having my Cake, eating it – and not counting every last calorie

shaming myself to a svelte figure February 27, 2007

Filed under: Uncategorized — c*devotchka @ 11:14 pm
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  • height: 5’6″, weight: whopping 71kg/156lbs
  • breakfast: oatmeal + organic nz clover honey + cashew nuts
  • lunch: 3 low fat breaded cod fingers with low fat butter + cream cheese + sambal in bun
  • dinner: tuna salad with organic balsamic vinegar + cashew nuts
  • burned: 452 calories over a painful and bloody boring stretch of 75 minutes

after the first 10 minutes on the treadmill and Days of Our Lives blaring on the tv (the Indian chick was watching it), i was ready to run back downstairs and bake some lemon white chocolate cookies. after 75 minutes, i wondered to myself, “how long will this last?”

because as soon as i got home, i was ravenous. as i sat on the floor in absolute agony over what to eat so i don’t waste the burn on the treadmill, i pictured myself at 65kg.

self - passport sizedself - tongwatt shot

and then i remembered something, what someone had searched for online in order to accidentally stumble over this lunatic’s blog.

Wordpress search

that’s right, folks, i am a woman who enjoys being fat.

that’s why my daily diet consists of tubs of lard, barrels of cookies soaked in hydrogenated palm oils, cartons of triple chocolate threat ice-cream, strings of bratwursts and to top it off, i wash them all down with jugs of unrefined sunflower oil with crushed potato chips.

i don’t know how some of these search engines work but i can see how “women”, “who”, “enjoy”, “being”, “fat” all led to my blog.

so i’ve decided to publish my daily meals, successes and failures – so i can shame myself publicly to a healthier me.

i am now nostalgic for the days i was 58 – 62kg and didn’t lose my breath after a few flights of stairs. nostalgic for the days i asked to participate in physical ed tests (because i was a loonie) when other girls escaped with non-existent cramps and periods that seemed to last all year long.

i’d contemplated eating myself to death once. apparently, on average, men die 5 years earlier than women and since Ravi’s 12 years older, it would mean that he’d die, theoretically, 17 years before i and 17 years is far too long to live, waiting for some fireman to find me mummified in front of my blaring tv.

but you can only eat so many chips and hotdogs before you get sick. i’d like to see if i can do this for a month. gyms are so … laaaaaangweilig.

i love blank journals and modern self found quite a unique catch. these blank journals remind me of those cool ipod covers we might have needed for our walkmans and pagers back in school.

Poketo Paperback Journal

this was exactly what i’d have needed years ago when my mom found my diary the one time i left it in a bag at home as i went out with a boyfriend on the sly. i believe i told her i went out to meet up with friends to finish a school project. our relationship was doomed from the start. the only son of a Hindu priest and a progressive Muslim with dreams of setting up a school in Nepal? my father made me swear on the Koran i was still a virgin and threatened to marry me off to a Pakistani man – this was more traumatising than my first Pap smear.

forget dogs and cats! i’d buy these tags for myself and one for Ravi. he’s getting “Scratch My Butt” though a 37 years old adult man would probably prefer to commit suicide by sharks than wear this.

Fetching Tags - Cocomo

and you know those darn Rubik cubes which some people solve in 11 seconds (and 8 year old kids like me cheat-solved by removing one corner)? this French artist is amaaazing, he uses Rubik cubes to make mosaic portraits. i can’t imagine how long it takes for him to play with each cube to get the perfect colour pixels in the right spots – it’s hard enough to get one colour on each side. this is art.

Rubik Cubism Art - Geeksugar

i’m gonna disappear now and countdown to 0001am – that’s when tickets to Russell Peters go on sale and i’m not about to miss out. his first show (1400 seats) sold out within hours.


the exact moment you realise you’re homesick

Filed under: Uncategorized — c*devotchka @ 2:05 am
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watching Penelope Cruz and Nicole Kidman squeeze into those tiny dresses at the Oscars, then The Biggest Loser, i was fired up to work off that hotdog i had for dinner. i don’t mind that i’m all alone in the gym on a squeaky treadmill – it allows me to watch the Oscars again and gives me mind-blowing freedom to fart whenever i want and not look around confused, pretending it wasn’t me.

i take back what i said, that guys who wear shades in clubs aren’t cool. Djimon Hounsou’s an exception. he’s cool in my books, shades or no shades in the Kodak Theater, clothes on or off (yes, please), he’s cool and he’s haa.. haaa.. sssssss.. hawt. he took over Keanu on my List of Men to Stalk Then Marry after i saw him run like a dream in The Four Feathers. then i fell asleep halfway watching one of the feathers drop, waking up only when i heard his low, rumbling voice.

i love alpha males. primal, grunting cavemen with a club in one hand and a dead wild boar dripping in blood in the other. Djimon looks just like the kinda guy who can tell his woman to fuckin’ shut up and sit down with a deep-throat grunt while he barbeques the wild boar. or in today’s terms, drop takeaway Chinese on the countertop then have unimaginably wild, loud sex on the chaise longue that would blush many a neighbour’s cheek.

i’ve got my own caveman at home so Djimon gets only two paragraphs of undying adoration (instead of two lengthy posts like i would have ten years ago) cos like Joy who visited last week says, “dali… you’ve changed.”

me, changed? how?

we wouldn’t have gotten into a discussion of how i’ve changed if not for the fact that both our asses were itching and Joy was especially keen to go clubbing.

“clubbing, Joy? here? but they all play techno disguised as house,” as we’d witnessed at Trilogy, Madinat Jumeirah on House night. Trilogy rocks though, we can never have open air rooftop dance floors like that in Singapore cos it’s too darn hot, too humid and the government would be too afraid to let its only natural resource, its youth, fling themselves off the rooftop when drunk because that is the activity of choice of any bored Singaporean on any given Friday night.

there are hip-hop and r & b nights, but you gotta be a night animal to know who’s playing what and where when someone asks you out of the blue. i’m only a nocturnal beast who feasts through the night, guffawing at Ellen DeGeneres and don’t fancy clubbing here (though everyone else you’ve heard from might have told ya how the partying here is absolutely fantastico) and i haven’t memorised TimeOutDubai. her tour guide found out that it was hip-hop night at Boudoir and suggested we go there, except he insisted it was Budwaar when i’d spelled B-O-U-D-O-I-R. just to prove a point, he even wrote down Budwaar on a napkin and asked “and what is this?”

fine, Ali The All-Knowing and Great Speller, you win, Booodooowwaaaaar.

the music was excellent with the best hip-hop mix ever and definitely far too loud (our ears were still ringing two days after). but after an hour of subsisting on only ginger ales and rude clubbers, you do get annoyed. especially when five different people point to five different directions when you ask for the ladies’. i turned to Joy and said “i’m uncomfortable, i don’t like it here.”

i felt like i was out of my element.

“you’ve changed. i think it’s married life.”

“what! noooo, being married has got nothing to do with it.”

i don’t like people sticking hands across our faces, then laughing at Joy when she protests after it’d gone overboard. i don’t like strangers taking pictures of Joy dancing like she’s an Asian ho for hire. i don’t like four men standing around just staring at us dancing. i don’t like that we were packed like sardines and i only saw one way out.

i did like the wooden toilets though. and the chicks were mostly hot (till the lights came on at 0300) and friendly.

we left and went to a latin club next door, except it wasn’t latin save for the one song the DJ slipped in between the other hip-hop numbers. there were 15 people in a place that could pack in at least 250 while Boudoir had packed 250 people in a place for 15. and i had a great time here. except for that guy who kept clinging on to us. Joy finally understood what i’d been talking about before when he kept asking for my number even after i’d divulged that my husband is a high-ranking member of the Yakuza.

before leaving, Joy declared something to the effect of “men here are pigs.”

it’s been heartwarming having Joy and her family in town. i shamelessly adopted them as my family and i’d been declared an anak pungut (literally, child picked off a street = adopted child). felt like a travel-again tourist in Dubai, even roamed through enormous malls in calf-high boots which is something i’d never do if i were shopping at the Mall of the Emirates on my own. but then again, Joy was able to remain upright most of the time on her 4″ wedges during the desert safari.

on the desert safari, i learnt the hard way that quadbiking is not for those afraid of heights and have hearts as small as chicken livers. but i’ve no regrets trying it out then flinging myself unwillingly and unglamorously off a toy on wheels in front of the cute tour guide.

i especially loved seeing stiff Singaporean Chinese men trying to bellydance in the middle of the desert.

we had such a blast that i was in high spirits all the way through, even till the last day when we hadn’t showered in the morning to catch the 1200 checkout time. it was the first time i went out without showering and it felt like a dirty, little secret. when the tour guide from Singapore announced that the airport bus had arrived, i was still upbeat and walked everyone to the bus.

when i started crying unexpectedly as i hugged everybody, and kissed Joy 17 times while assuring her, “it’s ok, it’s (the mascara) waterproof”, that’s when i knew, dali, you’re homesick.

it’s time to go home.


if you’re cool, you won’t wear shades in a club February 19, 2007

Filed under: Uncategorized — c*devotchka @ 8:53 pm
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she’s hot, she’s punctual, she’s fast, she’s strong and she knows what she’s gotta do. Clocky‘s my object of the day.

Clocky, Nanda

as far as i’m concerned, she’s almost perfect. she’s digital, i don’t have to tolerate tick-tocks in the night when i’m already struggling to sleep. she’s small, leaving enough space on the bedside table for my books, notepad, glass of water, reading light, hand lotion, vitamin Cs, Evening Primrose Oil capsules phew! she’s pretty, comes in 3 vintage-ish, earthly colours – almond, mint, aqua.

what i like most is that she runs. and that’s not all she does. she finds a corner to hide in so she can continue doing what she does best, waking you up. i don’t have as much difficulty waking up now as i did before, but Ravi? humph.

a world-record tsunami, a ravenous tornado and a merciless earthquake could all hit Dubai in the same instant and he’d still have his face warm and snug in the pillow. if the world freezes over from global climate ruin in that second, that’s exactly how giant bugs in shiny pods from Mars will find him 5000 years from now.

this clock’s more for him than it is for me. my N73 alarm wakes me up gently and i love that. Ravi needs a loud gong installed beside his pillow. i’ll bet my shiny hiney that i’ll be the one running after Clocky to shut it off though and this won’t be good for our marriage.

a friend and her family are in town and i am absolutely delighted! i’m so delighted, i will accord myself two full hours to get ready. she wants to go clubbing, but clubbing in Dubai on a Monday night? i’ll bet it’s another techno night. there is no heart, absolutely no heart in techno. i’ve friends who go into trances when they hear techno blast over the speakers but i just freeze and go, “what?” then head off to the toilet and fiddle with my hair till another song comes on. three weeks ago, as i was leaving a club with a friend, absolutely dejected that we had to content with 2 full hours of techno, strange white men who couldn’t dance, an indian fella who’s more epileptic than talented on the dance floor, a few hos and Lebanese men who didn’t care i’m married, a group of Brits entered the club and one of the ladies said, “oh my god, this is my favourite song!”


that’s a song? you can tell the difference between track tioo-tioo-tioo-tioo and track dong-dung-dong-dung-dong-dung? how about when its tioo-dong-tioo-dung-tioo-dong? what will you say then, huh? huh?

listen my white friends, you know i love you, you know i laugh with you when you make fun of your own dancing but how the hell are you going to learn how to dance when all you dance to is techno? slide into some salsa, won’t you? or how about gyrating to a little hip hop and r & b? but what do i know? maybe you like techno cos it’s all you can rock your body stiffly to.

i’d complained before of the blinding population of poseurs in Dubai, especially in clubs. why the hell are you wearing shades in a club, dude? if i’m already insecure, i’d be in perpetual fear i’ll walk into the wall or trip over a step. for God’s sake, i can tell you’re married. and stop fuckin pretending you’re not Indian. or worse, rich when you’re really not.

like my friend Iina says, you’re either cool or you’re not. i can’t agree more, you either got it or you don’t. once in Bar None, Marriott Singapore, this Indian guy tried to convince all of us he was Jamaican. ’nuff said.

that’s why i believe the real gems sometimes are the 55 year old guys who are just trying to chill out at the bar with a beer and watch the circus unravel from up on the barstool. i’ve had a few conversations and giggles with great people at the bar. people who have little to hide, or don’t see any reason for toiling laboriously just to keep up appearances. these are the people i love meeting at bars or clubs. people with hearts so open, i could dip my hand into their souls for half an hour, then go away learning something new about something in life. it doesn’t matter we’re never gonna see each other again. it’s what we take away from each other that makes these short bar trysts so sweet – cos you’re never gonna have it again with the same person the next time round.

now, i’m off to file my toenails as slowly as i can because i have two luxurious hours before we leave for Madinat Jumeirah. enjoy the following clip, it cracks me up cos 75% of the Tamil movies Ravi watches aren’t blessed with subtitles and the words mostly appear in my head as they do here for Buffalax. except i don’t think Buffalax has to watch the large number of Tamil movies i unwittingly signed up for when i married Ravi.


politics of a classroom February 17, 2007

Filed under: Uncategorized — c*devotchka @ 4:26 pm
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it’s been a long time since i’ve stepped foot into a formal classroom, and i must say in true Martha fashion, “it’s a good thing.” back in school, my propensity to commit to memory the exact years Before Christ/Anno Domini when ancient civilisations perished from immoral mass orgies was directly related to what i had for breakfast, whether i even had breakfast, if i’d successfully shouted louder than my dad and the mess of chemical cocktails in my brain i can now calmly label as teenage angst (though back then i’d have simply whined “you just don’t understaaaaaaand” even if you did).

you get all kinds of people in a classroom, even if it’s just beginner’s French.

you have the Napolean, the croissant au fromage, the Foreign Kid, the Joker, the Dipper, the femme au foyer and my personal favourite, the Ho. and then the rest.

the Napolean, she’s obviously had exposure to French, sits on a trove of French vocabulary unheard of by the beginner who’s barely gone past oui, je parle un peu français, has an insatiable thirst to conquer just one more word and has to be markedly better than everybody. the Napolean in my class is in a class of her own. when le professeur poses a question to an entire class of struggling beginners and is inundated by a barrage of uncoordinated answers, she exclaims “yes!” when it is clear she’s got the right answer. it doesn’t matter that 60% of the class got it right too, she was louder.

the croissant au fromage is so boring, even the cheese drips in despair from her ears.

in UAE where everyone’s from everywhere but the UAE itself, the Foreign Kid’s all of us. a Lebanese, a Syrian, an Egyptian, Palestinians, a Japanese, a Pinoy, Indians, a Brit and a Singaporean. except there’s always one foreign kid more foreign than the rest. this Foreign Kid’s usually got a thicker and funnier (subjective, of course) accent than her classmates and is always plastered with an ever ready to please Cheshire grin. this kid also either has a double/triple/quadruple-syllable name which is repeated twice/thrice unto itself or a name so foreign, it’s easier to call her in cl!cks.

the joker’s almost always un homme. few women are comfortable with pulling their skirts up over their heads, then laughing in a fake French accent “heu heu heu” (silent Hs, dohnt foegeht-aaah?) over her granny underwear. he usually bravely constructs funny out-of-context sentences in broken (and sometimes beguilingly proper) French.

the dipper. he/she’s just taking up French because he/she can and he/she wants to. he/she’s more than likely to have already learnt the language of someone else’s mother but his/hers, dipping into a language here and there to see which sticks or tastes the sweetest.

the femme au foyer‘s bored out of her mind and craves to leap out of her little world that is the foyer. she has kids, or doesn’t, finds French romantic even if the fishmonger’s just saying un deux trois quatre or screaming merde!.

unfortunately, i haven’t found a Ho for a very long time. the Ho dresses/looks/talks like and/or is a Ho. or is taking foreign language classes to impress a gentleman-friend or lady-friend outside the perimeter of the school. or is taking foreign language classes to net a rich, Viagra-addicted foreign old fart/fartess. or even more entertainingly, is taking foreign language classes to score with the other classmates.

my classmates are decent people and it’s far too cold for anybody to dress like a Ho. i’m hoping that when summer comes and pheromones are roasting in the air along with good temperaments, that the Ho will emerge.

i am part Dipper, a quarter Napolean and one of two homemakers in class. i’m not the one who sits on the chest of hidden French vocab, throwing them out in class like ninja stars. i do, however, gloat like a burst of intergalactic sex inwardly when i get the right answer. i just have a burning need to stretch what i know i can do and surprise myself (potential’s such a dirty “p” word) – just don’t make me do math though biology/chemistry are fine. sometimes i wish i was trashy enough to dress like a Ho but i am far too chicken shit for that and would rather wear my creased capris and Rockports.

i’m exhausted, but nowhere nearly as exhausted as Ravi and his colleagues are. sleeping half an hour and shuttling to Dubai only for classes and spending 2 hours in a giant vibrator that is the cab with lousy suspension is all that i need to stamp approval on an afternoon nap for myself. after all, people who regularly nap have better hearts by a whopping 37% which makes me 37% happier and 37% less likely to sleep easily at night.

here are some shots from the window of the apartment we are putting up at in Abu Dhabi. with views like these, National Geographic tv, an endless supply of clementines and chocolate milk, you’d put on 2kg too.

Sunset Mourooj Hotel Apts Abu Dhabi 1

Afternoon Mourooj Hotel Apts Abu Dhabi

Afternoon Mourooj Hotel Apts Abu Dhabi 2

cooking for the masses. nasi goreng ikan bilis, bergedil, omelette (always for Ravi the baby chicken killer), pak choy in oyster sauce and stir-fried vegetables, all served on old newspapers, i love it when we’re so gangsta.

Home cooked dinner at Mourooj


keeping in contact with humankind February 16, 2007

Filed under: Uncategorized — c*devotchka @ 1:35 am
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am working with a spare laptop we managed to borrow from Ravi’s colleagues who aren’t using it. while this gives me the medium to access the Internet with, it’s accessing the Internet itself that’s a bitch. a real pig-headed, slow bitch. the term escapes me now, but the card-with-which-one-accesses-the-Internet-wirelessly-from-anywhere-in-the-world works, but it’s more like a constipated connection than the Victoria Falls. so after two days, i caved. i caved and paid for the AED75/day hotel connection.

highfuckinway robbery, i tell ya.

AED75 could pay for 35 shawarma sandwiches, two movie tickets and practically an entire month’s worth of broadband back home in Dubai. fifteen hours more of access and i’m planning to stay awake as long as i can!

highfuckinway robbery for a semblance of sanity by way of communicating with humankind on MSN.

ever since i bought this for Ravi, i’ve been feeling click happy. the Internet is full of pretty, little things.

Etsy - Palindrome

i found a desk i liked, but that’s a little OTT and Ravi would dive out the window. i love owls and their big soulful eyes and am very tempted to buy these magnets. the line between owning and hoarding things is thinner than the cellulite skin on my ass and i don’t want our house to be full of knicks-and-knacks qualifying me as a hoarder when i’m only at the ripe hot age of 3-0 (and Ravi 42, the perfect age to buy mid-life crises Porsches and 2nd wives, and start hoarding).

Parkside Papers - Owl magnets

who could say no to these menagerie glasses?

Anthropologie - Menagerie glasses

i want glasses with outlined cows i can drink milk out of.

today, found the Sonic Chair, and holy cow, is that one cocoon i’d love to lose myself in. hook it up to your iPod, lounge on the lush fabric with a glass of milk and some cookies on the table and be one with the bubble of music. and boy, did i get excited over the concept of the Bruce balcony barbeque grill! if the designer finds a way to market and sell adjustable versions of this around the world, i’ll be one of the first few ones to get this. could be better than a stovetop grill, far less to scrub when you just want to grill a few burger patties and it sure is as pretty as a flowerpot.

Bruce Balcony BBQ Grill

Abu Dhabi’s a peaceful place. quiet. i like it, actually. provided i get constant access to the Internet and have a neverending supply of good books. after every prayer call, a blanket of silence falls over parts of Abu Dhabi, it’s unbelievable, haven’t heard anything like it. and the grid system of the roads is stellar in comparison to Dubai’s mess of reconstructed roads, old roads, new roads, blocked roads, gabazillion cars and inevitable traffic jams. getting stuck in a traffic jam in Dubai’s a little like getting stuck in a traffic jam in K.L., you look out the window utterly helpless, feeling every second of your short life ebbing by like the fuel in the tank. except here, the honks drive you nuts. it’s not like as though honking actually parts the traffic jam like the Red Sea.

we’ve another 3 weeks more here, but i’m looking forward to going back to Dubai, to broadband access that costs less than an island in the Pacific.


positively technocidal February 14, 2007

Filed under: Uncategorized — c*devotchka @ 2:36 am

i cannot remember the last time any internet connection i hooked up to was this sloooow, but i’ve got a feeling it was back in the days of 28.8. i’m turning so mad, i am growing hairs on my ears and am skipping checking most of my mails because it takes just as long as a menstrual cycle to download all of them.

it’s Valentine’s Day tomorrow, and my Funny Valentine told me he’s planned a surprise date for me, but that he needs me to call Le Meridien to reserve a table.

nice going, Ravi.

and then he redeems himself by fake-claiming, “no lah, it’s a surprise, it’s a surprise.”

he probably ducked behind the file cabinets and then broke out in cold sweat when i retorted “HUM, reeeeally.”

i was thinking of nasi goreng ikan bilis with telur goreng in front of the tv. we’ve barely spent more than half an hour with each other the past few weeks, he might appreciate the nasi goreng idea.

with nothing to do here but watch animals hump each other on Wild Sex on NG and eat, i’ve ballooned at an alarming rate. a whopping 2kg, to be exact. imagine that! being able to cook and eat a lot, even when the non-stick pots and pans provided by the serviced apt here are scratched by previous gastronomically violent guests and i’m cooking in utter terror, watching the bubbles rise to the surface from the scratches and wondering why the rest of the non-stick isn’t bubbling. i get nauseating visions of parakeets and parrots falling to their deaths after inhaling fumes from overheated non-stick pans.

but for now, i am contented, just watching reruns of Desperate Housewives, lazily reading infinitives (?) from French class, unwittingly memorising NG documentaries and twirling my hair on the sofa.

i have little to complain about, and a lot i am grateful for. including that itch on my eyelid that’s gone away today. am grateful i won’t have to look like a one-and-a-half-eyed monster after all. was worried it was gonna turn into a sty, bringing back unpleasant memories of kids in school with swollen underlid beads who fanned rumours that you’d get a sty if a cockroach pee-ed into yer eye.

they were just jealous the rest of us had two functioning eyes.


lungs for sale February 7, 2007

Filed under: Uncategorized — c*devotchka @ 2:47 am
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we’re in Abu Dhabi this entire month and i can’t complain cos i get to watch National Geographic guiltlessly the entire day. we don’t subscribe to NG at home for a host of reasons too mundane to explain. the biggest complaint i have is that i don’t get access to the Internet here until Ravi falls asleep and/or his crabby laptop co-operates. i’ve never met a technological marvel with mood swings more severe than the hot flashes the mothers of my generation are suffering from.

i’ve caught a nasty cold, not surprising considering how long i haven’t slept well. getting sick means getting to eat chocolate flavoured oatmeal cereal twice a day, dragging feet around in disposable hotel slippers and falling into bouts of narcolepsy while watching Ian Wright eat sheep testicles in the Arctic Circle. it also means i get to slow down enough to patiently read the newspapers without going ballistic over grammatical errors, spelling mistakes or worse, horrid journalism.

like this article i read only today in Gulf News dated February 3rd. “Third World organ sale. Britons risking illegal operations abroad”, it screams under the United Kingdom section. i read the article half-awake while one eye lazily skims the ever present Lindt chocolates on the bedside table when suddenly i saw S-I-N-G-A-P-O-R-E,

He remains unsure where his new lungs came from. The Singapore surgeons told him only that they had been donated by the family of a much younger man who died from an unspecified head trauma.

wait a minute. wait a fuckin minute, you dishonest bastard.

glanced at the end of the article to see that that it had originally been published in The Times Newspapers Limited 2007 – whether or not that’s a professional and trustworthy newspaper, i know not, but writing about possible suspicious organ transplants in third world countries and citing First World Singapore as its first example? and then lumping heavily regulated Singapore in the same Venn diagram as Chinese hospitals selling organs of executed prisoners to desperate buyers?

no wonder Joseph the factory worker from UK had to fork out 220K quid! because organ transplants in Third World countries like Singapore are getting so much cheaper by the day, especially when our Goods and Services Tax is going up and lungs are the next sought after item after Louis Vuitton handbags.

i don’t pretend to know anything about journalism although up till only recently, i was sure that was what i wanted to do. and perhaps idealism is my indulgence, the noxious fruit of youth and grandiose (entitled) delusion of a young adult but i’d always thought that serious journalism and bigass responsibility are one and the same.

i must still be a naive Sheila. there are after all tabloids, what serious journalism, dali, what? but no! tabloid or semi-serious journals/newspapers cannot, must not charade as serious newspapers or make mistakes as avoidable as this, to insinuate Singapore as Third World or that Singapore is in any way involved in illegal operations.

last i checked, organ transplantation in Singapore is serious business, and by that, i do not mean big, dirty money changing hands. we can’t even chew Wrigley’s Spearmint Gum so our trains can run, our streets stay clean and my jeans remain unglued to the hawker centre chair, and some ass thinks there’s widespread illegal organ transplanting to the highest (foreign/British) bidder in Singapore. the guidelines are so strict that we cannot even open up the possibility of donating unmatched available organs in Singapore to potential first-come-first-serve recipients overseas.

unless of course, i am wrong and Singapore has finally opened up the possibility of donating unmatched local organs to the long list of dying people overseas. and if this is so, it might be a good thing. and more importantly, if this is indeed so, the article would still be wrong cos it ain’t illegal or the least bit shady.

misleading. that’s what i hate. you write an article like this and you further mislead ignoramuses of the world, and in this case, the ignoramuses of UK and theq UAE. that’s just plain irresponsible and downright lazy.

this also reminds me of an article in Khaleej Times which broke down the racial flora & fauna of Singapore as Chinese, Malaysians, Indians, etc. generally, in Singapore, we do not refer to Malays as Malaysians because to be a Malaysian is to be a citizen of Malaysia, which means that even if your grandparents were immigrants from China and you are considered Chinese, you are still a Malaysian. but to make a fuss of this is to also question what it means to be “Chinese” or “Indian” in Singapore.

what does it mean to be “Chinese” or “Indian” in Singapore? does it very crudely but effectively acknowledge (for census) the fact that somewhere up the tree, your ancestors took a long and arduous journey from the Middle Kingdom or exotic India to the tiny, busy port of Singapore at the tip of the Malayan tongue? and what does it mean to be a Malay instead of a “Malaysian”? to stake your claim as one of the native inhabitants of the region while trying to remain limply disjointed from neighbouring Malaysia, from whom Singapore had separated only a few decades ago?

as far as i’m concerned, we all came from the same bowels of microbes and humanity in Africa.

but i digress. too much to say in too little time i get to spend on the Internet before our good friend Lord Laptopiien acts up again. over-and-out, see ya again when i get to wrestle the laptop away from Ravi and his Infinite Emails.