Diaper Company Tells Local Woman To Stop Using Diapers You know it's a sign when even the diaper company gives you a signal that The Son needs to stop using diapers. While stuffing The Son into the first of his twice-nightly diapers at 2am today, it suddenly struck me that neither Drypers nor any other diaper company makes diapers larger than XXXL, which is exactly what The Son is now wearing, with some difficulty as he is getting a little too big for that size.There is NO XXXXL or anything thereafter. What does it mean when the diaper companies don't make anything larger than XXXL? Does it mean I need to continue stuffing The Son into XXXL, or is it now time for him to transition from diaper-wearer to bed-wetter?From here, the only larger-sized diapers available in the market are the adult diapers which, I notice, do not have any super fun happy cartoon pictures printed all over them, unlike the baby diapers. I need to table this for a family discussion. Maybe they will have big kid diapers available for sale in the United States, which we could arrange to bring into Singapore. Hmm...In other news, The Daughter is standing up and cruising (walking while holding on to furniture) about 2 months early. Everyone is pleased except me because I realise the basis of all this early development is the fact that I ate a tonne of fish oil while I was expecting her, which I did not do for The Son. Which means that I will eternally blame myself should The Daughter turn out more intelligent than her big brother.Just as a time reference to self, her bottom lower teeth are starting to peek out, she hasn't started speaking yet, but uses a variety of sounds to make known her intentions, feelings and desires. Mmmmmm for when the food tastes good, whiney noises for when she doesn't like the food and screaming and crying for when she falls over. She is using the pincer grip to pick up small objects so we can tick that off already. She has not yet discovered her hands, although I caught her looking at her left hand, front and back, yesterday evening. Finally, a bunch of hair has fallen off the back of her head, so there's a lot of hair in front, but very little at the back. We are doing combovers until it grows back.She favours Western food (organic store-bought baby pureed foods) over Chinese food (home cooked rice porridge) at the moment. Great Expectations So today, for reasons I can't get into, we are doing a bunch of research on employment stuff and one of the bits we need to fit into the big picture is what an average kitchen assistant/ dish washer gets paid. The Ministry of Manpower helpfully directs us to Table 3.5 of the Report on Wages in Singapore, 2008. I couldn't believe my eyes. Maybe it's just me, but it says here that the average washer of dishes in a Singapore restaurant was getting paid a whopping S$1,013 per month in the third quarter of 2008. That's not a great deal of money in the long run, but I would imagine that if this is correct, then most of the inhabitants of sub-continent near us should be falling over themselves trying to get here to scrub themselves a dish or two. What the hell was I doing during my school vacation trying to get a clerical position when I could have been earning a relative fortune with a pair of rubber gloves and some Mama Lemon.I kid you not. According to this report, some 482 kitchen assistants and some 64 dish washers swore on their mothers' graves that they were getting not less than S$1,010 per month in the third quarter of 2008.And now that we are on the topic of office clerks, it says right here in the same report that 80 office clerks interviewed for this survey were earning an average of S$1,679 per month in the third quarter of 2008. We was robbed!! What did these 80 office clerks do to earn this kind of salary when I was signing up for half of this amount?! "Upon what meat doth this, our Caesar, feed, That he is grown so great?”_________________________________________In other news, I have taken it upon myself to transport the whole ging gang, chickens and all, to Disneyland at some point in the next month or so. We have informed The Son accordingly, and he has kindly confirmed that he will attend.Having gone through the brochures at some length, The Son has expressed an interest in taking some time off his busy schedule to meet Mickey Mouse, Minnie Mouse, Donald Duck and Goofy. In particular, he plans to bring the Baby Sister to visit the House of Goofy with the full parental entourage and in preparation for this grand occasion, has begun watching "Mickey Mouse Clubhouse" on the Disney Channel with renewed enthusiasm. The Husband and I, on the other hand, have limited our efforts in this regard to working on our Mickey Mouse improvisations. It just kills me to listen to The Husband scream and curse at other drivers on the road in his Mickey Mouse voice._________________________________________________This post would not be complete without a post-script on my attempts to close my bank account with the world's local bank. It took me 1.5 hours standing (standing) at the counter alternately arguing and pleading with the counter staff, but yes, I closed my account with the bank in just one day. That I regard that as my singular greatest achievement of last week (maybe also this week) shows how low my expectations have fallen. You Did What - Part II Over the weekend we had a blitz of innoculations at the House of Smoot, when The Grandma decided in a burst of enthusiasm to innoculate The Daughter against a host of childhood diseases. In a second wind of enthusiasm, it seems she also innoculated The Son against chickenpox. And herpes. HERPES. So now we have a 4-year old in the house who is immune to HERPES.If the news gets out, people will start to wonder if The Husband and I have a dirty little secret. Which, as far as I am aware, given that we have both gone through the horror of medical checkups recently, I believe we still don't.In other news, I watched in horror as my credit card debt ballooned from S$142.87 to S$400, reflecting a 280% increase. I called the bank and waited on hold for about 3 minutes, while listening to their jingle about "flexible rates, flexible loans". Indeed. After much discussion, and after all the blood in my body had risen to my head and neck, they reluctantly agreed to waive what they themselves called "the penalty charges". A little bit of legal irony there, since it is well-established law in Singapore that penalty charges are unenforceable. Perhaps I should not have put it so exclusively. It is well-established law in Commonwealth countries generally that penalty charges are unenforceable. But it appears my bank (the world's local bank) is bulletproof. I would cut up the card, but I don't want to ruin a good pair of scissors. I will attend at the bank this evening to pay my S$142.87 and use their scissors instead. Oh Jesus So we've been trying to sell our house for a few months, and only (well, mostly) because The Mother wants us to move across the island and live opposite her house, so she can be closer to the grandkids. I'm sure that, 48 hours after we do move in and she receives the full blast of her grandchildren, she will be begging us to move again.Anyway. I've always found property agents to be a little, just a little bit, fanatical about, of all things, God, but I believe the one that I have may just put them all to shame. For one thing, she keeps sending me text messages about her achievements. I can't say that I've kept them all but the latest one just poked me in the eye a little too hard, so I kept it just to show The Husband.It goes something like this:"Millions of thanks for your support n recommendations! I just received [agency name] Top 50 Achievers Award No. ___ position. [Agency] will publish in Straits Times and Lian He Zao Bao tomorrow full page full colour. All glory and honour to my Lord Jesus Christ! Yours sincerely [Agent's name] Serving with gratitude and thankfulness."Maybe it's just my ignorance speaking but what about everyone else - did she mean to say that God didn't find them a similar spot in the top 50 because she was preferred? It's just like that big signboard I saw some time ago at Newton Circus, which said "100% units sold THANKS BE TO GOD". Does God sell real estate? Did he line up with the rest of the agents with a bunch of brochures to sell sell sell?It reminds me of the contestants on American Idol as well who ask God to help them get to Hollywood. It doesn't so much glorify religion as it trivialises it. God is not your personal bitch. He should not be selling real estate. He should not be asked to sell real estate. Just as I try not to bother him with getting my clients to pay their invoices on time. If they don't pay, then I sort it out myself. I do not get down on my knees and ask the Lord of all Creation to make sure that Client X takes note of our 30-day credit period and also to make sure that when Client Y pays by telegraphic transfer, they make sure to add on the S$20 bank charge. It's just... not done.Also, what bothers me about that text is that it has more than the usual "holier than thou" one-two sucker punch to it. It makes everyone else look like bloody idol-worshipping heathens for not EXALTING enough. For not collapsing on their knees immediately in a semi-conscious rambling state so as to IMMEDIATELY thank God for smiting all the other estate agents and making them non-top 50 so that she could be amongst the top 50. I wonder what the Top 10 are like. I'm sure if she made Top 10, she would be dragging some kind of live animal to the church altar. Here Comes the Fuck-Lady I dropped off The Son in school this morning, and one of his teachers had a little chat with me. I suspect I was just the person she wanted to see.So it appears that The Son's classmate went home and used the F-word in front of his horrified mother, who asked him where he learned That Word from, and was informed that her son had learned it from The Son. She informed the teachers of The Son accordingly. The teachers rounded up all the kids and asked them if any of them knew A Bad Word starting with "F". And the second syllable is "Uh".My Son puts up his hand and says, helpfully - "And the last sound is "CK"!!"So busted.He then informed his teachers that yes, his mother uses the F-word, and she has used it on him too, but this was only this one time when she was really really angry with him, and she hasn't used it again since.I was at a complete loss for words. Frankly, I do not ever recall using "the F-word" on him, although I use it in ordinary conversations with The Husband, and sometimes, unavoidably, in the hearing of The Son. Unless I have a lobotomy, there is no way I am going to change my ordinary daily speech pattern.When The Son was 2.5 years old, he said "fuck" in the car. Mainly to himself, and apropos of nothing in particular (I think he was trying it on for size). We informed him several times, with rephrasing and repetition, that it was a very naughty word and that he should never ever use it. Since then, he's never said it in our hearing. I thought he had forgotten the word altogether. After all, we just taught him a whole bunch of dinosaur names and I thought that would have wiped out his memory space ("RAM") altogether.What troubles me is that my son has shown himself to be far, far better at sanitizing his language in front of adults, than we are at sanitizing our language in front of him. He appears to be much more sophisticated than he lets on. Hmm.Throughout all this, whilst his teacher is talking to me, I can't help but notice that The Son is hovering and lurking in the background, trying to eavesdrop and giving me really broad uneasy smiles. He has even forgotten to take off his shoes. His classmate, who has only seen me once, comes all the way up to the gate to get a better look, and I get the full force of a 4 year old's fixed unblinking stare. I guess he must want to see what a person who says "fuck" looks like. Bisimillah Oh Yum Briyani I don't really like briyani (biryani? briyani?) all that much, but when a friend suggested that we check out this way kewl briyani place at Dunlop Street, I told myself we have to try new things and said lets go.And what a lovely experience it was. The mutton briyani is eyes-rolling-to-the-back-of-my-head-toe-curlingly delicious. And the rice is so, so soft. I was rather quiet during the meal because the food was just. so. good. I don't think I've had such an aneurysm over Indian food since Mumbai. The only thing I found a little disconcerting about the place is that it's got a lot more Chinese people dining in it than one would expect to find in a tiny little cafe somewhere in Little India. Both times I went, there were more Chinese diners than diners of other races. How unusual.During my second visit, 2 guys sat at the next table. One was clearly there in his capacity as a food blogger. Ever since the phone companies started installing camera in their mobile phones, I've gotten used to people pausing to take photographs of their food before they start eating. Like the way people used to pause to say a prayer of thanks to God before they started eating. But now, they pause to take a photo of the food. Anyway. After the initial pausing and snapping, I couldn't help but notice one of the guys start to deconstruct his briyani. He pushed the food all over the plate, dissected various chunks of mutton, pulled some of the mutton flesh apart, all the while taking photo after photo. I was a little bit torn up just watching him. The food which had been so well prepared, and which had arrived steaming hot at the table was getting stone cold. The soft fatty bits of mutton were starting to congeal. As I watched, his face and the camera (a point and shoot) got closer and closer to the food, until it started to remind me of the way we used to do dissections in junior college, our faces barely 2 inches away from the wax tray with the ex-cockroach scattered and pinned all over it.Actually, he looked like he was conducting a mutton autopsy, with all that separating and scraping and photographing. Like the parents and family of the goat had asked him to put their minds at rest by determining the cause of death. And whether he could help them trace the perp.Have you ever had one of those moments when it would be really really awkward to burst out laughing but you burst out laughing anyway, and then try to pretend it was a coughing fit? Yeah. I know all about that. The poor guy was so close to me that I could've reached out and touched him on the shoulder. Instead, I just spluttered and coughed into my lassi.Their sweet lassi is pretty good too. Things we would like you to remember, when you are engulfed in flames I've shamelessly borrowed this title from a great book by David Sedaris, but it summarises perfectly the current situation in our office re fire extinguishers and fire safety materials.Owing to a rather enlightening lecture I once attended on fire safety procedures, I am now the happy proprietor of a not-so-small quantity of fire safety materials, including some 6 fire blankets and 2 premium quality fire extinguishers, selected for their lasting quality and multi-faceted usefulness.It was quite a surprise to me, and to all attendees of that lecture, to be informed that not all fire extinguishers can be sprayed on the skin. Or at least, skin that is not wishing to become corroded by the fire-extinguishing material. It is generally undesirable for the owner of the skin to find that, having extinguished the flames, the fire extinguishing material should linger and proceed to dissolve the clothes and skin.Or maybe that was just the selling line of the lecturer. The non-skin dissolving fire extinguishers were much, much more expensive than the corroders.So anyway, our office now has a total of 4 fire extinguishers, 3 of which are allegedly corrosive (I've not actually fact-checked this) and the 4th, which sits in my office, not so corrosive although it would probably function as an efficient makeup remover. Staff have been informed that should there be a fire and should their clothes and skin be enflamed, they would do well to attend at my office for extinguishing assistance rather than to avail themselves of the 3 other extinguishers. Of course this message to the staff would not be complete without one of the lawyers joking that, should anyone anticipate that they will be engulfed in flames, they should take the liberty of hosing themselves down with my fire extinguisher in advance. Which is exactly what the fire safety lecturer had said. Apply liberally on the skin before going out into the flames. Excuse me what happened to your wallet At a particular stage in everyone's relationship with their parent(s), I'm sure there's a defining moment when you feel the balance of power shifting from parent to child. When the child becomes the one to call the shots instead of the parent. When the parent starts to regard the child as a grown up. When the parent reluctantly, but proudly, acknowledges that the child is ready to join the ranks of an adult.Yeah. I think I had that moment with my mom when I got married. From there, it was pretty much downhill. The balance of power shifted right back to the parent after the wedding Ang Pows were opened. Or rather, there was another paradigm shift in our relationship, when my mother decided that she no longer needed to bring her wallet when we went out together. Why? Well because there's her wallet, walking right next to her. The wallet even pushes the trolley for her at the supermarket now. In fact, the only thing her wallet needs at this point is a driving licence.It started with subtle hints, like she would allow me to pay for meals. Then suddenly, I was paying for all our meals together. And coffee too. Then one day, after loading up the trolley at the supermarket, she allowed me to push the trolley to the cashier and then promptly disappeared with The Son, ostensibly to amuse him or to take him to the toilet. Now, I can't remember the last time I saw her wallet. All she brings with her when we head out is her car keys because I still can't drive. I'm lucky if there is even 20 cents in the coin pouch so that we can rent a trolley at the supermarket. According to my girlfriends, I'm not alone. One of them recently went shopping for beauty products at Sephora with her mom and lo and behold when she got to the cashier's counter, there were a number of choice and rather pricey items in her basket that she never picked out. Another one asked a parent what he wanted for his birthday and was a little surprised when he picked out a rather expensive item. I guess at some point in the last decade or so, we crossed the line from adolescent to adult to paymaster. Or maybe the lines just got blurred so whilst we remained an adolescent adult, we also became a paymaster. I suspect that's a more accurate account of what really happened.In other news, I got my health screening results, including the results of my eye test. Congratulations, my eyes can now fly a plane. Yay, me. The eye doctor's report threw me for a loop actually. It was written on the typical doctor's notepad, in the scrawly cursive that doctors always use, with squiggle at the bottom to pass as a signature. I realised that if I didn't look too hard at it, especially not with my newly discovered pilot's eyes, it looked exactly like one of my father's letters. My dad was a GP. He had terrible scrawly cursive handwriting. He used his doctor's writing pad for everything, even writing letters to his kids. The style, paragraphing and signature didn't change at all, even when what he wrote wasn't very nice. It even had the little rubber stamp at the bottom, underneath his signature. The paper had his name and clinic name printed at the top, and it was centralised. So now, when I see a doctor's report, a prescription or a doctor's referral note, I do a double take because it looks like yet another letter from my father. In keeping with his choice of stationery, what he wrote was also very succinct, pleasant or not. So it would be rare for us to get more than 3 sheets of paper, unless he was well and truly pissed off.Coming back to the office and still holding my health screening results, I passed this poor young 20-something year old secretary, who looked up at me and said "Your dad called". Huh. I stared at her. "He said his name is Gerald", said she. I didn't have the heart to tell her that (a) he's dead; and (b) his name was not Gerald. Saturday mornings with Flower While it sounds all nice and organised to say that I have a little hair cut-and-colour package with a hairdresser in Parkway Parade, the problem is that actually getting my hair done there with the limited weekend time available is an amazing pain in the ass. Where are the child-friendly hairdressing salons when we need them. Where am I going to find a child-free 4 hours this weekend, I would like to know. This is exactly the reason why I prefer to nip down to the neighbourhood hairdressing shop in my condo to get the easy-but-urgent stuff, like the haircuts, done but there's always hell to pay when Alfred, my tiny little hairdresser, finds out. Alfred, when I'm sitting down, comes up to one head taller than me. He's always dressed perfectly in tiny little black clothes, and with his alabaster skin, jet black hair and perfect little pixie-pretty features, he makes me feel like if I just slap him with the back of my hand, he could fly across the room, and the scream would be so tiny and so shrill that dogs for miles would be scratching their ears.With my permanently broken gay-dar in hand, I stare at him and wonder if he could possibly be gay. I can't imagine a girl going out with him (so breakable! so delicate!) but I really can't imagine him with a guy (again, so breakable! so delicate!). Maybe he is just not meant to date. I'm almost completely certain that I outweigh him by at least 10 kilograms.Anyway, Alfred sylphs and swoops around my messy head of hair, lifts up a few locks and then asks me point blank if I've been seeing anyone else, haircutwise. And when I say yes, there's all this gnashing of tiny little teeth as he bemoans the travesty of the other hairdresser's work, how horrible, and how wrong it must have looked for me, because only he knows my hair and only he knows what I need. I don't dare to mention that the other hairdresser does exactly the same thing when she's cutting my hair, I think he will probably be so mad that he will swoon dead away. And then where will we be.It could be me, but how odd is it that I am being accused by a gay guy of being unfaithful to him. Especially when he is so small. If I sat on him, he would probably crumple like a toilet roll. Frankly, I suspect the real problem is that he is just thinner, prettier and hipper than me. Hello 2010 you sure took your time getting here but you're here at last One of the privileges of being a parent of 2 young children is that you have a great excuse to be sitting at home and at the computer on New Year's Eve. In fact, it is in itself a privilege to be sitting quietly at the computer on New Year's Eve, and not passed out in bed asleep by 10pm like I was last year at this time. Or, as The Husband reminds me, as we have been every year that we have been married. Fast asleep snoring in bed whilst all around us people are demonstrating their ability to count backwards from 10. Actually, last year I recall waking up cursing and swearing because of all the screaming from the people on the beach at midnight and the ships setting off their flares in joyous celebration. Then I went back to sleep.But this year is different. This year I am not pregnant-in-my-first-trimester flat-out exhausted and crawling into bed every chance I get. This year I am awake, everyone else is fast asleep and snoring and I am drinking a little shot of Yomeishu in private celebration while I type out some random stuff for the Internet. Yomeishu? Who drinks Yomeishu? People who don't have any other alcoholic substance in the house that's not turned to vinegar, that's who.I actually planned something much more cosy and interesting to do with The Husband on New Year's Eve after the kids went to sleep, but unfortunately he fell asleep so I'll have to save the Scrabble game for tomorrow. Rematch!A girlfriend of mine just asked me yesterday to speak at her wedding in April 2010. Me! I've never spoken at anyone's wedding before, not even my own! I was absurdly touched at the request, and then terrified. It will be a big wedding. There will be many, many eyes all looking up at me while I fumble around on the podium and twist the mikestand downwards. With any luck at all, I will get to the end of my prepared speech, that's the best I can promise her at this point. I can't promise her there won't be a puddle of pee waiting for the next person at the podium when I'm done, or that the speech won't come to a sudden, abrupt conclusion with the bride running up on stage screaming SHUT UP! SHUT UP! Last of all, I can't promise her that anyone else in the audience, other than myself, will laugh at the prepared and carefully handwritten jokes. Maybe we should just bulletproof the whole thing and get the DJ to play a laugh-track.Who is the person who gives speeches at a wedding? Is it the one who's known the bride the longest? Known her the best? Been a best friend? Where are all the calm, confident best friends with their insouciant smiles and their witty throw-away lines when we need them? I wonder about that now (and the happy couple will wonder about that when I'm speaking). Why does she pick someone who, by their own written admission, is terrified - still terrified - of public speaking? While I don't doubt the bride's ability and willingness to embarrass me publicly, it seems pretty unusual that she might want to do this at her own wedding.But you're funny! she says. Well. We'll see about that. And we'll have the video to prove it!_______________________________________________It would seem appropriate at this point to round off the New Year with some wise words but I'm out of stock. This month has been the most insane month ever, in the last 5 years of my life, and that's saying a lot, since I managed to deliver 2 children in the last 5 years. I can't provide any factual information, but suffice to say I've moved office not once, but twice, in the last 3 weeks and it is only through my extreme slowness in unpacking boxes that the 2nd move of this month went relatively smoothly since the movers just needed to close up the boxes again before carting them away. So I can safely say that my personal effects have hardly been stressed out by the moves at all, quite unlike myself. I feel like roadkill at the moment (another Yomeishu!) and it is literally and solely through the grace of God that I have come out amazingly well despite the events of the last 3 weeks. I have not just survived, but it looks as though I will actually be okay. And my faith in God has been very much restored over the past 2 years.I am not a religious person. 10 years in a Catholic girls' school only managed to partially undo whatever harm my atheist parents caused in failing to provide me with any kind of religious foundation at all, in that I do believe there is a God and his name is not Bhudda, Mohammed, or any other name. Actually maybe his name is Jesus (I said "partially undo"). Anyway. I believed fervently in the existence of a higher being who was kind and interested in my personal affairs and development right up to the age of 14 when Something Happened which caused such a major sea change in my views of God that we lost touch thereafter. Most people would assume that such a Something would involve a death in the family, or a death at least, but it didn't. I had a big, huge, massive, enormous, huge crush (oh, it was a big crush) on a 15 year old ACS boy named Christopher Lo. We met through extra-curricular activities organised by uniformed groups in our respective schools. He was hot. Hot hot hot. For a month, I pretty much staked him out the way a 14-year old girl with limited resources, no Internet access, a curfew and a home telephone under 24-hour armed mommy-guard would stake out a 15-year old boy who didn't really remember exactly who she was. That is to say, I sneaked off to a public phone a bunch of times and called him up to "just chat". Then someone who knew someone organised a really awesome canoeing and beach picnic event in Sentosa for a bunch of people, him and me included, and I knew this was my chance to really make an impression.Something like 7 wardrobe selections and 100 or so hours spent planning and discussing The Event with my girlfriends later, I was well and truly ready. Locked and loaded. I think I was even almost completely pimple-free at that point. The night before The Event, I almost couldn't sleep. I wrote incessantly in my diary. I think his name appeared so often that a casual reader might think it was his diary. I prayed. I wrote out a bullet point list of topics that I could talk about with him. I even practised smiling in the mirror so my braces wouldn't show so much.It rained that day. In fact, it didn't just rain, it bloody poured. I woke up in the morning and thought it was almost evening time, it was so dark outside. According to the news, there was more rain that day than any other day in the last 10 years. The. Last. Ten. Years. Canoeing and beach picnic indeed. I went anyway. He didn't show up.I guess I must have had a pretty flimsy belief system back then for it to fall apart over something so small, but anyway, all fences have been mended now and save for the fact that I still can't bring myself to go to church, my faith in a higher power is fully restored. I will however never be one of those people who mention Him all the time or get into a long head of steam over "God's Love". I've asked him for help quite a few times over the past 2 years, and the response has been so immediate and so definitive that it is impossible not to believe there is a higher power. Plus, if you need concrete evidence that God exists, just try this man's Tagliatelle Ragu. All I want for Christmas is... to finish my mandatory work-related health screening.Scratch that. Christmas is over but my health screening is not. I just went back twice today for the 3rd and 4rd instalment of my health screening. And I'm still not done yet, there's another appointment in the 3rd week of January 2010.All I want for Chinese New Year is to finish my health screening.One amazing advantage of being a child of 2 doctors is that I never once had to go for health screening before this. As the biological offspring of 2 MBBS, I was lulled into a false sense of security that should there be anything even remotely wrong with me, either one of my parents would have immediately detected it. By osmosis, perhaps. Even my dad, whom I last had a decent conversation with when I was 11 and didn't actually speak a single word to from the time I was 13 till the day I picked him up from the airport at the ripe old age of 26.Now that I understand how truly intrusive a proper health screening can be, I realise how terribly wrong I was. Which is quite tragic since I routinely comforted myself with this very thought when faced with the horrifying disadvantages of being a child of 2 doctors, first and foremost being that I get to enjoy every new vaccine that hits the market before any one of my friends (oh how different my life would have been if my parents had been movie producers instead). Also, contrary to popular belief, I did not get MCs on tap or a free-flow of medical certificates as and when I deemed fit, in fact, I never got ANY medical certificates when I asked for them except for this one time when I was pretty much too ill to get out of bed and my mother finally, grudgingly, passed me a medical certificate for one day's sick leave.Finally, I don't believe anyone reading this has ever woken up from a deep sleep, feeling a strange pain, only to find their mother extracting a crapload of blood in a syring from their right arm.But anyway. Back to the health screening. I have to say I almost ran out of the room when the doctor put on a rubber glove, pulled it snug on her hand and grabbed a tube of gel. It was like every bad cliche come horribly, horribly true. And that was not the end of it. I went through a series of eye tests, including something truly unexpected (and by unexpected, I mean unpleasant) bearing the relatively benign description of "ocular pressure test". A gust of air and a scream, is what I call it. Next eye, please.Throughout the battery of eye tests, the doctor kept shaking his head and telling me, there's nothing wrong with your eyes, there's nothing wrong with your eyes. I wondered what was so bad about that. Finally, he shook his head one last time and proclaimed with some reluctance that my eyes were perfectly fine. Then he stared at me, as though he was seeing me for the first time, and asked what kind of company I worked for. A law firm, says I. Why do you ask? Well, said he, this test that you have just completed is for pilots. ___________________________________You know what the problem with a blog is?It starts off as a place you can write stuff in, stuff that you can't write down in a diary because someone could find it. Then after a while, it becomes a place that transcends my normal everyday life, where I can talk about stuff that perhaps doesn't really matter but it matters to me in a relatively insignificant way, but important enough that I want to write about it. It's also a place to vent about the small stuff, if I need to vent.But I can't talk about the big stuff. The stuff that keeps me awake at night. Because that's conduct unbecoming of a solicitor. Because I am bound by rules of confidentiality and propriety.So I talk about what matters to me, a little. What bothers me, a little. Stuff that bothers me a lot is what I know to keep to myself. Even when I think so much about it that I can't sleep properly for weeks, and sometimes, oftentimes, it bleeds into my dreams and I wake up utterly exhausted, and put on my game face for another day.Perhaps this time next year I will be far more settled in my mind, or maybe I would have lived with my fears long enough to have learned to ignore them. The 80s Post I was born in the 70s and I grew up in the 80s. Having done so I now feel very strongly that the 90s and the 2000s were not very exciting in comparison. Particularly when it comes to the clothes.We had an office party the other day, and it was themed. This is the first time in my life I'm attending an office party that has a theme AND a possibility that people might actually adhere to the theme. The theme was "the 80s". Having just started work in this office, I thought I could lie low, stay under the radar and show up sans fancy dress but after the 5th person asked me what I was going to wear, and after I discovered that my room mate had already ordered not one, but two costumes for this party, I realised I might actually have to put on my game face.So The Husband obligingly googles a bunch of web pages with people wearing clothing from the 80s. I have to say it was a real blast from the past. We went through page after page of material and there was just so much out there beyond Bananarama and the A-Team that I was dazzled. I forgot how much fun it was to get dressed when I was a teenager. Who could forget the ever-present denim jacket? And the leg-warmers with the faux aerobic gear. Awesome stuff!!In the end, we knocked it down to:- a big thick hairband with a chunky ribbon at the side- a "The Smiths" T-shirt- a ripped denim skirt- fluorescent socks- white canvass sneakersHaving made these rather difficult decisions, I opened my wardrobe, pulled out all the items in question and put them in a little bag to bring to work. Local Girl Becomes One With Her Apple So it's the first day for the Smoot in the new office and, through a series of circumstances too long-winded to get into, also the first day in a new organisation. I am one of the new kids in the playground, and I hope to make some friends soon.It was a bit of a shocker to arrive this morning at my new desk, still strewn with unpacked and unsorted debris from my previous office, to find an apple sitting uncomfortably in the middle of the whole mess. I didn't know who to thank for it, so I thanked no one. Sometime during the office orientation exercise that followed, I was informed that everyone in the office gets a fruit on Monday for their private consumption, so that we can all be shiny happy people together. Another part of the office orientation exercise instructed us on what to do if the apple is still sitting on our desk uneaten at close of business on Monday - clearly not a happy scenario for the apple or the apowner of the apple. So it is with some reluctance and not a little bit of fear that I am now in the process of consuming my apple, having had the unmitigated temerity to wait until half the day had passed.I now recall with even further trepidation another part of the induction process where we were clearly told not to eat at our desks, which means that my current attempt to follow one office rule has led to my flagrant breach of another one.Plus I just dropped the apple on the floor dammit Smoot Phase Shift It's not a good thing to dislike moving office. Not only because it adds to the list of my dislikes, but also because it seems to happen to me more often because I dislike it.I'm moving office for the 3rd time in 5 years, and for the 4th time in 6 years. For all intents and purposes, it looks like I'm some kind of big time job-hopper, but as I keep telling my mother, I still work for the same company and the same boss - I just get shifted around a lot. And no, we are not evading the authorities.Movers have just arrived!! Time to get my ass off my seat!! You did what I get a huge amount of grief from my ability to remember numbers, which has a very bad knock-on effect on my ability to remember birthdays, so I suppose it was only a matter of time before I forgot my own birthday.So it's a good thing The Husband reminded me last evening. I can't imagine the internal discussion that would have transpired if I suddenly remembered my own birthday days/ weeks after it had passed. How long would I hold the grudge against myself?I suppose as we get older, birthdays become less important and this process becomes accelerated if we are not really a party animal. I do also have a phobia of organising parties but that's just another tragic story for another time. Anyway, it does not impact my ability to attend and/or crash another person's party (she said, quickly).It appears I'm not the only one to forget my birthday since my employer has also taken the liberty of organising a client lunch for me on that date. In passive-aggressive style, I asked my boss if the client lunch was just a cover story for my surprise birthday party. No, it isn't, he said, after he called to congratulate me on finally reaching the ripe old age of 27.But do I get to choose the restaurant? I said, determined to salvage something out of a bad situation.Er no, said he. The client will pick. Fun With Atichyphobia No, I didn't catch something from eating unpasteurised cheese, I'm just trying to rationalise my Fear of Poverty And Failure ("FOPF").It's becoming both a cliche and a truism, in my view, that the FOPF in a person is proportional to their grades in school. Better grades, more FOPF. Worse grades, less FOPF. Except maybe for me, my grades were fairly mediocre once I discovered boys but my FOPF factor is and has always been really really OTT.Especially now when I'm at a bit of a crossroad situation and trying to figure things out. How much does a person need to think before they make a decision? And is this before or after their head explodes. I have always faulted myself for not thinking hard enough before I reach a business decision - this time I'm really trying to make a decision only after seeing the pros and cons from every single angle, and even then I wonder.Decision A - means I will have to, for once, take some fairly substantial risks financially.Decision B - no financial risk, but it comes with its own cons too.But the biggest thing about Decision A, she said, finally getting to the point, is that I have to inform my mother that I'm making Decision A. I will have to take the risk that she will look at me and the expression on her face will read something between horror and disappointment. Or rather, she will be squarely in horror territory, but within 100metres of reaching disappointment and finding a place for long-term parking. Shortly thereafter, all the relatives on my mother's side would be informed through a series of hysterical phone calls, and within a day or two, I will get a call from one of my favorite aunts, asking in sad haunted tones if I will be able to make ends meet and do I need any money to buy food for the children.All my life I have felt like failure was not an option, and that, whilst a certain sibling of mine is free to walk the earth unemployed, shirtless and unshaven, unencumbered by pride or responsibility, it would be a grave disappointment to my mother if I should fail to show a stellar performance in anything I should try my hand at. In response, I severely limit the number of things I try my hand at that she knows about. Anyone who's played pool with me would suspect I might have some issues - I treat every shot like the fate of the free world hangs in the balance.I think about passing these values on to my children and I weigh the pros and cons. FOPF means they will, by default, end up reasonably successful having taken minimal financial risks and always career planning. Plodding along, working hard, doing reasonably well and being comfortable. They would also be pretty good at pool. No FOPF could mean crashing failure at some point(s), and if we look at real life examples within the family tree, a permanent establishment in the parental home with a mother who will chop his vegetables in teeny tiny little pieces so that her 34 year old son will not have to chew too much. Is it all in my mind? I don't think so. We were not created equal, my siblings and I. Some of us are not given the option of failure, some of us are allowed to fail. And whilst I don't spend much time wondering what people think of me generally, I look around me during family reunions and all I see are mirrors. Time of the Season So it's that time of the year again for parent-teacher meetings. I just attended 2 yesterday, one of which was, to my horror, conducted in Chinese. It is a constant embarrassment to me that The Son's Chinese language abilities may already have surpassed my own and that, with every new Chinese word he learns, another one slips from my memory.In effort to spare The Son the torture of going through 12 years of mediocre grades in his Chinese classes, we have enrolled him in not one, but two, Chinese language tuition courses. Having done this, I suppose it would only be natural and expected for us to receive, at the end of each term, 2 progress reports for The Son but what I certainly did not expect was for both of them to be written in Chinese. Not the simple stuff that The Son has been learning, but of the standard that one would expect to find in Lianhe Zaobao.Do the teachers not know their audience??? The type of parent that would send their child to a Chinese tuition centre would be unlikely to be conversant, or even have a passing acquaintance, with the Chinese language. I have passed the reports to a friend to translate for me - she has a great laugh at my expense every time I do this, but how else am I going to understand what the progress is.At yesterday's meeting with the Chinese teacher, she passed me the report and waited expectantly for me to read it so that we could discuss any questions I had. She watched my finger crawl laboriously under each word for about 2 minutes as I tried my damndest to pronounce each word under my breath. We got past the second sentence before I gave up. I had a nightmare flashback to my last Chinese oral examination.I wonder what she thought when, whilst writing The Son's Chinese name at the back of the cheque for the term fees, she saw me surreptitiously referring to the Chinese characters of his name written at the top of his progress report. I'm told that I'm not alone in this - a friend told me once that he was in the process of writing his son's Chinese name down for school registration when he realised that he had forgotten how to write 2 out of the 3 characters and had to take the form home. In other news, The Son and I checked out the rather intriguing Body Works Exhibition at the Science Centre recently. We encircled the various displays of preserved human bodies while The Son clung to me and asked me whether "Daddy will grow old" and "Will Daddy die". He did not enquire after my mortality. In my typical motherly passive-aggressive style, I informed him that everybody dies. Daddy, mommy, even our dog, will eventually die. This may take a long time, but everybody dies. No one is spared.At one point, we found ourselves staring at a display of a male carcass sitting on a carriage drawn by 2 skinned deer in mid-gallop. The Son points at the man and his question carries across the room: "DID SANTA DIE???" Pretty Fly for a Shy Girl I'm starting to wonder if I'll ever be rid of this damn shyness problem. Shyness isn't a disease, there's no cure and as an evolutionary tool, it's the equivalent of an appendix. We don't need it, we don't want it, but for some of us, we're stuck with it. And it's inoperable.For me, it's the prospect of meeting new people, as completely ridiculous as it sounds given my chosen profession. I used to have a problem meeting new people at all. I can still remember a client lunch when I was too shy to speak (but not too shy to eat). Now I can manage meeting one batch of clients at a time. Have been fine for some time now, and I do actually enjoy it. But networking is the absolute bane of my existence and, as I recently discovered, the prospect of spending 2 days at an internal networking conference will give me an asthma attack. Actually, 2 asthma attacks - one for each day.I realised I was shy on the first day of my Primary One education. I was heading home with my Grandfather, and I could see from a distance that someone I had just met was about to pass my way. What do I do? What do I say? Do I make eye contact? When do I make eye contact? Do I smile? When do I smile? What kind of smile? Do I stop and chat? What if I don't? Would that be rude?When she passed by, I was frantically digging in my bag for an imaginary book. I just couldn't go through with it. About 8 years ago, I came up with what I thought was an amazing solution for the shyness problem, which was speaking at seminars. About 50 or so seminars later, I am dismayed to find that the shyness problem is cured - but only for when I speak at seminars. There is still an unholy dread of networking in any shape, size or form. I can see myself now at the pearly gates of heaven, cringing and wheezing at the thought of having to network with all these dead relatives. Or I could just find myself in hell, with my aunt, and no networking issues at all.Recently, after a sleepless night, I realised the shyness issue also extends to the blog, which means that it is reaching critical proportions indeed. I go through the same series of reactions when I'm trying to respond to a comment on this blog, which could explain why I'm such a total sloth when it comes to responding to comments. It's not that I do not respond. I just do not publish the response. I am delighted and overwhelmed when I get a comment. Usually it makes my day to think that people might read the stuff I type out. Then I think of a response. Then I type it, then edit, then redact, then retype, then edit and then delete it in frustration because I don't think it will be good enough to publish. Then I spend sleepless nights agonizing and wondering if people think I'm too stuck up to respond to their comment.Will there ever be a cure for shyness? Desperate people want to know. One hopes there will be a solution other than attending 50 networking events. Not a Food Blog So maternity leave has been wonderful and it has really allowed me to focus on The Kids. It also saves a heap of cash to eat at home all the time.Then one day my Rather Cool Cousin calls me up to say that Damien de Silva has kindly agreed to cook a special dinner for 10 persons for the price of S$x, x being less than 100. It will be 2 appetizers, 2 mains and 1 dessert. This is Damien de Silva aka Soul Kitchen, who knows me as Tagliatelle Ragu girl, and who now owns and runs Big D's Grill out of a coffee shop at Block 46 Holland Drive. And by 'coffee shop', I don't mean a Starbucks. It's an old skool coffee shop without any airconditioning. It is a testament to Damien's amazing food that his cult following of foodies will follow him literally to the ends of the earth, because that's exactly where he has chosen to set up his stall this time.I don't say no to this. I mean, if God descended from Heaven in a chariot bearing his own barbeque sauce and offered to cook dinner for you, would you refuse? Instead I show up hungry, child-free and only 10 minutes late, which is a personal record for me. And I feast.As this is not a food blog, there will be no pictures of the food, and also not much description of the food but suffice to say that I just ate the remainders of the duck confit 5 days after it was originally served and it still tasted toe-curlingly good. And I don't even like duck confit. It's always stringy and chewy and reminds me that birds raised for food should not be permitted to attend aerobics classes twice a week. Damien made it so tender that the meat fell off the bone, and I have been pulling off bits and pieces of it for the last 2 days to mash into The Son's porridge. I hope he does this again, and soon. In other news, The Daughter is serving out her 3rd month of babyhood and is getting a little bit fat. Before I had her, I used to long for a great fat baby with deep fat creases on her neck, arms and legs. And now I have one! And boy is it difficult to keep the fat creases clean on the inside. They require cleaning about 3 times a day otherwise she's one big fat smelly rash. According to Grandma, she looks just like me when I was a baby, but much, much fatter. Apparently I was past full term (slightly late in arriving, as always) but skinny.Finally, and I have to note this down at the expense of sounding like a woman obsessed with her own children, The Son had another epiphany this morning. He buckled his sister into the swing and in so doing pinched his index finger. I gave him the usual spiel about how he needs to be careful otherwise he will hurt himself doing all these things and everyone will be sad.Small boys are tough, mama, he said. Much tougher than big people and babies. You always say that this will hurt me a lot but it only hurt a little. I'm tough. Tougher than big people and babies. RIGHT? Snippets When I was about ... 24 and going through an extremely painful breakup (having just experienced the joy of being dumped) I prayed constantly for about 6 months for "inner peace". Well, I've certainly found it now.Inner peace is when both children are finally asleep.Possibly because I am married and out of the market, and further possibly because I now have kids (and could possibly no longer be a virgin), my male friends have started to confide in me. It is a disturbing trend, because after years of hearing bullshit ("we usually talk a lot more about sports"), I am finally getting to hear what guys really really talk about when there are no women around.Male Friend No. 1, whilst I was hoeing into a nice juicy wedge of Hawaiian pizza and only half-listening:"I'll be the first to admit it - my penis is extremely short. But it's also extremely thick, and that's what makes the girls so happy." At that moment, I happened to glance at the tiny little salt and pepper shakers on the table and managed to say mm-hmm mm-hmm. My hyperactive imagination, eager as ever to help out with the illustrations, showed me a picture of a flesh-coloured cha siew pao.[I asked him if I could ever put this discussion in an electronic medium and he said yes he has no detractors, only satisfied customers.]Friend no. 2, on the phone:So how should I react if, after having sex for the first time with this girl, she asks me if we could try a threesome next time. Does this mean she had a bad time with me and next time I should bring reinforcements?No dude. If a girl has a bad time, you can rest assured that none of her future plans extending beyond the next hour would involve you. At this point, if she could make you disappear, you'd already be gone. And she wouldn't be asking after your friends. Clearly you have ventured into a rarified zone with this girl where she doesn't want to be your friend, she doesn't want any kind of long-term relationship with you, she just wants a Weinerslave.[Clearly, also, I live vicariously through friend no. 2.] Friend no. 3, also on the phone:So I went to KL with 2 other guys and we hooked up with this girl who wants to try a group thing. She's small but extremely enthusiastic. I'm just watching the action from the side when one of the guys asks me to join in. Join in where? I asked. There's no space!! Between the 2 of you, I can hardly see her!![Given my rather uptight attitude towards these issues, it took me 2 hours to find that funny.] But anyway, I might sound like I'm complaining but secretly I am so pleased to have finally been allowed into the inner circle (of a man's mind). It might be in need of a little cleaning but it sure beats a discussion about sports. Nobody has ever confided in me about sports before.Now that I'm no longer pregnant, I do miss the little pregnancy jokes.1. Pregnant friend and pregnant me in a crowded lift full of strangers. I looked over at her and asked "do you know who the father is yet?""I just found out," she replies. "Now I'm trying to get him to admit that it's his."2. Pregnant me and The Son accompany a single girlfriend who's getting married to a bridal boutique. Salesgirl comes up to us and asks "so... who's the bride?""Me me me!!" I wanted to say. "He finally said yes!! I'm so happy!!" Great Expectations It is with great pleasure and relief that we announce the long awaited arrival of Chicken No. 2. She arrived on a Saturday night, exactly on her forecasted birth date, and I'm still trying to remember what it was they said about Saturday's child. One thing we do know - she has got mad screaming skillz. I feel like we have a new pet in the house. A new angry red screaming pet. I can hear the neighbours shutting their windows whenever she starts up. I'm surprised we haven't heard from them yet.This one was fed a very very Omega-3 rich diet, whereas for Chicken No. 1, I had no clue about Omega-3 so he had none. We are watching to see if it made a difference. I think a thousand bucks worth of Omega-3 tablets went into Chicken No. 2, plus another truckload of vitamins B, C, D, iron, calcium and I can't remember what else. I was taking pills and supplements all day with this one. She weighed 4.05kg at birth, and was the heavyweight champion in the ward. No. 1 weighed 2.92kg. He was the lightest baby they had in the ward for the few days we stayed in the hospital.Also, for no. 1, we read not a single childcare book, so basically everything he did was completely unexpected and a wonder to us all. Omigod he just filled up his little diaper, we would say in awe. We had no standards for him whatsoever. But for no. 2, I have bought a grand total of 2 books on babies and so we will actually have a clue this time around. One of them actually has a "crying" analysis, so that we can interpret what she's screaming about. So far it's been very accurate. But then again, she's usually hungry. It's not like she's asking to borrow the car or anything.I recently discovered by accident that men have an extremely rosy impression of breastfeeding class. A sea of boobs and half naked women expressing milk in a semi-erotic fashion, is what I understand they think it is. In reality, it is a sea of boobs, but from a motley crew of wan looking no-makeup extremely exhausted women who all sit very gingerly (stitches) and who still look pregnant despite the fact that each one is carrying a small red infant. One class attendee was so dazed that she didn't realise the class was BYOB (bring your own baby) and showed up alone. Another class attendee didn't realise that you are not expected to whip off your shirt and sit there topless in front of God and everybody (she must have arrived first). The rest of us just adjusted our clothing to show as little as possible and tried not to stare at each other's boobs as the instructor walked around grabbing and squeezing to ensure milk flow. It's not exactly a Victoria's Secret moment.In other news, it sure is good to be holding a new baby. Great Speeches and Soliloquys from the Peanut Gallery I don't know if it's typical for 4 year old boys to get a little bit long-winded, but The Son has certainly headed off in that direction. Over the last 6 months, we have noticed an marked increase in the melodrama department, something my husband refers to as "chewing the scenery".A couple of weekends ago, he let loose a really long soliloquy at Parkway Parade which, if he had not been leaning a little bit too close to the dustbin and standing at barely 2/3 of my height, I might have been tempted to take seriously. It started with a trip to Parkway Parade on Saturday morning, and I briefed him beforehand on the trip agenda, basically we would attend at Parkway Parade for the purpose of depositing a cheque, eating and drinking store-bought foods and, at some point, spending some quality time at the arcade (Timezone).So naturally he was keen, and also naturally, when we arrived at Parkway Parade, I prioritized all my stuff first, which meant that 4 hours later, we would still be sitting at Dome's while I enjoyed a burger and an iced coffee with ice cream and he had a choc milk-shake. Then The Mother calls to say she will pick us up half an hour early, and could we please report to the taxi stand immediately, so that she knows which building is Parkway Parade by the 2 small people standing in front of it.When The Son got wind of the fact that his arcade trip was cancelled, he was extremely displeased and spake forth in a voice most dissatisfied. I informed him that it was understandable that he might be a little bit upset about the situation, but (burp) hey we can't always get what we want all the time, and there's always next time, so please get a grip on yourself and calm down. At this point, he got a little bit shrill."Actually I'm not very happy with you. You are not saying it properly. I am not abit upset! Actually I am very upset! You said we are going to the arcade! Then you went to eat your food for so long! And you asked me to be patient. Now we are going to Grandma's house. I want to go to the arcade now! (Then he looks around, shifts tactics) Where is Grandma? She's not here yet. Can we go to the arcade for a short while until she gets here? We are just waiting, Mama. Can we just go? I have been very patient with you, you know." Then he fixes me with a look that could bend spoons.Jesus Christ. If he's like this now, what should we be expecting next year? Why can't he be like other little boys and just run around screaming in circles?________________________________________________________In other news, I recently inspected the rather amazing collection of books at E@L's residence and it is truly a wonder to behold the depth and range of his casual reading material. You should have seen the look on his face when I turned around to ask "Hey, do you have any Grisham or Stephen King in here?" It was awesome. The Husband cringed and averted his eyes ("I can't believe it's not margarine!"). Local Woman Finds Out The Hard Way That Beer Gives False Results in Pregnancy Test ... ... "her tummy just grew and grew and everyone thought she was pregnant but in fact it was just a huge beer belly. And she and her beer belly lived unhappily ever after. The End."I'm starting to wonder if it's not just an urban legend after all. Maybe I shouldn't have downed that keg last November before peeing on a stick. Yes, that might have been an ill advised move.Am now heading to the Durian Durian Cafe to drown my sorrows. I really do spend my money on stupid stuff. Wonder if I can find a taxi who will drive me home after that, especially if I'm carrying leftovers. Will probably have to rely on my "sad pregnant woman by the side of the road who needs transport" routine. While stocks last! I feel homicidal, and other sad tales Sometimes when I go to the pregnancy websites on the Internet it occurs to me that both the people who write them, as well as the people who comment on them, could possibly be helping themselves to the epidural and the laughing gas as they type. Everyone is so freaking happy. I feel elated! I feel overjoyed!I feel homicidal!There is NO comfortable sleeping position left. It's like trying to make a crane (machine, not bird) lie down on its back or sideways and get a good night's rest. There's always that something extra sticking up in the air. Also, although I wonder how is this even possible, my maternity clothes don't fit anymore! (!!!!) There should be a law against this. How can the maternity clothes not fit at the point in time when you need them the most. I have this one black Thyme top that still fits, only because it's really really stretchy. Then I have these (non-maternity) pants from Mumbai, where the elastic snapped some weeks ago and those still fit. Apart from that, nothing fits anymore, and by nothing, I mean really really nothing.Even the Incredible Hulk's pants still fit him when he turns green and rips his shirt and shoes. Where did he get those pants, I'd like to know. They look pretty comfortable too. I just feel like I've been cut in half when I put on anything, skirt, pants, you name it.Generally and specifically, I'm happy about the baby. I just wish she would make an appearance. We are in Week 40 now, and it is High Time that Madam showed up. Her brother made an early appearance at 36.5 weeks and by the time we reached Week 40, he was practically painting the town red with shopping and house-hunting so she's really missing out on some good stuff here. I mean, a durian cafe just opened right next to my house!In other news, I finally got my refund for overpayment of hospital bills. I have to remind myself that this is a refund, it's not a windfall, so no need to be so happy. Unfortunately for some complete stranger out there, the hospital also enclosed some other woman's itemised tax invoice for her IVF treatment, which I went through in detail before I realised it was not mine. And then after I realised it was not mine, I really went through that thing with a fine tooth comb. Did you know the groundsheet costs S$16? It's the giant napkin the hospital puts under every pregnant woman's ass so that she doesn't leak fluid onto the hospital bed. It's a PAPER NAPKIN. Also, at one point, they touched her with a pair of powderless gloves. That was S$6.I'm going to bring a towel and some oven mittens. Also a box of tissues (that costs S$3 or something if you get it from the hospital). Local Woman's Attempt to Use Murphy's Law to Deliver Baby Not Exactly Working Out About 9 months ago I wrote about how to harness the power of Murphy's Law to get pregnant, covering the various experiences of some girlfriends.It occurred to me last weekend I could try to deliver on time using the same method, rather than just sitting around like a hippo gaining 30 - 40 grams a day like I'm currently doing. Perhaps I could get myself into a situation where Murphy's Law would require the waterbag to burst somehow, at the most inappropriate or potentially embarrassing time.So The Son and I got on the Duckboat for a 45 minute tour of the various construction sites at the Marina waterfront. 50 minutes and S$35 later, we got off the Duckboat, contraction free, water bag still intact. I thought about the Singapore Flyer but that's another S$35 for only 30 minutes. Perhaps we should embark on a 10-day cruise?____________________________________________We got the best idea ever after someone rear-ended our (stationery) car 2 days ago. HAVE NO CAR. Better still, send the car to some shyster workshop so that I will have the benefit of the additional stress of GETTING ROYALLY SCREWED WHILST HAVING NO CAR.I didn't exactly understand what the fuss in the papers about motor workshops was all about, nor the public outrage about the shady dealings of motor workshops, until I read the shyster workshop's papers which they asked me to sign, which explains everything so nicely.In it I am asked to (and I don't even need to paraphrase this at all) authorise the workshop to:1. negotiate a settlement with the third party who rear-ended our car as they deem fit;2. instruct solicitors on my behalf; and3. appoint a vehicle surveyor on my behalf,and at my expense.I also confirm that I only wish to be informed of my case when they are major developments like court attendances and affidavits.I authorise the car workshop to receive and keep all settlement monies. But if the claim is unsuccessful, I will pay costs incurred by the motor workshop and the opposing party, including legal costs on a full indemnity basis.I also confirm by signature (in advance!) that I have collected my vehicle and all repairs are satisfactory.IN EXCHANGE FOR ALL THIS, I get my repairs done.This, I am being asked to sign, first thing on a Thursday morning. I called a friend who is in this business. He said, did you take a photo of your car before you handed it over. No? Well then they will have a grand old time with the repairs, rack up the bill, the other motorist's insurer could reject the claim and you would end up having to pay the motor workshop, the surveyor and the lawyer out of pocket. Dincha know? Dumbass?I called the shyster workshop. I want my car back, said I. I don't want you to repair it. We will return the replacement car. Or, I can work with you if you first get me the surveyor's report about the cost of repairs.But why, they asked. Your husband already agreed to everything yesterday. Also, you must pay us S$80 for the use of the replacement car for 1 day. It will take a month to complete the survey, so you will have to wait. [I'm not a master of the English language myself, but isn't the word "survey" derived from the word "see"? How does it take 1 month to look at the back of my car and write down "replacement of boot door and bumper - S$___". Is the surveyor slowly regaining his eyesight after a terrible accident? Does he need to write the report in all known languages? And in blood? Has my car been moved to Bahrain and he has to walk there? How does it take 1 month to complete a survey?]So I called the other driver, suggested that perhaps her insurer was the best one to call upon to recommend a workshop. She agreed. I called her insurer. They asked me to ask my own insurer for a recommendation instead, then file a claim.BUT I DID, said I. We did all the paperwork and went to their recommended workshop, and this is the result. Give me a workshop that YOU trust.No. Call your own insurer and get onto another workshop. Maybe the next one will be better. We only process claims, which means you have to get the car fixed first.I wish I had that kind of faith in human nature.So I called my own insurer and told them what happened. They said if you want to make a complaint about our authorised workshops, you'll have to write in. That's when I finally exploded.I DON'T CARE ABOUT YOUR AUTHORISED WORKSHOP. I JUST WANT TO KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH MY CAR. IF YOUR WORKSHOP IS SCAMMING PEOPLE LIKE THIS, THAT'S NOT MY PROBLEM, THAT'S. YOUR. FUCKING. PROBLEM.Ok, I didn't say the expletive, but I THOUGHT IT VERY LOUDLY IN MY HEAD. That'll show 'em.The result of that is, I got put on hold for 5 minutes, after which the guy came back and said someone else will call me back sometime today to, like, discuss or whatever. I thought the insurance company would be just a little bit concerned about something like this happening in their own back yard but I could be wrong.Still no contractions. Local Woman's Second Attempt to Deliver Baby Coincides with Small Boy's Second Attempt to Watch Anaconda without Falling Asleep Needless to say both attempts have not been successful. I really need to ask the good people at Mt Elizabeth Hospital if I qualify for frequent flier miles at the labour ward. God knows I've paid enough for them. For those of us fortunate enough to deliver during the first visit, you may wish to know that all failed visits are paid for at full price. So whether or not the baby comes out, we still need to pay full price. There is no discount for embarrassment or failure to pop. And to add insult to injury, the TV channels available in the labour ward are really really limited, unless you are looking for the Arab channels.Also, have I already mentioned this - there is NO wireless internet access in the labour ward. Because, as the nurse so succinctly put it, people who come here usually don't need it. Well, missy, just because I can't balance a laptop on my tummy anymore doesn't mean I don't need one. In the end, I had to displace a nurse from her seat behind the counter so that I could send out a work email with an attachment. __________________________________________Following the latest failed visit to the labour ward, I was asked to go home and wait for the contractions to come every 5 minutes, as opposed to every 15 minutes, before returning. Easier said than done. Since then, and it's been a week, I've gone off my 'prevent labour' medication, gone off the 'prevent labour' special diet and gone on a free for all milkshake, durian, ice cream and sweets binge over the last 5 days.And the contractions have stopped. Oh shit Twenty Questions: How Do I Know If I'm A Workaholic? Do you get more excited about your work than about family or anything else? Are there times when you can charge through your work and other times when you can't? Do you take work with you to bed? On weekends? On vacation? Is work the activity you like to do best and talk about most? Do you work more than 40 hours a week? Do you turn your hobbies into money-making ventures? Do you take complete responsibility for the outcome of your work efforts? Have your family or friends given up expecting you on time? Do you take on extra work because you are concerned that it won't otherwise get done? Do you underestimate how long a project will take and then rush to complete it? Do you believe that it is okay to work long hours if you love what you are doing? Do you get impatient with people who have other priorities besides work? Are you afraid that if you don't work hard you will lose your job or be a failure? Is the future a constant worry for you even when things are going very well? Do you do things energetically and competitively including play? Do you get irritated when people ask you to stop doing your work in order to do something else? Have your long hours hurt your family or other relationships? Do you think about your work while driving, falling asleep or when others are talking? Do you work or read during meals? Do you believe that more money will solve the other problems in your life? Oh glumness I'm not cut out for working from home. Away from the constant mental stimulation of the office and all my stationery, I am bereft, isolated and depressed. But the house arrest orders have been extended and here I stay. The dietary restrictions have also been extended and clarified (who knew that cranberries in Singapore have sugar added to them??) and I have done my level best to educate those members of my family who bring me food out of the kindness of their heart but my mother probably needs a little bit more explaining time.I cannot eat carbs or sugary foods, I tell her. I will go into premature labour.Ok, says she. Here are 2 boxes of durians (very expensive you know. You better finish!) and a slice of home-made cheesecake. You better try, otherwise Melvin (long-suffering housekeeper) will be upset. Do you want some mangoes? From the market. They are very sweet. Are you eating at my house for dinner? We have seafood pasta.Now everything in the fridge smells of durian. According to The Husband, so does the stuff in the freezer. In fact, my durian is making our neighbour cough and sneeze. If I were at all concerned about public health and safety, I should bring the durian downstairs and eat it by the pool, late at night, when there's no one around.In other news, I received the amazing gift of a 3D ultrasound from Expat@Large yesterday, for which we are deeply, profoundly grateful. The images are AMAZING. He captured an eye moving and a smile!!! A SMILE!!!! Babies smile in the womb!!! Oh my God!!He also captured a great shot of the baby grabbing and squeezing her umbilical cord like her brother grabs and squeezes his ... Play-Doh. Not a well advised move. Just as I was commenting on exactly how ill advised it is to abuse something you depend entirely upon for your continued existence, I saw her smooshing the placenta with her forehead. The placenta. That's great. Then when I thought she couldn't do anything worse, she puts the umbilical cord in her mouth and starts gnawing on it. Now there's a prime candidate for premature delivery.Her brother was so calm and collected during his 36.5 week stay. The most he ever did was hiccup and give me Braxton-Hicks contractions during American Idol. Her hiccups are twice the frequency of his, and she manages to flip and flop around in there like 2 puppies fighting. I'm almost completely certain that she has also managed to get hold of a sharp instrument that she's using to stab my kidneys with. 2 days ago, my belly-button, which inverted itself very early in the pregnancy, suddenly extruded another 1.5 centimetres because of a small unknown bony appendage (knee? elbow? big toe?) that had found its way just under it. I almost fainted. It's just a thin layer of skin there with no muscle underneath. If she pushes any harder, she could be the first baby to perform her own Caesarean. Golden Goose under House Arrest So apparantly an excess of carbohydrates, stress and goodness knows what else can increase the risk of premature labour.According to The Gynae, I hafta go home and lie down. For 2 weeks. Otherwise the new chicken will hatch. I think the whole lying down deal was great for about 15 minutes, after which I started to go quietly, and then noisily, insane. And that was the easy part. The hard part is the new diet.When it comes to the new diet, The Gynae is Hard Core. Rather than to waste half an hour telling me what I can't eat, she decided it was easier to spend 30 seconds telling me what I can. Brown riceBrown spaghettiBrown breadMeatVegetablesEggsAlmondsApplesBerriesAs she rattled off this very short and depressing list, I heard her say the magic word chocolate.What was that you said -chocolate?Yes. Chocolate. You can have none.I didn't find that funny at all, and neither did she. I guess you could say that consult ended on a rather grim note. I left, holding my very short list, medical certificate and a sack of medication.How come all my guests want to check out early? I asked The Husband when he came to pick me up. The Son checked out a little early too, four years ago, just not this early.I think it's because they don't like the food, said our resident comedian. All the entrees come with 5 desserts.While it can be said that I did develop a sweet tooth during this pregnancy and the last one, I still believe there is nothing wrong with finishing 2 cakes every 3 or 4 days. Especially when they're chiffon cakes, which are mostly air. After all, air is calorie-free. I had originally planned to buy and eat an Awfully Chocolate plain chocolate cake after my visit to The Gynae, but I guess this will have to be postponed. It does not help that The Mother's idea of a snack for me during a long car trip is an entire pandan chiffon cake. Spoke with The Mother on the phone today, meaning to tell her about the medical leave/ premature labour situation but somehow the conversation was misdirected to a request for additional blank cheques and how much is in your bank account now. But I haven't been to work for the last week, as I have been on medical leave, said the Golden Goose.Oh. Well, have you banked in your paycheque or not?I have not. DO YOU WANT TO KNOW WHY I HAVE NOT BEEN TO WORK FOR THE LAST WEEK? bellowed the Golden Goose.Errr.. ok. Why haven't you been to work for the last week, she finally asks.As The Husband likes to say, the milk of human kindness flows through my family like bean curd. And Now There Are Seven A coupla weeks ago, The Son went on a school excursion to the Pasir Ris Kid's Kampong for which I had to pay S$15 and sign a consent form. Which is fine, except that nowhere in the consent form did I consent to him bringing home a bunch of pet fish in a tiny little bucket with his name on it. It's all very cute and everything, WHEN THAT HAPPENS TO SOMEONE ELSE. I am less than charmed when it happens to me and my kitchen.Anyway, to cut a long and tedious story short, we had what appeared to be 6 live fish and 1 dead fish by the time I got home from work. 2 of the live fish were not actually in the bucket at that point - one of them was on the coffee table and another one was writhing on the floor ("MAMA !! LOOK!!") and about to be eaten by The Dog.By the time the fambly woke up the next morning, there were 6 dead fish and 1 live fish ("Survivor Fish").We waited patiently for Survivor Fish to pass on like his bethren. He was not fed, as the fish did not come with any fish food. Yet stupid Survivor Fish survived for another 16 days. Then finally, The Husband made a unilateral decision, completely bereft of any spousal support or encouragement, TO BUY A FISH TANK AND FISH FOOD. I think the last thing I said to him about this issue is why can't you put Survivor Fish into that big vase instead. No need to buy a tank.If I had known this was going to happen, Survivor Fish would have relocated to the sewer or the chute 15 days ago. Now, instead of having no pet fish, we have another 6 new fish, 1 fish tank, 1 fish tank cleaner, 1 fish tank aerator, 1 fake aquarium plant and 1 real aquarium plant. And of course, we have Survivor Fish and fish food. I'm tired of typing the word "fish".Of course now that we have spent money on all of this, I'm almost completely certain that all the fish will die tomorrow leaving us with yet another item to gather dust in the house.