Archive for August, 2005



When two or more married women get together for coffee, conversation often centers around a handful of topics: shopping, gossip and kids.

Inevitably, we get on the last subject a lot of the time, since most of my friends already have children.

We share tips and personal experiences on diaper brands and breastfeeding to behaviour problems and school trips. We talk, we laugh. Many a time, we’ve paused to reflect on how much our lives have changed. Where the meaning of the phrase “a good night’s sleep” is just a distant memory and personal freedom an old friend who is afraid to visit because God Forbid that you should think of yourself once in a while.

sterday, I had the chance to chat with a colleague of mine, who has many times in the past made known to me that she is afraid of having children. However, having been married about three years (she’s only 23!) with nary a bouncing baby, certain people in her family (or more her husband’s) are getting antsy and asking questions.

Her reasons for remaining childless were surprisingly practical for someone of 23. I must admit I’d half-expected her to say that she was afraid of labour pains or something as idiotic as her husband not being able to enjoy sex with her after childbirth (since her vagina would have become a spacial phemonenon – how are people still talking to women who gave birth in the 19th century?).

Instead, my colleague was surprisingly lucid that she would never want to have children. Having come from a big family, she preferred to see the world now that she was all grown up. She had gotten married because she believed – and still does – that her husband is The One. However, kids were an entirely different undertaking, and one she was not prepared for.

Of course, I was really the last person on Earth to advise her on what to do to AVOID having kids. I knew I wanted to be a mother all my life. However, I still remember how much my freedom and independence meant to me when I was 23. In fact, I would never have gotten married at that age, much less get pregnant.

Also, her problem was not so much family planning, as not really planning at all. The rest of you married but childless Malaysian women know how it is. The collective mothers begin the blatant questioning. Relatives begin the noisy, nosey prodding. Your husband, if so inclined, starts making advances without so much as a question, much less a discussion.

Before you know it, you paid RM120,000 for a baby you never really wanted, which then ends up being raised by a 16-year old foreign worker who’s going through puberty herself.

Or worse, by women who gave birth in the 19th century.

It is shocking how many couples actually TALK or THINK long and hard before having kids. They either just have them, or start thinking when the fertility problems occur. And then your whole perspective becomes marred by the fact that you CAN’T have a child, and we know how people can become when they can’t have what they want.

And even if you DO talk, nothing really prepares you for how much your lives will change when the baby arrives. Unless someone invents a brain engram-recording process that lets you watch or live through the memories of other first-time parents, you can never know how it feels to have your freedom stripped from you for the next 20 years, or to fight with your husband everyday about why he has so little time to spend with the family, or to worry about what’s going to happen to your home and kids should you lose your job.

And people think getting a dog would be the same.

Moral of the story? There is a middleground. Talk about it BEFORE you get married. Do a blood compatibility and fertility test while you’re at it. Because after you say those vows, parenthood sort of creeps up on you.

If you’re lucky :).


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(Be prepared to ROTFLMAO)

Someone sent me this funny story, which I know has been reproduced countless times in cyberspace. But it does not lose its humour. Enjoy!

My mother was a fanatic about public bathrooms. When I was a little girl, she’d take me into the stall, teach me to wad up toilet paper and wipe the seat. Then, she’d carefully lay strips of toilet paper to cover the seat.Finally, she’d instruct, “Never, NEVER sit on a public toilet seat.

Then she’d demonstrate “The Stance,” which consisted of balancing over the toilet in a sitting position without actually letting any of your flesh make contact with the toilet seat.
By this time, I’d have wet down my leg and we’d have to go home to change my clothes. That was a long time ago.

Even now, in my more “mature years, “The Stance” is excruciatingly difficult to maintain, especially when one’s bladder is full.

When you have to “go” in a public bathroom, you usually find a line of women that makes you think there’s a half-price sale on Nelly’s underwear in there. So, you wait and smile politely at all the other ladies, who are also crossing their legs and smiling politely. You get closer and check for feet under the stall doors. Every one is occupied.

Finally, a door opens and you dash in, nearly knocking down the woman leaving the stall. You get in to find the door won’t latch. It doesn’t matter. The dispenser for the new fangled “seat covers” (invented by someone’s Mum, no doubt) is handy, but empty.

You would hang your purse on the door hook if there were one but there isn’t so you carefully but quickly hang it around your neck (mum would turn over in her grave if you put it on the FLOOR!), yank down your pants, and assume “The Stance.”Ahhhh, relief. More relief. But then your thighs begin to shake.

You’d love to sit down but you certainly hadn’t taken time to wipe the seat or lay toilet paper on it, so you hold “The Stance” as your thighs experience a quake that would register an eight on the Richter scale.

To take your mind off your trembling thighs, you reach for what you discover to be the empty toilet paper dispenser. In your mind, you can hear your mother’s voice saying, “Honey, if you had tried to clean the seat, you would have KNOWN there was no toilet paper!” Your thighs shake more.

You remember the tiny tissue that you blew your nose on yesterday � the one that’s still in your purse. That would have to do. You crumple it in the puffiest way possible. It is still smaller than our thumbnail.

Someone pushes open your stall door because the latch doesn’t work. The door hits your purse, which is hanging around your neck in front of your chest, and you and your purse topple backward against the tank of the toilet. “Occupied!” you scream, as you reach for the door, dropping your precious, tiny, crumpled tissue in a puddle, and sliding down, directly onto the insidious toilet seat. You bolt up; knowing all too well that it’s too late. Your bare bottom has made contact with every imaginable germ and life form on the uncovered seat because YOU never laid down toilet paper – not that there was any, even if you had taken time to try.

You know that your mother would be utterly ashamed of you if she knew, because you’re certain that her bare bottom never touched a public toilet seat because, frankly, dear, “You just don’t KNOW what kind of diseases you could get.”

By this time, the automatic sensor on the back of the toilet is so confused that it flushes, sending up a stream of water akin to a fountain that suddenly sucks everything down with such force that you grab onto the toilet paper dispenser for fear of being dragged off to China. At that point, you give up.

You’re soaked by the splashing water. You’re exhausted.

You try to wipe yourself with a gum wrapper you found in your pocket, and then slink out inconspicuously to the sinks. You can’t figure out how to operate the taps with the automatic sensors, so you wipe your hands with spit and a dry paper towel and walk past a line of women, still waiting,cross-legged and, at this point, no longer able to smile politely.
One kind soul at the very end of the line points out that you are trailing a piece of toilet paper on your shoe as long as the Mississippi River! (Where was it when you NEEDED it??) You yank the paper from your shoe, plunk it in the woman’s hand and tell her warmly, “Here, you just might need this.”

As you exit, you spot your hubby, who has since entered, used and exited the men’s restroom and read a copy of War and Peace while waiting for you.

Annoyed, he asks, “What took you so long, and why is your purse hanging around your neck?”

This is dedicated to women everywhere who have ever had to deal with a public restroom (rest??? you’ve got to be kidding!!).

It might finally explain to the men what really does take us so long. It also answers their other commonly asked question about why women go to the restroom in pairs. It’s so the other woman can hold the door and hand you Kleenex under the door.

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The gym can get boring after a while.

Yesterday, I decided to go with something one of my neighbours (a fit 50+ old man) shared last week. He takes the stairs up (all 18 flights of them!) up my condo twice a week. And so, I slapped on my tights and walking shoes, took the lift down to the basement, and legged up all the way to the 17th floor before I almost died of exhaustion.

Anyone can tell me if this is good exercise? I’m planning to do this once a day instead of the treadmill and then see if I can manage twice a day. The 10 mins up made me sweat more than my 30 mins on the mill!

And that old man goes six times, twice a week!

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In defiance of gyms like Fitness First, I am putting my own willpower to the test and my condo’s gym, finally, to good use.

I actually started a few days ago but the haze made it difficult to continue without asphyxiating in the process.

Let the record show that I am today 110.2 kilos today. Walked the treadmill for 30 mins today at 4.3kmph. Felt very good to sweat. Did some leg and arm pushes. Gym condo is surprisingly canggih-ly equipped.

Will report progress in this blog. Wish me luck!

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Hazy Daze

The haze is really, REALLY bad. But that's old news.

I can smell the smoke every day for the past four days. Yesterday, I couldn't last more than half an hour on the bike in my condo gym because the door was open and I kept breathing in the haze. Nobody was using the pool because by now, the water is probably toxic.

Both my kids have fallen ill. Skyler, who is seven months old (she's a preemie) was up all night last night, coughng and wheezing.

I live on the 18th floor in Ken Damansara Condo and my yard faces Jasmine Towers. How bad is it? Here's how.

Update: This is what it looks like this afternoon:

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Somebody shtop meh!

So it’s been kinda crazy around here. PC Fairlah, upcoming WCGlah, before that CELgameslah.

A large part of me wonders if I’ll be able to cope with being a full-time mom and all, after this madness.

But really, I’ve been kinda disconnected, having lost many a waking hour to WoW (don’t click on it if you know what’s good for you). Yesterday, I spent all day just holding Skyler with one hand and trying to kick Drak’s ass on another. It’s not good, I know, but this post isn’t about what’s good. It’s about me. Handing Drak’s behind back to him. With one hand.

Perhaps I’m becoming a little too big for my Wildheart Boots.

Wait a minute, I don’t got no Wildheart Boots.

Mother Smoulderweb, here I come.

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