The lesbian in me

In October 2003, I went backpacking in Central Europe. It was one of the best times in my life, for I felt so free and uninhibited. Amsterdam is one of the many cities on my travel itinerary. Boy! I tell you, it is a bloody damn expensive city but a wonderful place, nonetheless.

Travelling alone, I had the flexibility of changing plan as often as I wish. As I walked all over downtown, I came across this little hut that sell lots of touristy stuffs and gay souvenirs. Goody, I thought to myself. I could get something for my gay friends. After I belek here and belek there, I decided to get a couple of postcards, a miniature of gay men kissing and a guide to gay nightlife in Amsterdam.

The hut keeper and I started talking about the guidebook and he was so helpful by pointing out to me the location of some of the best gay clubs in the city. Assuming that I was a lesbian, he asked me how difficult was it to come out from the closet in a country like Malaysia. Gobsmacked! I thought it was quite funny and I can’t stop smiling, but somehow I managed to tell him that it was quite difficult to be a lesbian in our society.

Though I can’t say what it’s like to be gay since I’m not a full blown one, I imagine it is rather hard for them to come out. I have two friends who are so much in love with each other but they can’t come out and be themselves, knowing what awaits them. All the humiliations, punishments and titles society will bestow upon them. It is rather sad. Not everybody is like you and me, who can accept gay people for who they are.

Last night before falling asleep, I have this thought playing hide and seek in my head.

If I were a lesbian, I would like to shag Rebecca Gillis a.k.a Jacinda Barret. She is a gorgeous chick with innocent look and serene poise. Who is she? Check out the lesbian chick in Bridget Jones 2. I think she has small breasts but what the heck; it is not the end of the world. I wonder what it is like to kiss her. If I were Bridget, I would dump Mark Darcy on the spot.

Surrogate nenek

A few days ago, I received a text message 'Opah meninggal'. My heart suddenly stopped beating for two seconds and I find it quite difficult to breathe. She was one fine lady.

She wasn't my Opah and no, we were not related, either by blood or by marriage.

It all started when I came back after finishing my studies and eager to start the working life. Coming from Kedah, it was quite difficult to get a job just by sending letters to potential employers. So, my friend and I decided to pack our bags and try our luck in KL. Before we could stand on our own feet, we stayed with her aunt and family, and Opah at Kg Pandan.

Never in my life before I heard orang Perak speaks Malay. It was such a linguistic shock to me, trying to understand each word or jokes traded between them. Whenever I didn't understand anything, I just grinned and laughed at myself. Opah was very good at telling stories and boy! she could tell you a lot. Most of the times, I had a translator who pitied me and let me on the stories.

She usually started her stories like 'Zaman bard dulu...' I am sure you're wondering what the heck is bard? It was her word for JWW Birch. So zaman bard is actually the time when the British had a forceful influence, having appointed Bard as the first British Resident in Perak. Though she wasn't around at Bard time,she had wonderful life experiences because she grew up during the time when the world was in chaos and our nation was struggling for her own identity.

She would relate each story to a real person and how that person make an impact on the history. Like the time when the first PM trying to negotiate our independence. All of the orang kampung, rich or poor, helped by donating whatever savings or gold they had, just to buy Tunku a plane ticket to London. She remembered that day clearly and painted the picture to me and her grandchildren. She was so passionate and proud to be part of something so big. The kind of things we never read in our history text books.

When she was living in KL, she actually had her eyes wide open to the ongoing sagas, gossips or development. You would think that a nenek from kampung wouldn't know what was going on in the social circle of KL life. Well, you're wrong. She could tell you whos who or which clubs to avoid. She loved taking a bus (I think it's No. 32 Metro Bus) to the town. She even told us that years ago, KL did try to use a double decker like the red London bus but to no success. She even had the opportunity to ride in one before the plan was abandoned. For some reason, I didn't quite believe the story but I was sure she wasn't lying. She was very particular about ethics and honesty.

Her knowledge of English wasn't so bad either, though she made it her own version. I laughed so hard when I first found out what she meant by 'setempeket'. It was her version of 'certificate'. And not to forget the words 'renen' and 'statmet' being 'raining' and 'estimate'. She was hilarious and a very sporting nenek.

The stories stopped coming after she became weak and diagnosed with cancer. She was fighting for her life and sadly, last week her fight ended. She was a beautiful lady in every sense of the word and I hope she had lived her life to the fullest. Though she wasn't flesh and blood, I loved her.

Al-Fatihah to you, Opah. You will be fondly remembered.

Bad memories are bad

Yesterday, I was running around all over the country making a complete triangle from London to Newport to Bradford and back to London. All within 14 hours. When I got home, I just can't be bothered with the pillow pat 'cos I needed the sleep. By right, I should be tired and miserable, but truthfully I wasn't. I was happy to get out of my home office and cruise the motorway.

Since it was quite a long drive, I can't help but started to think about the good and bad memories. The good ones made me smile silly, but the bad ones made me think deeper. The Two-Faced Man came back haunting my mind even though this happened almost eight or nine years ago. The day I found out he was cheating on me. I guess I was to be blamed too for not noticing the lame excuses and broken promises. When he said he'd call and didn't, I rang him instead and forgot everything else when I heard his voice. He was sweet and caring and damned was I naive.

Long distance relationship sure didn't work for me. Once I turned my back, he found someone else. The thing that hurt most was he didn't have the decency to admit that he wanted out. Could have save us both the heartache. What was in his mind? Did he think he could have had both girls? Slimy bastard.

He made me wary of other men. I won't give my heart freely and have it stomped all over again. I don't even know whether I have a heart anymore. I feel numb. Every relationship I had these days is like a one night stand and I won't let it go further than that. Flirt and fling. That's my motto.

Maybe I'll find someone who will share my dreams, or maybe I won't. Sometimes, I don't care. That's the phase in my life I want to forget and weep I shall not.

Help me, please?

When I was young
I never needed anyone
And making love was just for fun
Those days are gone

Living alone
I think of all the friends I've known
When I dial the telephone
Nobody's home

All by myself
Don't wanna be
All by myself
Anymore

Hard to be sure
Sometimes I feel so insecure
And loves so distant and obscure
Remains the cure

All by myself
Don't wanna be
All by myself
Anymore

All by myself
Don't wanna live
All by myself
AnymoreI never needed anyone


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Sometimes it is so easy to cry, but when the hurt was buried inside for a long time, your tears will soon dry. Our hearts have been sliced and ripped apart, yet we still managed to pick ourselves up and moved on. As we grow older, we see things for what they are and not just the silver surface covering the ugly truth.

When I was young, foolish and full with romantic notions, I go ‘oohh aahh’ over the fairy tales of happy ending. Bruised and broken hearted years later, I believe that life is not just a whirlpool of romances. Sweet nothings whispered before, are now distant memories. Yet, however hard we tried to paste a smile on our face, these feelings sneak up on us and break us again, and again.

I did not plan for this thing to happen and I wish it didn’t happen. But the devil somehow found his way in. I did something I haven’t done for a long while. I wasn’t in a party mood so I opted to watch The X Factor and Simon Cowell. Btw, he’s cocky, witty and so much fun to watch, and I like him. I was enjoying the show and pining for Steve and Cassie to get through to the final. When it was her turn to sing, Cassie put her soul into this beautiful song, and makes me cry. My friends will tell you that I cry for the silliest reason one can think of, a TV advert, chick flicks or even a patriotic song. I became sebak. So what? Sue me! Anyway, her huge powerful voice reached inside of me and breaks my drought. This time, I cried because I actually listen to words and to the music.

That got me into thinking, what if I was not afraid? What if I’d taken a chance and gamble away? My whole life would have been altered and I would probably have a totally different personality and lifestyle. But is it a different lifestyle what I want? Or was I really looking to change my personality altogether? What am I? Who have I become? Will I end up just by myself? I tell you, I am physically stabled but emotionally disabled. The truth is I am terrified of what lies ahead of me. I still have many good years left but I don’t know what is coming up or how I will face it.

Maybe because we are living in our comfort zone that we didn’t realize that there is a big bad world outside. Or maybe because we close one eye and pretend that the world is not too cruel after all. Why should we be scared of something we didn’t know?

A friend said she didn’t want to wake up when she’s 40, and still do the same things she did a decade ago. Things she said hit the truth and pulled me back to real life. I can’t be wasting my time goyang kaki and living life as it is. Come on, I used to be so proactive and fresh with ideas. Friends were abundant and activities were never hard to find. Now, life is like a stale biscuit. I feel so small compared to rest of them. I am like a tiny drop of sweat in the bluest lake. I am ugly and smelly while the rest is beautiful and smooth.

Should I do something to change it? If I wait for things to materialise in front of me, then I will have a long wait because the way things are at the moment, it’s moving neither vertical nor horizontal.

Have no fear. Life is short. I want to discover a lot of things. My sense of adventure is screaming to me to do something but I haven’t been listening. I want to learn a new language, and perhaps go paragliding for once. I want to explore the world's treasures and Inca ruins, and contribute something back to my society.

Where is my inner strength when I need it most? In today's world, everything comes with a price. Commitment costs a fortune thus making it a puzzle whether it's worth my time. At the same time, I want to love and be loved. I want to have kids even if it means adopting. I want to be included but I am afraid of rejection. I want to conquer my fear but my steps are small. The worst of all, I am scared of the pain. Period. I don’t even know where to begin.

Foreplay of Life

I have this weird feeling that something is calling me. I feel it whispering to my ears and seducing my body. The sweet voice is making me dizzy with its wonderful promises. Telling me to come slowly and not glancing back. Hustling me down the lane and not slowing for me to take my breath. Panting all the way up the hills and still wanting for more. Grasping the layers of the sky and letting go of all the inhibitions. Slipping down many slopes and pushing myself up again, this is the way to do it. It is my destiny. I was born to strive for glory. I make who I am. I am what matters. I am gifted with capable hands. And with my hands I will rock the world. I will mark my place. I will find me. Climax.

I haven't stop searching.

Drowning in the crowd

Entry posted before Raya 2004


Now that Eid is just round the corner, I feel sad. I wish I were back home with the family, making biskut raya and ketupat rendang. I just realize today how much I miss the balik kampung excitement and the raya feeling. I am alone in a strange land and no countryman to celebrate with. The only Muslim compatriot with me celebrates Eid in his own way. Btw, he's a man, what does he know about raya goodies?

When I was little, my family was just ordinary working class people. My father was a teacher just ordinary working class people. My father was a teacher and mum a housewife. Every raya we had a blast just getting things done from hanging up new curtains to vacuuming the whole house and of course, preparing the food. Mum would bake some cakes and thousands of baulu for us and her customers. She didn't have to do that because she was always careful with money and considering that we lived in Alor Setar, things were a lot cheaper. She had a passion for food, be it cooking, baking or just plain eating. So when she started baking baulu for raya and since she made really good ones, people were quite taken with it because normally they would just buy them. Soon after, she received quite a lot of orders from friends, cousins, dad's colleagues and neighbours. From 300 pieces turned to 1,500 turned to 10,000 or more. I was only 9 years old and had been appointed as her assistant. The best job I could ever want at that age. My mission, to find all the burned baulu and eat them. Who was I to argue?

Normally, she would start the day at 6 am just to prepare the ingredients. By 7 am, the Moulinex was up and running battering the eggs, sugar and flour for the mixture. The dapur minyak was ready and the sabut kelapa burning incessantly on a big aluminium plate waiting for the first batch. She put some sand in the periuk to avoid the acuan from getting direct heat from the dapur minyak. Then she would cover the periuk with the sabut so that the baulu were cooked thoroughly from the top to the bottom.

Every few minutes she would check to make sure they were not burned because if they did, then they'd be handed to me for further inspection. Sometimes she let me have the pretty ones as well. When they were nicely browned, she took them out and waited for them to cool before packing them away. Being a mum, she just knew that I had my eyes on them. For me, a slightly warm baulu was the best baulu you can ever eat. By 1 pm, she'd be ready to fold up for the day and if she made more than 1,000 pieces, it was considered a successful day. All this was not for money, but she did it because she didn't know how to say No when people asked her and because she got the pleasure of seeing people faces lighten up. She charged just RM10 for 100 pieces and that was still cheap considering the efforts, time and energy she put in. From 6 am till 1 pm just for a pitiance!

As I got older, she would continue making them and I was allowed to help with the baking process as well. It's kind of delicate because you just have to know the right timing since you can't have the bottom part of the baulu burned and the top part paled. It doesn't go that way. They have to balance to get a perfect baulu.

Did I mention she had a great passion for food? Oh, I did. Well, it didn't stop with the baulu. She went out of her way to learn new things. She would sign up for cooking classes just about anywhere and because she didn't drive, my father was her chauffeur. This was in the 80s, there was no Chef Wan to celoteh in the box at the luxury of one own home. She learned about baking delicious-looking cakes that could only be found in a posh bakery in KL. She also learned to cook asparagus in a lot of different ways when the word asparagus still sounds a bit foreign to many. When she heard there were some cooking competitions, she would gladly join in. Sometimes she won something, sometimes she didn't. It didn't matter to her.

It was the learning that matters. I guess she passed on her passion to us, my sister and I. She would come home and experiment with her new found toy of the day and her enthusiasm rubbed on us. By the age of sixteen, I sold my almost-perfect Kek Batik (the one with biskut marie and choc fudge) to my first customer. This was the day when Kek Batik was not one of the crazed raya goodies like today. And when I was seventeen, she handed over the raya baulu business to me with extra added guarantee that I could keep all the money to myself. What joy! If I had my way I would have raise the price, yet she still charged them the same. She was slowing down. She had enough. Time to move on and pass down her knowledge to the daughters.

From then on, we put our foot down and conquer the territory, with her looking over our backs. All the odd baking trays she bought years ago and the thick recipe books were now a shared asset. Every raya we went crazy with the baking and ended up with 20 odd different cookies and at least 6 types of cakes to suit everyone's taste. It wasn't greed or lust or simply nafsu but it was the passion. Her passion had become ours. Her recipes had become our little secret. Raya was the time of the year we waited in anticipation, to showcase our abilities and to make her proud. As Kedahans, hypothetically we should only know ketupat palas. But no, mum made us learn to make the ketupat nasi the authentic Johorian way. So we had the best of everything. These were for us.

Sadly, yesterdays were just yesterdays. Since mum left us, we lost our touch. The passion was buried with her. Raya is just another day to get over with. We used work as an excuse for lack of goodies. The things we used to DIY now came in plastic tupperwares. We make do with the mass production of manufactured biskut raya that were usually left in its sorry state. They're for the guests and I myself certainly do not want to gorge on them. Baulu, I avoided at all cost. Haven't had one since I was 21.

Now with me being away in a foreign land, my sister would have a tough time to resurrect the old raya tradition. I wish I can go to her. I wish she can catch hold of my hands so I will not drown any deeper. I wish I can hold on tight to her. I wish for laughter and noisy raya morning. I wish for a calm and peaceful raya prayer. I wish to hand out duit raya personally and see the nephews and nieces shriek with happiness. I wish for a ketupat. I wish for mum.

Americans oh! Americans...

Very weird la, a few days ago I wrote about people and their stupid questions and today I heard it was mentioned on the BBC radio. They must have read my blog!

Apparently, the Tourist Board in Roma complains that many many tourists roaming there, oh and get this, especially Americans love asking silly billy questions.

Hey Romans, welcome to my world!

Further evidences:
At the Sistine Chapel, "Where's the other fifteen?"

At Pisa, "Is this where Jesus was born?"

At Eiffel Tower, "It's not as lean as I thought"

In South France, "You have moon too?"

Aisayman, so terrible. Maybe I should collect all the questions and send to a publisher. Mana tau boleh buat duit from these idiots :) I mean the thought of everyone has their own moon might be cool, but than I guess we better not sleep 'cause it'd be too bright round the clock.

When in Rome, do as the Romans do. Act intelligent!

Neanderthal of the 21st Century

I am a simple me.

I don’t wear designer labels. I don’t drive a merc. I didn’t go to Ivy League school. I don’t eat at a posh restaurant. I don’t own fancy tech gadgets.

I am just I.

I drive a funky little van. It’s a Vauxhall if anyone wants to know. I am awkward with good-looking intelligent people. I am shy and usually closed-mouth (that's why I blog). I sometimes wear jeans when I go to work. I eat at warung and kebab takeaways. I use an old third-hand (or maybe fourth) PC passed down to me. The only latest brand-conscious-item I have is a cute red Sony digicam, bought because I was greedy and wanted to show off to my good friend who has a Nikon. Which I can point out was unnecessary because I now keep it safe in the drawer at all times. Hah! Pathetic nutcase.

Two weeks ago, an Iraqi immigrant who is an engineer working in Brent Cross came for dinner at my flat. Well, I didn’t invite him, my flatmate did. From the first moment he started talking I knew I wouldn’t like this guy, but since it’s Ramadhan, I shouldn’t let him get to me. There were five of us in the lounge talking to each other while waiting for the iftar when this chap asked me and another guess, Aneta, what we do for a living. If you knew me, you’d know that I wouldn’t brag about my job so I just shrugged and said I work at an ice cream factory. And Aneta said she would start work at the same ice cream factory. But both of us didn’t mention what we actually do.

Thinking that we both are 3rd class immigrants and have low-life jobs, he started rambling about how a person has to have good education to get a better life, and telling us to go find a college to study some courses that offer a certificate or diploma or even better, a degree. Because according to him, until we do that we won’t be able to find a good job with good pay check. He gave himself as an example that he studied hard and that took him to where he is now. A chief engineer. All the while, I was boiling inside because of his chauvinistic comments. And again, if you knew me I’m not easily rattled since I like to keep my cool.

At one point, I lost my cool and said, “I went to a university and I’ve got a degree and she’s got one as well.” I wasn’t trying to show off but I just want to kick his teeth!

As if he doesn't believe me, he responded with a smirk on his face, “Do you? Well, yeah but you have to find a job that can make you happy and give comfortable living, like my job. What for you work hard but get so little money?”

“Eh, hello? You do not know about my job or me. So please do not make any assumption. I make enough and I am happy with my job. I am satisfied, why should I look for something else?” For which he kept silent.

I hate an argument. I would rather watch from the side than getting involved in one. I hate chauvinistic Neanderthal who thinks they know better, gloats about their achievements and thinks that the helpless little women should stay at home with one hand on the ‘rotan’ and one hand ‘selak kain’ waiting for them to come back.

He still doesn’t know anything about my job and I rather keep it that way. I am not a walking advertisement. I don’t care what people say as long as I am happy with my choice. Who are they to tell me? My life is about me. You stupid chauvinist, go fuck yourself!

Gucci loafers with holes

THE MORON IS NOW A FUCKING BLOODY OXYMORON. A LEGITIMATE BASTARD WITH A BRAIN OF A SHOE.

Driving home from Cambridge and laughing at Radio One silly joke about Senator Kerry calling a Job Centre in Sunderland looking for a job since he can't be a President, it was quite comforting to know we can still laugh at small things even if the world is in an uproar.

Somehow I was thinking, surely this feeling couldn't last and sure enough some stupid idiot had to text Scott Mills with one question, who is Paul McCartney?

To say I was stunned is an understatement. I may not be crazy over The Beattles but I know these guys with the funny haircut back then. Who doesn't? We all knew the crazed they created with our mothers' generation or how huge of a success they tasted. They were also in the list of BBC 100 Great Britons but wait a minute.. here was a Brit chap who dared ask such question. Duh!?

How ironic because it was only last night my flatmate, M came home and started to ramble about stupid people asking stupid questions. Apparently he and his colleagues were talking about the new EU countries when someone asked, "Is there such country as Hungary?" After a long discussion with him, M concluded that Britain is full with ignorant idiots and then off he went to bed.

It may be unfair to make such bold conclusion yet I cannot help but think of other similar incidents my mates and I have experienced. Back in the old days when I was living in MO, some average working class American had the gut to ask me whether we Malaysians still live on trees. At another time, my other flatmate told me that she was asked whether Poland is in Europe and that person swear he thought Poland is in Asia. This came out of a 40-year old man, for goodness sake! And the same chap thought Argentina would be included in the EU!

Oh my God, why on earth do I have to share the breathing space with these morons? Try asking them where Chad is and I am sure they'll have a blank face. I may have made sweeping generalisation in my comments but at least I know for sure that we learn the world geography in our teens and can tell the difference between an Asian and a European country for that matter.

Once in a while, I get all worked out over such comments when I know I shouldn't. Let them be stupid, why should I care? I can't be bothered with these pitiful rednecks, who are happy to wait on tables or work as prison guards and come home to watch football, drink three pints, watch ball games on Sundays and ended up betting on Fearless James at Epsom Derby and don't give a shit about the rest of the world!