Not Just The Blues

The trouble with being holed up, cosy-cocoon style, with your lover boy over the weekend is that, come Monday, you are plunged into a state of depression brought on by the cold turkey that the start of the work week entails. This, coupled with the whole 257-step grooming routine I have to put myself through, really makes for a killer morning.

And, as if being afflicted with Monday Blues isn't bad enough, my instructor today decided to enforce strictly the the punctuality rule by meting out a punishment he had never mentioned. I was locked out of my classroom, as a punitive measure for being late, and not once - twice.

The first time I had to go poo real bad, and I told everyone within earshot so - even those who did not ask me where I was going. The problem was, the girls who were supposed to be "in charge" of telling my instructor where I had gone were too shy on my behalf (so they said) to tell him, and, not aware that he would react in a such a way - in fact not aware that he'd even so much as instructed one of my course mates to lock the door - did not speak up for me. This I learnt only when I was let back in and sat down, and thus escaped my window of opportunity to explain myself. All I had said when I got back in the room was a rather disgruntled-sheepish "Sorry".

The first time round, it wasn't so bad, because everyone (barring me), the instructor included, thought it quite funny. The second time around however, was a more complicated situation. And much more unpleasant. We were taking our afternoon break like every other afternoon. I had to take that time to sort out a uniform problem caused by an inefficient admin (ie not a problem I caused) that was only rectified that very afternoon itself, before heading down to the canteen to quickly grab a bite - having skipped lunch, that seemed like a very prudent thing to do, even though not normal practice. But a string of events resulted in Lock-Out Number 2:

Upon arriving the table where my female colleagues were seated, I was invited to finish up their leftover french fries, I task I very willingly embarked upon (but not before reminding them that our break time was almost over);

Just as I finished putting the last fry into my mouth, the Uniform Co-ordinator for the guys (who were seated on an adjacent table) came up to me and asked about the status of my uniform indent;

I drew breath to speak, causing bits on semi-chewed potato, powdery and fine, to be sucked into my windpipe;

I choke, turning red and causing the guy to retreat with a hasty "I'll better talk to you later";

I start to recover, though still coughing, and we head for the lift;

At the lift lobby, the elevator was waiting for us but the guys, in their very nice show of Unity, decided to wait for Mr Uniform Coordinator. They suggested that us girls go up first to cover their arses, which we wanted to, but by which time the lift had changed its mind, closed its doors and climbed three storeys up;

By the time we reached the room (we were on the dot), the room door was locked.

As we fretted over what excuse to cook up, I suggested that we simply tell him I was choking, and that they were all tending to me (a half-truth, because it was only the girls' table who was waiting for me). The guys, I suppose unaware that I had really been choking, did not heed my suggestion.

The final decision was made when someone uttered "Actually there's no reason, let's just tell him the truth". And that was that. Our instructor came out minutes later, showed us into a room, made us sit down, and gave us a warning. Even though he asked if there was a good reason why we were late, I did not venture my reason. I didn't know at that point in time if it would have been rejected, and I was further cowled into silence by my previous "misdemeanour".

On hindsight, it was totally stupid to keep quiet. Oh gosh such passive-aggressiveness. If I get a chance I must explain myself.

My One Hundredth (and First) Post!

Thank you, dear readers, for showing an interest in my mundane life! I also hope you like my new layout: had a tough time figuring out how to do it up properly. (Slowpoke.) Hopefully it stays on a lil longer than the previous one.

Happy Belated Icky-Lovey-Dovey People's Day!

...Whom you want to plonk over the head with an industrial-sized frying pan so that they can go away to lovers' heaven and never disgust you with their Irritating Couple-dom again!


Anyways, Sunday was the day I (clad in discomfitting shoes) scoured the streets of Orchard in search for ingredients to what - I hoped - would make the perfect Valentine's gift for my One And Only. From Selegie to Plaza Sing I stalked; from PS to Heeren I trudged; from Taka to Borders I hobbled. By the end of the journey, I had excruciatingly earned for myself not a few number of blisters on my hence-raw claws.

This experience garnered, I began to wonder whether this was love in a microcosm - besides the obvious obligation of giving, was sufferment and pain inevitable by-products of being in a relationship?

Surely you jest, Ms Coddle: I hear those words ring in your head right now, dear reader. That is too melodramatic a view of things! But Ms Coddle here gets down whenever things don't go her way, and inadvertently, Pessisism that dark monster, sets in. And of late, things on the love front, though not in shambles, haven't been exactly what she'd hoped they'd be.

Wanting to blog on the subject of love and pain, she decides to do a bit of research when she noticed the Straits Times Saturday special on Valentine's whilst digging for a bit of dinner's reading material. The report was on the lack of romance in Singapore - something she felt was really speaking for the state of affairs on her side, but as she read on, she realised that, far from being unromantic, The Boyfriend was really demonstrative of his feelings, albeit in a more subtle way from which she expected from a Romantic Person. In fact, she needn't have looked further than the day before, when he whipped up a delicious meal for the both of them.

The Boyfriend, whipping up a delicious meal.

In its simple, down-to-earth manner, that meal offered much more than any candle-lit dinner, however posh, that money could buy. Yet Ms Coddle, unaware of its value, was temperamental and glassy-eyed at times because there were no fancy candles, no fancy dinnerware, nor any fancy tablerunners. And, perhaps most tellingly, no fancy words. And to add to that tragedy, Ms Coddle, the person whom he was supposed to profess his undying love for, had to actually help in the buying, cutting, chopping, slicing, dicing, scrubbing and wiping of the whole process.But look! What words does one really need when one is presented with a scene like this? (And lip-smackingly good it all was.)

The Lip-Smackingly Good meal

Me looking mousey. Us trying to look happy, not hungry.

And guess what? The Boyfriend came up with a lovely present: a self-made voucher that can be redeemed for a Creative MP3 player in about a month's time!

Read the fine print. (This picture chosen for the tell-tale nail colour - for those in the know.)

I was most impressed by his gift. It had none of the commercial, consumerist smackings most V Day gifts have (my LOTR boxset included) and all the effort, meticulous attention to detail and sweetness a real gift should possess. My lousy present was wrapped in 20 layers of newspaper (all the better to conceal its true identity, but very sec-school), with no accompanying card (no time to write it, though I'd bought all the necessary materials - lame I know). Partly because I expected my present to come the way it has always come - simple, straightforward and no-nonsense - and I guess part of me was half-hearted about it already.

At this point, Barry, if he is going to read this, is likely to go "See? This is what I was telling you all along."His theory is, when your other half doesn't normally shower you with attention and gifts and romantic gestures and suchlike, on the rare occasion that he actually does, you are especially happy and thus, appreciative.

But, if attention, gifts, romantic gestures and suchlike are just the things he does on a regular basis, then you'd come to expect them, even cease to become touched and moved by them.Which is true, and honestly (not to brag, but...) I'm low-maintenance, but girls still want to be Princesses. Or at least this blogger does. Why else do you think she's Ms Molly Coddle? Then again, what's important is that a nice balance is struck, right? So long as the girl feels treasured and the guy not too hassled (or broke), then all should be fine and dandy.

My Life Revolves Around Clothes

But today, I don't mean that in the shopaholic, bimbotic way that I normally do. I spent a good part of my precious Sunday evening ironing clothes that didn't even make them look properly pressed, and languishing in the toilet are two jackets, one cardigan, a tee shirt and a dress all waiting to be laundered. (By hand.) It's not that I'm too poor or miserly to use the washing machine, but rather I'd like for the lifespan of my clothes to be stretched as far as possible, instead of being mangled in the drum and acci-dyed a myriad of colours I never intended.

So, even though my heart was yearning to blog, blog away to compensate for the weeks my eyes has had to endure the dry spell on this blog, I decided to heed The Boyfriend's (unsolicited) (but still well-meaning - and well-given) advice and, well, do my chores. Because now I can blog to my heart's content. That is, until it's time for bed. Nowadays I have the sleeping habits of a three-year old come weekdays. Weekends are still reserved for unabashed hair-let-downing, of course. But enough of this meandering. A bumper crop of photos awaits!

In reverse chronological order:

The Poptart event at Home, Otherwise Known As The Night I Became Chao Hee Lang (Hard of Hearing)

My soci mates. They love to play Sexually Ambiguous one-upmanship.

Excursion To Chinatown (Follow the Teachers-to-be)

Although looking matronly in my outfit, it is not myself I was referring to. I, of course, mean my two pretty lady friends featured below, flanking the gleeful only-guy of the outing. Incidentally, we saw another stall or two carrying the same wares as the ones they hold in the picture. The same goes for some of the other so-called speciality stalls - same lion puppets, same this, same that. Methinks the 500-stall festivity market which opened to such fanfare at the start of the season was a wee bit too optimistic, rain or no rain. One of the stall holders told me the rental for a month went into the thousands. While it must be really lucrative to set up stall there for them to even accept such terms... how much they'd have to earn to even cover their sunk costs, I really dunno.

In the midst of our thronging through the crowd, we chance upon a 变脸 performance.

Something tells me that, if only I knew a little something about the trade, that what I captured on this frame is probably the key to unlocking the secret of this highly mysterious art. That man is friggin' in the middle of a face change!

And thus concludes a rather dry post. I have more to share, mind, but 'tis the time for me to prepare for slumber.

Post-note: I know I posted much less than I promised I would, but - time constraints la. Sorry 'bout that.