Still Thinking…

I have been sitting on my ass (don’t I always?) to write about this.But today’s repeat telecast of the recent National Day Parade triggered that overwhelming emotion again – I found myself excited, nostalgic, ready to jump and beat this, teary all at the same time. I am a sucker for big events that have thousands of people involved. And yes, blame it on TK Band!

I was not the best saxophonist that the famous school band ever had. If anything, I am pretty sure that I was the one who led the school band’s downfall during the 1988 National Band Competition at the Singapore Conference Hall, where I had to open an entire score with a saxophone solo. All 16 bars. And yes, I squeaked without mercy. My band conductor frowned. Cis bedebah!

Anyway, this is a post about National Day. I took part both during the years when the parade was held in Kallang Stadium and then at the Padang. I remembered the march-past at the Padang in 1987 was very nerve-wrecking, as we had to play AND turn our heads sideways as a mark of respect to the President. How I managed to blow my lungs into the reed, marched in swift, synchronised movements, AND turn my head sideways is still a big puzzle to me. Goodness. I swear I could have been a crab.

The year that TK band took part in the National Day Parade in the Kallang Stadium was equally magical. I did NOT, however, appreciate the fact that we had to form a contingent and stand in ‘Senang Diri’ position for at least 2 blinking hours before the President arrives. Many members (from other contingents of course !) dropped and fainted which only sent the St John’s personnel scrambling into the field with their stretchers. I am convinced now that our Drum Major’s tip to wiggle our toes often while standing stationary for 2 hours straight helped us in combating our fatigue. And no, I do not practise that during long tarawih prayers!

Then came 1996 when my life as a journalist started. Covering the National Day Parade was something else. “Please! No quotes from spectators who said ‘I am proud to be a Singaporean!’ “ – that was the brief we got from the then News Editor. You have to understand why. It is a cliche thing to say. And after many years of National Day coverage, that kind of quote does not make it into newsprint. I remembered too that there was one year, I think it was 1997 or 1999 when I climbed onto the makeshift light tower that the army set-up. It was one of the best spots to be – so high up above everybody else. And ooohh…I love the Press Pass for that. Opportunist.

Years went on and I ran out of ‘fronts’ to take part in the National Day Parade. I am too old to be a TK Band member, and have been out of newspaper journalism for a while. So what am I left with? I have to get in the act! The fireworks of course, came to the rescue.

One year, I drove an equally manic group of friends to Sentosa, parked right at the tip of the island – on a deserted piece of landstrip just so that we can catch the fireworks display. That must be in the year 2000. Then, another year I was with a convoy heading to Marina Bay – parked where the would-be Casino is to be located and watched the fireworks again. Those were also the times when I do ‘rehearsal drives’ across the highway on Preview days – just so that I can know what time exactly the fireworks display will be. Precision is important here. Hey, there is a big difference between 7.15 pm and 7.35 pm ok. I want to be there when the first burst of glitz break the monotony of the dark, island sky.

Last year, I joined thousands of Singaporeans at the Marina South breakwaters to watch the fireworks. Awesome! Plus the fact that I had a brand new digi cam. So a bit of a jakun, I was.

Then came this year, when the National Parade is brought to the heartlands. Tampines was one of the chosen ones. Do you think I would miss this chance to watch the National Day Parade with all of Tampines via giant screens and watch fireworks burst right here in my estate to boot? The carnival was held right at the field in front of my house. Thousands of people were in my area, and the car park downstairs were filled with so many cars, even the tiny ant would have lost his way.

I trooped down to the field with my family and friends, walkie-talkies in hand and our own stools as well. I had no Singapore flag with me, so I grabbed the next best thing I had – the Canadian flag ! Nah, no one will notice I thought. The entire Singapore is awashed with red and white anyway. My friend commented I was not being politically correct, especially when I am leaving the nation-state to be a resident of the new country.

This time next year, I dont know what I will be doing on Aug 9. I consoled myself and said hey, I can celebrate Canada Day with DH and still wear red and white, but will it be the same? I will not have ‘Muneru Valiba’ to sing my lungs out to. Sigh.

Today, I realised I really love National Day Parades here. So yes, shoot me. But wait! There is one more fireworks display at Marina Bay later in the evening to close the week-long celebrations!

No guesses where I will be. I will leave the Canadian flag behind this time. I will take the Ferrari one instead.

Now it must have been the most painful, yet hilarious movie to watch. Of all films, Chinta Kaseh Sayang – the 1965 movie by Hussain Sanif made the mark to open this year’s Screen Singapore Festival. It was a simple film about a lonely wife of a painter who seeks attention from other men – a stalking car salesman and a smooth-talker who offers peanuts as an opening line to be exact. It didnt help that I subtitled the film, and therefore knew what riveting scene will come next. Not.

Anyway, I came with GA – a girlfriend of 20 years who have seen my slimmer days. We were seated with SO, an upcoming director (who is still working on a 3 year old documentary and wore a Burmese skirt on my wedding day,and yes, he is MALE) and with whom I have worked with and had many, and I do mean MANY, arguments with. Oh, let me correct that, they are artistic arguments. We still sing songs about each other’s work though. And beside SO, there was also AM – the very talented and illustrious playwright. Combine all 4 of us in a row watching an old Malay film with scenes of tight-fitting kebaya, and “Would you like some peanuts?” as pick-up lines – it was plain RIOT. Half the time, we were squealing. SO was busy muttering, ‘Oh My God! Oh My God! Can’t make it! Can’t make it!’ even though I warned him about criticising how the film was shot. There was a close-up of a man taking off his socks, so hey, I dont blame his complaints. I think he nearly shouted “CUT!” many times.

I realised very quickly that me, GA and AM make good, symphonic squeals. Initially we had guffaws, then they broke into loud laughters, and as the movie dragged on – our hilarity-reactions turned into squeals. Yikes. Scary eh.

But, the killer scene was when the actors did the twist. Boy, did I feel like getting up from my seat and just ‘do it’. See, I always thought my hijab did me good – cos in my disco days, I would have just stand up and twist my fat butt within a 1 metere radius. Never mind that SO would probably turn to me and repeat the same complaint – “Oh My God! Can’t make it!”.

How anyone can do the twist with such immaculate bodies, I dont know. It is a strange form of dance, because for me – a dance is always, always a free form of movement. But the twist is the antithesis of that, your body is allowed to wiggle only within a certain radius, your knees have to be bent within a precise of angle of 45 degrees and your hands, correction your wrists, have to flap itself as if they are wiping windows. Hmmph. Oh My God. I can’t make it.

There will be a string of movies made in Singapore that will showing at the Screen Singapore (www.screensingapore.com) for the festival. Catch it, and yes…beat our squeals!

I managed to find a similar scene to how our meetings look like at Planet Work, but of course, the Bhemdods are NOT as good looking as those potrayed in the picture.

I have thrown in my lightsaber. I am always spending time finding it – under the table, in the washroom, in my bag – all of which are not very conducive for me to make it in time to fight the dark forces of the Bhemdods. It does not help that I do have a compatriot who is err..a bit dense in the head and forever thinking that the lightsaber we are equipped with to fight the Bhemdods is for him to use as a pen. Sigh. So I have given up.

My last day at the Planet will be in a few weeks. I have given the Empress Dowager 6 weeks notice, way above the requirement of my notice period to give her time to figure things out and find my replacement. Generous am I? I don’t know. Maybe just plain stupid.

Much of my push factor to leave the Planet and is due to the fact that I am moving to Canada, finally. It will be the end of the year, and I am facing huge emotional and physical displacement issues but I am dealing with it, one day at a time. It has been very interesting handling post-resignation questions from friends. I have quite a few who asked – so how are you going to afford the spa sessions if you quit and freelance instead?! Goodness, for these ladies – their voices trembled, one of them had a face so white that I had a flash of brilliance that all her blood had actually flushed out of her wind system from The Crack where the sun refuses to penetrate, and another was earnest enough to say – “Let me guess…you bought a package!”.

A package I did buy! Do you think I would be so foolish as to quit a well-paying job and yet and not buy a package spa deal to ensure that I still get my dosage of kneads and aromatherapy scents, every month? When I am on that spa-table, my Toye look (refer to the Ostrich below, who IS my Toye Yoda) degenerates into a smiling animal – almost stealing the summer look of a mountain goat. I have not, however, beaten my cousin’s record of drooling through the round hole while lying face down on the spa table though. Dia tertidur. Tak glam langsung!

So yes, I will miss the scene above soon. After all, it is only during such meetings that I am able to practise my Toye look. As most of you know, I fail often to ‘look it’.

I am letting the Bhemdods live in their own little world, finally.

Dear Ostrich,

How I envy you. That smug you have on your face is what I yearn for to survive my battles with the Bhemdod Aliens at Planet Work, and these past few days, I have been making progress. It is THAT smug that has driven the Bhemdod Diva up the wall, and oh, how she has complained to the Dowager about me not validating her existence. Yes Ostrich, we do have children in the office. All wrapped up in a 40-ish year old physique, breathing and forever charting her political moves to kill someone in the office. How fun for us. How pathetic of her.

Your hairy look is in, Ostrich. It is the latest, hip and happening look to have. I advocate it to my staff, and they all love it. It is the kind of look that gives nothing, hints nothing and reacts to nothing. It is totally unreadable for political players, and with this, I get to ignore all the dark forces and just persevere on with my work duties. Politics aplenty, I still have to publish 24 books by the end of the year.

So how did you acquire the look, dear Ostrich? I mean, how do you have it on your face 24/7? I know I mentioned I made progress, but sometimes I fail. Sigh. I try to have the Toye look during Heads’ Meetings, but sometimes my Toye attempts broke into frowns instead. Ah, you should scrutinise my forehead now, Ostrich. I have 2 permanent frown lines – thanks to 9 years of sinking my hands dirty into the newspaper, magazine and now book publishing industries. But for the last 6 months, I do notice that my frown lines are looking more and more like the Mariana Trench. Gua tak boleh carrey. Do you think facials will work, Ostrich? You don’t seem to have any frown lines on you.

Yes, I know. You mentioned that it is my lack of practice. I promise that I will. I’ll perfect the look. YOUR look. It is priceless Ostrich. It is after all, a look that spells sophisticated serenity.

Steady lah, Ostrich. Your Toye look rocks!

My name is Uja. I am a spa-holic.

I am ashamed to admit that despite the fact that I am a full-grown adult (with a full grown body to reinforce that fact), have 20 people reporting to me at the workplace (yes, that planet with a recalcitrant alien tribe called The Bhemdods which refuses to banish itself from the universe) and a husband to take care of (albeit the fact that he is so far away) – I have lost control of my addiction to spas, scents and kneads. How unbecoming. How weak.

I succumbed on Friday night. I broke the spell of my self-imposed, cold turkey no-spas for 2 months plan. It happened on the night that I felt so lost in Esplanade Mall, all because I have 1.5 hours to kill while waiting for my 66-year-old mother and her equally 60-ish-year old best friend to finish watching ‘Impenjarament’, the play that I helped to translate. I was nursing my dissapointment of not being able to watch the play (not enough tickets, long story) and as I was walking around the Mall toying with the idea of grabbing a cuppa somewhere and continued to read Da Vinci Code, I felt down, moody and in the pits. Pathetic to be caught reading a book in a cafe on a Friday night, I know. In the middle of town, to boot. Cis bedebah! Sungguh tak sanggup.

Suddenly, my heart raced. My breathing was shallow. My pupils must have dilated. And my brown hijab must have turned blonde. As I was standing on the escalator on the way to the cafe to reconcile my conscienciousness with my pathetic Friday night life, I saw a huge sign right in front of me. It says Kenko Wellness Spa…..the 3 letter word at the end of the sentence was so inviting, I did not realise that by then, my mouth was 10 cm dilated. It was short of oozing foam.

I hurried myself into the apparent heaven. There is respite after all. I must have talked so fast to the reception counter, that the next thing I know I was seated plumply on a white seat, warm orange hues enveloping my tired eyes and a soothing score of xylophonic symphony started meandering its waves through my ears. Aaahh…blissss.Bring it on!

It was barely 5 minutes after that I realised I have walked myself into a reflexology-based spa. This is no aromatherapy-based one. There are no warm hands kneading my frenzied nerves. No strokes, no gentle movements. I was horrified at the pain that the therapist inflicted on my fragile toes, but I could not run. I could have told her to stop, paid and walked out of the new agey reflexology centre, but do I really want to read a book in a cafe on a Friday night? Thoughts of being booed and visions of waiters walking past me and making the L sign on their foreheads were threatening my ego. Gosh, it was a painful thought. All that tasawuf reading did me no good, I chided myself. Banish the ego, woman! Save yourself from the pain of traditional Chinese torture. Go to the cafe and swallow the stares, I battled.

But, I failed to fight. Instead, I closed my eyes and grit my teeth, day dreamed about my husband and tried every way to distract myself from the therapist’s punishment to me. Serves me right. I blew another $103 on an hour of ‘treatment’.

Oh, I am so very ashamed of myself. Someone please, help me hide my head.

No, the above message is not for my DH. Its for the masseuse – who epitomises the direct, unflappable bond between a hard turning, firm hand that can knead the hardest dough (often, that’s my flesh!) and a stressed out, tangled piece of muscle which has been exposed to the frustration of battling Bhemdods at work.You want to be the first to watch War of The Worlds? Come to my workplace. And no, I am not the alien.

What’s with us girls and spas, massages and salons – aku pun tak tahu. I overdid it this month. My bank balance say so, my husband just shook his head (well, I can FEEL he shook his head, although I cannot see him on the phone when he is 18,000 miles away) and my own conscience just grin and smile at my weakness for spas. This past month alone I have been to Anggun Andaman Spa, Balik Kampung Spa twice, spa partying at The Retreat Thalasso Spa, twice to the hair salon (to reperm my rebonded hair, and then reborn again!) and cancelled on Wayan Retreat twice too.

I think I have spent more than $1000 on these treats, and all because – to keep my sanity. It is no wonder that what happened this week at work was the final straw for me, and I am still contemplating my next move. Should I quit and move on to green and snowy Canada, where a doting husband, mountains and husky sleigh-rides abound (*grins to my Seoul Garden dinner companions*), or stay a while longer here in SG. Sigh, I dont know. All I know is that I cannot be spending more than a 1000 in cold cash everytime I need to be sane, yes?

Stick to berzikir, you say? I hear you. Itu tasbih sekarang jugak kena cari!

I had a giggly spa-party yesterday – so giggly that it will be considered pornographic if I were to describe the details of what made four 33-year olds former schoolmates giggled non-stop. But I had such a good time I have to tell some! 😉

The 3-hour session was supposed to be filled with a massage, steam/sauna bath, a soak in a seaview jacuzzi and then some refreshments of sushis, chicken fingers and Japanese beans. It was absolutely hilarious to be paired with KYC, my former classmate in our all-girls secondary school, who was also my seat-partner. Back then, we were so noisy and talkative that our form teacher made us sit right in front of the class, as that was the only way he could control our ‘noise’. In my report card, I had Bs and Cs and he would write – ‘You survived this on natural wit’. Damn. Why didn’t he just write ‘Work harder’?!

Anyway, I digress. Back on the spa table, KYC and me were yakking non-stop – about love and marriage, the publishing firm I work for, F1 and Bernie Ecclestone, a Malaysian datuk who was a scam, a former boss and many other issues while the therapists dutifully knead our knots and tangles with what felt like hot massage oil. We must have yakked non-stop, and then complaint about how stressed we are with work and life that the therapist actually stopped massaging and said – ‘You girls better stop talking about work, you are suppose to relax here!’.
We said sorry, fell silent and just 2 seconds later, she quipped – ‘Err..but your conversation very interesting lah!’. Gosh, make up your mind woman.

The spa-party was a form of celebration for KYC’s birthday, and so we decided to join her b’day dinner with her family at the Shangri-La. When we reached there, there were like 100+ policemen blocking the roads to the hotel, gurkhas with guns on stand-by (I heard later that the instructions given to the gurkhas were – anyone who circled the area more than 3 times have to be shot – at the tyres ) and the hotel’s carparks were all non-accessible. The last time The Shang had such a Level 1 tight security was when Bush was in town. It was my kepo questioning to the guards that we realise there was an international ministerial conference going on. Ok, so be it. I wanted my dinner, and I could not care less who was in town and how many security clearance points I had to go through. My dinner agenda stays.

Today, I flipped the papers and realised that was a conference attended by 250 defence delegates. DEFENCE. That spelt Rumsfeld, Teo Chee Hean and Najib. And so I was right.While we were dining away downstairs enjoying our pizza and lassi, Rumsfeld was a few floors above our heads either snoozing, resting or perhaps bidding on eBay on his laptop. What a thought. I would have lost my appetite.

But alas, political preferences aside – I enjoyed my dinner. See, keeping focused always help. My food – will always, always come first.

Fortunately, none of the waiters asked me – “Rumsfeld for coffee, ma’m?”. My reply would probably be – “No, kopi-baba would do”.

And I AM serious.

For the past 14 days, the iPod mini was plugged tightly into my ears – my heart was entertained from one song to another and my otherwise vulnerable soul could take all the emotions that music usually evoke – all because, my husband is here. Here, as in in Singapore. Here, as in just within a turn away when I badly need to see his sweet face.

Tomorrow, about this time, I will be whiling away the time, eyes in tears and heart in pain. He will be leaving tomorrow, back to his adopted country 18,000 miles away and it is back to our long-distance marriage again. Life is hard but oh so beautiful. I don’t know if I will be stronger, but I know I will be crying. Again.

We chose not to spend the 2 weeks he was here on short holidays, but live up the Singapore life instead. So it is eat, eat and eat, playing badminton at the Tampines Sports Hall, paying homage to Mustafa Centre, hanging out with my silly cousins and annoying best friend on a Friday night at Samar Cafe, having a romantic date watching Ten Tenors at Esplanade and alfresco candlelight dinner at Al Dente, get myself spooked at the Night Safari and visits to relatives (like 10 in total!). We had so much fun, and it is now ending.

I will look forward to his next visit, or mine perhaps. For now, the iPod will definitely be played less often and the radio dial unmoved for a while. The music stops again.

Talk about exposure.

Yesterday, I brought (correction: ‘dragged’) my 17 yr-old niece to watch a 4.5 hours documentary on the impact of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict at the Singapore Film Festival. My husband made me. It will ‘widen her horizon’, he said.

That docu, filmed by Michel Khleifi and Eyal Sivan (a Palestinian and an Israeli) is still one of the most gripping, raw and *unplugged* documentary I have ever seen. It was my second time watching it, the first being at the DOXA Film Festival in Vancouver last year. I marvelled at how I can put myself through watching it again, and still shed a tear or two during the same scenes! It cannot be two PMSs occuring at the exact same time 2 years in a row, can it?!

But it is not about me today. It is about my niece, and of course, my husband. My hubs is someone who fervently believes in exposing young minds, not constraining their potentials and never, don’t you dare – decide on what the young ones can achieve when you have no idea what his/her rezeki will be. I have seen how he applies the same principle on his 15 yr-old sister, and now, to my niece too.

I was very hesitant on bringing my teenage niece to watch the docu – it was back-breaking long, no frills,no banjo music ala Michael Moore’s and on top of it – the subject matter is about the impact of politics on the common man. It is not about 911, MacDonalds or the pop culture.

Route 181, that’s the title of the docu, was full of history, bitterness, soundbites too honest and painful to hear and tonnes of reality check on us ‘isolated’ Singaporeans. Could a 17 year-old take it? Would it be an interesting watch for her at all? In her life right now – boys, iPod minis, friendships and exams take centrestage. Who cares about the Middle East?!

True enough, she was bored. At some point during the docu she was busy SMSing too, and fell asleep during some parts. The Double Decker Snek Udang I brought kept her awake for the duration it took for her to finish the packet, and I am sure after that her mind drifted again.

At the end of the show I asked her if she liked it. Of course her answer was no. At that precise moment, I was so tempted to make a long-distance call to my husband to gloat and say ‘See! I told you these young kids won’t like docus! It does nothing to ‘widen her horizon!’- but something in me stopped myself.

I realised, that many of the wisdom I acquire now is because of the things I was exposed to when I was her age. It was during my teens that my worldview was shaped, my adult life was just a reinforcement of THAT worlview. Or debunking it, depending on the outcome. She may not know NOW why she spent 4.5 hours of her precious life watching how deep-seated the conflict between the Palestinians and Jews is, but the images, the soundbites and the characters interviewed will be remembered when she is older and when she has to make sense of the world around her, the Middle East to be exact. Who knows she will be a journalist, or an academic, or a diplomat – and boy would this docu come in handy!

So thanks hubs for the push to widen my niece’s horizon. And many of the young ones in our lives too. For that, this post is a tribute to you – you won this debate hands down.

Now, can I get that iPOd mini soon? 😉

Back then in newspaper days, I used to have a colleague (let’s call her Nelly) who would pay homage to the pub almost every night, drank her Corona blues away and smoked the chain at every other hour. If she has to rush out of the air-conditioned newsroom for a puff, she would -“Eh, got to go lah – need a smoke!” even when she was merely 10-seconds away from her turn to debrief our newsdesk supervisor. And with her 5-cm heels she would actually dash out of the newsroom for that single,liberating puff.

Many a time, when dawn broke the next day and most of us would saunter into the newsroom 30 minutes late, someone would tell me a story about how Nelly was so drunk the night before, she danced with the guitar.Not the rocker-style, mind you. She was not a tall lass with leggy, moisturised legs to boot – but she always,always looked sexy. So the guitar number must have been quite a scene for the guys.

Fast-forward to 2 days ago, I gave her a call to let her know of an opening in KL for a senior reporter job with AFP. Her mobile rang, but no one picked up after 4 rings. By the time it was the 5th ring, I looked at the time and realised it is 9.30 pm on a Friday night. How stupid of me, I said to myself. The girl is drinking away in a pub and she would not have heard her mobile ringing. The thought came, settled, and then was somehow rudely disrupted by a calm and warm ‘Hello’ on the other end.

Nelly was at home, resting (on a Friday night!). She just came back from work, she said. I spent more time screaming in disbelief that she was not pubbing, then actually telling her about the job opening. Her response about not being in a pub on a Friday night was, “Ah ?! Sudah tua lah!”. That hit me like a rock. We are both only in our early 30s.

Before you kepos start inviting flies with your mouth wide-opened, no I do not go pubbing. With a hijab-on-head, that would have created a scene much more puzzling than a Nelly doing a Corona in one hand and a guitar in the other. I am just in shock that Nelly, of all people, outgrew the pubbing phase. There are people I know, our supervisor was one – who was still drinking, smoking and going to the pub every night. She was then in her late 30s, and she obviously did not outgrow the phase. The newsroom stress was too much for her I guess, and the pub was her sanctuary. Last time I saw her, her hair was dyed blonde.Poor supervisor.

So who are the ones who outgrew a certain phase, and who don’t? Nelly’s case spiralled my confidence downwards in my ability to read people’s character, because I thought she would be a pub-loyal. I thought Nelly would be one of those who will retire and open a pub with her son or nephew as the operations manager just so she can get close to the drinks and the live music. Sigh. I was so dead wrong.

Life has such a way of turning it around for people. Secretly, I am glad that Nelly is not pubbing anymore. One day, if you sport a not-so-tall girl walking around smiling sweetly without smoke-stained teeth, have a Christian name yet speak a spattering Malay and can rattle all the house-hits of the late 90’s pub scene – think of Nelly. It may just be her.

And oh. Hide your guitar.