My Journal

Tracked since 30th July 2009

A while ago I wrote on how my neighbour and I graced a plugging event for a mutual friend's new Finance shop. It was your typical schmoozing cocktail reception, complete with free flow of strangers and bubbly. You have your typical hors d'œuvres and the typical avalanche of business cards. You witness the typical gaggle of gentlemen subtly one-upping one another over stretched compliments and self-deprecating achievement anecdotes. You observe the embarrassing bellows of the typical guest who falters after a drink too many. It was a typical networking evening where people typically eat, drink, divide, conquer and wrap the night with scheduled lunches for the next two months.

What I failed to write on was:

The entire evening was about to be marked with a gold star for "uninspiring event", until I was handed a little notebook by the little lady tending to the party's entrance.

"Door gift!" she chimes, spritely and rehearsed.

Ah. Just what I need. Another Moleskin. This will sit rather nicely with my little heap of corporate notebooks, post-its, pens and stand-up calendars. I squinted at my new notepad, perplexed by how anorexic it looks. It seems like the ills of the economy has rippled its way into every budget, slicing a 2007 door gift into three parts for 2009. I was not impressed. Whilst on break from laughing about everything and nothing with random people, I thumbed through the notebook, rather pleased at the texture of the creamy pages - well, until I realized there were scribblings on every single page.

The introduction scrawled "My Gift To You".

A long-drawn "hmmmmm" went through my head. I have been gifted a sickly book which I can't even doodle on.

Hmmm.

I gave the stuff a little read; an action which immediately altered my entire perception of the acquaintance who inspired this gift in lieu of run-of-the-mill crap. Clasped in my hand was a seemingly average piece of stationery. It is a simple collection of fifty pages, unassuming and quiet until you realize it is choked full of inscriptions which juxtaposes the frivolities of the corporate rat-race. It lent a glint of humanity and warmth to this acquaintance who I've oft-equated with anything but.

This little book was designed as a memory capsule for the most important thing in your life - Family. It is written from a child's perspective, filled with little questions your children would have wanted to ask you.


I'll reproduce the introduction in full:






"In life, we can leave our assets to our loved ones when we pass on. However, many of us do not leave sufficient information about our own lives for our children to remember us by.

My Gift To You, is a book from you to your child.

Use this book to write your unique life story, your journey as a parent to your child.

It is designed for you to capture some of life's most important memories, experiences and feelings which you want your children and family to remember.

When we were young, we always had questions about our parents. Some of these questions were never answered and as we lived through the years, always wondered what the answers would be.

By spending some time to answer the questions in this book, you will be able to answer some of the questions your child have about you but never asked.

We encourage you to add photos/images to personalize your book.

When you have finished answering the questions in the book, you will have a record of your life story that your child can treasure forever.

People say we all have at least one book in us, and this is your opportunity to leave your story for all to read about."

Trailing that are about fifty precious questions, one dictating every page.


"Can you tell me more about your best friends as a child?"
"What do you remember about your holidays as a child?"
"Do you remember my first words?"
"What other names did you thought of calling me?"
"What were the major events that happened in your lifetime?"
"Will you offer me some advice that will help my own life journey?"
"What would you like your epitaph to say?"
"Describe what you like about me?"
"What were your feelings when you found out that you were going to be a parent?"


It was such a great gift.

Should any of you have children hitting milestone ages (16, 18, 21, 40), do consider gifting memory capsules. Come up with your own questions. Make a scrapbook. Dig out archived newspapers of the day your child was born. Youtube birthing videos. Anything.

They make far better presents than and will outlast any material possessions; unless you're getting a Birkin (or male Birkin equivalent), of which we all know is the ultimate declaration of love.

'



than with a huge swig of microwaved coffee. Everyday, I hover around the radioactive device secretly hoping to be nuked into an X man, preferably one with superpowers in plumbling. My bathroom sink has been on strike recently, probably livid from my constant abuse of it with harsh facial chemicals. Everyday, I drain litres and litres of funky stuff down that little hole and now it's refusing to swallow any longer. My sink is starting to look like a masterpiece of an Installation Art, complete with bits of deconstructed Sheabutter echoing in its placid murk.





Thanks, microwave. I've always wanted big eyes, a tiny nose and cute little lips.

This closing Sunday of November marked a significant milestone in my humble, almost utterly lazy existence. It was an occasion of triumph - an unprecedented initiative on my part. I had, in the strangest voluntary way, stirred from my weekend slumber at an epic hour of 7am. Given fact that I was up till past 4am just mere hours ago wrangling with a certain technological marvel better known as a 'Blackberry', my early start this lovely morning came as quite an unexpected surprise. What better, I had actually capitalized on this phenomenon by clocking 5km on the treadmill in the barren, freezing gym and joined the girls for; dare I say it, Sunday Brunch.

Sunday Brunch and I. I wouldn't say we ever had a committed relationship. Sure, we've acknowledged each other with a flirtatious wink or two over the years, scheduling promises which we both know full well will be left empty in the dusty crevices of our memories.

Sunday Brunch. It is one of those theoretically perfect things which one must conquer in the course of life; alongside the requisite GCB, three cars, two nannies and a manicured lawn. If you're really lucky, you get a husband and maybe a good kid or two.

Sunday Brunch, the definition of a fulfilled week; the epitome of the dignified lifestyle. How dare one live without it; especially when you've watched Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte and Miranda do it for six years.

Sunday Brunch. You and I, we finally had our embrace this weekend. And it was uncharacteristically lovely. I wouldn't exactly pride myself as a morning person. Hell, I wouldn't even trust myself to be up pre-2pm on any given weekend. I have probably even missed a flight or two due to my uncompromising stance on sleep-in Sundays.

But this Sunday was oddly different. I was actually genuinely delighted to have made it for a dose of seared tuna salad at Relish with the girls. Perhaps it was the crisp late morning air wafting through the organic tranquility of Bukit Timah. Perhaps it was nostalgia enveloping the pristine city fringe. Perhaps it was the beauty of laughter - about travelling and silly boy tales. Perhaps it was the grace of friendship and uncontrived joy, magnified by the warm fuzzy glow of a pretty Sunday out. Or perhaps it was simply the intoxication of Da Paolo's chocolate banana fudge, a sludge which I promise must've dripped from heaven.

It was a perfect Stepford Sunday, spent in my perfect blue Sunday dress and my perfect nude Sunday wedges, with some perfect relaxed company.

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I have been feeding off an exercise obsession lately, running every single day. 5km. 6km. 7km. Circuit training. Skipping. Experimenting with resistance routines which I pretend to be an expert on but am pretty sure I'm making myself an ass at. It has been fabulous, daily two-hour workouts. I have since acquired two pecs which I hope will, by some magical intervention, mutate into six in 3 days. I have an urgent intention to not appear like a piece of lard on a surfboard next weekend. Am heading Down Under for a week of Summer surfing and I'm praying hard that the weather's not too cold and that I won't be mince pie for sharks. Active retreats rock. That, plus the gallons of wine I am adamant on inhaling whilst at Hunter Valley. If I had more money, I'd hit the ski slopes in Niseko too.




Pecs, I swear.


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There is a wedding plodding along and I have bought myself a fancy flower hair pin to compensate for the lack of diamond accessories. Just because I am not the bride doesn't mean I can't attempt to look awesome.





For SGD18, I'm rather happy with it.

... to be irrationally annoyed when no one compliments your brand new dress.

... to order your favourite takeaway, over and over and over.

... to be weirdly obsessed with miniature shampoos, fun-sized chocolate bars, mini mascaras etc.

... to have a "to hell with it" moment and leave your car in an inner-city car park overnight.

... to be outraged when a friend steals your Baby Name which you have claimed since you were 12.

... if you "forget" to reply to boring texts.



I adore Glamour Magazine. It provides for such a euphoric read while you're on the throne. By the way, my Baby Name is Emma. Don't let me catch you.

... you lady, cursing at your life
You're a discontented mother and a regimented wife
I've no doubt you dream about the things you'll never do
But, I wish someone had talked to me
Like I wanna talk to you...

Oh, I've been to Georgia and California and anywhere I could run
I took the hand of a preacher man and we made love in the sun
But I ran out of places and friendly faces because I had to be free
I've been to paradise but I've never been to me

Please lady, please lady, don't just walk away
'Cause I have this need to tell you why I'm all alone today
I can see so much of me living in your eyes
Won't you share a part of a weary heart that has lived million lies

Oh, I've been to Nice and the Isle of Greece while I've sipped champagne on a yacht
I've moved like Harlow in Monte Carlo and showed 'em what I've got
I've been undressed by Kings and I've seen some things that a woman ain't supposed to see
I've been to paradise, but I've never been to me

Sometimes I've been to crying for unborn children that might have made me complete
But I took the sweet life, I never knew I'd be bitter from the sweet
I've spent my life exploring the subtle whoring that costs too much to be free
Hey lady
I've been to paradise,
But I've never been to me

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So great to holler to this with VV, Victoria, Kimchi and Selamat; at the brink of Tuesday's twilight, between boutique delights and poignant stories of yesteryears.

"I don't recommend you watch Charlene on music video though. Have you seen her face. It spoils the song."

I just want to be normal.

And no,

Normal ≠ Average.