About Nude Not Naked

It Could Be Worst

noreply@blogger.com (Otto) — Wed, 21 Jul 2010 03:14:00 +0000

"Think of it this way," I said to Hill one afternoon under the swaying tree. "It could be worst..."

I lived here with Mr. Husband and baby (plus domestic wife, whom I fly back and forth along with me) since February this year. Hill lived for the past 2 months, so it was a good time to discuss our experiences. Our husbands are both working as expatriates in the engineering field and it is fair for the two of us to expect some amount of traveling and living abroad. We are now officially expatriate wives.

"Remember this, Hill." I said, "It could be worst. It could be Azerbaijan..."

***
Indonesia is a weird place to be. I don’t mean it in a bad way. It is weird simply because it is not what you would expect it to be. Take shopping in Semarang for example. Did you know that you cannot find a tampon to save your life? But you can buy two pairs of Guess shoes. I know this because I am still flying my tampons to Indonesia and I am now the owner of two pretty new pairs of shoes sitting on what used to be the fish pond. (I will get to the fish pond turn shoe rack story soon).

It is an adventure trying to find fresh chicken but heck, you can find plenty of Chicken Cordon Bleu or Chicken Picatta (my favouite!) in the restaurant by the sea. They even have a fridge for the restaurant! I seriously considered the option of bringing the damn pepper mill because I love freshly ground pepper in my cooking. You cannot find any – pepper or mill - not even in Carre Four (the epicenter for grocery shopping). It’s shocking, I know!

This does not mean that Indonesia is a poor nation. I have not seen this much Louis Vuitton bags since Milan. There are many rich people living and working here. They are just discreet. You never know where they live though I suspect they are living along the hills of Semarang, where the houses are the size of office building. The sheer number of people living here means money is changing hands constantly. All restaurants are always busy, especially those without refrigerators. Bakeries are always zooming with customers buying ‘roti tawar’, which is sweet and not ‘tawar’ at all.

Maybe I should not use the word “Indonesia”. I should probably limit it to “Java” and “Semarang” to be more precise. We live 70km from Semarang and it takes us 1.5 hours to drive there. In a car, not a water buffalo. Perhaps if we rode a water buffalo, it’d be faster. Though we might have to hire more than one water buffalo to take the circus troupe that is my family. It would also be less expensive to repair if we knocked into another water buffalo along the way.

***
I am suspicious of our driver. He is terribly reliable and is there when we need him to be. He drives us in the morning at 4 a.m. when we need to get to Solo for our flight back to Malaysia and he drives us at 12 p.m. to lunch at the restaurant by the sea. He will be there, no questions asked. He reminds me of John Statham, a professional transporter from Transporter, the movie. They are identical twins if only John Statham had a moustache ala Burt Reynold’s.

I never had a driver before this, so it can be both liberating and confining to have one. For sure, most long drives are now much easier because Bambang (that’s his name) drives the car. We all sleep through the journey and arrive on location in good spirits. Then again, we realized how restricted our lives have been since moving here. We have to call him to take us to KFC whilst in Malaysia, we would have just driven ourselves. What is fast food if it isn’t instant, right?

If you are curious why we have a driver in Indonesia, the answer lies in the traffic rules here. There simply is none! And if they had a rule, it would be ‘just keep moving’. There is no rhyme or reason for why cars or buses or water buffalos start or stop. They just go along and move along and everything is fine. We suspect that one must possess a certain genetic material to survive driving in this chaotic calm. It is advantageous if some village folks doesn’t kill your driver when he runs over a suicidal chicken on the road.

***
Do not take what I am saying here as a complaint. They are not. Living on the Javanese island has been a wonderful experience thus far. I love the fact that we are away from our normal routines back in Malaysia. I work on my laptop only when something important cropped up at work. Otherwise my life is quite easy and relaxing, with my little boy being a great distraction. It is such a privilege to watch him grow and learn about his world!

Being away from the comfort of my home taught me many things. It showed me what I have been taking for granted and made me appreciate some other things. The whole experience breathes fresh life into my being. I have to make do without some things that I am used to having and stretch me to accept some other things that I never had in my life.

“There is a Body Shop in Paragon!” Hill said. “That is my best bet for some decent make up.”

“You mean we can’t get some Chanel eye liner?!” I asked, batting my eyes while smiling at her. Hill and I became close friends since her arrival in Java 2 months ago. We share similar kind of silly humor.

As a matter of fact, we are quite alike in many ways – we had a baby recently. Her daughter is 6 months. We met because our husbands are now working together in the same office. In our old lives back home, we were working too but over here, we are quite free to do as we please. So we usually meet up for lunch daily to catch some sunrays and to get out of the house.

“I wore high heels all through my pregnancy,” she said.

“Oh my goodness! I wore heels throughout my pregnancy too!” I screamed. We were behaving like two teenagers, giggling as we confessed our mommie crimes. Some women are born mother earth type – embracing motherhood and organic vegetables – and other women like Hill and I, are born to get out of the house, wear beautiful shoes and have Super Girl Fridays.

***
Many friends and not so close friends asked how I adjusted to life without rushing through the door for work each morning. Some women wear shorts and t-shirts, scrunch up their hair and walk around in slippers all day. I happen to be the one who wears proper day wear, light make up, proper coiffed hair and high heels at home. Being home is not sufficient reason to slack.

I might be an irresponsible shopper, buying 3 pairs of white shoes on the same day but I am very disciplined in other areas of my life. I have a timetable that I abide to daily. I might be messy with my things but I am not a slop. That’s just how I am built, I guess.

“That’s why you are the party pooper, my love…” Nikki said some time ago. She patted my head as she said it. We were discussing whether teenagers should be allowed to ‘party’ on weekends. My opinion was clear: there was no necessity for a 15 year old to disco dance or a 14 year old to have supper with friends at midnight. Nikki obviously felt otherwise, perhaps because she was from another culture altogether.

Oh I am diverging…

***
There is a Javanese version of Glastonbury Festival happening at the moment as I am typing this to you. A neighbor of ours is organizing a ‘keselamatan’, which I understand is something like a thanksgiving party. It lasts 3 days minimum with 7 days being its maximum. It is 9:30 a.m. in the morning. What the hell are the drum rolls for?

Oh my domestic wife just remarked that it is probably a dangdut festival. “Hopefully it is just for one night”. So who needs U2 for the Glastonbury? We have some Javanese pixie singing, “Ah Ah” while gyrating her hips seductively…

If it takes you nine months to make a baby…

noreply@blogger.com (Otto) — Thu, 15 Jul 2010 04:48:00 +0000

… it will take you a year to lose the fats.”

Those were the wise words from Mr. Husband. The problem is, it is now more than a year. Fourteen months, to be precise. It sounds strange calling him my husband, to be honest. “Boyfriend” sounds more attractive for very unknown reasons. At least to me. So does “girlfriend”.

I know many search for relationships and they dream of the day when they will feel complete. Usually it coincides with the day they marry. It is the same day they make a long list of loving commitments to each other. Somehow I have grown apathic and do not possess the butterflies that are tied to feeling of getting married.

Don’t get me wrong. I do get the butterflies in my stomach. I get them when I see him brush his teeth in his underwear. I often wonder why men have such beautiful bums (and beautiful, if not super hairy, legs). I get butterflies when we ride on the jet ski he bought last month. It isn’t motion sickness, I swear. I get them when we sit in the car on our way to dinner on weekends. The wonderful feeling of closeness and warmth of knowing someone deeply is all there. It is just not tied to a wedding or a marriage.

What most people didn’t know was, or rather is, we were not married when I was pregnant. The fact that we were not married made it easier for me to call him my husband. It sounds strange, I know. I am a strange woman. While most girls would prefer some form of ‘solid’ commitment, especially with a bun in the oven, I was actually very happy and relaxed without the need to rush a wedding. I felt secure in our relationship. We spoke about being pregnant for a few months before. Consequently we were ready and delighted when we were. Married or not, it did not add or subtract anything.

And if you are asking me, “how the hell did you register the birth?”, the answer is obvious. Many are led to believe you need a wedding certificate to register a birth. Even at the counter, the lady will ask for a wedding certificate. I don’t know which blue smurf started that rumor but that is definitely untrue. The birth certificate indicates “Father” and “Mother”, which means biological parents of the child. It does not say, “Husband” and “Wife”. (I can imagine a lightbulb moment a few seconds ago when you read the previous sentence.)

So all you need to do is to proof that you are the biological parents. It is easier for the woman to proof that she is the mother. It is a little more challenging to proof the father. Well, we solved that by presenting Mr. Husband, himself, at the birth registration counter during his paternity leave. Yes, he had 2 weeks of paternity leave, which sounds swell except for the bit that he had to travel back to Java once the 14 days was up.

You can imagine me with happy smiling baby at 3 a.m. for a couple of months. Note: Baby smiled, not I.

***
Now that is all history. It is amazing how something so profound and life changing, can and will, with time, become something of the past. You will forget about the tears, lack of sleep and feeling of terror as night falls. All that is left is a beautiful boy, trying to insert a DVD into the DVD player. That’s his favourite skill today. Yesterday he practiced opening the door. Mind you, he can’t reach for the keys. And the day before, he was pouring body lotion after bath. It’s all pretend play but he seems quite excited about everything.

Mr. Husband and I agreed that a little boy did not belong in the middle of nowhere. So we delegated our duties. Me with baby and work in Malaysia. Mr. Husband with work in Java. It went on for nine months due to the H1N1 flu yadda yadda yadda. But we finally made it here, to Java, two weeks before the Lunar New Year. We are now here for the fourth time this year alone. That is quite a lot of flying for the little boy, who turned one in May.

So where the hell are we? Well the nearest direct flight airport is Solo, which is a 2.5 hour flight from KL. And then it’s another 3 hours of driving to the little town where we are now living. It is by the sea and on most days, it feels like living in Phi Phi island. There is a pretty café bar next to the sea, a Japanese restaurant inland, a proper English pub and a few up and coming eateries and places to hang out.

Don’t be fooled by the description because this is a very strange land. It feels like island paradise as long as you walk within the perimeters of expatriate establishments. Outside those lines lie filth, dust and poverty. Children run without shoes in mud houses. Roof is nearly always leaking, even in the best houses. And the most amazing sight is of a river near Semarang, where the residents bath, wash dishes, throw their bodily waste and even brush their teeth next to each other.

***
Everything has changed yet everything still felt quite the same. It is an adventure, one that I had not imagined but am excited to embrace. I am like a duck that has never seen water. Now there is a pond in front of me and I will have to learn to wade in it. Hopefully I will be a happy duck. Those around me seem wade around quite easily. What is it with women and marriage anyway? Pfff...!

Like Eve. She has now three children, her third was born at the same week as my first. She is busy zipping around with her life and is now preparing to attend the French Independence party this weekend. She looks exactly the same but an improved version. Body fats do not bother her. (not that she has any) Neither does stretch marks nor dry skin. “Dress to your advantage,” she said the other day when I lifted my shirt to reveal a not so flat tummy. After giving birth, trust me, nothing shames you anymore. “I no longer think of my belly or thigh fats,” she shrugged and tucked merrily into her lunch. “You don’t even have stretch marks,” she blurted after a few seconds of, what I like to presume, thought.

“Madam,” said my domestic wife, “Think of it this way - you had your mojo and now you passed the mojo to your son…” Hmmm, it did not comfort me at all. While it is true that the little boy is a dashing boy (every mother thinks so), I would much prefer to share the mojo than to pass the mojo entirely.

I am happy to announce that there is wisdom in Mr. Husband’s words. The fats melted away as little boy blew one candle. Somehow everything just went ‘POOF!” over night and everything looks smaller in the mirror. Perhaps I have a magic mirror in Java! Even my hair looks lustrous as before. I had to chop off my locks, giving up the thought that it could resuscitate itself after the pregnancy.

“Why don’t you ask me to lose some weight?” I asked Mr. Husband once. A man of few words but he summarized everything succinctly. “Because you will never allow yourself to be fat.” He was still reading Finnish news online when he said that.

***
“Honey, we need to talk,” I said on one side of the bathroom door.

“Yes?” he asked. He was packing our bags for the first Singapore night race.

“I think I am pregnant,” I said, heart beating ever so fast, looking at the two stripes on the white pregnancy test kit.

“Honey, you can’t say that you are pregnant just because you feel fat….”

***
Yes, I married that man and this is the story of our lives.

Love

noreply@blogger.com (Otto) — Wed, 23 Jun 2010 03:37:00 +0000

Love requires courage. Courage to merge and be one with someone not you. Courage to take care of someone's heart more than yours. Courage to continue loving in times of extreme difficulties. It is easy to love someone when times are good and the sun shining everyday. The true account of love manifests itself in the darkest nights along the looming clouds of troubles. It is at this point that you will find true love. Or not.

There is something magical about darkness. We all instinctively fear darkness because of the uncertainty of daylight. What we must remember is there is always light at the end of the darkest night. And without the darkness, we seldom appreciate light. In these dark moments, we stand to be tested - to see if our love is pure. Those who still stand together when day breaks, now those are the ones who love. And for us to stand at daybreak, we must have courage.

Love. Courage. Faith. These are all emotions. So are jealousy, anger and fear. The lines between the emotions are very thin and if you are careless in your love, you will cross them too easily. There is no right or wrong emotions. Emotions in themselves are neutral. You can love someone and yet feel extreme jealousy and possession. When you lack courage, you will have anger and when you have faith, you will not fear. But more often than not, all the emotions will float in your heart like little boats in the vast ocean.

I am still a student of life and I am still learning about love - when to love and when to hate, faith in the love we share, courage to have faith and wisdom to guard my heart.

A Series Of Old Letters - 4

noreply@blogger.com (Otto) — Tue, 19 Jan 2010 00:02:00 +0000

I wrote this email to SwedishLove during the two months we were apart. It describes an intimate moment I daydreamed. It clearly and honestly shows the act of loving someone in the most instinctive and purest form and it is probably the only record I have of my own sexuality - my desires, dreams and wants from a lover.

Loving someone demands the revelation of your deepest person and then allowing... no, trusting another person to come complete you and feed your body and soul. The yearnings of a woman deeply in love resonates through the whole email.

*
Subject: close your eyes and imagine this...
Date: 15 May 2001 13:04:40 EDT

Our bed, by the window. Lots of pillows, just the way we like it....

A soft breeze blew into the room. We walked into the room and switch off the lights. I held your hands and led you to our bed. First I laid on my back on the edge of the bed and smiled at you... I teased you to come and give me a hug. You gently lowered yourself on top of me and we hugged each other warmly. We pushed ourselves onto the bed as we gently bit each other’s lips. Our lips met passionately...

I breathed into your ears softly, "I want you." You smiled at me. My hands roamed downwards, caressing your body softly. You took your shirt off and helped me take mine. Throwing the clothes on the floor, you then lowered yourself on top of me again. I kissed you passionately as our tongues touched. I traced your lips with tiny kisses...

You gave my right nipple a gentle kiss. Slowly you moved down a little to suck on my right breast. I sighed as the sensation from your kiss as it floated all over my body. I asked you whether you enjoyed my body. You nodded your head, not saying a word.

I held you tightly in my arms. I leaned upwards and nibbled your ear a little... moved myself away from your face... I moved downwards and smiled cheekily at you. You smiled and gave my thigh a little kiss. Our eyes met. I looked down and ran my fingers along your body, slowly in circular motions.... dancing from your chest to your tummy... and down to your thighs... your eyes were following where my fingers went. Your body yearning for my touch.

I held your right hand and brought it closer to me. Used your fingers to trace my body... from my thighs... to my tummy… along the side of my body... up between my breast... along my neck... slowly I put your finger into my mouth... sucked it... my tongue danced around it... teased it...

Suddenly you took your finger away. I smiled. You reached downwards and kissed my inner thighs... I took a deep breath as you flicked your tongue. I moaned at the sheer pleasure it brought. I leaned to my left and planted a wet kiss on him. Then I put it in my mouth, so slowly it felt almost painful to wait for the pleasure to arrive... Slowly inch-by-inch, I sucked on him. You moaned and showered me with even more kisses. The pleasure was so warm. I sighed. I wanted more. I knew you wanted more...

I wanted to feel you inside but I wanted to feel the longing... of wanting you... I wanted to see you wanting me. I wanted to watch you as you become excited; excited when you licked and sucked me. Excited that you knew that you were going to come inside me. But we had to wait... we waited for the emotions to build up... we teased each other into excitement... time stood still before I could feel you inside... but that was the way our passion built... It felt so good, so good that it felt almost painful... I wasn’t able to tell the difference... it was so good....

The pleasure was so wonderful as you licked and fingered me. So pleasurable that sometimes it felt like time was eternal. So I held onto the pillows to stop myself from stopping myself from feeling the pleasure. Breathless.... I surrendered. I wanted to feel it. I wanted to feel it all. "Help me..." I let out a soft sigh as the warm sensation flooded all over my body like a wave...

I smiled at you as you wiped your mouth. I hopped on top of you and kissed your lips. You smiled at me. I gently sat on top of you, pushing you in me slowly.. gently... little by little... inch by inch.... I cringed a little. So you lifted my hair up and began to kiss me lovingly as I eased myself into position… you ran your right hand along the base of my neck, slowly making its way along my back… you held me tightly in your embrace... it felt so good to be held… to feel the protection and the love.... What first felt like pain, clearly was sheer ecstasy.... And soon it was warm and lovely when I took him all in...

Holding you in my arms, I started rocking myself back and forth... you let out a sigh..... a sigh of pleasure... I pushed you to lie back on the soft bed... you reached out your hands and cupped my breasts. I continued to rock slowly, squeezing and relaxing.. letting him feel my all... I wanted you to feel how much I loved you.... how much I wanted my mortal body to join with yours.... to please you... how much I wanted to hear you come... how much I wanted to hear you love me... love my body... tell me how much my body is bringing you pleasure because all I want is you...

You hugged me lovingly for what felt like forever... No, we didn’t move…. I could feel you pulsating inside.. You laid me on my back… moved your hands over mine... As your hands reached mine, you held them in security... You pushed him inside of me again as you showered me with kisses…

“I love you” you said.

“I love you too” I replied, feeling your every shiver.

With that, you started to thrust with deep longings. I looked at you. I felt your breath on my face as you felt the pleasure building inside. I loved watching you love me. I loved watching you close your eyes to feel every single sensation that was floating around your body. I watched you making love to me.

Slowly. Quickly. Deeply. Purely.

You clenched your teeth as you came. You moaned deeply, pushing him deeper inside, rubbing her in ecstasy. I squeezed tighter, to feel you more.... More, my baby. I want more.

You closed your eyes tightly to feel every single throb. You rested on me, still breathing heavily. I pat your head, kept you warm in my embrace. Your heart beat fast. I snuggled closer into your arms. As you savor the last few orgasmic moment, I whispered in you ears, “I love you baby.. I love you very much... much more than you know.."

You got up.. held my hands and led me to the bathroom, where we sat in the tub. You cupped some water and ran it on my back. I kissed your left knee gently and offered a smile. We exchanged glances. I took the towel to dry you. You moved your hands along my body with the towel, drying me. We kissed each other as we walked to the bed again.

I curled up in your arms... gave you a kiss good nite... you kissed my neck and held me even closer.. I snuggled warmly into you... I could feel you breath...

A Series Of Old Letters - 3

noreply@blogger.com (Otto) — Sun, 17 Jan 2010 01:05:00 +0000

Let's dance in style, lets dance for a while
Heaven can wait we're only watching the skies
Hoping for the best but expecting the worst
Are you going to drop the bomb or not?
Let us die young or let us live forever
We don't have the power but we never say never
Sitting in a sandpit, life is a short trip
The music's for the sad men
Can you imagine when this race is won
Turn our golden faces into the sun
Praising our leaders we're getting in tune
The music's played by the madman

Forever young, i want to be forever young
Do you really want to live forever, forever forever
Forever young, i want to be forever young
Do you really want to live forever
Forever young

Some are like water, some are like the heat
Some are a melody and some are the beat
Sooner or later they all will be gone
Why don't they stay young
It's so hard to get old without a cause
I don't want to perish like a fading horse
Youth is like diamonds in the sun
And diamonds are forever
So many adventures couldn't happen today
So many songs we forgot to play
So many dreams are swinging out of the blue
We let them come true

~ Forever Young, lyrics by Alphaville

*

A flood of memories rushed to greet me when I started reading the entries. It was a warm and idyllic time of in my life, filled with traveling and experiencing new places, gooseberry ice creams on hot summer days, walking in Gamla Stan, going out with many friends and eating roti canai under the tree. We played Bomber Lord and watched lots of movies on the bed. We were in Perhentian before it became all hyped up, long before Bubu Long Beach laid its first brick.

I was surprised by the amount of Swedish I spoke and wrote prior to enrolling into Folk University Sweden. The translation for the following phrases in this email is:

"Jag lik den lång" --- "I like it long"
"Tack själv för älskande mig" --- "Thank you for loving me".
"Pojkvän" --- "boyfriend"
"Flickvän" --- 'girlfriend'.

I was even more surprised by our living arrangement - 4 months in Malaysia, 2 months apart, 4 months in Stockholm and 2 months apart. That was a pretty impressive living arrangement, one that gave us so much freedom of movement. I remember having lunches in Vurma on Saturdays and lusting after clothes in Indiska, waking up in the yellow bedroom and dressing up was carefree. Many emails were punctuated with 'see you later at 4 p.m.' or whatever time. It simply indicated that despite being together a lot, we each had our individual space to do our stuff. I was probably at work and he was at Coffee bean when we were in Malaysia. And in Sweden, it was probably the opposite.

We argued once and it was over his ex-gf of three years. They met when she was a foreign student studying in Sweden. I hated the comparison between Malaysia and Singapore, which I felt was a subtle comparison between the ex and I. But for most, the emails were cordial, lively and sometimes a little horny. Having such beautiful emails, you will begin to wonder why the hell we broke up. I found the answer by the end of the email exchanges.

*

Subject: Jag lik den lång
Date: 19 Mar 2001 05:07:35 -0500

To my dearest horny pojkvän,

I am very happy and thankful that I have you by my side. It has been a very interesting week and I bet that it will just get better by the end of this weekend.... mmmmm, geram! Honey, open up your legs....

You have been a tremendous joy to talk to and be with. For example, I am very happy just lying by your side last nite, talking about things. We could joke, tease, tickle and play with each other. I feel so comfortable with you!!!

I am just so glad that you are mine. I am so happy that we can be together, just enjoying each other's company. We make a great couple because we have plenty of things to talk and discuss! Both of us have a sense of humor (thank goodness we do) as do we share common sense of style and ideas..... and we sometimes say the funniest things that brighten up our days.

These days I also feel loved by you. To hear you whispering into my ears that you love me, makes me feel so warm inside. I also know it from the way that you hold me.... I feel very cherished by you. Tack själv för älskande mig :)

I feel excited each time I think about you and about us together. I can smell, feel and taste how good it will be... do you understand what I am saying here?

Anyway I am looking forward to meeting up with you later tonite. We'll attempt watching the movie AGAIN tonite *hahaha* will be there approx. 8:30 p.m. You enjoy yourself, ya?!

Love always,
Otto

A Series Of Old Letters - 2

noreply@blogger.com (Otto) — Fri, 15 Jan 2010 23:47:00 +0000

I was amazed when I found the following two pieces of correspondence. They were the very first times Henrik and I communicated. What a rare jewel to find these and to discover that we were sat in Coffee Bean on 20th January 2001. Eve and I were having our usual morning weekend breakfast. There was this beautiful creature sat across us, holding a book on architecture. He had the most amazing face and the most piercing eyes.

We devised a plan to find out who he was looking at. I walked over to the dispenser on the pretext of getting us some water. Naturally he would trail after the girl that he was observing. I made my way back to Eve with two white paper cups in my hands and was informed that he was looking at me. You should see the smile on my face... We sat there past our breakfast, hoping that he would walk over to our table and introduce himself. Those were the days when men dropped drinks and themselves at our tables all the time, so it was a very realistic assumption that he would do the same.

After 5 hours, I gave up and told Eve that we'll go home. This was ridiculous, I mumbled. I am not that desperate for a man albeit he is a very good looking guy, I thought to myself. I remember sitting in the car on the driver's seat when Eve bleated, 'Oh just give me your email address. Our new year resolution is to do all the things that we did not dare do and this is crazy....' I jotted my email address on a torn scrap of paper and off she ran upstairs, smiled at him and told him that if he liked me, he could write to me.

*
Subject: coffee bean ;)
Date: Sat, 20 Jan 2001 12:26:49

hi! i saw you today at coffee bean and your friend gave me your adress. i'd
really like to meet you!!! email your number and i'll give you a call...

henrik

*
Subject: Re: coffee bean ;P
Date: 20 Jan 2001 20:22:56 -0500

Hi there! Yes, I saw you too, sitting in Coffee Bean yesterday.... as requested, this is my cell phone number, if you would like to talk to me...

012-XXXXXXX

Please call me on Monday morning between the hours of 10 a.m. to 12 noon. Catch you then...
Otto

*

Greece, summer 2001

This exchange of so few words sparked a whirlwind of adventures spanning many countries and lit a different flame in my being. It marked the beginning of my womanhood, of growing comfortable of my body and asserting my thoughts. Henrik encouraged me to be who I was - a young woman. And till today, I hold a very Scandinavian view of sexuality and the human body. The photos we took of each other stacked more than 10cm high and were the most physically beautiful period in my life.

Reading the emails reminded me of how active we were as a couple. I was still performing dances in churches, learning Sign Language and socializing immensely. Most importantly, we were smiling crazy in all the photos. We were deeply in love.

A Series Of Old Letters - 1

noreply@blogger.com (Otto) — Fri, 15 Jan 2010 01:02:00 +0000

The last 48 hours was spent in a frenzy letter reading session. Eve found an old box of letters containing all the letters I ever wrote her. I wrote to her nearly everyday while we were in highschool, despite sitting next to her desk! And those letters were very passionate. Many heartbreaking letters about HighSchoolSweetheart and even more letters about the interracial love between a Chinese girl and a Kadazandusun boy in the early '90s.

You know that movie where the guy went back to all his girlfriends to make amends? Well that was my last 24 hours. Those letters to Eve sparked my journey of catching up with those important men in my life. Daytime was spent chatting to HighSchoolSweetheart and the whole night was spent talking with SwedishLove. I can safely tell you now both their names - Richard and Henrik.

We talked about our love and the time spent loving. There were many reflections and many thoughts, often punctuated with love and a small dash of sadness. By the time Henrik and I spoke, I was reading through the old letters we wrote each other. My penmanship is clearly visible and the different stages of my life brought about different choice of words and style of writing. Letters to Eve were emotional, lovelorn and hostile (Eve and I had a lot of teenage pent up anger). Letters to Henrik were, in contrast, full of optimism, love, hope and lust.

I'll try publish a collection of the letters in the next few days. And perhaps you will be able to read my life. These works are graphic and unedited. It is an honest look into the life of a young Malaysian girl - all her hopes, dreams, her wantings and her love experiences. They are bittersweet and lovely. I am sure that I am not the only girl to write as I did and I am not the only girl to receive such letters as indicated in the next few weeks.

I don't know why I am publishing them here. Most probably I am trying to immortalize the words and to rediscover who I was. It is a soulful read. So here it goes - I chosen this particular email exchange for its graphic nature. I was quite shocked and embarrassed when I read it this morning but there were very many letters like this - lustful, flighty and filled with innocent love. I was 25 years old then and Henrik was 28.

*
Subject: wet dreams...
Date: Tue, 08 May 2001 21:03:59

i love you flickvän, it's that simple. today you were on my mind every single second throughout the whole day... again! i miss u!! and it makes me soo happy to get your emails and read about all the things you experience, and especially to read how much you love me. don't let me go!!!

well, i've done some good thing today i guess. it's now 22:10 and i just finished painting for today. half of the first coating is done! so in two days everything will be finished :)

you want a photo of my family? i was actually thinking of sending you one, and maybe take some photos one of these days to finish up the roll. so lets do some trading. i'll send a photo of the family, and you'll send me a photo of you wearing your sexy underware. how's that? so that i can have some wet dreams too... ;)

i'm glad you're feeling sexy at the moment because you ARE extremely sexy. if only you knew how many times a day you turn me on when i start thinking about you. damn!!! not to mention at night when i lie alone in bed, thinking of the times we've been intimate... it drives me crazy!!! i think of that time in the hotel room when i came inside of you for the first time. do you remember? ohh, that was soo good... you were lying naked on the bed letting me caress your body, letting me kiss your lips, your nipples, your thighs... before sticking my toungue inside, tasting you. and then i came on top of you, holding your arms down above your head pushing him inside... slowly, inch by inch until he was all inside. my god!!!!! Otto, never think it's only because of sex that i want you, but oh sex is good with you!

wow, i think i should make my way to bed straight away now... :P wish you were here with me now! have a great day tomorrow and tell me more about your life. i'm longing for tomorrow when i have a new mail from you to read :)

yours forever!!!!!
Henrik

Snake and Ladders

noreply@blogger.com (Otto) — Tue, 05 Jan 2010 09:29:00 +0000

‘Aiyo!’ I sat up and looked at him, ever so seriously. ‘I am on the other fucking ladder!’

It was past 11 p.m. and he was to wake a few hours later to catch his flight back to work. I blinked my eyes and nestled myself on my pillow. It was the harder pillow, filled with some kind of beans that were supposed to promote wellness and sleep. They were not very good beans, I guess. I was awake for the next hour, having a little therapy session with him.

‘What’s the first ladder?’ he asked, smiling. He always smiled and depending on my mood, I either loved his smiles or get superbly annoyed. That night, I loved his smile. If men could be doe eyed, he most certainly was so.

‘The first ladder is the girlfriend ladder,’ I said. ‘Girlfriends are freaking cool, always look like a pornstar, gorgeous hair, good skin, the most beautiful clothes and the highest high heels in the whole land. Girls on this ladder are ever hopeful and exciting. Men love them because they are cool, elusive and coy.’

‘And the second ladder?’ he asked.

I went off tangent and babbled on, ignoring his question. Men love girls on the first ladder because they were dangerous. They smelled like the heavens, knew the rules of games by hard and played even harder. They knew exactly when to bat their eyes and look away. If you asked these girls to spell the word ‘fun’, they would do it with lipstick, high heels and nothing else. Oh yes, they will spell every word in capitals.

And men loved them. Men loved them because these girls always played it right. They knew when to smile and when to get coy. They threw the bait and fish would climb up their poles. You would love them too because truth be told, girlfriends are fantastic. Their sex is stronger and they ride harder.

There are thousands of reasons why men love a girl on the first ladder. The girlfriend, apart from being exciting, is also unavailable. You see, these girls have something that the girls on the second ladder don’t. They have the ability to walk away. And the more able they are to walk away, the more attractive they are.

And quite honestly, girls who are able to walk away are the happiest girls around.

*
‘And the second ladder?’ he asked again.

‘Oh the second ladder…’ There was a pause. ‘… the second ladder is the wife ladder.’ I said, shrugging my shoulders. ‘This is the ladder for the wives, who turned grumpy, naggy, unhappy and all the words that ends with ‘y’… like ‘fatty’ or... or... 'frumpy'!’

He found my comments amusing because he laughed. He laughed so hard that the baby was about to rouse. Perhaps that was what he wanted to do, as a mean to escape our night conversation. But I chose to be optimistic that night and so I thought my remarks amused him.

Women sometimes jumped from the first ladder to the second. Other times they were unaware that they had transcended onto the second ladder and were very surprised (and probably angry) when they woke up one day to discover that they had landed on the second ladder. Whether willing or unwilling, women of all ages will one day find themselves on the second ladder.

And who sits on the second ladder? Grumpy wives, nagging their husbands from sunrise to sunset remain the most popular group on the second ladder. They are angry and bitter, often disheartened and disarrayed after the love glow waned. The men they married still looked the same and more often than not, behaved exactly the same as the first day they were acquainted. Second ladder women have love battle scars. They have the fatty tummy after the baby, stretch marks to remind them of how they used to be or perhaps a 20cm long caesarian scar, like me. Men looked exactly the same and most probably smell just a foul as the first weekend you met them.

Second ladder women are burdened by the responsibilities resting on their shoulders and the years of stress often marked their faces. It is an evil cycle. The more burdens they take on, the more they nag and the more they hate themselves. They hate to nag but they have to nag because the men were not listening. Not that nagging helps anything. Nothing saves these women on the second ladder. It is a lost case. Which is why women here are often resentful and hurt. And they talk like a broken record.

No woman walks down the aisle hoping to land herself on the second ladder.

*
‘I need a broom,’ I whispered.

‘Why? We don’t have a broom,’ he said.

‘To beat the first ladder women away,’ I said as a matter of fact. I could have been reciting the periodic table of elements. ‘I am Chinese and Chinese don’t like the broom… so I guess I need a broom’

He turned to his side and gave me a hug from the back. Ah, spooning. It is such a ‘couple’ thing to do. He was gently breathing behind my neck as we lied in bed together. The curtains were not drawn so the streetlight was shining through. There was a moment of calm. He was holding me tightly as my mind went wild. First ladder. Second ladder. Me on second ladder, now in need of a broom to beat the evil young things trying to tempt my honey away. BAM! Wake up call, babe. My mind was doing the mid night marathon.

‘I know. Probably the vacuum cleaner would do the trick.’

Grey Whiskers

noreply@blogger.com (Otto) — Wed, 24 Jun 2009 04:36:00 +0000

The nurse looked away. “Leave the room, please,” he said. The nurse turned and walked away from us. She pulled the curtains that separated the consultation room from the nurse’s room. I could hear her chatter with the other nurses. Inaudible noises from beyond the four walls.

“Why didn’t you pick up my calls?” he asked. He took the strap and tied it just beyond my elbow. I looked away as he tapped my arm. I always looked away. While I was the sort of person who really needed to know everything, I was also quite afraid of really graphic scenes. Like drawing blood. And bloody hell, there were three tubes to fill today. “Take a deep breathe,” he said, “It’ll be over very soon. No pain, I promise.”

First tube, second tube and then the third. He was right. It was quite painless after the initial prick. He swabbed it when it was over, placed a cotton across it and folded my hand. He gave my hand a gentle squeeze and kissed it. His facial hair gently grazed across my fingers.

“Don’t you know that I love you?”

*
I could hear his laughter as soft as it was. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“Fragile,” I repeated myself. He was keying some data on his laptop when the nurse helped me onto the bed. “I feel fragile.” My fingers were fiddling over my huge belly. The white ceiling and a patch of screen with flashing data were above me. He came through the white curtains and sat to my right. I looked over and saw him sat there, like all the months before this. But the feeling was different.

“You don’t have to feel fragile,” he said. He took the ultrasound scanner and ran it across my stomach. The moment he touched my stomach, I heard my baby’s heart beat. 157 beats per minute, like how a healthy baby should. “You needn’t feel fragile at all.”

I have never felt so vulnerable in my life. I detest visiting doctors and try my best to avoid them. Avoid doctors like a plague, I thought to myself. Going to a doctor on monthly basis felt foreign and took a lot of getting used to. He was a stranger who became a lesser stranger as the months and weeks passed.

“You don’t have to feel fragile,” he said. He reached over, grabbed a tissue and wiped my stomach. “You don’t have to feel fragile because I am right here and I will make sure that you will be alright.”

*
“Ewwww,” Eve said. We were baking muffins on the last Saturday before we became mothers. I developed a habit of baking muffins to pass the last two weeks quickly. It was far more exciting than sitting on your ass waiting to birth a baby.

I am no Martha Stewart. I baked from readymade Pilsbury recipes. Before baking trays of muffins, I indulged in sewing. I managed to sew a proper blanket for my baby and was mighty proud of it. It was straight where it was supposed to be straight and right angled at the appropriate corners. After the blanket, I sew a few skirts. The working prototype was a skirt for PY’s daughter. I sew a purple skirt for PY and eventually a cheerful skirt for myself before the sewing machine died, hence the muffins which now sits in my fridge.

“Ewwww,” Eve repeated again. Her face was all bunched up in a grimace. “Dr. V, sexy? Ewwww.” She popped a muffin in her mouth. See, muffins were (and still are) pleasant looking little delightful gifts. I must have baked enough to feed a small nation. “Why Dr. V?”

“Don’t know,” came my reply. “Maybe because he has a moustache that reminds me of my dad,” I said in the most nonchalant manner. I popped a chocolate muffin into my mouth. We poured the next batch of muffin mixture into the tray of 12. “I love his composure,” I said after giving it some thought.

That was true. I loved his composure and the way he talked. He was not a great talker, which I found very appealing. I never liked men who talked like great salesmen of the year. The way he looked intently into my eyes and the way he carried himself was attractive to me. “He’s so ah pek,” Eve said. Dr. V was ah pek (trans: uncle) to Eve but to me, he was perfect.

*
“So what’s the big drama today?” he said as he chuckled. “Nothing that big today,” I said with a smile. I sat on the chair next to him. I must have been like every other patient he had met that day – pregnant and feeling bloaty. “I just wanted to show you my strawberry mark,” I said.

He looked puzzled, so I stood up and turned my back to him. I lifted my right foot and showed him my second toe. “There,” I said, pointing to the red dot, the size of my little finger nail. He gave a chuckle.

“See? It looks like a strawberry mark, isn’t it?” I asked, pointing at the red little specks resembling a tiny wild strawberry in the forest of Sweden during Mid Summer.

Dr. V laughed and waved his hand, inviting me to sit on the patient’s chair. He looked absolutely delightful like my muffins, with his mop of grey hair, geeky glasses and moustache. He keyed some data into his patient database. Then looking at me, he said, “It is nothing. It is just a virus and it will go away. Don’t worry.” He gave me a pat on my right hand.

*
There are currently three men in my life – The Bachelor and my two obstetricians. It is amazing how the two doctors pop up in my conversations with The Bachelor. It happened at the most unlikely places and times, such as while we were trying to reignite the sparks between the sheets.

“Will you ask Dr. L about this during your next visit?” he said, fiddling with the condom. He hates the condom and I hate it too. It however was not the cause for my pregnancy. We were happy together and wanted to have a baby. Condoms or the lack of it was not the reason for Sunshine who is now sleeping in his cot next to me.

“I will ask my sexy Dr. V,” I said, snuggling closer to The Bachelor. I had those dreamy doe eyes whenever I mentioned Dr. V. He is so yummy, I thought to myself. Dr. L was good but Dr. V is just MMMMMM with a capital M!

I guess the intimacy with one’s obstetrician/gynaecologist is to be expected. He is, after all, the next legitimate man to take a close look at your Fifi and not get slapped for it. Next to your life partner, a obstetrician or gynaecologist is also the closest man to you. He is like your best friend, the one you can intimately share details of your sex life with. He is like your gay friend with the exception that he is not gay. (He could be, if you chose to visit a gay obstetrician.)

I cannot help it. Dr. V was the one who held my hand (very literally) throughout the nine month pregnancy journey. He made sure that I was safe and that my wellbeing was taken care. He saw very private parts of myself such as my toes and my Fifi. And he listened and chuckled at very private stories and jokes.

Many pregnancy books inform you that pregnancy brings about all sorts of hormones and that a pregnant woman usually has greater sex drive. Books also mention that a pregnant woman fantasies more when she is relaxed. The books were right because I had many sexual dreams that felt very real. Some were dreams of The Bachelor but some were with my obstetrician such as those that I wrote above.

Eve did not experience such closeness with her gynaecologist. It is not surprising for someone whom I named “The Butcher”. The above stories were little fantasy escapes for a woman with a bloaty stomach and swollen feet. I needed them, I guess. Those dreams gave me a sense of wellbeing, of being cared and loved – that I was still attractive and lovely despite my 38 inch waist and very unattractive hair. They were my little adventures with Grey Whiskers.

Seeing Butterflies

noreply@blogger.com (Otto) — Fri, 20 Mar 2009 05:29:00 +0000

(written on 20th February 2009)

In ancient Greek the word for butterfly is "Psyche", which translated means "soul". This was also the name for Eros' human lover and the two figures are often depicted surrounded by butterflies.

***
The first time I saw the butterfly, it was sitting on the grey marble wall. It had an outline of black and dots of reddish orange. It flapped a few times, wrestling the afternoon wind. Then it gently floated across the garden onto a plump green leaf of a palm. It was at that very moment that I thought of the title for this entry, “Seeing Butterflies”.

Butterflies usually symbolized a change in life. Perhaps it is a left turn off the course of what you usually call ‘normal’ or a step towards the right direction. Whatever it is, butterflies and a change in your life is often welcomed, especially if the changes are good or desired.

***
‘Look the right,’ she said. She took a step forward and stared intently. ‘Your nose is still the same size,’ she concluded, as if she expected my nose to balloon.

***
I have not written since my last entry in August. That is a change, wouldn’t you think? There were some changes in my private life and I felt that I needed some space in order to grow and change. I think many readers have realised that I will only write about things that I wish to share. And when I do not have anything to share, I just don’t.

I wrote many times but published none. There were times when I feared that I would lose all my readers, which took me more than 2 years to build. But then I realised that I had changed and those figures do not matter much to me anymore.

I had reached a point in my life where I feel peace. My soul is at rest and I am happy just where I was. That was a huge change, one that took some effort and time to acclimatize.

Do you know that it takes courage to be happy?

***
‘Hey you, I’m dropping by,’ YC bleated like a sheep on the phone. And when I arrived to pick her up, it took her some seconds to recognize the car. Just like a butterfly’s metamorphosis, even my wheels went through a change last year. ‘You got yourself a new car?’ she asked as she plopped herself into the passenger seat.

We decided to have some nibbles in a Korean restaurant nearby. ‘Check out those tits,’ I teased. Mine were overflowing through the pink blouse. ‘My tits more than twice your size wei.’

I don’t think she finds it funny at all.

***
We bought a house and renovation began in September. We tore down the floors and replaced them with granite on the ground floor and Merbau wood on the remaining two floors. The kitchen went in sometime in October and November was spent chasing after the plumber, who had never seen the washing machine plumbed next to a sink in the utilities.

We were supposed to move in 3 days before Christmas, which was postponed to 2 days before and then the day before. We finally slept in our bed for the first time on the 28th of December last year. I took a sabbatical and for the following 30 days, we spent it in the house blissful and happily waking up whenever we felt like.

Days that were spent zipping around the city, working in the office, chasing after clients, meeting friends, having meals and shopping were soon replaced with searching furniture pieces, strangling the plumber and arranging our very first lion dance during the Lunar New Year. These were punctuated only by visits to the doctor’s.

Nights were filled with cuddles and kisses, sometimes in bed but often time on the plush sofa, which was our very first purchase for the home. We fell asleep in front of the TV, preferably to CSI or some movie than Discovery Turbo (if you know what I mean).

***
‘Are you sure that it is a boy?’ she asked, staring at my nose again. ‘Your nose is nice and sharp. Boys usually mean fat, ugly noses.’

In reality, I had the very same conversation with a couple of friends. It is either the nose or the belly. Sharp belly equals a boy and a fat, round belly means buying everything in pink. I cannot agree with the nose statement because my nose is still as cute as a button despite seeing my baby’s nuts on the ultra scans twice.

However there is something about the sharp or round belly. You see, Eve has a rounded belly and guess what? She’s having a girl. I have a sharp, pointy belly and it is undeniably a pair of nuts during each monthly scan. A trip to the doctor confirmed that Eve and I must have been doing the horizontal tango on the same day.

It was a beautiful Sunday morning…

***
‘Honey, I think we need to talk,’ I said from one side of the door.

‘What is it?’ he said from the other side. He was packing our stuff for the Singapore F1 Night Race. That is one of the more endearing qualities he possessed. He packed my clothes, shoes and make-up into bags at each trip. (He said he had replaced the Indonesian maid but I digress).

‘I think we’re pregnant,’ I said. Needless to say, I felt miserable in Singapore as any fabulous girl would feel if she found out that she was expecting a crying package in nine months or so. Nothing says ‘miserable’ like the act of dragging a slurring, drunk 41 year-old man whom I lovingly called ‘ancient’ home.

Let’s up that statement a little. Nothing says ‘miserable’ like the act of dragging a slurring drunk 41 year old man on the same day you found out that you had to lay off those 4 inch platforms for some months because there was a bun in the oven.

He made up for it on Sunday night though. He took me on a crazy trishaw ride and all that I could see was a river reflecting lights off buildings and roads. I had not laughed or screamed so hard for a very long time.

***
I like this change. I really do. I yearned for it for the longest time. Many people were caught by surprise. Even you must have thought that I was a colourful party creature with a winsome smile, flirtatious eyes and conversations that entrapped many men. I guess those were true (or at least I would like to think that I do at my ripe old age) but only to a certain extend. If you really know me deep inside, you will know that I am more than that.

Or less than that, as YC discovered the very first time she met me. She found me quite plain and I took it as a compliment. Some compliments are better in smaller doses.

***
It was amazing to watch the butterfly. It sat prettily on the leaf, dainty and graceful, even as the wind tossed the leaf a few inches up and down. Changes are like that, I guess - tossing you and moving you along life’s many routes. You have to hold on tight if you want to survive the trip. Just remember to put on your best smile and highest heels and float gently like the butterfly.

The garden was wet after an hour of watering. Then the rain came to water the new garden a little more. It is always the same story. It rains whenever I drench the garden in water but it never seem to pour when I forget.

***
Today is his birthday and we are apart for the first time. It was not always this way. We were together for our last two birthdays and he was a very good friend during those years. Now we share a house, the house mortgage that we thankfully can afford, two cars and a soon to arrive maid. However nothing beats the excitement of sharing a baby together.

It is those butterflies at work again. He is in Indonesia and I will soon join him. The last two years were full of changes. Changes are good when you grow and renew your soul. I look forward to a little time for myself. I am excited about a new life and I am not sure if I will make a good mother. All I know is that I will try my best.

When we are apart, he calls me each night. That he has done for more than two years and is also yet another endearing quality. He sends me a message when he wakes up and again when he sleeps. If I could be in Indonesia, I would have flown in an instance. I am no longer allowed to fly until the baby is born. Thenafter, I think we shall be traveling quite a lot between Malaysia and Indonesia and then again, twice more to Europe each year.

This will be the longest time we are apart, a whole 3 weeks. He will of course come back soon and travel back and forth until the baby is matured enough to travel to Europe to meet the family. Then we will all be in Indonesia – baby and I there on alternate months until his contract (and the economic gloom) runs its course. Quite a long metamorphosis, I guess.

***
I saw two purple butterflies. Purple pygmy butterflies, they must have been. They were the smallest that I have ever seen.

Who’s Your Daddy? (The Merdeka Post)

noreply@blogger.com (Otto) — Mon, 18 Aug 2008 08:14:00 +0000

Dedicated to every down and trodden Malaysian.

"Just because I'm losing
Doesn't mean I'm lost
Doesn't mean I'll stop
Doesn't mean I would cross."
~ Coldplay, 'Lost'.

‘Do you know who my father is?’ he barked on the mobile. Earlier that day, my brother and I visited his office, a tiny dot on the face of the Earth. Prior to our appointment with Daddy’s Boy, we were at Michael Chong’s for some legal advice.

‘Do you know who my father is?’ he asked. ‘My father knows Mahathir, ok! Do you know who you are getting involved with?’

These were the words of a full grown man businessman, who co-developed a Malaysian franchise. We are not talking about some kampung business selling prawn crackers. No offence to the successful business women in Kelantan, who by the way (I’m assuming), worked hard for their money and relied on nobody but their backbones. We are talking about a legitimate business with ’11 years of technology’ behind the brand name. Those were also the words uttered by Daddy’s Boy (though I personally prefer to call him ‘Purse Carrier’ in my private time).

*
Without going into details (less they sue me because they evidently spend more energy, time and money on making sure the little they’ve gotten from impressionable and hopeful young entrepreneurs stays within their bank account) it is suffice to say that I am all for building a high standard franchise brand.

There are lots of issues that I have very many questions to ask and they have a lot to answer for. But what irritates me most about the franchise was the willingness to use Mahathir’s name. Poor ex-premier’s name being used by some businessmen for personal gains. (I've no issues if the said business man had used Mahathir's name to promote some kind of charity event).

Can you imagine that my brother and I had to seek for FREE LEGAL ADVICE to ensure that the franchisor cannot suck any more money from my little brother? Contrasting our story is Daddy’s Boy, who not so subtly asked us to be careful because his father is a friend’s of Mahathir.

(I’d like to think that even our ex prime minister has some standard to maintain-lah. It is unlikely that Daddy's Boy or the good Daddy himself share Sunday Roast with Mahathir. This post has nothing to do with our previous Prime Minister. He happens to be a by-stander in this Merdeka post, whose name was borrowed and leeched off till kingdom come.)

*
We are putting up flags and banners to celebrate Merdeka. Fifty one years on and we (still) have many grown men telling common people who their daddies are. What big crying shame!

Won’t you take a minute to think where our nation is heading to, if legitimate businesses NEED to borrow big shot names to justify their business and survival? What happened to running your business based on just principles and healthy competition? What happened to right and wrong? What happened to defending the poor and needy? What happened to responsibility and accountability? What ever happened to consumer’s rights?

My brother is not pursuing the matter. He just wants to get the whole issue behind his back. His energy is drained and his enthusiasm is crushed momentarily. I however, have much energy to pursue this and to highlight the fact that each and every Malaysian’s consumer rights should and must be protected from the big shots and even bigger names. Businesses must be accountable and responsible for the product that they are peddling.

My brother was one of three franchisees opened at the same time. Out of the three, two of them chose to end their businesses within very short time. From my last two sentences, please form your own judgement on the quality of the franchise brand.

Now the excuse offered was, ‘Businesses have up and down’ and ‘sometimes you win, sometimes you lose’. That is a fact that I will not deny. However do you not agree with me when I say that most people buy a franchise brand for its in depth knowledge and experience in a certain type of business? Basically when you buy a franchise, you are buying a systematic approach towards a particular business. The success rate should be higher than opening a business on your own.

A franchisor has to maintain a certain standard of quality. Blaming many franchisees for lacking tenacity and perseverance is sloppy and unprofessional. At the end of the day, a franchisor is responsible for weeding out grass from corn. A franchisor should have a system of identifying suitable franchisee partners to work with and pursue a relationship with people who will be able to withstand and stay competitive within the game.

My modestly short list of criticism includes:

You do not hand out a franchise agreement to every Tom, Dick and Harry who hands you the cash for the start-up (which by the way equals approximately a Honda City in cash at minimum). (Failure rate of 2/3 does not look good to prospective franchisees.) You should set up several interviews to discern the best from the lot and work with those who are committed to your vision. For example, Kumon protects its brand name by insisting that all franchisees work within the franchise on a full time basis. This ensures commitment and dedication (which guarantees a certain quality for the brand name).

You have to identify profitable areas and look for franchisees in those locations. You should have done your market survey and know which locations work and which don’t. You do not allow a franchisee to open wherever he thinks fits him. After all, you are called "PARENT company" for a reason. You should know better.

On a micro scale, you do not allow a franchisee to open in an unfavourable spot in the shopping mall because in almost all businesses, it is always about location, location, location!

You must have sufficient time to train your future manager and staff. First impression means everything, so you should never allow your franchisee to open his doors before he is fully equipped, trained and staffed. How is it possible for you to allow a franchisee to open your franchise brand when a simple thing called ‘staffing’ is not prepared, trained and resolved?

You should listen to the grievances of your franchisees with an open mind and see to their needs through your support system. You must make time for your franchisees and not claim that you are attending one meeting after another and have no time for your clients. You should solve grievances within a target time shorter than your very best of ‘3 to 5 weeks time’. That is almost as miserable as TMnet's current duel with MiniBoyFriend, who is trying to terminate his internet service since February 2008.

The best part is you have spent your resources defending your little bit of money instead of solving the issue. In your busy schedule of getting more franchisees to sign up, you do not even know what is the issue at hand. We do not want all our money back. We want what is right for Malaysia as a acceptable and standard practice. We want justice and consumer rights for the average Malaysian. We do not want some big company threatening us with legal action this and that. We are just small folks.

Take a hint from AirAsia who responded positively to Kenny Sia's criticism. They could have sued him for defamation but instead were gracious and generous enough to take a little criticism and show sincere actions to improve their products and services. Well done, AirAsia. I will vote for Tony Fernandes as Prime Minister any time of the day!

I do not appreciate being told/advised by the franchisor’s employees that I should use a softer approach ‘because he (the boss) will become hard if you are hard on him’. I have the right to question if a mistake was made. The last time I have heard, it was my brother who paid you a sum of money. In my book, that makes him your customer and not your slave/court jester.

And unlike some employees who might need to curry flavour some bosses, customers do not need to butter the boss. And don’t you even dare start with the ‘my father knows Mahathir’ miserable line of an immensely pathetic excuse.

*
This ‘who’s my daddy?’ would have been an urban legend in many countries but it is alive and well in ours. Welcome to Boleh-Land. We send astronauts into space and build the tallest towers. We use the internet and have hifi, wifi, 3G and whatsonots everywhere. We are the land of everything also must can – from the longest dumpling to the fastest worm in Malaysia. We are still working on a Gold in the Olympics but that’s okay. Lee did us proud anyway. We sent some guys up to Everest and to the north pole. And yet, grown men borrow their daddies names and that of every important person they know with the aim of bullying and intimidating the common Malaysian man.

Everyone had their very own come back lines when they heard the 'Who's your daddy?' line. These lines painfully highlights the differences between the well-connected upper class with political connections and the common everyday everywhere people like you and me.

Him: Do you know who my father is?
Me: Who the hell is your father?
Him: My father knows Mahathir.
Me: Eerm… What am I supposed to say? Congratulations? I'm glad that your dad knows Mahathir. My dad knows Mahathir too. We used to have his photos on our walls.

Him: Do you know who my father is? He knows Mahathir.
A very white Mat Salleh: Do YOU know who MY father is? He knows Ah Beng, the pirated DVD seller on Tuesday’s pasar malam. Can get really cheap DVDs one…

Him: Do you know who my father is? He knows Mahathir.
A 64 year old retired English teacher: So what if your father knows Mahathir? Does that make you right?

Him: Do you know who my father is?
My brother: *in rather meek tone* Who is your father?
Him: My father knows Mahathir. So don’t play around with me.
My brother: Sir, I am not playing around, sir. I am quite serious about the business.
(After hanging up, my brother looked to me and said: Die lah, die lah. They (are) preparing C4 now.
To which I replied: You think it's easy to get a hand on the C4 now?)

What is your best come back line? What would you say if someone intimidates you with his father's name? Let's celebrate Merdeka this year with some deliciously wicked come back lines to the bullies. Submit your smartest and cheekiest come back to 'Who's Your Daddy?' in this post's comment section.

*
If we were more prepared, we would have recorded the whole conversation and posted it on YouTube. It was a huge surprise to hear those words. It was the topic of conversation for days and many jokes were spawned from the "Who's Your Daddy?". We are living in 2008 in the land of the free and here is an overseas educated and good looking man (and likely father to some kids) using his daddy's name and Mahathir's name like a baby using a bib while feeding from the milk bottle. But alas, we did not record it, so he is not going to be a superstar anytime soon. (I really wished that we did though because his reaction would be priceless and worth every single Ringgit paid.)

My family is not pursuing the matter anymore. The issue is resolved and closed as far as the family is concerned. Well we have lost, isn't it? We do not know Mahathir and he claims that his father does. The company has a huge legal eagle machinery to condemn us to financial ruins. So Daddy's Boy wins and we have lost. The franchisor is yet to reimburse some money which they had promised and we are not hopeful. I told my brother that this is a bitter lesson that he must learn. Life is not all wonderful and businessmen can be as cunning as they can be honest.

I am writing this so my young readers will be informed and educated. Read the terms and conditions of your franchise agreement properly. Read the fine print. Hire a lawyer to protect your rights BEFORE you sign the agreement. A franchise brand is like all other businesses. It isn't infallible. Choose your business partners wisely. Protect, yes protect your rights as a consumer and do not be afraid to ask questions. Be brave to seek for what you think is right and is rightfully yours - as a member of civil society, a consumer, a citizen of a free country called Malaysia.

But above all, think of Malaysia. Love our country. Show some pride in your conduct. Shape your future. You can be better than the ordinary. All of us are born equal. This isn't the 1800s. We are no more living in a feudal system where some lord has the right to push us around - where the folks have to bow to those with connections and right family names. In Malaysia, we are each accountable for our actions. We cannot blame our parents and grandparents for our choices. We cannot blame our forefathers or politicians for their choices in the past. We make our choices today and shape our very future.

It is time for our nation to grow up and walk on our own two feet. Fifty one years on, we are more than ready to grow stronger shoulders so we can carry our own weight and walk the long and narrow. We no longer use our father’s name. We have ours.

*

"You might be a big fish
In a little pond
Doesn't mean you've won
Cause along may come
A bigger one."
~ Coldplay, ‘Lost’.

***
Related Link:

Kenny Sia's Tony Fernandes Read My Blog

49th Merdeka Post - We're 49 Yrs Old Now and What Have We Achieved?

50th Merdeka Post - To The One Who Searched for Malay Pig

51st Merdeka Post - Who's Your Daddy?

The Blanket Bandit

noreply@blogger.com (Otto) — Tue, 05 Aug 2008 00:38:00 +0000

You know that time has passed you by when you wake up in the middle of the night with, “What the fuck! September 2008 is just round the corner. Technically I have known YC for two years”.

You may ask, “Why YC as a point of reference?” and I would answer, “Because she is about the only common person that both you and I know”.

Yes, it is two years since I met the little missy somewhere in the desert of nowhere and approximately a year since I last seen her. The last that she called was about two months ago on a Thursday afternoon. “Want to go to Rawa?” she asked. I wished I could. I was down with the flu and was more of a dead dog than babe in bikini.

I have known YC for two years. Twenty four months, if you wish for more “drama”, so to speak. I have written in ANNN for a year extra. That makes it three whole years. Three whole years of stories of me, me and more ME.

It’s funny how time flies when you do not want it to.

*
Are you one of those people who enjoy quantifying their lives? I happen to be one of them people. I like to think, equate, count, reflect and decide if I had a good life. Or a horrific life, on a bad day.

I am also one of those manic people who need to achieve something – to make meaning of my life. That sort of thing. I need to feel that I have done something to improve myself and on a larger scale, society and world. Therefore it comes as no surprise if a pop quiz in Glamour magazine once said that I would either be:

A psychiatrist

A teacher.

A writer.

I found the above list quite revealing. They were all professions that I have considered in the past and they remain the professions that I am considering after all these years. Strange, huh?

*
I used to write daily. Those were the times when I think I was trying to figure myself. I wrote long and short and I wrote lots. I wrote the truth and then there were some mistakes. Hint: all those entries about other characters in the blogsphere such as Daphne or XX. (How stupid.)

Then I figured that perhaps I should give my readers a break and begun writing on alternate days. I wrote only what I felt comfortable writing and I wrote only the truth. I could have written a tall tale - that I had a magnificent lifestyle. Or that I was physically taller. But I thought I should not lie about such trivial matters. If I should write a creative blog and told a lie, I much prefer telling a huge, fat ass lie.

Yup. I am a greedy bugger.

*
I realised that caffeine do not agree with me from dinnertime onwards. I should never ever have coffee with VSOP if I want to sleep by 11 p.m. It is never a good idea, I have discovered. Because here I am at 1 a.m. writing this to you. Not that I do not want to write to you. I always felt the urge to write to you but I always found some other things to do and errands to run. Errands such as to determine the design for my kitchen.

I am smart enough to hire a designer to design my kitchen layout plus produce the cabinets. Then I am manic enough to override his decisions by electing myself as the chief designer. Mind you, he is the second firm I have approached. I am much happier with this chap because he arrives for appointments on time, is pleasant and answers my questions with confidence.

*
There are hardly anything that I can do. Much less errands to run at one in the morning. So here I am, contemplating my life. Thinking and trying to establish if indeed I have a good life. No, let me rephrase that.

To determine if indeed I am HAVING a good life.

I can’t decide. I know that I am having a good life. I mean, I have enough work clothes to rotate two months without washing a single item. My parents love me and I still get extra lovin’ from people around me - known and unknown. I have a good set of friends around me (MBF R, LL and of course, my ever faithful breakfast buddy, PY). Even E and BestGuyFriend made their presence known in recent weeks, which is really nice.

I have lots to be thankful and even more to celebrate. I am satisfied with the progress on my professional life. It has given me many opportunities that many do not receive. Personally I am doing well. Life is hectic but I feel satisfied internally. I even enjoy the after work crawl home! Taking my place in the traffic jam makes me feel alive and important.

That I have a place in society.

That I am doing something important.

That I am making changes and who I am matter to the world.

*
Oh yes, it is 1:18 a.m. and all I can think of is how to contribute to society and if my life is significant. I am sure that you think of such important matters too, when you can’t sleep at night.

Why is it that as great as my life is, I do not dare to call it ‘great’? Is it because I am afraid that it will fade away the moment I do? Is it because I am humble? (Definitely am not a humble person, which you can gather from my writing). Why can’t I just say, “Yes, Otto. Well done. You have a GREAT life!”? Could it be because I constantly search for something greater? And bigger? And more meaningful?

Why the search anyway? If life is great, why look for more? Now that is an interesting question to ask yourself the next time you can’t sleep because you were smart enough to have coffee nearing your sleeping time.

*
‘You are a blanket bandit,’ he said.

I was driving home after dinner this evening when he related how I have stolen the blanket last night and the few nights before last. Like usual I start building a nest every night before I sleep. I am making a habit of pulling the blanket right up to my neck, to keep myself warm. All those nights sleeping naked had left me with the undesirable trip to the doctor’s - TWICE this year alone! Since then I always wore something to sleep in an attempt to keep myself warm at night.

Miraculously I always wound up sleeping on top of the blanket in the course of the night. He slept naked too but never received a trip to the doctor’s. But he soon will, at the rate that I am pulling off the blanket, which leaves both me and his bare butt in the cold.

‘The next time this happens, I will pull the blanket back, Blanket Bandit,’ he said, gently tapping my nose.

Me, a blanket bandit. Now that makes a catchy title, don’t you think?

*
It’s 1:35 a.m. and I am still pondering on the quality of my life. All my friends remarked that I think too much for my own good. But I think that thinking about life makes life eventful and special. I savour each minute of my waking hours and I celebrate life itself. Everything seems clear and real to me. Even dreams are sweeter.

I am the first to admit that I can be a little strict with myself. Harsh, if you wish. But you see, that is the only way to succeed. Show me a disciplined person and I will show you a successful person. If you are happy, it did not happen by chance. You made it happen. You chose it. Every step and every decision you took, take and will take takes you a step closer towards happiness. Or away.

*
It is 1:42 a.m. on the 5th of August 2008. The Blanket Bandit mightily declares that her life is great. Maybe that’s because she is going to steal the blanket again tonight.

All Knocked Up

noreply@blogger.com (Otto) — Wed, 02 Jul 2008 03:27:00 +0000

‘Miss Tan, you’ve got to help me,’ I bleated into the phone. The heavy traffic noise muffled her replies, thus compounding my frustrations. ‘The guy’s brother keeps calling me at every hour!’

*
Two Tuesdays ago some smart 19 year old was fetching his chick from work. I guess he was too excited at the prospect of being a slave driver to his pretty girlfriend that he pushed the gas pedal instead of the usual brake pedal. We were all stuck in heavy traffic and everything was at a standstill. The cars in front of me were all on brake. I was on brake when this 19 year old accidentally pressed ‘GO!’.

PY got out of the car and approached the boy. He was tall and lanky. If he was nervous, he surely did not show it. He was cool and composed, stepping out of his Mercedes. Not your average college kid who knocked his daddy’s car for the first time, if you know what I mean. He took out his MyKad when PY asked him for verification. He even corrected PY when she took down the car registration number. (See, what I mean about being cool and composed?). Such is the innocence of a 19 year old in puppy love with his anxious looking girlfriend at the passenger seat.

‘Thank you,’ I said to the boy as I walked back to my car. What the fuck am I doing, I asked myself. The guy knocked my car and I am bloody thanking him for it.

*
I received a call from MNG, informing me that they were having a pre-sales event. So after the short roadside stint, we packed up and headed to MNG. I sat on a chair, thinking about the incident while PY was busy trying on some clothes on 50% discount. I figured that a police report should be made to ensure that both parties were clear on the facts. I found his MyKad producing stint troubling. You see, I would have protested like hell, if anyone asked for my MyKad but the 19 year old flipped his MyKad out like he would flip out his Platinum Card at his girlfriend's every request.

The accident occurred at 2:18 p.m. but by 4 p.m. his brother took over the communications, which started out quite normal and turned abnormal as the minutes and hours passed.

I finished the police report at 6 p.m. and he called. ‘Come out for coffee lah,’ he said. ‘My treat, ok. You bring your girlfriends and I treat you three ladies to coffee. This is very small matter only’.

He called again at every hour and at 9 p.m. he said, ‘Where are you staying? Come out for some tea or something?’ I politely declined his generous offer for coffee, tea, dinner or even friendship or companionship or all four at once. Come on, I might have been crazy enough to pick Wouter and two of his companions from a 7-11 on Saturday night but I was not crazy enough to go for a coffee session with the brother of the guy who ever so lightly bumped into my car, costing a repair of RM2000.00.

Thank goodness I habitually silenced my mobile at night because he kept calling till past 1 a.m. which then led me to call my Honda sales representative for dear help the following morning.

*
‘Miss Tan, you’ve got to help me,’ I bleated into the phone. The heavy traffic noise muffled her replies, thus compounding my frustrations. ‘The guy’s brother keeps calling me at every hour!’

‘Aiyah, maybe he wants to go out with a pretty girl?’ she said. ‘Never mind, I ask Mr. Muthu to help you with the insurance claim and fix your car, ok? Just inform the guy that your insurance company is taking over.’

I was relieved when I saw Muthu. He had this grin on his face when I greeted him. ‘Mr. Muthu, you are going to return my car to her pretty former glory?’ I asked. He smiled, walked to the workshop, then came out with a piece of chalk and a digital camera. He took a good look at the back end of my car and proceeded to draw many crosses on the rear bumper.

‘Wah Muthu,’ I said, looking at the many crosses, then looking at him. ‘That’s a lot of X…’. My bumper looked like a LV Monogram bag, with the exception that the repeated design was ‘X’ instead of ‘LV’. He explained that he had to indicate the areas that needed fixing, so insurance claims could be made on my behalf. ‘Change the whole bumper. Spray and knock,’ he concluded.

*
I passed my documents to him, so he could process the claims. ‘Eh, can photocopy extra set for me or not?’ I asked. ‘I have to see the sergeant this afternoon’.

‘Why you need to see the sergeant?’ Muthu asked. His eyes were looking intently into mine. Darkest shade of black, I thought. Muthu had such dark eyes and a head full of hair that was dutifully combed back. He looked like a version of Ken Doll (Barbie’s boyfriend) - just perhaps he was a little darker and not as proportionately tall. But he had a cheerful and friendly face and he responded efficiently to my queries. (These were my definition of good customer service).

‘Dunno. The sergeant said I needed to see him a few days later with copies of my driving licence, insurance documents and MyKad.’

‘But you don’t need to see him again. There is no such procedure,’ he said. Heads popped out of office cubicles and even the cashier girl placed her face flat against the glass separating her from the world. ‘WHAT?!’ boomed right through the whole showroom. Customers turned to look to Muthu and I. Silence crawled into every space in the big and airy showroom.

‘What? I don’t have to bloody visit him again? I hate doing all this official paperwork mumbo jumbo thing and he nearly costed me an afternoon!’

‘Maybe he thought you were pretty,’ Muthu said, then he grinned his sheepish grin.

I did not visit the sergeant later that afternoon. The sergeant did not call either, so I guess it was not an important 2nd visit after all. I had tea with my father and was home by 7 p.m.

*
‘I need to get to work,’ I said after signing the insurance claim documents.

‘You are working?’ Muthu asked. He said the word ‘work’ as if it was some alien micro organism attached to my right shoulder.

‘Obviously! Who will pay for my car, if I am not working?’ I asked, shrugging my shoulders. I got up and zipped up my blood red Rosewood bag.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Back to work, like everybody else?’ I said. I stressed on the word “work”. Muthu grinned again. ‘Where do you think I am going?’

‘Dunno. I figured a girl like you never need to work,’ Muthu said, then stamping the document that I just authorized. The conversation ended, just the same way it started.

Just as I pushed through the glass door, Muthu said ‘Come back next week. I’ll inform you of the repair date’.

Detachment and Reattachment

noreply@blogger.com (Otto) — Mon, 23 Jun 2008 04:51:00 +0000

‘Silly Milo,’ I said to the fat orange cat. He was busy poking his nose into the corner of the potted flower. Every so often, Milo waits at a wall, waiting for a lizard to drop to the ground. And when it did, Milo would lunge at it.

‘See, all you have is the lizard’s tail,’ I said as I lifted the potted flower. The lizard was nowhere to be found. All that was left of it was its tail, still twitching and jumping about. ‘ A lizard’s tail as a decoy.’

*
Don’t worry. I have written in this blog many times since the last entry. I wrote them in the middle of the night, when nothing is alive and everything is asleep. I wrote them in my head, word by word, weaving tiny little sentences into a big story to call my very own. Some nights I even managed to come up with a witty title for my entries. Seriously.

There was a night when all I heard was tiny water droplets drip dropping from the faulty tap in the bathroom. All I could think then was to describe everything my eyes saw and everything my heart felt. You see, I have experienced some strange things. So strange that I have changed and even stranger still, the experiences caused me to stop writing altogether.

*
Did you know that I can see sounds? Yup. I promise you that it is true. I can SEE sounds. I hear sounds, of course. But I also see them. Some people have square sounds and some others have round sounds. Sometimes I bump into people with triangle sounds too but they are quite rare.

These days I not only see sounds. I feel a person’s emotions floating on his head like a cloud. But it isn’t necessarily a cloud. Some people have rainbows and butterflies instead of clouds. Others are like a scene out of The Sound of Music, green hills complete with bunnies and all. Angry people have angry clouds that look like looming dark clouds with occasional fiery dragon breaths.

I used to be one of those people with angry clouds. I always imagined myself a dark endless cloud that mushrooms more and more into the air. It was a frightening affair, with secrets and unknown dreams. Sometimes there were thunderstorms above my head and when it was not, it was a tornado tearing at the centre of my soul, eating everything bright and beautiful.

I sowed seeds of anxiety and pain through Nude, Not Naked, writing everything in a pitch-black cloud that was punctuated only by terrifying screams of my own nightmares. Everything was beautiful but I felt as if I stood at the edge of a thunderstorm and at any moment, someone or something would take everything I loved away. Everyday felt like I was standing at the eye of an emotional storm.

In my dreams, I always ran. I ran from the unknown to the unknown. I ran from doomsday monsters and evil spirits that trailed after me during the day. I watched people I loved die before my eyes. I stood at rapture. Dreams were literally swirls of my emotions and subconscious thoughts.

*
For the longest time, I had not written. How can I write when all I have above my head are blossoming flowers, flying fairies and sunshine? I tried searching for the evil dark clouds but they are nowhere to be found. Not under shadows of things, the deep recess of cupboards or corners of rooms. It occurred so slowly and so subtly that I am blatantly caught by surprise.

If I were to write a sentence or two, they would spew giddy happiness and everlasting joy. Bloody hell, I am like the princess from Enchantment. Every word is a blissful melody and every emotion is of pure contentment and delight. I am actually feeling at peace with myself and with the world. Everything is fine and I am all right.

Damn it. I am robbed of my misery and words do not seem to carry the same anger or resentment they once did. I do not know how to write anymore.

*
‘I am ok,’ MiniBoyFriend R said. ‘I am fine on my own. It’s okay if I have this thing,’ he said as he pointed to his mobile. ‘And it is fine if I don’t.’ Obviously the mobile was an illustration. He was talking about material things and the detachment that he felt though he owned those items. He felt nothing when he had them and he felt nothing if he lost them. Nothing on earth added or took away anything away from MiniBoyFriend R. He just was and just is.

I hold onto everything very tightly. Every memory, every dream, every word, every action and every thought – I play them in my head a million times. When I am happy, I savour the experience a thousand times and when I am sad, my heart dies a thousand million times. Every emotion is clearer and every colour is brighter. And though I feel so much sadness, my heart also felt so much hope and love.

And if I were to detach myself from pain and danger like a lizard detaching his tail, maybe all I am escaping from is life. And what is life is if you cannot feel a thing. You might as well be a lettuce or cabbage on a field. I rather feel all the pain and all the dark clouds, if it means I can feel all the sunshine and fluffy bunny's tail.

You must celebrate with me. I will write again soon enough. I was not ready to share my intimate thoughts many months ago but now I think I am. I have changed, of course. But that is life, I guess. Some days you are a nuclear waste land of vast emptiness and other days you are just pure fertile soil, bountiful fruits and fresh water. Detachment and reattachment from life, playing itself in a loop of birth and destruction.

*
If I asked you to choose a body position to represent your heart, what would it be? How would you arrange your body? Where would your head lay? Where would your hands be? Are you legs touching the ground or flying into the sky? Would you be soft and laid on the ground? Would you be in high motion, one leg up and ready for action?

In recent weeks, I instinctively moved myself into a position. I do not think it is yoga since I do not know any yoga poses. However my body tells me to get into this position for a few minutes each morning and so I do exactly what my body tells me to do. Each morning I would wake up and take my position. Palms by my side and opened, I would face the sun with my eyes closed. I would soak and imagine absorbing all the positive energy from the sun into the core of my body. Then I would raise my arms above my head, stretching myself like an arrow flying into the sky whilst my feet are firmly planted on the ground.

If I were to choose a body position to represent my heart at the moment, this would be it. Feet firmly planted on the ground, hands stretched outwards and upwards, like an arrow shooting into infinity.

Happiness Is

noreply@blogger.com (Otto) — Thu, 29 May 2008 00:50:00 +0000

Working till lunchtime, then meeting up with the girls. Driving up and down through all the shops, big and small. Window-shopping and dreaming of all the furniture for a place you would call your very own. Exchanging notes, prices and latest conquests with some girlfriends in a tiny cafe.

Oozing with charm, you negotiate the prices for your beloved treasures. What glee you feel deep in your heart, for you will lay your head to rest in your own home in a few more heartbeats...

*
The Conquests

The dazzle of hundreds of crystals laced with aluminium thread, shaped in a snowball. Hung low on the coffee table, which I have not found.

Pure white glass blown dainty chandelier. The only feminine and whimsical piece in the whole house. Very Alice in Wonderland.

Stainless steel light in a beehive shape, sitting on the center kitchen island.

The biggest and most comfortable sofa that my pockets could afford, in white with down feathers filling.

Dining table in eclipsed shaped tampered glass top and stainless steel circular leg. I am looking to pair the table with funkier chairs (or at least happier).

Sunny yellow bedroom curtains to match my existing dark mahogany MacIntosh inspired bed and dresser.

Living and Dining room curtain against a milky white wall.

Sample of roman blinds for the windows in the kitchen area.

*
Such is happiness in life.

Nothing Stays The Same

noreply@blogger.com (Otto) — Mon, 28 Apr 2008 10:58:00 +0000

The season has come and gone. Flowers died and now they are alive again. Snow came and then it melted. How different everything seems when time comes calling.

Everything changes. Nothing stays the same. What was there a month ago is now long gone.

Past
Snow boarding in Himos during Easter
(check out the snow!)

Present
The sea that was frozen a month ago. Now ducks and swans swim merrily in it.

Exhilaration at 160km/h on the Ducati.

Visited the zoo on a sunny Sunday.

I was not the only one enjoying the sun.

(Near) Future
I am returning home to turn this 2D plan into a 3D house.

Ground floor

1st floor

*
I can't complain about how my life is unfolding. There are many things to look forward to. I am very excited about the house and especially the furniture shopping (hehehe). I am a little pissed off that I missed Gudang's sales in March but I am sure there will be another one just round the corner. Also need to find some handsome looking lightings.

Do you know where I can find reasonablly priced Nordic inspired furniture pieces (that is not from Ikea)? After years of clubbing and pubbing around, I somehow have settled into a more serene lifestyle, which is reflected in a change of furniture taste.

Women Behaving Badly

noreply@blogger.com (Otto) — Mon, 28 Apr 2008 09:42:00 +0000

‘So it is not ok for a forty plus woman to dance around like a crazy person?’ I asked again. I asked the question a second time because it was important to get the facts right.

Tim nodded his head. He did not bother justifying himself. The gospel according to Tim says that old men (old by definition here means anyone above 40) can prance around and do stupid things together, It is acceptable because ‘everyone thinks that it is just another bunch of lads doing stupid weekend stuff again’. However women above forty are not measured on the same ruler. Somehow this 42 year old divorced father of three teenage girls and boyfriend to one 35 year old woman thinks it is NOT okay for older women to go mad on a weekend.

‘They just look pathetic,’ he said. No apologies for the statement. ‘A woman over 40 should look dignified. Not slobbering around the pub like a drunken fool.’

‘But it is okay for men above 40 to do so,’ I paused, hoping that he would disagree. If it is not okay for women to do it, then it should not be okay for men to do it too, right?

Apparently, the answer is wrong. As a matter of fact, he agreed whole heartedly that men of whatever age can get drunk, get loud, piss around the garden and have noisy boys nights. But girls, oh girls just do not do such stupid things.

‘Grown up girls just don’t do such things,’ he said.

Scandinavians on the whole are a very forward thinking bunch. Men and women enjoyed similar rights for the longest time. Suffrage movement in Sweden and Finland led its women to the right to vote in 1862 and 1906 respectively. Their men are well house trained, can cook and generally treat their women folk no different from how they would treat another man. (That means no special girlie privileges like opening doors just because you are a girl. You get some and so you lose some, I guess).

I sat at the dining table, imagining some Feminist members crucifying Tim. Yup, Sweden has their very own feminist political party and I am sure those girls would love to hang Tim or do something nasty to him. I was not angry or anything. I was just surprised that men (who are taught from birth to treat women as equals) have double standards. If sexism exists in Scandinavia, you can beat your beans (if you are Jack) on the double standard existing and thriving in a country such as Malaysia. (No offence to Malaysians in a whole but we must admit that we are 100 years behind Sweden in this area – quite literally).

So what makes it okay for men to do it? ‘Well men never grow up,’ Tim said. Men grow old but they never grow up. Put a few men together and you can see them gelling together, merrily enjoying themselves. They can joke, have fun, burp, drink beer, fart and laugh. In Finland, you even get to see your friend’s balls while you burp, drink beer, fart and run naked around a bush during Mid Summers. Such is the camaraderie of men.

Women, according to Tim, were expected to behave themselves and carry themselves well.

‘Carry themselves with dignity,’ I said.

‘Yes, yes. That is the word. Dignity. With dignity,’ said Tim. ‘You just feel sad when you see an older woman dribbling beer all over or is too loud.’ He took a sip of whiskey, then coffee. But why should a woman show restraint and carry herself well all the time? Why can’t a 40 year old woman behave as carefree and reckless as she was when she was a single 20 year old university student? Tim was sharing some ideas why it felt weird looking at a drunk woman.

‘I think it has to do with your image of a mother,’ I said. Psychology is lovely. With psychology, you can blame your mother for every fuck up in your life. Most mothers are anchors in their young children’s lives and they are responsible, caring, attentive, well behaved, restraint etc. A mother’s actions influence her child’s future behaviour.

‘Yes, that must be it. Our mothers always carried themselves well. A drunk 40 year old woman just looks sad,’ Tim said.

I was having dinner with three eligible men, who were all married and then divorced. They were successful and were reasonably good looking for their age (think George Clooney). Tim had 3 teenage daughters and Tapio had one. The Bachelor was a sperminator to some British bird, so technically he has passed on his genetic material. They were all casually meeting younger women. As they grow older, the women became younger and the age gap became larger. They swore that younger women made better partners.

‘Here lies a problem, boys,’ I said. ‘Men intrinsically seek out young women because they make good companions. Tim, now you said that younger women are more spontaneous and happy, right?’

‘Right.’

‘Then why do you feel that it isn’t proper for an older woman to just be that – spontaneous and happy-fied? Don't you think it is unfair?'

Rebirth

noreply@blogger.com (Otto) — Fri, 18 Apr 2008 11:44:00 +0000

I was in the shower when I thought about my blog. I usually think of you guys when I am up and about doing things. But sometimes I do think of you when I am in the shower, with the hot water running down my naked body. I was thinking of all the people I knew resulting from my blog, About Nude Not Naked.

It all started with the grand dame of shopping, YC. I think I met her more than a year ago. Oh yes, when I think about it now, I am sure we met in 2006. I remember texting her three seconds after I turned my back and walked away from Adidas Boy on 30th October 2006. I remember pressing the phone keypad at the corner of Mango boutique, Mid Valley, restraining tears from falling, writing something to YC.

‘You know, you two will clash when you meet,’ someone remarked. The friend of a friend of a friend of YC’s was certain that two huge egos should never meet. I brushed the idea away and met YC a few times.

YC has the most beautiful eyes, almost cartoon-like. She should be a little taller than I, waif thin, with a face that would sit pretty in any hairstyles. The next thing I noticed after her physical features were two pieces of jewellery that she adorned. She had a green jade bangle and a crystal pendant in the shape of a pacifier. I thought they were such contradiction to her persona, which I think tells you a thing or two about the young lady. She came across as intelligent, vocal and a thousand years wiser than I ever was at her age.

And no, we never had any of the arguments that the friend of a friend of a friend of YC’s predicted earlier. I dotted on her like a little sister and to a certain extend, she dotted on me like a little sister too (since she is the more streetwise of us two). The highlights of our blog-friendship included:

The ‘He is married’ episode - a guy friend of hers and I were secretly talking to each other with our eyes (commonly known as the art of flirting) when YC dropped the ‘he is married’ bomb. (He has the most winsome smile). That was a very embarrassing moment, needless to say. Crash and burn, baby.

The ‘Mad Dash for Chicken Rice’ – we drove at warp speed down a highway to purchase packets of chicken rice. The chicken rice was worth every kilometre of the way. Actually, YC has a thing for pork satay too whilst I am not a pork person. Come to think of it, YC is very food oriented…

The ‘Clash of Great Fashion Senses’ episode – we walked into Lola together one night in the most contradictory party clothes. YC, in a black sleeves tight blouse with a cinched waist with gold buckles while I, in a soft pink blouse with a slit running past the cleavage. Talk about differences.

We got along reasonably well, if not for the fact that I am 8 years older than her and a hell of a lot more quiet and a dash more boring. I think she was disappointed to discover that I am such a quiet person in real life. Oh well.

Then there is Nicholas, whom I met in London. We spent three happy months together, mainly sitting in Four Seasons for duck rice or Hong Kong Café in China Town for all its delicious goodies. We spoke regularly on the phone when we were not chatting online. Nicholas is a wonderful young man, who strangely was not attached to anyone when I first met him. I am glad to know that he has found someone since then.

Nicholas often wore a beanie, which hid his short-cropped hair. He wore a pair of black rim pair of glasses (or at least I think they were) and often carried a backpack whenever we went out together. I cannot describe him beyond this since he is a boy. There is nothing much to talk about boy’s sense of fashion, now is there?

Nicholas’ most attractive quality must be his warmth. He comes across as a genuine and caring person. He is a generous spirit with a lot of give to those around him. Spending the weekends and afternoons with him was simply pleasurable. He is a gentleman through and through.

‘Oh don’t worry. You don’t have to wait for me. You shop until I arrive,’ he said on the mobile on an afternoon we were supposed to meet up for tea. Dear Nicholas braved through the summer sales in the commercial labyrinth called TopShop, in search for a hyperventilating Otto on a shopping frenzy. I was happily browsing through racks after racks of clothes, looking at its many lines, which are not available in its other franchise. No other TopShop on earth would do.

Obviously we spoke a lot about our private lives, which are not for your eyes to read. Other than private stuff, we actually did a lot of London tourist things together:

The Nottinghill Carnival –There were lots of music blasting around the surrounding blocks of apartments, which was nice but we basically saw only horse shit and an ocean of human heads. Did not manage to see anything on the floats despite wearing 4 inch hells that day.

The ‘Young Oriental Models Upstairs’ episode – It started with me noticing a paper on a door that said ‘Young Oriental Models Upstairs’. We were one street away from China Town, Leicester Square. I was certain that it was a polite advertisement for prostitutes, so Nicholas and I walked across the street to check out the rooms upstairs. ‘Oh so that’s why they are called Red Light District,’ Nicholas said, noting the red light bulb in those rooms. I think I hugged him tightly on his neck and we walked towards Hong Kong Café, giggling and chatting away.

The King’s Road Adventure – Nicholas and I spent a relaxing afternoon getting lost in the fashion mecca of the 60s. We wandered through small shops and what-so-nots. We tried not to end up in the hospital while we mounted the lions on Trafalgar Square. That was very memorable. I wore a halter-neck blouse and no bra. *beaming with happiness*

He addresses me by my real name with the title ‘jie’ at the end, which means ‘sister’ in Mandarin. No one calls me ‘sister’, not even my brothers, so it is quite refreshing and sweet that Nicholas calls me sister. That is as Chinese as I will ever be.

Not too surprisingly we remained close friends since returning back to Malaysia. We talked often on the phone and we poured quite a few secrets. He remains one of the few people who know details of my daily life stories. I cannot imagine that it has been nearly 2 years since we first met in London. Time surely passed by faster than I am comfortable with. Now he is working in NuffNang, which makes the next interesting story.

You see, I met Timothy too. We met for a short lunch in the Four Seasons in Bayswater. He was on his way back to Malaysia and I just arrived in London that morning. We chatted for a bit and exchanged some ideas. Now I must say that this young man is visionary. Do keep him under your radar because he is someone to watch out for. I was not surprised when he came up with a great idea and launched NuffNang. Timothy came across as a rather passionate person and he had the balls to see his dreams come through. NuffNang celebrated its first anniversary recently.

It is strange that I nearly met up with Kenny. Somehow we could not meet up and we ended up talking on the phone. ‘So you aren’t going to tell me where you are at?’ he asked. I replied ‘no’. (It is so obvious, isn’t it?). He dropped by ANNN several times, commented some and even mentioned ANNN in his blog. But you and I must admit that Kenny and I were as different as night and day. On blog reviews, he would receive a thousand stars for humor and I would be glad if I scored even a pathetic one. So there you go.

Oh I should also mention Ian Liew, who is a thinker, like myself. We spoke a couple of times over the phone. I even sent him the ‘Call me now!’ short text messages, so I could howl on the phone, sharing my minute details of my emotional dramas. It is amazing that Australia-UK phone calls are reasonably priced when compared to Australia-Malaysia. Ian always had perfect timing when he called or chatted online with me – while I was prancing around my bedroom half naked, trying to get ready for a hot weekend night out clubbing.

In retrospect, he called me out of the blue last year. I can’t remember what was the content of our conversation. I had this fading memory of it being a birthday greeting. Can’t remember if it was his or mine. Both of us were preparing to go out clubbing that night, so the conversation was short. I should email that boy again soon and see what he is up to lately.

There are of course many readers who correspond via emails. Some comment on my writing style and grammar mistakes, which I truly appreciate. Others write to share their stories and secrets. Many remarked that I gave words to their private stories. So many of you had similar life experiences. Writing and reading ANNN has healed both your hearts and mine. You have been a witness to my life. I am glad that my stories have found a place in many of your hearts and I hope I have not disappointed any of you.

*
I am flying back to Malaysia in less than 14 days. I am feeling butterflies in my stomach. It is always the same feeling. You will never get used to it. I am anxious to go home. Three months is a long time. Many things change. People change. Roads change. I change.

Coming to Europe gives me the opportunity to step away from the daily grinds in Malaysia. Everything feels lighter when I am away. Every frantic moment melts away. Everything might move at a radical pace but internally I feel a sense of calm and peace. And somehow I can see things better when I am thousands of miles away.

I grow up a little more each time when I return home. It starts with a total transformation on the outside the morning I am home. My haircut and colour would have changed, before I meet my mother for lunch. Clothes and hairstyle has always been a symbolic expression of everything that I felt inside. Each time I return home, I feel like it's a moment of rebirth and I am a whole new person again. I am no longer who I was months before. Friends who meant the world to me before I flew to Europe no longer have a place in my life. Things that were important to me a few months ago now no longer have priority in my schedule. Going home to Malaysia always signal a reshuffle of priorities, reflecting the change of my personal beliefs and desires.

Not many people have the opportunity to grow and change like the way I do. Maybe that is why they are still reflections of themselves from years ago while I have lived the lives of a thousand women. Maybe people are meant to grow and develop. Maybe people are supposed to take another route in their lives. Maybe they are trapped in their circumstance and cannot evolve into the person they only dreamt of each night. Maybe I am supposed to be trapped too.

Saving The Girl That Needs No Saving

noreply@blogger.com (Otto) — Tue, 08 Apr 2008 13:54:00 +0000

‘Which is worse?’ he asked. ‘To have too many suitors or to have too little?’

‘I think it’s horrible to have too many suitors,’ I replied. ‘Notice my long list of complaints?’

‘Come on. Admit it. It is much better to have too many than too little,’ he said.

‘If you insist, then yes. I guess it is better to have more choices than a lack of.’

I imagined how beautiful the view out of his window. The Petronas Twin Towers must look absolutely majestic against the slow descend of the sun as we messaged each other on the Yahoo Messenger. Mr. Easter Bunny and I were conversing on a daily basis the week before and after Easter. I was searching for some writing inspiration and he was there at the right place and the right time.

*
If you have noticed (which I am sure you do), I have been avoiding writing lately. I must be one of the most boring persons you ever read about. I write only what I am ready to share and I don’t mince my words around. And when I am not ready to share, I don’t. Hence there is hardly any action here in About Nude Not Naked. I have my regular readers but I am no Kenny Sia.

Not that my life isn’t filled with action. It is. It is very much filled with all sorts of actions but I commit those stories to my memory. I did not tell you that I am doing well and how happy I have become in the last year or so. I dare not share how my life has changed for the better and how comfortable I feel.

And how I finally feel some measure of peace in my heart.

I don’t know how everything started. I hate to think it has to do with age. To admit that I changed because of age is like to admit that I have set limits in my life. And if you know me like how MiniBoyFriend R knows me, you will know that I hate limits. I hate the word because I feel it is constricting.

So no, I don’t think I made different choices (drastic ones, I might add) in the last 18 months or so because I feel that I am getting old. I much prefer to think that I changed because I needed to move onto a new phase in life. I have always felt a need to challenge myself, to push myself further and stretch myself wider. This decision happens to be one of them.

I have never been one that is complacent. My mind is always thinking, moving and changing. My eyes are always searching and observing every minute detail of everything around me. And I always listen to conversations and always enjoyed words.

*
‘Hey sexy mama,’ the voice said.

‘That’s hot, sexy mama to you,’ I said as I continued to type into my iBook. Time to change iBook, I thought to myself as it was overheating. The Apple laptop has served me very well in the last 4 years. I am a happy bird if relationships and friendships were as reliable as my trusty Apple iBook.

‘Where have you been?’

‘Working,’ I said

‘Why working so hard?’ he asked. ‘There is a gig tonight. You must come out. You remember XYZ?’ he asked. ‘He asked me to invite you out tonight because he has not seen you since Famosa’s party’.

I gave a muffled non-commitment mumble of some sort. True to form, I did not go out that night. I watched Heroes on TV instead.

One of the first things that I changed was to reprioritize my time. I have spent too many hours with too many people that I should never have spent time with. They were not bad people. They just weren’t good.

Some of you might ask what motivated me to go out in the first place. There are many reasons and perhaps only MiniBoyFriend R understood them. The main reason however was vanity and ego. It was always lovely to go out somewhere and be admired. Who would not like that? Who wouldn't want to feel that she had just lit up the entire room by just walking into it?

All I needed to do was to spend an hour dressing up (which is a therapeutic experience in itself) and head out for the night. It does not matter which night it was. There were always people out there and there will always be people who would look at you and talk. After some years of dealing with bad 'publicity', I have relented and decided that perhaps ‘bad publicity is better than no publicity’.

Think of it like how celebrities do it. They garner attention each time they go out. The more they go out, the more attention they will receive. They do not appear on magazines and TV for staying at home, you know. Now obviously, the attention can be either positive or negative. For example, having the paparazzi taking your photos, landing you on the best or worst dressed list. But celebrities still battle the paparazzo’s daily because they want to remain in the current news.

It used to be the same case for me too. Continuously dressing up to go out is quite an expensive pastime. However doing so keeps me present in people’s conversations, even when I am not around. The attention has blessed me many privileges. For example, girls working in boutiques reserve clothes for me to try on before they display them in the shops. My hairdresser continuously works miracles by framing my best facial features.

And my bowl of noodles nearly always comes with extra goodies, courtesy of the aunties whom I fondly visit and chat with on working days.

‘Aunty asked where you went,’ PY sms-ed the other day.

*
I have gone under the radar. When once I regularly spent weekends in Lola, I now regularly do not spend weekends there. I miss it every once in a while, so I would dress up again and visit the place. Each time I would try my best to relive all those happy memories I have of the place but I somehow no longer feel the same way. It could just be the booze but I swear that something inside me has changed.

When I look into the crowd of people dancing and gyrating to the music, I no longer recognize anyone. The bar tenders are now strangers, no longer weekend friends. The bouncers however still let me skip the queue and allow me to come and go as I please. Something has changed. I no longer feel that I belong in that noisy place.

I no longer crave for the attention and find no necessity to always be on top of everyone’s conversation topics. I still dress the way that I do and I still have the attention (daytime at least) but I do not feel that I have to push myself anymore.

‘Eh, are you unwell?’ my mother asked me one Saturday night as I sat watching Discovery Channel. She placed her hand on my forehead, to feel my body temperature for sure. ‘You must be sick, if you are not out on Saturday,’ she said.

You know, there was a time when I would just pop one tablet of Panadol and head out on sick nights. Nothing comes between the clubbing scene and me. Not even rainy nights. Nowadays it almost feels okay to be at home on Saturday night, watching TV and answering phone calls.

*
So this is why I no longer have too many drunken stories to share with you. In its place, I have collected many happy and sober stories. Maybe one day, when the time is right, I will share my happiness with you.

*
‘Can we talk?’ R asked yesterday. His message popped on my Yahoo Messenger as I was designing some work related stuff. (Remember that I am the boss, the PA, the dispatch girl and occasionally even the makcik cleaner in the office).

‘Of course,’ came my reply. It must have been the shortest sentence I have written him. Some time ago, I had made a mental note to recognize and allow MBF R to express himself without me prodding him. In short, I recognize that I must change myself, to allow him to write at his pace and not crowd the conversation with my opinion.

‘I must confess to her,’ MBF R started the conversation. ‘She has said yes and I think I should say yes too. So I have to tell her about all my destructive relationships.’

‘Your reasons for doing so?’ I asked.

‘I want to tell her everything, so she is prepared. She is such a precious and innocent thing, I am afraid that I will ruin her.’

R met a girl on a holiday trip and they spent every moment together on the trip. Returning home, the immense feelings they felt for each other did not dissipate. They have gone on with their normal lives and returned to work since they came back from the holiday. It was no longer a holiday inspired fling and they still feel as strongly now in KL, working and busy, as they did while frolicking and relaxing during a holiday.

‘I must cut ties with all my destructive relationships,’ he said.

‘Like what?’ I enquired, waiting for him to mention the not so short list of lunch hour buddies, golf bunnies and genuine muses. Which he did.

It was the first time I ever hear him say that he felt that this was it. The girl gave him the feeling of security and total unconditional love. Actually what he mentioned was, ‘I am 28 years old. I feel that this is the right time. I have to do this right. It is now or never.’ Or something along that vein.

So he is going to cut ties with all the unhealthy relationships and friendships he had developed over time. I understand each and every word R said. I have been down that road before. I have straightened some friendships and severe ties with the rest.

‘But what if I can’t do it?’ he asked.

‘What do you mean you can’t?’ I asked.

‘You know, I like the beautiful girls that dressed to kill, flawless skin under heavy make up, willing to open their legs by the end of the night, drive you insane with jealousy and rage – those sort.’

‘Oh R,’ I said philosophically, ‘aren’t all men the same? They all like beautiful girls who dressed to kill, with flawless skin under heavy make up, ever willing to drop their panties by the end of the night.’ I sighed. Men would be perfect if not for the failure to control their lust factor. (I don’t want to even start talking about this topic).

*
I had a similar conversation with BestGuyFriend years ago, when he first met Nikki. So I guess I had the 'My Best Friend's Wedding' experience, though unlike Julia Roberts, I actually gave my best boy friends away. BestGuyFriend in 2006 and soon, my MiniBoyFriend.

BestGuyFriend married in December 2006 and we have remained casual friends since then. I can see that he is happy whenever I bump into Nikki and him. He is far from the person I knew years ago. He is confident and contented since he rescued Nikki during the great tsunami. I saw them last the weeks before Christmas last year and they looked perfect together.

MiniBoyFriend R and I managed to maintain a reasonable and healthy friendship. We make good friends and catch up for breakfast whenever possible. We still walk the dogs, Vodka and Gin. We still debate if Vodka has preferred inclination since he sniffs boy dog’s bottoms whenever we are out walking. But we no longer spend Sundays painting and cuddling up for movies.

I see D and his bunch of boys mostly in the restaurant that he is now in charge of. He’d call every now and then, for supper but strangely I have not felt hungry enough to dress up at 2 a.m. I think he has also grown up and moved on, although he still goes out with a string of girls, promising nothing to each and every one of them. You have to give him credit when it is due. He was fair to all.

My last memory of Adidas Boy is a happy one. We were walking around aimlessly in Mid Valley and settled for dinner in a Japanese restaurant. We went for some drinks somewhere and chatted until morning when he left for work, holding and manning a video camera and lighting. While snooping around my readers’ blogs (by backtracking to theirs) I discovered that some of you readers actually met and knew Adidas Boy. It is just that you did not realize it. The world is extremely small, don’t you think?

*
I arrived at a stage in my life when I feel that I have a firm grip of everything around me. I do not write about it because I am not ready to celebrate my happiness in public. I still grieve over Alex.

The fantastic thing about men is that they are able to move on after some time. That is nice. That is what I want for Alex. I want him to move on and be happy. Nothing saddens me more than imagining him at a house that stinks of Polish vodka. I rather be the person in the stinky Polish vodka house. I want him to be happy and excited about living. It is important to me that he feels so.

I know that he no longer wears the ring I gave him 2 years ago. I still wear the ring he gave me and I still carry the keys to my English home. It is silly, I know. It isn't like I can open any other door using those keys. But I still carry them because they feel precious. They have a lot of memories attached. One look at them whenever I open my purse and I am transported back to my English home and life. I have not seen Alex for 10 months now, so clearly it is over. It was my decision but I still need time to grief. I just need time to tell myself that it is okay and I can be happy. I do not need to feel bad that I am actually happy inside. I can be free and I can let my happiness show.

Because if I really am honest with myself, I know that I am.

*
'When I first met you and again now as we speak during the past week, I thought that I was sent here to save you,' Mr. Easter Bunny said.

He believed in karma, even when he is not a practicing Buddhist. He believed in destiny and reasons for being. For Mr. Easter Bunny, our sudden conversation spreading over days was not a mere coincident. There must have been a reason why we spoke. I have told him several times that our conversations were just that; conversations. I have no other intentions but perhaps he thought otherwise.

(I do suspect that he reads About Nude Not Naked quite regularly and we are playing a cat and mouse game. He had asked me several times if I published my writings in a blog. He had also very casually mentioned that some of my emails to him were very blog-like, which they were published on ANNN as entries. So you know that I know that you know. Now shhhhhh...)

'That is what you always write about - sins and salvation. So I always thought that I am here to save you. But I now know, it isn't you that needs saving.'

He then told me his dark secret.

'We are talking this week because I needed saving. I have burden - a secret - in my heart. It turns out that you are the friend that I needed,' he said.

One Night with MiniBoyFriend R

noreply@blogger.com (Otto) — Fri, 28 Mar 2008 08:46:00 +0000

'A girl said that I had a very unique face while we laid on the hotel bed. What the hell is that suppose to mean?'

'That you have beautiful eyes,' I replied. He has a beautiful pair of eyes in a very beautiful shade of light brown. 'Hey, is this the same girl whom you meet at the bus station?' I asked.

'No,' came the reply. 'Different girl.'

'Wow, someone's getting lots of action lately.' I said, beaming with pride, like only a mother would.

'Yeah, soon you will have to queue up to see me,' he said.

*
I love my MiniBoyFriend. We have the most wonderful conversations. Last night, he told me that there is only one way to cry, that is to cry for the wrong reasons. 'There are no right ways to cry, only wrong ones,' he said. How very romantic.

We shared some secrets and I found out that he was one busy boy in my absence here in Europe. I need not worry about my breakfast buddy since he is having more than one girl for breakfast. (laughs). I told him about Bunny and the humbling lesson learnt.

I showed him a photo of myself. With a smile. Finally. It was some time ago when he requested for one of my photo, so he could use as a base for a cartoon drawing. 'You know, give me some happy photos' he said. 'It is difficult to draw a cartoon out of solemn faces.' I had no such photos. No photos where I actually smiled till my eyes were slitty and shut. It is all vanity. Smiles create wrinkles and smile lines. (And bags under the eyes - not nice). But I had a sweet photo of myself taken while sledging during Easter weekend, so it was a rather nice gift for MiniBoyFriend R.

He related a strange tale, set on another hotel bed in another hotel with another girl. 'Have you ever asked your girlfriend to abort a baby?' the girl asked casually. (Men should be extra careful when women ask casual questions).

I don't know about you but I think such a question is the perfect contraception. No 'up, up and away' times after that question, I suspect. MiniBoyFriend R said that he frankly did not know the answer. I argued that one must know the answer. After all, the question was 'Have you ever asked your girlfriend to abort a baby?'. You either did or did not. He said some girls might not have informed him. Being the dutiful MiniGirlFriend that I am, I relieved him of all responsibilities in such an event. It's logical, isn't it? He could not have possibly be responsible for aborting a baby that he did not know the existence of.

'For all you know, you could be a daddy now,' I said. He wearily agreed.

*
'I'll draw you something,' he said.

I have always loved his drawings and paintings but don't you tell him that. (He can be a very diva artist). He has the talent of a great artist and definitely the charms of one. Just look at the long line of muses he has been collecting. (smiles). While he was away drawing something on a sheet of paper, I chopped and cut and diced and cooked. 'I cooked grilled chilli chicken. Better than Nando's,' I declared to MiniBoyFriend R.

'I am vegetarian lah,' came the reply. MiniBoyFriend R is a vegetarian by choice, which sometimes made breakfast arrangements funny to the rest sitting at our breakfast table. I had his two extra sausages and he had my two extra sunny side up eggs. I think he is still trying to figure out why he is a vegetarian. I guess all vegetarians are romantics at heart. After half hour or so, he came back to the keyboard and emailed the drawing to me.

Obviously the names were altered to protect
the true identity of two rather boring persons in real life.

'Very well done, R,' I said. 'Could do a t-shirt print with this one.'

'If it was a t-shirt print, we are the only two people who would buy the shirts.'

'Could do with more loving words though,' I said. Here we have Mr. R, my generous MiniBoyFriend draw me something special and I had the cheek to ask him to put some loving words into the conversation boxes. Like 'This drawing is perfect, R!' and 'Thank you!'.... that sort of thing.

R said only foul languaged t-shirts sell well. Maybe he is right.

No, let me rephrase. Surely MiniBoyFriend R is right. He is in the industry afterall. And when I get back home, he's going to help draw and embroider something pretty onto my biker chick jacket. I suspect it's going to be another 2 cats with nothing but foul language in conversation boxes....

Compassion for Bunny

noreply@blogger.com (Otto) — Thu, 27 Mar 2008 10:41:00 +0000

Every now and then, Mr. Easter Bunny writes. Now we met under very strange circumstances and I do not recall much of the night when we met. Other than some boys climbing up a wall and I working behind the bar. Oh yes, I was a waitress in a bar, a long time ago. For fun. So I can write all the things that I write you in ANNN.

During our last conversation, which was last evening, he mentioned that BestGuyFriend was waiting for me to sit on his lap. I do not even remember sitting on BestGuyFriend’s lap. We were very close but it never occurred to me that perhaps it wasn’t your usual boy + girl friendships. Especially not if I sat on his lap for fun...

I should tell you why I call him Mr. Easter Bunny. Like the many other single European men working in Malaysia, he has a spare bunny at his disposal. They met a long time ago while he worked in the Philippines. I didn’t ask much about their relationship, not more than he would share on his own accord. However one day, I asked him without being coy, what he gave her as allowance since it was obvious that she was not working. My question was in the name of writing material research. Quite obvious, isn't it?

Mr. Easter Bunny dutifully informed me that he leaves a stack of cash amounting to RM1000.00 every Monday as pocket money for his little brown bunny. I think he said he leaves the cash on the table and never directly gave it to her. The Tooth Fairy leaves you some money on your pillow for each tooth. Mr. Easter Bunny was far more generous than the Tooth Fairy will ever be, leaving you RM1000 weekly. You don't even need to exchange it for a tooth.

Hence Mr. Easter Bunny's fairytale inspired name.

*
I am in a predicament. I hate bunnies of all ages because they symbolize how weak women can be. Or perhaps how cunning women can be. Or how smart some women are, when compared to me. I work like hell and I don’t have a Mr. Easter Bunny dropping me RM1000 weekly. Not even monthly or yearly. So I resent bunnies because they get lots of bunny treats without even working hard (or studying hard). These bunnies fly around the world, shop as they please, do not have to work a day of their lives and get money for doing exactly that.

You can imagine how frustrated non-bunnies are. I am a typical stressed out non-bunny. What a snub to our faces! Especially when we worked hard to study, worked hard to enter universities and worked hard at work. We are seeing a very slow repayment for our very hard work. But bunnies just need to look fluffy and lovable (ala Anna Nicole Smith), without having any education or career, they are cared for and paid quite a lump sum of money.

I expressed my opinions and I am sure that Mr. Easter Bunny got a earful from me. I was not quite the polite person that I normally am, arguing the ethics of handing out money to young girlfriends. There are a lot of things the young lady can do, other than sitting around at home and wasting her life and energy away. One thousand ringgit as weekly allowance is sin, I thought to myself.

Like all other men, Mr. Easter Bunny has his set of excuses and reasons for rewarding a young lady for not doing something productive with her life.

She comes from a disadvantaged background.
She doesn’t have family support and protection.
She was a bar girl and I am saving her from the streets.
She doesn’t have skills to work properly.
She doesn’t have work permit in Malaysia.
She doesn’t have a house or a car.
She has relatives and family members to help at home.

I told Mr. Easter Bunny what I told Alex years ago. Give the girl education and skills, if you are sincere in helping her. Poking her is hardly considered charity.

*
I mulled over our conversations through the Easter weekend. Perhaps I am a little too aggressive. After all, Bunny wasn’t my Bunny. She is Mr. Easter’s and if he is fine with the notion of giving away RM1000 weekly, I guess I am not in the position to nag.

Maybe I am ashamed of what my fellow Eves have done. Maybe I am angry because I feel degraded when my sisters are. Maybe I am too proud to ask for man’s help and I feel that women are weak if they do. Maybe Mr. Easter Bunny is right – I do not know what it is like for Bunny. Maybe I am throwing stones at a glass house.

Maybe I should not be so harsh. Maybe there is another ruler for another woman. Maybe Bunny is the way Bunny is because of circumstances. Maybe Bunny did not have all the opportunities accorded to me. Maybe I would be Bunny if I were in Bunny’s shoes. Maybe I should not be so quick to judge her of crimes that I imagined she had committed. Maybe Bunny is as pure and fragile as Mr. Easter Bunny said she was.

*
The long Easter weekend gave me plenty of opportunity to recollect and reflect on my arguments against Bunny. I wrote Mr. Easter Bunny a short email yesterday and I remarked that perhaps I should have more compassion for Bunny – that I should not be so quick to judge her and beat Bunny’s self to a pulp based on my personal beliefs. That Bunny was not me and I cannot impose my personal beliefs on her.

The compassion was timely. Bunny ate hospital food for dinner last evening after being admitted for being unwell in the past week.

Bunny has pneumonia and a small part of my heart feels pity for the 21 year old brown Bunny.

*
'Let the one without sin cast the first stone'.

When The Cat Goes Away, All The Rats Come Out To Play

noreply@blogger.com (Otto) — Thu, 13 Mar 2008 12:12:00 +0000

You know what I hate most? I hate how complacent some people can be. Now I almost used the word “Malaysians” but decided against it since not all Malaysians skip work (or think of skipping work) the moment their bosses, wives or mothers are not eagle eyeing them.

I find this habit very troubling. I mean, aren’t you supposed to work because you SHOULD work? Or are you going about your daily work schedules because your boss happens to be staring at you while you chat on yahoo messenger? Do you constantly need someone to breathe down your neck in order for you to get your work reports done?

My experience managing my staff could be a reasonable example to use here. While I am away from the office, suddenly there is a spike of “I am not happy with (fill in the blank)” complaints. Now I check if the complaints are justified and obviously there are several cases where they were justified and were addressed.

The most recent “I am not happy with…” involves the dishing out of salary. We doubled our list of clients (because of strategic business strategies and research) and 6 new members of staff were hired in the last 4 months to help manage the sharp increase of clients. While I hired new staff, I thought that it was also a good time to reward my senior staff members in recognition for their efforts and contributions in growing the business. Basically it’s a separation and celebration of those who were with me from the beginning.

A junior staff came into the office and cried. Let’s call her Miss Tan. So Miss Tan claimed that she could not survive on the salary both parties agreed on when she began work 3 months ago. This junior member said between sobs “transport to work costs me RM400 and my car loan is RM500 monthly. I live on nearly nothing after paying the utility bills and rent.”

14 years in the position of “boss” I realised that enthusiasm (and a willingness to work) is often time even more important than any qualification or experience any employment can cough onto the interview table. Now Miss Tan is a fine girl and enthusiastic about work, so I suggested that we give her an increment as part of her confirmation package. Therefore instructions were given for her to receive an additional RM200 under petrol allowance.

Naturally Miss Tan was happy when she heard the news of her increment. Her tears turned into joy as she proclaimed that she needn’t work in Singapore (as suggested by her mother). Thenafter the 2 other staff members who were confirmed in March were given similar petrol allowance. The sum varied, according to their talents, experience and work attitude in the first 3 months of work. No problem there.

A senior staff then stormed into the office, telling the head of staff that she wasn’t happy that the junior members received petrol allowance. “I’m not happy that she has petrol allowance.” I am sure it was her polite version of “I want petrol allowance too!” Anyway her reactions pissed me off incessantly and here are the reasons:

Salary information is private and confidential everywhere – how did she manage to yank the salary information from the junior staff’s chest?

“I am not happy” is not good enough justification for the senior member to receive similar benefit. It is not acceptable, especially not when her 2008 salary is a 30% increment of her December 2007 take-home salary + increment of EPF contribution by employer + a holiday on gratis slated in August this year.

I’m upset that Miss Senior failed to see that her salary is still higher (in every single aspect) and she was already awarded and recognized for her seniority in the company’s hierarchy. In my opinion, she is being very petty for picking on little words here and there. Her reaction to the whole episode demonstrates to me how down right ungrateful she is, for the recognition and salary hikes given to her just 3 months earlier.

I cannot give into Miss Senior’s demands. I have given into my staff’s demands in the last few months in anticipation of the increased list of clients. Obviously they know that the company needs them to work in order to maintain and sustain the number of clients we have at the moment, so they are trying hard to squeeze as much juice out of me.

The most important reason however, is that increment comes with job performance and increased productivity. Increments are made and agreed during appraisals. You have to justify the increment. For example, if you demand a RM200 increment, you have to demonstrate to your boss how you have helped him/her earn more than RM200 in profit. You cannot demand as you please.

Maybe it's time the cat came out again. Keep the rats at bay.

*
Speaking of staff meetings, I nearly died reading the secretary’s minutes for January’s staff meeting. The whole bloody thing was just a big list of “What my company should buy for me, ME, ME!”. I am not bloody Google, who being best employer in the world, is able to provide its employees with crèche service, free food for whole family, games room for its staff etc etc. Having such facilities and benefits in Google attracted the best brains to the company.

While I am not Larry Page and Sergey Brin, my company does provide free meals for its staff - breakfast, lunch and te. You would think that my staff would roll on the floor, absolutely happy, isn’t it? Oh no, they are not happy. They actually think it’s their god damn right to have free meals served to them piping hot. These days they even complain what they do not want to eat for lunch and what should be cooked for them. In my book, what's good enough for the boss to eat is good enough for the rest. January’s list includes the question if the company reimburses staff’s lunch if they head out of office to buy lunch elsewhere when they do not like what’s served in the company’s canteen.

This all excludes the small budget for staff’s relaxation and entertainment. We encourage the team to organize an activity during one evening or the weekend, to have fun and enjoy each other’s company. I thought it was an excellent way to build teamwork, trust and communication between fellow colleagues. So far, they’ve enjoyed it but I am yet to see an increase in productivity...

*
The big advertisement was meant to replace the torn one in front of the office. I had made the order before Chinese New Year and was told that I had to wait until CNY was over. And so the wait began. I received a copy of the advert the week after CNY and confirmed its design.

How long do you think it takes for an advertising firm to put up the damn thing?

It is still not up and the old banner is now flapping around the front of my office, like the torn flag of the Flying Dutchman. It’s more than one bloody month! Now I know this wouldn’t happen if I was around. The last time I ordered it, the banner turned up in less than 5 days. What changed?

Oh yes, the cat flew to Europe. So the rats are all out to play.

Last evening the cat told the rat that if he doesn't put up the banner by 5 p.m. today, he doesn't need to it up at all.

*
My third illustration examplies the Asian mentality. I really hate classifying everyone as “Asian” but I am so fuming mad at the moment, I can’t help it. I have similar encounters many times over, each a little different but yet all revolve around a similar theme – most people must have their balls squeezed till they turn blue or else they can’t function at work efficiently.

I wrote a letter of offer to a security firm for CCTV installation in one of my offices. I felt it was a good way to manage my business and showed transparency to my clients. It was also good timing and planning as the office underwent a major renovation and all the wires were laid into the building. Trouble started when they requested for a short delay in completing the installation due to a sudden huge order from a factory.

Since I manage a business myself, I fully understand the intricate works that goes into managing a business. I could wait just a bit, given the fact that the CCTV was not a life and death situation for me. It would help me manage my business better but one or two weeks later wouldn’t kill me either.

You would think that my gesture would be appreciated and my cameras + CCTV facilities set up within 2 weeks. It took them more than a month to fully complete installation in my office. I paid them with a cheque the moment the invoice came despite the company still owing my staff the necessary training to utilise the software and equipment. Oh how swiftly they bank in the cheque. But what happened to my staff’s training?

I waited until my face turned blue. Finally when I could not take it anymore, I placed an order on another product, which they promptly send to my office. With the products safely in my office and invoice in my head of staff’s hand, I refused to pay them until they settled the training and online access.

“I am utterly disappointed with the service rendered to me. It’s been more than a month since a full payment has been made for the CCTV and the training promised in the package is yet to be conducted. Please be advised that I shall only make payment for the new service when you have fulfilled your previous tasks. Thank you.”

I had to scold them and squeeze them by their balls before they did their job. They finally conducted the training for my staff. I had access to the CCTV online after more than 6 weeks waiting period. Why must people be squeezed and threatened before they are able to work?

I’ve realised that most employees (including my own set of friends) have very similar mindset. They will find ways to escape work, the very second their bosses are not watching. And most companies will stop follow up with the extra service the moment payment is made. How difficult is it to do your best because you want to be the best? Why must your boss beat your confidence down before you would move your ass?

‘Why should I work so hard since the company is not mine?’ seemed to be the acceptable excuse. I obviously have a different perspective since I am the owner and the boss. I want to treat my staff with respect and be generous with my praises for their efforts. However it looks like all these things are taken for granted here in Malaysia. People, or rather, employees, do not respond well to goodness and kindness. They respond very well to fear (of losing their livelihood), threats and self-esteem beating.

If you can’t work hard because the company is not yours, why don’t you open your own business and work hard there? The fact some people are born to manage businesses and others are born to be team players. Your attitude towards work should be the same, whatever the role you play at work – employee or employer. There is no excuse.

*
Do not take for granted when your boss is generous towards you. Celebrate when you are rewarded for your work. Be happy when your achievements at work are recognized. Do not gloat nor think that you are indispensable when your boss said, “Well done, good job!”. It means that you had done well. It does not mean that you can now parade around the office, thinking that you are one floor above your boss.

If your boss can train you, she can train another to replace you. It might be inconvenient but it is possible. Do not give your boss the opportunity to remind you how dispensable you are. Listening to how dispensable you are is degrading. Your boss does not want to be the bad person. Don’t let her be.

You should be the best that you can, whether you are an employee or an employer. Business is organic and continues to grow after you have completed the transaction. Where service is concerned, make sure you walk the extra mile. Your clients will remember you for the efforts you put into it. Do everything to the best of your ability. Respond to needs and complaints as fast as you can. Keep it simple, efficient and fast. Keep your customers happy.

Whatever you do, do not ever stop serving the minute you receive the money in your hand. It is common practice and it is bad taste. The level of sincerity of managing your business is reflected in the way your after sales service is conducted. Nothing will testify better of your priorities and objectives. It isn’t all about ringing the till.

*
The cat licked her paws. She has sharpened her claws. Wait a minute, I thought I heard a rat sneak by. Her ears perked up. How vigilant are her eyes. No more rats playing after tonight.

Election 2008: Top Bravo and Boo Boo

noreply@blogger.com (Otto) — Mon, 10 Mar 2008 13:58:00 +0000

No more looking at the horizon for a new home.
I have finally found my home in Malaysia.

Everyone has a moment in time when they stood out for glory or for shame. In the midst of negative sentiments against really bad government administration by really stupid people, a lady stood out from the rest. She will be remembered for having a generous spirit in a very difficult time. Nobody enjoys losing, so Sharizat's composure and calm (be it genuine or scripted) in face of defeat deserves a mention here.

Watch the first 5 minutes of Sharizat's moment and you can see that (while BN might generally consists of baffoons and idiots) there is one lady who spoke with some amount of wisdom and humility.

When a reporter asked if Sharizat was disappointed at her lost, she replied:

"No, I am not. Because you know why, I believe in God you know... kepada saya, saya dah 12 tahun di sini. Saya faham tentang politic. Ada masa kita menang, ada masa kita kalah. Dalam 12 tahun ini, banyak perubahan berlaku. So I go away with great dignity. Like you know, I'm really happy. I worked here with great passion."
~ Shahrizat Abdul Jalil

And she thanked the people of Lembah Pantai and the media for supporting her for 12 years. Top BN people should take note of Sharizat's words. This is how you carry yourself in public, instead of threats of bathing a weapon with Chinese blood or how a woman leak every month. Or man woman stand squat etc.

Sharizat, if you are reading this, I would like to say that I have great respect for you. You showed maturity and grace in a very difficult time. I can't say the same for the rest of the baffoons who still have the cheek to make stupid comments. Sungai Petani losing BN candidate Zainuddin Maidin (as quoted in Star today) would be a good example of stupidity at its highest form:

"It is not that they love PKR or PAS more that they voted against me.

The Chinese showed their resentment because of the economic backlash they often complained about. So, PAS and PKR should not be overly proud of their win (in Kedah).

The people may have to pay a price for their decision."
~ Zainuddin Maidin (as quoted in Star today)

Zainuddin as the previous Information Minister should perhaps read some online blogs to understand the sentiments of an average Malaysian. Do not even start with the threats. You are lucky the people has not demanded to check your background for any corrupt practice. Racial politics is no more relevant, so please bark elsewhere.

Zainuddin remarked to anyone who criticised Islam would be tried under the Sedition Act in 2006. The meaning of "incite" here is "belittling Islam". He is of course free to have his opinion but I find his threat of "amok" is unacceptable. Especially in the Parliment.

"We will not think twice about using this law against anybody who incites...

... But you must remember the word amok comes from this country and there is a limit to everything."
~ Zainuddin Maidin

Boo boo and shame shame on you. The Parliment has no place for people who practice threat or violence. Or one who will run amok or crazy. It is people like you that will drag us back to the middle ages. Thank goodness you are out.

*
Now the election is over and the results are out. We should all get back to our normal lives. Keep our eyes peeled on the newly elected politicians. Pray for good governence in our country. Flush out stupid people who makes stupid remarks. Stamp out corruptions. Build a new Malaysia that rewards its citizens for great work. Raise a generation of young who are articulate and analytical, who will be participants in our nation's future. Show a generous side of the human spirit and champion the plights of the disadvantaged.

Good night, Malaysia.

Ghosts

noreply@blogger.com (Otto) — Tue, 04 Mar 2008 10:50:00 +0000

It has snowed since Saturday morning. Everything is covered in whitest shade of white, from the trees to the rooftops and from passing cars to the swing in the playground. Everything that was brown, dirty and old, like the road works happening in front of my apartment, is now all white and beautiful.

Wouldn’t it be nice if you could have an emotional snowing, emerging on the 3rd day when you are all blemish-free, pristine and as pure as fluffy snow from the sky?

*
There comes a time when everyone packs their bags and head out into the archipelago, just a little bit off Stockholm. It is like a date that the Swedes have with themselves. 3rd Saturday of June, pack your bags and go into the forest. Prance around the fertility poll, clap hands and sing drunken men songs, sauna and skinny dip with friends accompanied by lots of barbeque and booze.

‘Skål!’ The tiny bottles clinked. Nasty little packages, they are. Nothing starts the day better than 7 a.m. wake-me-up droplets of terribly cheap booze. Come to think of it, maybe that spelt the beginning of doom.

The Scandinavians love potatoes. They have potatoes from Monday to Sunday and on special occasions such as the Mid Summer, they have boiled potatoes with dill. Given the fact that I was a spoilt (still is) little brat that never lifted a finger back home in Malaysia, I was quite a good girlfriend, peeling a bucketful of potatoes with a Korean girl and a Swede.

Don’t feel too happy for me. It wasn’t an international party despite I being totally clueless when it came to Swedish. A Swedish couple adopted the Korean as a baby, so she was oblivious to the fact that she wasn’t really white (or European, if you must) afterall. (We’ll talk about that phenomenon in another story).

Everyone has jabbering in Swedish. One shouldn’t take for granted how little you understand when you understand approximately everything 5th word. Words like “this”, “the”, “one” (and the sequence of numbers), “white”, “come here” and of course, the very famous “potatoes”.

SwedishLove was missing somewhere. He went to help the boys, so I was stuck with two girls jabbering in Swedish. They spoke in English, perhaps 5 minutes of each dreaded hour. Although silent through the whole of their conversation, we managed to skin all potatoes, poured them into an even bigger pot, filled it up and covered the lid after placing some dill in the pot of bubbling hot boiled potatoes.

Everyone gathered and took a walk into the forest. Here is the romantic part, guys. Part of the Mid Summer’s tradition involves girls wearing a garland of wild flowers on their heads. We looked somewhat like earthly princesses, with flowers of every colour sitting in a circle on our heads. A crown of freshly picked and weaved flowers sat on each and every girl’s head. Like icing on top of a cake, I guess.

Henrik and I walked around, searching for little wild strawberries. They were tiny, the size of a large bead. Red and similar to the ones we buy off shelves in supermarkets. Just that they are wild and perhaps taste a little sweeter than the commercial ones. Then again, I think they were meant to be bitter, since they were wild.

‘This is yours,’ he said, then placing the chain of wild strawberries on me. ‘It is traditional to make a chain of wild strawberries for your loved ones.’ He gave me a kiss. ‘Happy Mid Summers.’

It was so romantic, being surrounded by the greenest green forest and wild strawberries on the ground. Summers in Sweden are amazing. The sun rises at 2 a.m. and sets at 11 p.m. With the sun up 20 hours of the day, everything in your soul wakes up. Everything feels more alive and everything is a whole lot more exciting. There were others around but the world felt as if it had stopped. And in that one moment, there was only my SwedishLove and I.

Obviously there is a spoiler to this romantic story. The ghost broke the little moment we shared. ‘So you ready for the barbeque?’ she asked him. She stood a distant away, her hands urging us to join them at the table. The Ethiopian was SwedishLove’s first girlfriend and somehow or rather, they shared friends and were invited to the same Mid Summer party.

Not a problem for the two of them, obviously. But I felt like the 3rd person on a very small bed. The whole lot of them, going on and on, singing and talking in Swedish through the lunch barbeque did not help one bit. Everyone at the party were friends from years ago and they got on like they have never left each other. By then, I wasn’t only the 3rd person on the very small bed. I wasn’t even a person anymore.

I broke down after a few hours of numbness. You will never feel lonelier than the isolation you feel in a sea of people. Loneliness is when you sit at a party where everyone is clearly enjoying himself and you are the only one left at the dock of the unknown. I called the evening short and went back into the dead silent city. Oddly, I didn’t feel lonely despite being alone.

*
It was my first encounter with the 3rd kind - the ghost of past relationships. Obviously everyone has a ghost (or two) but not everyone has to deal with it in the face. Mid Summer party in the company of boyfriend, his ex-girlfriend and 10 other old friends is not recommended.

It did not end there.

‘Let’s clear up the space in the basement,’ he said. We went down 3 flights of stairs and opened the little cage-like space. I remember how the space looked. It was a corridor with space for each occupant to store his soon to be forgotten 6 months later rubbish.

I opened up a black plastic bag and there were numerous clothing articles in it. Dark navy blue, army green, dirty brown, sweaters, trousers and some odd looking t-shirts. ‘What’s this?’ I asked him, showing him the bag. ‘Do you want to keep it?’

‘Put it in the corner. It’s Jenny’s.’

Such a sweet name for a ghost, don’t you think? I hope that you are like me, thinking ‘What the hell are you doing with her clothes still?’. We didn’t speak about it until the day I left for Malaysia at the end of summer.

‘What would you like to see the next time you come back?’ SwedishLove asked.

‘I want all of Jenny’s things gone.’ And it wasn’t even negotiable.

The ghost of Jenny came and went as she pleased. No utter respect for the living, I am telling you.

‘Singapore is so much more advance than Kuala Lumpur.’

‘You can live in Singapore, for all I care. In Jenny’s panties, if you like.’

‘Jenny’s in the US at the moment.’

‘Like I care.’

‘Jenny’s a very smart girl. She speaks Swedish.’

‘I don’t consider speaking Swedish ‘smart’, especially when you have lived and studied here for 4 years.’

‘Why do you pronounce the word like that? Jenny speaks better English.’

‘Well you can be with Jenny then. I don’t give a fuck. Malaysians have Manglish and Singaporeans have Singlish.’

‘She speaks like you when she’s with her friends. But she speaks perfect English with me.’

‘Well then she’s not being her true self with you, isn’t it? She’s more honest with her friends than with you. I speak to you exactly I speak to the rest of my friends. You go figure that one out.’

I can be a bitch when I need to be. But soon though, I was also a ghost in his life. Now my clothes sits in a black plastic bag somewhere downstairs in the basement, right next to Jenny’s. And together, we are the ghosts that will haunt the next girl. I’m smiling because I know that at least I have some amount of taste in fashion.

You can betray your upbringing by changing the accent you speak. But your clothes will never lie.

*
Sometimes the ghosts popped up at truly unexpected places. Like last Saturday at the party. Nothing is more frightening than a ghost in her wedding gown. Damn unlucky, if you ever have to look at a ghost in her wedding dress. It helped that her dress was ugly like Princess Diana’s OTT Cinderella-ish pom-pom sleeve dress. She smiled, one hand holding a bouquet of red and yellow African Daisies and the other hand resting on the groom.

I saw the ghost when Kitty took me on a tour of the summerhouse by the lake. Not allowing me a moment of peace, eh, I thought to myself. Actually I was quite shocked to see the ghost bride. She was dead 4 years ago, so she had no place in the house anymore. But there she was, standing pretty in her wedding dress, next to all the family’s wedding photos.

I did not sleep well that night. The whole house smelled foul with her presence presiding over it. I knew in my heart that I had no place there in the house if she lived there. She haunted me, even if she was just an empty memory sitting on wall. That is the scariest, isn’t it? Of all the ghosts you can ever find (in secret locations such as a box in the basement or a photo album) one that sits openly and proudly on the wall to remind you that she is there, watching you every day is of the worst kind.

‘Why are you so quiet?’ he asked, then giving me a little rub on my upper arms. We were walking around the small supermarket, searching for alcohol and extra booze to boost the party.

‘Nothing,’ I said, mucking about. ‘It’s cold.’ It was a blatant lie. I have not felt cold when I cranked up the thermostat to the max in each and every room. Often time, I have to take off my layers of clothes once I arrive in the shops because it’s too freaking hot indoors.

‘Hey you! How’s everything?’ the voice came and tapped him on his shoulders. It was a friend commonly shared by the ghost bride and him. Blonde and wrinkled eyed, I thought to myself. Don’t worry, I was not the only one rudely checking from head to toe. She looked at me too. It was moment like this that I thanked God for dressing up, even for short trips to the grocer’s. In total I met 3 friends they commonly shared on a 10 minute trip to fetch more alcohol.

Bloody photo, I thought to myself. Whenever I was alone, I found myself staring at her, nitpicking and interpreting every little expression on her face. Same hairstyle from 16 until 38 years, I thought to myself, noting how her hair was the very same as the photo I saw of her when she was only 16. I would hang myself if I had the same haircut for half my life. As it is, I morph myself on average twice a year – hair colour, cut and shape. It is a symbolic metamorphosis of who I am and what I am becoming, shading the dead layers of my old self, emerging brand new.

I faked tiredness and retreated to the bedroom (to sulk). Bloody ghost stared from across my bedroom door. It’s like she planned all of this years ago. Sitting there to haunt anyone who dared to walk into the house. The whole house smelled of her, her presence never left the place and her photo was there to remind everyone that she is alive and living in some dark corner of his mind.

I slept and got up only when there was some noise downstairs. I found myself in a situation, similar to what I experienced during Mid Summers a long time ago. A room full of friends shared by the ghost bride and him, ten thousand eyes staring and judging me. I imagined that they were comparing me to her and decided in their minds that she won. You can never win when they have been friends since childhood. (Biased, biased, biased!)

Again I found myself at the sink peeling potatoes. He spoke and I replied, never looking at him. My lungs felt starved of oxygen as each minute passed. It was the most silent 20 minutes of my life - standing there, thinking, smelling and breathing the ghost. ‘Are you ok?’ he asked.

I nodded, unable to say a single word. The whole world will crumble if I spoke. I knew it. I felt a little tear nesting at the corner of my eye. ‘Damn it. I hate peeling onions,’ I said, then wiping the tear away. 'It's not onions....' a voice said in the background. And there was silence when the pots, pans and plates did not make noise.

‘Can you please remove your wedding photo?’ I asked, in the calmest voice I could muster. I must have sounded like a mouse, afraid that the ghost bride would hear. ‘What?’ he said, straining to hear what I tried so hard not to utter.

‘Can you please,’ I said, then crumbling emotionally a little more. ‘Please remove your wedding photo.’ I looked away, sensing that I have been defeated by the ghost bride. The ghost bride must be happy now, I thought to myself.

‘Pardon, Love?’ he asked again, looking at me in the eye. The tears rolled down immediately. Don’t look at me. I will die if you did. My heart will waste away when you do. I took a deep breathe and said, ‘Please remove your wedding photo. I am disturbed by it. You can place it back on when I am not here.’

‘Of course, Love. Of course, I can. This is why you are quiet, isn’t it?’ he said, then washing his hands. Great, crying in public again, I scolded myself. I walked away and hid in the bathroom for a very long time. I looked at my eyes. Do you know the defeated have red and swollen eyes? I was defeated. I let her win. The ghost won.

The photo was gone by the time I opened the bathroom door. She no longer stared into my room and her presence no longer loomed over me. The whole room felt lighter and I found myself breathing for the first time since arriving 18 hours ago in my powder blue jacket and sexy black boots. But she was still there. She will always be there. That is what a ghost do – hang around, judge you harshly and make your life a misery.

I found myself seeking refuge in the bedroom an hour after dinner. They were speaking gibberish, as far as I am concerned. I don’t get it. Why invite someone to your party if you are not going to speak to her in a language that she understands? It’s the 2nd party when they went on and on in another language, when they knew I would not be able to participate. ‘Sorry, I don’t speak English’ doesn’t cut it for me. In my most generous self, I call it rude.

Then again, I guess this is expected. They will not be easily won seeing that they are friends with the ghost bride now ex-wife. Friends stick by friends, right? Even if the relationship is dead, you still mourn for your friend’s dead relationship, won’t you? You cannot replace your friend with someone new. It’s like betraying the memory.

So even if the dead is dead and the person is nothing more than a ghost in the past, you can count on the living to remind you of their presences. The ghosts will never let you go.

*
‘I’m sorry, Love. I did not know that the photo was there.’

No matter how many apologies you make, it does not go away. It never does. It was very symbolic, the fact that she was still there, hanging and happy. This would be an altogether different story if the photo tucked somewhere in an album or slipped between the pages of a book. But a dead wedding photo hanging next to living marriages is so great a sin, it will live on forever like the ghost.

*
Is your ghost dead?

The Evidence That The Party Exists And So Do I

noreply@blogger.com (Otto) — Tue, 26 Feb 2008 11:47:00 +0000

The view of the frozen lake

Bachelors forever!

Listening to Milly's story

Birthday Boy got into many panties wearing this.
Viva la the '80s!

Male Bonding

Altogether we drank 6 litres of assorted wine,
48 cans of beer, 1 bottle of champagne + 1 litre of vodka.
Who said we aren't cultured?

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The reason why we can't do this every weekend anymore