I Could Consider Scriptwriting at Mediacorp, Maybe?

Oh my god I had the most vivid dream.

The premise is a bit ridiculous, alright it's downright hilarious, but I tell you, it was played out with a perfectly-thought out plot! Nothing award-winning, to be sure, but for my mind to think it up during what is supposedly the most restful periods of the day... Wow.

Ok, here goes: I dreamt I was in a polygamous relationship with The Boyfriend. (ie I was sharing him with another woman. If only I could've written "polyandrous"!)

Yes, go ahead, you can laugh out loud for as long as you want. Here, take a break, let 'er rip, catch your breath. Because here's another funny bit, before I go on to the meat of the story. The Other Woman is none other than:

her, of "big eyed goldfish" fame in the longest running drama serial I've ever watched, A Kindred Spirit.

Why her? I have no freakin' idea! Maybe 'cause she was recently on that drama serial played on Channel U, which incidentally The Boyfriend professes to like (I just found out it's called Take My Word For It. Really it should be called The Negotiators. Much cooler). In which, she acts as a married woman having an affair with his husband's best friend/colleague. And she had been in my thoughts of late because in that serial, her formerly goldfish eyes were noticeably less puffy (I noticed, just like how lesser-endowed women stare at big-breasted women's chests, and those flabby in the abdomen area salivate over washboard abs. And I am guilty of all, as charged.) and thus more beautiful - made me wonder if she underwent cosmetic surgery.

Anyway. Yes, what on Earth made me dream up such a plot?!?! I would never, ever in (the waking moments of) my life even deign to consider having to share my man with another woman!!! (Would-be detractors, hush. Mothers are in a different category altogether.) I do suspect, however, that it has something to do with my conversations with "Barry", who at any one time has at least two girls that are potential girlfriend material he is trying to size up, and maybe even land. I do not condone, but I do try not to judge, rather to accept.

But what was so vivid about the dream is that, besides these glaringly obvious anomalies, it was so complete in its telling. There was a beginning, a middle, and an end that revolved around a Hello Kitty 'kerchief (must be a Freudian slip - I never admit to liking the feline anymore) in its different guises. Forget it, too mind-numbingly lame to go into details here.

Oh, but in case you were wondering how the love triangle ended - well I bumped off the competition, of course. Duh! It's my dream after all. And it's not for the lack of trying - I did, but even in a dream, I could tell, I'm not the sharing kind. No, not even with my best friend. Or a twin for that matter, if I had one. The Boyfriend saw my torment and made what seemed to be a pretty easy decision (which begs the question: why did we have such a bizarre romantic arrangement in the first place?) - we decided to leave this painful place behind, and head off to greener pastures where we could start afresh (a very pedestrian narrative tool, I know).

"Where to?" I asked, my head on his shoulders, looking into the sky. Cue: Clear skies, silver-disced moon that takes up a good one-third of the space on your tv-screen.

To which he replied, "America." (I guess only those in the know will get the sheer hilarity of that utterance.)

I'm Just A Girl (Living In Captivity)

Some days ago, two (former) classmates of mine were having a conversation - I wasn't there, by the way - and a portion of it was recounted to me by one of the participants. This portion revolved around a discussion on a certain female classmate's behaviour. This person - surprise, surprise - was me.

Harry said*: "She's confident girl, she has a strong character."

Okay! So far so good.

"But she doesn't know that power comes in more forms than an overt exertion of it."

At first, I was taken aback. To begin with, why were these two guys talking about me? In the middle of the night too, as I found out later. The days following that revelation, my self-worth as a member of the female of the species was more than a little shaken. Was I deficient of something? Is this why I sometimes feel I am not getting what I want out of my romantic relationships? Am I portraying too much of the "strong woman, and too little of the "little", so as to give off the impression that I'm superbly independent, hence needing no extra luvin' (this to the loves of my life), and by turns intimidating and/or putting off a fair bit of the rest of the male population?

However, after sitting on such thoughts too magnificently boring to be known to anyone but myself, I realised that, dammit, these guys can think that way if they want, I don't care. I shouldn't allow anyone to affect the me that I am, eh?

Alright, to be fair, Barry^ has clarified that they didn't - necessarily (this being my own deduction) - mean it in a negative sense.

But still, it's silly, innit? Barry admits, very honestly - I have to give him credit for that - that he likes his girls sweet, demure and passive. And - outwardly, at least - submissive. The archetypal "little woman". And, get this: he doesn't mind them being inwardly manipulative. It's fine with him, as long as the gender roles are played out (and, I would imagine, that he knows so too).

To elaborate:
If he suggests something, and she doesn't like it, she should ideally say "Ok, anything you say, dear!" with a sweet smile plastered on her face.And then later pull a long face.That, my dear reader, works fine for him. Apparently, it lets him feel all macho and big, even though he really knows that the girl's pulling all the strings backstage. But, so long as he looks like he's the one in control on stage, then he sees no problem with it. (Ok "Barry", if you're reading this, I know I'm taking the Mickey out of you here, but it's all in good humour, yes?)

I say: "I was thinking of going someplace else instead? Do you think that's alright with you?"I mean, what could be possibly wrong with that, right? Saves the whole nod-agree-smile-sulk fiasco, don't you think? With my ex I was like that, initially. But then after a year of misunderstandings and frustrations big and small, I think it's just so much simpler and easier to just say what I mean, and mean what I say. To as far an extent as I can, of course. Another caveat, needless to say, is to be mindful of my boy's feelings.

Hmn. While I'm at it, maybe an illustration would do aptly?

For that big 'ole macho feeling:

(NB: The words at the bottom should read "Modesty-protector." I don't know why the "Modesty" got mangled. Oh. So written because, as you can see, The Boyfriend's actually topless. Oh oh oh - and the tee reads: Half Man Half Horse.)

But, if you wanna be a demure, sweet, weak "little woman", never do this:

It's not that I'm a bra-burning feminist, no, don't get me wrong here: I have my days of "little woman"-hood too. It's just that, I think it's so much more energy-efficient and straightforward to communicate our feelings plainly to each other. Let's not play too many mind games, ya? Besides, The Boyfriend and I get kicks from playful banter, not the playing out of gender roles. That said however - to each his own la hor, so long as all are willing parties, no one gets hurt, hoorah to you.

*names changed to protect the anonymous (for innocent they are not).

^ don't you think it's funnier when these fake names rhyme?

Board Walk

I just went to the HSBC Tree Top Walk.

I sound less than excited about it, but that's because I had such high hopes for it. I think I was thinking somewhere along the lines of the Bird Park. You know, that huge aviary they built with all the birds flying overhead, the waterfall and the mist. Ok there couldn't possibly be mist 'cause that comes from the waterfall, and there couldn't possibly be a waterfall in the middle of MacRitchie (that we know about). So, yeah. But the birds? Where were the birds? We hardly saw any of them. I did spot a bunch of ants huddled on a fence, though.

Oh well. That's what happens when you get weaned on such pseudo-scenery, on television and at tourist attractions. Silly me. In any case, it was a pretty nice way to spend a Saturday morning - if you discount the fact that I received a (self-requested) morning call at 6.17am. And that I climbed undulation over undulation, causing me to pant, embarrassingly enough, and huff in front of more well-conditioned bodies. Who happen to be my friends. It was so bad at one point one of them asked me, "Eh, when was the last time you exercised?"

To which I retorted, last week, which is true, but I neglected to mention that that was the ONLY voluntary exercise I'd done in the past, oh, month or so (bugger. This entry tells me it was even longer ago). But he'd already beat a hasty retreat. (Well not really, in reality we were rather nice and joke-y about it. I just wrote it that way for dramatic effect. But you didn't need to know that, did you? I need to stop providing so many details.)

And like clockwork, I have digressed from my topic again. So, morning call, we meet up (all were late, some more so than others), and we walk. It was magical. I mean, how else can you describe the phenomenon where, the precise moment you know you're entering some place that has no loo for a couple of kilometres at least, your bladder screams to be relieved of its load??

Thus burdened, we (Da Hua was similiarly afflicted) tried to seek refuge at SICC. Chye tried to get us to use the worker's canteen, but nooooooo, we foolishly chose to "try our luck" with the friendly security guard standing across from the carpark, in front of the private bowling alley.

"There are no toilets here," so he began, before catching himself and saying "no public toilets here." Effectively, this meant we had to cross the length of that carpark, filled with snobbish-looking cars, twice. All this while my bladder aching with each belaboured step I took, issuing its threat to burst, right there and then. What to do, the owners of the snobbish-looking cars paid good money to come and bowl in the middle of a primary rainforest. We had to respect their rights.

To the humble workers' quarters we came, then, and I waited my turn in front of the ladies'.

All the while it took me to take this picture, I heard nothing.
So I waited.
I heard someone from within hack up some phlegm, and spit it out.
Then, the long-awaited flush! My bladder almost leaked in its rejoice.
And then, I waited somemore.
From within, a tap is turned on and water starts to to run.
The lady just started her morning shower, dammit.

Thankfully, the kindly uncles seated around the area suggested that I use the gents' which I gratefully obliged. The one that showed me to the door even stood guard outside to make sure no one entered while I was still in there. Shame on me for checking to see if my purse was still there when I was done letting out my pee, and bless those uncles for saving me from having to drop my shorts in the bushes in sheer desperate agony.

Finally, we were on our way again to the suspension bridge that was the Tree Top Walk. A kilometre's walk and a hundred metres' steep incline later, we were finally there.

And, 250 metres later, we were done with it. Just like that. I didn't even take any pictures once I got on the bridge itself, because there was a couple tailing very closely behind me. That's the problem with one lane, one-way traffic, innit?

This was taken while we were taking a breather, a decision made when we saw before us an ascending flight of seemingly never-ending stairs:

But when we exited the trail the sky and were preparing to get some munch, the sky looked like this:

And it stayed that way the rest of the day, impending-but-never-quite-getting-there kind of rain. Maybe that's why the monkeys didn't come out and greet us?

Navigating

Was thinking about what I could blog about, being quite the boring bugger I am, having no job and no cash to play around with hence always being at home doing practically nothing, when something dawned upon me: I have so much material to mine out of my driving lessons at the driving school!

I have a few options to choose from:
1) Indiscriminately degrade inconsiderate motorists I have met while out on the roads
2) Indiscriminately degrade the different characters that are my instructors
3) Indiscriminately degrade my own driving skills (or lack thereof)

Methinks option three seems a bit harsh.

I haven't really encountered that many disgusting motorists.

So far, three types of instructors I have encountered:
a) Chatty, yappy Uncle types
b) Candidate-for-Tester/Super Safety-First types
c) Slacker types (of which I have come across two variations)

Mercifully Type A I met on my first lesson, which involved introduction to the car (hello wiper switch! Hello boot!), moving backwards and forwards, and travelling at 6km/h. So it was ok, he could talk all he wanted without the danger of distracting me too much. Here's a snippet of what transpired between us that afternoon:
"My superior sometimes watches me from the office (overlooking the circuit). He must wonder ah, what is it that this joker does, how come his students always come out looking so happy, hahahaha..."
Granted, Uncle was a jovial, friendly guy, heartlander-ish and endearingly more comfortable conversing in Mandarin. I enjoyed his lesson, but was a bit pressured into making small talk with him. I'd much rather be concentrating on my driving lesson than smiling and nodding politely, peppered by "Oh?"s and "Really"s at his revelations at having once operated a private driving centre with four (or was it eight?) cars under him and his partners.

I'll come to Type B next, because that's my favourite type. Now, I said there're two types of C that I've encountered: One was Mr. F, so-named because he was flirty, and the other was another Uncle-ly, fatherly types. As a result, I blame Mr. F for my lack of confidence at stopping by kerbsides, and the other guy for not correcting my poor breaking habits enough (which, not-so incidentally, Mr Safety-First commented on ad nauseum). Mr. F is actually fun to have, 'cause we kind of click, somehow, and trade jokes with each other. But he sometimes ventures into territory that affords some amount of discomfiture, like revealing that he was tired because he'd gone late-night shopping to buy boxers for himself. Ok, thanks, but I didn't really need to know. Mr. Uncle-Father was a few notches more boring, but because I had to navigate heavy rainfall and corollary to that, poor visibility, it was still a tahan-able session. Well, that and the fact that I made quite a few mistakes, resulting in no less than three events of the Engine Stall. I am duely ashamed of myself (but we promised not to be harsh to moi in this entry, so I shall save my driving exploits for another day).

And now, we have our Mr. Safety First! Mr. Tester-To-Be! (And he was not-too bad looking, either.) Here're some of the things he tosses out at me to confuse, confound and render me unable to comprehend.
"Have you locked the doors?" (To which The Boyfriend blurted out when told: "You're taught that sorta thing?!")
"Break more, and earlier. Or else your tester may deduct points for stopping too late. (Apparently because my car jerked when I stopped.)"
(And, at the next filter lane:) "You stepped on the break too early."

Plus, he is the only instructor I have come across thus far who practices what he preaches. Maybe it's because, having endured his never-ending torrent of remarks, I watch him intently when he drives. Blind-spot, shifting down-gear at turns, locking the car door, that whole gamut. Really, I have to hand it to that guy. Plus, he keeps me on my toes whenever he's assigned to me, so I think I end up learning more and brushing up more. But I end up really washed-out.

Mortar-Bored

Waddaya know. The day has come. I am officially unemployed.

Yes, trust me to put it in such depressing terms. But on that day, I slipped into a state that can only be described as Dread. I have no answers why, especially since I saw all my peers being so full of glee. I even had to convince my best friend and boyfriend to go to the Viewing Gallery, where all they would see was a CCTV-ed image of the ceremony, and wait in the hope of being able to get admitted into the hall. Not a normally-Julia way of behaving, but I was not as confident and self-assured as I normally was. All I wanted, when I came out from the ceremony, was to have my close friends waiting for me.

And wait they did. With a bonus - food! Now that's what I call friends. They snuck out from before the rest, helped themselves to two platefuls of finger food, and presented themselves (and it) to me after the whole exercise in self-importance was over.

So, yes, having my friends there helped. It helped a lot. I'd arranged to meet them before the ceremony began, so that we could have our pictures taken together at leisure. As we went around, they trying to cajole me to take more pictures at that tree, that sculpture, me trying not to take pictures on my own, I started to have fun, despite myself. They made all the difference. For a while, I forgot about my woes of trying to find myself a decent job that was as fulfilling and rewarding (I blame MOE) as it was well-paying - yet at the same time not selling myself out to the highest-paying, money-grubbing multi-national organization (especially not one that is run on money from public, solicited donations, heaven forbid). Anyone could tell, such idealism is a recipe for a downward-spiralling depression. How on earth is one to find such a kind of job, without so much as even stepped into the working world proper? Sure, I've held a few temp jobs, but compared to some of my peers, the experience those have accorded to me are, to borrow and take out-of-context Mrs Goh's words, "peanuts".

But I digress. I had a good time, overall, at my graduation ceremony, thanks to my friends, even those who could not make it but who, I know, wanted to. Thanks so much, guys, for making my day a memorable one.

Suburbia: Paranoia

We were on our way to my aunt's place one day, me and The Boyfriend, just walking along, the day fine and our steps light and springy. We were chatting and ribbing each other as we normally did (along with the 20,000 Other Irritating Couples You See On The Street), when suddenly, The Boyfriend found himself being steered sharply to the right.

We were, you see, at the foot of a block of flats.

"Why'd you do that for?" he asked, flummoxed.

And I told him about how, since I was a wee child, my grand aunt would drill in me the dangers of walking under blocks of flats, never letting me forget how she had in one encounter been narrowly missed by a kamakaze size-C battery.

"And so, I always try to avoid walking under windows," I thus concluded. (And if I simply cannot, I make sure the coast is clear before venturing forwards, as I am pictured doing on the left.)

(An aside: Isn't it weird though? Having been together for some time now, you'd think he'd know this indiocyncracy of mine by now. I do recall having mentioned to him my habit, but perhaps we never did walk under many blocks of flats, nor done so while simultaneously holding hands.)

But women (as far as this one goes), are as puzzlingly illogical as they as dazzlingly mesmerising. Leaving my aunt's place later, we took the same route back to the MRT station. This time, however, the weather had turned decidedly more humid and brightly uncomfortable, so I was in a huff to get under some shade and air-con fast. When we came to the same spot where I earlier veered right, my boyfriend tried to turn left. But I pushed on straight, and I could almost hear the gears and the springs in his head going haywire with the inablity to cope with The Female's non-rational action as he asked "I thought we should walk the other side?"

"Aiya, no need la!"
Basically, I'd just admitted to Ostrich-ly thinking that, if you can't see the windows, you can't possibly be smashed on the head by some random item being discarded by improper (though very convenient) means.

For five minutes after that, our walk was shrouded in his befuddled silence and my silent sheepishness.

Firsts

Just over a month ago, Chye and I (doesn't it have a nice ring to it? Maybe I should get it trademarked.) celebrated our first anniversary together. But I had to work (11 hours!), and work on his gift (because of that I slept only an hour the entire night before that) and on top of that certain things didn't go according to plan, so I was a bit disappointed our First turned out to be less-than-perfect. Although of course, darling, I still very much enjoyed your company.

And and and and and,
The pictures turned out quite bad.

Behold! My disgusting eyebags, with a flourish of smeared mascare due to long-wear. No, I'm not hugging a square-shaped spectre; that's my gift from Chye. Its identity will be kept under wraps for its protection. See? I even took care to blank-o its reflection on the table. In any case, it's my eyebags that I'm trying to draw attention to, not the gift (although I have a feeling some of you may try to guess what it is anyway. Don't care, I'm not telling! And those who know, respect my present's privacy, can?).

So, I suggested that we have another celebration to make up for it. This time round, the photos mercifully turned out better:

Eyebags are still there, sure, but at least I don't look as haggard. (And no, I am not ashamed of my vanity, because we all know that's not the real reason why we had a re-celebration. Really! C'mon, I didn't even have any makeup on! Serious! It was the beach!)

But me and my stupid big mouth for suggesting another gift (in case you're going to accuse me of being over-demanding, this time it's meant to be small and simple). I have the concept already, but it's gonna take some planning to carry out. And what am I doing now? Blogging. Quick, I need a distraction:

Hey babe, look! This is the first time your mein graces my blog!

What I Did Over The Weekend

In other, saner news: I have resumed my driving lessons, this time at SSDC. Today's my second!