Monthly Archive for February, 2006

…the city better pay attention.

I have never protested in my life, except when we joined a peace rally in San Francisco some years back. Can you imagine? A Singaporean protesting?

Our democratic government panicked when they saw some white elephant cutouts in a particular part of Singapore, so of course that means organized protests are illegal. [Oh wait, they are illegal.]

Some of you already know that we are fighting an obnoxious and possibly deaf club owner who plays loud music every weekend.

We have done everything humanly possible to bring attention to this errant club, which, by the way, is breaking the law. There is a noise ordinance in the city, but no one enforces it.

We write letters, we call the cops (I have 911 on speed dial), and finally, we protest. Nothing like a photo op for the news-hungry media. Give them some old folks, a couple of kids and up the sob-story factor.

Still, exercising your rights doesn’t necessarily mean you get heard at City Hall. In that sense, every democratic buck does stop there. Does the city care? It doesn’t appear so.

In the end, there is nothing that beats media coverage (public shaming does move mountains), a connection to the Mayor, or an uncle who works in city politics. Cronyism moves democracy along. The only difference here is, I get to hold a sign on a public street without incident.

I can’t say I’m totally converted. I am nervous protesting, especially when a patrol car rolls by. I think, “Will they arrest me?”

You mean I actually have rights? So this is democracy, huh.

Funny, tastes like chicken.

I seem to be using this forum to air my pet peeves, but what the hell, this is my blog, right?

So for the record, and coming in at number 12, my pet peeve is elevator doors that close really s-l-o-w-l-y. Really. Slowly.

I step into the lift to get up to the office, and spy an older woman quite far away walking towards the lobby. I know she can’t make it unless she sprints, so I hit the “Close” button.

Unfortunately, the doors groan, but don’t close immediately.

She gets closer.

I’m still hitting the “Close” button, because she’s still far away enough, and not in what I consider the “courtesy zone” which would call for me to hold the doors for her.

She gets even closer. The doors are not moving.

By now, I’m torn between keeping the doors open or just trying to get them to close anyway. I frantically hit the “Close” button for the zillionth time.

For the love of Krispy Kreme, just close already!

Meanwhile, the doors don’t budge and I feel like I’m in a John Woo slow-motion action sequence called Dot, an Old Lady, and the Elevator Doors.

I am embarrassed to face her, so I turn away and pretend to shuffle through my purse, while my other hand furtively hits the “Close” button.

May day! May day! She has entered the courtesy zone. I need to hold the elevator doors open. Right?

The damn doors close.

How do you carry a 400-pound piece of concrete from the garage to an upstairs bathroom?

Invite three friends on the pretext of lunch, and then tell them they need to carry this monster up the stairs before they can eat.

Well, not exactly. (They showed up despite a peripheral reference to lunch.) Thanks to Benj, Dave and Mark, and a fair amount of muscle, grunting and swearing, it is done.

“The Project”, which has obsessed Jay and caused me much doubt for weeks, is halfway there. The shower base is finally in place.

Even if it did take several weekends of measuring, mould-building, concrete mixing and 45 minutes of four men in a tiny bathroom shoving, jumping and sledgehammering.

Jay’s projects are usually a leap of faith for me–only because they are so far removed from anything I’d ever done in my life.

I lived in a flat (and only one address) my whole life in Singapore, where everyone has a contractor mentality, as in “Get someone else to do it”.

I was never very spatial and couldn’t measure in three dimensions unless it was A-Levels all over again.

But Jay jumps into these projects like it’s an adventure every time and he truly is excited to see each one through.

I’ve learned quite a bit from Jay, not least of all the names of tools he’s always asking me to pass to him.

Phillips screwdriver, not the flathead! Ohhhhh…

You know that weird thing your body does when you are feeling something in your sleep and that feeling gets incorporated into a dream?

W-e-l-l. I think that happened to me last night.

I’ve been having tough nights sleeping (Jay too) because of some bug that’s making our noses stuffed and throats sore. I wake up hacking random bodily fluids out of my system.

In this dream, I had swallowed chewing gum and it was stuck right at the back of my throat, where I could feel it, but as much as I tried, I couldn’t cough it up. All this is happening while I’m at my job in a dentist’s office doing public relations. (WTF?)

Gawd. If that is what my mind thinks is a dream job, I’m in a lot of trouble.

Do not adjust your screen.

No, this photograph isn’t photoshopped. This Hello Kitty just happens to be TANNED.

Is there anything funnier than a tanned Hello Kitty?

I may be one year older, but I’m not any closer to giving up my obsession. Perhaps there’s a 12-step program for collectors like me, and I think they call that “Bankruptcy”.

Hello Kitty is as old as me (according to her creators, she was born on November 1, 1974), but she’ll probably stay perky for a lot longer.

On another note, I baked a cheesecake for my birthday. Yes, I know, I don’t really even eat cheese, but somehow cheesecake tricks my mind into thinking it’s pastry, not fromage.

Jay, however, loves cheesecake. So I guess it all worked out.

Jay gets me good practical gifts. He likes to say, “I’ll get you what you need, you get you what you want.”

I won’t say what he got me this year, but now I can weigh myself, suck dirt even better, and relax with a nice cuppa.

I got what I wanted.

Even if it was what I needed.