Has My Computer Been Hijacked???

Having nothing better to do while I waited for my hair to dry, I decided to check my mail. And while I was at it, why not check my bulk mail folder, right? Notwithstanding the fact that I almost never check it.

There were three mails in the aforesaid folder. Two were junk mail, as expected. The third was a delivery notice failure.

Hold on, when did I last send out a mail that didn't get through? I clicked on the mail to open it, and this is what greeted me:

Once again, click on it to enlarge. The alleged personal (I'm assuming it is, because I didn't recall sending this out) details I sent out is, most obviously, a virus. What the #^*%!????

Can somebody explain how in the world this could've happened? Preceding this unpleasant revelation, I had rebooted my computer, then doused it with a good measure of Spybot, AdAware and HijiackThis log programs already. I'm still receiving help for the latter one at this point, but I didn't think someone would be sending emails out in MY name. Damn. My email address must be finding its way onto a lot of junk mail lists by now.

Throaty Ululations

With the weekend that just passed, I'm feeling contentment and pleasure at just staying home, unlike the week before. I expect that has something to do with my busy schedule this past week - which in turn has something to do with daddy handing me out my monthly sum of financial assistance, I suspect.

One of the events that kept me happily scuttling about was a KTV session at KBox. Yes it was fun, but it was also marred by one small but irritating detail: an advertisement that was insistent on popping up every half-hourly or so, disrupting our merry-making ever-so-often:

That's it; while the Suzuki Swift was never a contender in my list of "Potential Cars to Buy Once I Strike It Rich" to begin with, it can now officially kiss my potential-dollar goodbye. I mean, the cheek of it all, blasting its message to us, a captive, freaking paying audience for the 5 hours we were there (which, by the by, was originally only meant to be 4 hours, but thanks to my irresistible charm - on a person of the same sex, no less - we got it extended, at no extra charge)!

That aside: the inaugural Lungs of the Day Award went to SJ, who was the first to start singing, liberally inserted her songs to the top of the list, and continued singing songs consecutively after the rest of the girls (with the exception of Ms Coddle of course) dropped out, one by one, from fatigue or plain unsustainable interest in vying for the award - prolly wasn't pretigious enough for them, hmph.

And the undisputed champion of Photowhore: KTV Session - Huiz, whose pretty head managed to pop up in just about every single photo I took:

Other winners were Fangz, who walked away with the Lethargy Award, by virtue of the fact that she pretty much just languished on her seat most of the time, watching the screen; and Xianz, aka Ms Attention-Deficit - have you ever seen someone so addicted to Sudoko she plays it while awaiting her turn to sing??

click to enlarge)

Fast Approaching Grannydom.

This was my agenda for the weekend:

Saturday

Slept in, stayed home while my parents' went over to gramma's early. Breathed in and out, motionless, til my dad came to pick me up for the family gathering. The End.

Sunday

Slept in, stayed home til my sis got a call from my aunt inviting her to go to the Converse warehouse sale happening this weekend. Tagged along and got a pair (for those interested, it was a high cut, in cranberry). Got home, breathed in and out, motionless, til Barry called. Chatted for a bit; he expresses amazement that I did not venture out of my home except to buy brunch. Suggested I meet The Boyfriend* for supper - offered to come pick me up. I declined, choosing instead to slouch on the couch watching "Ong Bak".

Friday was my only saving grace: Supper and a midnight show at the behest of Barry, a passably entertaining "Legend of Zorro" - which suited me fine for a zombie-ish night.

Before that, however, I had dinner at a restaurant located at the Kallang Theatre. It was a rather ho-hum affair for me - definitely over-priced for what they had on the menu: a small selection of food to put in your steamboat, some leftover buffet dishes (eg. stale cereal prawn, normally my favourite; self-serve popiah I made a mess of; this exotically-named dish below), a few soups, some starters none of us dared touch, a few clusters of fruit and some ice-cream. There were some rather palatable dishes, nevertheless: salmon sashimi, fresh oysters - though of course I steered clear of those - and aromatic, if a lil garlic-drenched, escargot (these don't grow in the sea so they aren't a problem for me).

To be fair, however, I guess the food would've been of a better quality had we not gotten lost - within an hour of our arriving, give or take 20 minutes, we were to get our last helping from the buffet table, for they were going to close it soon.

*currently indisposed, mugging for the exams.

Cognitive Dissonance

Oh ma gawd, I just ate shark's fin for the first time in four, nay, five years. And it's not due to the fact that my family hardly gets to eat it, no. In fact, they eat it rather frequently, whenever they are in a celebratory mood (i.e. somebody's birthday, someone struck 4D etc) or feeling indulgent. So no, rather it is due to this obscure, sometimes unfathomable concept of Personal Principles that I don't eat it (though I love it, love it).

And I don't give in easily, mind. A big bowl of it was once served at a wedding dinner I attended alone (read: paid for out of my own pocket), and I very magnanimously gave others a chance at a second helping, or at least a bigger bowl of the delicacy. And each time my family cooks the dish, two uncles and a father will try to get me to eat it, in all manner of coaxing, teasing, reasoning, shaming or plain terrorizing, but never did I once give in.

Well, tonight I learned there is a hierarchy of principles, just as there is a Maslownian hierarchy of needs. My dad da powed a tub (yes, you read that correctly) of shark's fin soup for my sister, who had been absent from the gathering 'cause she had been out somewhere. But when she got home, she was still too full from dinner to eat it all up, not to mention too tired from the day's activities, so she gave me an offer I could not resist: she beseeched that I share the take-away with her. And really, you can't keep shark's fin overnight, right? Besides, it would've been a bigger sin to let the poor animal die in vain and pour all that wonderful, heavenly broth down the sink. So I obliged.

And it was amazing. I wolfed down a good portion of it in what must've been a record-breaker, because to be honest I was half-afraid that my dad would walk out of his room and catch me with my mouth agape, shovelling spoonful after spoonful of the goodness of the sea. There would be no end to the teasing. I would never live that moment down. Seriously though, could you blame me?

A Stolen Moment

My machine is down. All thanks to a virus that's been floating around MSN. Be careful, people! Don't download any .exe files of unverifiable source. Don't give in to your vanity, as I did, and click on a URL extolling "Wow, is this you?" (Though, masquerading very successfully as a profile of me - which despite distinctly remembering I had no picture posted up on - was very credibly done, I must add in my defence.)

So it rendered my antivirus and firewall software unuseable. And would send out said URL to other friends surreptitiously, which is why my friends have seen even less of me of late online. So I said, what the hey, my computer's been damn slow of late, so I may as well just re-boot the entire thing.

The thing is, HP, from the goodness of its soul, decided that it would save some of my data already in my computer. So I still have remnants of past applications - though I suspect most of them to be just empty shells. And that means that the darned virus may still be in hiding somewhere, in there. Because truth be told my computer isn't working as well as it should. Damn, damn, damn. Oh, damn.

Another thing: As all things in life must go, it doesn't rain but it pours. Well that is a malapropism, because really what is happening is a GOOD thing. Ok before I get ahead of myself - I have been offered a job, and have another interview for another coming up next Friday. But I do want that other job job pretty badly, and I know that this is pretty much the window in my life I'll be able to get it, so I shall have to reject the nice HR personnel that will call me up on Monday. HR personnel, this is gonna hurt me more than it hurts you.

Alright, I have run out of time on my cousin's computer. Til later.

Dilly Dalliance

I missed my tuition session with my cousin today because I was late leaving my place (Chye, I blame you for this because you called me!), and so now I'm at home, in limbo for the next half-hour or so before I leave the flat for my next assignment - Test-driving L'Oreal hair products! Hey, someone has to do it.

It's a deal I got from one of the girls I met at the mysterious interviews I've been going to, and apparantly, at the end of the one-week test period, I will receive $30 worth of L'Oreal hair products. Woo~hoo! Too bad I didn't snag the deal by virtue of the fact of how famous I've become due to my internet exposure (unlike another fellow blogger I shall not name), or else I'll bet I'll be getting more than what I've been promised in exchange. Ah well, one shouldn't lament one's position too much. It ain't bad really, though I'd much rather receive cash. (Who wouldn't?)

Now I know my blogs have been getting fewer and farther between, and the content more and more mundane. I can't help it! I'm a jobless slacker. I hope, however, that all this will change soon, once I get through that last interview with management and sign on the dotted line.

And I wish I have some interesting new photos to post, but the fact is I've been home vegetating in front of movies and various reality/documentary series playing on my screen. I've just finished the first series of the fantastically bo liao but hilariously funny Mythbusters, currently playing on Discovery Channel. In it, the hosts do all sorts of stupid, money-wasting things, like finding out if the engine of a 747 can blow a car over (it can), if the daddy longlegs is actually the deadliest spider alive (it isn't), whether running or walking in the rain will get you wetter (it's running to them, but inconclusive to me) and if a duck's quack actually echoes (it does). Most of the things they do on the show are total time-wasters, but it's so funny to watch, I'm hooked! Imagine going through 45 days of trouble just to find out if golfish have a memory of more than 3 seconds, or putting your life on the line trying to prove that escape from the waters of Alcatraz is actually possible. The infinite amount of care and consideration put into recreating these myths are laudable, while watching their sheer delight in duplicating them (when the myth doesn't work, but they want to see the results anyway), most times to dramatic effect (cue plenty of explosions) is pure entertainment.

And now, I reckon I have said more than enough on the subject. 'Nuff random typing.

How Incredibly Bimbotic

I'm so freaking tired. How tired? I trust this anecdote shall suffice: After today's interview session, my potential colleagues-to-be and I headed off to Mos Burger for a bite and some chit-chat. I ordered their garlic and lemon fried mussels - focusing on the delightful tastes the first two ingredients would bring on, and totally blocking out the word "mussels". It is a strict rule I follow that organisms that are basically muscles growing in a shell are not food. No, not even the mighty abalone can sway me. Yet I felt very happy with my order up until the point that it arrived, and one of my companions asked me what it was I was having. The moment the "M" word came out of my mouth, the gears in my head finally clicked. Luckily, the order was so hot and my tomato sauce so well-used as a dip that all I could really make out of the taste was - breadcrumbs. The same cannot be said of the rubbery texture, unfort. No amount of frying will take that away. So I just bit, chewed, and swallowed really quickly, like you see contestents on Fear Factor do.

Right. With that out of the way: I made it through to the FINAL round of interviews to be held in the middle of next month. Yes, it is unbelieveably coveted.

House-Louse

I did some exercise today! By no matter of coincidence, I did some housework *gasp* voluntarily today too. I scrubbed, vacuumed and mopped. Worked up the closest I'd been to sweating since, oh, a month ago. I know, I'm so lazy with exercise! If I had the money though, I'd buy a pair of blades. For now it has to remain on my wishlist, together with an iPod, lasik and braces (in order of cost).

Speaking of housework, my many months of parking in front of the computer (and next to my window) has alerted me to a guy who's vying for the "Exemplar Househusband of the Year" Award. He's from the block behind mine (and because our kitchens are face-to-face, our block is behind his, too), and I've seen him on various occasions, bringing in the laudry, yakking on the phone like an Auntie as well as cleaning the kitchen windows. Imagine what else he does around the house, out of my sight! Let's see, what other exemplary husbands are there in my life? There was my grandad, who cooked our meals, my dad, who tidies the house, and The Boyfriend's dad, who mops the floor. Ooh ooh and there's my uncle(-in-law), who does the laundry! And the best part is, my aunt is a housewife. That really takes the cake, for me.

Well enough of my thinking-out-loudness. For those not yet in the know, I'm up for another round of interviews this Thursday. Don't ask me what job it is - I intend to bitch about it and I don't want to be slapped with any fine, jailterm or notice letter telling me to scoot.

Fashion Friday

So I was doing my thing, reading Life! (and as always, skipping the main newspaper itself) while drinking my day's first glass of water (Daddy says it helps to cleanse the system). Then I came across a picture bearing the likeness of these two people:

accompanied by the headline "Odd fellows". The picture was taken on the runway of John Galliano's Spring ready-to-wear collection, best summed up in this droll single-sentence paragraph:

"The models were chosen for their unusual physical attributes. But instead of selecting only aberrantly tall young women who weigh 50kg, there were beanpole men, tiny old folks, models with jet-black skin or who were as pale as an albino."

(An aside: I also found the same article online, only with slight changes here and there. I suppose what we got was a version edited to suit the version of English - "50kg" instead of "110 pounds" - used as well as dumbing down in culture-specificity - "yard-long, auburn dreadlocks " omiting the following "who looked like a Rastafarian Rumpelstiltskin". Oh another possible, more probable reason, for its practicality - word limit.)

But the article wasn't just reporting the rarity of such a fashion show. The question was two-fold: what message was it trying to send? And: what message did it ultimately send out?

On the surface, it seemed like a celebration of diversity, something flippantly acknowledged by Style.com's reporter: "(t)his season, his roll-up, roll-up fashion sideshow had a moral: Everybody's beautiful; live and let live; respect one another—that sort of thing." But these people were dressed up and walking down a runway show designed to convey a carnival, sideshow-esque atmosphere. The reactions of the audience was even more revealing, according to the author of the article. Laughing, frowning and shifting uncomfortably, no one really knew how to react.

My interest piqued, I decided to check out more of the photos. And what surprised me more was how natural-looking some of the non-models looked, compared to the professionals.

Sure, Mr Sage looks out of place in his bright yellow-and-red wise man costume, but at least he doesn't look like his head was a former peanut, transplanted onto an otherwise dead body.

And look how glam and goddess-like this Bottecelli lady is:

Or how distinguished this lady looks:

Okay, this one is kinda gross, but once again, old man looks normal and totally happy to be there. Model looks... well, blank.:

On a related note, I have a contention to make against Urban's feature of good-looking people: either devote more space to it, or cut back down to one good-looker per week. Although I know there are many good-looking people to be found on our shores, for sure, it's a waste when the people whose fashion sense you applaud are so small I can hardly see what the big deal is. Or worse, have an opposing opinion.

I was extremely tempted to do a blow-by-blow of what I thought of the people they featured, and in fact started to do so, but realised that my remarks were much too scathing to merit being posted. After all, these people are normal folks like you and me, so it's not fair that they get lambasted for all and sundry to read about just because I don't agree with Urban's choice.

Shopping Woes

As I have already announced to most people, there is an Important Interview coming up this Saturday, for which I went out to buy a new dress (yay! Legitimate reason to shop!). However, in my elation at finding a decent, nice-looking dress at an affordable price ($58.80, pictured below, from M)phosis), I neglected to take into account the fact that the interview venue would probably, in a show of how much money it has that it could turn the place into a mini-replica of the North pole, be invariably of the freeze-one's-nipples-off variety.

And so off I marched to get me a nice nipple-warmer (not discounting areolae, shoulders and arms, of course). But damn, I went with the wrong kinda shopping partner. Although it is imperative that you get a friend who will tell you honestly if you're looking like a bag lady or her favourite couch, this does not mean that you want someone so brutally blunt that it could shatter your painstakingly built up confidence - or bravado, if you want to be specific - with a simple "you need more lift" (gesture with hands in the chest area) upon setting eyes on the above-pictured dress which I put on together with the shrug I was test-driving. And that I'm-not-too-sure-about-that-dress look he was giving me? Withering.

It was even more humiliating that said friend uttered this within the earshot of shoppers, salesgirls and tag-along friend (his, not mine) alike. And the straw which broke this camel's back?

"You should wear a maximiser™ along with the dress". I was wearing a bloody maximiser™! And I told him, using all the effort in my entire being not to turn a bright tomato-red or die of embarrassment, whichever came first.

At another shop, while I was trying on a cropped cardigan, he told me that I should fasten only the lower of the two buttons. This I found weird, and in bad taste, but which I did to prove so. His response? "You need to pull the top down." By that time I'd already hastily undid the button. Tag-along friend (who, by the way, was very nice and did not complain once even though I very inconsiderately ploughed through two or three shops with full knowledge that he hadn't had dinner yet, and was hungry. I apologise, tag-along friend. But in my defence - I did suggest that he and my friend go off an eat their dinner first (I didn't really need them anyway). But of course they were too polite to take up my offer.) also was of the same opinion as me, so imagine my disbelief when he said "that'll make your boobs look bigger, mah".

At that point in time, I think I totally shut him off, and as such did not realise when he said my ass looked big in one cardigan, nor was I aware that I responded with a "shut up". Later on that night he told me he was very hurt at what I said, and I was - and still am - dreadfully sorry. It's just that my mouth sometimes moves too fast for my brain.

Disclaimer: I am in no way dissing my friend, whom I know was speaking with the best intentions. My point is that there are certain people (i.e. men) whom you should never go shopping with, not because they are mean and nasty, but because they'll unwittingly crush your fragile ego (and by "you" I mean me, not you of course, ohwonderfulreader). Oh and by the way, if I sound at all upset, I really am not. Anymore. But looking back, it was rather funny, so that's why I decided to blog about it. Friend, if ever you read this, do not be offended! I love you and I know you meant well.

Anyway, I ended up buying the Lower-Button-Only cardi - actually, I don't know what to call it. And, at $69.90 (Esprit, below), was considerably more expensive than my dress.

Also, people, I still do think I look rather chic in the dress. So no need to leave ego-boosting comments, bless your souls.

Edit (16th October 2005, 12.58am): And just so I can prove it, this is me, in my best model-esque pose (read: lousy - see fat oozing out my left underarm). Oh by the way the interview went well! I hope I get the job.

A Truly Frivolous Post

Oh man I got all excited for nothing.

I was going to ask you guys to compare this photo:

(Taken in June this year, and first seen in this entry.)

With this:




Specifically, to compare me and my friend Huiz (i.e. the only girl besides myself to appear in both photos).

When I initially posted up the first photo, it was for the express purpose of lamenting my over-zealous melanin. Why couldn't I look as fair as her?! I wailed.

So, when I saw this photo (my camera battery went flat before I could have a good look at it on the spot), I saw a noticeable similiarity, in terms of skin tone, between Huiz's (this must be a grammatical blasphemy) and mine.

And the first thing I thought was, Wow! I must really write in to thank the good people at Garnier.

Then over the days, as I weighed the pros and cons of not writing anything or writing something totally crappy and narcissistic, I started to wonder if it was because I've not been in the sun much these days.

And today, when obviously the latter won out (and I blame my regular sources of blogs for this, because I had nothing very much to read, and so in my restlessness decided to be that something to read), I came to the sinking realisation that no, the miracle could really lie in that bottle of liquid foundation Lancôme so wonderfully concocted.

Woe is me.

But no! I shall not despair. Tomorrow, during our gathering, I shall take another picture with Huiz, sans make-up.

Edit: 101005

Tahda! The verdict's out. For anyone who's interested, the true me is somewhere in between the two Mollys you saw above. But then again, as my dearest Huiz had to tell me, it could be simply 'cause she has turned a few shades tanner over past few months. Sigh. Oh well.

Oh yes, a disclaimer. I am not by any means obsessed about turning into a white sheet, people! I just write about it because it seemed like a funny thing to write about at that time, and the follow-up seems to be in order to, for continuity's sake.

Why, Hello There!

I see you have found your way here! Yes, I finally had enough of my incongrous URL, so now I'm here, at http://msmollycoddle.blogspot.com. My old URL had been bugging me for some time, so on the spur of the moment, I decided enough was enough. Shouldn't make too much of a difference though, just an effort on my part to make this blog more coherent, in a sense.

My first choice, http://mollycoddle.blogspot.com, had already been taken up. So I chose this one and, out of curiousity, decided to check out my virtual doppelgänger, who appeared to be a then-14-year-old girl who hated Algebra, had a crush on a guy who only had eyes on the most popular girl in Science class, and who had a noticeable problem with knowing when to use that elusive apostrophe mark. Ah, the angst of being a teen. Besides the similiarity in blog-address tastes (ie. wry humour, or so I hope) however, she also thinks of herself as a poseur. And was fretting over possible career choices. How serendipitous! And, get this - her last entry was on November 13, 2002, consisting of a cryptic "xczzxcvcxz". Intriguing.

And may I gently remind: Update your bookmark!

What the Jobless (And Still-Schoolers) Do to Idle Their Time Away

Well! On hindsight, it's just as well that I haven't had time to post - if I did I'd prolly have updated more photos than was prudent. Now, you guys get the pick of the best:

Did I mention? An afro perm wasn't the only thing that I got when I travelled back in time. I also picked up that stoned look.

Yes, I do believe I saw those, when I wasn't too busy keeping my hair out of my eyes. The only difference was, they weren't in glass cases and people got blisters from them every now and then.

Okay, so I fibbed when I said the two of us were pretty much quiet in the library. We were caught by the librarian; and while I was ready to turn-tail and make a run for it, Adrian was too busy making eyes at her.

But I eventually managed to drag him outta there, where he proceeded to try and coax me out of my mood. I mean, really, that guy...

Well, he found a way, alright. Yanked him out of his comfort zone behind the camera.

At first he was kinda stiff....

But, as I found out later, it was just a matter of finding the right props...

And Voila! Turned him into a little boy again.

In other news:

Well, other news is for another blog post, right? To be honest, I'm too tired to type already. Enjoy this one for now.

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.