A letter to Casey Anthony
Dear Silly Woman,
Firstly, congratulations. You’ve brought the classic Singaporean/Malaysian condition to a whole new level. That’s right, acting stupid (or what we call “act blur”) and sticking to your story is actually working. In fact, it is the best legal defense you can have right now. Your lawyer knows it. You know it. We smart Malaysians and Singaporeans know it but cannot believe it because it is so obvious and most of us are probably wondering why you Americans make laws that let police officers paint themselves into a corner like this. Ku-fuckin’-dos.
But do you really want to go down in history as the irresponsible, few-fries-short-of-a-happy-meal chicken-shit mom who may or may not have done it, or Evil Party Girl who Deviously Murdered Her Child so She Could Date in Peace?
Seriously, think about it.
If you’re acquitted, either way, you will be nicely mobbed for the rest of your life. Wherever you move in the US, you’ll be recognized (don’t even bother changing your name, I mean, where are you going to go? Sarah Palin has already put Alaska on the map). Perhaps you can move to Malaysia or Singapore but if you decide to revert to your old ways, I promise you that act blur defense will not work, girlfriend, because if that were so, half the criminals in our jails will be acquitted.
But if you’re convicted, let’s see. From what we’ve learnt from Hollywood, you’ll either be in solitary confinement for the rest of your life (if you’re diagnosed evil) or be treated very badly in prison by women who have the balls to admit to their sins. That can’t be comfortable. I mean, SERIOUSLY consider your options here, kiddo.
You gotta admit, Casey. Things are NOT looking good right now, either way. So you need to ask yourself: Do you want to die slowly on the outside or be seared forever in the memories of those of us who watch Nancy Grace, on the inside?
Technorati Tags: Casey Anthony, Caylee, tot mom, Florida
This is what we get up to when the power’s out
We celebrated Halloween a tad early this year when the wind, once again, blew our power out. The girls put on their brand new fairy wings and tutus and danced up a (or should I say another) storm. And brought our power back after 20 mins.
Hubby has a surprise for me tonight, taking me somewhere mysterious and, hopefully, very expensive.
ps. Did you notice the new muted green walls? We painted them a few weeks ago. The gaudy-awful orange got a bit much after two years.
Big Fat Deal
Lokes was watching CNN online and suddenly, up floated two female voices discussing some celebrity news, and they were talking about the stars of Desperate Housewives. I’m not a big fan but what caught my attention was that apparently, Felicity Huffman (whom I adore from Trans America) had called Eva Longoria fat.
Seriously CNN, this is news? Someone calling her friend fat?
On and on they went about how disrespectful the word “fat” was and how Eva is far from fat (duh!) and they even had someone who made plus-sized clothes talk about the implications of the “F” word, how demeaning and rude the word is and how it sets us back like a thousand years when, what? Fat was in? Come the hell on.
Firstly, speaking for my people, we are AWARE we’re fat. Not using the word in front of us does not make a damn difference. You can call me fat in front of my face and I really don’t give a damn because it’s the truth.
Secondly, calling someone like Eva fat is funny. Are you guys really that idiotic NOT to see it for the joke it is? Have you all lost your damn minds to make such a big fat hairy deal of it? It was said in jest because EVERYONE knows it’s NOT true. It’s like calling Bill Gates funny or Gandhi selfish.
IT’S A WORD, BITCHES. GET OVER IT.
The reason why those women don’t find it funny is because if someone ever called any of them twigs fat they would simply stop eating for a month or go hurl into the nearest latrine.
Let’s hope Eva is more secure than these idiots.
Technorati Tags: Desperate Housewives, Felicity Huffman, Eva Longoria, CNN
Herstory
I am amazed and humbled at people like Paula, who have suffered so much and yet are able to just tell the world their stories, not for pity’s sake but because they understand that there is nothing to be ashamed of. We all make mistakes, we all do wrong, we all feel shame and fear and pain.
The Internet, especially, is filled with hateful people (Google blogher+Dooce) who may or may not be as bad as they portray themselves to be in real life because hey, it’s the Internet, where it’s much harder to resist saying what you think, than you think.
Try telling someone in the face though, now that’s courage AND honesty. People (ironically, people who aren’t even involved) just can’t handle it. They Freak. Out.
Or maybe it’s just another Saturday night in San Francisco for all I know.
Boy I’m glad I’m not as serious about blogging than I used to be.
No no, I’m also lazy but I’m also not as serious.
July in pictures
Hello my lovely internets. Are you still sticking around? You must truly love me!
So I’ve gone for TWO campouts since we last talked, taken pictures of my friend Sharon’s baby, and then some.
And yes, pictures are worth a thousand words, especially since I’m now, so to speak, in the business of painting words.
But I’m only putting a few pictures here because copying and pasting script from Flickr is not particularly fun. For “the good stuff”, please visit my Facebook (you will need to “friend” me), my photog or my Flickr(yes, I scatter them so you will see some different ones in each site).
Here we go!
Rae and her best friend H at the lake after a full day of sun and fun at Pearrygin Lake, our first campsite.
Dosewallips State Park/Dabob Bay – where we went camping last weekend. This is a place for oystering/clamming.
That’s a big one!
This is Baby K, who is my first baby model. Isn’t he just the cutest? He smells glorious too!
And this is a flamenco dancer I photographed at a dinner party yesterday.
That wraps my last three weeks! Now how about you?
It’s, like, babysitting, for like, forever
I wrote a post about the recent pregnancy pact by 17 teenagers in Gloucester at Seattle Mom Blogs.
Have a good rest of this dreary Sunday, y’all.
Technorati Tags: parenting, teen pregnancy pact, teen pregnancy
My first R-rated post (mom/dad, please remember I am already 35)
Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
So today I went for my first photostroll with the Seattle Flickrites, and I was lucky enough to join the group to photograph the Fremont Solstice Parade.
This is the parade’s 20th year. It is a community art parade that celebrates free speech, creativity and the beauty of diversity.
And so they danced.
And they sang.
And they held hands and spread the love.
And they even rode on bikes with their bare tushies.
But the star of the day, Mr Sun, refused to show.
No matter. The parade still went on and it turned out to be great weather for one.
More pictures at my Flickr. If bare torsos and tushies offend your sensibilities, don’t click that.
Happy Solstice everyone!
Technorati Tags: Fremont Solstice Parade, parades, Seattle
Summer hols are here!
Where I come from, people hide in coffee shops and air-conditioned malls in the day, making snide remarks about crazy Gwailos lying in the nude on rooftops and front yards in the sweltering heat, searing their skins thin to a leathery texture.
Two years in Seattle is enough to turn even the most UV-phobic Malaysian into the most ardent of sunscreen-slathering, fancy eyeware-wearing sun worshippers (which not even seven days in 95F Florida could re-scare into a closet).
We’re ready, Summer. Come out and play!
We’ve done right by her based on this very day
8am: Delivery of complimentary rich chocolate birthday cake to hotel room.
9am: Sumptuous Mediterranean breakfast buffet at hotel restaurant.
10am: Shuttle to Magic Kingdom for a fun-filled day.
11am: Discovers all spots at Bibbadi Bobbadi Boutique (don’t know how to spell the damn thing) @ Magic Kingdom booked for the day. Meltdown ensues.
11.10am: Daddy manages to get a 5.10pm slot @ Disneytown outlet right before evening dinner with Disney princesses. Meltdown ceases. Daddy looks to be missing an arm. And a leg.
2pm: Mommy totters on brink of exhaustion and heat stroke but stoicly soldiers on because strapless smock looks better upright.
3pm: Discovers all kids had for lunch were goldfish crackers. Not to worry, there is a parade. We’re not going anywhere even if it means standing around in full on 100F Florida weather.
3.40pm: Mommy thinks Magic Kingdom afternoon parade Prince Eric is kinda hot.
4pm: Rush back to hotel on shuttle for a quick shower before makeover at BBB. Discovered complimentary birthday balloons in room. Got two kids and two adults cleaned and ready in record time of 12 minutes. Don’t ask me how but it can be done. With enough screaming.
5.30pm: Birthday girl is happily made up and will not wipe grin off face all evening or go for a boat ride because she is afraid wind and water may ruin hair and makeup.
6.25pm: Dinner with Disney princesses @ Norway town @ Epcot went very well. Snow White is MIA.
8pm: Autographs with Mickey, Minnie, Goofy, Pluto, Chip and Dale. Some were not very into character, Mommy notices. It’s friggin’ 8pm.
9pm: Manage to catch Epcot fireworks. Mommy and Daddy also perform human Tinkertoys feat with children on shoulders, Daddy trying to close Skyler’s (who was on Mommy’s shoulders) ears while Rae tries to use Daddy’s armpits to close hers. Mommy’s hands had to remain down due to strapless smock. You had to be there.
10pm: Driving around town trying to look for a coin-laundry because running out of undies. Mommy comes up with brilliant idea of buying more undies.
11pm: Kids crashed but Mommy insisted on brushing teeth and bathing. Sleepy, cranky children are wonderful to clean.
12.32am: Mommy says goodnite to blogosphere. More of the same tomorrow at Hollywood Studios!
This is one birthday we will never forget, that’s for sure.
Happy Birthday, my dear six-year-old. Evidently, we’re out of our minds with love for you.
Technorati Tags: Orlando, Disneyworld
Orlando: Not just for kids anymore
I didn’t expect the crowds on a weekday. I didn’t even expect the variety of world cuisine.
But what I really did not expect was that we young families would be a minority in Disney Town (not to be confused with Disneyworld or Disneyland).
Let’s just say Lokes had his fill of grown men being affectionate towards each other in public for a lifetime. Especially the full-on tongue action we caught heading back to the carpark and a mini Village People reunion just outside the west entrance. Puts the recent Safeco lesbian kissing incident to shame, I tell ya.
FYI, it’s not always like this. Gay Days is on. These are times I wish I was still childless. I am not kidding when I say those dudes look like they know how to have a good time!
Truly, all the hot ones are gay (except for you, babe).
Technorati Tags: Orlando, Gay Days, Disney Town
“It’s so hot we don’t need to go back all the way to Malaysia.”
This was what Lokes said yesterday.
I had no idea it was THIS hot. And I can’t wear less clothes without causing a scene.
It’s been 2.5 years since I’ve felt this hot (and I don’t mean because I’ve-got-this-cute-new-bob hot).
And people here are too tanned and healthy-looking for my comfort. What the hell. I have been having salad two days straight.
But it feels good. I’ve lost about five pounds since starting the South Beach diet and two weeks of exercise. Best of all, I don’t even feel the munchies. Dr Agatston is a genius. I don’t even feel as though I’m on a diet as well, even on vacation. Although I did have a creme brulee yesterday at Maggiano’s. That was awesome.
Rae is turning six tomorrow.
“I can’t believe I’m gonna be six years old,” she quipped a moment ago.
Neither can I, sweetie.
Neither can I.
How many ways can you say pork?
Swine and Dine
Hog Dog
Pork ‘n’ Roll
Memphis, Tennessee: Best hog barbecue in the US (BB King’s ribs are melt-in-your mouth delish), worst oysters (tastes like cardboard jello).
Pics when I get back.
Dear Children’s Eye Doctors/Family Eye Doctors, Redmond WA
We received an invoice recently for a no-show fee for a missed appointment on Dec 4 2007, of $25. Enclosed is our check.
To this end, we are sorry to inform you that we will no longer be needing your services. Here’s why (and I’m sure you’ve heard all this before but no harm in telling it again).
While I understand that this no-show penalty policy serves as a warning for your tardier customers, as I’d informed your Patient Care Coordinator Liz Kather through a rather awkward phone call this morning (she simply kept quiet while I asked if there could be any flexibility to this bizarre policy), we had snow out in Duvall that day and I was not ready to risk a 30-minute drive up the hill that morning (the appointment was at 9am) without tire chains to make the climb up and back again. However, I was informed that inclement weather had no bearing on your policy.
This leads me to your at-least-24-hour cancellation requirement. Seeing that the snow had fallen overnight and I’d missed the ‘deadline’ to cancel, I just did not think to call as I had made the mistake of expecting companies such as yours to understand the nature of emergencies.
Perhaps you should make information of such penalties clearer to your customers (particularly foreigners like myself who may be unfamiliar with such practices) in the future. I was never given this information and had to look for it AFTER I was invoiced just to make sure. Might I suggest placing prominent notices at your front desk, make your administrators offer up the warning when setting appointments (and when making telephoned reminders). Also, you might want to place the info right on the appointment page of your website and not hide it in a PDF. Ignorance is never a good excuse but it is a reasonably commonplace mistake among visitors to your country, and when they become your customers, it would be helpful to at least do them the service of a brief education and not leap right to the conclusion that we are deliberately delinquent. Believe it or not, such policies are not the norm in other countries (where the doctors, hairdressers and other critical service-providers are still surviving).
Lastly, had your staff checked my records, this is our first ‘offence’ and we are not in the habit of missing appointments just to mess with you. You should attach at least a first-strike exception to this policy, because (and I’m sure the irony is not lost on you) for all of $25, you’ve now lost a customer and I, for one, will not be referring anyone else to your clinic (foreign and otherwise).
I hope you will consider my suggestions, and we wish you all the best.
Yours sincerely,
Jennifer Tan
(yes, I’d actually mailed my cheque – I spelt it the American way above just because – with this letter, and I also sent one to my paed who had referred me to them. My raving lunacy knows no bounds!).
(this seems to also be turning into a DOWN WITH HEALTHCARE PROVIDERS! week. I just don’t know anymore).
Funny story (okay, maybe not so funny)
Today, at our Chinese New Year party, I heard a most disturbing story.
A friend of mine, someone who lives in our small community, made an appointment to visit a doctor a few weeks ago, at one of the two biggest healthcare institutions here in Washington, which had a branch office in our little town. My friend was eight minutes late and was promptly told by the receptionist that the appointment was, hence, cancelled.
Eight minutes late, folks. By THEIR clock.
Angry but not wanting to pursue the matter, my friend then asked for the phone to call her husband, who had dropped her off at the doctor’s office. The receptionist said no because the number was a Utah number (they’d not changed it since their move), and the office phones could not be used to call outstation. My friend then asked if the receptionist would lend her a cell phone because her husband would not return until 50 minutes later and she did not want to wait that long. The lady said no. My friend then offered to pay her back for the phone call. The lady, again, said no. Becoming increasingly frustrated but still calm, my friend then asked to make another appointment. There was a slot open at 2.30pm that afternoon. My friend agreed, but noticed that the receptionist did not seem to be writing anything down in her little appointment book.
That afternoon, my friend returned to the doctor’s office at 2.32pm. The receptionist looked at her and said, “You’re late.”
My friend answered, “I am two minutes late.”
“You are 20 minutes late,” the lady replied. “Your appointment was at 2.15pm.”
Long story short, my friend and the receptionist, along with the two other desk clerks present, exchanged some heated words.
After a few minutes, the clerks simply left the front desk and retreated into the office, leaving my friend to fume at the lobby alone. When they did not return, my friend took the hint and left.
When this story was related to me by my friend today, I could feel nothing but a sad, reddening anger. As I listened, I was struck dumb by the fact that this had happened just weeks ago, and not ten years ago, and in my town, and not some Godforsaken place a million miles away. In fact, the clinic she had visited is just a one-minute brisk walk away from my house, two in the cold Seattle rain.
What interests me about this story is that my friend is an Iranian. She has long, dark hair and beautiful, serious black eyes. She wraps around her American English a thick Middle Eastern accent, perhaps with a hint of Eastern European (her Hungarian husband’s). To a stranger, she may look severe and unapproachable but my friend is by far the funniest person I know here in America. Her humour is self-deprecating, her wit razor-sharp and her honesty humbling, and ultimately, she can be described as the best kind of surprise one can ever find underneath a perpetually furrowed brow.
What saddens me is that, no matter how much I want not to jump into conclusions about anything, a big part of me believes that this is a case of racism and discrimination. Why? Because like it or not, there are still people out there who are just plain idiots. These people are everywhere – small town America or big city Asia. They look at a person, they look at their clothes, listen to their accents and make judgments and summations and peg you as what they think you are so as to be able to survive the next few minutes without submitting into fear or anger or hatred and losing all control. Or they just do what they do to make themselves feel better.
I was in Hong Kong many years ago on assignment, and I’d walked into a noodle shop for dinner one evening. Not being able to read a single Chinese word on the menu, which was made up of pieces of coloured paper stuck on the walls, I’d looked across to the next table and noticed a lady eating some sort of chicken curry. I decided to take the easy way out and pointed to it to the ‘waiter’.
Presumably a Hong Kong Chinese, he smirked and as he walked back to the kitchen, muttered in Cantonese, “Chinese person, can’t even speak Chinese. What kind of Chinese is that?”
The fact was I could (and still can) speak Chinese and I could understand what he said. I just can’t read it and did not want to risk ordering the wrong thing. But what did he care? He’d made a snap judgment about me which I was never going to correct without making a fool of myself. And those ladies at the clinic, in my opinion, made a snap judgment about my friend, who was made a fool that day when they’d all walked out of the reception. The difference here is that I may have deserved a little of what I got, being a ‘banana‘ and everything. Did my friend deserve the sort of treatment she was subjected to, as though she’d been a plain criminal? How else can you explain why she, of all people, was treated in that manner? Was it really random? Were all three of the nurses having a bad day? And twice in one day?
I’m almost tempted to make an appointment there myself (living right next door and all) and then be eight minutes late, to see if I’d be treated the same way.
I don’t know. I just might.
When sorry is not enough
One of the main emphases of our co-op preschool program is positive discipline, and a lot of the training us parent teachers get in the course of our involvement in the school is through conflict resolution in the classroom. This is one of my favourite reasons for joining a co-op, in that twice a week, I am exposed to not just my own kids, but other people’s children as well, and get to ‘practise’ how to resolve a conflict between two kids in a positive manner.
Don’t I have two kids of my own at home who are constantly fighting? Yea, I do so yes, I am clearly insane.
Seriously, resolving conflicts between your child and someone else’s is a different dynamic, and from the experience, I have learnt to see both my children more as individuals than just my own kids and siblings. Rae takes the fact that Sky is her sister for granted sometimes, and hence is more likely to take advantage of her, whereas she knows she can’t take the same liberties with her friends at school. As such, she’s more likely to have a meltdown when she can’t get her way because she is at a loss of how to make her friends do what she wants. At the same time, she is adamant at wanting things the way she wants them, so it’s really interesting to see how she works these situations out now that she’s in kindergarten. It’s the same with Sky, my three-year old who’s at the co-op now, as well.
One of the most valuable lessons I’ve learnt at the co-op is How to Accept an Apology.
Back in Malaysia, I didn’t know that there were other ways you can accept an apology graciously, other than saying “it’s okay”. Think about it, my Malaysian friends. How do you respond to an apology? Do you say, “it’s alrightlah, don’t worry about it”?
When you think about it, what does “it’s okay” mean? Does it mean you’ve forgiven the person? Or does it mean that the apology was not necessary? This automatic, seemingly polite (when really, it’s quite thoughtless) response may be appropriate to a grownup because we can figure out what it means. However, to a three-year old child, forgiveness is a foreign and complex concept. And hence, what they will glean from “it’s okay”, is that they had not committed an infraction at all, and the apology was not necessary, when it really was. Aside from being polite, saying sorry means you knew you did something wrong. So if it’s okay, it means I did nothing wrong.
And then I came here and learnt from the fine teachers at the co-op that there were other more meaningful ways to respond to an apology, especially when the wrongdoer and the wronged are children.
“Thank you for saying sorry. It was really hard and I really appreciate it.”
And there it was, so simple and yet effective. You are accepting the apology and thanking the little person for it. And yet, the child is clear that what he did was wrong.
What if sorry is not enough? What if you feel that the apology does little to assuage your anger or frustration or sadness? At the co-op, we’re taught to ask the wronged child, “Did that make you feel better?”. If not, we escalate to “Okay, then what can (the wrongdoer) do to make you feel better?”. Usually, the wronged child is already crying and a hug is then recommended by the grownup, or perhaps a handshake.
Now this is a beautiful process and it usually works – the operative word being ‘usually’. As in real life, things sometimes do not go as planned. For instance, what if the kid who is apologising clearly does not mean it and is saying it in a teasing manner just to get the apology over with?
The recommended response than was that the wronged child must learn to walk away from the situation until a later time when the wrongdoer is ready to apologise correctly, and the wrongdoer is given a talking-to about the importance of being nice to his or her friends.
When my friend Mat and I were discussing this yesterday, I started to wonder. While these techniques work well in a classroom with a one parent mediator, perhaps even at home if one is consistent about it, do they really work in real-world situations, especially when your child enters public school where a grown-up’s assistance may be hard to come by?
Are we, in a way, preparing our children for the less forgiving real life by stepping in all the time to resolve their conflicts, overcompensating by mapping out the resolution so neatly when in real life, they’re rarely so smoothly resolved?
Rae is in kindergarten at a local public elementary school and during recess, she plays with some older children at the school playground with little adult supervision. This has, in the past, caused me some worry. As such, I’ve had to equip her with a ‘bully blocking’ action plan, which I review every week with her because, yes, I’m an over-protective mother.
Of the two times I was around to observe a conflict resolution (without her knowledge) this was what she did: She’d simply stomped away to a corner and sulked. A few moments later, she’d glance over at her friend (who’s probably said sorry a couple of times but of course, with my over-dramatic daughter, it’s never enough), who’s now playing happily by him or herself. Seeing that no hug or satisfactory action will be given, she goes and joins him begrudgingly, dealing with the disappointment by simply not thinking about it, and voila, they are laughing and playing together again as though it’d never happened.
It wasn’t perfect but it was enough. I tell myself that at least, she had not thrown a fit right there on the play structure just because sorry was not enough. It was so hard for me not to step in. I didn’t know of whom I was more proud – Rae or myself.
This is what parenting is, isn’t it? From the moment they’re born, you start to teach your children to be independent, not so much for them to eventually let go, but so that you yourself are able to one day do so (knowing that they won’t embarrass the heck out of you when you’re not there!).
Integration, Day 737
I can hardly believe it, but today, it’s exactly two years and one week since we moved to the US.
Even though I feel I’ve been here ages, it also feels as though I’d just arrived because I can remember the move as clearly as it was yesterday. How can that be?
How are we doing? What have we accomplished? Any regrets? Let’s see.
Firstly, we love Seattle and the Northwest. If we ever had a choice to move anywhere in the US (we didn’t, Microsoft HQ having overtaken most of Redmond), we could not have made a better one, and this is despite all the rain. We’ve found and made so many wonderful friends, particularly for Raeven (Sky has the attention span of a caterpillar so she’s not acquired any bosom buddies). Seattle has become more of a home for them now. In fact, Skyler has lived here longer than she has in her own country (we moved when she was one – now she’s three).
We love the town we’re living in (or at least Lokes doesn’t mind it so much anymore). I’ve also become more competent a mother and homemaker, which is saying a lot considering the fact that I never swept a square foot of floor back home nor wash a single plate. I can now make breakfast, lunch and dinner, organize an entire closet, all the while protecting my kids from mortal danger and cleaning a soiled backside.
I’ve also found purpose in my own life as well. I help run a co-op preschool, have gone back to school and am writing my first collection of short stories. Any American agents out there looking for a storyteller from mysterious Malaysia?
I know it sounds as though I’m doing too much, and I may be but my days have assumed a sort of rhythm that plays like an Ingrid Michaelson song. The girls are growing up so fast. Just this morning, Raeven was helping Skyler put toothpaste on her toothbrush while putting on her own clothes. In short, I run a tight ship.
The one thing I’ve really neglected is my blog, and I think I know why. As much as I love to blog, and my blogging friends, and the blogosphere, I’ve become somewhat disillusioned by the craft, if one can call it that. I have questioned myself time and again why I’m blogging, and I keep coming to the same conclusion: just so my traffic’s not gone to waste (and of course, it has). A while ago, remember I’d said I will only blog if I have something worthwhile to blog about. Well, as it turns out, I have not the inclination nor the energy to blog even about the stuff I care about, not if I want to do it right.
And there’s the fact that I have assignments to WRITE and my own book to WRITE. Blogging is WRITING as far as I’m concerned so really, I just need to conserve my writing energy.
Two years. Just flew by so fast. What will another year bring? Hopefully, 60 credits for me.
Xin nian kwai le!
Ni hao. Jin nian, wo kai shi xue pu tong hua.
No, this does not mean I will be blogging now in Chinese but one day, hopefully, I will be able to do so without referencing three dictionaries at once.
Today, my online classes have started and assignments are due in two days. What the hell have I gotten myself into? Tomorrow, my evening Math class commences as well. This is going to be interesting.
Where did the hols go??
Anyway, my sister and her boyfriend, the fabulous George, visited from Australia. Here’s a picture:
Isn’t she beautiful?
And that’s Sky, taking her billionth picture for the week.
I miss my sis already. Hopefully it won’t be another three years before we see each other. The girls love her so much, especially Rae. I could tell when she was saying goodbye. She avoided looking at her or George, and distracted herself with the TV and her books, the sweet girl.
I’ve also submitted another story to another of MPH’s short story collections, this time entitled Urban Odyssey. They’ve extended submission deadlines to Jan 31st. Here’s the prompt that Janet Tay sent me a few months ago (yea I was keeping it all to myself!):
MPH GROUP PUBLISHING is pleased to announce an open call for submissions of short fiction and creative non-fiction for an anthology tentatively entitled Urban Odysseys: KL Stories. We aim to publish the anthology in 2008, depending on the number of submissions that we receive.
The theme of the anthology will focus on life in the city, specifically Kuala Lumpur, with writings that show images of the new juxtaposed against the old, urban living with contrasting bright lights and shadowy realities and other short fiction or creative non-fiction which best encapsulate the spirit of the national capital. This is not a travel book but an anthology of literary writings about the city.
Stories must be original, between 3,000 and 5,000 words, and must not have been previously published. We invite submissions from both emerging and established writers. Stories for children are not eligible for this compilation. Manuscripts must be edited, typed double-spaced with 12pt font and e-mailed to mphpublishing@mph.com.my. Please include your name, address, telephone number and e-mail address. You may submit as many stories as you wish. Faxed or handwritten submissions will not be entertained and manuscripts will not be returned. We will contact you only if your piece has been selected for inclusion in the compilation. Writers whose submissions are selected will be expected to work with the editors to fine tune their stories.
Deadline: 31 January 2008
Payment: A small flat fee and two copies of the anthology
Sorry Janet, I tend to be a tad dense sometimes.
Well, off to class again. Did I say I was doing English 101 as well? The instructor already sounds very promising (as far as one can tell from emails, discussion boards and online chatting). I can’t wait to see what she thinks of my written expression.
I leave you with a Raevenism, already two days old and retold several times around the block:
"Why is Daddy the Lord of the World? Why is he the Ruler of the Universe?"
Rae’s sullen response to my remark that the decision to watch fireworks at midnight on New Year’s Eve was her daddy’s to make.
Ah, the naivete of five-year-olds. As long as Daddy knows who the REAL ruler of the universe is, I’m down with it.
Christmas attire: Not just red and green
Which is worse: Going to a party underdressed or overdressed?
I think it must be a Malaysian thing, to walk into what one is guessing is a formal do in jeans and a jacket because you don’t want to look like you’ve been waiting all year to get all dressed up and use all that make-up you’ve been saving the last five years.
When Lokes and I got married, we’d put ‘Black Tie Only’ on our invites. About 1/3rd of the guests arrived in jeans and jackets, which was pretty good, considering that only one in five Malaysian households own a cocktail dress/fancy dress shirt.
At tonight’s Christmas party thrown by Lokes’ company sub-division, I’d thrown on around four a half different outfits, to arrive at – you guessed it – a modest jeans-and-red-jacket-tank-top combo because I had no idea what "Christmas attire" meant.
"Does it mean red and green clothes only?" I’d asked Lokes. He, of course, has less of an idea than me, and has neither green nor red whatever and thus, donned a black Italian silk shirt and jeans. We thought we’d looked a pretty pair and were off.
Suffice to say, Americans are pretty serious about their Christmas attire. I should’ve suspected from the racks and racks of fancy velvet (or velour, as the locals like to call it), satin, suede, cashmere tops, bottoms, full-body-affairs (and sometimes, not-so-full) at Target. I thought these were clothes people bought to wear at home on Christmas day or when visiting friends, like the Chinese New Year bajus we buy to wear during the New Year. Or when taking family pictures to be made into holiday letters or Christmas cards. Or when they got invited to a REAL Christmas party.
Note to self: Next year, dress to kill. Or at least, aim to maim.
ps. We have a picture. Will scan and put it up tomorrow.
Malaysian Christmas attire.
Encounter at the Post Office
For the first time since we’d arrived in the States (Jan 15 will be two years), I encountered pure nastiness.
I was at the post office picking up my shipment of *Dark City 2 (thanks Xeus!) and had parked next to a Nissan something, which had occupied its space rather tightly to my side. I could not open my door wide enough to exit without touching it. And so I did. I’d thought nothing of it if not for the sharp horn that followed.
I looked at the lady in the passenger seat and she was throwing her hands up, saying something I couldn’t hear since her windows were still up. Her face was scrunched up, her mouth twisted in an ugly gnarl. She was clearly not happy.
Wait. Is this about me? Did I do something?
Is this about the small thud my door elicited as it touched her crappy old Nissan?
As I moved to the other side to get my bag and Sky out, I could hear the car rev angrily, before moving out of its bay and stopping right behind me. By this time, I was busy trying to negotiate a three-year old who informed me in not so many words that she’d prefer to stay in the car (in retrospect, an idiotic move considering I was alone in a car park with persons of questionable emotional stability – or perhaps not, for I could’ve easily sicced my snarling demonspawn on them). However, from the corner of my eye through the rear window, I caught the rapid movement of said lady exiting her car, and then making a dramatic show of checking it for the offending dent I’d purportedly put in her jalopy. My heart was beating wildly as her eyes scanned the area critically – an area already covered with deep dark scratches and probably the blood of sacrificial deer and school-aged children – hands on hips, head shaking, mouth huffing audibly.
Should I apologise, I asked myself as I spoke in coaxing tones to a screaming demon child refusing to budge from her car seat. I probably should’ve the moment my door connected with hers, but she had her windows up and all. And there was that rude horn before I even had the chance to say anything.
Before I could decide, the witch turned to me and gave me a look that could curdle tofu (having found no evidence of alleged car-door rape), before getting into her piece of junk, slamming the door with a wham that could’ve easily dislodged paint. Clearly, she cared not a smidge about the car. It was about a total stranger invading vehicular personal space. Evidently I should be locked away and the key melted in the fires of Mount Doom.
As I carried my crying child in my arms into the post office, tires ground gravel angrily, and as Bonnie and Clyde sped away, I continued to ponder, futilely, if I should’ve apologised.
"Just say sorry next time."
Sage advice from Lokes when I called him five minutes later to report the incident, the purpose of which escapes me.
"Kinda hard when the other person looks like she wants to tear your throat out for trying to get out of your car. I was more afraid that she’d pin some other scratch on me, the state that car was in. It’s worse than our car."
"Some people just love their cars in a crazy way."
Or have their stick shifts up their collective behinds.
Of course, Lokes is right. About saying sorry and about crazy people and their cars. All I can do now is hope that perhaps, I’ll see them around town. Perhaps then I’ll be able to apologise.
And then sic my snarling three-year old on them.
*I have two short stories in here. Ta-da!
Xeus sent me more copies than I can actually give away (without begging).
Ping me if you want a Christmas present that’s authentically Malaysian.
Happenings
Been busy but here’s a list of updates:
Vancouver – land of loonies, toonies, blinking go lights (what on God’s sweet earth is up with that?) and the best Chinese cuisine you’ll ever find in the Pacific Northwest.
Facebook is becoming more addictive than I’ve initially allowed it to be.
My friend Susan makes the best turkey eva!
I make a mean spinach lasagna.
Been reading up a squall. Finished Khaled Housseini’s The Kiterunner, Carolyn Parkhurst’s The Dogs of Babel and re-read F. Scott’s Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby. Starting Ishmael Beah’s A Long Way Gone. Am catching up on lost education through the Intellectual Devotional – must buy BOTH of them, y’all.
Remember my initial excitement at going back to school for my degree in linguistics? Registration of classes now hangs by a thread because of my newly minted resident status. Apparently, ‘residency’ in the college application sense means having a green card, and not the actual wikipedia definition, i.e. “the act of establishing or maintaining a residence in a given place”.
Who can you trust if you can’t trust wikipedia?
If they end up charging me non-resident fees (which means I’ll end up paying almost twice the amount I would pay as a resident), I will be forced to forego all delusions of becoming Professor Higgins, before I even begin.
The appropriate, linguistically-themed reaction to this would be ‘diu-niasing‘.
On the other hand, I will have more time to work up my Spectre or become the next Rock Star.
The appropriate, game-themed reaction to this would be ‘w00t!’.
See? I was made for this.
To think I used to be a math whiz…sort of. Okay, not really.
Seriously, why would an English or Linguistics major need to know college-level trig?
Or is American college-level trig the same as Malaysian Form Five trig?
I have no frigging idea since I can do neither.
Today, I went for my Math and English assessment at the college where I’ll be starting classes this January. Walking onto the almost deserted college grounds on what was a rather frosty Tuesday morning in my old-new coat (bought it a couple of years ago – never been worn), I felt my heart swell with the crisp morning air and my feet doing a kind of moon-walk (the actual bouncy ‘moon’ walk – not the MJ variety) because today, I open a new chapter in my life. And as that new chapter smell hit my nose and flooded my gut, I said to myself, "Bring it on. I am ready for anything!"
Anything but college-level trig, of course.
As the lad sitting in front of what was presumably the Math and English Assessment SUPER MASTER COMPUTER briefed me on how the test would go and how opting for "Most Difficult Level Math" worked better on the system because for some reason, the software was not able to adjust up from "Easier Level Math" should you be, you know, a SUPER MASTER MATHEMATICIAN, I nodded at the right places and "mm-hmm"ed away, confident that at 34, I was at the very least an AVERAGE MATHEMATICIAN. Besides, I am going to do English or Linguistics, right?
Apparently, even future literati or linguists still need to be able to compute algebra and work out mathematical models, understand quantitative and symbolic reasoning, that sort of thing.
Long story short, after about 18 grueling minutes of "If X is all, then x(2x -6) (3x + x2) =" Answer E: Who the fack knows or cares?, I got a 32, which, according to Mr SUPER MASTER MATH COMPUTER, would place me at Introductory Algebra II aka Math 098. That would be where I’d need to start this Jan to make my Math proficiency.
Gr…eat.
Anyway, the good news is that UW has a Department of Linguistics and I will be going there (spot on, Irene!) and I would need to make about 45, 50 credits to get in so that’s just a year at the CC before I can apply (instead of two years). The bad news is that the sooner I get into UW, the sooner I need to pay the big bucks, versus a BA in English which would allow me to do two years at the CC to save the money.
Well, one step at a time. I might not even survive Introductory Algebra II.
While you were busy NOT reading my blog
I know, I know, it’s about damn time.
Firstly, my hard disk died. My dear, dear husband managed to recover most of the data (because I was too damned pissed and lazy to do it myself) so I’m now back on track. The one thing I love about a hard disk dying is that you get to see just how fast your machine is without all the crap you’ve managed to pile in the last five years. Of course, if you have a husband like mine who actually loves reinstalling an operating system AND then some, what you get really is one of those nifty TV fast-forward makeover scenes where you don’t really notice the tremendous amount of work put into, say, the torturous healing after a 20-hour surgery of fat-sucking, cheekbone-building, skin-grafting, denture-designing fun.
Secondly, work at the preschool has just been…what’s the word…oh yea, a bitch (in more ways than one). Long story short, it’s not just a thankless job I’m doing trying not to freak the fuck out with all the problems we’ve been having, but people – gotta love generalizing – just have the most unreasonable expectations out of what they keep forgetting are VOLUNTEERs. I find it a real marvel that the biggest whiners are the ones who don’t do a lick of work. Solve one problem and they will find something else to bitch about. Seriously, some days, I don’t really know who the real kids are.
Thirdly, Rae’s kindy has been keeping me busy as well. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me that I think I need to volunteer for every damn thing and accept every damn invite. Those of you who call yourselves my American friends, you’re not doing such a great job helping your friend here not be such an idiot. I know, some things can’t be fixed, but I’d appreciate a hint or two once in a while, a gentle warning now and then that I’m standing in a hole, and I’m the one digging it.
Fourthly, more stupidity – okay, MAYBE it’s the least stupid thing I’ve gotten myself into but I’m going back to school come January. That’s right, yours truly is going back to college to take a degree in English at UW, starting with some online courses at a local community college. I’m actually trying to decide between English and Linguistics. The long-term goal is to one day work at perfecting speech recognition technology so…yep. In another six, seven, ten years or so, I’ll be able to rock the world of phonetic technology, replete with elbow-patched tweed coat and pretentious English accent, woohoo!
Now I’ve really got to think about how the hell I’m going to pay for my classes now that it’s come to my attention that my husband isn’t really Bill Gates. I know, it’s confusing.
Lastly, it’s that time of the year. In two days, it’ll be Halloween. Next month, it’s Thanksgiving. Plus we’re planning a trip to Canada soon (Rae has been on our case since we got those shiny new green cards and she’d heard us rejoicing, of course catching only the words "Canada" and "holiday").
I promise I will make it up to y’all with a funny video soon. Just need to get all my crap installed and working again. In the mean time, Happy Hallow’s Eve to all. Lokes and I dressed up for a grown-up party last night and had jello eyeball shots (I didn’t have time to blog but I had time to go for a party – how sad). Was fun. I was showing cleavage and everything. Pics soon.
Welcome to the US
We got our green cards.
We got our green cards.
WE GOT OUR GREEN CARDS.
Popping the Pinot.
(like we ever needed a real reason to do that but if we did, this would be it.)
Life’s good
Here’s another reason to hate me:
I know awesome people.
Last Friday, when I had my wisdom teeth removed, a group of people I barely know rallied and cooked a weekend of meals for my family.
On Friday, we had light chicken calzones in a zesty marinara dip, grits and cookies and the yummiest chicken rice salad Lokes and I have ever eaten in our lives.
On Saturday, we had mega-huge enchiladas with chicken and beans, generously swathed in sour cream.
On Sunday, it was authentic North Indian vegetarian Indian dhal curry, freshly baked curry puffs and mint chutney.
On Sunday evening, a dessert of cinnamon raisin rice pudding.
As I happily spooned another helping of pudding onto my plate last night, I wondered: Does this sort of stranger kindness happen elsewhere? Certainly not in Malaysia, that’s for sure. Why? For one, we have our families. It’s just too much work to have to go through for people you’re not related to, that’s the basic mentality. Blood-relation seems to be the only valid basis to trust someone even when it comes to sponsoring a meal – (and sometimes not even that). The rule is simple. In times of trouble, take care of your own. Deny your own flesh and blood and you’ll rot in the 18th level of fiery hell.
Out here, it’s nuclear families galore. As such, a different sort of support system exists, that of neighbours and colleagues, of preschool and kindy mom friends – and, very often, even complete strangers. When my friends brought food on Friday, Lokes was a little dazed.
“Who are these people?” he’d asked, as he took in the spread, unable to fathom that people not related to us would go through so much trouble.
“Oh my God, that’s just so…nice!” remarked my sister, who lives in Australia. So apparently, this doesn’t happen very often there as well.
Now I’m not saying that strong family support is not as good. I don’t think I could ever have contemplated starting a family if it weren’t for my mom and in-laws being around. The fact is, I feel blessed to have been exposed to both cultures: People who have such solid family support that they never need to rely on complete strangers, and people who have such solid community support that they don’t have to worry about relying on absent family. Helps reinforce that with everything that’s screwed up in the world, there is still some real good out there.
And some really good cooks!