The Merits Of Routine

As I wrote that title, the vision of an old Indian man, wise and learned and verbose came to mind. One who would simply write advice for the sake of writing advice to pass on to others. Something that had to be done to improve lives. Goodness. I laughed a little too.

Anyway, despite me ageing rapidly and turning uncle before my time (I hope), I must exhort the benefits of routine. Seriously, a lot of our lives would be simpler and better with a fixed set of actions followed. For example, we have always heard of the need to commit to exercise. Often as we get caught up with work, we cast aside the need to sweat it out and get the heart pumping from physical activity rather than stress. If we worked out a short while everyday, just like Oprah's Dr Oz recommends 30 minutes of walking daily, we'd be better off to tackle our work related stresses and combat illness. Fine, maybe not everyday, but something 2-3 times a week is undeniably good for you. Change can only come with consistent effort, not a sudden workout followed by a week of pigging out. Consistency begets results.

Next example, cleaning the house. My sis has a 1400sqft home. She tends to clean it on Saturdays and the end of the afternoon she's bushed and complaining. Then I would say, "why don't do a little everyday?" Try half an hour of cleaning a day to make the Saturday less of a pain. I wash the loo I use often every Sunday morning. It's a habit now of sorts. It's a routine that makes sense to me.

Last example, flossing. I don't floss everyday. I did for period when I followed the Dexter series on cable TV. In the super opening sequence of each episode there are amazing closeups of stuff Dexter does in the morning made to look poignantly murderous. There's him shaving and cutting himself, blood in drops on white porcelain; bacon deftly sliced and seared; coffee beans mercilessly being ground in a slow mo spin; and he flosses. So this ardent fan flossed after breakfast too, for a while. Now I floss once a week on Sundays before bed. I think it is necessarily enough to weed out the week's filth from the teeth.

Last last example (I promise), I take a supplements. I know everyone does. Hossan Leong on the morning radio show on Gold 90FM says he takes 10 pills a day. I think that's mad. I take an Omega 3 pill each day; Glucosamine on Mondays and Thursdays; Centrum multivitamins on Tuesdays and Fridays; Brands essence of chicken, a bottle, on one of the weekend days. That's my programme. It sounds like I'm a hypochondriac, maybe a little but I am sure a little bit each day goes a long way in the end. "Sikit sikit, lama jadi bukit" goes a Malay saying and we tend to forget to apply that to more of life than we imagine. Both positive, like saving cents a day and negative, like not clearing your Inbox (I have 300 emails in that mess).

I know it sounds like nagging but think about it a little before condemning it to the trash can of the mind. There is room to breakout of routine but some things we just gotta keep in steady rhythm. There are cycles all around us - the days and nights; the convulted loop that takes us from home to work to home; the bills we have to pay at the about the same time each month. Routine keeps us sane. And applying that sanity to benefit one's health or time management is doable. Try, it works, says this old man.

The Missing Step

It's funny how we take the simplest things for granted. Maybe that's why we do, because they're simple.

We could take public transport to work and school most days but still expect delays or breakdowns to happen every now and then. Same said for the elevators and even lightbulbs. We reconcile our displeasure when these things don't work by blaming other people, the weather and recognizing there are many parts to the whole device or operation.

So it's hard to come to terms with the simplest things that no longer work. Yesterday the foot pedal dustbin in my kitchen no longer connected to its foot pedal. This was the result of a fall the dustbin had, of an elevated position for drying. So the basic lever operation of step-down and lid-pops-up was dead. We were at a loss. The mishap meant we had to now, heaven forbid, bend down to lift the lid of the bin to make a dirty deposit. Bend?! Shock and horror to the body. All it took was force on the big toe, a natural adjustment of body weight, to flip the top up. Now, fingers and touching, ewwww. Germs, ewwww. All that brainwashing about transmission of bugs and viruses from Dettol and Lifebuoy ads was now rearing its ugly head.

What was one to do if both hands were occupied? How would i peel oranges now?!

I voiced my grave concern at this calamity upon discovery. "Mummy, what do we do now?" "You should have called us the moment it happened so we could buy another bin". My mum went "Aiyah, you lazy. Cannot use your hands ah?"

Yes, it is funny.

Last Desires

I knew it was there, waiting for me. Resting, calm, collected in its icy prison. The frost was necessary for sustenance, my sustenance. It had been a little more than a week when it was whole and perfect. Then piece by piece, sliced up. Carved by different knives in sharp, forced strokes. It looked battered at times by uneven cuts at the persistent hands of the tempted. A sad shadow of its past beauty. These defects I smoothed out at the next opportunity to attack, goodness and all. I could not deny myself.

This evening, I remembered the last odd shape that remained. My mum had thrown away the cardboard box and placed the last few slices of chocolate cake into tupperware. Dinner and fruit over, it was time to partake upon heavenly goodness. I knew it would be dry - that's what happens to cake left in the fridge. I thought of moistening the solid mass with drops of milk in the microwave. Instead, the couch potato, uncaring-of-decorum, gonna-be-watching-TV- by-himself Joe decided to drown the block of cocoa heaven in full cream UHT .

It was a case of ebony and ivory. A deep mahogany, too dense to float, swished about like an island in a sea of white. I was master of the tupperware, a god with a big mouth and yearning tastebuds controlling the destiny of this final portion of a $40 cake. Bruhahahaha, I went as I stabbed the cake. It resisted before giving in, as gushing milk penetrated the crevices and cracks I created with my stainless steel spoon. I thought of an appropriate utensil and a fork, I rationalized, would not do as a scoop to properly deliver the slowly browning milk mixed with overly-moistened cake to my mouth. The sweet tooth had to be satisfied adequately yet impatiently. Magically.

Stab, deliver and experience. Stab, deliver and experience. The chocolate was intense. Just as I remember two Saturdays when I took the virgin bite into its richness. The baker had feared it was too much and advised it was 2 million calories to burn off if eaten whole. Forwarned I was but no sweet tooth could resist the overdose of dark sugary pleasure. The heat of the tongue would melt the outer layer of chocolate around the cake, a soft liquid that spread so gently and smoothly. The rough texture of cake followed, contrasting beautifully. It would be a sin to swallow but the entire mouth would be overexcited if I didn't. And how would I take the next bite? The chemical content would hit the brain soon. Theobromine, caffieine and phenylethylamine would produce numerous highs between the exited neurons and send forth endorphins coursing through my greedy system. Ahhh...chocolate. Food of the Mayan kings and now, my tantalizing post-dinner treat.

The time spent in the fridge however did not bode well for quality. Lightly devoid of water content, the cake was crumbly. But it withstood my jabs with the spoon at first. In fact, I was putting too much strength into the affair and milk splashed back at me. The price of gluttony is very quickly one realizes is filth, the fat comes later.

Like with all dessert before a sugar junkie, it was over too soon. How I Met Your Mother was hardly halfway done but I had prematurely gorged on one of the best chocolate cakes I had ever eaten. Well, I am biased because a friend baked it but seriously it was damn good. I lay back on the faux leather, spent, dirty about the lips, and some on my t-shirt. It had been a good week.

To Kang Or Not To Kang

Hougang, Sengkang, Yio Chu Kang, Choa Chu Kang, Lim Chu Kang.

Those are the "Kangs" certain people have defined in Singapore. Out of all of them, only Hougang is the least "Sua-kang", the hokkien term for "Mountain river", a reference to a far away place. Far far away. My friends, some of them, have used this term to describe where I lived. When I knew these jokers, I lived in Yishun, already deemed a no-no among the happening types. "It's so far away that the MRT train also take so long to travel from Yio Chu Kang and Khatib.", "It was so long the gap I thought I was lost", and "There were so many trees, I didn't bring my passport." were the sort of remarks made when I announced my address.

Then I moved to Woodlands, as north as north could be on this giant island of ours. (Actually, on the map, Sembawang is more latitudinally north than Woodlands) Anyway, the very name is bad enough. It conjures up images of forest, jungle, animals and wild people roaming about, who hawk VCDs on pavements to lost tourists. In fact, Woodlands is the largest HDB estate in Singapore. All Lego-landed up with apartments to house the landless. The only is up in Singapore, so the HDB estates have had to replace the kampungs and compartmentalise the peasants into blocks of concrete. In the largest of the estates, I lived near Admiralty. I was outcast as the worst heartlander, worthy of treasonous collusion with Malaysians because of my geography. No rides home for you. "Do you know how much patrol it takes to drive up north?" I think I heard once. Being stingy, I usually took the NightRider bus service home. $3.50 got me to bed, as long as I didn't miss my bus stop, which was easy to do after dancing and drinks and being sleepy in a cold bus at 4am.

Now I live in Hougang. Praise the Lord, came the cry from these friends. He has come down to the Earth and closer to the Equator. It used to cost $23 after midnight in a taxi to get home in Woodlands. Now it's $15. Whoopee. The advantage of living closer to the city and its drinking holes. The boring bit is the ride in the KPE, Singapore's most mind-numbing underground expressway. With speeds dictated at a mere 70km/h, taxi drivers are forced to restrain their F1 passions till they exit close to Tampines Road and gun the engine for all its pent-up worth.

Of greater concern to said friends is my next abode. I am looking for a flat. They are afraid I will give in to financial pressures and surrender to the sua-kangs of the north once more. Truth be told, I wish to not be in debt for the rest of my life and living in Yew Tee (close to Choa Chu Kang if you need to ask) would save plenty of pennies. However, fingers crossed, I find a suitable location in my current neck of the woods. I wouldn't mind Sengkang either but one said friend has nightmares of treading into this black hole, having been lost in its many vale-named nooks and crannies for an hour in a car. It was all too much. She now speaks in hushed tones about Sengkang, like one would speak of a psychological trauma that required months of theraphy and bottles of pills/alcohol.

The quest continues nonetheless. Wish me luck.

Mum And I

Mothers are crazy. Maybe parents in general are. The older we get our relationship with them usually can go two general ways - one of reconciliation for the anguish sustained during the growing up years, based on mutual respect and understanding, and acceptance that both parties are independent adults with their own ideas, thoughts and habits OR haywire.

I think my mum and I are the latter. I am usually driven by logic, not really a risk taker and generally see things for all they simply are. My mum is not really driven by logic, sometimes a whim and fancy person, an emotional rollercoaster (she's a Scorpio) and enjoys testing the boundaries of her imagination and vengeful psyche when things/people don't quite rub her the right way. (No mummy, not everyone is out to get you.)

(I blame Indian dramas for the latter. Those who watch this mix of bad acting, religious fervor, stereotypical behavior and exaggerated reactions in the hope for a little escapism from the mundane can unfortunately expose their cerebral receptors to dangerous seeds of theatrical concepts. When lines are blurred or worse still, when the opportunity to perform arises, the actor in every Indian comes forth to enact scenes of high drama almost subconsciously.)

What's worse, my mum is loud. I think her hearing is going - like those harder of hearing talk louder. So she may not be angry but everything sounds like she wants to pick a fight. It's worse when my logic nerve wants to have a go. So we all end up in kind of heated huff and puff, we don't converse for a while and it's over. In the mean time, my mum complains to my sister, then cooks. Her excellent cooking forestalls my temper and placates all concerned. (She's proud of her cooking. I can't even make an omelette taste like hers after umpteen attempts.)

Today, my mum is trying to convince me that property agents are playing a game to get us to raise my offer for a flat. Yes, they do want to get more money in for the buyer. That's sort of their job. But guess what, there's no one else in the transaction process to trust - the point I was trying to get across, unsuccessfully unfortunately. Sigh. See earlier statement on huff and puff.

As the newer grown up in this relationship, I tell myself to relax and calm down. Sometimes it happens. Usually I go cold shoulder. I shouldn't I know but that's how I work, internalizing the crap. Let it go, let it go, deep breaths in, deep breaths out.

Tomorrow's another day, a better day perhaps. Let's all get some sleep.

Sneaky Budget Airline Tricks

We've all somehow figured out that budget airlines scrimp and save on everything to be profitable. But the worst they can do is scam the customer. I use the word 'scam' because you may never realize their devilish plots for online bookings if you simply ploughed through the booking process in a rush or without testing fare types.

Here's what I found out. I was booking a trip for myself and friends on Jet Star. For a couple of days now, I've been checking out prices for 1 person to make a preferred pair of flights. Let's just say the outbound flight cost $X. When I searched the same outbound flight for 8 people (the size of my group) the fare became $X + 10. I went Hmmmm? too. I did some testing and found that that if I booked for 7 persons, I'd be shown the $X fare but the fare for the 8th booking, when done separately, would cost $X + 10. The jump is probably triggered by some seat volume quota being passed. But the big problem is, JetStar would have charged a $X + 10 fare for all 8 passengers if I didn't bother splitting the booking. That's $70 extra dollars on a fare that's $52. That's 15% more per ticket per person! Bloody hell I went.

Then there's the credit card facilitation fee or convenience fee. Jet Star charges $12, per passenger. Say what?! Yes $12 per passenger not per transaction. I was a more than a little surprised. It didn't make any sense to penalize all traveller for the sake of making an electronic payment, especially when the ticket prices are this low. For a total ticket price of $105, a fee charge like that is bloody more than 10%. It sounds insane! So here's what I did. I picked to pay offline. You can too. Just gotta head on down to a post office and pay with cash or Nets. No extras incurred. I did that because I'm a selfish ass, didn't want everyone paying more because I used a credit card, and there's a SAM on the 2nd floor of my office building.

So think before you click because sometimes budget doesn't always cut it.