Crunch Time, Mak-time

A cup of harmless (or so I thought) Cappucino kept my mind on a non-stop, 3 hour replay of variables, constants, alphabets, assumptions and models last night (or morning to be exact). Hilariously enough, these were things that escaped me this morning, when I needed them most.

One by one those dreadful letters and numbers just up and left, abandoning me in my combat against all things evil in fiscal and monetary policy. I try to tell myself, "I am not alone, I am not alone, I am not alone". I am not alone, am I?

As of the moment, that is what I am, alone. Alone in threading 6 pages worth of words and the harvest of thoughts I have gathered over the course of 11 weeks. It's okay, words are easier than letters that when combined, don't make sense. At the end of the day, words penned down well earn me a warm heart.

Statistics will then conquer my time, the minute I raise my fingers that have done away with its typing. As the clock strikes 8.30pm tomorrow, another journey will be revisited. Some numbers to run, a few papers to examine, and a hell lot of typing to be done.

Then? The struggle ends there. Full stop. Just as sudden as it came. I pray I have enough strength, courage and faith to go on. Amin.

Project Apartment 2009

The present me is nothing like the old me.

The old me, during her high school years, had boys to finish her woodwork for the practical component of Living Skills Studies. The old me got her sawed pieces done, only to find that she couldn't connect the pieces together because her "tanggam parit" was not level. She then miraculously found her project become Jack's. Jack, by the way, was a year older, and had no business whatsoever in the Living Skills workshop. Jack would cordon off some time for my woodwork and even recruited a couple of friends to help expedite the "Help Poor Nj's Ugly Woodwork Project".

The story did not not end there. My multi-purpose wood box was to come with a quilted cover. The beginning of the project was easy enough. I picked a cool-looking cotton cloth, I cut the pieces, quilted it fine, had the teacher trim the edges, but patience I had none when it came to fitting the cover over the woodwork. Off to a tailor in SS2 the cover went. And that, my friends, was how bad I was at all things practical.

But as I said, the present me is nothing like her old, inept self, especially after I find myself heavily vested in a pet project dubbed Project Apartment 2009.

Project Apartment 2009 was not an easy task. It began in April with a search for an apartment, and it couldn't just be the high-rise apartments most international students seem to prefer. I held fast to a dream of living in a quaint, walk-up apartment that was as far away from campus as I could get. Most students who embarked into the off-campus world would opt to live within walking distance from the quads, but I wanted to to be put up close to the lakefront (Lake Michigan).

5430 S. Cornell Ave, Apt. 5R possessed the fierce desires of my heart, and more. Papers were signed, fantasies began, and the project was flagged off.

The search for all things interior and secondhand was by all means long and difficult. But tenacity (and not to mention superior persistent bugging and bargaining skills) pays off, because my roommate Samina and I, both have a place we will be in love with until the day we leave school.

The new me, is someone who disassembled and re-assembled her secondhand furniture, from scratch. Armed with an Ikea toolbox (borrowed, and not yet returned, haha) and sometimes no instruction manual, I screwed, hit, twisted and pushed things into place. Sometimes it took an extra limb or two or required interesting squatting positions or laying down on pieces, and I did it all. Sometimes it took gentle hammering and patience to dislodge a piece while other times required simultaneous jumping, pushing and grunting. But it's all good.

The new me, is someone who painted a feature wall with her favorite color all by herself. For a first timer, it is a job well-done if I must say so myself. There are minimal smudges where the masking tape gave in to the paint, but otherwise I took the pains of wiping the paint with warm water when the stain was unbearable for this naked eye. The new me, is also someone who painted a full-length mirror just so everything in the room matches, and the white bare walls opposite the feature wall didn't look too boring.

The new me takes pride in knowing the different tools in the toolbox and praises the Living Skills curriculum for that. The new me is someone who thinks of playing engineer and tries to repair a broken DVD player, and then surprises herself completely when she miraculously does.

The new me has a home she sort of built from scratch, and she is proud of that.

The new me, unfortunately, is still too short to change a light bulb without a chair. Dammit!

 

Credits to Chong Han and Saleema Nawab for helping Samina and I transport our stuff on that rainy, gloomy day in June. Heartfelt thanks to Adam Johari and Kudzai Ndondo who spent days helping us carry everything in and out of the car or UHaul, via flights of stairs, firescape and spiral staircase and finally, into our home. Adam Johari and Adzwan Anuar also took this little kid to the funland called Ikea, and she owes them one.

Hugs to Samina Lutfeali who shared my ideals and built this comfortable home together. Special thanks goes to Maggie Chow and Huiying Chan for selling me a bulk of the furniture in my room. Project Apartment 2009 couldn't have materialized without these people. Grazie and gracias again.

Fall 2009: An Abridged Update Of My Sad State In Life

"Or we might talk about the other great nemesis of the bathroom cleaner--pubic hair. I don't know what it is about the upper American class, but they seem to be shedding their pubic hair at an alarming rate. You find it in quantity in shower stalls, bathtubs, Jacuzzis, drains, and even, unaccountably, in sinks. I once spent fifteen minutes crouching in a huge four-person Jacuzzi, maddened by the effort of finding the dark little coils camouflaged against the egg-plant colored ceramic background but fascinated by the image of the pubes of the economic elite, which must by this time be completely bald".

-Barbara Ehrenreich, Nickel and Dimed: On (Not) Getting By In America.

Loving this witty excerpt read for one of my favorite classes so far. Enjoying my Macroeconomic class' emphasis on the government and welfare. Hating the grades and time-consuming problem sets due almost every day of the week (but what else is new?). A liberal arts education doesn't get any better than this when it gives you a full spectrum of emotional flavors.

The angst of securing a summer internship kicks in, due to impending travel to South Africa in January. Not to mention the strain of living up to the gloating statements I made about not returning home for next summer.

Tears have been shed over personal matters (notwithstanding the fact that the event also occurs once in 30 days, as some acquainted readers would know). But life goes on, this time with the new Macbook soon to be in my possession. I was told by one good friend that "Once [I] go Mac, [I] never go back". This is too sexciting, after 7 weeks of living live without the desirable convenience of working wireless, whenever and wherever I please.

A jump for joy is in line, even if the struggle out of loneliness and proving myself worthy of the rigorous academic life never ends.

Oh, and you noticed? Yeah, I changed my blog layout, for the millionth time, I know.

An "Inside Joke" Is Never Funny "Outside"

PJ, 11 September--NJ picks up the office phone authoritatively, putting on her no-nonsense, most professional voice. She dials for Richard Ng, with much gusto and style, punching the numbers as she reads it aloud.

Richard Ng is one man, one Malaysian man, who operates a cab. His business card reads: "Taxi service, from your doorstep to any step away; KLIA, Inter-city, Intra-city; Please call at least an hour before your trip."

NJ: Hello, Mr. Richard ah? I'm calling from Amnesty International in PJ.

R: Yes yes. What? NST what?

NJ: Oh, no no. Amnesty International, from New Town PJ.

R: Uhuhuh.

NJ: Anyways ah, I'd just like to ask you if we can reserve your cab for 2pm today? From 8 Avenue here at New Town PJ ah, Section 8, to Central Market. Well, actually not really Central Market lah, but Annexe. You know ah?

R: How you got my number?

NJ: Oh, I have your business card, a staff took your cab once. You said to call in advance, maa.

R: Ya ya. (Silent for 2 seconds) Oh, I ah, no longer do cab business ah.

NJ: Oooooh. (Silent for 4 seconds) Okay, nemind. Thank you ah Mr. Richard Ng. You have a nice day.

NJ to others in the office: Oh, Mr. Richard Ng has moved on to better things in life. He no longer does cabs.

(Office errupts in laughter)

Saya Pelatih Melapor Diri Pada Tahun 2011

At times it pays to have a brother who's bengkeng. After he has so kindly (to me) and unkindly (to them) chided the PLKN officers who screwed up my 4-year deferment, the verdict is out.

It's now 2 years before I have to lug my then 22-year-old (and hopefully NOT pudgy) unfit self to bootcamp.

Why? Because Bank Negara has spoken, and thy files are marked and stamped. There is no escape. But wait there is; to defer until I'm old and thirty OR get married and have kids, whichever comes first (preferably the latter). Ok, just kidding. I'll do it, you bet I will.

Pant through an obstacle course like I did throughout my 5 years of boarding school, use "hardwater" and get pimples like I always had in camps, march under the scorching sun and grant myself a tan like the one I have lived with for so many years? For Yahoo! fun as such, who can complain? Wait, then there is the privilege of donning those blue heavy uniforms and running around in those UGG-ly boots? Ah, sheer pleasure.

Oh, so you noticed the sarcasm? No, no, really, learning how to handle a gun and actually do some community service may be the only two things I'll value from PLKN. With the first, I am armed with the security, confidence and physical knowledge that I can blow off the dick of the next dickhead who breaks my heart; and the second, for obvious reasons.

Sure, this is going to be legen-wait for it-dary! Wait, no, really, I'm dead serious about the gun, no the community service. Eh, no, the community service, yes, yes.

And no, I am not usually this gedik, if that's what you're wondering. I just hate this serving-PLKN-before-I-work business with a passion.

The Masterplan

I will come full-frontal and tell you this: I make lists for everything. Well, at least I try to. Grocery lists, to-do lists, shopping lists, bill breakdowns; those are a must. About a month after my return to the blogging arena, I came up with a list of things I wanted talk about. I even coined cool (or so I think) titles to complement them, none of which ever came about.

A list of "Songs To Be Downloaded/Copied" also remains on my widget notepad to this day. My most recent endeavor was to prepare a list of books I wanted to read for my 3-month break from college and you know this is not happening because I promised myself to only buy used books online. A list of "Books To Be Bought On Amazon" would soon be drafted and--I'm almost certain--left untouched.

The irony is that I made a "Things I Would Never Do, Just Because" list that I seem to be checking off (or unchecking-off, depending on how you choose to perceive it) one-by-one. For your reference, the list:

1. Do anything to my hair (including perm, but especially color). CHECK (By perming).
   
2. Smoke (shisha or hookah not an exception). CHECK (Twice, on hookah).
   
3. Have more than one piercing. CHECK (Ear cartilage piercing, birthday treat to myself from myself)
4. Swim in a swimming pool with clothes (I believe in swimsuits for swimming pools). CHECK (I was doing well until yesterday, goddamit).
5. Vomit (self-induced or not).
6. Go on a diet.
7. Take painkillers.
   

To digress a little, yes, I have never puked in my 20 years of life. To go through life without puking is my aspiration, and we will have to wait 10 years down the road to see if morning sickness gets the best of me (I do plan to have kids, you know?). And god forbid I should ever have to go on a diet or take painkillers.

So there is a conundrum. I am itching to make a list, a list of "Adventurous Endeavors I Shall Partake In".

Before I die and utter the Kalimah Syahadah (InsyaAllah), I may want to go sky diving with a colorful parachute; take a jumping snapshot on the Y of the "Hollywood" at Hollywood; camwhore on a hot air balloon; drive a mini lorry; try bungee jumping, walk backwards on the Taman Negara Pahang suspension bridge; go skinny dipping (but wear a lifejacket since I'm afraid of deep waters) with my husband somewhere in the Caribbeans.

But once they are set in stone, written in black and white, typed on a screen, whatever it may be, I will not be able to attain them, won't I? Shall I make a non-list; a list that finds form in my thoughts and dreams, only to be coughed out once realized? For starters, here's one:

1. Rock-climbing. CHECK (Thanks to climbing enthusiast, Zyra. And to the Almighty that I am still in one piece despite my angst and "Takde tenagalah" screams on the way up)
2. Get dumped into the sea 6 times (no, 7, if you count the time when my wonderful friends leaned backwards, making us all vulnerable to the big, open Port Dickson sea) from a banana boat. CHECK (with a bruised left cheek and aching limbs to account for it)
3. Ride backwards on a banana boat and get dumped into the sea. CHECK (activity was carried out with screams that pierced the blue sky, most definitely).
4. Flying fox, abseiling, repelling. CHECK (achieved throughout my 10 years of schooling, but hope to be checked twice).
5. Bathe stark naked in the dark, with friends AND random acquaintances of the same gender, from a suspicious looking kolah. CHECK (Kem Terendak, Melaka was all military style; need I say more?)
   
6. Walk around naked in a dormitory bathroom. CHECK (I was after all, a victim of a friend's towel-hiding scheme).
7. Leave my brassiere (the common term sounds, well, too common) in a male friend's car and be forever scarred and humiliated. Sigh, CHECK.

Keep the adventures and misadventures coming, buddies! I have but one life to live and we all know that life's row boat should go merrily up the stream. "Bare" with me here, ha ha.

Hakuna Matata

Hakuna matata. There is no problem. Especially if you really want something and you work for it. Sometimes in life, you just gotta do, pursue, harass, try, as hard as you can. God willing, all will come your way!

For example, you may just get a postcard if you harass hard enough for it, kan kan? (If you're reading this, you know who you are=p)

But now my latest obsession comes in the form of a Zimbabwean. Hah! Who would've guess? And if you didn't know, Cape Town is right next to Zimbabwe. So if you know what I'm talking about, you do the math. *Mischievous grin*

Jambo bwana. Nope, it's Swahili, not Shona. But I should pick up Shona, don't ya'll think so? (",)

Walimatul Urus

Encik/Cik/Tuan/Puan/Dato'/Datin/Tan Sri/Mak Sri/Tun/Tin,

This is weird. This coming Friday, I will have been married to a rich, pompous man with a frightening belly for many years now. Complementing him, I will be a pretentious, stuck up, middle-aged woman (perhaps approaching premature menopause) who is devastatingly silly in her speech and quirks. Laugh at me silly as I blow some poor man's ass off with a tiny (but loud) cap gun!

I Will Marry When I Want, by Ngugi Wa Thiong'o and Ngugi Wa Mirii. You are cordially invited.


(This isn't the official flyer)

A sneak peek of my favorite song in the play:

Tolong Saya, Bantu Saya

What do you call the closure of two 24-hour campus libraries when you need them most? Grave injustice! University libraries--as I'm sure is written in their unwritten by-laws--should strive to serve their inhabitants to their fullest capacities, especially when they have committed to a status of being 24-hour premises suitable for academic discourse and intellectual goals.

If fullest capacity means offering limitless space and time for the destruction of campus beings' social lives as they forego Friday night amusements (like pre-marital sexual pursuits, spectacular rounds of beer pong and getting high on them 'erbs) in exchange for solitude in an air-conditioned environment and contact time with thousands of last minute-readings, so be it. 

I, as one of the students raped from my rights to the use of these institutions tonight, am livid. President Zimmer, you may think it a wise and dignified move to actually force the student body to explore this other, obscure realm called "fun" and "time off", but all I ask of you is, why? Why tonight; when I am panic-stricken, fluid and sleep-deprived and worried sick of the 10 page paper I am fundamentally clueless about? 

This deprivation from access to resource and basic exercise of my human ways (in the university context, at least) must surely be a violation of human rights. I believe with entirety that my predicament tonight falls directly on the violation of one of the many rights listed on the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. 

It should be. It has to be. It must be. My capability to function (as a typical student who turns in long term papers within two days of work) is irreversibly shattered tonight. Testimony to that is the time I have already wasted in writing this piece of nonsense, when I should in fact be working on the bloody paper. Be convinced, my accusations hold water! If it isn't, it must be implicit. Read between the lines. 

I call upon Amnesty International and other goodwill groups out there to please give light and voice to my plight. Allow me refuge under your umbrella. Give me my right to work the night away, while swallowing the bitter truth I am living the life accorded by the infamous UChicago creed "where fun comes to die". 

Return me my right to outstandingly fit into the image of a nerdy girl in this brainy institution "where the squirrels are cuter than the girls". Let me be that android, who goes with minimal sleep for a mere three days in her life to get all her shit (although belatedly) done.

Sigh, that's what I signed up for, didn't I?

Do What You Wanna Do, Even If It's Fucked Up Haiku

Pimples di kulit kepala

Pimples di leher dan anggota

Pimples membabi buta, merata-rata.

Now rambut ada "body", maybe

tapi kelemumur datang lagi

diikuti debut split ends yang oh sangat terkeji.

Nak baca buku, mata tutup

Dua belas helai by Monday kena meletup

Econ exam hari Khamis buat saya nak masuk chicken coop.

Tak campur Kekasih Malam Ahad

atau falsafah Human Rights dengan masa terhad

dan latihan yang berhari-hari makin die-hard.

Lumrah hidup kadang-kala mati
Esok lusa awak pulak yang rasa nanti

Jemput beri salam dan semangat to me, sini mari!

Theory of Proximity

I fancy myself as an amateur ethnologist, I really do. The amount of time I spend "researching" people's profiles, finding parallels in their lives with mine, and observing the community around me with the naked eye seems to suggest just that; that I am an ethnologist in my own right.

Those who are unfortunate enough to be the subject of my "research" obsession can attest to the high level of dexterity I manifest in this trade. Mere strangers, do not be deterred by this entry. Rest assured I am not a psychopath who gives random people dirty phone calls in the middle of the night, although I may be a permanent visitor to your Facebook profile, and a distant observer of your many photo albums. Yes, I'm just your friendly, resident stalker (if you must belittle my newfound appellation).

Now that we both know that I am an accomplished stalker, let me compel you to read a social science inquiry I have recently formulated in accordance with my self-acclaimed elevated status of ethnologist. I liken my two year immersion into the American experience to the role of the ethnologist who "goes native", and thus have landed myself with an interesting theory of why the Americans I see act as they do.

We begin with the root of the inquiry, the crux, the situation that such an observation was in order. In a terse and crude approach--and I say this with honesty--Americans are extremely individualistic borderline self-absorbed, self-serving, and stingy. Note my qualifier "borderline" before you bash this little human with unkind words like racist and errr, racist. On the methodology, know that this inquiry is wholly legit for it is backed up with some substantial case studies, conducted and participated by: me.

The common experience I'm sure other international students share beef with me is the "thou shall share not" mentality Americans possess. This may pass of as a stereotypical remark; but again, these are empirical observations I myself have dilligently noted in my interactions with them.

To illustrate my point, an American is never ready to offer you the candybar/chips/soda he/she is holding in his/her hand; quite the contrary to the Asian manners of always offering and serving others before oneself. Or in isolated cases when they actually do, realize that they would never ask you twice, thrice, or incessantly bug you until you give in and take some.

Alas, when little things like a bag of chips are points to retract, more so are ingredients in the kitchen where the concept of "depletion" becomes more distressing (to them, that is) since it requires a trip to ol' faithful Walgreen's. It's safe to say there are three separate sets of cooking oil, butter, bread, sugar, salt, pepper and spices in my room thus far. Milk and juice are shared, but with precision whose turn it is to buy them this week or next.

Instead, here I am, always harrasing the Americans I care about to share what little I have. On the very sparing occassions that I cook, I ultimately get trumped because they are just not up for sharing. So to be fair, their self-reliance works when they are both on the receiving and giving end. But it still points to the obvious that sharing isn't quite practiced in this land of the free, doesn't it?

If sharing tangible materials is a non-practice, the trend observed for teamwork and collaboration leaves room for further probe. But what is sure is the different sense of camaraderie between us international students and us with them.

A case in point is the fact that we international students are extremely open to letting friends hold and read our solutions to problems for as long as they want; and for as much information they want to extract from, provided they don't get us in trouble with the university honor code. I have never triumphed in holding an American peer's problem set as freely as I could an international student's, sadly.

The facts laid out as they should, I shall provide you with my radical Theory of Proximity that seeks to explain this individualistic culture pertinent to Americans. I believe, with vehemence, that the source lies in the geography of the country itself. Think of the USA, the vast landscape encompassing 50 states, the different climate and time zones, the changing topology as you drive from the South to the Midwest, from East to West.

This gigantic land, housing states that are bigger than Malaysia, gives Americans much free space and individual cocoon to roam about in. Leave a metropolis like Chicago, New York or Boston and enter American suburban areas and you will understand what I mean. Homes are spread about, cars are necessary to travel from point A to point B, and less people are breathing in your near vicinity.

Even the aforementioned cities are no Mumbai, Jakarta and Bangkok; where people are literally neck-to-neck in slums that are one and many, and resources are scant. And so we, individuals born and bred in third world countries, developing countries, or just densely-populated countries, are decreed by the nature of our living, to share. We understand and embody the concept of "What is mine is yours".

Or at least if you do not agree, I do. I grew up in my grandmother's little bungalow, with my siblings, mother, three aunts, uncle, and cousins under one roof, at most days. Alas, it is fair to say sharing comes to me as naturally as farting does.

But think about it: every day, we face 40 friends in a sweltering hot public school classroom, with only a creaking fan and blackboard, sometimes having to share desks. If in Malaysia, the scenario is as such, what more in sub-Saharan Africa?

It is in fact, the proximity between peoples living together and sharing lives with that hugely affects their interactions with one another. The more people you literally and figuratively bump heads with, the more thoughtful you are about others' needs. For generations and generations next, the love for sharing finds firm roots in our community, right with the idea of nurture and the scientific term conditioning.

Americans, on the other hand, are blessed with the geographical endowment that leaves them free and unbound. My analysis is bereft of income distribution, socio-economic conditions and all that jazz, because I am inciting the idea of the generous space each person is entitled to in America, regardless of their plights.

So, as free and unbound as they are, they sadly lack the experience of sharing for a right to clean water, or a football field, or a dilapidated, shabby, wooden house in a community that seriously scrutinizes your every move (although I do not discount the dire living conditions in the American ghettos). The result of that? Ultra-individualistic, and shall I say "borderline" kedekut, kemut and berkira civilians.

p/s: If you haven't noticed, this entry is laden with satire and sarcasm. Take it with a pinch of salt, please, and don't sue me.

From Petai To Bagel: I Go All But One Way

I'll let you in on a little secret. My transition to the foreign norms and different cultural setting in this land called Chicago, and more generally America, wasn't as plain-sailing as I preconceived it to be. Upon my first infusion into this Western life and living, I surprised myself with my immediate disfavor for some things very American.

Bagels would be a good subject for me to take off from. I wasn't a fan of bagels until this recent year. Yes, it took me one whole year to acclimatize myself to the culture of eating bagels--a substance I once deemed so hard on the jaw, and tasteless to the taste buds. I could not quite fathom my sister's attachment to bagels and agony over the exorbitantly priced bagels carried by select supermarkets in Malaysia.

To me, it was what is was: a tough piece of bread that was even tougher for the jaws. With time and trial and error over the right flavor, I presently find myself settling on Asiago Cheese bagel and Jalapeno Salsa spread at least once a week.

Time and again, I also find myself actually preferring the three-hole papers and three-ring folders prevalent here. My father can attest to my initial detest for this matter, when I--obviously distressed by my first encounter with this three-hole enigma--ranted to him about America's stance on being different from the rest of the world. I hated with fervor, this whole notion of America setting itself apart from the UK, Europe and the rest of the world, since I bothered about these trivial points of adapting.

I went wild with displeasure that I could not use folders, papers and punchers interchangeably between America and the rest of the world. Besides, my ultimate chagrin (at that time at least) was what was I to do with the puncher I proudly brought with me from sweet home Malaysia that actually keeps up with the rest of the world? Of course, this heart is malleable and I soon learned that the three-hole and ring system creates much less heartbreaks over torn ruled papers for OCD students like yours truly.

Nonetheless, no aspect of assimilating into the American life is harder than the conversion to English units. Why must I be subjected to pounds, bushels, doors, miles, and (god-forbid) the ever obscure Fahrenheit when the globe has advanced to the universal standard? Alas, six academic quarters and societal pressure have imposed upon me the need to speak their lingo, and I am sadly coerced to rest my case against this.

As the Malay adage goes, "Masuk kandang kambing mengembek, masuk kandang lembu menguak", I have slowly but surely assimilated into the American life. However, from petai to bagel, from tapai to Oreo parfait, from A4 paper to US letter paper, from "watter" to "wader", I would go all but one way.

What is this one thing, you ask? Let's just say I'd never enter a restroom without a filled bottle, or at the very least, wet paper towels upon paper towels to my discretion and satisfaction; even at the expense of being conceived as a lunatic Asian with serious issues.

What comes out the A-hole--in my most humble and honest humanitarian opinion--should NOT be cleaned with nothing but a dry, coarse paper towel. Someone should perhaps teach Westerners a thing or two; beginning perhaps, with the word melecet and the terse expression "geli, sial!", don't you think?

The Complete Crappopolis

In the visual arts, my weaknesses are many. Unable to draw straight lines, and perfectly incapable of producing dimensions and realistic sketches, I never once considered a vocation in the arts. Of recent times, however, I feel an odd, compelling attraction towards graphic design and illustration.

It is like finding a niche beyond the silver screen of this cyberworld, this act of poring over graphic designs produced by so many talented individuals1. It isn't merely their art, per se, that I am mesmerized by; it is the way they combine elements of type, pictures, and minimal words that ultimately ensnares me. It is one thing to be able to draw, but it is another to complete an illustration (either a book cover, poster, cards) that beckons people to it.

At the expense of sounding like a braggart, I must say that I have an eye for all things aesthetically pleasing. I, for example, take delight in driving around Kuala Lumpur with my dear Pok Chu and passing judgments on buildings upon buildings--new and old, contemporary or conventional, modern or not. This acumen I carry with me as I take in different forms of interior decorations and bag awesome finds in the fashion department. (Note that although I do not pride myself as a fashionista of some sort, I do maintain a certain level of acceptable fashion sense, I hope).

The same applies to the neo-art I take interest in now. My eyes--like a hawk's--quickly find works that work; my heart leaps with awe over the splendor; but my non-existent skills simply can't emulate. Yes, I will never be quite the artist, neither with my bare hands nor the help of softwares. As such, The Complete Crappopolis2 is a testament to my sans talent.

But we can all dream, can't we? In the meantime, let me continue my sojourn into the world of graphic novels3 and my established habit of stalking illustration blogs.

1 See Perempuan Jomblo, Emilia's Illustrated Blog and Saharil Conteng.

2 My ugly (but fun) spin-off from Marjane Satrapi's The Complete Persepolis (Completed Winter 2008, for HUMA 141, Reading Cultures).

3 For those who, like me, wish to delve into graphic novels, I highly recommend Palestine by Joe Sacco, Alison Bechdel's Fun Home: A Family Tragicomic and Satrapi's other works.

Bean There, Fart That

G6PD remains the most obscure piece of information I carry about myself. It's tangible, recorded in black and white on my (rather unkempt) medical records; yet it's something so cryptic to this challenged mind. I find myself pressing down the black-ball point pen in between my thumb and middle-finger, making out the meaningless capital G, number 6, P, and D on the blank next to "Allergies" each time a medical history is wanted of me.

This intolerance I knew of eversince I learned how to dial my grandmother's number, and that just so happened to be fairly early. But it was always just something waved off with one hand, since I only have (had?) what seems to be a "mild case". Have or had, who can even differentiate, since I have never really understood what the four-letter/number word affiliated with my being actually entailed.

My limited inisight on this four letter (okay, that's not quite accurate) anomaly brought me to the hasty conclusion that is an intolerance for all things bean and peas; or kekacang as they more succintly categorize in the Malay tongue. Then again, there was my mom brushing off this condition shared between my brother and I. And that always made it seem okay for me to go ahead and gobble down all the types of beans in the world, if I pleased.

Considering the diet I was accustomed to, that wasn't much; since it only really comprised of long beans, string beans, french beans (the more glamorous appelation for the Malay kacang buncis) and winged beans (or kacang botol). Considering the other fact that I am not a big fan of beans and peas beyond long beans, I thought I was all set. It wasn't until I set my foot here on the North American soil that I find myself face-to-face with copious types of beans and peas. Snow peas, edamame, gorbonzo beans and the likes have became my allies come days when food in the dining halls just seem too unbearable.

Did I quiver as I boldly let my tongue caress those beans before I swallowed them in one big gulp? Did my mind ever entertain the possibility of me breaking out into hives, gasping for air, as the beans shoot their potentially hazardous venom into the red river that is my blood? Did I ever think of the repercussions from G6PD? No, no and no.

And fortunately too, eventhough my knowledge on the intolerance was founded on erroneous details. It is in fact, an enzyme deficiency, and the only bean I am banned for life from consuming is the favia bean. Lucky, lucky me. Stupid, stupid me--for being in the dark for so long. Alas, lucky lucky me again that my mom has wisely/unwisely dismissed my case as a mild one that I was never haunted by a scene of myself having "No air, No air" at a crowded dining table in a foreign land.

And after these two decades, guess what my finest discovery about beans is? No, it isn't quite that I won't die from eating them (since I never believed so, only that was with blind faith).

It is this: Beans, they make me fart. Prooot prrooot. All day and all night long.

A Memo to Men Out There

Dear men out there,

I am calling your attention to some disturbing actions taken by a fraction of your clan. It may not be personal or pertaining to you, so forgive me for singling you, out of the billions out there. But really, this has been wanting of my time for a long time coming now. I am rendered sleepless nights, worried to the spine with what the eyes see and dislike.

Disturbing, in my books, dear men, is the sight of some of you in flesh-gripping, ultra-tight skinny jeans, crotches bulging. It may be what you dig as fashionable, you kaf-wau-raw-ya-alif-nun people, but to my eyes at least, it's very perturbing. One does not have to be a pervert to have his/her eyes led to that focal point with that kind of jeans. And one does not want to, mind you. Not when we're talking about a 2-hour long stage performance, when, truly, your virility is the last thing on my mind.

If you think you are empowered with that skin-tight designer skinny jeans just because it magnifies and fortifies your symbol of manhood down there, I beg you to think again. The world would be a calmer place without such eyesore.

Oh, while we're at it, let it be known here that flare and boot-leg cut does not flatter your manly curves (or lack thereof). I'm sorry to rain on your parade, I truly am. Here, to illuminate some of you who may be utterly clueless about my ranting thus far, I have provided with you with some images thanks to Google Image search.




Those styles are a no-no, okay? I have faith that you can be salvaged. Heck, I pray that your soul is spared from such fashion-murder thoughts. Stick to the conventional, straight-cut, loose-cut, slim fit, and we ladies would swoon over those any time.

Your friendly "I don't want you to look ceria" friend,
njahmat

Disclaimer: Note that the author has a qualifier for her argument on skinny jeans: ultra-tight, skin-tight, and thereabouts. She does not find fault with skinny jeans in general, just those obscenely crotch-centralizing ones. Run and be free with your normal skinny jeans, if you want. . . run and be free, I have no problem with that!

Acute Impulsive Compulsive Shoppingitis (AICS)

Disclaimer: The author classifies this as a very girly post. If you're one gungho male who just can't deal with too much girliness, be my guest and click on that red button with a cross at the far end of your screen. Be warned that there are some painful pictures of the ugly author, captured with a kodi camera. If you are not ready for such an eyesore, leave once you spot the pictures coming. If you think this is boring, mampus lah, I'm trying to procrastinate here.

Ahoy, so read on at your own risk.

Today is a sad sad day, my friends. Damage is done. Damage so severe that it may warrant a change in lifestyle until next month, at least. Well, to justify myself, I was abducted earlier today. Sumpah tak tipu. Like X-Files alien-type abduction. Sumpah tak tipu lagi.

Okay, okay, there's no point in lying. I lied to you Pops, when I wrote on your FB wall that "I'm just going window shopping, don't fret, don't worry". I will always be that girl who goes out and must carry a plastic bag home. Hands down, I am an impulsive, compulsive, notorious spender. No, not spender like men's underwear, I'm talking about $$$.

You know that feeling when you eat peanuts or kuaci and you just can't stop? Or once you start munching on that keropok, you just want to go on and on and you feel so dejected that at the end of the day, that keropok will have to run out? These symptoms apply to my shoppingitis.

One step into a danger zone like clearance zones at Macy's, Nordstrom Rack, and the forever-having-sales Forever 21 is enough to set the whole disaster into motion. A single purchase from one shop leads to another and another and another. It's a vicious game, this shopping game.

I see "Markdowns" and I go ape. I pass the handbag/purse section, I must stop, eyes glazed, hands itching to just touch, feel, caress them bags. I see "Take additional XX% off" and mutter to myself, "OMG. Murah gila. Must buy must buy". I pick up a designer dress and force myself to buy it because I never know when it's going to get that dirt cheap again. I receive an unexpected, further markdown at the cashier and that propels me to go ahead and buy more stuff since I "saved" on that item. At the end of the day, I deserve it all: Tired arms, aching legs, and a depleting account.

But pooh, it was a beautiful day today; 10C outside, the sun smiling, beautiful people galavanting happily, weaving in and out of buildings, snapping photos, shopping till they drop. Who could blame me? To make peace with myself, I am laying down my justifications:

1. Shoes here are all babi. Yes, they are babi. No, not that babi, but babi as in physically babi. It's hard to find pretty shoes without pig-skin lining. Alas, when you see a perfect one right under your nose, why not? I must think ahead, think of how hard it is to find shoes I really like, and CAN wear. Besides, a girl can never have too many black flats. For the record, I don't have pointed flats yet.
2. The pencil case was just $9, 50% cheaper than its original price of $18. I was patient enough to wait before (I already saw it the last time I went to Macy's), and this is the fruit of my waiting, okay?
3. I am petite, and did you not notice that it's a big/normal person's world like how it's a right-handed person's world, or a man's world (okay, this one can debate later)? Finding clothes that truly compliments my figure is as climactic as reaching climax. Affirmative. Okay, well, I don't know. But it's close, I think.
4. I can use my existing belts with the 2 dresses I bought. They fit like a T.
5. But wait, so I also bought a belt, right? Well, that belt is super awesome lah. Lawa gila, nicer than the ones I have.
6. The blue, light jumper is great for spring, and who can resist a $13.99 jacket?
7. FCUK dresses for $19.90? Hello?
8. I didn't buy a handbag/purse this time. And one handbag/purse usually accrues to maybe 5 of the items I bought today. So, it's a good trade-off.
9. 2 months, that's how long I've not painted the town red. That also means 2 months of being cooped up in my room thanks to the miserable weather and dealing with shitload of work the College tortures its students with. I deserve this.
10. I've got 2 paychecks and my TMobile money to back me up on this. Besides, I forgot I have money in PayPal. That changes things, by a whole lot.
11. I am now relieved of the burden of doing laundry. I'm pretty sure that I can now go on for 2 months without doing my laundry. Cun or not?

Salutations to you, kekasih(s)

Kekasih malam Rabu #3, thank you for appreciating the love we made, albeit just a tenth higher.

Kekasih 10.30am today, you can go die, I hatechew.

Kekasih negara jiran, I can't wait to caress your body. Once you arrive in my mailbox, I'm yours baby. I'm soooo yours, you are soooo mine, and the world is sooo ours.

Bekas kekasih, saya tidak boleh lagi. Harap paham.

Kekasih yang bukan kekasih, busy sign itu just an excuse. Okay, okay, to be honest, I cringe at your "arr"-s and your "larrr"-s. Tidak boleh *shakes head*. Really.

Kekasih yang angkat diri masuk bakul, endearment terms by people I don't know well just don't quite make it to Nj's A-List. Please.

But really, kekasih malam, whylah? Why is it so hard for you to come into my dreams again ah? Cannot just snap my fingers leyh? I try so hard you know. Come lah, come lah. I kacau you in your dreams also good, but I want also lah. Don't jual mahal sangat, can or not?

Angkat Bakul, Masuk Dalam

I plopped down on the booth seat opposite Khalis at Bubba Gump, Shrimp & Co. in Navy Pier, excited about my first visit to the much celebrated restaurant. There was so much hullabaloo about Bubba Gump back in Malaysia during the summer, so I was pretty delighted about this first visit. As soon as I got settled in my seat, down jacket and gloves aside, a waiter in a gray t-shirt passes by our table, and I noticed his eyes widen as he passed our table. I thought he was just acknowledging my presence, and saying hi in a non-verbal way since his hands were full, as I was sure his thoughts were as well. I got to reading the menu and didn't give that any other thoughts.

Having ordered our dishes, Khalis and I got to the main core of our existence: camwhoring!
As we snapped pictures away, I couldn't help but notice the same guy behind the bar beside our table. Apparently he was the bartender of the night. I didn't look at him because he's exceptionally cute, buff, or handsome in any way. In fact, I only looked at him because I noticed him looking at our table. Not once, not twice, but thrice! Thankfully, he wasn't glancing at Khalis; which must only mean one thing: he was looking at me! And that set this horrible perasan phase in motion.

Nj: Khalis, khalis, aku nak cakap ni. Kena cakap dalam BM dowh. And make sure, kau jangan pandang terus lepas aku cakap ni tau.
K: Apa hang nak cakap? Hang nampak orang handsome lagi?
Nj: Tak tak! Kau nampak tak mamat waiter kat bar tu, bartender pakai gray t-shirt tu? Dia usha aku, sumpah, dowh!
K: Whattevah. 'Pelacur dunia ketiga' kowt.
Nj: Sumpah, sumpah. Cuba kau tengok dowh!

I pretended not to take any more notice and got occupied enough once I was served my Cajun Mahi-mahi something something. It was sinfully delicious, and lick-worthy, I tell you, that the $25 bucks I paid for the meal was certainly worth it even if my $$ in my bank account is slowly reaching that dark, deep abyss. But back to the main point of the story; if looks could kill, this man's persistent gazing certainly could have rendered me deformed, the very least.

Nj: Khalis, sumpah dowh, mamat tu usha lagi.
K: Heh, SS kowt.
Nj: SS? Apekah?
K: Syok sendiri lah hang.
Nj: Owh, but no, seriously.
K: *turns swiftly into the bartender's direction*
Nj: Heh, tak perlu kowt pandang terus. Obvious lah like that!
K: Apa-apa jelah.

. . . 11 minutes later
K: Nj, okay. Aku nampak. Tadi dia usha kau siot!
Nj: Hah! *Gives K a triumphant grin* Kan aku dah cakap. Sumpah ke? Bile? Macamane dia usha?
K: *rolls eyes*
Nj: Ala, layanlah aku. Sekali-sekala maa, mane ade orang slalu usha aku!
K: Haha, hang SS lah tu.
Nj: Haha, takdelah. Flattering dowh!

Uh-oh, the evil perasan devil was then unleashed and that dinner's discussion revolved around Mr. Bartender through and through.

K: Kau tengok hidung dia, aku rase die Jewish siot.
Nj: Haha, takde kaitan.

Mr. Bartender came over to the table behind Khalis and I saw him glancing at me several times as he took their orders. Determined not to show I realized his eye-games, I focused on my dish; until he came to our table, asking us if "everything was alright" and specifically looking at me and only me.

K: Nampak sangat dia pandang kau sorang jelah kan. Slut betul, nampak sangat nak flirt ngan kau.
Nj: Haha, well, better daripada dia nak flirt ngan kau kan. Euw. Ooh, aku rase dia pandang aku 'cos aku datang ngan engkau kot.
K: Ha, yelah. Baguslah. Add one more reason Nj should hang out with Khalis. Dapat menang $25 Wicked tickets, dapat orang minat . . .
Nj: *laughs and flips hair in a very blonde manner*

Mr. Bartender certainly tried his best. He went to our table twice, once before we asked for the check, and another time after, just to grab one item each time. He could have waited to clear the table all at once, but we hypothesized he just wanted the chance to mengada-ngada come to our table.

K: Oooooh, kot-kot nanti dia slip kau note tulis number dia.
Nj: *Gasps* Heh, takkanlah!
K: Hahaha. 'Pelacur dunia ketiga' gila kau!
Nj: Haha. Sumpah tak bangga *Dalam hati, kembang gila; hidung macam nak koyak, hati macam nak jerit, tekak macam nak gelak*

I blatantly confess that I enjoyed the whole spectacle and attention by that time. I took time to finish my glass of plain water, just so I could catch him looking at me. Since Khalis called me a 'pelacur dunia ketiga' (no, don't jump the gun, it's quite an affectionate term the knoxes came up with, not as bad as you think it sounds), I decided to put that to a test, and made sure Khalis took a picture of me with my shades, because I thought I would look even (bear with me here) cuter. And he did, but I didn't get to see what effect that had on Mr. Bartender.
As Khalis and I got up to leave, Mr. Bartender stood next to our waitress and I had a hunch he was there specifically to see me leave. Our lady waitress called out "Thanks for coming, have a good night" and Mr. Bartender looked at me the whole time I said "Thank you. You both have a great night, and Merry Christmas". I decided to have the last look, and Mr. Bartender certainly did not let me down. At the corner of my eye, I saw him looking and smiling at me until I was out of sight, or rather, in the souvenir shop section of Bubba Gump.

If baking cookies the other night gave me a pinch of self-esteem, this was like overdosing on it! I was a real 'pelacur dunia ketiga' who enjoyed her little moment of perasan-ness. After all, every woman needs a reminder that she is pretty, cute, elegant, stylish, attractive or whatever nice adjectives there are to describe her, occasionally. Hm, but really. . . If anybody in Chicago wants to eat at Bubba Gump, Shrimp & Co., call me! It'd be my pleasure to take you there! *winks*

Ada Kelakarnya Di Sebalik Randomness

On top of the random changes I made (yes, I changed my sidebar titles again, as you can see), I was also playing around with the Blog Readability widget I randomly found on some random person's blog. Sorry, because I was randomly meandering through cyberspace, randomly hopping from one blog to another, I can't even cite which webpage I took it from. Sorry mister/miss random blogger, and thank you, you've made one random visitor's day!

Urm, all randomness aside now, I tried out the calculator and randomly copy-pasted different people's blogs. From my blogroll list, it seemed to give me very random results. Suffice to say that some of you won't be too pleased with the results I got, and I must say I disagreed with some of its calculations (ceh, semangat setiakawan ini boleh tahan). Jangan marah tau that I took the liberty of doing so, al-maklumlah I've got time and play on my hands now, peace ya'll *in ghetto style*=P But...when I plugged in Dr. M's, Anwar Ibrahim's and KJ's urls, I think the results would make many happy and in fact throw people into long fits of merry laughter like it did me.

Let pictures do the talking, shall we?

Case #1

Case #2

Lo and behold!

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Case #3

*Rolling on the floor laughing* My brother--who'd perpetually bitch about KJ and the tingkat empat boys at home--will find this most hilarious. To think that the poor fellow was educated at UWC Singapore, Oxford and then UCL, with an impressive concentration in PPE, mind you. Bazir duit mak bapak (or rakyat, in some sense since his dad was the Malaysian High Commissioner to the UK) kerana Dr. M and Anwar Ibrahim didn't travel far and wide to learn and nonetheless managed to produce a "genius-level" blog.

But then again, we're talking about a man who called himself monkey (in reference to his saying bloggers are monkeys). Hm, mungkin ada kebenaran di sebalik segala kerandoman blog widget ini. Whatever it is, if any of you people are insane and would like to meet this very the "hencem", bollywood hero-like mat cemerlang, you'd wanna know that he hangs out at Chef&Brew at Plaza Damansara. Euw. My brother now refuses to dine there because he saw the man sitting with a laptop, calmly sipping coffee while probably plotting his next strategy to loot the nation.

p/s: Click here if you randomly want to see if this works randomly or not.

She Ain't Taking It No More

Dear Ipod Touch,

I know you won't take it well if I play this video for the 123rd time now. I figured I'd do you a big favor and put an end to your misery. Ah ah ah. Momentarily, dear. I shall now transfer my obsession for Selimut Hati onto this space where I can click replay a thousand times instead of letting your cell dry, honey. You can savor this few hours of freedom while I struggle to keep my eyes open at such an unsightly hour now. Run now, my Ipod Touch, run and be free. I believe tomorrow we'll meet again. With Selimut Hati on that overplayed "repeat" mode, of course.

Cheers,