Adios

10 weeks ago, I embarked on the unknown journey to SGX to commence my attachment. Straight out of maternity leave was one thing, blending in with the work pace, dressing and culture was then my primary concern.

Thinking that it was the safest and most professional outfit I could possible squeeze myself into then, I came looking like a waitress in a white long sleeves shirt and black pants with my hair bun-up on my first day. Since then, I have improved. Today on my last day, I came in a hip slim pair of jeans, a tube top (of course under the camouflage of a shawl), with makeup and hair nicely let down.

I have indeed learnt and grown, not just dressing, but also corporate politics (a game play which I am terribly lousy at) and of course on the professional subject matter of xBRL. Friends I have made, networks that I have established, hunks and babes I have met at Raffles Square, all of which I will miss definitely or indefinitely.

Above all the good food, scenery and intellectual conversations, I think I will miss being a shenton way worker bean the most, a social status which I have never had a chance at since graduation.

Adios to all here and hello to Clementi Hill. It’s back to my auntie days again……

Angst

Another big word thrown at me by my hubby this morning en-route to the MRT station. I was just sitting up, straighter than usual, so as to spare my hair from any mess due to contact with his sports car crouched seat when he said "Why, another angst of yours ah?"

Refusing to look any more stupid in front of him, I resolved to find out what "angst" mean. So here I am writing about it after surfing the net. It encapsulates a feeling of anxiety or apprehension often accompanied by depression.

Whilst messy hair does provoke anxiety in me but definitely not DEPRESSION, disturbance perhaps. Although it does not count amongst the plausible "angstable"” issues for my hubby, it does for me.
His probable list of angst would include:

1. Fried food and meat not served for dinner;
2. Missing papers in the morning;
3. No toilets to bomb;
4. Frequent hunger pangs; and
5. Carbohydrate withdrawal.

His list does cause depression and severe too at most instances. Now I know the reason behind the infrequent use and unappreciation of the expensive mohawk gel I bought for him recently, it is not "angst-worthy".

Technology or Cruelty

I have been pestering for a chance to visit the most happening place of the Singapore Exchange (SGX), the trading floor, since day one of my attachment. I mean what’s an attachment to SGX without visiting the floor?

Finally the rare opportunity, or perhaps the last (shall elaborate on this later), came knocking today, with the chaperone of 3 gentlemen, one boss and 2 ex-traders who were to be my tour guides later on. Amidst my excitement, I read up on the floor rules and dress code the day before just to make sure that I “fit in”, well maybe just not to stick out like a sore thumb as I always do.

After all the security clearances, I was finally THERE! At the first look, the first level saw some pseudo-empty pits, one with some lackluster trading between a few lonely traders and infrequent flickers on the trading board. Then we heard the bustling of screams and shouts at the level above us.

Curiosity got the better of me. We went to the happening pit during its last few trading moments for the day. The woman-folk crusader in me instinctively looked around to locate my same kind, only to be disappointed to spot only 2, but very pretty and aggressive I must say. The rest of the pit was dominated by the other kind, mostly spotting the latest “skin-head” and roving eyes. (Didn't I just say I tried to blend in with the crowd?) Although the boards of this pit were flickering much faster, I spotted yet some other empty pits. Did I just witness the last days of manual trading. Has technology gotten the better of us with electronic trading leaving many jobless with many more to come?

It’s a day of whilst many were free, few were busy on the trading floor. It leaves to be seen if this day will arrive in school. Thanks for this historic memory nonetheless.

Catholicism

I have always been in search for the reason of being one non-practising Catholic. Most often than not, I attribute it to a pure lack of discipline more than anything else. Although this may sound very bimbotic (a state of mind incongruent with my age), I was finally "enlightened" on Sunday by a thought-triggering article on Sunday Times: that the differences between Catholicism rules and my own logical ones are compromising my faith. How else did I become a mother of three by late twenties?

Though not a very upbeat realisation, late is better than never. It leaves to be seen whether I can iron out this fundamental compromise or work out yet another one. God help my kids!

JL, HL & ASP

At the popular request of JL, a senior whom I have always looked up to, today’s blog will be devoted to my lunch date with her, HL and ASP, code names of my lovers if you are wondering……

Although my agenda for lunch was really modest, just glad to have company for lunch finally, in town where my attachment is held, hers’ was commercially driven, that of instant stardom and publicity, via my blog.

And so over lunch, we talked about balding men (come to think of it JL seems to be excellent at drawing such attention, 3 and counting, see I promised instant publicity), committees allocation at work (thank God I am out if IT but maybe into ANOTHER), bets on JL wedding date (HL, think my odds are still better than yours) and maids (on this ASP always seem to have better luck than all of us).

Nearer the end of our lunch hour (or was that two), we drew much attention from the other diners when all of them insisted on paying, an honor deemed befitting only for yours truly. Although my current currency converter unit is in cans of milk powder, the “investment” today is made for commercial gains in time to come: JL for my directorship (of something sounding big but actually rather small like Director of Wellness), HL for Ethan’s companionship with Nigel in class and hers too in our new committee (keeping my fingers and toes crossed that she'll be my new boss), and ASP for yet another lunch date this Friday.

By the way, they all look good in their new hairdo leaving me with my auntie-looking bun yet again! I sure hope they are reading this.

Small Hands

Over a weekend lunch to celebrate my father-in-law’s birthday, I overheard my brother-in-law, B, asking my hubby, D, this question over, “How do you hold a girl’s hand,” a question which brought back many fond memories. Not that my hands were held by that many men, just two actually, Nigel and D.

B is quite new to the courting and dating game. He had been going out with this girl, G, for sometime and was keen to take their relationship a little step further, hence his question.

As if he had seen and played much of the field, D almost instantaneously replied, “Like that la, I held her hands during our second date,” a response which bewildered B, as in only the second date? I choose to think that I was naïve then rather than ahem….”cheap”, as discussed in the Rule Book for Dating Games.

D then went on to list the many artificial hand-holding opportunities that B could generate, like crossing the road, pressing the lift, watching a horror movie, all of which was not practiced on me, made me wonder if they were techniques practiced on his other targets prior to me or maybe even after me. But these other targets, if indeed were in existence, must be quite sub-standard to have fallen for such no-brainers.

Finally, D sheepishly elaborated on how he held my hands at Marina Bay on 16 Jan 1994 (D, I bet my last dollar that you had forgotten the date!). He used the excuse to take a look at my right hand, placed it on his left before saying “Why your hands so small, very nice to hold.” He didn’t let go of it ever since.

I hope B is reading this as my warning would go “Don’t use the small hands trick on G. It is only meant for intelligent but young girls!”

Hormones

It’s that time of the month again when my hormones get the better of me. This syndrome is commonly termed as Pre-Menstral-Stress (PMS). It is not so severe a condition that warrants medical attention, just my better half’s compassion, as always.

Who does it affect?
All comrades in the felinity tribe, post puberty and before menopause (yet another hormonal upheaval that affects our tribe, but increasingly thought to affect the other as well. Case in point: my better half, another topic that warrants the coverage of an entire new blog.).

When does it attack?
Just 2 to 3 days prior to the onset of the next cycle (if I ever get my predictions right that is. How else do you think I became the mother of three at such a tender age?)

Where does it hit?
Definitely the logical right brain, that explains the onset of my irrational self whenever the attacks surface.

How does it manifest?
Unreasonable outbursts like screaming at my better half for bombing the toilet 5 minutes longer than usual and forgetting to switch on the heater for my morning beauty bath, getting irritated with having to down a bottle of essence that my better half lovingly warmed up for me, insisting that my better half take the “supposed” shorter way to the MRT station and all other irritations with trivialities that would otherwise go unnoticed during my many other normal days.

Remedy?
SILENCE from my better half (he’s not termed better half for nothing) and ultimately the guilt (sigh…. another condition that warrants some attention) that surfaces just when the spasms subside.

Slice of Bread

If the titles of the 2 recent posts suggest that I may be deprived of food, you are mistaken. In fact, there is always so much food at my dining table that I suspect that is the "cai wei" or source of wealth in my house.

However, an activity in Nigel's (my son, 2 years old and second in line to heirloom) weekend class made me think otherwise. The toddlers in the class were asked to use a plastic knife, scoop out some strawberry jam and spread the jam on a slice of bread. This activity was aimed at training their eye-hand coordination skills.

Without any procrastination, Nigel picked up a knife, stuck it into the bottle of jam, managed to scoop out some and started his artwork on a slice of bread. He was engrossed in his masterpiece whilst his classmates came by, DID IT and went on to other activities but Nigel was ALWAYS THERE. The novelty of this activity was captivating as he will NEVER EVER get such freedom at home under my mum's, his grandma aka supremo, supervision. Soon there was a stack of "art pieces" collected on the plate.

My pre-programmed logic suggested that these artwork were to be snacks during the toddlers' snack break. Then a teacher came by and told me otherwise, they were meant for the bin and many had found their final resting place since classes started in the morning.

“WHAT A WASTE!” I exclaimed, to which no response came. Actions spoke louder than words, Nigel and I embarked on our task to UNDO that waste, albeit slightly. Together, we ate up his one and only masterpiece. It tasted good I must say, was it the extra ingredient, Nigel’s saliva?

This learning activity was just inconceivable to me, that toddlers are taught to PLAY with bread and have them thrown away whilst many out there are starving? Perhaps......maybe......afterall I am just a cheap skate that would not even let go of ...... a slice of bread.

Stick of Satay

"Wow! So expensive! A set meal from Delifrance is equivalent to my 2 meals for a day", a sentence overheard from a colleague whilst he was glancing through TODAY today. It brought back thoughts when I was savouring a stick of beef satay my hubby bought last evening. I was thanking God and my lucky stars for that stick of satay and many more in the bag for dinner last night.

Gone were the days when satays were never heard of nor served during meals. That every leaf of vegetable, grain of rice, drop of sauce had to be rationed. We were very POOR then. Sometimes my mum and I would survive on 6 small buns for $1 everyday. Surprisingly those buns tasted very good then. Better than the satays last night? Maybe......

Anyhow, I am glad that life has definitely changed for the better in affluence sense but contentment wise...... maybe...... maybe not......

Turning 30

No prizes for guessing my age.

I had breakfast with my friends yesterday at Kallang McDonalds, not very glamorous I know but considering my friends, it was already quite an achievement to wake up in the early hours of the morning to have breakfast TOGETHER! What more a “sponsored” one, one lecturer amongst us “redirected” vouchers for our use. (Leave you to ponder what this “redirection” meant.)

And no prizes again for guessing our conversational topic, yes, how to celebrate our coming-of-age, turning 30. (Note the phrase “coming-of-age” is increasingly used for turning 30 in addition to turning 18 and 21).

Again, that one particular lecturer suggested a theme party for all to bring friends whom the others within the group do not know, to bring people associated with our love past or simply to dress like her. Whilst the last suggestion requires some effort to revamp our wardrobe with un-matching attires, as one of us commented as a-matter-of-factly, the first two suggestions would render our party with just US! What does that say about our social circles and love lives!

Nonetheless, I can’t help but think about my 30th birthday bash on my way home and what my hubby once said “To grow old gracefully”. Guess I would just have a simple party, my family and friends with my three little ones blowing my cake (with only one big candle please) for me and in my “graceful” attire, no more skimpy minis but maybe a decent top and bottom, matching of course.

The days of insecurities have finally come to an end, my hubby would exclaim after reading this blog.