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.

To Flea Or Not To Flea?

I have no moolah. And I much preferred the previous e-flyer. But still; anyone up for it?????????

My Days of Action Sampling

Ok, I bow to your request, September. Before you proceed, however, I must apologise for the lousy quality of the pictures. These were scanned before I was sufficiently broken in with the technology, hence the pictures of inferior quality. Alright then. Presenting...... Photos taken by the Action Sampler! (As featured below):

If you look carefully you can see my finger on the camera (the one taking the picture, duh), and the camera itself! How cool is that? Gives a new spin on the arty self-portrait, huh? Okay, actually, that thing of beauty you see here isn't really an Action Sampler, 'cause it's cheong-ed. But it works just as well as those sold by the Lomographic Society, I'm sure, and at a much less exorbitant price too, I'm certain! What an Action Sampler does is to take four pictures, timed 1/4 second apart, each time you click on the shutter. It's a glorified disposable camera, really, because it's very very old school. No fancy bells, buttons or whistles, just pure mechanics at work.

Okay, enough of my bandying round the mulberry bush. Here, in non-chronological order, are some of my favourite - and less compromising - shots (save for the requested picture):

Han's feet. On a grass patch.

Han's portrait (impression?) of me.

This being the month of August, a little patriotism wouldn't hurt. A photo taken by The Ex, who was also the one who did the research and bought me the Sampler. (Thank you.)

A neat little effect. Samplers do this once in a while, which only adds to their charm.

Ménage à trois? (And my nose, in all its imperfect glory.)

Cat, Interrupted. (But what nice effects.)

A slightly-cuckoo girl. As captured by her boyfriend.

Re: The above. Self-portrait, I think.

Somebody's pet dog. He was very friendly, and we played fetch until he coughed from all the sand he swallowed chasing the ball.




At Topshop, where I captured two models in a music video playing a couple blissfully rolling about.




A happy coincidence.




The barber I never went to.





Not scandalous, because, not me.

And, finally, me, semi-naked for all to see. Taken by dear Jarvis.

Love At First Sight

Some time ago, I did an online survey for Heineken and promptly forgot about it. But look! This is what came in the mail today:

I don't know of anyone else who has the same fascination for Swiss Army knives as I do. And looking at the details that went into the packaging of this SwissCard just puts me into drool mode. I especially love the green translucency of the Card, giving it that clinical feel that, when held up against the light, becomes an X-Ray of the contents it holds inside.




Oh. Heineken, of course, is freaking rich.

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The Genesis of Phlegm Girl (And My Efforts in Vain to Resist Her)

I stared at the picture of a tranquil, contaminant-free waterfall on the back of the anachronistically-desiged box, promising a similarly cool, clear and most of all germ-free throat upon application of the product inside.

But why, oh why, Mr Severely-Side-Parted Hair, do I still remain a mutant strain of our species (known in some parts as the Hacking Sapien)?

Well-meaning friends and relatives have recommended a number of home remedies, ranging from the humble (salt dissolved in water), HK-celeb endorsed (Pi Pa Gao, once again, dissolved in water), fanciful (an egg cracked over a mug of rock sugar - you guessed it - dissolved in water) as well as unlikely (freshly-squeezed orange juice with a pinch of salt). Of the four I've tried two. And of the two, I've prepared one, because I'm so lazy.

So when dusk falls, I morph into Phlegm* Girl, awakened by the dip in temperatures (so The Boyfriend says) as well as the appearance of the moon (full, waxing, waning, new, the works). Her personality threatening to take over mine with every cough, spit and tickle in the throat, I haven't had the chance to rest until during the deadest hours of the night. Which basically just means I'm not getting the rest I need, dammit.

*Bizarrely enough, phlegm also means both "sluggishness of temperament" and "calm self-possession". How the English language never fails to amaze and amuse (sometimes simultaneously).

A Stroll It Was Not

Last weekend, I took part in the "inaugural" Heritage Walk along with three other friends. I was really dissatisfied with the organising commitee at first. When we got to our flag-off point, this bossy, high-handed man was barking orders at us through a loud-hailer. Hell, we paid money to take part in this event! Couldn't you have more manners? (At one point, the young lady behind us hissed "Please do not touch me, sorry" at him, after he'd laid his hand on her shoulder for what I noticed to be the second time.) And please, for goodness' sake hire someone who has a better grasp of language. One such solecism was "Thank you all for coming and making this event a success!" at the flag-off. Unless he thought that people attending the event in itself warranted the label "success" to be slapped on (and what would that say about Singapore, I wonder?) Too bad at that time I was still too polite to be fueled to take a surreptitious photo of him. What, it's not that easy, 'kay? I don't want to be accused of being rude and unmindful of people's privacy. Although of course, he being the "MC" for the day, should be prepared for people snapping shots of him if they so desire. Well, ok, I was a little lazy to take my camera out of my bag. But there were also other things pre-occupying me.

... Oh gosh why did I go on a long rant on a topic that's this minute? I beg your pardon.

But, speaking of cameras, the one I usually use was on loan, so I had to resort to an "old" Olympus 3.0 megapixel cam. It was a hassle to use, but I am quite happy with the results. The resolution's nice and sharp. Yes, okay, I realise I'm going off on a tangent. Pictures, everyone! Of my escapade (of the places and spaces) around the Esplanade.

We were made to wear these fashion-and-style-forsaken tees under pain of disqualification; this is me (and my pretty boy), trying desperately to look hip and cool against all odds. (There was no mirror nearby! The changing rooms provided were basically void patches of grass boarded off to provide some shield from the scrutiny of human eyes! Oh, the tragedy!) And all we have to show for it is some mozzie bites and skin a few shades darker. Nah, don't listen to the whiny girl. I had more fun than I'm willing to admit. It was, after all, a PAP-commissioned affair. Oy, but don't get me wrong, I'm a patriotic lass.

See? Me, standing at the very spot re-elected President (by the people, no less! Go democracy, go!) Nathan stood on the day our country celebrated the day we became a sovereign nation. *sniff*

Unlike these birds though. (Those little speckles of black above our national flag.) Shame on them! Fancy taking advantage of the fact that we were standing under the flag, admiring its grandeur, to rain birdie guano on us. Well, we were waiting to get into the tower as well, of course... Oh, this is a watch tower, by the way, belongs to the Central Fire Station, which was around in the days of no-building-taller-than-5-storeys-high. So firemen used to sit at the top to be on the lookout for fires coming from the different ethnic enclaves: Chinatown, Little India, and Geylang Serai/The Malay Village. (I'm not sure about this last one, though. Where did malays live in the past? Anybody?)

But enough on reds and whites. Guess who got spotted by the Lian He Wan Bao reporter???

Upon taking this photo, The Boyfriend was waylaid by a young Chinese-national from the daily because, apparently, he seemed to be enjoying himself lots. The look on his face when the reporter and her camera-touting photog approached him? Priceless. I'd never seen him look quite that degree of "petrified" before. But he was eventually coaxed, hoaxed and buttered up into uttering some soundbites for the two ladies to take back to their desks. (The next day, his brother found his headshot in the paper's write-up. I haven't seen it yet, so I don't know what, if any, of his words were reproduced (well, modified, rather) in writing.

We saw them again while taking this photo:

I'm sorry, it's this photo:

Okay, this must be the one:

(Hey, I did say the camera was a little lacking in the user-friendly department, didn't I?):

Indeed, my friend had no idea she was taking so many off-focused, off-centered shots. I was hanging on for dear life (3 minutes), getting off to check on the decidedly uncooperative camera (1 minute), and perspiring very un-glamly throughout (the duration of the whole process) (and then some).

Speaking of unglam, I look slightly deranged in this shot:

But I like how it turned out otherwise. Duh, that's why it's here, right? Somewhere down the line I tried to grow a beard. To the displeasure of the man still attached to it.

Actually, the check-points we were required to stop at were manned by volunteers who, judging from their faces, were from secondary schools, so I suppose this particular Supreme Court judge is the youngest Singapore has ever had.

As for this shot below? As you can see, it was getting dark, and we hadn't had a bite to eat since the walk had began, so naturally, when we saw these two men enjoying a meal, we couldn't keep our hands off of them. But alas, that guy's too frigid for even my seduction powers. And even though he out-propped the other guy, The Boyfriend didn't manage to frustrate the bowl out of his hands. Oh well.

When we ended our walk at... the riverside promenade, was it? - That bit of the river in front of the UOB buildings - we figured it was easier to get our dinner the normal way - by buying it. So we decided to pop by MacD's. Seemed like lots of other people had the same idea, though.

As a wrap-up to the whole event, we were treated to a mini-display of fireworks (but still freaking expensive, I'm sure). I couldn't get a decent photo of them, so, dear readers, you'll have to settle for this shot of the Fullerton.

Never Read While You Eat

So I was reading the papers just now, while eating what I thought was a slice of grapefruit. It tasted funky. I thought, hey, I didn't know grapefruits tasted this odd. Not-quite sour, and rather dull. And I continued to read.

A little while later, I glanced down at the fruit to make sure that I'd cleaned it out to the skin. And this is what I saw:

(click to enlarge)

Gahhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

(PS: The fruit, by the way, was an orange, and not a grapefruit. I was waylaid by the vermillion-hued flesh.)

The Taste of Nostalgia

For two consecutive nights, I have been munching on Mac's Twister Fries©. After visiting my grandpa, we request for our dad to take a detour to the nearest outlet, dash into it, and emerge, faces beaming, with a packet of said fries. I feel like a kid, asking my dad for the $2.80 with which to buy it, but in a sepia-toned way. Even more nostalgic are the spiced-up, sodium-filled carbs my siblings and I imbibe. Nevermind if I can't exactly remember how the originals taste anymore. Nevermind if I fall to some diet-related debilitating disease later on in life; the Twister Fries© aren't on the menu, dammit, which can only mean one thing: their appearance is For A Limited Time Only!

Eating those fries bring back memories of the times I spent in my early teens at my neighbourhood A&W's (with their superiorly-christened version of the snack, the Curly Fries). Remember, Daphne, of the times we met there? Of the Take That CD you presented me as a Christmas present (was it?), even though I struggle to recall that long-vanished band's moniker now? Remember how, many years later, we trundle down to a Clementi outlet, supposedly trying to re-live part of those memories, only to bite into waffles which merely left us with sore gums?

Hell, I even remember sneaking to the former outlet to sneak a peek at a certain somebody who at that time was temping as part of their kitchen crew. And being goaded into saying hi, and seeing his surprised face, suddenly taking on a shade of bashfulness that all but washes away the focused look of concentration before that.

Aw shucks! I should stop this mawkishness before I drown you people with my sentimentalism.

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Mollified

Today, I complained (in the nicest, friendliest way) to my driving instructor about the horrendous lesson booking system, and he told me that I could actually go ahead and book my test date first, then request for the auto-trans lesson to be shifted forward. Yay. But I shall leave my rant where it is, because the pain I went through was still needless.

After my lesson I went down to Parkview Square for the first time. It's an amazing place. I wanted to take pictures everywhere, especially of the lobby, but there were security eyes all over. I checked out its website though, which can give an idea of the grandeur (some say ostentatiousness ostentation) of the building. But just an inkling of.

Never one to bow down to authority that easily, however, I thought of the perfect place to click away. Sadly, I was still caught for not washing my hands.

(And, seeing there was no other soul around, I couldn't resist pulling an Elyse.) (But, unlike her, completely without the irony. Only the vanity.)

Fuckstrated

How impossible. I just completed the stipulated amount of driving lessons in order to book a compulsory (meaning I can neither book nor sit for my practical driving test if I did not beforehand book and attend a lesson in which I drive an automatic car.) lesson in handling a car with automatic transmission. In other words, before that I couldn't, even if I wanted to, book said compulsory lesson driving a car with automatic transmission. The friendly computer system simply wouldn't hear of it. Fine, I thought. I'll wait.

But when I tried to book a slot for this compulsory lesson, I found, to my utter dismay, that the earliest possible date EVER was on 17th October, 8.50pm. Because I need only to take one such lesson, the ever-so user-friendly computer system did not allow me to put myself on the waiting list, in case someone who booked an earlier session might option out of it and that I may take it. Also, due to the fact that I need one book one session, once this is done, even before payment is made, I cannot - in order that I may convince myself that it was not my eyes playing tricks on me, or a glitch in the computer system perhaps - go back and check out the available slots for automatic transmission lessons any longer. In order to double-check that my eyes hadn't failed me, I had to cancel my lesson, which is basically equivalent to giving up what may have been the last slot available, so that I may search for something that well may not exist at all. Hence I gave up and paid for the 17th's.

Effectively, this means that I cannot graduate til after 17th October, even though I could possibly finish all my lesson subjects in two weeks' time, and otherwise be eligible to book for a test date. Because of this completely unnecessary delay, I have to go back to the school and pay through my nose for review lessons after that, to ensure that my skills behind the wheel do not get rusty before the practical test.

What they should have done:
Have a priority system for people like me.
Have a waiting list catered to people like me.
OR
Allow us to book our slots in advance (with necessary buffers to finish our stipulated lessons, if they must).

Asinine. Inflexible. Cocked-up system.

A Little Older, A Little Wiser?

In the past, birthdays were celebrated to ward off evil spirits. Now, they are a celebration of your existence on this earth, a statement to say "I am here! I exist! I am loved!"

(And in some ways, National Days are a bit of both. "I am successful!")