I sued someone in Small Claims Court and got countersued.
Dude.
It’s a long story (Do you really want to hear it?) but our long fight with the noisy club in our neighborhood culminated in a group of us bringing the owner to Small Claims. Jay and I got dressed for our first court appearance – Coat and Tie, people – and when we stopped by his office on the way to court, Dave said, “Oh-oh. This looks like an episode of Law & Order.”
He was right there. We looked the part, but the American Legal System was nothing like my favorite show.
A one-hour TV show (with ads) sure cuts out all the waiting and sitting around that takes place in court.
Stay tuned for the proceedings and the verdict. You don’t want to miss this.
For those of you wondering what the previous cryptic posting was about, here are your answers.
(1) No, Jay, I did not purchase the Hello Kitty dolls dressed as a wedding couple. The image was simply used to illustrate a point.
(2) Yes, Jay and I both forgot our wedding anniversary. (It is our second.)
(3) Yes, we still love each other very much.
(4) And no, we will not forget next year.
Jay.
It appears I forgot. (Horrors!) So did you.
Since we are apart, I have appropriately lavished on myself by purchasing random, and very possibly unnecessary, items that may, or may not, resemble a fat-faced cat.
Please do the same for yourself.
Although in your case, I suspect that a random, unnecessary, and cat-like purchase means a lamborghini.
This Singapore specimen is whiter, cleaner and equipped with spiffier wheels, but I still love my Beetle. I miss you!
Read this and weep. 19 to 107.
World Number 2 netball team Australia plays Singapore (rank unknown) in the Commonwealth Games and this is the result. Ouch.
I love netball, and despite Jay’s disbelief, used to play it competitively. A long time ago. I remember when my teammates and I first saw our national players in action. They were so good in my 16-year-old eyes then.
Our coach later played a video (yes, I’m dating myself by saying VCR) of the world’s top team then (the Aussies, now overtaken by the Kiwis), and we were amazed at how much better they were.
The standard was progressively better the further we got from Singapore.
Are we only as good as the people we compare ourselves to? What does it mean to be best in Singapore? Does that title even have any cachet these days?
If smaller-sized nations like ours are cursed to sporting failure, I wonder how Singapore Airlines keeps its top dog position. Is it the Singapore Girl’s sarong kebaya? Her personality? Her zest for service?
Here’s an idea: We send the Singapore Girl to every international event – Olympics, film festivals, design competitions…EVERYTHING.
Let her smile her way to victory.
Is there anything more beautiful? (Far right column, people.)
Watching the Commonwealth Games at the food court.
All things pink and Hello Kitty: Another reason Asia rules!
Only in Singapore.
The Queen – yes, the Queen of England, Mother of Charles, Grandmother of hottie William – was in Singapore and one of these Range Rovers as she made her way to the National Library under heavy guard. Alternatively, these could have been decoys and she was actually on the MRT, chilling with the Lees.
How many adults does it take to feed two little ones? Three. One for each mouth and a third to put the Finding Nemo DVD on and get out of the way.
Golden Dragon Beard Candy auntie was speaking too fast in Mandarin for me to totally understand her, but I think she said you had to dance while you made the candy (she was really sashaying) because life is too short to be grouchy. Amen to that.
You know your Mandarin’s in trouble when the Auntie who sells fried mifen in your neighborhood hawker center asks you where you are from. Right after you try to order in Chinese.
Here! I’m from here!
What do you mean where I’m from?
Was my language so mangled? I was enunciating, darn it, enunciating!
On another note, may I please enter as Exhibit #98, Pet Peeve Supremo: White guys who show up at a table full of Chinese-looking Singaporeans and proceed to speak in Mandarin. Fine, I get it. You speak Chinese. Whoopee Doo. Now, if you had only not assumed, we would have gladly told you that aside from the one person who works in Beijing and speaks flawless Mandarin, there was a Peranakan Chinese (who speaks Malay), another an inept D7-grade RGS girl [C'est moi], and a table full of Chinese who speak English. As a first language. Like you, White Man.
You should have guessed as much when I tried (and failed) to understand your introduction. I still don’t know your name.
Hot diggity Dot! I am melting.
There are several advantages to living in Singapore, and the weather is not one of them. I am a wobbling mass of sweaty pores and sticky skin the moment I step off the plane.
I am conflicted about that state of being.
Sweat is good; sweat is bad. On the one hand, healthy people sweat, it’s natural. On the other, I’m not so sure the dark patches on my T-shirt look sexy.
Fabulous-looking women in their suits (yes, suits!) stride confidently past me in heels and perfectly made-up faces. They don’t look sweaty.
I have no make-up. I am not in a suit. My birkenstocks are no heels. My T-shirt sticks to my body like cheap velcro.
I do not look fabulous.
The sweat glands are losing their touch. The wimps!
Jay used to have two observations about the heat. The unbearable outdoor humidity was invariably replaced by arctic temperatures indoors. Just who controls air-conditioning in Singapore? It’s a conspiracy, I say. Led by evil forces hell-bent on freezing our brain cells into political apathy.
He also marveled at how terribly I handled the Singapore weather. “Weren’t you born in the tropics?” he’d ask.
“Yeees,” I’d say.
Although in my defence, I only remember sharing the island with 2.5 million other people.
When your television viewing choices are controlled by a two-year-old and his older brother, there is a high chance you will end up watching Madagascar twice. In a day.
I understand I am lucky. Apparently the grandparents and parents have endured Finding Nemo daily since it came out on DVD. Don’t even bother to multiply that. Trust me, it’s a lot.
However, when you’re less than three feet tall and as adorable as this pair of rugrats, you naturally get your way.
Which brings me to the unfortunate side-effect of Madagascar watching.
THAT song.
That song that the lemmings dance to. That song that goes, “I like to move it, move it…” on an endless loop.
I was humming the tune and feeling the urge to move something by dinnertime, preferably the DVD player. Out the window.
I didn’t get to move it, move it.
Is a photo of a camera’s photo of a camera a photo?
I used my trusty old Pentax first-generation 3-megapixel, “takes 10 seconds to turn on” digital camera to take a picture of my sexy new Canon large-LCD display, 7-megapixel, “turns on in half a second” camera that took a picture of my original old-school camera. You know I still love you, Pentax.
Thanks, dad, for my new toy.
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