Oh Blog! Thou Art My Prozac.

I should've known better than to promise things. I meant to keep it, but I just couldn't find the time, honestly. Hey, jobless doesn't mean no life, 'kay? And I still don't have time, so this is just to assuage my guilty feelings.

This really is one of my favourite shots resulting from the tomfoolery Adrian and I got into. But I assure you, we were quiet and hardly anyone noticed what nonsense we were up to.

Oh gawd I must've tried 20 times before I successfully posted that up.

What have I been busy with? Oh, you know, the usual - writing cover letters, catching up with friends, travelling back in time to the 70s:



Peace, baby.

Inertia.

I was lying on my bed, listening to Blank Walls* (I take back what I said about it, by the way. It's good. I like it.), watching a lone fleck of dust float up next to my window grille and spin away into the bigger world out there, while my body and mind stubbornly refuse to get up and start working on sending out job applications so that I too, can get to the big wide world out there.

So what does one do?

One blogs.

Last Thursday, I went down to the National Dental Centre with my mum 'cause she had to get a painful and long procedure done - she now has two silver teeth - so while she was lying, immobile, at the prosthodontist's mercy I was out and about, exploring Pearl Centre.

I got hungry, so I bought a cup of curry fishballs, eschewing the healthier corn-in-cup that had actually brought me to the stall.

Boy was that a wrong decision.

So I was walking about, getting stares from people from a different demographic group (and that applies to the fashion stakes, too), eating my 'balls-on-a-stick. I'd heard that there were some stores that sold some fashionable wear - ow, hot, hot - but when I got there, I was only greeted by an empty arcade - ooh, spicy, spicy! - of closed shops. Only about three shops were making half-hearted attempts at business. The clothes were only of passable interest - and by now, my lips were burning up.

I'd meant to take some pics, but with a cup of curry fishballs in one hand and the other holding the satay stick from which I ate them, it was not to be had. Thence, I knew I had to find some place to sit down. Or at least put my 'balls down.

And so I did, next to a plump lady who sporadically rubbed her nose with such zeal that the whole bench shook and who was reading some sort of novel/self-help/spiritual book. I don't know, my eyes sort of glaze over whenever I encounter Chinese characters.

* this is the picture I so wanted to take at the gig, but couldn't, because we all know how strict the personnel are there... anyway, I took this from their blog (yes they have a blog! Doesn't everyone?).

Update: I wrote most of the above earlier this - well, last - afternoon, but I abandoned it temporarily when Blogger refused to upload my pictures no matter how many times I tried. Now I have finally done with one cover letter, as I'd promised myself I'd do - but not before a bout of histrionics my you-know-who had to endure. Thanks, you-know-who. And to the other you-know-who(you-are): I'm gonna get this done. I will. (There is a third you-know-who(-you-are), but actually we all know who he is - Barry. Thanks, Barry, for the nagging.) Sorry for the list. Honestly, I had no intention whatsoever to make it.

Tomorrow: Results of my 'picturesque' outing with Adrian!

Edited 041005

My Maiden Journey (Was Almost My Last)

I actually passed that driving test. Finally, finally!!

But only by the skin of my teeth. I'd made a wide turning and veered off course, all the time unaware of my mistakes, and, during the last lane-change before we went back into the driving school, I had to go and make a sharp turn.

Then again, who cares? I passed! No more boring, 100-minute lessons, taking instructions from a man whom you are at the mercy of. No more driving in the circuit, along with a hundred other cars, waiting my turn for use of the directional change lane, the vertical parking lot, the parallel parking lot, darned slope 11... Yippee-doo-da.

Not being able to contain my excitement anymore, I went straight to the nearest petrol station and got myslf the ugly, but totally necessary, 'P' Plate. (And was a little embarrassed when the friendly lady behind the counter asked me if I was paying for any petrol.) And who cares if it cost me an absurd $11.90? I would drive at the earliest possible opportunity!

Predictably of course, driving isn't all I thought it'll be cut out to be. My first time behind the wheel, the layout of its continental interior threw me off a little. When I wanted to turn left, the wind-shield wiper sprang to life instead. Alright, some minor adjustments to make. I also had to practically unlearn what the good people at the driving centre were trying to hard to ingrain into me: check your blindspot before you change lane, when stopping, make sure you can see the rear wheels of the car behind you, etc etc etc. But my dad was all: you don't have to signal, go faster, go faster, go faster... it was a little unnerving, really.

And I almost got myself, him, and my sister killed. Three times over. This happened when my dad decided I was ready for the big league: Expressways. Before that, he supervised while I picked my gramma and aunt up to go to my place, and I guess then I did okay. This time, for an errand we had to run, I was going to drive from my home in the south, take the PIE, and end up all the way in Bukit Batok.

The journey there was alright, up until the point where we missed the turn to the building, and I had to make a three-point turn. Then, as I inched out, ever so slowly - POHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!! - a big, huge, no, gargantuan truck, those types which carry soil from this construction site to that construction site, went whizzing past us, missing my side by a hair's breadth.

Oh. God. That's the end, I thought.

I'd never be able to drive dad's car again.

Thankfully, however, that did not become a reality. After buying what we went there to buy, dad went to the passenger's seat again, and I got my chance to redeem myself.

Alright, I told myself, better make sure you make no more mistakes.

But yes, dear reader, that was only the first of the three times I almost got us killed.

The second time was when my car was heading out towards merging with the fast-moving traffic on the PIE. I was so nervous about making the transition smoothly that I kept my eyes on the side-mirror so freaking long, by the time they returned to the road the car had veered dangerously close to the curb on the right. I was travelling on the double yellow lines, dammit!

And before I could properly collect myself from that old habit that dogged me from my driving school days - now, it wasn't that long ago, was it? Yes, it was YESTERDAY that I'd graduated - came Whammy Number 3. Being in the slowest-moving lane, for bulky, ugly vehicles like pick-up trucks and the two huge trucks that were crawling along ahead of me, I had no choice but to change lanes. Zoom, zooom, zoom, went the cars as I tried my best to find a spot to move in.

And I did, finally - the next car coming up was more than 70 metres away - and I inched out, signal light clicking away - oh no, wait, it's more like 50 metres away. And it's blaring its horn at me. Really fiercely.

"Oh no!" I said, my voice going all high-pitched. "It's coming!"

And that's when my dad took over, and, grabbing the wheel, steered me back into the lane I was moving out of. Back behind the two crawling trucks. Man, was a glad to be behind crawling trucks. And man, was I glad there was no speeding car behind of me. (Or worse, a bike.)

"You're lucky you passed ah! I would have failed you!" My dad decreed. Yes, indeed-y. The verdict was out: Ms Molly Coddle is presently too mollycoddled (and wet behind the ears) (and pants) for highways.

Driving Revision Lessons and Other Strangulation Devices

My driving test is this Friday. At 8:30 am. With the warm-up session thrown in, I have to be at the driving centre at 7:00 am. For Julia "I can't function before 10:30" Guo, this is a tall order indeed.

So, for the past two days and the next two coming up, I have and will be at the dratted driving centre at 8.35 am. Driving. Before my brain can actually function. Before all the crust in my eyes that collected there while I was sleeping have the chance to fall off. Before I can be sarcastic to people and be aware of it.

In the conversation that transpired between us, I actually told him something to this effect: "(Unlike me,) You have a long day ahead."

He promptly informed me that he only had one more lesson to teach before he was done for the day. He also told me that I wasn't working hard enough, resulting in people unable to book for test dates because people like me kept hogging them by doing re-tests. He also said that if I didn't stop making the mistakes I was making, I'd better zi gei bou zhong (Cantonese for: You're on your own, buster).

My instructor today, you see, was rather stricter (and more unpleasant) than the few I've had previously (obviously my appeal is not universal), and gave me grief for quite a portion of the session. This too early, that too late, and some not even done at all......... Yawn. I'm far from a model student, I know. Here are the mistakes I made today:

1. Insufficient acceleration (my number one nemesis next to lane-changing)

2. Failing to slow down when approaching road hazards (a traffic light is a road hazard too, apparently)

3. Changing lanes abruptly (like I said, my number one nemesis)

4. Failing to check my blind spot (the left one. Which I did, but very barely)

5. Failing to use the appropriate gear (goes hand-in-hand with item 1. And travelling on slopes)

6. Moving off in the wrong gear (my favourite goofy, unforgivable mistake to make)

After he finished his semi-lecture on What Went Wrong with Your Driving Today, I went (by way of making innocent small talk, or so I thought) "Wow! You went on for a good 5 minutes."

To which he replied, "Ya, that's because you make so many mistakes." And then he just got out of the car. And walked off.

My Hide-y Hole

I know. I've slacked off again. But that's because I've been home most of the time this week, sending out job applications (the most I've sent out since I graduated), enjoying home entertainment and catching up on sleep. Lots of it.

I haven't been indoors all the time, though; there was this Chinese religious ceremony going on near my cousin's place where I was at giving tuition the other day, and we dropped by to take a look. Basically, people were acting as bodily mediums for all sorts of godly spirits so that people could approach them and seek solutions to whatever problems they may be facing. I apologise in advance for the blurry pics: my subjects wouldn't hold still - my uncle says it's because, prior to taking them, I didn't ask for permission, "in my heart".

The Monkey God, who later left the body and was replaced by yet another heavenly soul.






The Goddess of Mercy.






An altar. There were quite a few put up, this one was just especially snazzy.






A consultation. As the mediums eyes were all closed, they each had at least one attendant to guide them around. That's the man in the neon-yelllow polo-tee. One had to kneel down to talk to whichever god one was consulting, and the conversation would be conducted in Hokkien. Would it have been blasphemous to say, "Could you repeat that in English?"

Feeding time for the little paper ponies. They eat real grass.

Back From Going MIA

I felt like blogging, but there wasn't much I could post about. The last time I took pictures of a vaguely bloggable nature were on the day of the Zouk flea market sale, so here's a really watered-down account of it.

Style-wise, I thought I scored much better than that incident with stockings. So lucky you, you get to see my vanity on parade.

Should've done without the shopping bag, though. (And prettier hair.) (But I love my shoes!)

Below, my worst buy of the day:

Not for the price alone (12 frickin' dollars for something I didn't really need in my wardrobe, even though I vowed not to purchased anything that cost more than 10); the experience itself - priceless. The young lady who was selling it wanted to let it go for 20 initially, the same price as another white tank with trimmings and a flower applique I went to try on. I think she wasn't having a really good day to begin with - most of the other stalls around had nicely displayed their wares for easy reach and optimum eye-rummaging, but her stall (if you could call it that) was just a splat of clothes on the floor, knotty and each item of clothing indistinguishable from the others. When I heard the price I was ready to scoot, she was talking to me like I was a new best friend, calling me "sweetheart" and what not. Her very cute brother also made me swing towards the "Okay, I'll just go give it a try" mode.

And I did, and I didn't want to buy the white tank 'cause it was too fricking expensive for my non-working dollar; and so, she very ungraciously parted with the Mango top you saw above. I'm glad I didn't tell her I stretched the material on the tank ever so slightly.

An Announcement

I have turned victim to comment spam. So, I took action - and turned on the word verification option - which means the next time you, dear reader, wishes to leave a message in my blog, you will have to go through a typing test by typing down verbatim what you see in a box. Usually it's a squiggly nonsense word.

I thank you in advance for your trouble.

To Market, To Market

I woke up to greet the sun this morning. Bleary-eyed, but still, I greeted it. The purpose was three-fold: have breakfast parents and sister, a weekly routine for the three of them since mother commenced her english lessons; launder the bucket of clothes waiting to be washed; and finally, find that bottle of Sifoné my pretty boy has been bugging me to do, and buy it.

The latter of which is no mean feat, if you consider the fact that the line's last remembered spokesperson, Vivian Zhou (pictured), has long since retired.

Well okay, semi-retired, because amazingly, I found a site on her still updated and maintained, and apparantly it seems that she still makes the rare public appearance/product endorsement. But you get my drift.

And, what applies to dear Vivian seems to apply to Sifoné too, for, sitting unassumingly on the floor of one of the stalls of my neighbourhood market, this is what I found:



Actually, there was only one bottle, tucked snugly between her more popular rivals, Organics and Pantene, but I spoke to the uncle of the stall and he fished out another three for me. Unfort, they were all either "Scalp Care" (for dandraff-prone hair) or "Intensive Care" (for dry/permed/coloured hair), neither of which The Boyfriend felt he was suited for. Uncle said he couldn't get to the "Soft and Smooth" range (for normal/oil hair), buried under a mountain of stock as it was, so I offered to wait. He told me to take a walk around, which was something I hadn't done in a good 10-odd years, and so I decided to take up his suggestion. These were a couple of the sights I took in:

A revisit of my least favourite kind of stall as a child. There I'd be, gingerly navigating my way though the wet, slippery floor, when - flip! flop! floop! - an anxious auntie would waddle past me, spraying me with the grey water that she kicked up in her wake. These days, however, you'd be hard-pressed to find a wet market that actually lives up to its name.




One of the several unlicensed hawkers lining the market. The gaudy flowers are purported to be non-toxic, super-effective ant-icide. Going for a song at $1, it was a hot seller. Said one uncle to another who'd just purchased it, in gruff Hokkien, "Got use or not?"

Replied the other, "Buy already got use lor!" A smile escaped from my mouth. He continued, "Aiya, so cheap, just try lor."

When I went back to the stall, it was then uncle acted on his word. He must've hauled about 150 kg of goods (mostly consisting of detergent) out of his tiny but well-stock store before he could retrieve, and present to me, two bottles of scruffy shampoo of a barely-surviving brand, earning him a mere $5.40 in exchange for his herculean efforts.

Paint the Walls Blank

Went to The Observatory's album launch tonight (or rather, last night). Wanted so badly to capture something, but my camera screen was so bright, and I didn't know how to turn if off so as not to arouse any usher's attention. Therefore, I waited til the end of the concert.

And, managed to take a grand total of two (2) shots before being politely reminded that no photos were allowed in the Esplanade. Just like no latecomers are allowed once the concert has started. Man, even when they let us in, they had to walkie-talkie all over the place, and lead us to a separate entrance via some gallery. Macham like some special operation. I, on my part, played the rude (and late) patron very well and rolled my eyes up, down, left, right, back, forth. Anyhoo, this was my best shot:

Sigh, no Leslie. This was the images flashed on a screen throughout the concert. To be honest, I didn't really enjoy it as much as I wanted to. Perhaps it was because I wasn't familiar with the songs yet, unlike their last concert I went to, but I do feel that this time around, the songs aren't that melody-driven. Lyric-quality seem to have taken a dive, too, but then again, which Leslie Low's signature mumblings, it's hard to say for sure.

They had copies of the album to be sold after the concert, but the presence of too many bodies washed away any groupie feelings I had. Damn, forgot they were giving away copies of a very nice poster. Oh well, but an incentive.

My ride home.

Baggage.

Oil prices: A Lament.

My Fashion Boo-Boo

I blame it on Urban.

Last week, they ran a story on local women's lack of style when it came to fashion, wearing a uniform of low-rise jeans and flesh-baring top. I thought to myself, no way am I going to identity myself as part of the Fashion Forsaken! (Because yes, I am a fan of the thrown-together jeans-and-tee look.)

But just look what I got myself into (and I apologise for the hastily-taken, artless shot):

All I wanted to do was add some class and pizazz to the outfit. Hence, the choice of stocking-ed legs. By the end of the day, I realised that, somewhere between the knees and the thighs, it had gone to seed. My dress was too forlornly un-ironed out. Dress and stockings alone, with luck from a pair of well-chosen shoes, may have looked ok though, as this photo (gingerly) implies:

- Maybe a pair of scruffy, tongue'd Converses would've done the trick, instead of my smart Adidas. -

In a toilet, two schoolgirls were giggingly checking me out, knee downwards. I noticed, and told them: Yeah, I know, it's a bit weird, but it's ok! (ie. I'm ok with that. My grasp of the language chose to fail me there and then.)

They were a little taken aback, but one of the girls politely countered, no, it was your shoes we were looking at.

And willingly, I believed. Aw, the girls liked my shoes. I even thanked them. Took me a few hours to realise that they just probably said that to avoid a confrontation with any pointy reckonings I might have on me right then. (Lucky for them, I didn't: Swisscard was at home because the bag I carried out with me was too small to fit it in.)

And later, while out with Barry (you first heard of him in this entry) and crossing the road, he bent towards me and whispered, "Two girls are talking about you." (Read: your darned hosiery.) And true enough, I could hear two garrulous women in the background, yakking away loudly. But I couldn't really make out what they were saying, nor was I really in the mood to be inclined towards so doing, so I waved my hand laconically and said "Ah, it's ok la."

Then I remembered what the incident with the schoolgirls, and so I asked Barry to point the ladies out to me. Which he did, but it also occurred to me that I really couldn't do anything about it. Nor was there a need to. I have the right to wear whatever I want, and they are free to comment on it. Sparingly.

But Barry's conservatism rubbed off on me, and as the night wore on an itching desire to roll off my pantyhose grew stronger with each additional weird stare I got. However, I was determined to walk home in them. Unfortunately, I also began strangely compelled to check myself out at every reflective surface I walked past. Which was why I made up my mind to hop into the most convenient private space there was and take the shots you peered over above, unbeknownst to my companion.

Oh, and I also tried on a couple of dresses by the by. The first I did not photograph in, because the chest I did not know I had (aided by Triumph) was popping out in too many places. The second fit well on top, but was too freaking tight on my child-bearing hips.

Nonetheless, after the private photoshoot, I felt at more peace with my Adventure in Fashion, boo-boo or no boo-boo. Pappy and Sis were also encouraging when I got home and mentioned my Day of the Raised Eyebrows. The latter told me I should just let people stare if they wanted, because I looked fine, while the former deadpanned: "Tell them you're afraid of getting mosquito bites." What a gem.