Pissing Contests

Here's a story of a town named KK. Once upon the recent past, a carnival came to town. It was a carnival such as many had not seen, with TV stars and fun and games, a free concert and lots of goodies. To say the carnival was grand, was probably true. And many folks came from far and wide, chartering buses to ferry them from the villages, taxis to jam up the town on a weekend, cars, motorbikes, trucks... you name it. Some, probably even walked.

But it ain't the happily ever after end that I'm interested in. It's the before. You know, like those slimming center ads that show fat girl - skinny girl. Fat girl - then skinny girl.

Buzzing in the unspoken part of KK is the story of how the carnival almost never came to be.

Let me get straight to the point. Rumour has it a certain individual who held the key to KK's great, big stadium was rather miffed, shall we say, that the carnival was permitted use of his premises without paying a single cent. So, what did he do?

This, really takes the cake.

He tiptoes softly to the National Service camp in the vicinity of his stadium and persuades its leader to launch a protest against said carnival's arrival. Apparently, being in close proximity to such fun and games would be of bad influence to the youth.

Yes, I am serious.

What ensues is a comedy of errors. Three days before the carnival begins, the Sabah Cabinet sits down to debate this issue of State importance. And decides that the carnival has to be moved. Never mind that it takes Telekom a week to set up broadband lines. Nor the fact that some people were planning a live broadcast.

If you've ever wondered about the effects of too much teh and kuih at government meetings, you now know. It addles your brain.

That same afternoon, back in corporate KL, the carnival organiser decides to play city hard ball and threatens to pull out.

Within minutes, things change. The Dewan Bandaraya of KK, its city police and all other manner of civil service pledge their assitance and support. And another venue is offered. And the carnival is finally allowed to happen.

It seems to me that the crux of the whole issue was something rather disturbing. The man who gave away rights to use the stadium in the first place was none other than the Chief himself. The Big Kahuna.

The problem is, the man apparently has little support among his immediate Cabinet members and their downliners. Which begs the question - what then is he doing there in the first place????

Here's another puzzling whisper that I picked up. Some quarters are saying Pak Lah is The Big M's puppet. I'll leave you to join the dotted lines. But from the look of things since the Khazanah announcement, it's probably an understatement to say that the more thinking voting population awaits with bated breath.

And the same goes for those of us who voted with our feet.

My two cents worth? If you're going into a pissing contest, make sure you look where you're stepping.

Managing Makcik

Until I am rich enough to acquire my own island getaway, I have had to resort to more creative means of de-stressing. Besides the obvious - meaningful, torrid sex; ignoring the dogs and imagining your bathroom a luxurious spa; giving yourself a pedicure while watching a re-run of 'Six Feet Under' - I carry one more ace in my pocket. I have a niece who is five years old.

Don't laugh. They're very wise, these five-year olds. They carry the wisdom of the world in their laughing eyes, and the worries of the universe like a pair of wings. One of my favourite luxuries when things get too unreal at the office, is to call her up for a little chat. It often helps to put things in perspective. In the realm of the five-year old, the most important things in life are unwavering. Like when her Mommy is coming home. And whether Grandma picked her up from school. And of course whether baby brother is picking a fight with her.

Make no mistake. This is a world as real as our adult ones. It is filled with the lyrics of Avril Lavigne's 'SkaterBoy' and Hillary Duff fashions. It has an opinion about nail colour and hair styles, although you never look fat in those mirrors. It is a world where my floral embroidered bedspread can turn into a fairy princess boat, and my home akin to a five-star hotel.

Last night I had the extreme pleasure of dining with said five-year old who remarked that it had been a while since we had spent time together hanging out at chez moi. So, to remedy the situation, she promptly created an open invitation to come visit. To which, I of course responded with an impulsive "Sure, how about Saturday?" After a brief discussion and an after thought of consulting her mother, it was decided I would pick her up from ballet class next Saturday at 11 am. And I asked her to bring her roller-skates.

She agreed, but only for a moment. Then, quick as a flash, a thought crossed her mind. "Noooo, noo, I can't do that. I'll be at ballet first you see, and my teacher won't like that. How about my skipping rope? I have to use it in my class, so I can bring that." I began to wonder why, if all things were genetic, I don't exhibit her powers of forward planning.

By lunchtime today, my mobile showed three missed calls from her. Like a dutiful aunt, I naturally made the "I have to return this phone call" face in the middle of a meeting break and rang her.

"You know, Saturday, when I have my ballet class, six days from now..."
"Yes..."
"Well, you know, Saturday when you're supposed to pick me up, well, my ballet class has been cancelled."
Pause.
"So, how am I going to your house?"
"I can pick you up."
"Yes, but my class has been cancelled."
"OK, so I'll pick you up from your house. And then maybe your brother can come too. And we can go for lunch."
"You'll pick me up from my house? OK. Then I can bring my roller skates. And my skipping rope."
"Yes, I suppose so."
"OK. Bye."

And that, ladies and gentlemen, was that.

If a child of five can comprehend that it takes six days to move an aunt, why can't the powers that be understand that you can't mobilise thousands of youth to attend National Service despite their plans to attend university in less than three months?

I used to think that organisational skills were acquired. Go figure.

I've been hankering for a pair of Heelies ever since I saw them at Toys'R'Us. I think I'll go get me some this weekend. For real. Especially since I don't have ballet class to worry about.

A Birthday Present

There are days when I wish I was rich, or at least have enough money at my disposal to not have to work.

There are days like these when I seriously re-think that alternative lifestyle.

Today, a great and very long time friend of mine turns 36. We were next-door neighbours and her family was well-to-do. They still are. I guess when your father ends his civil service career as CEO of a major utility company, you're pretty much set financially.

But this is the reality of her life. Her parents' home is ghostly, all the children flown away. My friend has lived in self-imposed exile for the last 17 or so years. Ten of which, she completely cut off all contact from her family. Her sister is sequestered in a Western country, escaping a crazed Pakistani husband whom she married on a whim nearly oh, ten years ago in a small masjid in KL.

The birthday girl now lives in Europe, is divorced and survives on the income of a PhD student. In the last decade she's done all sorts of work, from being a domestic help to god knows what else. She doesn't have soft, soft hands. She shops during sales and watches her diet so she doesn't have to buy new clothes. Recently, on a trip back here, she walked into a Bangsar boutique and admired some linen dresses, too expensive for her Euro paycheck.

She's a survivor who has made some hard choices in her life. Choices that have made her independent of her parents' shadows, yet lacking in material comforts. Choices that have made her more dependent on her romantic relationships for support, yet destroyed her as a person.

I remember this friend when we were growing up. She had a ready laugh, she was the brave one, the rebellious one who always did the crazy things. She was first to get her drivers' license, first to date boys, first to suggest we did anything revolutionary.

Today she is changed. She is brittle, her voice is tenuous, she is contemplative and shy to a certain degree. If you met her, you probably wouldn't notice it, but I do. It's a subtle shift in her person, but insurmountably huge in impact for me.

And the root of it all was money. Money was what changed her. It was the reason she broke away from her family. The reason she exiled herself for so long. The reason why she has known hardship and paucity, known frugality and depression, known life as an adult. Only in her case, the cause was not the pursuit of money, but rather, to get away from it. To escape the Ringgit grip her parents held on her life.

Every time I look back at our combined teenage years and think about the way we were then, and the way we both are now, I stand amazed at how lthings turned out. We've both had life changing experiences. The difference is, mine made me stronger, grow closer to my family and happier with what I have. Hers has made her stronger but at a much costlier price to her person, pushed her a greater distance from her family, and she is still searching for something or someone to ground her, someone she can truly call her soul's keeper.

Sometimes when I visit my parents, I gaze out our window to her parents' house across the lawn. What often strikes me most is the silence that screams back. No laughing grandchildren, no family conversation at dinner. The house is often dark. It is quiet, it seems empty.

I wrote my friend a birthday e-mail today. I sent her hopes that some of her wishes come true this year, that she shares the day with fantastic company over dinner and that Mother Nature brings her great weather.

But most of all, I send her a prayer. A prayer that she remains strong in her fight to keep herself together and depression at bay. A prayer that she finds some love in her distant land. A prayer that she has many good people around her to call friends and family.

A prayer that her self-made home is filled with noise and laughter and light.

Happy birthday my oldest friend.

A Daim A Dozen

Once upon a more prosperous time, men such as him were a Daim a dozen. He comes from the elite crop of men who were culled from the masses of clamouring Bumi entrepreneurs seeking Government bonuses, hand-picked by Daim himself, sanctioned by the then PM. He, was one of the many who fell along with the House that Daim built when the Big Bad Soros Wold wreaked havoc on our currency market.

This is the man who used to own highways, hotels, offices, engineering concerns and even a financial service institution. This is the man who instilled fear in his subordinates, allowing people only fifteen minute meetings with him that had to be negotiated through a fearsome female gatekeeper with a penchant for number-crunching. This is the man who built a corporate culture recognised for its unpredictability, terror and terrorist ways. If you worked for his company in its heyday, you never knew if you were coming or going. Being packed on to a plane to some far-flung ex-Russian territory at two hours notice was not unheard of.

This was also the man who somehow didn't extend this business savoir faire enough to ensure that his wife's controlling shares in his company didn't hinder him. When they divorced after his fortunes took a tumble, she got herself a nice pile of mullah, and them some.

This was also the man whom I recall causing my friends and I some concern on a Saturday night when an MAS flight attendant friend of ours went missing from the dancefloor. We searched the club for an hour. She finally turned up. She had gone for a ride in his car, in an attempt at dissuading him from entering the club with her. "Tak baik la Datuk, nanti apa kata orang pulak..." (Probably not a good idea, Datuk. What would people say?) I kid you not.

At least she left with a wad of cash. Enough to buy her a new portable CD player.

This is the man among many who was entrusted with some VERY BIG THINGS and failed. Yes, the highway got built, the hotels opened and offices sold, but did anyone else benefit besides the man? This is the man among many who were entrusted with the task to help spur the growth of the Bumi entrepreneur.

If their target success rate was one - themselves - then I guess they were fabulous stars.

Recently I heard that the man is back in town, looking for new ways to make his offshore riches grow on Ringgit trees again. Rumour has it he is behind a new development project near the Second Link. And this time, he's going into retail.

But you won't find a trace of him this time. No big company directorship. No sign on the street at the entrance of a visible office block.

Just an unmarked door in an office multiplex and a paper trail that only sounds like distant echoes of his old allies.

The man's wisened up this time. Management by proxy seems to be the new order of the day. After all, that's how some of the other survivors have made it.

Which begs the question: If this is the new way of doing things around here, how deep does Pak lah's hunting stick probe into the ground?

The Art Of Being A Mommy

I've been thinking a lot about mothers recently. It's hard not to. Every time you go to MSN or Yahoo or any of their competitor sites, you will inevitably be greeted by invitations to FTD Mommy flowers, send her e-cards with burping babies, buy her something from the web that will take fifteen months to reach her and the like.

And I've come to the conclusion that whether they fall into it by accident or on purpose, mothers are perhaps the single most heterogenous yet least understood sub-species of the human race.

They are all the same. In many aspects. Whether they are black, white or yellow. They will always send you silly stuff in the mail when you don't live within driving distance. It could be shampoo, pencils, paper, rendang, socks, underwear, laundry detergent... They will always send you things you can buy from the store down the street.

Or not. One birthday, my Mom gave me a mattress protector that she claimed was made from the same material as astronaut suits. That, and a pair of pink underwear lined with the same stuff. According to her, the material was 'heaty' and helped accelerate weight loss.

The difference is, their choices are infused with Mommy logic that you have been indoctrinated with, so by default, whatever they send you is better. No question. If you ever have a chance to grab a hold of Margaret Cho's skit on her mother's phone messages, listen to it and you will know what I mean. And you will laugh. And recognise your own mother behind the faux Korean accent.

Mommies are the same because they all do weird things. Okay, so the degrees of Planet Mom-ness differ, but they are ruled by the same oblique logic that all mothers possess. How many of us grew up thinking we were poor? And didn't realise our parents had all that money until we moved into our spanking new homes complete with carpets (no more cement floor!) our own furniture (instead of standard Government issue) and built-in wardrobes? Apparently, money doesn't grow on trees. It's all stashed away in a treasure chest buried deep in the garden of your family's rented house until the day Dad buys one of your own.

And Mothers, by far, are the more creative of the two parents. I know someone who grew up thinking apples were tomatoes, and vice versa. It was her mother's way of tricking her into eating tomatoes. My mother was ingenious. She used to bundle us children into the car on Sundays, equipped with floppy batik hats and spades and pails, declaring that we were going on a treasure hunt. The prized catch: cow dung lying on the road. Yes, I am serious.

I think it takes guts to be a mother. You have to be a diplomat extraordinaire in settling sibling disputes, an effective Third-World Finance Minister who raises children on not quite enough money, a celebrated chef who whips up meals in a jiffy out of nothing, an entertainer, story-teller, bedtime lullaby singer, corporal punisher, engineer of birthday parties and all things that fall apart at home, nurse, doctor, lawyer.... all the major professions in the book.

OK, maybe not software programmer. Although my Mom DOES know how to send e-mails. And once wondered why she kept getting naughty messages every time her PC was overtaken by "chaplets." It took me half a day to realise she wasn't referring to some online Christian confessional. By which time I thought against explaining to her what Java applets were.

It takes a whole lot of strength to be a Mommy. You have to lift the burdens of bruised knees with soothing words, get rid of monsters under the bed with bedtime tales and mend teenage heartbreaks with silent hugs.

And above all, it takes unswerving faith. Belief that what you think is best for your child really is best. Deep confidence that your child will do okay when you send him or her halfway across the world in pursuit of a college degree at the tender age of 18.

It also takes a bit of magic. The ability to weave wonderful webs around the family, threads which they feel when they leave the nest and start out on their own lives and families. Puppetry to be able to pull them all back to your bosom once in a while, just to remind them where they came from, and what they share.

My mother drives me bananas on some days. On others she is a patient listener, despite the fact that I often have to repeat things. I have a friend whose Mom puts on reading glasses when her children talk to her. She claims it helps her hear better. There must be some truth to it. Mine can't ever seem to hear me clearly on the phone. Maybe I should teach her how to use a webcam. But then again, she might wonder why I look bloated if the camera happens to catch me at a fish-eyed angle. And voila! A bottle of anti water retention herbal pills will probably materialise the next time I visit her.

But the most amazing thing my Mom has ever achieved in my eyes is this: the skill, focus and tenacity with which she brought me up to believe, and I mean truly believe, that I could do anything I set my mind to. It's something I struggle to impart to my team at work every day. It's what I hope will be part of her imprint on my young niece and nephew. It's what I am sure will keep her alive long after she is out of sight.

Happy Mother's Day, Mommy. I forgot the card and I haven't gotten round to figuring out where we should go for brunch, but I know that we will!

Fleeting Impressions

For those of you wondering..... nope, I didn't get around to doing much over the long break. Not the things I could've done, should've done or listed.

Instead, I hung out with friends and spent three straight days playing a PC adventure game. I never knew I possessed the power to make things jump, run and creep using my keyboard. Okay, so I'm a PC loser.

Neither have I had a chance to catch up on the news. When you're cooped up in a dark room for days, trying to make an animated man do an assortment of things, your brain activity becomes rather limited.

But, something did make a fleeting impression on me. Much as I gently chide our Government, I think this time they deserve a break. I mean, how do you beat those recent photos of the Iraqi prisoners? And for Bush and team to still try and PR their way out of things is just unbelievable. Coming from a spin doctor herself, that says a lot.

I once had a brief opportunity to meet Colin Powell. Back when he was a retired army personnel, post Gulf War, and he was earning money touring the world delivering talks on various subjects. Never mind whether the subjects were his areas of expertise or not. I mean, people were asking him about the state of the world and banking and the national economy of said country he was visiting. Was I missing something, or was there a more direct link between banking and war that I missed then?

Out of kindness and some degree of gratitude, the tour organiser had arranged so a bunch of us back scene workers had an opportunity to meet The Man. All I recall is that he was very tall. And so was his wife. He seemed nice enough. And throughout his talk + Q&A, he actually seemed sane. For an American, that is. And coming from me, that's saying a lot too.

Then, there was Condoleeza Rice. She was a professor in my university. Very well-respected then authority on the Cold War. What that has to do with the Middle East, heaven knows.

Is it me? Or does one not need to have related experience when applying for a Government post? And I thought it was just us who had them corporate sector rejects for civil servants.

But they are where they are now. And I stand amazed that I once had a degree of respect for Mr Powell and Ms Rice.

Then, of course, as the saying goes, the buck stops at the top. And when it's all wrinkled, I guess it's hard to see which President's face is on it.

View From Above

Last night, due to the awful KL traffic and sporadic rain, I ditched my car in the office and decided to brave our public transport.

I Putra-ed and Monorail-ed it to my destination in town for dinner. And I've decided that our public transport lacks one thing - loud New York black chicks.

Riding the New York subway used to be one of my most memorable things to do in the US. Inevitable there would always be a pair of women, usually large, usually Black, with giant faux gold ear rings (I'm talking the kind that should be pendants) who board the train. And they would proceed to converse in high decibels about very private details of their lives.

"Ya know, I told hiym, you shud'nt disrespekt me. I mean, bein' his baby mama n' all, the least he shud do is gimme some money to feed his baby."
"Mm-hmmph, I hear ya.."
"I mean, he came home last night all busted up n' all... And he saw Candy!"
"Nuh-uhhhh he di'nt.."
"Uuuh-huuuhhh he sho' did. Ho. She needs to stay away from ma man."
"Whadjuh say?"
"I told him, if I so much as ketch him sniffin' round her ass, I'd make sure he nevr saw Sheniquah again..."
"You go gurrl.... I wu'nt let my baby father do that shit round me neither, ya know..."
"Ya know...."

I never knew which was funnier. Them, or the people around them who all pretended to be listening to their Walkmans/reading the New York Times, sleeping, or concentrating on looking like they didn't speak English.

The other thing we lack is romance. I remember one time, riding the subway to Brooklyn, when I saw a man. He was a beautiful man, kept to himself, carried a big rucksack. He looked too funky to be from out of town, but a little lost. He and I both got off at the wrong station, and then he approached me to ask for directions which I couldn't give.

He ended up getting off at my station and walking behind me half the way until he turned off another street. My friend, whose brown stone I was staying in said I'd had "an episode." Apparently, lucky few have those in New York. Somehow, I can't see it happening here.

Instead, we have...
Executive types who look like some alien dropped them into a Putra carriage by mistake..
Migrant workers who are even shorter than ME!
Little frail Chinese girls who stick their fingers in their ears every time the station announcement comes on, or the doors beep loudly
A great many people who suffer from BO
Mat Salleh travellers who have never travelled extensively, and hence leave their purses on the ground while they adjust their backpacks
and
Weirdos like me who ride the train, eyes gawking at the totally different view of KL she gets from the elevated position of monorail carriages.

I never realised how interesting KL really is. If you follow the LRT routes into town you'll inevitably spot some anomalies. Unlike a more organised city, KL really is a pieceof patchwork. In a blink, you'll pass from a monstrous new mall to a derelict post-World War II building, to a sleepy petrol station on a very busy road, to a small pocket of shanties.

I guess that's what they mean by getting a bird's eye perspective of things. It certainly gives you a different slant.

The Problem With Having Nothing To Do

I woke up at 3 pm today (yes, 3 pm) and realised that I had four glorious days ahead of me with NO work. Not even the take home kind.

Then I realised, that there was absolutely nothing I really wanted to do except waste time doing nothing. Not catch up on laundry and drop off the dry cleaning, put up shelves that have been lying on their sides, buy some plants for the garden, get the gardener to come cut the grass, bathe my dogs, re-organise my study once and for all, fertilise my flowers, finally get my spice garden going... not any of that.

Instead, all I want to do is
Curl up in bed and pretend I should get up but not
Surf the net for senseless trivia and check out other people's blogs
Fantasize about going clubbing with this awesome friend of mine (only I'd be skinny and in go-go boots)
Pretend I'm single!
Catch up with old friends and giggle about nonsense
Try out some new restaurants (except, aren't they all closed???)

So far, so good. I have a date with a friend tomorrow for tea, and another couple whom I haven't seen since their wedding last year for Monday. Tuesday's still open. Any takers??

Maybe I'll spend some time with stressed-out-bride-to-be sister on Tuesday. That is, if SHE's not working.