Monday Morning Greens

It's not exactly the blues, so I've assigned it a different colour.

Today is a big day, I told myself as I woke up this morning. You have to dress accordingly.

A spiffy white shirt
A black pencil skirt
Pearl Earrings; and
My Ferragamo shoes.

I put my best foot forward, only to discover that my heels are crumbling. With every step, the heels of my shoes disintegrate further and I walk through the office leaving a little black trail of shoe crumbs. The pantry lady will be mystified when she arrives this evening to do the vacuuming.

I've looked very carefully at the heel and it looks like it will make it through the client lunch scheduled in 1 hour's time. But by the time 4 pm rolls around for me to give a seminar, I will be down to just the nails sticking out of the heels. With any luck, these will embed themselves into the carpet at the seminar venue and I will literally be rooted to the spot.

Just checked my horoscope. It says today will be slightly fucked up. I think I know already.

On the Ingterneck, no one can hear you scream

The ceiling in my office has been dripping water for 2 weeks now. Workmen and building management have been contacted, secretary was supposed to follow up with them (again, for the 3rd time this year) on getting the thing repaired, like, permanently and not just 5 days or 5 hours at a time. Secretary came back from leave, looked up and said "Oh! It's still leaking!"
..................................
Have been chasing for payment of an invoice for a while. Client finally wrote back to say they never received the invoice. Before calling them on it, I checked with the secretary.

Was this invoice ever sent out?

No.

Why not?

There seems to be some confusion. The invoice appears to have been mistaken for something else.

Who was confused? Who was mistaken?

Us.

WHO the fuck IS US?
..................................
Client calls and leaves a message that they want to discuss an invoice. I grab the file and all their invoices, then call them back. Surely I'm ready for anything.

Client says: You've sent us the invoice of another client. Did you send our invoice to the other party too?

I asked the secretary (I think 'asked' is putting it very mildly): How did you manage to send the wrong invoice to the client?

Came the cryptic response: Don't know. Not sure how it happened. (Outlook is uncertain. Try again later).

I think I've gotten clearer responses from a magic 8-ball. Or reading tea leaves. Or looking at the veins throbbing on my forehead, for God's sake.
..................................
My favorite is still the library catalogue incident. I order the books for our library, hand them over. She's supposed to update the library catalogue which lists the books by subject matter, e.g. "Banking", "Company Law", etc.

I asked for a copy of the catalogue to send to a colleague. Checked it before sending. Asked her: Where are the new books? I don't see any mention in the catalogue.

It's not been updated. I'll update it.

Urgently please? I need to send it out.

Monday comes. She's on leave. I open my emails, see something sent to me on Saturday afternoon. So she came back to the office over the weekend to work on this. I felt a twinge of guilt. Then I scrolled through 30+ pages of a word document - nothing updated. Then I got to the last page where there was a new category of subject entitled "New Books". Everything was listed there, in no particular order. And believe me, I can confirm that it's really possible to laugh and weep at the same time.

I still miss the little bastard

It's almost exactly 2 years to the day that he died, and I still miss that dog. It's not so much his good deeds (of which there were few) that I still remember. It's the things that he used to do that made me want to kick his little butt into tomorrow.

Like how he used to leave a cold little pee puddle just under my bed, at the very spot that my foot will step when I'm getting into bed at night.

How he would lick my eyelid to wake me up in the morning so I can open the door to let him out (v. effective, btw).

How he will bite the hand that bathes him.

How he could be incredibly smelly and still want to cuddle.

How he would always lose his temper when we're playing blanket monster and then bite me really really hard.

Thanks for being my dog. I have loved having you in my life.

It's hard to be unpopular but someone has to do it.

It's incredibly difficult to become so deeply deeply reviled overnight and with so little effort but someone has actually managed to accomplish this feat. What an amazing achievement. I've heard of high-fliers, over-achievers and overnight sensations but achieving this kind of publicity in such a short time is truly worthy of praise.

It's like she just reached inside and ripped our collective guts out, then waved it in our faces. See? These are your guts. See? Now I'm throwing them on the floor and stomping on them.

How do you keep a nation of citizens compliant and non-critical? How do you keep them on the side of the Government? BY KEEPING SHIT LIKE THIS OUT OF OUR FACES, THANK YOU VERY MUCH. It's easy to believe that our MPs really care about the common good if we don't hear otherwise. It's not so easy when some 18-year old kid starts parroting condescending nonsense like this. How about we just NOT have any news? Just insert more advertisements. Or just say "Sorry - what she said was wrong" - even if you don't mean it? Give us half a reason to continue to suspend our disbelief.

I'm happy to say that it's still a few more years yet before the next election. Given that I have enough to occupy my mind from now till then, I'll have had time to forget this sordid little incident as well as the fact that my God Damn electricity bill is higher now than it's ever been even though we use less airconditioning now than we ever have.

Local Girl Distracts Herself with Lemongrass

The Sunday papers are always a challenge. Given the vast resources of time I find myself saddled with on Sundays, it's always difficult to avoid reading the Sunday Times in its entirety, sometimes twice. How am I to read the articles in a non-critical way? How do I avoid rolling my eyes the entire time?

The solution was always out there for me to discover. Use lemongrass.

Had a photo shoot yesterday at Fort Canning. Managed to get the time horribly wrong, so I woke up at the crack of dawn and rushed out for the shoot in my pajamas (Pokemon tee-shirt, shorts) only to find myself alone and 1.5 hours too early for the shoot. I tried walking around the grounds and taking artistic shots with the tripod and the 2 lenses I brought, but all that I got for the trouble was artistically positioned mosquito bites. I was getting eaten alive out there. At any moment, there was at least 1 mosquito perched on my bare leg. I killed 3 in the space of 5 minutes and I was still getting bitten everywhere.

By the time the photo class teacher arrived, I was almost in tears. Do you have any mosquito repellant? I forgot to bring. My legs are a bloody mess.

Use lemongrass, he said. Rub on your leg. It will help. (You would think it hurt him to speak). What he meant was, go steal some lemongrass from the spice garden, try not to get caught, then smash it up with your bare hands and rub the lemongrass juice over your bare skin in the vague hope that the blood orgy will stop.

And that's exactly what I did. Disgusting. I actually got some garden soil on my hands. And having misread the signs in the spice garden, I actually plucked some regular grass by mistake. Thank God for my lemongrass-scented shower creme otherwise I wouldn't have realised the error.

Anyway, the stuff is pretty amazing. Not only did the mosquitoes stop biting, but the existing bites didn't even itch anymore. There's still some swelling, but I could be rolling on the ground like a rabid monkey clawing at my legs if it wasn't for the grimy little rub-down with the lemongrass.

Ok? asked the teacher, halfway through the lesson.

Yeah. Ok. I said.

Came back completely exhausted, skimmed through the main part of the Sunday Times and am delighted to confirm that I can't remember a thing that I read.

I'll make you pay for this!

I've never been a strong supporter of making the guy pay for everything on a date. However, during a window period of 6 months in 1997, I went through a massive dating spree and mentioned to a friend that it was seriously impacting my continued status as a non-bankrupt. Why? she asked. Well, I keep paying for the dinners and the lunches, particularly if I don't fancy the guy.

Why do you pay if you don't fancy the guy?

Duh. So I won't feel obliged to go out with him again, just because he sponsored my last meal!

You idiot! Let me teach you, she said. You will learn to get the guy to pay for your meal. It's not difficult, you know.

So she brought me out on a date. Like it was HER date with a guy she was seeing non-exclusively - I just tagged along. Good looking, rich, very charming, super bad boy reputation (although I wonder if she spiced that bit up to incentivise me).

Anyway, she's right. It's not difficult.

1. You let the guy pick the restaurant. Of course you can veto all his choices until he picks a restaurant you like - duh!

2. You let the guy do the ordering. At most fancy restaurants, the waiter is going to take the orders from him anyway. You tell the guy what you want to eat before the waiter arrives and let him take it from there.

3. When the waiter asks about the winelist, you tell the guy to decide.

4. The clincher is the crucial 5 seconds when the bill is arriving. Note - arriving, not arrives. The waiter comes wandering over with the bill, right. You look ahead, or if you're talking, you pause and look at the waiter, but YOU DO NOT MAKE A SINGLE MOVE. No diving for your handbag. No patting of your pocketses. Drink water if you need to overcome the urge (at this point during my tutorial, I had already reached behind for my handbag but my friend The Teacher grabbed my hand under the table and crushed it. Then she kicked me.) The point is to remain calm.

5. After the guy has put cash or credit card into the bill folder and the waiter has taken the bill away, then you look squarely at the guy and smile. Thanks for the dinner. Then, just ever so casually, you say "How much should I pay you for my portion?" Whatever you do, do NOT mentally calculate your portion and then hand over a fistful of cash then tell him to keep the change. Because there's an even chance that he probably will do exactly that.

Asking "How much should I pay you for my portion?" is an interesting question because the guy can't do the sums in his head mentally - he's got to subtract his portion from the total, then factor in 10% service, 5% GST and 3% CESS. Plus he'll look like a stingy bastard. No man will do this. No man.

The Language of Love

I don't know how often a guy will ask himself "Is this woman in love with me?" but I had the occasion to comment on a few similar issues in the last coupla days. How do you know a woman is in love with you, meaning you, the man himself stripped bare without the wallet, the plummy job, the great car and the lovely apartment with attached jacuzzi?

This is my 2 cents on what wimmen say, and what wimmen mean.

"You are SOOOOO BIG"
Means: You have a large penis. I love your penis. You just happen to be attached to it, so I'll take the good with the bad. If modern science made it possible for the good to survive without the bad, then my relationship with your penis will evolve to a new level, and your relationship with your penis will come to an end.

"Can I come over to your house and sayang you" (at 3 am a few days after the first 2 dates)
Means: I have completed my investigations and have concluded that you are financially secure. I want to move in with you in about a week's time - please make space in your cupboards for all my stuff. Maybe this weekend we can get married.

"I loves you" (after a hot and heavy, but brief, relationship)
Means: I have checks your wallet and I loves you.

"You have a great car"
Means: You have a great car.

"Can you give me your business class ticket in exchange for my economy class ticket, then pay for my shopping trip in New York?"
Means:
Last one to the cash register is a selfish bastard!
What's mine is mine, and what's yours is ours.
I've found a rich guy and would like to quit my job now, thanks.
The blow job I gave you last night will cost you far more than you will ever imagine.
I'm going to show you how to make 2 years' salary last a lifetime. See that 15-carat diamond over there?

Remaining Staunchly Apathetic

It's harder and harder to keep myself politically apathetic and neutral. Have stopped scrutinising the newspapers too closely and I watch the news only when doing a few other things at the same time. It really helps. The other way is to become stupid - sorry can't help with that.

Let's talk about makeup makeovers instead! Managed to successfully convince myself the other day that I was rich whilst standing at the Shiseido counter at Robinsons City Hall and whilst I was in a bit of a pinch. Client cocktail starting in 1 hour, just finished a meeting where I was out of the office without even a lipstick. Imagine that. It's like leaving the office without my wallet or mobile phone, only far far worse. OK, being stuck in Jakarta without any underpants but with 5 coloured wooden blocks in my suitcase would've been far far worse, but I digress.

I approached the makeup counter lady and told her about the predicament. Out of office without makeup, rush hour, need a full makeover on an emergency basis. Her eyes went flat - I could see her thinking - "not another leech trying to get a free makeover". Then I said the magic words: "I NEED TO BUY A FULL SET OF MAKEUP AND I ONLY HAVE 20 MINUTES".

Suddenly it was like Christmas and her birthday all rolled into one. I've never seen a fat woman move so fast. It was like a watching a headless chicken video in fast forward. She pulled together pre-makeup primer, foundation, blusher, lipstick and lipgloss, fast-tracked the payment procedure then opened everything and did a full makeover on me, including removal of existing makeup. Then there was the orgy of free samples and even a full-size faux gold lame leather bag as a free gift.

I can't possibly fit that into my briefcase, I said. She packed up all the samples and boxes, folded the bag like it was origami and actually managed to stuff it all in. I swear I am still finding stuff in the crevices of my briefcase.

With excitement like this readily available just about anywhere, why would anyone wish to oppose the Government?

The Ten Commandments of Smoot

Have been working on a memo for the entire day and need a 10 minute breather. These are compiled from the collective experience of me and a bunch of other fussy women pursuant to a blood oath of secrecy, so it's no use asking me for names.

THOU SHALT NOT:

1. Get all sweaty and eager when I tell you that my girlfriend and I are lesbian lovers just so as to avoid giving you our phone numbers

2. Hawk a spit into my mouth and then dive in after it. Antonio Banderas may have looked cute doing that, but that could just mean that Angelina Jolie has no gag reflex

3. Send me flowers and then not call or write after I confirm receipt with thanks.

4. Wear your jeans slung lower than mine. If I wanted to date Marky Mark, then I'd have returned his calls.

5. Ask the waiter for "Skyjuice" when you know perfectly well that he won't understand

6. Put a condiment into your mouth and then spit it back into the bowl (of condiments)

7. Shake my hand and then tell me you are a proctologist

8. Offer my girlfriend $100 for ten minutes with me (although if it had been the other way, I'd have taken the cash and left her)

9. Storm over to my house and kidnap my dog just because we had a fight

10. Tell me it's not your ex-wife at the next table when we all know perfectly well it is, and then ask me when we are leaving to hold your hand and wave hi to her.

With a toddler, you pack twice

My bag is packed and I've even remembered to bring my lip pencil, Post-Its, namecards and notebook. My level of preparation this time round is rather magnificent.

I even checked my luggage again after I had packed it this morning, which was a good thing as The Son had taken out all my underpants and replaced them with wooden blocks. Sweet.

Oh yeah. Their physical characteristics.

Sorry Val. Forgot about that little detail. And here I was thinking that you'd be happy so long as they didn't have tattoos.

Weight
62kg; 65 kg; 67kg.

Height
Ranges from 1 head taller than me to a neck and a head taller than me. I'm 1.575 metres tall and failed my SQ height test by 0.5 cm. Coz it's all about me, you know.

Hair
Ranges from black to brown/black, all have similar hairstyle. It's called the "Out of the Army, but Still Like Short Hair" style. No ponytails. On the other end of the scale, none of the hair is receding or thinning. But then again, please consider my viewing perspective and the fact that I have to stand on a chair to really be sure (coz it's all about me, you know.)

Ass
Small. No fat. Muscle tone varies. Makes a loud smacking noise when you hit it. Good squeeze.

Side Fat/ Man-Breasts
Minimal. I prefer more fat on the side myself. Thank God there are no man-breasts.

Do they floss?
Yes, but not daily though.

Do they have cars?
Yes for God's sake. He who walks, walks alone. The model of the car varies. There's a red car, a grey car and a ... red car.

Sperm viable?
Yes. Tastes like honeydew melon. At least that's what they tell me.

For Val

ONE Bachelor, all alone
Calls TWO Bachelors, on the phone
THREE Bachelors at the door
Bring along another FOUR ....
...........................................
I think there's a limit to how many times one can read "Hippos" and "Goodnight Moon" before you can recite it in your sleep. I can now recite these 2 books to The Son without even opening them, not really a skill that I can be proud of, but I'm amazed that he can also give as good as he takes. We were out of the house and away from the book one day and I had just finished reciting "Hippos" to him ("THREE Hippos say Good Day! The last TWO Hippos go their way...") when he said "Wagon". There's a bright red wagon on that page in the book. He can visualise the pages! Oh my little future Harvard scholar!

Anyway, I have currently in stock THREE Eligible Bachelors. All are men of substantial and independent means, reasonably good looking and looking for A Good Woman with a view to a long-term relationship. Short-term tenants need not apply.

Frequently Asked Questions

1. Would I date them myself?
Yeah.

2. Are they weird? Why did I mention them?
Because they're really great, just unable to find the right girl.

3. Why are they unable to find the right girl?
Because they're fussy as all hell.

4. Why are they fussy as all hell? Are they Brad Pitt?
No, Brad's married, dumbass.

5. Do they look nice? Are they divorced? Do they have children?
Yes, they look nice. You can bring them home and your parents will not run screaming from the room. Never married. No kids. No tattoos.

6. Do you expect me, a young lady with no shortage of admirers, to actually write a comment on your public blog asking to meet them? Do I come across as desperate to you?
Of course not. Don't comment nair mind lor. I have good stock - someone will snap it up.

7. Is that me you are talking about?
Yes.

Our Worlds Collide! Again!

Ran into the classroom 10 minutes late for the Photoshop class and I really thought that door had a little bit more give to it. So basically I fell into the Photoshop class. And came face to face with the poor man I had interrogated during my Basic class. One of the teachers from the Basic Photography class is the Photoshop class teacher. Oh shit.

I am constantly reminded, and reminding myself, during each and every one of these classes that THERE IS A REASON WHY THESE PEOPLE ARE PHOTOGRAPHERS. Besides their natural talent, I mean. They are not great orators. They talk like ... ... ... for want of a better term, an engineer trained in accounting.

Everything is stated matter of factly, calmly, politely. Fine. But there's this flow that they have. Like everything that has to be said, will be said. Eventually. I'll get to the point sometime this century, and if you'd just be a little bit patient and stop interrupting me, missy, I'll get to it before America's Next Top Model starts at 10 pm. Don't worry, you'll only miss the first 10 minutes.

I remember this teacher well because he started off with the spiel about how in the good ole days when we had the film cameras, we used to yadda yadda yadda. It's all well and fine (and actually quite relevant) when we're discussing camera parts in the Basic class. But it does start to come off a little bit off the cuff, doncha think, if we're in THE PHOTOSHOP CLASS. He also showed us his beautiful to die for shots of wild flowers and grass in his "Painting with Photography" series, which always sets off the inevitable stream of questions from the uninitiated, together with his stream of engineer-accountant-cryptic responses.

How did you do that? What kind of lighting did you use and where did you put it?

I used a small torchlight. (at this point, he takes out a little penlight and shines it at us)

Where did you put the torchlight and how did you achieve all-round lighting like that and did you use a tripod what is the shutterspeed and lens aperture?

You shine the torchlight behind the leaf.

At this point, I sent a text message ("Somebody kill me now") to The Husband.

I previously asked him about 20 similar questions before I got the answer: It puts the wildflowers in the basket (or it gets the hose, ha ha ha) then it sets the camera on 60 seconds exposure, F22, tripod, ISO 100 and then puts out the light and cavorts around the room in a black tee shirt shining the torchlight on the wildflower until every aspect of the flower is picked up by the camera. Try not to cavort too quickly or the wildflower moves with the air and the image is blurred. And don't shine the light on yourself, dumbass.

It took almost 10 minutes of questions to elicit that information after which everyone looked slightly fidgety/ bored and my face was all red.

After tonight's lecture drew painfully to a close (it was like moving underwater), he said "Any questions" and my hand flew up. What the heck. We only live once. I might as well ask him all my stupid questions now. So I asked my one single most important burning question, which has plagued me for the entire year I've been taking classes and which nobody has been able to give me a satisfactory answer. And then I made him sit with me at my laptop and show me all the commands and functions, until I GOT IT RIGHT. Damn straight. Now I just need to practise and I'll be fucking unstoppable.

Stage 3 Of My Obsession

Photoshop classes start tonight. I'll have to miss the 2nd episode of So You Think You Can Dance, but hey well we all need to make sacrifices in life.

If I complete this lot of Photoshop classes and my photos are still not up to the intended standard, then you will probably be able to hear me screaming from Mars. Because I will be super pissed off, mostly at myself. And the husband. I'm sure I'll be able to find a way to blame the husband. I've already blamed him for the haze. And the inexplicable loss of my Almost Berry Clinique lipstick (only slightly used! now gone forever!)

In other news, The Son is now a frequent sufferer of Train-Drop-On-Foot disease. Symptoms include broken or chipped Thomas the Trains, angry crying small people and lots of little fat feet that need to be kissed better. I'm told that he should get better as he gets older, but we'll see. There's no known cure for Train-Drop-On-Foot, but we remain optimistic.

The Maternal Grandma has finally, after only 2 months, finished teaching The Son how to step across the drain at the Temporary Chinatown Market. Last Sunday he finally crossed the drain by himself without first stepping into it. Why she wants to teach him something so completely useless, I'd like to know. But there it is. What can I do about it.

Yeah. My life's been a little mundane these past coupla days. But it's pleasant. I even joined the teeming crowds at Vivocity last Saturday which pretty much confirms that I've become truly Singaporean.

Oh yes, and the classmate of mine who told me that another classmate of mine had a small defect in her foot is completely full of crap. I've been glancing at her feet now for 3 + years every time we meet and finally saw her recently in open toed shoes which confirm otherwise. No defect, small or otherwise. Some people have some explaining to do!

CALISTA FLOCKHART WEIGHS LESS THAN ME!

Just found out last evening. Granted that she looks like a reanimated stack of firewood but still, it's a whole 10 kg we're talking about here. What do you have to do in order to be a grown woman weighing 35 kg?

Some of my stuff (a non-emotive name for the fat) can be written off as PPF (post-pregnancy fat), but still. My nickname in Primary School was Olive for God's sake (It's that skinny woman who was dating Popeye). I was 25 kg for a decade at least, and then 35 kg for another decade. My mother didn't seem to notice but the school nurses would always make a note in the file about my weight (probably "Ditto", against last year's weight).

Have thought about it at some length and I think it's all about the food. There's not much fantastic food you can get your hands on with pocket money and some extra fees from being a tutor on the side. But give me a monthly salary and a couple of years worth of "client lunches" and I'm a big fat pig.

The thing I say most often to the husband now when we are dining together would be "Can I have that fat?" (the stuff he left on the side of the plate after clearing his ribeye steak) or "Where's my fat?" (I ordered my own ribeye at Morten's and couldn't find the fat streaks). A few more years of all this and we will start to look like Jack Sprat and his wife. I used to think badly of her but now I empathize. That fat really tastes good.

Just had a rather lovely lunch at an Italian restaurant with a friend who asked me not to mention this in the blog, so I won't. Here's me not mentioning. Ok ok I'll zip it.

Ageing Disgracefully

A male colleague I was chatting with yesterday (let's call him Dead Man Walking) mentioned in passing that I did not look like my photograph in the firm's website.

There was a notable pause after which blood started streaming out of my ears. I think my voice got so shrill in response that it went out of human hearing range, and only teenagers and dogs could hear me screaming.

I think he tried to explain and then gave up. No explaining necessary (or acceptable). Yes, I'm older now. I just have to accept it.

Youth is wasted on the young. I spent all of my 20s alternately worrying about my appearance and fretting about looking old. I never stopped to appreciate my face in the mirror, never looked at my lovely flat tummy and thin legs with any sense of satisfaction and self-fulfilment. I obsessed over my diet, my weight, my muscle tone, my skin tone, my hair .... but never spent more than fleeting moments actually thinking that I looked pretty damn cute. And that the low slung skin tight Levis jeans in my wardrobe would not fit me anymore in a few years time.

I read Sumiko Tan's article in the paper (of a similar sounding title, I recall) about ageing but it didn't really hit home until my colleague's remark. I can truly understand now how women can bring themselves to spend thousands of dollars and time and effort making themselves slimmer, prettier and more youthful looking. Now that I've been put on notice, it's all I can do to stop myself from jumping into the fray.

Someone once told me that I still looked incredibly youthful, as I jumped into his new Porsche. Who knows why people say the things they say.

Do I fight the inevitable or do I just resign myself to it. I recall my mother would get wolf whistles on the street from construction workers when she was in her late thirties and forties. At 13, I was fully aware that the wolf whistles were not meant for me, or my 10 year old brother.

Oh well. Glum now. Going home.

Ageing Disgracefully

A male colleague I was chatting with yesterday (let's call him Dead Man Walking) mentioned in passing that I did not look like my photograph in the firm's website.

There was a notable pause after which blood started streaming out of my ears. I think my voice got so shrill in response that it went out of human hearing range, and only teenagers and dogs could hear me screaming.

I think he tried to explain and then gave up. No explaining necessary (or acceptable). Yes, I'm older now. I just have to accept it.

Youth is wasted on the young. I spent all of my 20s alternately worrying about my appearance and fretting about looking old. I never stopped to appreciate my face in the mirror, never looked at my lovely flat tummy and thin legs with any sense of satisfaction and self-fulfilment. I obsessed over my diet, my weight, my muscle tone, my skin tone, my hair .... but never spent more than fleeting moments actually thinking that I looked pretty damn cute. And that the low slung skin tight Levis jeans in my wardrobe would not fit me anymore in a few years time.

I read Sumiko Tan's article in the paper (of a similar sounding title, I recall) about ageing but it didn't really hit home until my colleague's remark. I can truly understand now how women can bring themselves to spend thousands of dollars and time and effort making themselves slimmer, prettier and more youthful looking. Now that I've been put on notice, it's all I can do to stop myself from jumping into the fray.

Someone once told me that I still looked incredibly youthful, as I jumped into his new Porsche. Who knows why people say the things they say.

Do I fight the inevitable or do I just resign myself to it. I recall my mother would get wolf whistles on the street from construction workers when she was in her late thirties and forties. At 13, I was fully aware that the wolf whistles were not meant for me, or my 10 year old brother.

Oh well. Glum now. Going home.

Whute Ben

Just got booted out of a seminar I was supposed to be attending this morning. Apparantly I fergot ta confirmed my attendances. Gawdammit.

Gone are the days when you could just read an email reminder to attend a seminar. Now there are all sorts of challenging requirements, like you hafta open the email, click on the linkages there and scroll down the webpage that opens until ya see a confirmation button and click on that. Maybe that's a built-in device to eliminate the stupid - if ya can't follow these instructions, then you shouldn't be here. That way the speaker won't have to dumb down the presentation, just fer the likes of me.

In other news, The Son has come up with a dazzling array of gibberish for us to decipher. Let's see, there's the blacklisted words, which we try to discourage him from saying:

1. Bitch (bridge)
2. Cock (clock)
3. Shit (sit)
4. Fuck (frog)

I'm not making this up. The blacklist is seriously a problem. He particularly enjoys screaming these words in taxicabs. To alleviate the problem, I try to avoid the taxicabs with the frogs in them.

There's the whitelisted words which we are still trying to get him to say correctly:

1. Whute ben (white van)
2. Boo Ka (blue car)
3. Back Ka (black car)
4. [hhmmmmm] (copper sulphate)
5. [hhmmmmm] (pursuant to section 7 of the Companies Act)
6. [hhmmmmm] (I have a Rhodes Scholarship)

Not much headway on the whitelist either.