On a random childhood memory

I remember when we were younger, whenever my dad was fixing something, be it the sink, the car, the garden, the pond, pretty much everything, my mum, my sister and myself would try to make ourselves scarce. Really scarce. It wasn't a terribly big house, and yet we managed it. For a while. Till we'd hear him holler blue murder and be forced to come out of our hidey holes.

Why'd we hide? Because the moment he sees you, he'd instruct you. Bring me hammer. Bring me screwdriver. No, not this one, the smaller one. No, no, the flat one. Hold this up.

Then you'd end up standing there, holding a pipe or a wire or the chair he was standing on for a good half an hour before he'd say OK, let go, only to be asked to hold another inane object for the next half hour.

Which is why god gave us women and men who aren't very handy at home repairmen. If he wanted us to fix something ourselves, he'd have given us three arms and the patience of Hiroo Onoda.

Hiroo Onoda, the Jap soldier who didn't receive the memo that WWII was over till 1975. Epitome of sheer discipline and patience.

On nicknames

I think most of us have childhood nicknames we'd rather forget, till we meet that childhood friend or obnoxious relative (like me!) who would rather die than to let you forget it. Especially us Chinese, who seem to lack ALL political correctness and give each other insulting nicknames.

I have a cousin, he has a proper name and all, and he's all grown up now, but everytime I see him, I never fail to embarrass him by calling him "Ah Boy". It pretty much sends him back to being 12 and covered in snot. Best thing is, we went to the same university, so imagine him walking along the foyer, all popular and hip, girlfriend in hand, surrounded by groupies. Then somewhere from far behind him, someone shouts, "AH BOY!!!!!" Oh I truly enjoyed the pure embarrassment on his face as he turned to acknowledge me. If I were him, I would have just ignored me and ran the hell out of there, but he's a nice guy and all, and he wouldn't bully his cousin this way. I think this is the mildest nickname of all, albeit a little childish.

Then there's my neighbour, Kevin. We grew up together, buddies and all, and we used to call him "Ang Tua". It's Hainanese for leader or something, except that somehow, the term brings to my mind the image of a turtle. I blame him for it. A more degrading nickname for him was "Mong Kang", which meant something like fool in Hainanese. I still occasionally call him that. Why all the Hainanese nicknames? Because he's Hainanese.

One of the best nicknames for another childhood friend would be "Or Too", which means Black Pig. Why? Because he used to be chubby (think he still is), and he has a very dark complexion. Until today, I still think of him as Or Too, although I have since discovered that his real name is Kenny. He's getting married too, I think. Wonder what his wife would think if she found out his husband used to go by the name Or Too.

And my list of childhood nicknames: "Kau Ka Cheng," which sorta means little destroyer. Then there's "Ito Tan," 'ito" meaning to play, because I didn't really like going to school and all, preferring to play with Ang Tua and my toys. "Junior," which Ang Tua used to call me because I think he had a problem pronouncing his Ls. And, probably the most embarrasing one, "Ah Gu," which means cow, because I was born in the year of the ox. Sometimes accompanied by a low moo-ing. Most used by Or Too, I suspect in revenge for calling him a pig. A black one, at that.

On Su Tong

The moment I open Raise the Red Lantern, I feel like crying and slitting my wrists. That's what it does to me. I ought to stay away from Su Tong.

Just for the sake of updating my blog.

Anyway, if you feel like falling into a fit of depression, try Su Tong's Raise the Red Lantern. My god, it sure as hell puts me into a mood.

On being awkward with people I hardly know

I am quite a shy person, really. Refer to below post about making the first move. It doesn't have to be a romantic first move, even friendly first moves have me tongue-tied and unable to make coherent sentences.

Here's an example. Earlier today, I was waiting for the lift with a colleague in the same department. I have never said more than a sporadic 'Hi' to him. The lift arrives. We enter. There is the silence no grave can match. Best thing is, our office lift takes a millenia to move. We wait. I give no inkling that I acknowledge his existence. I stare at the panel that indicates the floor number with the interest one would give when watching George Clooney doing karma sutra position #14 with Scarlet Johanssen. Then suddenly, Colleague decides to make a chirpy first move, despite the fact that more than three minutes have elapsed from the time we waited for the lift to the time we actually entered it.

Colleague: Hi, Julia!

Julia: Ohai.

Julia looks at the floor and shifts her feet in embarrassment.

Colleague: How are you?

Julia: Fine, thanks.

A second passes by painfully.

Julia: (mumbling) The weather... haze. (Points at the ceiling of the lift)

Colleague: (Didn't catch the last bit about haze because Julia was swallowing her tongue) Oh yes, very hot.

Julia: (Very uncertain about what to do now) Yes, also got haze... (Points at the ceiling of the lift again)

Colleague: Ya, today very bad.

Julia: Ya, today is the worst.

Finally, sweet finally, the doors open and we walk out, both hurriedly. I suppose my awkwardness is infectious. As we part, I half-turn to him and say at an audible level suitable for a mole, 'See ya', and walk to my cube where I proceeded to dig a hole and die inside.

On piano classes

I hated piano classes. My parents forced me to take them, and for 12 years, I endured it. My piano teacher hated my guts, swear to god. I, to her, was a fork in her eye. She, to me, was a toadstool growing from my anus.

And I still don't know why my parents forced me to it. I threw tantrums, I cried, I tried to murder the piano, and yet they prevailed. They said, once you start something, you have to finish it. I took the exam for Grade 8 twice. I failed twice. Only then did they say, 'Fine, enough.'

They didn't get the idea that I just wasn't any good at it. My left hand and my right hand were at war with each other. They just weren't synchronized when it came to those ivory and ebony keys. Scales? More like Prelude to the Apocalypse. I had no rhythm, I was very bad at memorizing notes, and I tended to play Fortissimo even when the piano sheet screamed Pianissimo.

It didn't help that my piano teacher, a spinster in her forties (at that time) truly loathed me. She'd hit me with a ruler she kept on her side of the piano. She'd hit me right at the knuckles, the loathsome bitch. She whack my back if my posture wasn't straight enough. She'd air her armpits and flap them with one hand, making phap-ing noises (honest to goodness, she'd do that). She'd shout at me in front of everyone, and she once commented that I was turning into a boy because I cut my hair really short. What did that have to do with playing the piano? Political correctness, some? Lost on her. She, too, endured me for 12 years, a student with absolutely no interest in what she was teaching. Perhaps that was why she hated me. Blame my parents!

Looking back, I'm thankful that I'm able to read notes. I've forgotten a lot of what was taught, especially those alto clefs and whatnot, but I'm still able to read a sheet when I see one. During my heydays, I was able to play Richard Clayderman's Ballade Pour Adeline by heart, and I'm still able to play the intro to Beethoven's Sonata Quasi Una Fantasia (aka Moonlight Sonata) without looking at the sheet. I'm bragging now, I know. So yes, I'm thankful to be able to read notes, but am I thankful for 12 years of agony? Hell no.

On making the first move

It's not that I don't want to make the first move when I see a cute guy, it's just that I'm not goddamn bold enough. I'm actually quite bashful, even more so when I meet people for the first time.

(Disclaimer: Only when I'm sober. When I've had some to drink, I can talk Chong's head off and meet the randomest strangers)

So last Saturday, I had dinner with my mum and my aunt. We walked to a nearby kopitiam, and on the way back, we decided to stop by at 7-11 because my mum wanted to buy some drinks.

Lo and behold, there was a cute guy paying at the counter. He was tall, a bit Japper-looking, complete with a biker hat and man-boots. Sexy. Boy, could he pull it off.

And by jove, he was looking at me. I don't know if this was because I'm naturally hot, or because of the outfit I was wearing. I had on my bright red singlet which I use to go to the gym with, and my blue and red Hawaiian bermudas which I use to go to sleep with. (Refer to an earlier post in which I mentioned that I am able to go out in my pajamas. Here is one occasion I absolutely regret having done so). I kid you not. That was what I was wearing.

I suppose I should have attempted to smile, but I was afraid he might mistake me for a panda (I had absolutely no make-up on, zilch). And so, he walked out after paying, leaving me staring longingly whilst he zipped past in a black Honda City.

Yes, yes, I know I should have smiled. Making the first move shouldn't be equated to skinning oneself with a rusty spoon or taping one's eyes open for 78 hours.

So I did, today. I saw a cute guy at Borders (an intelligent hottie, how exquisite!). Although he smiled first, at least I didn't immediately turn away and ask to be excused while I run to the nearest toilet to barf out of anxiety. I smiled back :)

SPAT

I'm thinking of starting a Single People Alone Together club (a rip-off of About A Boy's Single Parents Alone Together club). It's where we single people come together and drink and smoke and socialize (so if you don't drink and you're anal about smokers, fuck off and start your own SPAT).

We'll meet up every weekend and try out pubs and clubs and bistros and cafes, and have witty, slap-stick, funny, and sometimes intelligent conversations, and basically have a good time (minus the emo-ness, you can join an emo single people club for that). What say you? Are you in?

Oh, by the way, the chances of getting laid are very minimal. For that, you probably have to start your own We Only Want Sex (WOWS) club.

How addicted are you to Angry Birds?

Do you actually feel like staying home on weekends just to play Angry Birds? This means forgoing your miserable social life just so that you can launch birds on little green pigs.

Do you feel like pulling your hair out, throwing your phone on the floor, and stomping on it whenever someone texts you whilst you are playing Angry Birds (especially when you've just launched a bird that has the ability to shit a bomb or split into three useless tinier versions of itself)? Not to mention an intense urge to go to the person who texted you to kick him/her in the shin.

Either I'm very addicted to Angry Birds, or I've got anti-social & anger issues.

Men and hardware shops

Disclaimer: I'm speaking in general. One broom sweeps all.

When men enter hardware shops, their eyes light up as though they see Megan Fox naked. Honestly. Like how I am drawn to a nail bar or a shoe shop, there's this magnetic pull which draws my dad (I go window-shopping with him every week) into the hardware shop in Queensbay Mall. I try to avoid the wing with the damn shop. If unavoidable, I follow him in equipped with enough yawns to last me a year. Yes, he can stay in the place, enraptured, for hours.

Drills, paint, screws, nuts, bolts, hammers, brushes, and a plethora of hoses and watchamacallits. I view these objects with the disdain a cat shows bowl of salad. If I could, I'd pay someone to change my goddamn lightbulb. Leaking tap? Put a bucket underneath. Shaky chair? Buy a goddamn new one. I'm practical that way.

Now, if I were a man for a day...

First thing I'd do, I'd fondle my genitals, naturally. I mean, come on. It would be impossible to resist the urge to stick my hands down my pants to check if the plumbing works. You know, spank the monkey, stroke the dolphin, tickle the gorilla, and whatever else animal associated with self-appeasement.

Next thing I'd do, I'd walk into the gent's. It's always fascinated me, how men can pee next to each other in the open. Yeah sure there's this itsy bitsy little urinal sidepiece, which serves as much purpose as Paris Hilton's panties.

Back to the topic. I'd take a piss. Next to another guy. And peep at him. Good god. I suppose I'd have to prepare to run like hell if he decides to be offended.

Oh wait, now that I'm a guy, I can get into fights because my physique (I'm imagining being turned into a fit, 6'2" male with badass facial hair) would allow me to better take hits. I'd probably get into a fight, just for the fun of it. I always tell my mum anyway that if I were born a guy, I'd probably be covered with battle scars.

Then I'd go to the nearest KTV lounge and pick a companion. I'd like to know how it feels to be served hand and foot by an illegal sex worker. Apparently they'd even feed you, how nice. After the party is over, I'd pay her extra to fornicate.

Ooh, I'd also like to know how it would feel like to sit with my legs crossed, you know, testicles and all.

This post is rather vulgar, isn't it? I think I should post warnings at the beginning.