WE HAVE MOVED

WE all need a fresh start sometimes. Just like PotSNORTS needs a new home, too. Much as we love this spot and have gotten used to it, we are looking at expanding our blogging horizons so that those who follow/chance upon our musings would have a better read.

So, please do come visit us at http://malaysianminx.wordpress.com where PotSNORTS is now known as Musings of A Malaysian Minx. We would be pleased if you drop comments there as well.

There is one other thing: our new home supports People for Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA), which is one of the biggest animal rights organisations in the world. On the right side of the page is a little badge called 'Social Vibe' which enables you to do your bit to raise funds for animal rights. There is no money involved: all you need to do is click on the badge, work through a few of the questions and you will earn points which will translate into cash. This will then mobilise the right people and organisations to do what's right for animals.

Please visit us there. We love to write and we hope to make it an interesting read for you.

Aku Anak Malaysia

YESTERDAY, Malaysia turned 53. Yesterday, we celebrated our freedom from colonial rule (and that of the Japanese, Dutch and Portuguese before that) -- an event our forefathers fought so hard for. Yesterday should've been a celebration.

But yesterday was a lacklustre affair. Sure, there was the usual celebration at the Stadium Putra, but the streets were quiet. There was little hype and fanfare. Fewer Merdeka ads on TV. Far less Merdeka banners or Malaysian flags on buildings. No Merdeka 'feeling'. Throughout the entire month of August, I could count the number of cars with the proverbial mini Malaysian flag attached on the side; previously, numerous cars were decked with numerous mini flags. Previously, I saw people waving full-sized Malaysian flags on the backs of pickup trucks.

This year's National Day, sadly, is laced with apathy, anger, and racial discrimination. This year, some have been heard to threaten the increasingly fraying harmony of my country with a repeat of May 13. This year, some of us have been unfairly labelled as 'pendatang'. This year, those who spoke up against injustice and bigotry in the country were threatened with bullets in their mail, had multiple police reports lodged against them, were harshly branded as traitors to their own kind. This year, principals are turning a blind eye to unity by sowing seeds of discord among students. This year, a few Malaysians walking the streets on Merdeka eve were suddenly attacked by a bunch of youths and told to "balik ke negara asal", simply because they were Chinese. This year, Namewee is placed under investigation for being vocally critical (in YouTube) over a principal's racist remarks against Chinese and Indian students in her school.

Perhaps, it's because Yasmin Ahmad is dead and there is none left capable of carrying the torch. I hope not. Perhaps, it's because the likes of Perkasa and MPM, namely Ibrahim Ali and his bunch of bigoted cohorts have not been duly muzzled. Perhaps, Malaysians are forgetting what our forefathers fought for; truly fought for. And that, perhaps, is the fault of the powers-that-be.

I am of Chinese-Indian parentage. I make a halal living. I love my country and its multiple ethnicities. I love the peace and harmony here. And I am saddened by what has been happening of late.

Aku anak Malaysia: I am Malaysian, and I am not ashamed of it.

I call on all Malaysians to remember
that united we stand; divided we fall.
Happy Merdeka!
And peace to all

No Arms No Legs No Worries

THIS is perspective.

Just for Now.....

“I do not want to be the leader. I refuse to be the leader. I want to live darkly and richly in my femaleness. I want a man lying over me, always over me. His will, his pleasure, his desire, his life, his work, his sexuality the touchstone, the command, my pivot. I don’t mind working, holding my ground intellectually, artistically; but as a woman, oh, God, as a woman I want to be dominated. I don’t mind being told to stand on my own feet, not to cling, be all that I am capable of doing, but I am going to be pursued, fucked, possessed by the will of a male at his time, his bidding.”
- Anais Nin

Tempting Topiary

I AM a happy woman...although I had no happy thoughts first thing this morning.

I woke up with the usual hangup of having to drag my sorry ass to the office (my favourite days are the days when I don't have to go to work, but, really, I shouldn't complain because it ain't all that bad). Having to iron a particularly difficult shirt three times consecutively made my mood all the bleaker. To make matters worse, I was late. Yes, again.

I was stopped by the receptionist-cum-HR person as soon as I breezed in. I panicked for a moment, thinking 'My ass is so busted...they are gonna nail me for being extra late today for sure.'

To my surprise, I was told that I had a gift. Puzzled, I watched as she reached behind and placed this beautiful bouquet in front of me.

It took me a moment to realise that this yummy little topiary (yup - it was not even a mere bouquet...it was a friggin' work of art!) was for me. ME! And with it came this really sweet self-penned poem by a beautiful, wonderful person. Now, Beautiful Wonderful Person (BWP) is not even in the country at the moment. It was during one of BWP's wanderings at Solaris recently, that he came across this neat little florist-cum-bakery shop. BWP walked in, selected the flowers and other knick-knacks and left the rest in the artistic hands of the florist. Yeah, kinda like a veni, vidi, vici moment.

Bear with me a while longer. The topiary is a prettily woven arrangement of gerberas, mums and roses punctuated with white and dark chocolates, strawberries (fresh and dipped in chocolate) and cherries. Here are some close-ups:







What really moved me was the thought behind the gesture: the selection of flowers and chocolates, the poem; the whole works.

Thank you, BWP, for being such a beautiful, wonderful person. You made my day especially when I needed it.

For some brief details on the creation in the words of the florist and to know more about the florist, click here.

NOTE: Pictures courtesy of Little Collins Bakery & Florist

Of Cheater Co*ks (and Cu*ts)

I'M having an image flash in front of my eyes right now: a Legally Blonde Reese Witherspoon-lookalike in a tight form-fitting crepe pink suit with a matching pillbox-style hat suit, and tooth-sparkling smile to boot, annoucing: "Hey married people, cheating is in vogue now; it's so the new pink! You just need to know how to do it!" (cue: giggles)

So what inspired this sickly, saccharine-sweet (not) moment?

I blame it on a clip I watched on SkyNews: something to do with websites for married people looking for a booty-call/affair with other like-minded married folk. Which, led me to scour the Internet to find out if such websites truly exist. And they do!

I googled "dating websites for married people who want to cheat" and it rendered 296,000 results in 0.22 seconds! I guess it really isn't that big a deal if you compare it to googling "how to bake a cake" (which, incidentally, rendered 10,100,000 results in 0.13 seconds), but it is appalling enough to know that, based on the results that I got from Google, you can read up to 811 entries a day on how to cheat on your spouse for an entire year!

The results range from various websites where would-be philanderers can sign up and meet other would-be philanderers (one of the sites termed it 'married dating' - what the hell, that sounds like an oxymoron!), interviews, videos and even an affair guide.

One of the websites I came across (the CEO of said site actually talked about the website on CNN) even came with a money-back guarantee. Their motto: 'Life is short. Have an affair.' Also, I learnt that 70% of its 3.86 million members are men.

Another website tried to explain why men cheat. Here's an excerpt:

Their libido is prickling their self-esteem and making them ask why their wife no longer seems to want or desire them.
Unfortunately, for many men, it's not that their wives don't feel sexually attracted to them personally, but that they are so exhausted by the daily trauma of raising kids, they don't have any energy left to think about sex at all. And many will not have the inclination to question the need for business trips or client entertaining.
And this is the real answer to why do married men cheat.
The problem is that the fragile egos of their men folk equate sex with love. So, they feel diminished if they are not receiving that type of attention on a regular basis. Without that intimacy they begin to feel inadequate and worthless.
If a partner of either sex feels neglected or starved of affection within a marriage, eventually they will look to inject some excitement back into their life.

Can society get more permissive than this? I'd like to think that there is still some sanctity in the institution of marriage. I'd like to think that spouses can still remain madly in love with one another and still have crazy passionate sex up till their golden years (ok, maybe it won't be that crazy passionate when you can barely remember where you put your glasses or dentures, but you get what I mean). I'd like to think that old married couples can still have loads to banter about, laughs to share and tears to cry on each other's shoulders. I'd like to think that married couples can still hold hands right up to the very end.

There has got to be a way to circumvent this issue. The question is, why are the women "so exhausted by the daily trauma of raising kids?" Ironically enough, therein lies the answer to the question. Men, if you want your wives to be energetic enough in the bedroom, you have GOT to empower her. By that, I mean take some of the burden off her; make sure parenting/housekeeping is a shared role. If she gets enough rest as you do, why won't she want sex right? Of course, men, you gotta have great technique to get your women salivating for you. Else, don't bother, k? You might as well hump a pie.

My friend Sean has a very interesting point of view. He says sex with a woman begins from the moment you talk to her: how you hold her hand, the compliments you pay her, how you manage things at home, how you help her around...basically, the point is to make the woman feel like a woman..and helping her with the kids show that you value her. It shouldn't be too hard, especially when sex with a man begins the moment he unbuttons his fly and whips his penis out (yes, this is also another nugget of wisdom from Sean). But then, I acknowledge that not all men are like Sean, who relishes making a woman feel special. Which, then, makes me conclude that not all men are marriage material. So, how come it is the men who are promiscuous and complaining about their marriage? Shouldn't a higher percentage of women be out there screwing around to make up for the lack in their partners?

But, back to the issue at hand.

How about scheduling some time for each other? Perhaps leave the kid with the nanny twice a week, i.e. two days consecutively? The first day can be devoted to letting the spouses recuperate and talk. The second day allows for more physical activity.

Ultimately, it all boils down to understanding and maturity in both partners, and also making the effort to make it work together.

I refuse to believe that we have to resort to cheating to fulfill a lack in a marriage.

And I choose to prove myself right. When my time comes, I will make it work.

Because of all the mistakes that society and I, myself, have made.

Because of all the mistakes I have seen happen in front of my eyes.

P.S. Oh. By the way, I have nothing against blondes... but the reason I chose to lead into this posting the way I did was because it is a visual depiction of how sickly sweet this whole sugarcoating of infidelity is to me.

Imogen Says It Best

WAIT IT OUT

Where do we go from here?
How do we carry on?
I can't get beyond the questions.
Clambering for the scraps
In the shatter of us collapsed.
That cuts me with every could-have-been.

Pain on pain on play, repeating
With the backup makeshift life in waiting.

Everybody says: "Time heals everything."
But what of the wretched hollow?
The endless in-between?
Are we just going to wait it out?

There's nothing to see here now,
Turning the sign around;
We're closed to the Earth 'til further notice.
Stumbling cliché case -
Crumpled and puffy-faced -
Dead in the stare of a thousand miles.

All I want: only one street-level miracle.
I'll be a an out-and-out, born again from none more cynical.

Everybody says that time heals everything all in the end.
But what of the wretched hollow?
The endless in-between?
Are we just going to wait it out?

And sit here cold?
We'll be long gone by then.
And lackluster in dust we lay
'round old magazines.
Fluorescent lighting sets the scene
For all we could and should be being
In the one life that we've got.

In the one life that we've got.

Everybody says that time heals everything.
But what of the wretched hollow?
The endless in-between?

Are we just going to wait it out?
Sit here. Just going to wait it out?
Sit here cold. Just going to sweat it out?

Wait it out.

You Are Beautiful

FUNNY how some small little thing can trigger a flood of uncertainty. Suddenly we feel ugly, insignificant; not good enough.

All it takes is, maybe, a comment from a friend about stretch marks; some comparison between you and someone else; perhaps, even the sight of a better looking woman/man. Or maybe someone did better than you in a game; perhaps you learnt that an old friend who was an utter loser in school is suddenly spearheading a company and raking in big bucks. It could even be an oblique comment by your partner on his most incredible sexual experience ("BTW, I've had four climaxes in one night before"...with whom, you wonder)and suddenly you're ahead of yourself: you wonder if he's just settling with you; if you will never be good enough for him in bed or anywhere else...

...suddenly you wonder if everyone is bitching about you behind your back. You start comparing yourself to the thinnest reed in your office: you cut back on food even though you know somewhere at the back of your head that you do not need to, and that you look far better, healthier, less pruny than that thinnest reed in your office.

...suddenly you wonder if you studied hard enough, if your boss values you enough, if your friends judge you by stratospheric standards.

And then every shred of self-confidence you had built on every single compliment paid you over the weeks, months or years just disintegrates. Even though you know you are that good.

You tear yourself apart and you find yourself in tears of rage, anger and doubt. You are unsure. Suddenly you don't like being you.

STOP.

As I write this, Christina Aguilera's song "Beautiful" comes to mind. How wonderful the lyrics are; how profound. And what a gracious reminder it is that God made us perfect in His own eyes.

BEAUTIFUL

Everyday is so wonderful
And suddenly, it's hard to breathe
Now and then, I get insecure
From all the pain,
I'm so ashamed

I am beautiful no matter what they say
Words can't bring me down
I am beautiful in every single way
Yes, words can't bring me down, oh no
So don't you bring me down today

To all your friends you're delirious
So consumed in all your doom
Trying hard to fill the emptiness,
The pieces gone,
Left the puzzle undone,
Ain't that the way it is?

You are beautiful no matter what they say
Words can't bring you down, no, no
You are beautiful in every single way
Yes words can't bring you down, oh, no
So don't you bring me down today

No matter what we do
No matter what we say
We're the song inside the tune
Full of beautiful mistakes
And everywhere we go
The sun will always shine
But tomorrow we might awake
On the other side

'Cause we are beautiful,
No matter what they say
Yes, words won't bring us down, oh no
We are beautiful in every single way
Yes, words can't bring us down, oh no
So don't you bring me down today


Don't bring yourself down today. Or ever.

All or Nothing

all or nothing

dangling precariously on a precipice
the heart
...waits anxiously
to fall;
to faint;
to self-destruct;
to be trodden, flattened?
left bleeding at the sidewalk of life

...hopes fervently
to be preserved;
nurtured and nourished
with love for others;
from others
from the one who matters

like the anchor that holds a ship
to weather the storm
So love - all of it -
given or taken,
is the anchor, the salve, the cure, the catalyst

don't leave me
don't hurt me
don't give me reason to fear

the heart can take
no more pain
no more doubt
no more complexities
no assemblage of inchoate thoughts and feelings
The self esteem can take a beating
no more!

the heart
takes, gives: all or nothing.
my heart takes and offers all or nothing ~
no more bleeding
no more guilt
no more hurt

All or Nothing:
Utter completion
Or
Total void

The Hokkien I Love

FINALLY, I have decided to be true to my piggy self and write about food instead of the usual fictional or semi-fictional sob story.

(So, now you know the "Hokkien that I Love" refers to food.)

Thus, the first food posting my stomach has dictated that my brain focus on today is Hokkien mee. OK, the picture above doesn't look so good, but, hey...I didn't have a better looking one. And you know what they say anyway: the proof is in the pudding.

Before I continue, allow me to indulge in a bit of background explanation. This, for the benefit of those who just may not know what it is (ah, what sacrilege!).

According to Wikipedia, there are three types of hokkien mee: hokkien hae mee from Penang and Singapore (both with the same name, though cooked differently) and Hokkien (fried) mee from the Klang Valley. The Penang variant is a totally different dish (it's soupy) and not what I want to discuss here...meanwhile, who cares about the Singaporean variant? Singapore food sucks anyway. Naturally, our Singaporean friends would vehemently defend their "native" delicacies (all ciplak from Malaysia wan lah), but we all know that arguing with the ignorant is like fighting a losing battle.

So, anyway.

I've had a long-standing love affair with hokkien mee since god-knows-when (actually, if I am going to be honest, I love food in general, but I have an especially soft spot for any dish that's porky), and I've eaten at many (not all, ok?..better qualify before some hokkien mee zealot tries to crucify me) popular spots in the Klang Valley.

So, to make this as brief as possible, I will just zoom in for the kill and mention only my favourite.

Ever been to Reunion in Bangsar Village? THAT'S my ultimate destination for good old hokkien mee. I know. It sounds impossible. Here's this really swanky Chinese restaurant and you'd think that all they served up was some cool unpronounceable chinky dish or other... but what a surprise to find the oh-so-pedestrian hokkien mee on its menu! Now, who would've thought?!

The noodles are cooked in black gravy wholesomely flavoured with pork liver, pork slices, squid, shrimp and cabbage. And, of course, generous amounts of pork lard. Each strand of noodle is slick and glistening with gravy, making every mouthful a rewarding (albeit incredibly artery-clogging) experience. You know for a fact that when you chewed on the noodle, you would never encounter the taste of lye so normally prevalent in thick yellow noodles.

I'm not a fan of pork liver, and don't mind the pork slices, but the shrimps! OMG. THAT, dear reader, is simply divine. The prawns are fresh, sweet and so good to eat!

Still not convinced? Try it and see for yourself. It's more than 20 bucks a dinner plate, but, trust me, there's more than enough for two people (just don't bring a greedy pig; bring me, can).

And. It. Is. Good.

Really.

Dictionary, Anyone?

Interested in learning new words, anybody?
Wonder who actually had the time to come up with this...

I Ain't Heavy; I'm His Sister

COLIN was late, as usual. He is almost always late come to think of it, although usually not by much. It was already 10.05pm and we had initially agreed to meet at the mamak by 9.30pm; I had been waiting since 9.15pm.

He turned up eventually around 10.15pm, and try as I did to give him a tongue-lashing, I just couldn't. I'm hopeless at getting anywhere beyond being marginally annoyed with Colin.

If I had to list down all my brother's negative attributes, I'd be stumped for sure. Save for his borderline tardiness, Colin is a saint. Or very close to it.

Colin is three years younger, but it always feels as if we were born only three minutes apart. Paradoxically at times, it seems like he's the older sibling. Colin's exuberance (for food, mostly, and life) and good nature is tempered by a certain gravitas that, perhaps, makes him more mature than many men his age. We're very close-knit, him and I, but then again, we went through a lot together growing up.

Naturally, we started out like all siblings: the usual rivalry and childish cruelty that some outgrow, but some continue to nurture even up till their twilight years (thankfully, we don't fall into the latter category).

I remember how I used to push him around the house at dangerous speeds while he sat in his pram, precariously strapped to safety with a flimsy buckle. I don't ever remember him crying out in fear. In fact, I think he enjoyed it as much as I did! Then there was my usual preoccupation of tapping the top of his head so that I could see how his eyes automatically closed like a doll's with each tap. It amused me no end, but my brother believes he would've aced more papers in school if I had refrained from being too heavy-handed with my, err, head taps. But I beg to differ; he wasn't that smart in the first place...LOL

We squabbled a lot when we were kids. I remember even hitting/thumping him on his back once: we had this major fight over a stupid looking lime green toy crane and I hit him so hard, I regretted it immediately because his cry of pain actually cut me so deep. Many kids would quickly forget incidences like this, but I didn't and never did it again.

I think the instant identification with his pain (even at that young age) could be because of our naturally empathetic nature - Colin more so than me; I am the more cynical sibling. He used to shed genuine tears when others fell and hurt themselves, and that, even when I was a kid, was something I found very endearing about my brother.

I used to have my own room, but started sharing a room with Colin when he grew old enough to string a few decent sentences together. At the time, I hated his invasion on my privacy; looking back, I think those were good times...we used to hang out and chat at nights on opposite ends of each other's beds. Colin was a frequent guest in mine because he was afraid of the dark and the monsters. Eventually, when we grew into our teens, we got our own rooms again. I suppose we all grow up at some point. But, the bond had been forged by then.

I remember how he used to hold my hand everywhere we went, his voice raspy and husky each time he called me che che, and I, at one point didn't quite like him hanging on all the time...I felt I had 'grown up' and my little brother was totally cramping my style - at the mature (or so I thought) age of 7!

In retrospect, I don't think Colin ever let go of my hand. I think as we grew older, we reached out and held each other's hands through most of life's experiences. He's always been there for me, and I'd like to think that he feels the same about me.

We have this wonderfully affectionate and mutually respectful relationship that I am proud to acknowledge. I'm thankful for him and cannot imagine my life without my dearest brother. For those who have siblings, always be thankful for them. They are your only link to your past and your bridge to the future.

Loving you bro, for all that you have been and are to me.

Note: I hereby attest that Colin Pal did not pay me in cash or kind to sing his praises.

Absence Makes the Heart Go FLOUNDER

WHO ever said 'absence makes the heart grow fonder' was full of BS. Or, emotionally masochistic.

I've been mulling over this statement the last few days and, nope, can't seem to find any truth in it. Perhaps the dude forgot to mention absence "for a couple of days"...

I don't do long absences or distances too well. My track record has proven so, and a recent absence(s) has all but reminded me again why I've always sucked in this department.

I've been missing quite a number of things lately: my computer, bits of me, and the prince charming.

My computer malfunctioned and was taken away for two days (IT tells me it's because my hard disk needed replacement)... I got it back today, but it was a truncated moment of joy for me (all of two minutes): turns out there's a virus which has corrupted the entire system. So, back to square one. WTF???!!

Bits of me: I seem to have "lost" myself somehow... I don't know where I've gone. Perhaps adulthood does that to you..it certainly seems like so to me. If I don't find me soon, I might start getting used to this. Heaven forbid!

The prince charming: is far, far away. Elusive. Incomprehensible.

These temporary losses are causing me to flounder.

GIVE IT BACK. COME BACK. STOP FUCKING THIS UP.

.
.
.
.
.
.

*sigh*

Hurry Up

NINE days and counting. God...the wait is horrible. Come back quickly!

Starting Back at One

IT LOOKS like she is there again. Back at a stupid fork in the road of life where giddy anticipation and wariness converge; where she wonders whether to take that step forward or remain with the familiar what-could've-beens of the past; where she wonders if this is it, he is it?

Memories can be painful.

Years back, she hooked up with someone. He was perfect, or so she thought...they had great times and some of her worst times, too. They loved each other; she gave her all (eventually)...but he didn't. Throughout the years they were together, her self-esteem constantly took a beating.

It wasn't that he took to condemning her at all; no, it was just that she felt like a non-entity. Sure, he bought her presents, wined her and dined her, loved her. But not once did she ever feel like she was worth it.

Right till the end, she was never THE one. She was always hidden despite everything said and done. He said he wanted her, loved her; apparently not enough.

Why did she do nothing? Insecurity, uncertainty, fear...these had made way in her heart.

But, years of insignificance and tears eventually caught up. It was time to move.

It is time to move on.

Now she's back to square one. No more hiding. No more being someone's dirty little secret. She hopes for something better.

Could she hope now? Would things be different? Can she now be THE one?

When Tomorrow Dies Today

DAYLIGHT was beginning to filter through the leaves. It was a new day. Mano opened his eyes slowly and felt the warmth of the sunlight streaming through the open window and on to his face.

It was silent in the old house. Sakunthala was, he presumed, already awake and out. He inhaled deeply, a frown slowly knitting his brow: the smell of toast and coffee was noticeably absent in the air. That wasn't quite like Sakunthala. She always had coffee ready first thing in the morning.

Slowly, he turned his head. And was relieved to see her right next to him. She sleeps like an angel, he thought. So quiet. So still.

His eyes lingered on her face: Sakunthala had a beautiful face; the years had been kind to her. Though now lined with wrinkles, hers was a visage of youthful joy and laugh lines still noticeable around her mouth and eyes.

Her eyes -- those beautiful soft-brown windows to her soul -- were large, expressive and heavily lashed, quick to tears of mirth and sorrow. Her nose was sharp and high. And that luscious mouth...it had never failed to excite him in his youth and even now at the twilight of their lives, her well-formed lips still left him breathless.

His gaze traveled lower to her breasts. He remembered the high, proud breasts of Sakunthala's youth. She was so beautiful, he thought; she still is.

He smiled at the memory of their first night; how he could not wait, how his hands shook as he unwound her sari and lifted her blouse, how majestic and lovely she looked unclothed. How her heartbeat would resume its slow regularity as she lay, spent, after their lovemaking.

But something was not right. Sakunthala's chest was still. Sweat began to bead on his forehead as realisation dawned on him.

He reached out and caressed her face. She did not stir. Her skin still retained the warmth of the bed. Reaching out, he gingerly placed his finger at her nose: there was no breath. She was gone.

So quiet. So still.

Slowly, he sat up and leadenly made his way to the kitchen to put the kettle on the boil and bread in the toaster. Made coffee for two; buttered two slices of bread as if in a trance.

It was bright now. What a pretty day, he thought. "Fit for a spot of gardening" Sakunthala would've said on a day like this. She doted on her garden and the house was resplendent with vibrant gardenias, heliconias, hibiscus and all manner of exotic flowers and plants.

Mano stared into space. Today was supposed to be a special occasion. They were supposed to meet Sakunthala's long-lost sister and she had planned to wear the green sari that matched her honey brown skin and brown eyes.

Calmly, he carried the tray of coffee and buttered bread to the room, his steps slow and halting from the arthritic ache in his joints.

Sakunthala was the first thing he saw as he entered the bedroom. She looked serene. So beautiful, even in death.

He placed her cup of coffee on the bedside table which held their shared memories preserved in pretty silver photo frames: Sakunthala radiant in a brilliant red and gold sari and henna-ed hands as she looked up at him shyly on their wedding day; him, young and sporting a fedora set at a jaunty angle; the two of them resting against their trusty 1960 Austin 850 after their honeymoon drive; Sakunthala bashfully waving away the camera in the garden of their first home. Her favourite musical box lay open on the table next to a clay figurine of the madonna. There were more, but his eyes had begun to mist over.

Suddenly, he felt a sharp pain in his chest. Could this be the pain one feels at the loss of a loved one? Or is this a symptom of the end for me, he thought, not daring to hope. After all, what would life be without his darling Sakunthala? Without the kisses that she gave him unfailingly each morning; without the sound of her voice humming -- what a musical voice she had -- as she massaged his painful back each night? What use is the heart when the heartbeat is gone?

When the pain passed, he walked to the wardrobe door. His vision was assaulted by the many hues of her clothes. Sakunthala was as colourful as her outfits. He pulled out the green sari that she had planned to wear that morning and laid it gently next to her. No point in trying to dress her up in it - he did not know how to tie a sari anyway. Sakunthala loved pairing it with a black choli with gold trimmings. She had it stitched by a tailor in Brickfields long ago, he remembers. Finding the black choli, he held it to his face and breathed in the scent of her. It was still there, the faint ylang ylang scent of her perfume.

Then the tears came: soft sobs which he tried to suppress. The pain surged through him again causing him to buckle slightly as he clutched at his heart. Maybe it was his time after all.

Mano rummaged deeper into the cupboard and pulled out his best attire -- a nice cream coloured kurta and pants. He put them on and bent to kiss her, his teardrops wetting her face.

"I love you, Sakunthala. And I always will beyond this life," he whispered to her.

Then calmly, he walked to his side of the bed and lay down, his hand on hers.

Maybe it was his time too, and if so, he wanted to be prepared. Let them find us like this, he thought. With our best clothes. In love. In bed. Together.

So quiet. So still.

Intellectual Tight-Ass

TODAY I received an interesting e-mail from this person whom I had been getting to know slowly. We've never met; only corresponded via e-mail over the last three months. It's funny, the impressions we leave on others and form about others just through our words alone.

This guy describes himself as a glorified bum, writes well, and has displayed on many occasions, a sharp wit. I suspect, in person, he could likely have a sharp tongue.

I had him pegged as an intellectual tight-ass, and surprisingly, he had the same opinion of me. My reasons for doing so was his rather high-handed and very sarky opinions; his was because of my excessive reading and coffee intake (a very shallow basis, V, if I may say so heh heh).

He has decided that we have finally connected on some common ground as two pompous, self-absorbed individuals who are oblivious of the messages they send out to the universe.

Pompous? Self-absorbed? Hell, no...but that's me on myself :) Oblivious? Definitely, more often than I wish to admit...

I wonder if there will be great laughs ahead in this friendship. I hope so. It would be nice to have an intellectual tight-assed, pompous, self-absorbed and oblivious individual as a friend.

LOVESPEAK

XVIII


Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd,
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course untrimm'd:
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,
Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st,
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

From Sonnets by William Shakespeare.

STEWING IN LAMB AND MACARONI

'I AM famished!' thought Vivienne, her stomach echoing her thoughts with a loud and embarrassing rumble. This, she noted with despair, despite having a hearty - though unhealthy - breakfast at McDonald's just before heading to the office.

Not that she wanted McDonald's; she wanted lamb and macaroni stew - the one that Nigella made on TV that day. She could think of no place else to get it (unless she went banging on Miss Lawson's kitchen door and risk getting stewed herself). Damn that woman for always turning her into a hungry monster each time she watches the show.

The more Vivienne thought about it, the more convinced she became that there was only one way to go about it: she would just have to cook the dish herself.

It didn't seem too difficult, really. She'd go shopping that night and pick up the essentials.

"All I need are a few things," said Vivienne over a long distance phonecall to her best friend, Joanna who lived in Singapore.

Vivienne had known Joanna since she moved in to the house next door back in the sleepy town of Ipoh 25 years ago. They warmed to each other the moment the bespectacled, bright-eyed Joanna introduced herself, and the two had been inseparable ever since.

"Viv. You haven't cooked in a while. Are you sure you want to do this? Plus, you're so accident-prone, what are the odds of you not setting fire to the kitchen?" her friend responded.

"Oh ye of little faith," Vivienne retorted.

She'd show Jo. One way or another, this cookout was going to be a success; life and death depended on it!

She drove to the supermarket with her boyfriend, Caleb, in tow. Good old Caleb who always did the cooking at home, and who did not bat an eyelid when she announced her (very rare) culinary intentions.

All she needed were onions, garlic, celery, some herbs, tomato, carrots, and macaroni.

"Are you sure that's all you need, babe?" Caleb asked doubtfully.

For a moment, she felt indignant that Caleb seemed to question her abilities. Then she realised that he was just being concerned. After all, she had decided not to tell him what exactly it was that she wanted to cook. She wanted it to be a surprise.

She recalled the phone call with her best friend.

"Does Caleb know? Do you think he's gonna let you conjure a disaster in the kitchen?" Joanna had demanded.

"He's not as critical as you," she replied tartly. "Besides, he doesn't know what I was planning to cook. I want it to be a surprise. He'll love it."

There was a short pause before Joanna responded.

"Just be careful in the kitchen, OK? Right, gotta run. Dinner. Later, babe."


**********


LATER that evening, Vivienne slaved away, chopping and blending alone in the kitchen at her apartment. Caleb had been banished to his own pad.

"This is easier than I thought," she mumbled to herself.

She took out the largest pot she could find in the kitchen and then heated up some olive oil in a skillet to brown the meat.

And then it struck her.

She had forgotten to buy the lamb! No wonder it seemed so easy.

"Aww...shit. No, no, no...how could I forget the main ingredient?" she groaned, sinking heavily on to a stool near the stove. And knocking the skillet handle in the process, causing the pan to fall on to the floor in a loud clang.

"Fuck!" she yelled, jumping to avoid the splatter of hot oil. This was turning into a disaster. Joanna was right. And Caleb probably figured this would happen.

At that moment, the phone rang. It was Caleb.

"Babe. You OK?" His voice was a mixture of concern and mirth.

"I'm fine!" she snapped.

"No, you're not. Open the door. I'm right outside."

"What? How did you...." But Caleb had hung up.

There was nothing else to do but to let him in. Caleb stared at the mess in the kitchen. From behind, Vivienne studied his profile. Tall, lean and with wavy dark hair, Caleb was a nice-looking bloke with a charming grin. She saw him take a deep breath as he surveyed the carnage. Caleb could be a little anal where cooking was concerned.

She squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the rebuke - except that she could only hear a deep and long chuckle. She opened her eyes tentatively and saw Caleb looking at her with amusement written all over his face.

He held out a plastic bag.

"You forgot this," he said, trying to contain his mirth before dissolving into a fit of laughter.

She opened the bag and stared. Caleb had brought fresh lamb shoulder from the butcher's, all nicely cubed.

"You forgot this when we went to the supermarket that day. Hey, I pay attention, you know?" he explained.

"How did you know? I didn't tell you!" she spluttered.

He smiled and put his finger to his lips, then drew her to him. "Let's clean up; we've got to get ready," was all he said before leading her to the kitchen and ignoring her frantic protestations. Fifteen minutes later saw the kitchen back in shape.

And then the doorbell rang.

"Who's there?" Vivienne spoke into the intercom a little edgily.

"Open up," came a brisk - and familiar - voice.

With a little yelp of delight, Vivienne opened the door to find her best friend standing outside. There was an expression of wry amusement on Joanna's face. Vivienne looked at Caleb and then back at her best friend.

Joanna had arrived in Kuala Lumpur early that morning. She had wanted it to be a surprise and had called to inform Caleb of her plans.

"So. You didn't kill yourself in the process," she said with a grin after a round of hugs. "But my money is on Caleb helping you clean up some mess or other. Looks like you didn't manage to get round to the cooking after all."

Vivienne smiled ruefully before giving Caleb a mock accusatory stare.

"Well, that tells me I'm right. C'mon, let's go out. I am famished," said Joanna.

'Yeah, so am I,' Vivienne thought. "Except that all I really want to eat is lamb and macaroni stew. Like the one Nigella made on TV that day.'

'Just as well,' thought Caleb. 'I hate lamb anyway.'

***********

Note:

Here's a recipe for lamb and macaroni stew:

LAMB AND MACARONI STEW

Ingredients:

Lamb shoulder, cubed and lightly seasoned.
White onion
Garlic
Celery
Bay Leaves
Dried Oregano
2 cans tomato
Carrots
Fresh Oregano
Macaroni
Feta cheese
Bottle of white wine

Method:


1. Brown lamb cubes (don't fully cook), then set aside.
2. Blend chopped onion, garlic and celery, then fry mixture in lamb oil.
3. When slightly translucent, take out half the portion, throw in lamb cubes and cover with remaining mix.
4. Sprinkle in dried oregano and bay leaves, and pour in tomatoes.
5. Stir. Pour in white wine.
6. Add a jug of water. Mix, cover pot with lid and leave on low fire for two hours.
7. Later, bring the stew to boil, then pour in the macaroni.
8. Dish out.

Garnishing:

1. Chop fresh oregano and knead with feta cheese.
2. Sprinkle on top of stew
3. Serve

The Strange People We Call Parents: My Dad

I PAID dad a visit yesterday. It's been more than a year since I had shown up at his house without my brother in tow.

Funny, I didn't dash off in an hour as I had initially expected; by the time I left his place, it was already 2pm. I had spent almost three hours chatting with my old man. What a wonderful surprise.

It's rare that our visits extend beyond the two-hour mark, even with Colin around. My brother is a busy man and has to juggle his visits with dad (and me) around his business appointments. I, too, am usually stuck with work, but if I have to be honest, I would admit to feeling rather awkward during visits with dad. Often, I would not know what to talk about, preferring to let Colin take the lead.

I'm not sure how this awkwardness came about. We had always been close. Dad used to be the first person I turned to when I needed advice and when I was sad. We used to have long conversations on the phone when I was in university. Yes, dad was - and still is - a very wise and funny man. But, things happened along the way, resulting in a split family, lots of anger on all sides, and resentment on mine. That's in the past, but I guess we all carry hurts from our past to our present lives.

Dad has a new family now, and I have a half brother and half sister. It's hard for me to reconcile with this fact; I keep thinking in terms of the original family. Perhaps that is a contributing factor to the "strain" (for want of a better word) that I feel where my relationship with dad is concerned.

Colin seems to be more at ease around our dad. Then again, my brother is quite a remarkable guy. Put him with the King and he'd have no problems; they'd probably be best buds within the hour, given my brother's brand of charm.

Looking back, I think I have allowed my own negative perceptions to get in the way of my relationship with my father. Yesterday's visit was a confirmation of that: I had a pretty nice time and was reminded of all the wonderful and not-so-wonderful things about him (which just proves that we are all human, and shows me that there is a lot of my father in me).

Dad usually comes across as a very intimidating man (tall, strong and assertive - you know the type), but get to know him a little more and you will find a wicked sense of humour lurking beneath the cynical exterior. He is intelligent and has a very sharp and analytical mind. He also has a very sharp tongue. I admire his sarcasm and hate it (when it is leveled at me) in equal measure. Don't attempt an argument with dad unless you are damned sure of yourself. He is a perfectionist, and a downright expert in the guilt-trip department. He can be a tad touchy and cantankarous at times, but that, I guess, comes with age. Dad can be bossy: he is always right. He can also be very persuasive and you can get fooled by him if you don't know your subject well enough. Case in point: he once convinced me that MJ had changed his name to Michael Ross because of his close relationship with Diana Ross. I only discovered that I had been duped when I found dad in the kitchen, totally convulsed in laughter. But, that's dad with his practical jokes. He is very protective of his family, especially the women: all my boyfriends were afraid of meeting him and I was not allowed to go out for gatherings (especially if there were boys around) until I was much older. He still gets annoyed when I travel to late on my own.

Although my mother played a bigger role in bringing me up, I cannot deny my father the acknowledgement that he deserves in my upbringing.

I love him and I know I would not be half the woman I am today without him.

We all need our daddies.

P.S. Yes, he does have a firearm :-)

Long Hiatus

I totally forgot I had this blog!!

Just a brief update:

Boring day today. Hot all day, and now, it's suddenly pouring cats, dogs and their relatives. It's been work, work, work all the way, now that we are down to only two staff on the desk and we're both on leave for Chinese New Year. Gonna miss working with Sarah. She's so efficient!

Had pork sandwiches for lunch, made by Mister Sandwich Maestro. Oh, so sedap gillerrr babi!!!!!

Can't wait to leave the office and rest for the next four days!

Happy Chinese New Year, all!