very special people planned a string of surprises for me the middle of last week, the day I turned a year older. And by extension of Murphy's Law (dare I be brazen enough to name it Hippo's Law), any surprise planned can and will come partially, if not fully undone.

The 1st undoing:
Monkey called Rat the night before on her cell - which doesn't happen usually - and my sitting next to her recognized his voice leaking out the phone. She shrugged her shoulders when I asked her who that was. He said he'd been trying to reach me and thought the only way he could do it was through her. Suspicious. Doesn't. Usually. Happen.

The 2nd undoing:
I was out at lunch on D-day with friends (they who got me a brownie slice with a candle on it - aww!) when my cell rang. It was a florist asking if he could deliver "flowers" to my "apartment". So, the family's got me surprise flowers. The apartment is Cher's - coincidently where I'll be having dinner later that night.

The 3rd undoing:
I called Cher to sort of figure out what all the buzz was about... and got her kid on the line instead. "Are you coming over to cut a cake tonight?" he asked innocently. What cake? "My mum said it's a secret." Aha. Cher told me "Please don't believe my son." That too was suspicious.

So, by the time dinner rolled around, I thought I had it figured. There was going to be flowers from the family and a surprise cake. But when I got there, no flowers were in sight and Cher said they'd cancelled the cake because the kid let the cat out of the bag. "Really?" I asked, not fully believing them. They assured me it was true.

Then out came the kid with a huge bouquet. Flowers, for any reason, are always cause for happiness. And before I could thank them all, they hushed me up and told me to read the card first. And I did. The flowers were from... Monkey! (See first undoing)

Then came second kid yelling "Fire is coming! Fire is coming!" followed by Cher carrying a cake and candles all lit up. (See second undoing)

In the end, though, my surprise was genuine, despite having "figured it all out". (See third undoing)

True to my Leonine characteristics (loves attention, bossy, over-dramatic etc.), I enjoyed being the centre of attention.

As for the rest of you not getting me anything, what were you thinking?!

"I'll have an ice cream, hold the cream, please..."

2008-07-21T18:21:00.003+08:00

Unlike most people, ice cream ranks lowly for me. Generally speaking. If there was a scale from 1 to 10, 1 would be ice cream and 9 would be frozen yogurt. There are certain types of ices I would only ever have and they are the crushed-ice, sorbet-type, 10-on-the-frozen-products-scale. To be honest, the only thing I don't enjoy in "ice cream" is the "cream". It isn't the taste so much as the texture. The after-texture.

Not all ice cream are beyond my appreciation though. Peppermint is an exception, and more recently, the "cookie dough" bits without cream in chocolate chip cookie dough. There are also almond pistachio and green apple mint. As long as it is, excluding green tea (ugh), green-represented. That's how ice creams even got onto the scale in the first place - saved by these green-flavoured minority.

As for the ices, they tend to be zesty and citrusy - which is really what they should be all about. There's nothing quite as refreshing as a cold, tart, zing on a hot, hot day.

As Rat said, my flavours of choice might as well be labelled "Toothpaste".

Lest Ye Be Shot Like Foxes

2008-07-11T22:44:00.004+08:00

When my cousin told me she had gone cow-tipping once when under the influence, I didn't know if she was serious, or even what that meant exactly. It is believed that cows sleep standing up (presumably for quick escape from foxes) with their knees locked and so if someone were to run into them at high speeds, they (the cows) would... tip over. Rudely awakened, annoyed, and not quite La Vache qui rit I'd imagine. The farmer wasn't very amused either.

"Would you like to go? Tonight?" she asked. The thought of a cow being caught unawares was, besides appalling, quite compelling. Like how something that shouldn't be funny, is, because of the ridiculousness of the situation. I'm all against animal cruelty (not in the PETA-obsessed way, though), but there was a part of me that wanted to see this happen. The only thing was, I couldn't imagine this coming to past in real life, because in my head all I saw was cartoon. Something along the vein of Cow and Chicken.

The long and short of it is, we didn't go cow-tipping that night. The farthest we went was up the field (without ill intentions) to survey the Holsteins that were chewing the cud peacefully, safe in the knowledge that the farmer's gun closet wasn't very far away. And it ain't just for foxes.

Perhaps It Was The Magic Truffles...

2008-07-10T20:24:00.002+08:00

Animals talk, except when they don't.

Scene 1

Freddy hops out from under his rock every time I drive up late at night. As I'm locking up at the gate, he croaks "Why so late, missy?" And usually I turn to look because it's always a happy night when Freddy comes out to talk.

"I didn't know you'd wait up for me, Fred" I say. He just stares unblinkingly at me with those solemn eyes. I squat by the verge and rest my chin on my knees.

"It's about to rain" he tells me.

"Is that why you're out?" I ask, looking up at the clear night sky. They always know.

"Is she waiting for you?" I ask again, nodding towards the other side of the road.

"That's personal" he says sternly, hopping away to the road.

"Aww, c'mon. You don't want to talk anymore?" I call out. Silence.

Scene 2

Monkey and I were in the middle of a voice chat when he had to go away for a bit. And then I thought I heard him come back and I waited expectantly for him to say something. Instead, after a brief scuffle the line went dead. And I waited for him to call me back but he didn't. So I called him on the phone.

"Where are you?" I asked.

"Still away from the laptop. Why?"

"I think one of your pets came in to have a chat and ended up cutting the line."

"I'll try asking them later, but I don't think they'll own up to it." A while later, he called me back.

"I tried asking and they refused to say anything" he told me.

"It's the dog! I'm sure it is" I said.

"Ok, I'll get to the bottom of it later." Some more time later, I got an excited call from Monkey.

"It was the dog!"

"Did he own up?"

"No, of course not. But I found his toy behind the fallen laptop. He's been reprimanded and given an earful."

"Really? What did he have to say? What did he do?"

"He looked at me blankly as if to say 'What is up with this fella?'"

So, yes, they choose when to talk and when not to say anything. It's all a huge animal world conspiracy.

10 Things: This or That?

2008-07-09T13:01:00.002+08:00

Pickles or Gherkins?

Staytus or Staetus?

Dayta or Daata?

Napkin or Serviette?

Vayse or Vaase?

Zucchini or Courgette?

Offen or Often?

Sword or Sord?

Mangetout or Sugar Snap Peas?

Potayto or Potaato?

Laughing Pains

2008-07-04T19:42:00.002+08:00

Monkey and I were having a laugh when I made a curious discovery - he doesn't get stitches! It's that feeling that comes from laughing so hard that your sides hurt and there's a "caught" feeling which makes it very hard to stand up straight right after. The normal cure for it is to bend over and touch your toes to make it pop - not that it works all the time.

Well, there we were, laughing, when I felt the tug at my side and asked Monkey if he had a stitch too (since he appeared to be laughing as much as I was). To which he answered "no".

"When was the last time you had a stitch?" I asked.

"I've never had a stitch, ever" he replied.

I never knew there could exist people who have never had a stitch in their life. Naturally, I thought he was joking. He wasn't. For someone who catches a stitch quite easily, I couldn't quite imagine this. It's almost like never having a sneeze in your life.

"That just means you've never laughed really hard" I concluded. That had to be the only explanation.

"Or it could mean that I laugh the correct way" he countered. Far-fetched, in my opinion, but not without faint possibility. Some people laugh tears, some don't.

It is, for the most part, spontaneous action that doesn't leave much room for consciously organizing one's internal organs to stave off an attack of the stitches. Having said that, perhaps some folks are genetically blessed to have internals that don't self-sabotage during a laughing spree. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

I've been trying to research this one, but it's fair been in vain. Not such a hot research topic apparently.

Royalty and the Feast of St. Pedro

2008-06-30T20:24:00.001+08:00

LuckDuck: i was in melaka for the weekend

Hippo: oh hey something's happening in malacca right?

LuckDuck: yeah ...its a feast

LuckDuck: its always for a month long

Hippo: what is it about?

LuckDuck: to tell u the truth im not really sure. all i know is , its called Saint Pedro feast

Hippo: i see *googles*

Hippo: oh it means st peter actually

Hippo: pedro must mean peter in portuguese

LuckDuck: yes ...thats right

LuckDuck: "The Fiesta San Pedro commemorates the Feast Day of St Peter, the patron saint of the fishermen"

Hippo: ahh

Hippo: yes that makes sense

Hippo: hey this is cool

LuckDuck: what is?

Hippo: i just realised i have an historical friend

Hippo: you

LuckDuck: y me?

LuckDuck: i was only born recently

Hippo: you are a descendant of the portuguese rulers

Hippo: "The village, about two kilometres south of Malacca town, is home to approximately 1,200 residents, the descendents of the former Portuguese rulers and the ethnic Malays."

LuckDuck: oh that...hehe

LuckDuck: only half

Hippo: so you're kinda royalty huh

LuckDuck: hmm i am...

LuckDuck: really

LuckDuck: wow that's cool

LuckDuck: hmm from now u shall refer to me as King LuckDuck

Hippo: european royalty

Hippo: i'm gonna put it up k

LuckDuck: ok my royal subject ...it's granted

LuckDuck: make sure u tell Piranha to call me King too

Hippo: yes yes i will

Hippo: and Skyewalker too

LuckDuck: yeah him too

LuckDuck: wait did i spell her name right?

Hippo: yeah you did

LuckDuck: its hard being a king you know ... have to remember how to spell all their names

LuckDuck: and stuff

Hippo: of course you have to know your subjects well

LuckDuck: indeed

Historically, we've had Alfred the Great, Edward the Elder, Athelstan the Glorious, Edmund the Magnificent, Edwy the Fair, Edgar the Peaceable, Ethelred the Unready, William the Conqueror, Richard the Lionheart.

And now, LuckDuck the Delusional.

Addicted to "Reply to All"

2008-06-28T00:01:00.005+08:00

Because Jupiter is in the House of Capricorn, people seem to be hitting the "Reply to All" (henceforth to be known as "RtA") button a lot more frequently of late. Amidst battling the easily-agitated System Administrator, god of Inbox Sizes who rules with an iron fist, yet more mindless, totally useless emails make their way in. Someone starts by stating an obvious fact/problem which ends with an innocuous "Any one else facing this?", which is then followed by disciples of the RtA movement who fervently, well, reply to all "me too", "me three", "me four..." when just replying to the sender would have sufficed.

There has only been one chain which ended on a remotely entertaining note. A moderator sent out a computer settings related solution to a mail list. The information in this mail was useful, except for some recipients who went of on a slightly different tangent. And so the RtA began. Finally, one deviant wrote "Please take me of this list" but not before hitting RtA. What followed was a "me too", "me three"... geometric progression which was, of course, nothing short of full-blown RtA phenomenon.

That is until one bright spark RtA-ed back:

From: System Administrator [mailto:System Administrator]
Sent: Fri mm/dd/yyyy 1:00 AM
To: Spam List [mailto:Spam List]
Subject: Your mailbox is over its size limit

Your mailbox has exceeded one or more size limits set by your administrator.Your mailbox size is 90770 KB.Mailbox size limits:You will receive a warning when your mailbox reaches 90000 KB. You may not be able to send or receive new spam until you reduce your mailbox size. Using common sense and the "Reply to All" with discretion will also help.

The RtA then switched to something along the lines of "ha ha that's funny".

This ought to be a criteria in Darwin's theory of natural selection.

Doing the Right Thing

2008-06-24T21:40:00.004+08:00

Doing the right thing, as they say, is sometimes the most difficult thing in the world. It is always so much more tempting to take the easy way out. But that in itself takes up even more effort justifying why it is alright to be a bit crooked. Is there such a thing as clear as black and white anymore?

In a situation where the options are as distinct as night and day, it would be easy to determine which way to go. But when everyone around you tells you to take the path of least resistance, this makes doing the right thing even more insurmountable.

And so, in being lazy, many a good person has turned to the not-so-wholesome easy way out. "Just as long as no one gets hurt" is not such a good excuse anymore, I think. After all, the conscience is a prickly blessing in disguise for most people. I'm not so sure if animals have a conscience.

Case in point: I used to go for runs every evening and the neighbour's dog would faithfully accompany me, until that evening when he couldn't take his eyes off another lady-dog. Doing the right thing would have been for it to come away with me when I called for him. Instead, he sat there, immovable, staring into his lady love's eyes. I don't know if he achieved anything while I went running alone.

Anyway, we're not dogs, thankfully. Doing the right thing is well within our means, no matter how we feel like dying doing it.

Save Yourself, Save the World

2008-06-19T23:52:00.002+08:00

Reading about psychotherapy disguised as self-help (psychotherapy = self-help?) is a very draining process. While having nothing against the practice itself, I don't know how much of it is supposed to assist with living a meaningful life. Do we really need to dissect why doing the right thing can be painful at times?

When it wasn't popular practice back in the day, were not people able to go about life and hardship that came with it just fine? In fact, with all the excess of help in examining the psyche available these days, it has not reduced evil in the world. The sheer number of processes to get by as listed in the book I was reading were incredibly exhausting, and I began to feel the need for therapy myself. Even. When. I. Didn't. Need. It.

According to pop psych, I can easily claim a traumatic childhood. After all, when I threatened to run away, mum asked if she could help me pack. When I accused her of some perceived injustice inflicted upon me, she asked if she could make things right by sending me for therapy to "heal the damage". I might have reacted with rage then at not being taken seriously, but it's all terribly, terribly funny now.

In the end, one good rule over a thousand pages will suffice. Do unto others as you would have others do unto you.

Hippo - Philosopher, Sage, Saint.

For sale: Best-seller. Only 2 chapters read. Just like new!

Razzmatazzie, M.D.

2008-06-18T22:43:00.002+08:00

Formalities and a 6-year tragicomedy aside, Razz is now Dr. Razz. I couldn't be prouder or happier. And the one other person who could possibly beat me to that is dear old dad. She is one inspiring little rat :-)

"Freakonomics"

2008-06-15T16:19:00.002+08:00

What a difference time makes. As a young and struggling student, I got my dad a cheap letter opener for a present once. But not so cheap since it had Big Ben on it. Everything appreciates in value with Big Ben on it.

10 years on, Razz and I have gotten him a hifi thingy. It came in a huge box wrapped in brown paper. It was not as if proper wrapping paper was scarce, rather brown parcel paper always looks about 17 times more exciting. This theory was proved right when I came down the stairs hidden behind the massive parcel-paper-wrapped box.

Despite it being just plain paper, he did not rip at it like one would any old paper. Instead he set it down on the table and took out the el cheapo letter opener and began to carefully slit along the taped edges. Does he love his new toy? Every bit as much as he does the 10 year old letter opener.

Wicked

2008-06-03T23:22:00.001+08:00

Seismic Activity

2008-05-19T22:58:00.001+08:00

Was that an earthquake tremor I just felt?

*****

Update 05/20/08

Apparently so.

Political Correctness

2008-05-18T11:50:00.003+08:00

The first time I heard a politically correct statement was when a classmate declared she was “vertically challenged” with a smile that suggested she considered herself cerebrally gifted for using the language in such an advanced manner. I looked up from my Science report, pausing long enough to wrap my mind around this statement (unusual as it was back then) before asking “Oh, did you mean ~~short~~ altitudinally challenged?” She wasn’t amused. I didn’t care.

The thing about PC-ness is that like fashion, such statements are bound to go out of style and in themselves devolve into politically incorrectness. Weren’t “old people” once known as “senior citizens” for PC’s sake? About 6 years ago, “senior citizens” stopped being PC in favour of “the elderly”. I am not sure what it is now… “chronologically gifted” but not before “the golden generation”, perhaps?

In a book I was recently reading, the author explained the means of his (horrors!) political incorrectness. He said, “I would also like to apologise for continually referring to God in the traditionally masculine image, but I have done so in the interest of simplicity rather than from any rigidly held concept as to gender.” What an antithesis of ~~sexism~~ gender biasness with niceness deprived overtones!

People these days are conditioned to be enabled in every possible way; you’re not a failure, you’re a non-traditional success. And you can’t possibly give an incorrect answer, because it’s not wrong – it’s an alternative answer – which is still wrong, by the way.

Maybe all this “putting it nicely” will go a long way in curing neediness, dependency, rejection, traumatic childhood memories, double standards, invalidated feelings, motivation dispossession, and all other things disapproved by Freud.

Silver Linings

2008-05-08T21:07:00.005+08:00

I was listening to Road to Mandalay by Robbie Williams (the underrated and under-appreciated artiste that he is) on the way home when it hit me how much the song described the circumstances I find myself in of late. But another vague memory from years ago slowly gained prominence in my thoughts as I recalled that day in late fall when I was still a carefree student attempting to cook a meal in my flat, the kitchen of which was adjoined to the kitchen of the flat next door.

There was a door between these two kitchens which also served as a fire escape route. On days when none of the students had succeeded in setting their flats on fire, it was kept locked. As I went about dinner prep, I hummed the tune of Mandalay. Sounds carry (too well sometimes) between the thin wall that separated the kitchens. I had finished 2 verses when the 3rd was immediately picked up by whistling from the other side of the wall.

Bewildered for a moment, I hesitated a while before continuing the tune every alternate verse. By the end of that impromptu duet, we were laughing.

And now I found myself smiling at the memory. The song wasn’t about describing present state of affairs anymore, uncannily accurate though it was.

It was all about how two strangers had fun together one fall day many years ago.

Save me from drowning in the sea, beat me up on the beach
What a lovely holiday, there's nothing funny left to say

This sombre song would drain the sun, but it won't shine until it's sung
No water running in the stream, the saddest place we've ever seen

Everything I touched was golden, everything I loved got broken
On the road to Mandalay
Every mistake I've ever made has been rehashed and then replayed
As I got lost along the way

There's nothing left for you to give, the truth is all that you're left with
Twenty paces then at dawn, we will die and be reborn

I like to sleep beneath the trees, have the universe at one with me
Look down the barrel of a gun, and feel the Moon replace the Sun

Everything we've ever stolen has been lost returned or broken
No more dragons left to slay
Every mistake I've ever made has been rehashed and then replayed
As I got lost along the way

Save me from drowning in the sea, beat me up on the beach
What a lovely holiday, there's nothing funny left to say

Was Gibt Es Neues?

2008-05-02T20:06:00.008+08:00

Nouns, pronouns, verbs, adverbs, prepositions, conjunctions, gerunds… they don’t mean a thing. I don’t know how I went though life not knowing these things, but I’ve never felt the need to understand them. A sentence, to me, is right because it sounds right. If something’s askew, it jars because it does not flow smoothly. Should it not be as straightforward as that?

A lot of people know what these things are. A. Lot. Trust me. And they’re very helpful too. When I say “I haven’t the foggiest notion on earth what a noun could be!” the expert would immediately launch into “Oh a noun is a word that…” That’s as much as I hear. After that I zone out and my eyes glaze over, and that explains why I’ve never learnt what a noun is after being taught it about 16 billion times.

Of course all this makes it that much harder in learning a new language. In German, the pronoun precedes the adjective, which is quite the opposite in English, says the instructor. It’s back to glazing in the zone. I would just rather read a book and get with it.

Fortunately, my teacher did not go about it the traditional way. She would just throw it at me from the moment I walked through the door.

“Ah, Hippo! Guten Tag. Was gibt es neues?”

Frozen for a second, I’d feel like telling her “A lot is new! I hung a picture on the wall! The cat fell down the stairs and lost a life”, but in German, so “Vielen neu! Ich hing ein Bild an der Wand! Die Katze fiel die Treppe hinunter und verlor ein Leben.”

But being put on the spot like that, my mind went blank and all I could muster was a very weak “Nichts” while sidling into the seat next to her.

“Gar nichts?” she would ask, looking a little disappointed.

“Gar nichts” I would reply, tortured. She could see I did have a lot to say and would tell me "Sagen, dass sie in Englisch", which I would. And we would put our heads together and translate it to German.

She gave me German Vogue and bought me books that taught interesting things.
"Dies" she said, pointing to a drawing of a nudist colony, "ist ein Eff Kaa Kaa (FKK). Freikörperkultur."

I heart her.

That would explain why I still know some German even after years of not speaking it.

Ja, ja, ich spreche Deutsch.

Curious Questions

2008-04-22T21:39:00.005+08:00

Questions can get very frustrating when it’s impossible to gauge what the expected response is supposed to be. The person asking could very well have an entirely different scenario in mind, and in providing a less than satisfactory answer, I’d feel
A. Incompetent
B. Stupid
C. Very Annoyed (with the asker).

Mostly C. Very rarely A or B.

My list of please-take-your-questions-elsewhere:

1. What are you doing?
2. Can I ask you something?
3. How could you think that?
4. O.M.G. How can you NOT like [insert song/movie/activity]?
5. Seriously, have you never watched The Matrix?
6. Do you have a [insert membership name]-Card?
7. Would you like a credit card?
8. Would you like another credit card?
9. Don’t you care about global warming?
10. Children are starving in Africa and you’re throwing that banana peel away?

Quite often, I’m asked by various spammers via email if I’d be interested in purchasing Pfizer products. Never mind the fact that it wasn’t designed to work for the people of my gender.

And right this very moment, there is an email notification with the following words (no particular order) ALL in the subject: jack, with, blowing, rabbit, orgasms, mind, vibrator. I'm feeling amused and C all at once.

I’ve mildly scrambled it because putting it down in its original form would be a wee bit rude.

Et tu, spam filter?

Retail Therapy That Works

2008-04-13T20:03:00.002+08:00

The movie In Her Shoes has a character, Rose, who owns a scandalous closet full of shoes. Her reason for this was "Clothes never look any good... food just makes me fatter... shoes always fit." I could understand. My problem isn't so much the clothes not fitting (although it comes in a close second), as it is being le ooglay. Cheap jersey type material for RM100-ish a piece? Come on! At a boutique called "Discreet" the outfits were anything but.

Retail therapy works for me in this reversed order: clothes at the very bottom, shoes, books on top. I have more fun trying on shoes than I do outfits. They're easy to slip on and you don't have to queue for the fitting room. And they're the perfect place to go to for a sit down (while pretending to try some on) just to recover from walking all over an oversized mall.

Bookstores, on the other hand, are my favourite retail spaces in the world. There is so much to see right from the point of entry. There's a knowing feeling I get when I'm sure I'm going to leave with something. And when I do, I'm practically skipping out of there and peering into the bag, touching the cover and feeling the pages, earning a paper cut or two along the way. In case you have not already inferred, I've just bought me some. There were two major bookstores at the mall and I got something from each. All is well with the world.

You can never be too thin, too rich, or have too many books, someone once said.

Lacrosse

2008-04-11T23:08:00.002+08:00

These days lacrosse seems to be in the news quite a lot. While the sport has been around for many, many years, it is only recently that they been in print and talked about in the sports segment of news. When I first heard it mentioned, it struck me that perhaps the game was experiencing a second coming or something to that effect.

But the one peculiar thing about it was that it was always about the men's team. Undoubtedly, this was quite new to me. After all I became most familiar with the game reading it in the pages of Malory Towers and St Claire's where lacrosse was a popular summer sport played by adolescent girls at boarding schools.

Grown men running around with sticks and nets at the end of them leaping to catch rubber balls does not a pretty picture paint.

Virgle Pioneer Application

2008-04-01T19:26:00.006+08:00

Here's calling out Google's Virgle not-very-believable hoax.

After years of trying to scam people, as they do on this very date, one would think the folks at Google would try something a little less obvious.

Having said that, it would be very nice to sit back and count how many naive sapiens rush to "apply to be a Virgle pioneer" (even just one would be one too many).

In the event that they do succeed, kids of the future will be writing book reports on "Gullible's Travels".

*****

Here's what my application looks like:

Got what it takes to join a startup civilization?

This 15-question multiple choice quiz will help determine your potential suitability as a Virgle Pioneer. Finish the test, then click "Submit." Good luck!

1. I would characterize my overall level of physical fitness as:
a)Great. I'm totally buff.

b)Good. I can do the stationary bike roughly as long as it take to watch a Talk Radio rerun on my gym's cable system.

c)Okay. I could probably do a few crunches if you really insisted.

d)Poor. The mere sight of a treadmill gives me chest pains and a weird tingling feeling in my extremities.

2. I am a world-class expert in
a)physics

b)medicine and first aid

c)engineering

d)Guitar Hero II

3. I ________ algae (as food).
a)like

b)dislike

c)utterly loathe

d)would be willing, if absolutely necessary, to endure

4. I ________ 1/3rd gravity (as the inverse-square electro-magnetic force binding me to the surface of my planet).
a)like

b) dislike

c)utterly loathe

d)would be willing, if absolutely necessary, to endure

5. If I had to wait up to 40 minutes for a response to email, I would
a)Die.

b)Rejoice.

c)Choose my words more carefully.

d)What's email?

6. If I was unexpectedly confronted with the emergence of a bewilderingly alien and frighteningly advanced Martian life form which appeared bent on killing me if I failed to quickly and effectively communicate my peaceful intentions and potential value to its civilization, I would
a)Die

b)Whip out my handy universal transcorder and start schmoozing my ass off.

c)Well, given that there's no such thing as a transcorder that works for a Martian language that we haven't even heard yet, I guess I'd just do my best to seem non-threatening while communicating my peaceful intentions with subtly universal hand gestures.

d)Run straight toward the Martian while screaming wildly and brandishing whatever weapon happens to be handy.

7. I consider creature comforts like designer clothing and satellite TV with DVR service:
a)Utterly essential.

b)Utterly pointless.

c)Utterly essential if I'm going to spend the rest of my life stuck here on Earth anyway, but utterly pointless if (hint, hint) you all decide to send me on the Adventure of Many Lifetimes™.

d)Does the satellite service include Showtime, because I am soooo into Weeds.

8. The concept of a large group of equal individuals all working hard every day toward the collective good of our shared community sounds to me like
a)A utopian ideal.

b)A Communist plot.

c)A dreary stage that Virgle Pioneers will all have to endure while building a civilization robust enough to sustain a blessed return to mankind's usual selfish, materialistic, backbiting ways.

9. A multi-stage heavy lift rocket built using established solid and liquid propellant technology with solid boosters doubled for increased payload capability could start a burn for insertion into a lunar trajectory and then back toward Earth for final insertion into a modified Hohmann Transfer Orbit, increasing its final Earth-to-Mars transfer velocity through a periapsis delta-v burn performed at the closest lunar and subsequent Earth approach, with the additional delta v gained on account of the potential energy from the mass of expended propellant,
a)Actually, I would think fairly quickly and easily

b)Only with significant time and fuel expenditure

c)My SAT tutor said to always guess C if you aren't sure

d)goo goo ga ga hee hee ha ha

10. If I were to find myself a passenger on a cramped three-month journey from Earth to Mars with nothing to do with my free time except play a thousand consecutive games of backgammon with a fellow crew member whom I didn't particularly like to begin with, I would probably:
a)Kick some serious backgammon butt, yo.

b)Be sure to lose enough games to ensure that my fellow player doesn't build up unsustainable levels of frustration and go postal.

c)Go postal.

11. If I were to find myself a passenger on a long-haul, multi-generational voyage to a distant solar system, and deteriorating on-ship ecological conditions, steadily weakening community stability and ever-rising number of missing backgammon pieces led some colonists to revolt against the ship's government, I would
a)Join the bloodthirsty populist revolution without thinking twice

b)Instinctively defend the reigning neo-fascist military regime

c)Hide in the infirmary until things blow over

d)Find a working Holistic Artificial Language interface and beg the on-board computers to take over the ship, and by extension the entirety of extra-solar-system humanity. For our own good, of course.

12. "If I am accepted as a Virgle Pioneer, I will enthusiastically embrace my solemn responsibility to produce as many offspring as I can in order to help develop our fledgling Martian civilization." This statement, in my case, is
a)True. Hell , yeah, it's true. Could we have some, like, Virgle Pioneer keggers in advance just to sort, you know, um, break the ice?

b)Um, definitely false -- and you'll be hearing from my attorney for insinuating otherwise.

c)Could I maybe see a few head shots of my fellow Pioneers before answering this question?

13. When I gaze up at a gleaming starscape late on a clear autumn night, I experience
a)A sense of wonder at the miraculous bounty of God's infinite universe.

b)A head rush.

14. I feel ________ the unknown
a)considerable trepidation toward

b)soul-crushing boredom when forced to confront

c)utter awe at the very idea of

d)a calm determination to vanquish

Results: Well, you're distressingly normal and could conceivably adjust to life as a deep space pioneer, though we recommend instead that you leave the Mars missions to the serious whack jobs who scored over 130 and instead finish year 3 of law school, tuck your toddler into bed, design Web 2.0 applications, run for Congress or do whatever other normal, healthy, middle-of-the-road thing you're currently doing with your normal, healthy, middle-of-the-road life. If you're determined to give Virgle a try, though, you can submit your video here.

All in all, not the makings of a very successful application, in my opinion. Number 12's mention of attorney should be enough to put the admissions board off.

Number 15 was about a video submission. Obviously, too much effort has already gone into this, without having to edit a short as well...

The Secret Lives of Oysters

2008-03-28T17:58:00.004+08:00

This wasn't what I intended to post so soon after the chicken story... lest people assume (falsely) that all I ever think about is how various creatures procreate. But due to "popular" demand by the people I polled over the course of time, I have decided to put up the results to the question How Do Oysters Reproduce? (initially asked by Mouse):

hippo: so i have a question
hippo: do you know how oysters reproduce?
LuckDuck: oh this is so cool...nope ...so how?
hippo: i dont' know either

hippo: hey
Foosa!: yo
hippo: how do oysters reproduce?
Foosa!: jeez...
Foosa!: that's a question i've never thought off
Foosa!: i'm assuming they're asexual

hippo: how do oysters reproduce?
Piranha: no idea...i need tube light
hippo: wha ??
Piranha: have to google
Piranha: do u have any idea?

hippo: how do oysters reproduce?
MK: hmmm...seriously i dont know...

hippo: i was wondering if you knew how oysters reproduce?
BluberryJam: no idea. but from wikipedia:
BlueberryJam: Oysters usually mature by one year of age. They are protandric, which means that during their first year they spawn as males (releasing sperm into the water). As they grow larger over the next two or three years and develop greater energy reserves, they release eggs, as females.
BlueberryJam: Protandric means having male sexual organs while young, and female organs later in life
BlueberryJam: interesting trivia for a tuesday.
BlueberryJam: seems like they literally, ****-themselves

KPMG: ok i did not google it. and i wud say the female and male oyster would open the clam and just do it la.... one throws itself on the other clam?

hippo: how do oysters reproduce?
sleepyhead: mm....
sleepyhead: thinking
sleepyhead: using pearl?
sleepyhead: transfering the pearl....
sleepyhead: mm..sounds creative
hippo: how do they transfer the pearl?
sleepyhead: mm...do they hv tongue?
sleepyhead: male transfer pearl using his tongue to female..

monkey: the male oyster opens up its shell and releases sperms into the ocean. the currents will carry them and the females within the vicinity will receive them. BUT the sperms are only osyter-specific. they can't work for clams or mussels or other shell-type creature.

Piranha: macam mana tiram produce anak? (How do oysters reproduce?)
Jingle: you mean, how they make love?
Jingle: mana i tahu? i bukan tiram or oyster. (How would I know? I'm not an oyster)
Jingle: Sos tiram (oyster sauce)... and then you buy it.

Be Kind Rewind

2008-03-24T23:13:00.004+08:00

I don’t normally write reviews on books or movies I’ve read/watched, and this isn’t one about Be Kind Rewind. It was an unconventional experience from start to finish and there’s something unsettling about it that I need to work out. Unsettling – but in a good way.

First off, the entire cinema had only about 10 people in it. Granted, today being a Monday after hours isn’t what would be deemed prime movie night. There wasn’t anyone else along our row save for Mouse and I. It was a nice change to be lazy and able to hook a leg over the arm rest instead of subtly fighting a stranger’s arm off it.

Just before the movie started, a gang of people (less than 10 of course) entered with a chorus of “O.M.G.” who turned out to be friends of Mouse’s. Another surreal event – bumping into people we know is quite an episode seeing as to how uncommon that is.

The movie was nothing like the usual Hollywood blockbuster fare. That threw me off and I found myself at the outset floating and sinking trying to separate “real life” from “movie shots”. There hardly seemed to be a script as the characters acted off each other which lent it a voyeuristic sense. A lot of the time it felt like it was me standing behind the camera trying to find out what happens next through its lenses.

Monkey asked me if the movies featured in it were spoofs. As I considered this, I realized that they could easily be misconstrued for spoofs, but in actual fact they were remakes of the original big budget movies - remakes on almost non-existent resources. The sheer ridiculousness of the methods used provide the initial laughs but the genius of its mockery becomes apparent as laughter turns from derision to appreciation. It was like being let in on a very clever joke.

Unlike other shows where the characters are dim enough not to see through the obvious (think "Superman" - glasses and floppy hair being successful disguises?), the public in this movie actually know that they're being offered "sweded" versions of the originals - in my opinion a refreshing way of giving onscreen people some semblance of intelligence, and at the same time not insulting ours.

We were still giggling and tripping over each other upon leaving the cinema, reciting lines and mimicking the Ghostbusters theme to the best of our recollection. This was nothing new, of course. Some people might choose to watch it, but it may not be everyone’s cup of tea. I liked it, but I’m weird like that.

Heute Morgen

2008-03-23T15:43:00.002+08:00

The Secret Lives of Chickens

2008-03-22T00:02:00.001+08:00

It was one of those nights when Monkey suddenly asked me "How do roosters fertilize eggs?" This, I found to be, a very intriguing question because... how exactly does this happen? While the hen is able to lay eggs every day without a rooster in sight, did that mean that if she got all broody and sat on all her eggs they would hatch into chicks?

The answer (we found out) was no. Those sort of eggs were the breakfast material kind. There is no life to it because it came out of the hen unfertilized. Vegetarians, rejoice!

For the egg to make its entrance into the world fertilized, a randy old rooster and hen would have to do the deed first. The usual way most creatures do it. There were lots of interesting tit-bits of information that we gathered during the course of this research.

hippo: *reads* The cock is non-monogamous.
monkey: *laughs* this is where in the tax return forms the cock would have to fill up details for "isteri 1... isteri 2..."

Monkey's Graduated From The School of Finance Management!

2008-03-21T22:53:00.003+08:00

Monkey used to own a few credits cards and was happily using them for his purchases when one day, Hippo found out that he had been spending carelessly. He bought many many pairs of shades to protect his Monkey eyes while swinging from tree to tree and a few wakeboards in case he needed to cross the croc-infested river in the jungle.

So, in order to curb this bad habit of his, Hippo made Monkey cut all his credit cards. Monkey obediently did what he was told to do. Although he felt a bit bitter about having to cut his cards, he knew it was for his own good.

Monkey began to develop wise spending habits ever since.

One day, while Monkey was grumbling about his inability to make online purchases, Hippo suddenly said, 'OK, since your spending habits have improved, you may now own a credit card!'

Monkey was shocked.

After a decade, Hippo's finally lifted her ban!

Monkey can now own a credit card! Woooohoooooooooooooo

Banana = $0.40
Zoo entry = $25
Hippo declaring Monkey's graduation = priceless.

:-D

-Monkey

I'm Just Saying...

2008-03-20T17:27:00.001+08:00

It would be nice if people could walk up to a service counter, look at the price board, select a McValue Item that costs… say RM6.50, and expect to pay exactly RM6.50.

Instead it tallies up to RM7.48.

Why not just put RM7.48 up on the board?

And McHappy Meal should be renamed McDaylight Robbery, by the way.

Ghostly Encounters?

2008-03-17T21:45:00.002+08:00

A lot of times, people are heard sharing experiences of being visited by other worldly beings while asleep. A lot of them are quite the same. They wake up feeling frozen, unable to move or make a sound, but are able to breathe and maybe blink. They try to scream, but no one hears them, and usually there’s a heightened feeling of panic as they feel something bearing down on their chest.

These stories always have the same explanation as well i.e. the spirits are a-visiting. The remedy is also always standard: pray and it will go away. It’s not exclusive to just one faith or religion. I have always wondered about these experiences, having almost never felt one myself. There are vague recollections of me feeling immobile but as they happened at times of extreme fatigue, I never gave it a second thought and fell right back to sleep quite unconcerned.

That is, until a few nights ago when I was jolted awake by a nightmare of sorts. It’s the most effective kind, where you sense danger but you can’t see the enemy. I woke up, heart pounding, and found myself totally paralysed. My instinct was to yell as loudly as I could to get dad’s attention from the other room. Surprise, surprise, no voice. Those were terrifying moments. So I did the next instinctive thing. I prayed. And my whole body felt a release as the blood rushed into my numb limbs and I was able to move again. I wasn’t even sleeping in an odd position to have any blood flow cut off in the first place.

After calming down, my curious mind began to wonder if there was an explanation, other than a spiritual one, for this little event. It seemed that if people the world over were experiencing the same modus operandi by an assortment of ghosts, then all these ghosts must have at one time or other congregated at some ghostly convention and decided “But we shall terrorise the earthly population by sneaking up on them while they sleep and paralyzing them. Until they pray.” It didn’t make much sense; if visited by ghosts, methods should vary. I needed to get to the bottom of it.

And I found that there is such a thing called “sleep paralysis”. When a person enters the R.E.M. stage of sleep, the brain freezes the body so that the sleeper won’t be harmed during the process of dreaming. It’s automatic self-preservation. Sometimes, the sleeper awakens too soon, but the brain still continues paralyzing for a few minutes longer than necessary. These are usually accompanied by hallucinations and so the sleeper may “perceive” a sinister presence.

That, along with a few other points that coincided with pieces of evidence while I was asleep made me realise that I have been right to be skeptical of all the stories people have come up with in the past to explain away weird occurrences. The scientific, in this case, is much more compelling than the contrary.

Advice from Rat

2008-03-07T21:30:00.000+08:00

As usual, when I’m at my busiest, baby sister, Rat, messages me - knowing full well that it is working hours in this part of the world - to ask “What are you doing?” Trying hard not to roll my eyes, I replied “Working”.

“What are you doing? I mean like right now doing?”

“Really, trying to get some work done.”

To digress for a bit, I realize I don’t call her “Rat” anymore. It’s evolved over time from “Rat” to “Rats” to “Ratsie” to “Razzie” and now it’s plain “Razz”. Which, on a slightly different tangent reminds me of how someone once addressed Pope Benedict of Today (don’t remember his numeral) “Papa Razzi” because he’s civilian name is Ratzinger.

Back to the straight and narrow, Razz went right to the point and said to me “I’ve got some advice for you”. This has never happened in the past. We’ve seldom used the A word on each other. Even then, it’s only ever come from me - I’m beginning to echo the vocabulary of my elders on her now.

I was curious, of course, that she would have any wisdom to impart to me because she's not the dispensing sort. I’ve hardly taken or gotten any advice from her at any time. So I waited to hear what she had to say.

“When life hands you a lemon…” she began seriously, “make lemonade” I silently finished in my head rather impatiently.

“…squeeze it into someone else’s eyes.”

Oscar

2008-03-06T21:52:00.000+08:00

Truth be told, I’m not a huge Muppets fan, but I’ve always identified with Oscar the Grouch. He’s by far the only character that makes me smile every time he makes an appearance.

For good reason, most of the inhabitants of that Street are annoying, cloying, and over-the-top happy creatures. They are meant to suggest a safe and happy environment for kids to appreciate and learn about the world. Unfortunately, it didn’t resonate with me… always being drawn to the temperamental Grouch.

The Count was scary and made me close my eyes and cover my ears every time he came on (back then). These were the only two characters I ever reacted to. The others brought on passivity as I sat there and watched their silly antics, verging on boredom.

My intrigue with Oscar – besides his foul preferences and general sarkiness– was what lay hidden in the recesses of his trash can that seemed to be bottomless. He had three pet elephants residing in there, their trunks being the only visible part waving out of the can. There was even a hint of a large body of water that splashed out every time he dropped something in it.

An adventure into this unknown land was covered in The Adventures of Elmo in Grouchland, where Elmo (the ultimate maddeningly lovable character – in my opinion) ends up in Oscar’s trash can. I missed this, and so I still don’t know what it looks like in there. Somehow, though, I’m not sure if I really want to know what’s in there after all these years.

If I had been a kid on Sesame Street, I would have given Oscar a big bear hug just to get a classic Oscar reaction. He would struggle, of course, and behave as if I’d just thrown buckets of mud at him. Ironically, if I had thrown mud, he would have welcomed it with typical glee. The Count would have been standing by going “One! One bucket of mud slung at the Grouch! Ah ah ah ah ah!” with thunder and lightning for good effect. He’s my next favourite character – after Oscar of course.

Today’s post was brought to you by the letters L and W, and by the number 7.

Pixelate

2008-03-04T08:13:00.004+08:00

Leap Day

2008-02-29T21:57:00.002+08:00

My cousin and I took her toddler for a walk. The child quickly turned grumpy, when I spotted those “touch-me-not” type weeds which used to intrigue me as a child. They aren't very common these days. We were crouched in the grassy lane, poking at the leaves and yelling “Close!” every time they folded. The grumpy child was all smiles.