Hi Sze Hwa! *wave*
How's Singapore treating you?
And KPChua! Stop lurking!
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Snobbery at its best
It's official, I'm a snob.
The categories of local inferiority to which I turn up my nose spread wide and far, but then a snob is not one to spare much, is she?
For starters, I find myself wrinkling my nose at the clothes on passerbys' backs as they walk pass me in malls. Not that I have a reaction so adversed I am beyond civil to someone who's garbed in what I sometimes cannot believe to have passed as clothing -- and I must clarify I don't entirely write someone off based on first impression, although I have no qualms either saying first impressions play a part in perception -- but seriously, the shabby finishing of some fabrics, and more horifically, the prints they come in, are just painful to my eye. Marry that to the (lack of) production quality, and -- hey presto! -- it's aesthetic vomit at its best. As if the actual style of the garment is not already an insult to taste itself.
But don't mind my shallow wallowings. That is only second to enduring: "just dial 5672-aye aye nai nai today!" repeatedly on the radio. I would cite more examples, but I'm not in the mood for more self-infliction.
It was funny, I guess, the first time someone (I won't say who) needed to get her "so-syor-lor-gee" textbook. I said: "WHAT?" not because I being a snob; I didn't understand what it was for the first three seconds to turn my nose up to it. On the fourth second, I had tears in my eyes from a combination of realization and disbelief. And while I am resigned to going to "res-tor-ren" for dinners the remainder of my stay, I don't know how long I can keep my distaste in check before I get hit for being too disdainful. Go the lahs all the way; I have nothing against local flavour, but I think there shouldn't be room for pronounciation to be tampered with. Especially pronounciation that makes you sound stupid.
Now I don't mean to be deliberately belittling, say what you will, but with some types of local produce there is just no comprison to its imported varieties, and that's that. I think I was almost clobbered the other day when I took a sip out of a boxdrink of Milo and went instictively: "Yuk!"
How is it my fault if the milk here is sour, and the coffee, oh god, the coffee. Now that is the matter that started it all.
I can appreciate that some things are simply better coming from some places rather than others. Like I don't expect local milk to be creamy and rich, I don't expect local coffee to match the standard of its other bolder, more aromatic counterparts. Being able to differentiate quality is having the skill of discernment, not thinking I am too good for something lesser. If what I need is something better, then I get it from where it is available.
My problem, then, is having to spend ten dollars every single day at commercialised American coffee chains, on something which should but isn't the way it's meant to be. Now I haven't written off local joints without first giving (way too) many a chance, but I think I have wasted enough expectation and suffering on them, so I moved on to (what should be) the trusty coffee chains. A girl can only put in that much effort, and endure so much lactose-intolerance, before going totally mental.
For the life of me, I am already paying you ten bloody dollars, and I don't begrudge you that, but I want a strong soy latte without the foam, is that so terribly impossible? It isn't such a tall order that you cannot give me soy milk -- not sugared soy, good grief! And frothed, not poured straight in for the love of mankind (only the local stores, thank God)! -- and be generous with the coffee. But my gripe only just begins.
The response is always, always the same: "Extra shot?"
"No. Just draw the coffee longer."
"Uh..."
"Let the coffee drip for longer, so if you usually fill it up to here, now let it fill up to here."
I don't know if the worser crime is that some places simply refuse to comply, or that the shots are already sitting there, made ready and waiting before prehistoric times and cold as the should-be-corpse who made it, and waiting to be tipped into my coffee cup.
It is pure adulteration of coffee making, I swear.
My patience for stupid things is close to none, and I have no desire to want to inculcate it, either. Don't tell me the suffering is good for you what doesn't kill you only makes you stronger crap. I have a brain, and I use it to separate common sense from plain stupidity, so I have no desire to tolerate monkeys acting as barristas.
My patience runs thinnest when they want to charge me for that second shot which didn't even come from a fresh draw. If each shot had its dedicated lot of ground, at least I can appreciate why, but take two lots out of the the one and try to double charge me for it, and you have it coming.
Ugh. My snobbery is really just an adherence to some level of standard, clearly of which these fools have none.
The categories of local inferiority to which I turn up my nose spread wide and far, but then a snob is not one to spare much, is she?
For starters, I find myself wrinkling my nose at the clothes on passerbys' backs as they walk pass me in malls. Not that I have a reaction so adversed I am beyond civil to someone who's garbed in what I sometimes cannot believe to have passed as clothing -- and I must clarify I don't entirely write someone off based on first impression, although I have no qualms either saying first impressions play a part in perception -- but seriously, the shabby finishing of some fabrics, and more horifically, the prints they come in, are just painful to my eye. Marry that to the (lack of) production quality, and -- hey presto! -- it's aesthetic vomit at its best. As if the actual style of the garment is not already an insult to taste itself.
But don't mind my shallow wallowings. That is only second to enduring: "just dial 5672-aye aye nai nai today!" repeatedly on the radio. I would cite more examples, but I'm not in the mood for more self-infliction.
It was funny, I guess, the first time someone (I won't say who) needed to get her "so-syor-lor-gee" textbook. I said: "WHAT?" not because I being a snob; I didn't understand what it was for the first three seconds to turn my nose up to it. On the fourth second, I had tears in my eyes from a combination of realization and disbelief. And while I am resigned to going to "res-tor-ren" for dinners the remainder of my stay, I don't know how long I can keep my distaste in check before I get hit for being too disdainful. Go the lahs all the way; I have nothing against local flavour, but I think there shouldn't be room for pronounciation to be tampered with. Especially pronounciation that makes you sound stupid.
Now I don't mean to be deliberately belittling, say what you will, but with some types of local produce there is just no comprison to its imported varieties, and that's that. I think I was almost clobbered the other day when I took a sip out of a boxdrink of Milo and went instictively: "Yuk!"
How is it my fault if the milk here is sour, and the coffee, oh god, the coffee. Now that is the matter that started it all.
I can appreciate that some things are simply better coming from some places rather than others. Like I don't expect local milk to be creamy and rich, I don't expect local coffee to match the standard of its other bolder, more aromatic counterparts. Being able to differentiate quality is having the skill of discernment, not thinking I am too good for something lesser. If what I need is something better, then I get it from where it is available.
My problem, then, is having to spend ten dollars every single day at commercialised American coffee chains, on something which should but isn't the way it's meant to be. Now I haven't written off local joints without first giving (way too) many a chance, but I think I have wasted enough expectation and suffering on them, so I moved on to (what should be) the trusty coffee chains. A girl can only put in that much effort, and endure so much lactose-intolerance, before going totally mental.
For the life of me, I am already paying you ten bloody dollars, and I don't begrudge you that, but I want a strong soy latte without the foam, is that so terribly impossible? It isn't such a tall order that you cannot give me soy milk -- not sugared soy, good grief! And frothed, not poured straight in for the love of mankind (only the local stores, thank God)! -- and be generous with the coffee. But my gripe only just begins.
The response is always, always the same: "Extra shot?"
"No. Just draw the coffee longer."
"Uh..."
"Let the coffee drip for longer, so if you usually fill it up to here, now let it fill up to here."
I don't know if the worser crime is that some places simply refuse to comply, or that the shots are already sitting there, made ready and waiting before prehistoric times and cold as the should-be-corpse who made it, and waiting to be tipped into my coffee cup.
It is pure adulteration of coffee making, I swear.
My patience for stupid things is close to none, and I have no desire to want to inculcate it, either. Don't tell me the suffering is good for you what doesn't kill you only makes you stronger crap. I have a brain, and I use it to separate common sense from plain stupidity, so I have no desire to tolerate monkeys acting as barristas.
My patience runs thinnest when they want to charge me for that second shot which didn't even come from a fresh draw. If each shot had its dedicated lot of ground, at least I can appreciate why, but take two lots out of the the one and try to double charge me for it, and you have it coming.
Ugh. My snobbery is really just an adherence to some level of standard, clearly of which these fools have none.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Beat
That, I am.
Being in one place for no more than 24 hours -- with errands geographically distanced, and requiring important and prompt decision-making -- before flying of to the next, only to be greeted with a whole new set of errands, which might I add, demand what seems like unending time, is taking its toll on me.
End result is my being totally spastic. And by that I mean not having the sense to check in hand-luggage full of new toiletries, which the morons at the departure gate were all too ready to dispose of.
I call them morons not because they cannot exercise discretion to see clear as day that my very expensive facial and hair products are explicitly not the ingredients to making a weapon of mass destruction. I am not calling them morons either -- though they are that and more -- because their backs stiffened as my bag went through the x-ray machine and they pounced, I kid you not, way too excitedly on it, shouting: "Bottles! Bottles! YOU! Your bag?" Because naturally, the entire lounge need be aware that this is how a terrorist disguises herself as some common passenger with the brain size of a pea to try and smuggle liquid onto the plane right in front of their noses.
They aren't even being bestowed morons for wanting deliberately, I swear, to make you feel as though you are being purposely uncooperative and highly secretive, never mind that I am taking everything I think they may remotely want to inspect, out of the bag for them. I'm not calling them morons because they feel the need to have two pairs of hands digging intrusively into my puny little hand-carry like hunting dogs after game in a rabbit hole, and hold up triumphantly a small giftwrapped box, with which one exclaims: "Liquid! Liquid!"
I correct them: "No. It's a bar of soap."
Moron #1 shakes the box vigourously while Moron #2 looks on. It makes some noise. They look at each other. "Liquid!"
Me: "No. It's not."
Moron #1 and #2 stare perplexly at box with a look that must indicate a combination of their putting on their superhuman powers of x-ray vision, coupled with their supreme stupidity. They continue looking suspicious. "Liquid?"
Me: "NO! IT IS A BOX WITH SOAP IN IT. THERE IS NO LIQUID IN THE BOX!"
They put the box back into my bag looking very cheated, and proceed to categorically look over each bottle like my shampoo and conditional and saline come in the most exotic, never before seen packaging. Each bottle is turned over and over, and I half expect some announcement for a new discovery which will benefit the human race at large to be made any second. Finally, I am informed, in tones laced with infinite grace and mercy, that I may keep my perfume, but that everything else will have to be binned because they exceed the allocated weight allowance for liquid brought onboard. While saying this, the morons keep eyeing the bin behind them. The lid is held down by a heavy metal arm and the bin kept, of course, under lock and key. Who knows what biomedical waste some passenger might accidentally chance upon otherwise?
By this point I am livid with their wanting to dispose of my things, and I propose I go promptly back and check my entire bag in.
And what response do I get?
Well, they don't know for certain that I can do that, but they don't know for sure either that I can't. They just think I mightn't. Obviously, they don't care for me to try.
I refuse to give in and stare squarely at them. They refuse to budge.
Said conversation repeats itself way too many times for anyone of average intelligence to have patience for. These officers here must be a special breed.
I make known with no uncertain terms how ridiculous I think they are, furious at their execution of matters probably more than anything.
Moron #1, gleam in eye, and eagerness plastered all over his slimy face: "So I throw ah?"
I glare at him.
Moron: "I throw away?" That eye glints.
I leave my shiny, new, expensive bottles of product on the bench, snatch my bag off the counter in a huff, and storm off without a word. Ok, maybe I gave them one last good glare, too.
If I didn't, and opened my mouth, I would definitely be shouting that: "YOU AREN'T EXACTLY GIVING ME A CHOICE YOU DIMWIT, WHY ASK?"
Don't get me started on what happened onboard.
If I sleep until the sun sets today, I am going to do it without a hint of remorse.
Being in one place for no more than 24 hours -- with errands geographically distanced, and requiring important and prompt decision-making -- before flying of to the next, only to be greeted with a whole new set of errands, which might I add, demand what seems like unending time, is taking its toll on me.
End result is my being totally spastic. And by that I mean not having the sense to check in hand-luggage full of new toiletries, which the morons at the departure gate were all too ready to dispose of.
I call them morons not because they cannot exercise discretion to see clear as day that my very expensive facial and hair products are explicitly not the ingredients to making a weapon of mass destruction. I am not calling them morons either -- though they are that and more -- because their backs stiffened as my bag went through the x-ray machine and they pounced, I kid you not, way too excitedly on it, shouting: "Bottles! Bottles! YOU! Your bag?" Because naturally, the entire lounge need be aware that this is how a terrorist disguises herself as some common passenger with the brain size of a pea to try and smuggle liquid onto the plane right in front of their noses.
They aren't even being bestowed morons for wanting deliberately, I swear, to make you feel as though you are being purposely uncooperative and highly secretive, never mind that I am taking everything I think they may remotely want to inspect, out of the bag for them. I'm not calling them morons because they feel the need to have two pairs of hands digging intrusively into my puny little hand-carry like hunting dogs after game in a rabbit hole, and hold up triumphantly a small giftwrapped box, with which one exclaims: "Liquid! Liquid!"
I correct them: "No. It's a bar of soap."
Moron #1 shakes the box vigourously while Moron #2 looks on. It makes some noise. They look at each other. "Liquid!"
Me: "No. It's not."
Moron #1 and #2 stare perplexly at box with a look that must indicate a combination of their putting on their superhuman powers of x-ray vision, coupled with their supreme stupidity. They continue looking suspicious. "Liquid?"
Me: "NO! IT IS A BOX WITH SOAP IN IT. THERE IS NO LIQUID IN THE BOX!"
They put the box back into my bag looking very cheated, and proceed to categorically look over each bottle like my shampoo and conditional and saline come in the most exotic, never before seen packaging. Each bottle is turned over and over, and I half expect some announcement for a new discovery which will benefit the human race at large to be made any second. Finally, I am informed, in tones laced with infinite grace and mercy, that I may keep my perfume, but that everything else will have to be binned because they exceed the allocated weight allowance for liquid brought onboard. While saying this, the morons keep eyeing the bin behind them. The lid is held down by a heavy metal arm and the bin kept, of course, under lock and key. Who knows what biomedical waste some passenger might accidentally chance upon otherwise?
By this point I am livid with their wanting to dispose of my things, and I propose I go promptly back and check my entire bag in.
And what response do I get?
Well, they don't know for certain that I can do that, but they don't know for sure either that I can't. They just think I mightn't. Obviously, they don't care for me to try.
I refuse to give in and stare squarely at them. They refuse to budge.
Said conversation repeats itself way too many times for anyone of average intelligence to have patience for. These officers here must be a special breed.
I make known with no uncertain terms how ridiculous I think they are, furious at their execution of matters probably more than anything.
Moron #1, gleam in eye, and eagerness plastered all over his slimy face: "So I throw ah?"
I glare at him.
Moron: "I throw away?" That eye glints.
I leave my shiny, new, expensive bottles of product on the bench, snatch my bag off the counter in a huff, and storm off without a word. Ok, maybe I gave them one last good glare, too.
If I didn't, and opened my mouth, I would definitely be shouting that: "YOU AREN'T EXACTLY GIVING ME A CHOICE YOU DIMWIT, WHY ASK?"
Don't get me started on what happened onboard.
If I sleep until the sun sets today, I am going to do it without a hint of remorse.
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
A note on notes
Music, I think, is one of the best inventions ever.
Music made portable is another.
Portable music makes possible the chance of time feeling like a scene from the movies.
Portable music lets you walk the streets with reality a distant buzz somewhere at the back of your mind.
Portable music makes wooshing train rides very, very nice.
Portable music takes place of those things you think and dream about - whether because of its lyric, or for helping you through passing time - until it comes that they are realized, once again.
Withdrawal
Sunday: Visit to St V's to see baby Ethan
Monday: Dinner with the girls
Tuesday: Appointment with SJ
Wednesday: Appointment with JK
Thursday: Keith's birthday dinner
Saturday: Matt & Sue's wedding
Sunday: Drinks with the girls
So, Friday: I am, by hook or by crook, going to slot in some form of workout it really doesn't matter what, or I think I might go insane.
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