Revelation

It was our first tutorial for the module, and he asked us to take out a piece of paper, and write down what we thought chemical engineering meant, and why we chose to major in it. Is this guy for real? Is he expecting an actual answer, or is this some trick question?

I scribbled something down. Honesty's always the best way to go, I figured. I passed the sheet of paper to AY. She took a brief glance at it and let out a chuckle. Then she continued to pass the papers down the row to be collected.

***

Five minutes into the class, I received an SMS from HW. I furrowed my eyebrows and glared at him from across the classroom. What was he doing messaging me in the middle of class?!

"Don't you think he looks like Terry?" the message read. I turned to look at HW, and he gestured towards the front of the classroom, where our tutor was standing.

"Terry who?" I replied.

"Terry from I Not Stupid."

I rolled my eyes at him and kept my phone back in my pocket.

And so it began.

***

The following week, Terry whipped out a set of transparencies. "I just thought to share some of your responses from last week," he beamed.

As he scrolled down, and we shared some laughs at what some students had written, something caught my eye, but I didn't think much of it until AY nudged me with her elbow. "Isn't that what you wrote?!"

My reward for coining that answer was a caramel sweet. As I caught his toss, I felt like I was back in kindergarten, where I was given a pat on the back for colouring within the lines.

After class, HW came running over, and with a cheeky grin on his face, asked if I was going to keep the sweet in my fridge and never ever eat it, so that I could take it out and "look at it every day."

I rolled my eyes again, and with my voice muffled from the chewing, informed him: "I'm eating it already, lor."

That week, they called me "The Favourite."

***

We worked ourselves into groups of three, and a rotation system was set up whereby each group had to present the solutions for the tutorial questions that week. Being "The Favourite" meant that I couldn't weasel my way out of going first, no matter how much I pleaded, begged, or bribed.

So I went up to the OHP (overhead projector), slightly flustered, as I usually am most of the day.

I positioned my transparency sheet, and then proceeded to... um, find the switch for the OHP. What happened to all OHPs having the on-off button in plain view?!

"Um," I fumbled at the machine for a while. Maybe it will mysteriously switch on on its own. It didn't, and I gave up. I turned to look at Terry for help. "How do you switch this thing on?"

The class booed loudly, and I gave them all an icy stare. But Terry, obliging as he is, just chuckled and walked over to where I was. He put his hand over the OHP. "You see," he began. "The thing about this OHP is that he only works if you are friendly. You have to give him a pat on the head..." He patted the OHP's, er, mirror. "Say 'Hello' to him, and he will magically switch on!"

So I did what any normal student would do. I patted the OHP's mirror, deadpanned, and in as friendly a voice as I could muster, said "Hello."

The light didn't come on, and as I turned to Terry, forlorn, I watched as the shock registered on his face. That quickly gave way to amusement as his cheeks reddened, and he broke out into uncontrollable guffaws. On hindsight, I guess he didn't really expect me to talk to an inanimate object. But how was I supposed to know that?!

The progression of incredulity on Terry's face was priceless, and despite having the whole class laughing at me by this time, I couldn't help but burst into sheepish giggles.

That week, they called me "OHP girl." Terry, to this very day, still knows me first and foremost by that name.

***

It was during this semester that I switched around one of the tutorial slots of my core modules, because I wanted to take a literature module. My literature tutorial was just before Terry's lesson, which gave my classmates plenty of time to think up of puns during my absence, and then taunt me with them when I turned up five minutes before his class started.

"You're TERRY-ble." (Funny, meh?)

"What TERRY-vision programmes did you watch last night?" (Funny, meh?)

"Can I borrow your TERRY-phone?" (Funny, meh?)

"Do you and Terry have TERRY-pathy?" (FUNNY, MEH?!)

It was also during this semester that the movie Turn Left, Turn Right came out -- some romantic comedy starring Gigi Leung and Aniki Jin. Because Terry's real name (which is not Terry) gave so much opportunity for puns, my classmates certainly didn't pass up the chance to add another name to my card.

That week, they called me "Gigi Cheong." You go figure it out.

(They later modified it to Juju Cheong, because "ju" in Cantonese means... urgh, NEVER MIND!)

***

The morning I came to school with a newly-cut bob, HW pointed at me and laughed really loudly. "You look like a MUSHROOM!"

That week, they called me "Shiitake," which apparently goes well with TERRY-yaki sauce.

***

During one tutorial lesson, Terry posed some engineering question to the class. Expectedly, no one answered. I slumped down lower into my seat. Just keep yourself out of sight, and maybe this week you'll have some peace.

Terry looked around for someone to "volunteer" an answer, and walked in my direction. "There you are!" he pointed at me, a wide grin plastered across his face; mine contorted in horror. "My favourite student!" he boomed.

As the whole class turned to stare at me, Z very helpfully (and not-too-subtly!) pointed out right there and then: "Your face is as red as a tomato!"

That week, they called me "The Tomato."

***

We were studying at the bench one afternoon, when HW gawked at a passer-by who was wearing a pink shirt: "Ew, what kind of guy wears pink?" (We gave HW a pink shirt for his birthday last year. Hur hur.)

"Someone more secure than you," I answered, without looking up from my work.

As it turned out, we went for lessons the next day, who should be wearing pink but -- Terry! I could feel the knowing grins all throughout the lesson, but I kept looking straight ahead, refusing to meet any of their eyes. God ah, God, I silently muttered. Do You think this is funny?!

That week, they couldn't think of any more nicknames, so they just used all of the other names that they'd thought of before.

***

HW (helpfully): "Eh, I think he's Christian, leh. He wears a cross on his chain."

Me (annoyed): "... And?!"

HW (presumptuously): "And you are Christian mah. And you want a good Christian boy..."

Me (practically screaming): "That's a pre-requisite! It doesn't mean I go around jumping on every single Christian boy that I see! Do you know how busy that would make me?!"

HW (clueless): "Eh, but he's Christian, leh."

Me (giving up): "..."

***

"Actually, you know what, I really think we should stop this," I reasoned, in one of my many futile attempts to put a stop to the teasing. "I mean, for all we know, the guy could be married, and I don't want there to be any rumours of..."

HW (always and forever The One To Make My Life Miserable) cut in: "Why?! Would it make you upset if he were married?!"

"..."

I couldn't win.

***

A couple of my friends stayed behind after class one day, to consult with Terry over something, and as I waited around for them, I overheard (not on purpose!) their conversation. In it, Terry told them that it didn't matter if you did or didn't do well in school before -- past academics don't count anymore; to be a good engineer, you will need something extra.

Don't tell him, but --

That week, his little impromptu motivational speech secretly impressed me us.

Familial nonsense II

Our kitchen has been on the verge of falling apart for quite some time now. Most of the handles on the drawers have fallen off; water cannot go down the sink; strange brown fluids are oozing out from underneath the cabinets. Hygienically unsound, if nothing else.



We've put it off long enough, but it looks like we're finally going to re-do the kitchen. I never knew quite how many colours kitchen cabinets and table-tops came in until now. I don't know when we'll finally all agree on them, so don't hold your breath.

***

We moved into this house about 10 years ago, and at its peak, we had nine ten people (and one dog) living in it. Still, no one had to sleep on the floor, so you can work out the rough number of rooms.

It's a shared deed, kinda like a family house, if you will, so don't get too excited -- money doesn't grow on trees for us either. It is this informal monetary arrangement that's potentially hazardous.

My aunt owns a big part of this house, and she recently made out her will to leave all of her possessions equally distributed to all her nieces and nephews. While we've never had any money struggle (mostly because there was not much money to speak of) when my grandparents passed on, this is the roof over our heads that we're talking about, and my dad was understandably wary; if either of my cousins decided they wanted their liquidated share, that will effectively force us out of the house.

So a couple of weeks ago, we were talking, and he asked how we would feel about selling this house in two years; that's when we'd have paid it off in full. We could move to a smaller apartment, because if it were just our family, we wouldn't need much space anyway.

My mom shook her head in disagreement. "No, no, big house is good."

Dad raised his eyebrows in inquisition: "Why? But what if..."

My mom put her hand up to stop him, and blinked hard at him. "If each of the children have their own room, then when they get married, they don't have to move out. They can all stay with us!" She sounded like she had this worked out for years!

I choked on my food. "So this has been your ploy all along? To get all of us to stay with you guys?" I asked incredulously.

Mom turned to me, and very matter-of-factly -- almost nonchalantly! -- replied in the affirmative: "YUH-HUH!"

"..."

***

I typically don't turn on the air-con when I sleep at night. I leave the windows and door open so that there's a steady flow of air. (The result of this has not always been pleasant, stemming mostly from a combination of heavy rain and me being quite the heavy sleeper, but that's another story for another time.)

The thing about aunts (or mine, at least) is that they have no sense of personal boundary. They barge into my room at will -- yes, even when the lights are out and it's 3 AM.

*My aunt rattles my shoulder. "Hey, are you asleep already?"

"Yesssshhhh," I mumble from underneath the covers.

"Nonsense, you're awake," she shakes her head in disapproval. "We bought supper, go down and eat."

(*Repeat twice weekly.)

***

Stay with your extended family. It's fun, and as long as they are convinced that you're still a kid, they'll keep feeding you.

Eye for a Guy II

I've had so many searches for "Eye for a Guy" since that entry about Q. Sorry, guys. No photos of Howard and Wolfgang here.

But since I'm taking a self-imposed break from lab today, I thought I'd give someone else an ego boost, and share a story about... toothpaste.

***

To find someone that you can feel comfortable with within five minutes of knowing them is a rare and understated gift. If you can laugh at the same things and laugh at each other, it's always a friendship worth working on. :)

Under normal circumstances, W wouldn't have come into my life, but it's a combination of a complex network and a not-that-interesting story that made him one of those people. We don't get to meet up all that often, and even less now that he's in Australia, but when we do, there is always an air of familiarity and ease.

***

It was a beautiful night; the stars were quite something to behold, the water was cool beneath our feet, and the silence was penetrated only by the gentle creaking of the swings. Towards the end of the evening, laughter and jesting gave way to exhausted smiles of contentment.

We retreated back to the chalet, half tired from the all the frolicking, the other half reluctant for the long walk to end.

***

My eyes flitted open at the sudden onslaught of light; I was sleeping closest to the bathroom.

W saw my head turn, and whispered an apology: "Sorry, did I wake you?"

"Nah, it's okay," I assured him. "What time is it?" We were due to check out by 10 AM.

"It's still early, go back to sleep," he hushed.

"Mm-hmm," I mumbled into the pillow, trying to block the glare from my eyes.

***

When I finally got out of bed, the sky was lit. I reached for my glasses, flustered from the thought that we might've overslept. But a look around showed that everyone else was asleep. I heaved a sigh of relieved as I looked at the clock. Eightish; still time.

I arched my body in a lazy stretch and tip-toed to the bathroom. I stood in front of the sink, and instinctively gave myself a once-over in the mirror after rubbing my eyes. Then I looked down for my toothbrush...

To my surprise, I found that all of our toothbrushes were laid out in neat parallel rows, and each one had a strip of bright-white toothpaste across the bristles. I generally don't expect to be surprised within five minutes of being awake, so the memory of that sight puts a smile on my face to this day.

I was still staring at the toothbrushes, afraid to disturb the perfect alignment, when W popped his head into the bathroom.

"Are you done yet?" he asked.

I jumped in shock, as I turned to face him. "No, I'm not. Hey, did you..." I pointed to the toothbrushes.

"Shhhh," he put his finger to his lips and furrowed his eyebrows.

"You woke up in the middle of the night just to..."

"SHHHH!" he shushed even louder. "It's our secret, okay?"

***

I guess the small gestures are really what touch me the most. Because they are raw, unpretentious reflections of someone's heart -- something I can trust, and something that I treasure.

***

The rest of the gang spent the morning trying to solve the who-put-the-toothpaste mystery over breakfast. W and I joined in for a while, but we eventually caved. Yeah, we're pretty horrible liars. ;)

Green tea everything

There's green tea in everything these days, but this one really takes the cake. Green tea pantiliners!

Road block

An excerpt from an article that caught my eye this past weekend ("US students confounded by teachers' poor English," ST, June 25):

Miss Valerie Serrin still remembers vividly her anger and the feeling of helplessness.

After fetting a C on a laboratory report in an introductory chemistry course, the freshman went to her teaching assistant to ask what she should have done to get a better grade.

The assistant, a graduate student from China, had a finely honed mind. But he also had a heavy accent and a limited grasp of spoken English, so he could not explain to Miss Serrin what her report had lacked.

"He would just say, 'It's easy, it's easy'," said Miss Serrin, who recently completed her junior year at the University of California, Berkeley. "But it wasn't easy. He was brilliant, but he couldn't communicate in English."

... With a steep rise in the number of foreign graduate students in the past two decades, undergraduates at large research universities in the United States often find themselves in classes and laboratories run by graduate teaching assistants whose mastery of English is less than complete.

The issue is particularly acute in subjects like engineering, where 50 per cent of graduate students are foreign-born; and math and the physical sciences, where 41 per cent of graduate students are from overseas...

[...]

In January, Ms Bette Grande, a Republican state representative from Fargo, North Dakota, introduced legislation that would allow students in state universities to drop courses without penalty and be reimbursed if they could not understand the spoken English of a teaching assistant or a professor.

"If a student has paid tuition to be in that classroom," Ms Grande said, "he should receive what he paid for."

While this article is in the context of the US, it parallels the situation even in local universities. And, yes, it is "particularly acute" in my area of study.

In recent semesters, the school has given lecturers and tutors the option to open an anonymous feedback feature, which allows for students to make suggestions, without the paranoia that any negative comments will impact their grade in that module. However, as is always the problem with lack of accountability, it's hard to stamp out abuse.

We had a lecturer from Hong Kong a while back, and after he set a remarkably difficult mid-term test, he drew a whole flurry of criticism, which he chose to publish for all to see. In what I thought was the worst(s) of the lot, some students hit out at his accent, which they claim was incomprehensible (in words that were much harsher than I'm used to).

I've sat through lessons by teachers from Belgium, China, India, Indonesia, Israel, Mauritius, the Philippines, Taiwan, the UK, the US -- and of course -- Hong Kong; just at the top of my head. Do some of their accents take getting used to? Sure. Are they to be begrudged for that? Do I even want to answer this question? (Someone from China once told me that when Singaporeans speak Singlish, it's difficult to even make out which parts are in English, Chinese, Malay, Hokkien... you get the idea.)

I think there is something wrong with the objectives of higher-level education if we are going to give money-back guarantees. We can try to insulate ourselves from the rest of the world, but the truth is that many of us are going to have to deal with people from other countries, other cultures, where their primary language is not the same as ours -- if not now, then in the near future.

If we can put aside the self-centredness for a moment to pull the sticks out of our asses, we might just find this a valuable part of the learning process.

That being said, there are certain expectations that I feel the school has to live up to, which they really haven't. The reason why we lament at sub-standard teaching is not so much that we expect all our teachers to be exceptional at their job; we just want them to make a tangible effort -- to see their participation as instrumental to our education, and not just as part of their job requirement. If part of that effort is to master a second language, then the least we can do is try to suck it up and get used to the various accents; I can't believe that adapting to any accent is worse than deciphering rap, and people still manage to do that.

It is a two-way street where the arrows on the ground have faded, and no one is directing traffic; everyone is just stuck, hanging around, cursing and swearing, but making no headway. There has emerged an unfortunate cycle of mistrust between teachers and learners, and this is what has us picking on every irrelevant detail, and has them jaded and uninspired. That, to me, is a worse thing than any language barrier.

Uncle Fester

Me: "There's a very cute guy in the lab. He looks like Uncle Fester!"

Z: "Who's Uncle Fester? Cousin Pus' father?"

Me: "..."

***

Me: There's a very cute guy in the lab. He looks like Uncle Fester!"

KR: "So by 'cute,' you mean ugly?"

Me: "..."

***



Uncle Fester not cute, meh?

Only in the movies things make sense

Why is it that in movies, when a boy accidentally walks in on a girl singing to herself...

(a) she always has the voice of an angel
(b) he's always impressibly awed
(c) they share a tender, blushing moment, and end up falling in love


Why is it that in real life, when a boy accidentally walks in on a girl in the middle of her singing "I can be freeeeeee..."

(a) she jumps at his entry and lets out a mutated ending to the line
(b) he's appalled startled by the indeterminable squawk
(c) they share an awkward, sheepish acknowledgement, and avoid each other the rest of the day

Corrinne May in concert II

Tickets arrived yesterday. That was fast! :)

The words are kinda stuck tonight, so I thought I'd just continue to plug in the meantime. Read, listen, and then book your tickets here! ;)

The other “new” tune of the evening (apparently so new that Corrinne had to scribble down the bass notes for Todd right before the show, causing him to warn the audience that he might screw them up) was an amusing ditty entitled “If I Kissed You”. It seemed similar to “Something About You”, asking if the world would suddenly turn upside-down and cute things like “babies gurgling” and so forth would happen if she showed her lover a little PDA. She got a good laugh when she ended off the song with the line “Would you run naked down the street with my name tattooed on your behind?”, and she gave us all a sly wink and commented, “Bet you weren’t expecting that, were you?”

-- "Corrinne May: I'll be your Mr Beasly if you'll be my Yoko Ono!" by David Martin, Epinions.com

Orange

For Photo Friday. (Someday I'll get it in on time.)

So cute; how could I resist trying Campbell's SpaghettiOs?

Having done so now, however, I would not recommend this to anyone. The first word that comes to mind: gross. Beyond that, you can work it out in your own imagination.

***

This photo was taken a couple of weeks ago, when X came over; not just to eat SpaghettiOs -- to catch up or something, I don't remember. (She liked the SpaghettiOs though.)

She spotted my lab coat hanging on my clothes rack, and insisted on trying it on to "pretend to be a doctor." Putting it on gingerly, and filled with sudden empowerment, she whipped my stuffed cow off my shelf.

"I'm going to perform surgery on him," she declared authoritatively, then dissolved into a fit of giggles. Very convincing.



Yes, with a pair of scissors.

Unfortunately, the operation didn't go too well, and Moo Moo's heart stopped beating, prompting X to start compressions...



But he died anyway. :( (Because, you know, he wasn't alive to begin with.)

***

The moral of the story here is that a lab coat does not a doctor make.



And I guess the difference is that real doctors don't take photos of themselves in their coat. Especially not in a public toilet.

Question

What's the best thing to come home to after spending 15 hours in the lab? (Yes, even better than a whole weekend off!)



A soft fluffy package from the lovely A L, that's what! :) I don't know where the girl digs up these great finds, but I'm grateful that somebody does -- and I'm absolutely over the moon when I get them via snail mail (spiffy track list, too)! :) Thank you for putting this smile on my face!

Food race and, er, just food

While I'm advertising events, I just thought to mention something that a friend is doing. Think The Amazing Race but with (more) food, and S$400 instead of US$1,000,000. Hur hur.



It's for a good cause, right? :) You can check out the official website here. My friends are trying to convince me to join, because they insist that with me on the team, they're at least guaranteed a win in the food-eating part of the contest. Yeah yeah, very funny.

***

Another fun find. Grocery shopping is fun!

Remember good ol' Yan Yan biscuits?



To spice up the goodness, they now have "fun sticks" -- words and pictures on the biscuit sticks. Kinda like fortune cookies, but they make even less sense -- if that's possible.



On the one with the chocolate dip, the sticks say things like "Gallop away," followed by a little horse. And then there's "Go for a swim," followed by... well, I can't see it. Buy your own Yan Yan.



On the one with the strawberry dip, the sticks say "You are lucky today," but they also say "Star fish."

Don't ask me; I don't get it either.

Corrinne May in concert

I see the morning glory
It winds upon the tree
It tells the untold story
Of how things were meant to be

You saw the universe
Caught up in desperate dreams
You came and changed the ending
Changed it to save my fate

You led the revolution
You left your legacy
Embraced the struggle
In the face of mortality

I know I'm not alone in this
Help me believe...

I can be free
I can be free from this place
Beautiful healer
Beautiful grace
Help me to see
Everything fall into place
Wake me from dreaming
No more deceiving
Break these chains

It's still the same old story
This great divide
Between the want and waste
And all the hunger inside

I heard the news today
Now I'm trying to find my place
I'm just a single voice
What can I do to erase

All this misunderstanding
All this anarchy
Six degrees of separation
Sometimes it's so hard to see
That we are not alone in this
I need to believe...

-- "Free" by Corrinne May (Listen here)

***

Corrinne May in Concert - Safe in a Crazy World
Singapore
When: 10 Aug 2005 (Wed), 7.30 PM at the Concert Hall (The Esplanade)

Singaporean singer-songwriter, Corrinne May, continues to make waves in Los Angeles. She has performed internationally in famed venues such as the Hotel Café, The Mint and Genghis Cohen in Los Angeles; The Bitter End and The Living Room in New York; on Hong Kong's most popular music television show, Jade Solid Gold; and had her own television concert in Taiwan.

Her voice was featured in the movie, So Close, and her song, "Journey," is featured in the popular soap opera, At the Dolphin Bay, and has been covered by Angela Zhang Shao Han and Gigi Leung. Her song, "Save Me," was featured on Channel 5's TV drama, Chase. She has written with legendary singer-songwriters Carole King and Carole Bayer Sager and her first album, Fly Away, was released in Singapore, Taiwan, Hong Kong and Japan to critical acclaim.

Currently on tour to promote her brand new album, Safe in a Crazy World, Corrinne returns home to Singapore for a special, one-night only performance of songs from both her albums.

(90 min, no intermission)

***

I'm in. See you there! :)

Spark in the dark

Tagged again, this time by D W! (Do I run that slowly? Hur hur.) I'm tired from a full day of lab, so don't expect anything remotely coherent, but here goes... :)

***

So, what is the one spark in the midst of darkness? What is the one thing that made you smile today?

***

When you have a full day of lab, it leaves little time for anything else -- at least for the day. I seldom talk about work here, because it really isn't all that interesting -- for you, and sometimes, for me. This tag gives me an excuse opportunity to share what I didn't think I would.

For a while, my Final Year Project was pretty touch-and-go; problems ranged from unrealistic experimental objectives to mechanical breakdowns (the machines, not me). The short story is that, while the deadline for my thesis to be handed in was to be the end of this month, it has now been extended to mid-August. I'm mostly grateful for the extension -- because I don't know what I'd do if I had to turn in my thesis in a week's time -- but I have to admit that part of my heart sank at the thought of having not a single day of break before the new semester begins on August 8.

To make things worse, people whom I needed authorisation from started going on leave, the machine had to be sent for repairs, and much of my data had erstwhile been contradictory to what we'd expect in theory.

(Hey, you have to hear about the darkness if you want to know about the spark, okay?)

So the only person left that I was working with took sick last Friday, and I assume that she'll contact me -- or show up at the lab -- when she feels better. I dropped her a get-well-soon note, but didn't feel like waiting around.

I got into the lab early this morning. It was dark, and no one else was in. I sat in front of the computer, and the machine whose fragility had been breached so many times this past semester. In the quietness and the soft humming of the air-conditioner, I buried my head in my hands. What was I going to do now? What if I never ever get any results no matter how much I try? What in the world would I write for my thesis? What if I'm unable to graduate?!

The door knob clattered noisily, and my head jerked upwards, instinctively looking to see who'd come in -- the lab officer. I mustered a weak smile, and a wave of the hand. I shifted my chair and lowered my head behind the computer monitor to hide myself from her view; I wasn't in the mood for small talk. There, staring at the blank screen, I bowed my head down again, and I started to pray -- for favour, for wisdom, for peace, for something.

The rest of the day, I went about my work as usual, with one of my supervisors popping in now and then to make sure that the machine was working well; I couldn't tell, really. Without anyone around to point out my mistakes, and with much free time in between scans, I experimented with a couple of formulas, and played around with the data.

It was almost time to knock off, when a single click brought up a graph that almost brought tears to my eyes. I checked it over and over again. I close my eyes, and breathed in deeply -- please don't let this be some kind of cruel joke. It looked... it looked like...

I called my supervisor and he came running. After checking it twice, he turned to look at me, and held my gaze for the longest time. Please let this be good, please let nothing be wrong... Then he beamed like I'd never seen before. "That's perfect!" He literally jumped for joy. Then he skipped out of the lab, and sent out some frantic e-mails to inform the others of the results. As I watched him leave, I stood there stunned.

This was SOMETHING.

***

Today, my spark was not getting a good experimental result, nor was it the pat on the back, nor the feather in my cap; today, my spark was answered prayer -- without which I would be nothing, and have nothing.

Today, the reminder of that made me smile, and made me cry. Too many times, answered prayer goes unseen, unthanked, and unnoticed. Today, I'm reminded that I worry too much, and trust too little. But most of all, today, I'm comforted that Someone takes the time to remind me anyway. :)

Today, my spark wasn't so much a spark as it was fireworks. :)

***

So, what is the one spark in the midst of darkness? What is the one thing that made you smile today?

I guess this is where I tag five other people; I don't want to tag the same people again, so here goes: One Little Twit, 7366, and Lyn. It's not so much a tag as it is a gentle nudge. Please don't feel incredibly obliged to write; it's all for fun. ;) As always, the converse is such that for anyone else who feels compelled to share, by all means answer the questions, and -- if you like -- drop me a note. :)

And yes, I can't count.

Not swollen at all

Last week, I had dinner with a friend who'd just come home for the holidays. He'd also just had his wisdom tooth removed, so out of consideration, I thought we'd go somewhere with porridge, or tofu, or something.

I asked about the extraction, and mentioned that I had one more wisdom tooth to remove, but was procrastinating because of -- oh, I don't know -- the excruciating pain?

"Hey, do you want to go to my dentist instead? He's very good. I assure you it won't hurt at all," he offered.

"Of course the extraction is not going to hurt if you can't even feel your mouth. But when the anaesthesia wears off..." I shuddered at the memory.

His eyes widened. "Seriously, zero pain! Look, it's not even swollen! My dentist is the best!"

I stared at him, and then felt a grin tug at the side of my mouth. "The tooth that you had extracted -- that was on your left, yes?"

He blinked once, twice. "Yes, how'd you guess?"

"It's swollen."

***



Another puzzling find. Bath salt that tastes smells like polar bears? I don't know.

Sport

For Photo Friday. And fashionably late too.

Zara is giving out free T-shirts and wrist bands with every purchase, as part of their bid to support Spain's campaign to host the 2012 Olympics. Pretty cute, huh?

***

As I made my payment, the cashier mumbled about a free T-shirt, and asked what size I wanted: "S or XS for ladies."

It was one of those moments where I felt my blood start to simmer with indignance. What -- so women have to be all small and petite now? We're not even entitled to be M, L, or XL-sized?! If it wasn't bad enough to have all these dictated by society, now we can't even just shop in peace?

But then I think the buffet lunch started to really work its way into my digestive tract, and I lapsed into a state of stupor indifference. What's. The. Point. "S, I guess," I huffed. I'll just... give it away or something, I silently added.

Anyway, long story short -- Zara has crazy sizes. The S seems to be pretty huge for an S, so that's nice for me. Although it must be said that the T-shirt really is paper thin; I estimate it to last no more than three washes.

Happy Fathers' Day

Bartlet: She dumped a Rhodes Scholar for this guy; Zoey left Charlie for the frog; Ellie and the guitar player with the purple van. My children choose morons, every one.

Debbie: They say daughters look for their fathers.

-- The West Wing, Season 5, Episode 9 (Abu El Banat)

The West Wing is one of those shows that I wish I'd started following earlier, but since I didn't, it annoys me when I get lost now and then, so I'm just kinda stuck. They're showing old episodes on Channel 5 now, weekdays four-ish in the morning -- yes, I'm awake.

Anyway, this made me laugh; maybe one day we'll find out how true it is for me. ;)

***

My dad's newest project this past week has been to scan in all of our childhood photos -- yes, all four big carton boxes full of 'em! -- so that we can store them in digital form. Presumably this means that we will dispose of the hard copies after that, but I don't see that happening. Still, it makes him happy doing it, and I have to admit that going through old photos have spiced up our evenings.

Of everyone in the family, I probably have the worst memory. They keep feeling nostalgic and all, going "Oh, remember the time we did this, this, and this in Tokyo Disneyland?" and I won't have an inkling. Maybe we should've saved our travels for when I was a little older. The fact that my brother (who is six years younger than I am) remembers everything does not mean anything!

If there's a real lesson I've learnt through the past few days of looking through old photos, it is that parents should really dress their kids up less dorkily, so that 15 or 20 years later they will actually have some cute photos of themselves to show off. Instead, I find myself cringing at bad fashion. Oh look, another oversized sweater.

***

Anyway, I guess what I really want to say in this entry is: Happy Fathers' Day, Dad! :)

Also, to all the other daddies, especially those of little girls. We love you very much, even if there are times that we might not even know it ourselves. We hope that after all the screaming, crying, and yelling -- on our side and on yours -- that you'll be able to look back one day and say that we were worth it all. (That, and please dress your kids nicely if you're going to get them on camera!)

Hair sticks

(Warning: Girly entry ahead.)

The last time I kept my hair past my shoulders was when I was 15. During the last couple of months, though, things cropped (pun not intended) up here and there, and I just never got around to getting it trimmed. So now it's longish, and I'm reluctant to cut it because I love the feel of tying my hair up.

I've always been fascinated with the fact that people can actually hold a (hair) bun in place with a single chopstick. That, and a lot of hair sticks are really pretty! Before I set out to buy one, though, I decided it'd be a good idea to see if I could actually manage something decent.

Google found me a site -- which I have since lost -- with step-by-step instructions. After the first two steps, however, things weren't where they were supposed to be, but I just made up the rest of it.



It probably isn't supposed to look like that, but I love it anyway. I know it makes me look a whole 10 years older, but there are times when functionality trumps aesthetics. Plus, when you let your hair down afterwards, you don't get the horrid kink in your hair that comes with releasing a ponytail. (And yes, I did use a 2B pencil. It was the closest thing to a stick!)

So, hair sticks -- here I come! :)

Eye for a Guy

This was actually a pretty decent season of Eye for a Guy. Unfortunately, all the good work was undone by the totally unspectacular finale. Still, I cried a little when Denise turned Howard down. If he gets to be on Eye for a Girl, I'll... yeah, right.

I can understand why Denise chose Wolfgang in the end, despite how much effort and creativity Howard put into all his gifts and their dates. Actions may speak louder than words, but they're still over-rated when it comes to relationships; romance all you want, but when the heart says "no," the heart says no.

That being said, Howard's little notes and gifts speak of the willingness to put in that extra effort. If he's anything like that in real life, I think he'd make a great pal.

The thought of that triggered a little something inside of me, and I realised that -- despite the fact that I speak of my girlfriends more, and am admittedly more demonstrative about my affection towards them -- I really should give my guy buds more credit; really, they can be very sweet when they want to.

***

My computer had broken down, and I urgently needed to access my e-mail, and do some work online; a lab report, I think -- I can't remember. I made a quick call to Q, to make sure that he was home, and made my way down.

It was late at night, I was tired, and I still had a ton of work to do. Add to that the computer problems I was having, and I was definitely not in the best of moods.

"Hey," I grunted, as he opened the gate. I headed straight for the computer in his room and sighed as I sat down.

"You want a drink? Something to eat?" he offered.

"No, no, I'm good," I waved him off, and got to work.

He put on some music -- some CD that I'd given to him when I cleared out my music collection a couple of years ago. Yeah, he took like, 40 CDs.

As the night wore on, I grew increasingly frustrated -- nothing was panning out as they were supposed to.

A couple of hours later, his shadow emerged from the side.

"Yes?" I asked curtly, the tiredness in full force.

"You want grapes?" he asked, voice muffled from being stuffed with fruit. He put a bowl of grapes down beside me.

"Ew, no. I don't eat grapes," I made a face.

His eyes widened in surprise. "But you like to drink Ribena!"

"I know. It's not that I don't like grapes," I said absent-mindedly; my hands still moving across the keyboard, eyes fixed on the monitor. "I just don't like the skin of the grapes. So I drink grape juice but..." I paused and squinted at the screen. Highlight. Cut. Paste. Edit, edit, edit. "But I don't eat grapes."

He made a strange snorting noise, and disappeared from my eyeline. Ugh, good, just leave me to do my work and stop bothering me! I was all too glad to ignore him for the rest of the night.

***

I'm almost done!, my mind exclaimed excitedly. Click, click, click.

Q had been awfully quiet. He doesn't read books for leisure, the TV was switched off, I was hijacking his workspace. So what was he doing? It didn't matter. I didn't have time to care. He was probably asleep.

Print setup. Check, check, check...

Q reappeared at the corner of my eye.

"What is it?" I sighed exasperatedly. Click, click, click. Save. Close. When he didn't answer, I looked up at him, and he was grinning like an idiot.

"What?" I asked again, frowning suspiciously. He thrusted the bowl of grapes into my hands. "I told you I don't..." Why is he smiling like that?!

I looked down into the bowl, and it was filled with grapes -- all peeled. So that's what he was doing, all quiet and sneaky.

It was a gesture that was so unexpected, especially because of the way I'd been feeling all night -- I wasn't particularly at my cheery best. I was so touched that I almost burst into tears, but I think that would really have scared him. So -- being as sensitive as I usually am -- I blurted out the second most appropriate thing that came to mind...

"Oei, did you wash your hands before peeling?"

Traffic jam

Someone has a sense of humour. Now to find the tree where that jam came from...

More doodling

I thought of posting this on Fathers' Day, but just in case some of you are short on ideas, maybe this might inspire something. ;)

The paints were easy to get. I'd seen them around before, and I reckon you can get them from any art store. (I got mine from Creative Hands at Ngee Ann City, but Art Friend will probably carry them too.)




I had some idea of what I wanted, but I decided, hey, why not just put all three kids on board -- or, in this case, on the mug. So that was step one: penciling in the drawing. It's not that easy to transfer lead onto porcelain, I assure you.




Step two: Colouring and outlining. (Should it be steps two and three? I don't do this to-do guide thing often.) I bought only three colours, because they're close to S$8 per bottle. But I figured that it's always good to keep it simple, especially when I had absolutely no idea what I was doing, and was just making things up as I went along.




It actually turned out pretty well. Minimal smudging, that was easy enough to rectify.




Last step was to pop it into the oven for half an hour, so that the paint sticks on the mug. It's presumably dishwasher-safe, which is a good thing, I guess -- I wouldn't know; we don't have a dishwasher. I guess that just means that it won't wash out with water.




And it's done! :) A little before and after picture. Well, actually this was taken before I baked it, and I did add in our names at the last minute. I know, I know, it looks like it was drawn by a 7-year-old. But somehow, I doubt my dad'll mind. :) Anyways, that's another present down. Phew!




Yes, I bought an extra mug in case I screwed up the first time, but you guys wanted a card right? ;)

Rocky update II

Rocky used to be very wary of the refrigerator, because his reflexes aren't all that good, and he's been hit by too many shutting doors. But lately he's gotten a lot bolder -- or greedier, depending on how you see it -- and he's always hovering near the fridge, especially when it's opened. Yes, Rocky, there is a lot of food in there.




He turns to my mom. "Please?" No.




Undaunted, he turns to me. "Please?" Okay.




This is how my dog gets his food -- second opinion, big brown eyes, and a tearful whimper.

***

I do this update thing in part because I love talking about my favourite dog, and in part because I know that my sister and a couple of close friends are eager to track his progress. What I didn't count on was for strangers whom I've never met -- and who've never met Rocky -- coming to care for him, and be interested in the mundane things like... his diet! ;) I'm strangely awed and immensely touched. If I don't say it enough, thank you all -- for your prayers, for your words of encouragement, and even for your silent support; I appreciate the sentiment, even when the words go unspoken. :)

***

So the chemo stopped, and so did all of Rocky's ailments. We've switched him to porridge and fresh chicken meat, which is better than canned food anytime. His eyes still get dry, but they're a lot better; a couple of times each week when he starts pawing at his face, we apply some eye drops, but that's about it. The lump hasn't shown any signs of recurrence either, which is a very good thing! :)

Familial nonsense

I was giving the brother a lift to Sembawang (we got lost and, after 40 minutes, ended up where we'd started, but nevermind that), when he asked me what a genocide was.

"It's the killing of an entire race of people -- like, you know, when Hitler wanted to kill off all the Jews," I explained.

"Oh, okay," he nodded.

I went on: "Actually pretty much anything that ends with -cide has to do with killing -- like insecticide, pesticide, suicide, matricide, patricide..."

I was on a roll, until my brother helpfully offered: "Backside?"

"..."

***

My dad was running a temperature last night, and when it wouldn't subside, we decided to bring him into the hospital, just in case. In the waiting room, my mom took out her phone and fiddled with some picture messages.

"Hey," she nudged me, and thrusted her phone at me, with Calvin (of Calvin and Hobbes) on the display. "What's Calvin's last name?" she asked.

"I don't know. I don't think he has one. Why?"

"He does!" Mom insisted. "I just can't remember..." she pondered for a moment, then her face lit up. "I remember, I remember! His surname is Hobbes!"

"..."

Birthday card

I sent this to a dear friend yesterday, but it's so cute that I couldn't resist posting it.



Come back soon. I miss you.

Happy birthday, babe. :)

Nerdy

For Photo Friday.

I love the spiffiness of the Central Library; it's the nicest library on campus. (Aaaand I did not just say that.)

I like how they've spruced it up with colours and frosted glass, but the quotes that are inscribed on them -- that's a different thing. It's not the quotes per se that I have trouble with; it's the horrible punctuation that bugs me. For one, half of them -- an estimate (I didn't count them; I'm not that geeky yet) -- don't have a period after each sentence; they're not phrases, they're actual, full sentences that cry out to be ended. In a library, of all places.

Also...

Let him, who reads, reflect. Yes.

Let him who reads reflect. Yes.

But Let him who reads, reflect? Really?

Okay, I'll stop now.

Instant happy childhood memories

This breath spray is apparently so good that it gives you -- not just instant childhood memories -- instant happy childhood memories. That's some spray.

Morning madness

Breakfast is nice when we're not rushing off to school or work.

***

I was tearing off the parking coupon this morning, as I accompanied the mother to the market.

"What's the date today?" I asked, without looking up.

"You don't know what today is?!" my mom gasped.

I stared at her, my eyes widening, brows furrowed questioningly. Oh no. I forgot someone's birthday. Or something we'd planned. Family dinner? Something? What?

"Today's June 9!" Mom squealed. "Lost is premiering on Channel 5!"

"..."

Now you know.

***

Anyway, I had some idea about what I might be able to conjure, and I ended up doodling -- a hybridization of a couple of notes that I'd received before. If all the little thoughts come together well enough, something decent might even come out of this. :)

Movie review -- In Good Company

In Good Company's one of the nicest shows I've watched in a long time. I mean, it's just nice. It's funny, sweet, heartfelt, nice. I don't remember why I didn't catch it before; must've been really busy with something to miss a Dennis Quaid movie.

Anyone else thought that it was funny how Quaid's last name in the show's Foreman? You know, because Topher Grace in That 70's Show... okay, nevermind.

Anyway, I thought the characters came together really nicely. Perhaps what touched me the most was the father-daughter relationship being played out; I've had one too many struggles with my dad, and we still disagree a lot. I've pretty much given up on telling him not to worry about us, and to let us make our own decisions -- it's not like he's going to listen.

But despite our differences, my dad has always been my hero; probably no one else on this earth will love me as deeply and as completely.

***

Fathers' Day is coming up next Sunday.

I'm all out. You name it, we've done it. Ties, shirts, handmade bookmarks, and even this key chain thingy which we recorded our voices into -- "Happy Fathers' Day, Daddy!"

I know he'll tell us not to get him anything, but since I made something for the mother, I can't not do anything for him.

Ideas? :)

A chance encounter

I was walking towards the train station one evening -- on my way home -- when I spotted a stray dog crossing the road. Cars slowed to let him pass, and he ambled safely across. As he turned, my eyes widened as I noticed that he was missing a leg.

He plonked himself down in an empty field nearby, unaware that I was watching from afar, and he proceeded to lick the stump that was in place of the limb that used to be there. Even from where I was standing, I saw that it was bleeding, and he was in some discomfort.

I approached gingerly, but as soon as he spotted me, he backed away. I squatted down and held out my hand to him. I asked him if he was okay; what else did you expect?

For about an hour or so, I stayed watching him at a distance. The more time wore on, the closer he allowed me to get. But by this time, I realised that even if he allowed me to touch him, I wouldn't know what to do after.

I retreated -- keeping my eyes on him -- and found a wooden bench on which to sit. I whipped out my mobile phone. Who to call, who to call. SPCA, I guess. Ring ring, no answer -- I hung up. I called my sister for advice.

"There's this organisation -- ASD -- you can try calling them. I'll go find the number," she offered.

"Okay, thanks," I heaved.

Ring ring ASD, no answer either. Where has everyone gone? I wondered, as I glanced at my watch. No wonder; it was close to 12 midnight -- everyone was in bed, I guess.

I sighed. I'll try SPCA one last time. If no one picks up, I'm going home. I'll come back tomorrow.

Ring ring.

"Hello, SPCA, how may I help you?" a friendly voice. Finally!

I explained the situation to him, told him where I was, and asked if they could possibly send anyone to pick the pooch up.

"He's missing a leg, you say?" he asked.

"Yeah," I nodded.

"Okay. Well, it's a little late to send anyone there. The earliest we can send someone down is in the morning. Meanwhile, what you can do is to go to the nearby police station and ask them to help hold the dog for the night," he advised. "But..." he paused.

"But?" I probed.

"But you may want to consider if you really want us to bring him in. You know how many unwanted dogs we get, add to that the fact that this dog is handicapped..."

He let his voice trail off.

"Oh," I swallowed. I hadn't thought of that.

"Yeah," he went on. "You know what will happen to him."

At this point, I really did consider bringing the dog home and keeping him. I stayed on the phone for a long time with the SPCA guy (I don't think I ever did ask for his name), and I think I might've cried. I don't remember.

"So you think it's better if we just let him be?" I asked.

"Oh, we'll definitely pop by sometime, even if we don't pick him up tomorrow. It's just a matter of whether he gets that few days more of freedom," he clarified.

***

He hadn't moved much since settling into that spot on the grass, so I decided that it was safe for me to go get help.

I walked over to the neighbourhood police post, took a deep breath, and walked in. There were three policemen, drinking coffee; their eyes turned and fixed themselves on me as I approached.

For the third time that night, I explained about the three-legged dog, and they seemed eager to help; probably the most action they've had in nights.

"Okay, so we'll go get him then," one of them stood up and announced with gusto. With that, all three of them emerged from behind the desk, looking pumped and ready.

"Erm," I wasn't sure if I was supposed to raise my hand before speaking. "How are we going to bring the dog in? Maybe it would help if you had some kind of leash or rope?" I suggested.

"Oh," one of them furrowed his eyebrows, as if no such thought had occurred to him. "Oh yes! We have some raffia string in the back. I'll go get it!"

***

"Okay, so the thing is that, he's injured, and very defensive," I explained, as I led them to where the dog was. "You're going to have to approach him really slowly."

"Sure, don't worry, we know what to do," they nodded. They looked a little too enthusiastic for my liking.

The dog was where I'd last left him. As soon as he saw us coming, he propped himself up on all... er, threes. He backed away slowly. And then the most astonishing thing happened -- the three policemen ran towards him at full speed!

What the...

"What are you doing?!" I shouted at them, but they'd already taken off, and if they heard me, they didn't stop to answer.

I watched as they chased the dog into a car park, where he limped in and out of every corner, eluding the policemen. I thought I was trying to save a dog, but now I didn't know whether to laugh at how clueless the policemen were, or cry at their incompetence.

I watched as they tried in vain to capture the dog. And I watched as the dog kicked their asses in hide-and-seek, handicapped and all.

They gave up soon enough.

"Um, so, if we see him again, we'll give you a call? Maybe you could leave us a number..." one of them said sheepishly.

"That's okay. If you do see him again, just call the SPCA," I sighed. I wanted to add, You do of course realise that you left the police post empty when all three of you came out to "help" me catch a dog, right? And that if there's any real emergency -- like a murder or something...

***

It turned out that I didn't have to make up my mind whether to leave him be, or to bring him in. I don't know what happened to him after that; I never saw him again. But he showed me some true doggy resilience, and gave me more than a couple of chuckles. In any case, if he could outwit and outrun three grown men...

I'm grateful for that one chance encounter, as well as the kind help I received; thank you, unnamed SPCA guy, and yes, thank you, policemen. I hoped you guys learned something that night. I certainly did; I learned that night that having three armed men by your side doesn't automatically make you feel any safer than roaming around alone in the middle of the night.

Remember: low crime doesn't mean no crime. Especially with policemen such as these. ;)

***

[Edit: This happened a really long time ago -- in February of 2002 (ah, old journals are good for something). But if anyone sees a tan three-legged dog around West Mall...

Meanwhile, for those of you who are upset, don't be! :) Three-legged dogs don't ever think of themselves as handicapped -- not in the way that we do, at least. I think the whole shame and discrimination thing is unique to the human species; we insist on torturing one another (and ourselves) with them.

Here are some happy stories of three-legged dogs:

NBC: Three-legged dog saves child in Ravine
Oscar's story
Cheyenne the three-legged dog
ESPN: Loss of leg can't stop determined dog

... And even one of a two-legged dog! :)]

Courtesy pencils

Does this mean that the pencils are courteous? Or are we allowed to use them only if we're courteous?

Rocky update

Since that second fever episode, Rocky has been having some dryness in his eyes and nose. Recently, it seems to be causing him some discomfort; he's been pawing at his eyes, sometimes so hard that he yelps in pain.

It reminded me of this old episode of E.R., when Mark was still alive, but had that inoperable tumour. It affected some of his neural functions, and one night, he realised that he couldn't close his eyes. Susan taped his eyelids close with some surgical tape, so that he could get some sleep.

We called the vet first, not wanting to bring him in unnecessarily; he hates car rides and vet clinics with a vengeance, more so after having spent so much time there.

"As long as there isn't any redness, he should be fine," the vet said.

Thankfully, nothing is out of the ordinary apart from the dryness. No redness, no discharges.

It helps when we dab his eyes with a moist cotton wool, but the pawing starts again after an hour or so, which means we have to wet his eyes as often. The only time we get any respite is when he's asleep. Hopefully everything will start to function on their own soon.

***


Sherman's Lagoon by Jim Toomey

Mapped out II

It's always fun to reminisce with a group of friends with whom you share common memories. I never realised how different our perceptions of our past were; the things that some of us remember, others have complete no recollection of. And that's the greatest part of it -- to (re)arrange, and add to, this scrapbook of memories, even though years have passed and it was supposed to be gathering dust.

We spoke fondly about friends who're overseas, and talked about the crazy times we had in JC. One incident that stuck out in my friends' minds -- that they "will remember for the rest of [their] lives" -- was when someone lamented: "Ow, my stomach feels funny."

To which I apparently asked, deadpanned: "Then why aren't you laughing?"

(I seriously think that they made this up, but they were unanimously adamant about its authenticity.)

***

I also found out today that the cousin of one of my aforementioned friends -- whom I've known for five years now -- is an ex-tutor of mine! Old memories and new discoveries -- overall, a pretty good evening.

***

To cap it all off, I traversed the country from Clementi to Aljunied to Punggol to Bukit Timah, without making a single wrong turn! Thanks in part to help online and off; the fact that my dear friend, H, was beside me most of the way -- with the street directory on her lap -- giving directions, does not in any way detract from the meritorious achievement.

Mapped out

So the thing is that, for someone who has:

(1) ended up in Punggol while on her way from Bukit Timah to Changi
(2) ended up in Tuas while on her way from Jurong to Bukit Timah
(3) ended up in Hougang while on her way from Punggol to Bukit Timah

... among many other adventures of wrong turns, this map does not look promising. Can someone at least assure me that this part of the expressway hasn't changed since the printing of the 2002/2003 edition of the street directory? =\

Nose clear brush

This "nose clear brush" I found at a cosmetics store...



... strangely resembles Rocky's toothbrush.



Seriously, though, nose clear brush? For inside or out?

***

So we were supposed to meet at the Starbucks at Liat Towers. Parked at the public car park behind, I called X.

"Where are you now?" I asked, just in case.

"At Far East Plaza. Can you come here instead? I want to eat chicken rice."

I groaned in reluctance: "Ugh, this means I have to walk the..."

"It's okay!" she interrupted chirpily. "I don't mind waiting!"

"..."

That was not what I meant at all.

***

Don't be alarmed by the extended sidebar. I was bored last night.

***

Without sounding completely tech-illterate, did anyone else not know that the search bar at the top left hand searches individual blogs?!

Recovery III

Recovering well, apart from the weight loss. I'm a little concerned that he hasn't put any weight back on, but other than that, Rocky hasn't thrown up or had diarrhoea since he's been back home. He's been eating well and sleeping well, and that's all I can ask for, for now.

The long stay at the vet's clinic, however, has made him even more paranoid about being abandoned. And it drives a knife through my heart whenever I think of what he must have felt, those nights alone. He's surprisingly okay when I leave the house, but for as long as I'm at home, he can't be left alone; I can't even take a shower without him waiting outside the bathroom, barking the full 10 minutes. My mom jokes that I have a shadow in the shape of a Rocky now.

June

"Love! You don't have to be sorry! It's those scumbag reporters who should be sorry. Making up all those stories. Putting words in people's mouths. Poor Suzie phoned us up, very upset. You know, she gave that girl three bourbon biscuits and a KitKat, and this is the thanks she gets. A load of outlandish lies! I mean, pretending to be from the council tax. They should be prosecuted!"

"Mum..." I closed my eyes, almost unable to say it. "It's not all lies. They... they didn't make everything up." There's a short silence, and I can hear Mum breathing anxiously down the line. "I am kind of in a... a bit of a debt."

"Well," says Mum after a pause –- and I can hear her gearing herself up to be positive. "Well. So what? Even if you are, is it any of their business?" She pauses, and I hear a voice in the background. "Exactly! Dad says, 'if the American economy can be in debt by billions and still survive, then so can you.'"

God, I love my parents. If I told them I'd committed murder they'd soon find some reason why the victim had it coming to him.

-- Shopaholic Takes Manhattan by Sophie Kinsella

***

New month, new (profile) picture.

Typically the month for rest, among students everywhere, this is the month at the end of which my thesis is due. (It looks to be extended, but things are a little messy at the moment, and it doesn't mean that I will have more time, it just means that I will have more work. But that's not the point.) You can imagine that all is not too pretty over here.

Nevertheless, I am in need of some compulsive stocktaking, so you're going to get a bunch of info that is neither interesting or informative. I'm not likely to repeat any regular book-reading habit in the next couple of months (not outside of scientific journals, at least), so you might never see such a thing in this blog again, but this is a list of what I've read in the month of May:

• The Family Way by Tony Parsons
• The Old Man and The Sea by Ernest Hemingway
• Shopaholic Takes Manhattan by Sophie Kinsella
• Shopaholic Ties the Knot by Sophie Kinsella
• Shopaholic and Sister by Sophie Kinsella
• Why Won't They Listen? by Ken Ham

A lot of frivolous reading, I know. But now that I've completed the Shopaholic series, and assuming Ms Kinsella doesn't churn out any more, we should be quite done with that. I haven't quite found the desire to expound on any of the books, other than that one "review" that I wrote. So, happy holidays and all that. And for those of you who are working... er, well, just keep plugging away, I guess. :)