Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Karma...
Don't really care anymore. When you are with me, you might as well not be; when you aren't, it doesn't matter because I'm so used to being alone anyway. Life is so fucking lonely with or without you. You don't make any difference. I want to sleep happy every night. But you make me scared of this world I live in. I am scared to love and I am scared to be alone. I am scared to hope and I am scared to trust. I am scared of everything and you fucking made it that way. I want you to care. I want you to read all this and see how I feel. I want you to know how I feel so you will stop being this way. But fuck you. You love me you love me you miss me you want me. Yet you do not give a shit. You don't give a fucking shit. Despite everything you put me through you don't give a fucking shit.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Old woman
I think I'll probably age terribly ungracefully. I'll morph into an ugly old woman with loose jowls and sagging eyelids. I don't think I'll have many wrinkles because I have fat face, not thin face, and fat-faced people don't get lines. They get dangly skin that hangs off their crumbling cheekbones and receding chins.
I think I'll get more bitter and bitter as the days pass. It'll just be me and Facebook every day, peering at all my friends who don't know that I'm snooping on their private lives. I'll look into photo albums titled "Why I Love My Wife" and see pictures of family holidays on the beach in Perth--sexy dada, hot mama and tottering three-year-old playing with the waves.
I'll eat bread with Haagan Daz ice cream and look through profiles of friends who used to be friends but who are now mere acquaintances. And I'll click on each photo, each status update with dread, because any hint of love or happiness will make me tear with hopelessness since I know I've missed my chance.
I'll try my darndest best to find a male Rylai, someone just like me. But I'm resigned to the stark reality that no one quite like that exists out there. Or maybe he does, but I am getting older everyday, and men are fucked up animals who want pretty young things with rosy cheeks and bouncy butts. Today I am 31. Tomorrow I will be 40. And then I will be 50.
And if I find my male Rylai at 50, I won't be quite the Rylai that I am today. He might put me in a bareback wedding gown and slip a ring over my finger, answer all my phonecalls and be there when I need him. But I won't be the stunning bride the little girls all want to be. I will not saunter down the red carpet, arrogant that everybody is only too envious of me; I will be an old woman with blotchy skin. I will need help hobbling down the aisle, and I'll be so hard of hearing I'll need help repeating those wedding vows.
I try to find hope in Monkey everyday. But I do not dare to hope too much because I know how much he'll disappoint. What I want is love and stability, but the little boy still wants to play. I really do not know how much longer I can wait before I give up totally. And then I'll become the old woman, the old woman who only wants to live in a shoe, who had so many missed hopes and so many lost dreams, that now, she didn't know what to do.
I think I'll get more bitter and bitter as the days pass. It'll just be me and Facebook every day, peering at all my friends who don't know that I'm snooping on their private lives. I'll look into photo albums titled "Why I Love My Wife" and see pictures of family holidays on the beach in Perth--sexy dada, hot mama and tottering three-year-old playing with the waves.
I'll eat bread with Haagan Daz ice cream and look through profiles of friends who used to be friends but who are now mere acquaintances. And I'll click on each photo, each status update with dread, because any hint of love or happiness will make me tear with hopelessness since I know I've missed my chance.
I'll try my darndest best to find a male Rylai, someone just like me. But I'm resigned to the stark reality that no one quite like that exists out there. Or maybe he does, but I am getting older everyday, and men are fucked up animals who want pretty young things with rosy cheeks and bouncy butts. Today I am 31. Tomorrow I will be 40. And then I will be 50.
And if I find my male Rylai at 50, I won't be quite the Rylai that I am today. He might put me in a bareback wedding gown and slip a ring over my finger, answer all my phonecalls and be there when I need him. But I won't be the stunning bride the little girls all want to be. I will not saunter down the red carpet, arrogant that everybody is only too envious of me; I will be an old woman with blotchy skin. I will need help hobbling down the aisle, and I'll be so hard of hearing I'll need help repeating those wedding vows.
I try to find hope in Monkey everyday. But I do not dare to hope too much because I know how much he'll disappoint. What I want is love and stability, but the little boy still wants to play. I really do not know how much longer I can wait before I give up totally. And then I'll become the old woman, the old woman who only wants to live in a shoe, who had so many missed hopes and so many lost dreams, that now, she didn't know what to do.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
In Anchorage...
Anchorage isn't as cold as I thought it would be. In fact, I'm waiting for the bus to town out in the supposedly chilly zero degree temperature, and apart from the slight numbness that's creeping into my toes thanks to my not-so-waterproof boots, I'm actually liking the cold quite a bit. I make patterns in the snow by clumping around in my chunky shoes. I shift my scarf around a little bit so the wind doesn't get in my neck, and I pull my woollen cap down over my ears so my lobes don't start to redden up and tingle.
I suppose I'm happy. I'm going to meet the Monkey, and it's kind of exciting, I think. It's snowing over here. There are giant snowflakes swirling around in the air, just like fluffy bits of whipped cream that have just been blown off a wedding cake. The trees are naked because they have no more leaves, but layers of snow frosting have formed on their straggly branches, framed by delicate chandeliers of shiny icicles that dangle precariously from the sides.
It's too pretty. And I am going to meet my Monkey.
He is standing in the dark, crouched and huddled over in a corner by the Visitor's Centre. He sees me and the first thing he says is, I am so cold. I put my arms around him and we hug. It's been three weeks since Chicago and all we've had since then are hurried phonecalls and delayed text messages because of the horrible time difference. I grab him really tight but it's kinda hard. There are too many layers of clothes. All I can feel is the bulkiness of wool; all I can smell is the musky odour of leather. No fat Monkey belly, no smelly Monkey smell.
He stomps his feet like a little child. Why did you take so long, he says. I haven't seen you in three weeks, and also, it's so cold.
Wuss, I say. You're such a wimp. Look at me. One shirt, one sweater and one coat and I feel perfectly fine. I run out into the open, arms stretched out to the sides, strutting nonchalantly out into the winter cold.
He picks up some snow on the ground and he flings it at my face. I duck. He bends down once more and starts hurling bits of snow at me. I run. But then I trip and fall right into a little mound of icy white and the Monkey catches up with me. He picks up a huge handful of snow and stuffs it down my coat. Now, I am wet everywhere, shivering from the cold with a huge lump of snow melting steadily away against my warm stomach.
Now, it's my turn to stomp my feet and whine while he points at me and laughs. Wuss, he says. You're such a wimp. And then he sprints away.
Last one to Snow City Cafe pays for breakfast, he yells.
So we both start running in the Anchorage snow, past people going to work, and kids going to school. I try my best, but I have short legs while he used to be a national school runner. And by the time I reach, he's already standing warm and toasty inside the cafe, waving at me through the glass windows and making faces at me.
We order oatmeal and bacon and eggs, orange juice, coffee and other horribly American breakfast things that are way too much for two little Asian people. The bill comes up to US$60. We've spent more than 80 Singapore dollars on breakfast. Unbelievable. I take out my wallet to pay. But Monkey swats my head. Don't be stupid lah, he says. You have no money, lah. I pay.
We walk out of the cafe and head back to the hotel. And I'm left wondering why, why, why. We've always had something so happy and so real, and he chose somehow to let it go.
I suppose I'm happy. I'm going to meet the Monkey, and it's kind of exciting, I think. It's snowing over here. There are giant snowflakes swirling around in the air, just like fluffy bits of whipped cream that have just been blown off a wedding cake. The trees are naked because they have no more leaves, but layers of snow frosting have formed on their straggly branches, framed by delicate chandeliers of shiny icicles that dangle precariously from the sides.
It's too pretty. And I am going to meet my Monkey.
He is standing in the dark, crouched and huddled over in a corner by the Visitor's Centre. He sees me and the first thing he says is, I am so cold. I put my arms around him and we hug. It's been three weeks since Chicago and all we've had since then are hurried phonecalls and delayed text messages because of the horrible time difference. I grab him really tight but it's kinda hard. There are too many layers of clothes. All I can feel is the bulkiness of wool; all I can smell is the musky odour of leather. No fat Monkey belly, no smelly Monkey smell.
He stomps his feet like a little child. Why did you take so long, he says. I haven't seen you in three weeks, and also, it's so cold.
Wuss, I say. You're such a wimp. Look at me. One shirt, one sweater and one coat and I feel perfectly fine. I run out into the open, arms stretched out to the sides, strutting nonchalantly out into the winter cold.
He picks up some snow on the ground and he flings it at my face. I duck. He bends down once more and starts hurling bits of snow at me. I run. But then I trip and fall right into a little mound of icy white and the Monkey catches up with me. He picks up a huge handful of snow and stuffs it down my coat. Now, I am wet everywhere, shivering from the cold with a huge lump of snow melting steadily away against my warm stomach.
Now, it's my turn to stomp my feet and whine while he points at me and laughs. Wuss, he says. You're such a wimp. And then he sprints away.
Last one to Snow City Cafe pays for breakfast, he yells.
So we both start running in the Anchorage snow, past people going to work, and kids going to school. I try my best, but I have short legs while he used to be a national school runner. And by the time I reach, he's already standing warm and toasty inside the cafe, waving at me through the glass windows and making faces at me.
We order oatmeal and bacon and eggs, orange juice, coffee and other horribly American breakfast things that are way too much for two little Asian people. The bill comes up to US$60. We've spent more than 80 Singapore dollars on breakfast. Unbelievable. I take out my wallet to pay. But Monkey swats my head. Don't be stupid lah, he says. You have no money, lah. I pay.
We walk out of the cafe and head back to the hotel. And I'm left wondering why, why, why. We've always had something so happy and so real, and he chose somehow to let it go.
Buried too deep
Shit tends to happen all at once--have you noticed?
You'd like it to come bit by bit so you can handle it one at at a time, but no. Shit just has this funny way of dumping a whole load of itself on you when you are at your least able to clean up the mess.
Life. Hmm. Lots of fun.
Hur hur.
You'd like it to come bit by bit so you can handle it one at at a time, but no. Shit just has this funny way of dumping a whole load of itself on you when you are at your least able to clean up the mess.
Life. Hmm. Lots of fun.
Hur hur.
Bills are mounting
I don't know where I'm going to find the extra cash. But whether I decide to swallow my pride and ask my Mama for more money, borrow from my brother or put it down on my credit card and see myself go into more debt, I'm going to have to get the money somehow.
Vet bills here are so expensive, and if it were something that didn't look too serious, I'd probably sit it out in my room and hope it'd go away. But Misha's been dripping blood since two days ago. It's not very much, but blood is never a good sign, especially since she was just in heat three months ago. The vet put her through the whole range of tests, from Xrays to blood tests and ultrasounds, and by the time they let me go home, I was $500 poorer.
The best part? They aren't really all that sure. The reason why she's dripping blood from her privates could be due to a simple case of vaginitis. Or it could be a urinary tract infection that clears up with antibiotics. But then, it could also be pyometra, which is a life-threatening infection of the uterus.
I was sent home with some antibiotics and instructions to watch the dog. For the past couple of days, I have been sniffing her private parts for bad smells that could indicate pus discharge, dipping tissues in her pee to examine for colour, and then holding up the same stained tissues to my nose to detect any odd odours that might point to a worsening infection somewhere up in my poor dog's reproductive system.
I've given the antibiotics two days to show results, but nothing seems to be happening. She is still having a watery, bloody discharge, and I think she might need that operation to remove her infected womb and other reproductive bits after all.
Still, I am so reluctant to jump to the conclusion that she's seriously ill because the silly dog seems perfectly fine. She's still as greedy as ever and has a healthy appetite. She wants to play all the time, even at four in the morning. She's the same old annoying, silly little dog that snorts and farts and snores and I don't understand how she could be as sick as the vet says she may be.
Vet bills here are so expensive, and if it were something that didn't look too serious, I'd probably sit it out in my room and hope it'd go away. But Misha's been dripping blood since two days ago. It's not very much, but blood is never a good sign, especially since she was just in heat three months ago. The vet put her through the whole range of tests, from Xrays to blood tests and ultrasounds, and by the time they let me go home, I was $500 poorer.
The best part? They aren't really all that sure. The reason why she's dripping blood from her privates could be due to a simple case of vaginitis. Or it could be a urinary tract infection that clears up with antibiotics. But then, it could also be pyometra, which is a life-threatening infection of the uterus.
I was sent home with some antibiotics and instructions to watch the dog. For the past couple of days, I have been sniffing her private parts for bad smells that could indicate pus discharge, dipping tissues in her pee to examine for colour, and then holding up the same stained tissues to my nose to detect any odd odours that might point to a worsening infection somewhere up in my poor dog's reproductive system.
I've given the antibiotics two days to show results, but nothing seems to be happening. She is still having a watery, bloody discharge, and I think she might need that operation to remove her infected womb and other reproductive bits after all.
Still, I am so reluctant to jump to the conclusion that she's seriously ill because the silly dog seems perfectly fine. She's still as greedy as ever and has a healthy appetite. She wants to play all the time, even at four in the morning. She's the same old annoying, silly little dog that snorts and farts and snores and I don't understand how she could be as sick as the vet says she may be.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Vanness Wu
The girl who lives next door was going on and on about this guy whose picture she had set as the wallpaper on her Mac.
I found out the guy's name is Vanness Wu.
He is by far one of the the goddamn ugliest men I've set eyes upon in my life. He has small eyes and a sickly white complexion. His long hair makes him look girly, not sexy. He has no muscles. He has no jaw. He simply looks like a leukemia patient who has spent most of his living years in a hospital bed subsisting on porridge and chives.
How he became a celebrity is quite puzzling. Why anybody would consider him a sex symbol is even more beyond me.
I think Mr Bean is sexier. At least no one would mistake him for a girl.
I found out the guy's name is Vanness Wu.
He is by far one of the the goddamn ugliest men I've set eyes upon in my life. He has small eyes and a sickly white complexion. His long hair makes him look girly, not sexy. He has no muscles. He has no jaw. He simply looks like a leukemia patient who has spent most of his living years in a hospital bed subsisting on porridge and chives.
How he became a celebrity is quite puzzling. Why anybody would consider him a sex symbol is even more beyond me.
I think Mr Bean is sexier. At least no one would mistake him for a girl.
Wine Guy
WineGuy steps into the wine shop and I do the same. I probably couldn't tell apart an Inniskillin from sweetened grape juice mixed with Jolly Shandy, but I figure standing around outside the shop doing nothing while WineGuy's browsing the collection inside would make me appear rude. So I follow his cue and step inside.
There's always something intimidating about being in shop that sells just wines. It's not like going into one of those bottle shops in Australia where you have to manouvre your way carefully around cluttered shelves and crowded chillers while the guy at the cashier yells out to you about a 10 for the price of eight special.
In these specialty wine shops, bottles are displayed neatly on wooden racks that have been arranged in parallel, straight rows and are decorated with faux, plastic leaves made to resemble those from a grape vine. These shops are, most of the time, furnished with little more than these racks plus an inconspicuous check out counter tucked somewhere in the corner of the room. The lighting is always dim, the music always soft and mostly of the classical variety, and, when approached, the owner of the shop will probably be most delighted to share which of the wines in his shop possess the "woody, spicy undertones" that would go perfectly with your stuffed wild mushroom black pepper encrusted tenderloin of beef with a balsamic vinegar reduction topped with a sweet sherry glazed foie gras served on a bed of rare arugula lettuce dressed with a delicate tarragon vinaigrette.
Wine shops always make you feel like you have to already be an expert to step inside. If not, then, well, places like that are probably just not the thing for you.
It is precisely how I feel as I trail behind WineGuy, trying my best to feel at home in a place that is clearly where I feel least at home. I see Merlots and Pinot Noirs; Chardonnays and Semillons. I see wines from Chile and South Africa and even more from France, Italy and Australia. I know they are different because of their names and regions of origin. I probably could tell they were different because some are red and some are white--actually not white, more like a really diluted pee colour--but other than that, well, you see... I'd rather have an Erdinger or a Guinness any day. I don't think wines are naturally my thing because I don't come from Europe where kids start drinking at the age of 11 (Lien, har har har), and beer at six bucks a can from 7-11 is decidedly cheaper than even a crap wine for $20 at NTUC Fairprice.
I know WineGuy already knows how much of a peasant I am when it comes to wines. But still, I hope that not being able to detect citrus scents and sweet, floral notes in a prized vintage wine does not make me the female equivalent of a P. I wouldn't want to be anybody's P. Hell, no. It would horrify me if WineGuy secretly went to the back of his restaurant kitchen and bitched about my ignorance with his executive and sous chefs.
It'd be nice to be someone's Monkey. But, fuck me! I don't want to be anybody's P.
As I pad around the shop, however, it becomes apparent to me that WineGuy probably doesn't even notice my discomfort. He's more interested in figuring out the logistics involved in transporting such a large quantity of wines. Once again, he's thinking more of work. Which is why I never really know for sure what's up with wine guy. Maybe he's just a very very busy man. Maybe the new restaurant overseas has just opened, times are bad, and being newly promoted, he needs to do what he can to prove himself.
We've been doing this careful waltz around each other for just under a year, and still it seems the dance has only just begun. I'd love to take it a little quicker, perhaps up the ante to a fiery samba or even just a lively little foxtrot. But there he is, taking dainty steps one at a time, twirling me round in pretty little circles so I'm left breathless and dizzy, wondering if maybe, it's because he just isn't that into me.
And now, I figure, it's not that he isn't interested.
It's really because he's more interested in work.
There's always something intimidating about being in shop that sells just wines. It's not like going into one of those bottle shops in Australia where you have to manouvre your way carefully around cluttered shelves and crowded chillers while the guy at the cashier yells out to you about a 10 for the price of eight special.
In these specialty wine shops, bottles are displayed neatly on wooden racks that have been arranged in parallel, straight rows and are decorated with faux, plastic leaves made to resemble those from a grape vine. These shops are, most of the time, furnished with little more than these racks plus an inconspicuous check out counter tucked somewhere in the corner of the room. The lighting is always dim, the music always soft and mostly of the classical variety, and, when approached, the owner of the shop will probably be most delighted to share which of the wines in his shop possess the "woody, spicy undertones" that would go perfectly with your stuffed wild mushroom black pepper encrusted tenderloin of beef with a balsamic vinegar reduction topped with a sweet sherry glazed foie gras served on a bed of rare arugula lettuce dressed with a delicate tarragon vinaigrette.
Wine shops always make you feel like you have to already be an expert to step inside. If not, then, well, places like that are probably just not the thing for you.
It is precisely how I feel as I trail behind WineGuy, trying my best to feel at home in a place that is clearly where I feel least at home. I see Merlots and Pinot Noirs; Chardonnays and Semillons. I see wines from Chile and South Africa and even more from France, Italy and Australia. I know they are different because of their names and regions of origin. I probably could tell they were different because some are red and some are white--actually not white, more like a really diluted pee colour--but other than that, well, you see... I'd rather have an Erdinger or a Guinness any day. I don't think wines are naturally my thing because I don't come from Europe where kids start drinking at the age of 11 (Lien, har har har), and beer at six bucks a can from 7-11 is decidedly cheaper than even a crap wine for $20 at NTUC Fairprice.
I know WineGuy already knows how much of a peasant I am when it comes to wines. But still, I hope that not being able to detect citrus scents and sweet, floral notes in a prized vintage wine does not make me the female equivalent of a P. I wouldn't want to be anybody's P. Hell, no. It would horrify me if WineGuy secretly went to the back of his restaurant kitchen and bitched about my ignorance with his executive and sous chefs.
It'd be nice to be someone's Monkey. But, fuck me! I don't want to be anybody's P.
As I pad around the shop, however, it becomes apparent to me that WineGuy probably doesn't even notice my discomfort. He's more interested in figuring out the logistics involved in transporting such a large quantity of wines. Once again, he's thinking more of work. Which is why I never really know for sure what's up with wine guy. Maybe he's just a very very busy man. Maybe the new restaurant overseas has just opened, times are bad, and being newly promoted, he needs to do what he can to prove himself.
We've been doing this careful waltz around each other for just under a year, and still it seems the dance has only just begun. I'd love to take it a little quicker, perhaps up the ante to a fiery samba or even just a lively little foxtrot. But there he is, taking dainty steps one at a time, twirling me round in pretty little circles so I'm left breathless and dizzy, wondering if maybe, it's because he just isn't that into me.
And now, I figure, it's not that he isn't interested.
It's really because he's more interested in work.
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