Driving Miss Crazy

This whole wedding fiasco is getting from bad to badder. I know that’s awful English, but in my thirty-something wisdom I think I should reserve “worse” for use at a later stage. Because there’s bound to be one.

Three weeks into the wedding planning, my sister is tearing her hair out at my mother’s selective memory. Suddenly, Mom’s moved the wedding date one day later. She also claims we can now do away with the whole reception – and save the money for my sister’s use, however the latter may choose to spend it.

But that’s not all. Suddenly, “the other side”’s guest list has doubled. And nieces and nephews now have life-forming needs to be part of the wedding procession, which means dresses and tiny suits, shoes, endless temper tantrums, botched rehearsals and who knows what else.

And my mom is wondering why I haven’t dropped by to see her for a while now.

I think I will – as soon as I find my hip flask.

About the most hilarious thing to have transpired thus far is an e-mail sent by my sister’s friend living somewhere in the Middle East. It had me laughing out loud. Because I haven’t asked him, I can’t quote its contents, but suffice to say it was full of sound advice such as “stick to the old adage of ‘Something Old, Something New, Something with a silencer will do…”. Oh and on seating arrangements, he suggests the well-dressed in the back (so they don’t draw attention away from the bride), prêt-a-porters in the middle and ravishing bridesmaids in the front – at his table, of course. And for cheap, endless hours of entertainment, “place people with conflicting views at the same table…”

Now why don’t they tell you these things in bridal magazines???

Maybe I should approach someone to publish the Alternative Bride’s Magazine. We can call it “E-Lope” – a girl’s best web guide to getting married sanely.

Hopefully, by the time this fiasco is over, my sister will have transcended Miss-dom and become a Calm Mrs.

Of course, having a sister like me doesn’t help. In one evening, my sister and I had hatched an alternative wedding plan of our own…. Have the reception at Shah’s Motel! Yes, the same dingy little thing that’s been around since I was born. Then the young ‘uns can go dancing after the wedding at DV8, the oldies can drink at Waikiki, the Yamseng kakis can karaoke next door and the children can be dumped at A&W! That should make everyone happy.

Somehow, something tells me my Father, alternative as he is, won’t quite buy in to the idea… unless of course I fill up my hip flask with whisky before I visit the ‘Rents this weekend…..

Puteri Transformasi

Today someone told me that she went to a wedding where the bride didn’t wear a tudung. Normally, this wouldn’t have raised my eyebrows, except for the fact that I was under the assumption the bride in question was a regular tudung wearer. Then, I was told, she’s a transformer.

For the uninitiated, the term is one that is growing in vernacular popularity as reference to someone who sometimes wears the tudung and sometimes doesn’t – depending on the social occasion. It has nothing to do with those Japanese toys that change from robot to drone to fighting machine and who knows what else.

Now, this fascinates me.

As a non-tudung wearer, I assumed the donning of the headscarf to cover one’s hair or “aurat” was an issue of faith. Sure, one can lose faith, in which case a tudung wearer would become what I have learned is otherwise known as “free hair.” They obviously haven’t seen my bills from the hairdresser.

But to waver between being faithful and being faithless?

Apparently, this phenomenon of shedding the tudung for special social occasions, i.e. your wedding is acceptable practice, even in the most religious of circles. This confuses me even more. If getting married is entrenched as part of being a good Muslim, how can an act of apparent sin be deemed acceptable? After all, shouldn’t the sanctity of marriage be blessed under the most faithful of circumstances?

Now, I don’t pretend to be a good Muslim. In fact, I don’t pretend to be a good anything. But I should think people who have chosen to wear their hearts on their sleeves so to speak, or in this case on their heads would be less frivolous in their show of support for the cause.

Maybe the old PM was right. Maybe the Malays among us do forget too easily. In fact, too often, at that.

But then again, fence sitting does have its advantages. Ask any politician and he will attest to the fact that success is determined by sheer timing. If your shoe happens to drop on the correct side at the right time, you will make it to the top. Doesn’t matter that you weren’t in the trenches all this while.

Maybe I should start a new political party since the elections are around the corner – or so they say. Parti Transformasi. And the Puteris can range from bikini-clad bunga mangga bearers to kebaya-wearing hamper wrappers. Better yet, how about tudung-clad bikini-wearing calendar girls?

Ish, dahsyat betul budak ni! I think I had better stick to my adventures with the hairdresser. They say earth tones are the feng shui colours this year…. Time to visit the salon!

Most Favoured Nation

When I left the United States after a four-year college degree stint, all my US friends were wondering how I would fit back in to Malaysian society. More specifically, I guess they were all silently wondering why on earth one would want to come back here given a choice.

And contrary to my initial beliefs when I first set out for the Promised Land, I myself wanted to come home. Over time, my experiences here only seem to reinforce that decision I made to return years ago. I guess one of the things that bugged me about "The Land Of The Free" was how unfettered everyone there really was not. There seemed to be a big push to belong - somewhere, to someone or something. Even if it was as obscure as "Vegans Who Eat Nothing But Black Soy."

Things are different here. Most of us, at some level, harbour an inclination to rebel on the quiet, and be different from the herd. Although really, at the surface it would seem as if we were a peaceful, tri-cultural at worst nation.

Dig a little deeper and you will find a nation of secret break-aways. People who have perfectly respectable, professional jobs that place a high emphasis on “strategic thinking” but dabble in the supernatural on Saturdays. People who look like someone’s boring uncle but are avid Elvis impersonators. People who look Chinese but are really part Indian and one quarter Japanese.

People who are avid mosque-goers but have a penchant for porn.

People who are sons to the Prime Minister but have ties to some underworld nuclear centrifuge manufacturer.

Someone told me yesterday that the PM’s son is now known as the de-facto Finance Minister. Pak Lah is apparently known to have responded to business proposals by saying, “You want to talk to business, talk to my son. He’s the businessman. I don’t know much about business.”

If I had a child, I think one of the first things I would teach him or her would be how to dig. And then, I would teach it how to cover up the hole, in the most subtle possible way.

I’m still willing to give our new leader a chance. But one chance is all he gets from me. Otherwise, I may just be forced to vote.

But I would stay. After all, if I really peel away all the layers, America doesn’t seem much more of a promised land than ours is. The only difference is at least, we have nice weather.

Where Have All The Real Men Gone?

I recently read a local women's magazine that proclaimed to have "10 REAL men you'll just love!" Of course being a KL woman who has been privy to enough laments from her single friends about the lack of real men, I had to buy the magazine. Just to see if I knew anyone in the top ten.

As I suspected, the list was far from encouraging. Half the men in it were gay! I guess the editor's definition of 'love' was a broad one. She never qualified what kind of love. The headline should have read "10 real men you'll just love to go shopping with" or something to that effect.

Not that I have anything against gay men. I think they're fabulous. Every woman in her thirties should have a gay man friend. He's one of the best safeguards you have against turning into an auntie-look-a-like once you hit your mid-thirties. He'll keep you looking gorgeous and up-to-date. He'll share his beauty secrets with you unabashedly. He'll still make you feel sexy and adored, even when your other half finds the TV more entrancing.

Mind you, this wasn't the first time I have spotted a high quotient of gay men in a purportedly he-man list of desirable catches. Every year when another certain women's magazine puts out its bachelors of the year list it becomes after-dinner conversation with my gay male friends and I - about who on the list is gay and who is gay but doesn't know it. Often, the total averages close to the 80 percentile.

Which leads me to wonder, are the editors of these magazines blind, or are they just taking the mickey out of us Malaysian women? Either way, the answer isn't encouraging for us. If the editors are unaware of the men they are picking for us, then we should worry. If they don't know how to spot a gay man, how can they be our sultanahs of style, beauty and fashion? And if they DO know these men are gay, then are they saying there are virtually no eligible straight men in Malaysia worth a woman's time?

Or maybe the subtext is even more provocative. Maybe they're saying we should seriously re-consider our notion of life partners. After all, I am sure some of us out there have wondered if we would be better off marrying our beautiful gay mate than some boring accountant mommy introduced to us.

What is it about the modern gal that has made us so dissatisfied about today's men? They're not beautiful enough, I think anyone can safely vouch for that. In KL, male eye candy is extremely rare. Men here largely still have not cottoned on to the notion of bothering to look good. Let alone think about working out. And forget intelligent, engaging conversation that is designed to appeal to the female ego.

I think to a certain extent our generation of women here are trapped between cosmopolitan notions of what a woman should be and our parents' generation's definition of men. Hot chicks and boring beer-bellied lumpy husbands.

And it's time we stopped putting up with it. So, since Valentine's Day is around the corner, I am issuing a challenge to chick comrades out there. If you don't have a date for that night who really is good enough, don't make do. Call up your best friends, male or female. Celebrate with them instead.

And men, if she cancels on you last minute, take a good look in the mirror. Or take a personality quiz - they have tons of them on e-mode.com (yes, the Internet can be a useful too for romance, and not just stock prices).

Or better still, go ask your gay cousin/uncle/friend. And don't say you don't have one.

A Phase In Uranus

Recently I hauled out my Tarot cards again after a brief hiatus. I realise I usually do this when there's something plaguing my mind, or I am curious about happenings in my close circle of friends and loved ones. Otherwise, they just sit there in their box, patiently waiting.

Perhaps I've also been newly inspired by my super natural friend who says that she feels the Year Of The Monkey is opening her Third Eye once more. And any follower of Lillian Too will probably tell you it's time to change around your room and its numerous five-legged frogs and tortoises if you want to prosper this year.

Which got me thinking about a recent string of events that I've been experiencing randomly across town. KL has always been the epitome of bad service culture to me, but of late it really seems to have become worse. I don't know if it is the post-and-still-going festive stupor, or a real shift in the moon's position. Either way, it's getting more than a tad annoying.

A few days ago I walked into a favourite restaurant of mine and they had practically run out of dinner. Disappointed, I walked a few stores down to a mamak. Needless to say, no one attended to me. I finally walked up to a guy behind the counter who promptly doled out a styrofoam box for me to fill with my food. After which he completely ignored me. And so did the cashier. I had to yell at her before she would let me pay for my food.

Then I went to Starbucks, which has always been a pleasant service experience for me, any where in KL. Not this time. Two out of the three staff were engaged in a conversation with a man about what I think was his missing son. The one attending to me was hardly in this dimension of the universe. He managed to confuse me about my own order. After which he went on to make and serve drinks to the three other people who came after me while I had to wait for my precious frappuccino.

I was about to brave another encounter with him and purchase a bag of chips when a random chick walked up to the cash counter and stared at the lime green Valentine bears Starbucks was offering for the occasion. Then she said, "Why are your bears so ugly??? Cannot get better ones, ah?"

That's when it dawned on me. It wasn't just the service that was bad. It was the customers too.

Must be some tangential residue from a phase in uranus (pun fully intended).

I think it's time I dragged out the old kuali and started practising my repertoire of stir-fry once again. This stuff seems to be spreading faster than the bird flu virus round these parts.