Full house

The row of hooks next to the door is very full now.

My friend's daughter and son-in-law have recently adopted a baby and SIL is tied up in municipal administrative red tape in trying to get the six weeks' adoption leave he is entitled to.

And this for a "normal" adoption. My company gives us adoption leave of 30 days. Whaddaya think will happen if I try and claim adoption leave for Rupert? He is my son, what. They didn't say my son have to have two legs.

Couch wars

I have not been able to get a good picture of the Queen and her new subject together yet. Here's why. Pix 1 was taken 24 hours before Rupert arrived. Pix 2 was taken 24 hours after he arrived. There is at least a similarity -- both siblings take snuggling into the couch cushions very seriously. Only they do so at separate moments. Pix 3 is the big picture that tells all -- she rules from one end of the couch and he's relegated to the other end.

A gangly fox terrier, apparently, can hold an infinite amount of waste products. This morning alone, we've had three clean-ups: two pee events and one diaorrhea episode. And the diaorrhea was *after* I took him outside at 6.30am when he dutifully did a watery dump. No need to clean up poop this morning, I triumphantly thought, as we went back to bed. How wrong.

Given that the day has already started, and the washing machine has already gone through two rounds of washing waste, I'm almost afraid how the day will end.

Kick start

Parenthood started off at 8am this morning with the smell of puppy poop. Rupert had diarrhoeaed in his crate and stepped all over it so it was a two-person clean-up job -- one to tackle the dog and the other the crate. And all without the benefit of morning caffeine. L didn't even have his glasses on. HRH watched in shock from the foot of the bed. It was too early for her too.

Father and daughter have since retired back to bed. It's only 10.30am after all. The son is on my lap as I type, his chin in the crook of my elbow. What a sweetie. Of course the diarrhoea and early start are forgiven.

He's here!

And he's a very good boy. His irrepressibly energetic fox terrier moments give way to cuddles on the couch -- I'm quite surprised he's such a snuggler. HRH, of course, is thoroughly disgusted. She spent the evening guarding the couch and now she's too tuckered out to care so he's crept up and is snuggling next to his Daddy. He probably bonds better with men since he's been in an all-male household so far.

HRH is horrified by his meal time manners though. You should have seen the look on her face -- she eats daintily and never spills. He, however, put his paw into his dish and nosed out all his kibble, then he gobbled them off the floor. Then he nosed his dish all over and spilled more food. I think he needs to get the idea that he can eat off the dish, not spill out the food and then eat it.

No housetraining accidents so far. It's the weekend and we're home to talk him for potty walks every few hours, and L has got Monday and Tuesday off. So fingers crossed, we're off to a good housetraining start.

I've forgotten what it means to have a short-haired dog that sheds. Tomorrow, we're going to buy a hand-held DustBuster.

Matching set

OK, for P who wondered about the new Terry Prachett book I'd mentioned in yesterday's posting. It's 'Thud' and it's not really that new, it must have existed as a hardcover for oh, maybe nine months if not a whole year already. In fact, the opening chapter was already published in the last book. Prachett has become a tease.

I never pay the premium for a hardcover if I know it's going to come out as a paperback. I'm prepared to wait because I know it's going to be a good book. Of course this only applies to authors that you've established that you like.

The only hard covers I buy are the ones that I don't think will ever make it to paperback because they're not that commercial. 'Marley & Me' being one of them.


Besides, if I'd bought the Prachett as a hardcover, it wouldn't match the series of Disc World paperbacks on my shelf. I guess I do judge books by their covers after all.

Oh crikey

I didn't know that Steve Irwin's funeral was telecast live on TV until D told me but even if I did, I wasn't going to watch anyway. I'm not a big fan. I didn't even think he was so big in Oz, I thought it was American TV that made him.

No disrespect to the dead. My condolences go to his widow and especially his young children. I know he did a lot for conservation and was passionate about his animals but I'm just not enarmoured of his approach. It's so invasive. To the animals that he grappled and to the audience. I'm sure he really cared for the animals but I'm quite appalled by the way he manhandled them and I think that shows a lack of respect for them as individuals.

Watch, don't touch was a big mantra when I used to dive. And it goes for land animals too. At the back of my head, I have a mental image of a croc high-fiving a sting ray. Sorry but I'm with Germaine Greer on this one:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/australia/story/0,,1865124,00.html

A picture on the BBC News website shows his staff at Australia Zoo lined up in an honour guard. They were carrying koalas, and there was a croc among the line of koalas. The koalas next to the croc were eyeing it in consternation. If they'd respected the koalas, they wouldn't stick a croc in there amongst them. Even if it's a juvenile croc and the koalas had bigger claws. Just because an animal lets you carry it doesn't mean it's yours to do what you want with, you still need to respect its point of view even if you're in control of the situation.

Which is why I don't really like how HRH sometimes gets carried about like a little stuffed toy. Oh, she'll let you if she knows you well enough, she likes the attention. But just because she's cute and small doesn't mean she's a live cuddly toy. She's really boils down to a small wolf in our midst.

Which will undoubtedly surface this weekend. It's set. Rupert moves in on Saturday.

Marley and me

So after months and months of steeling myself, I think I'm finally ready to read 'Marley & Me'. Can't be so hard to find a book that became an overnight success, right? Wrong.

Went to the bookstore. Looked for it on the Best Sellers shelf. Not there. Looked at New Titles. Not there. Looked at Most Popular. Also not there. Not in Non Fiction either. Nor in Biographies. So looked for the Pet Section. How else could you classify a book about a guy and his dog?Then could not find the Pet Section. It's not where it usually is. How could a whole section disappear? I so hate it when stores rearrange entire sections, it throws you out of kilter. So finally, had to queue up at Information.

The book was in the Pet Section after all. Only they've shifted the Pet Section way to the back, in a corner that can be reached only through an alley of shelves. Like where they keep the adult videos. If you could buy adult videos here. But you know what I mean.

All the shelves in the store are numbered and the clerk at Information kindly scribbled on a scrap of paper the shelf number where the book was. Only when I located the shelf, it was full of breed-specific dog books. Which weren't listed alphabetically by order. So I looked for the Labrador books. Marley was a Lab, that much I knew. Was trying to take some initiative there. Actually, I wasn't going all that way to the bookstore only to be thwarted by not being able to find the book I wanted. Wasn't there.

OK, so maybe I was given the wrong shelf number. But at least I knew I was in the right section. I looked on the surrounding shelves, with the general dog books. Wasn't next to James Herriot (Dog Fiction). Wasn't next to Elizabeth Marshall Thomas (Dog Non Fiction). Finally saw it next to Dog Whisperer Cesar Milan (Dog Training). I don't know how a book subtitled 'Life and love with the world's worst dog' ended up with the dog training titles. Or maybe that was precisely why it got shelved there. It was the only copy on the shelf and it had a 20% discount label -- the type they stick on the bin ends to finish the stock. Oh wait, bin ends are for wines. Remainders, that's it. (see, it does pay to read Dave Barry, you know what Rock-bottom Remainders are)

Went to Starbucks, got a coffee, sat down and read. OK, everybody knows that the dog dies. It would be like 'My Dog Skip' -- which had me crying so bad, I was actually afraid to watch the movie when it came out. I figured that as long as I didn't read the last chapter in public, I wouldn't be a basket case among strangers.

I didn't even get to the first chapter. I was already in tears at the preface. Where John Grogan's mother tells him that she's only ever seen his father cry twice -- when they lost his stillborn sister and when the dog of his childhood died. It was exactly like how my mother told me that she saw Dad bursting into tears for the first time after Spock died.

I had to close the book in a hurry and switch to the new Terry Prachett that I had also bought. As it was, I went into work with red eyes. I think I can only continue with Marley when I'm cocooned at home. And with HRH on my lap as some sort of guardian.

All of you who told me to read it -- why didn't you warn me about the preface?

Eternal rest

OK, too many text-only entries and we need some pix on this page.

What, you think I only upload pix of the dog? :)

The slogan on this hoarding for the construction of a condo really bothers me. I don't know about you but to me, it cuts pretty close to advertising for a burial plot.

People who think of condo names need help. There's one in Bishan called Rafflesia. It's next to Raffles Institution and probably takes its name from the esteemed school. Only thing is, the developer forgot that Rafflesia is a mutant-looking ugly stinky flower. It's not the sort of flower you'd put in a bouquet. Its scent has been described as a rotting corpse, I think it's supposed to attract flies or something, protein for the flower to feed on.

And there's Avalon in Stevens Road. Every time I pass it, I wonder if the residents encountered any undead English kings or faery folk wandering about the pool.

Dreamy stuff

Picking up from where Compaunmeri left off (http://compaunmeri.blogspot.com/ -- still missing the hyperlink option on the Safari interface) about weird dreams.

On Saturday, dreamt that there was a concert at the auditorium at the office building. I paid no attention to it because they're always holding school band concerts there . But when strains of Midnight Oil's 'Beds are Burning' came pounding out, I had to go watch. Turned out that INXS was playing. And they were doing it sprawled across a sofa, except for Michael Hutchence on a bar stool at the footlights. I had my digicam with me and wanted to take pix but at first was too shy to, but then reasoned that they must be used to people taking pix of them, so elbowed my way down to the front of the auditorium. And took a pix of Michael Hutchence. And then even in my dream, I wondered, how is that possible? Michael Hutchence is dead. That must be JD Fortune singing. So I previewed the shots on the camera to check. Only the shots that I'd taken of Michael Hutchence all turned out to be close-up shots of the audience screaming.

dee-dee-deedy dee-dee-deedy (Twilight Zone theme)

Ready for Rupert

I was at Ikea and saw this cheerful dog dish, and so bought it. In readiness for Rupert. I also bought a matching placemat for his feeding area. Actually, I bought two placemats -- I guess I'd be buying dog stuff in pairs now, so there wouldn't be any sibling rivalry, I told L later. He says I'm being a human parent. Ah, kids, two-legged, four-legged, what's the difference. Try tellling HRH she has to share her toys.

All right, about Rupert. C&G, our friends who already have Toby, a wiry fox terrier, were ready for a second dog. C found a smooth fox terrier pup, made all the arrangements to get it and when he went to get it, could not get out of his head the image of the remaining pup, all dirty, sad and alone in a cage. So he went back for it. What's another pup, he thought?

Well, the problem as C&G later found out, puppy poop increases exponentially. And poor Toby, the perfectly housetrained gentleman who'd rather bust a bladder than pee inappropriately. Every time Rupert and Colin got disciplined for housetraining violations, Toby would hide under the bed.

And then things got hairier. C had to go back to Japan for a while. And once again, G had to deal with a Toby emergency by himself when he wrenched a leg. And then Colin started pooping blood and that's two sick dogs, two puppies grappling with housetraining and only one pair of hands.

So the pups are up for adoption. Not an open adoption though, C will only let it go to friends or friends of friends. While they initially took the two pups to remove them out of a bad situation, they clearly weren't equipped to handle three dogs.

We knew we'd have Dog No 2 sometime. But I was thinking sometime would be next year, after having settled down into the new flat and enjoyed our space. Now, we're rethinking. And rethinking fast before G has a breakdown cleaning puppy poop.

Lazy, rainy day

This was supposed to be an easy week, as I only have four working days. I worked Sunday and Monday, then had a break on Tuesday, then worked another two days before a Friday to Sunday long weekend.

It wasn't even like four working days strung out one after another, I had a day's break in between. So I don't know why I came back home last night and collapsed. Went straight to bed. Didn't even brush my teeth. That's how drained I was. OK, I slept for four hours then got up, had a hot chocolate and then brushed my teeth and went back to bed.

Age must be catching up on me. It used to be that I'd stay up late on days off. Go clubbing till dawn. Stuff like that. Now, I look forward to days off because I can go to bed early.

Woke up to the sound of thunder this morning and decided there was no point getting up as I couldn't walk HRH in the rain. As long as I stayed in bed, so would she. So by the time we actually spilled out of bed, it was 3pm. There went all the plans of going downtown to the bookstore. I have a bit of a list and 'Marley & Me' is on it -- I figure I can deal with a book where the dog dies now that I have a prospective puppy coming to lift things up (more about the puppy later, it's another story for another time).

At least I made it to Ikea when I was off on Tuesday. I only needed one thing -- another shelf for the bathroom. It costs only $9 so I wasn't going to spend $20 on a taxi there to get it (getting a taxi back would be another thing, I'd be loaded down with stuff), $40 on transport for a $9 item didn't make sense. So I took a leisurely train ride down, strolled around, added stuff to my cart (how can you pass up $1 placemats, 50 cents dog dishes), more of the Swedish meatballs and the pear cider which I like from their food section, and lo and behold, I had spent $200. I have no idea how that happened.

Did you hear that, Mr Wolfowitz?

Last night, L called KFC/Pizza Hut delivery (they share the same delivery phone number) and got put on hold. For the first time. For a rather long time. When he finally got to speak to the operator, he joked that the IMF-World Bank meetings that taking place here now must be keeping them busy. To his surprise, the operator told him that it was indeed so, and that they were having quite a time fulfilling their orders.

Wow. You'd think that well-heeled bankers would be able to afford to dine at the many fancy restaurants around the convention centre and not have to call for pizza.

And even if they were feeling an economic pinch, financial institutions and businesses are jostling with each other to hold glitzy receptions for the delegates.

Some enterprising merchants are trying to get some dollars out of the 16,000 delegates in town for the meetings. Some restaurants are offering free coffee and tea, there's a clothes retailer offering a 10 per cent discount for delegates and one hospital is having a special on botox for them. (!)

But my favourite is the ad that urges them to "Take Advantage of Our Low Prices in Singapore..."

The company sells hearing aids.

I'm sure there's a subtle hint about the state of the global economy in this.

Oh poop

http://barbie.everythinggirl.com/catalog/productbrd.aspx?sku=J9472
Barbie has a dog and it poops! It even come with a pooper scooper for Barbie to neatly and hygienically remove poochie's byproducts.

Well, thanks but I got the real poochie pooping stuff here.

And let me tell you, dog poop can cause heart attacks. Yesterday, we had heavy rain in the late afternoon and the grass was still damp when HRH Prissy Paws went out for her late-night constitutional. Which meant that she had one quick pee and then refused to do anything else so we thought she was done, especially as she doesn't always poop in the evenings. Only when we came back upstairs, she squatted on the corridor. Squarely in front of the Malay neighbours' doorway. They normally leave their front door open in the day time but this was late at night, close to midnight, so the door was closed, thank goD. But I could hear the TV on behind the closed door so they were still up. L quickly slipped the newspaper poop sheet under HRH as soon as she squatted but I was terrified that they'd hear rustling and open the door and catch this haram unislamic dog doing unspeakable things right on their threshold. I'm sure these infidel Chinese and their dog would be crucified for sure.

Bet this doesn't happen to Barbie.

9-11

Five years on, it's still very emotional. And I'm not even American.

The first anniversary of 9-11, I was in sleepy Maui. I'd just come out of a bookstore and there was a fire station down the road and the firefighters were lowering the flag and standing at attention to honour fallen comrades. Hawaii's part of the US, of course, but it's so different in spirit from the mainland, I didn't at first think there would be much to commemorate the anniversary. Nobody in the street actually paid much attention, only this tourist stopped (and took a photo), it was as if the Maui firefighters were in their own little world. But how wrong I was. That was when it hit me that it doesn't matter where you are, nobody forgets 9-11, its sheer magnitude reverberates worldwide. And today, we all remember.

http://www.ctlegalguide.com/SlideShow/caninetribute.htm

I wonder if Moses would have liked fried rice

The stall at the Compass Point (the mall five minutes' walk from our flat) food court that does the fried noodles must have had a change in management. They've certainly had a change in crockery and a change in the the name of the stall. They used to be called Mini Wok, serving up their offering in well, mini woks -- tiny little steel woks that hold just one portion. It was really quite cute, eating off woks that clearly weren't meant to be used for cooking. Now they're Original Manna. Menu's still the same though -- all manner of fried noodles and fried rice. Which look so prosaic in food court melamine plates.

I don't care if they say it's original. But I'm pretty sure that Moses and the Children of Israel did not gather fried vermicelli with the dew every morning.

Wet dog

It's amazing how much a Schnauzer can shrink when it gets a bath. :)

Looks like the ragamuffin needs a haircut soon.

Back to work

You wonder how everyone does it, trudging to work five days in a row, slogging it out and then trudging back in a state of near collapse. Week after week, year after year. It's enough to depress anybody, no matter how much you love your job.

It's harder when you've had a week off. Five working days hit hard when they come after a week of goofing off (and no, I didn't manage to go to Ikea, that's how switched off I was). A Saturday off that's filled with chores that piled up and back to work on Sunday.

Though I really shouldn't complain. The roster is good to me this month. Tomorrow is the only Sunday I have to work in September, the rest of the Sabbaths can be kept holy.

And this week was a good week going to work on the bus -- it's the one-week mid-semester break for the schoolchildren, so that meant that the bus was free of sweaty kids. It really makes a difference on a sunny afternoon when you need a motive to get out of the house and into work.

Housewarming

A party that lasted almost 12 hours -- we started at 3pm so all those poor sods who were rostered to work on Saturday night could come and have some wine before trudging off to work, and the last lot didn't leave till 2.30am, people kindly came in three or four waves so we had restive lulls in between; four dogs in the house at one stage, with one "accident" and one deliberate marking -- and not a single photo to show for it.

Sorry, ES.


Or maybe this post-party pooped-out one will make up.

The beef rendang was excellent -- J, who lives down the street wanted to take the whole chafing dish load back -- the mee siam so-so and I don't much care if I don't eat another kueh till Christmas. Or anything with gula melaka and covered with coconut.

On Friday night, we went back to our old house to invite the old neighbours. HRH got really excited and strained at her leash. We unhooked the leash and when the lift doors opened on the 10th floor, she trotted left down the corridor and straight for our old flat and waited expectantly at the front door.

The old neighbours said they missed us but we're sure they really meant they missed HRH. We're just the proxy. Which also explains why half of the housewarming gifts were rawhide, dog biscuits and squeaky toys (oh dear lord, she has more now).

You know it was a good party when you end up with more wine and beer than you started out with. And a dog that will probably sleep till next week before she pesters you with the new squeaky toys. M said he "brought home a dead dog". Haha. Like I used to say in the Spock days, a tired Jack Russell is a good Jack Russell. I'm lucky now, Schnauzers take longer to recharge their batteries than Jack Russells.

Grass! For Sale! In Singapore!

Context is everything.

I should have gotten L to come along with me, and have him pose leaning against the sign and smoking.

Somebody's watching

I'm sure it's just the sign that's old and rusty, and that the Neighbourhood Watch is no less alert.

Woman at leisure

I'm on leave from work this week, partly to clear my vacation days by Aug 31 (end of company's fiscal year, it's their policy to clear leave by then), and partly because L and I have a deal to take time off work at the end of August -- it's his birthday and our wedding anniversary.

This year, we're not going on vacation. We've need to replenish our coffers after renovating the new flat and getting stuff for it. So this year, we're just going to stay put and enjoy our new home.

Besides, I don't think I could fly long-haul without hand luggage, without moisturiser, lip balm and most importantly, without reading material. It may possibly now be the safest time to fly now that all the extra security measures are in place but it's probably also the most spartan way to travel. If the no hand luggage rules are here to say, as the airlines suggest they will, it could change travelling for pleasure as we've come to expect. Or even travelling on business. Imagine no laptops on board, and not being able to work for the hours you're stuck on the plane. (Or not being able to play Solitaire -- c'mon, how much work can a business traveller really do?)

The last time I was on leave was when I took two weeks' off for the move to the new flat. It was filled with heaps to do -- packing, getting moving logistics organised and it wasn't over even after the move; because then came the unpacking, settling in and getting all the little things to make the new place home. So everyday, there was something to do and it didn't feel like I was on leave at all -- I had to-do lists and errands to run, and was constantly on the go.

And I probably wore out a path to Ikea -- I had to keep going there repeatedly for this, that and the other that I never thought I'd get tired of their Swedish meatballs. I'm still not entirely done at Ikea yet. Sometime this week, I'll find the time to go back one last time (so help me god) for a couple more shelves that I need. The trouble is that Ikea is at the other end of the country from me. If I take the train, I need to take the North-East Line all the way down to the bottom, than switch to the East-West line and the whole trip takes more than an hour. I can get there much faster by taxi of course but the last time, the taxi fare to and from cost twice the cheap little item that I needed at Ikea.

Still, this time round, I get to do it more leisurely. I could probably spare the time for the long train ride.

Being on leave also gave me the time to do something I've always wanted: get off the bus at interesting places along the route instead of being forced to remain on the bus until it takes me to the office. I've always wanted to check out the cafes in the residential enclaves it pasts, maybe even take pictures of the funny signs that caught my eye from the bus window. And now, I can get off and explore.


I took a few pictures today, hopping off the bus and then waiting for the next one, only to hop off a few stops later. I'll post the interesting pix in due course. This one was taken along Yio Chu Kang Road. It is one of my favourite roads to ride along, and it makes the trip to work so much more pleasant. It is also why I prefer taking the bus to the train: I get to look at the old trees, lianas growing up their trunks and their branches meeting overhead in a green arc. I'm pretty sure nobody would be cutting down these trees anytime soon

Schwarz

August 28th, 1998 is the day I understood what a "snapshot memory" means: the time when a camera-like flashbulb goes off in your head and that moment is forever engraved into your memory. I suppos it's how Americans remember where they were and what they were doing when JFK died, and later for the rest of the world, we will always remember what we were doing when we saw on unfolding TV news the images of planes ramming into towers on Sept 11th, 2001.

Eight years on, and I still remember everything about that morning: the clothes I was wearing, the Tshirt that Schwarz snuggled up against when I held him against me when the vet did what he had to do. I still remember the spot in the garden where he last lifted his leg before that last car ride to the vet. He didn't have to but he wanted to pee before a car ride like he always did, he was always such a good boy.

I didn't have all these flashbulb moments down to the last detail with Spock. Maybe with him, I didn't know that was going to be his last day on earth.

A few months after Schwarz died, I could finally see enough through tears to print out all the e-mail messages of condolence that I received from several dog e-lists I was then on. Many people wrote of the courage it took to make the difficult decision to put an old dog to sleep. I never thought of it as courageous, neither did I think of it as difficult -- it was something I knew I had to do for a long time. The only question was when. And that, in the end, came easily. It was the morning you found your old dog huddled up and shivering, no longer able to eat or to move more than a few steps. That really wasn't difficult, you just did what you long knew you had to do. What nobody ever tells you is that real difficult part is the part that comes after that. I was lucky I had Spock then -- the Emergency Backup Dog as I used to call him suddenly became the only dog. So I wasn't dogless. But it was still very, very hard.

Schwarz was my first real dog although not technically my first dog. I had a mongrel called Blackie when I was very, very young, about five years old. But I hardly remember him now, it was my mother who took care of Blackie. Schwarz was L's dog -- he still tells of how when he was invited to pick a pug puppy (the breeder was his friend's mother), all the little puggies ran to him when he entered the room. Only one remained where he was, his nap was more important. And that's when L picked the one who had his own independent agenda.

Schwarz lived with L's aunt for a few years when he worked in Hong Kong. When we both returned to Singapore, L arranged one evening with LTL to spend an evening out with me while he took her car, went and got Schwarz, and took him home. When I got home that night, I opened the door to him snuffling and snorting. The next day, he became my shadow and my dog.

He had precious little belongings -- he arrived with just his collar and leash and two bowls, one for food and another for water. When I think of HRH's legion of toys now , I shake my head. But Schwarz left me many things. My email handle and the name of this blog is part of his legacy. The many friends I've met online, some of whom have gone on to become as close as family, I've met through him.

Eight years on, he is still enriching my life with his blessing.

He was a solemn, undemanding, quiet little one-lap dog. I'm glad Spock is with him.

Blooming things

Thought the entries have been all text lately so here are some pictures taken with the cellphone as I was walking HRH downstairs.

The pink flowering tree is the one that grows to the side of our window, it's the bit of green that frames our view out of the window.

The white spider-lily is a border around the grass outside the ground-floor flats to give them some privacy. Guess that would be the view from my downstairs neighbours window.

The orangey blossoms (bird of paradise, I think -- I'm not too good with plant names so if anyone knows what they're properly called, especially the pink flowering tree, please leave a comment) line the side of the footpaths that link the blocks of flats.

Lazy Sunday afternoon

I've been working too many Sundays. Even if I don't mind working on Sundays and holidays -- you get to show up in shorts, tees and sandals, and go home a couple of hours earlier than usual if you're lucky.

That is, when you get in. Before you even get in, it's hard going to get ready to go to work in a sunny afternoon when other people are out doing sunny afternoon weekend things.

Today, we thought at first we'd be out like them, doing Sunday afternoon things. Then we decided that there're too many people out there doing them, and too much afternoon sun to do them in.

So, to celebrate a full, normal Saturday *and* Sunday weekend, we are having a cook-in and pig-out. Because we can. An all-day cook-in is luxury when you've been eating Sunday lunch with one eye on the clock so you wouldn't be late for work. We stocked up on groceries yesterday and have salmon, pork chops and cutlets that we're going to slap on the grill whenever we feel nibblish. L has started a pot of chicken kiam chye (salted pickled mustard leaf veg) which will sit on the stove all day. Yumm.

Hope you're having a good weekend too.

Bath-tub needs

Before we got the tub, bath time was just stepping into and out of the shower. There's only so long you can linger under a shower. Now, the more you lie in the tub, the more your mind wanders and that's when you come up more bath-time needs than you could ever imagine:

1. Lumbar support. When you sliiiiide all the way down so as to get maximum bathwater coverage, right up to your chin, the small of your back isn't leaning against anything. I'm sure someone must have invented a lumbar support piece meant for use in the tub. Must check those wacky Japanese inventions sites.

2. Yoga asanas you can do in a bath tub. And why not? If you can lie down for a Thai massage which is basically lazy yoga as the masseur tugs you into asana-like stretches, why not water yoga? There is water aerobics after all.


3. Epsom salts. Nothing as crazy as the above and the most prosaic thing ever but let me tell you, they are not to be found in Singapore. I think the problem is that not a lot of people in the tropics spend a lot of time soaking in hot water. In fact, my theory of why dance foam parties were so popular a few years ago, was that those kids didn't have a lot of chance to wallow in bath foam at home. I looked for Epsom salts in the different pharmacy chains, supermarkets, everywhere -- nada. One pharmacist told me they haven't carried it for years. When did something that sat in a corner in my Mum's kitchen suddenly go extinct? Maybe I should look in Mustapha's. If they sell Vimto, they must sell other extinct stuff.

All for me

It's not every day that traffic is diverted for me. Although in this case, it was under less salubrious circumstances.

I noticed as soon as I crossed the road to the bus stop that there had been an accident at the cross junction some 100 metres up the road. A car with its front smashed in on the driver's side was angled at the kerb -- it looked horribly like how Silver Surfer looked after our accident last November, down to the angle it was pushed to the side of the road after the collision. The other vehicle ended up worse -- a van flipped over onto its side. I don't know if anyone was hurt. If anyone was, must have been taken away. By then, it was just a policeman and a tow truck, trying to clear the road.

The policeman directed all traffic coming down the road to turn right at the junction because when the tow truck got into position to move the van, both vehicles were blocking all three lanes of the entire road so no one could drive straight across the junction.

That's when my bus appeared. The policeman waved it to turn right. The driver must have protested because I saw him leaning out of the window and having a talk with the policeman. If he had turned right and rejoined the road at a later stage, like going three sides round a square which was how the policeman directed all the traffic, he would miss the one bus stop 100 m down, where I was.

If I could see them from the bus stop, the bus driver could surely see me. Only one bus service stops at that bus stop, so clearly I was waiting for his bus. I saw the policeman turning to look down the road, at the bus stop and I waved back at him and pointed at the bus. That's when he shrugged, jogged over to the tow truck and got the driver to move off a bit so the bus could manoeuvre between the truck and van, and make its way down the road to the bus stop.

All for me.

And all this time, I again forgot to take pictures with the cellphone.

Names, part 2

Ran into a quandry while subbing a story out of Hong Kong. Does Jacphanie Cheung take a Mr or a Ms on second mention? Obviously, no one had the definitive answer to that, so I went with Ms, reasoning that Jacphanie is to Jack what Stephanie is to Stephan.

But everyone sure had a lot of opinions on Hong Konger names. In the brief period I worked in Hong Kong, I had a collection of name cards with unusual names. I don't know where it is now and I can't remember most of the names -- which sounded really made up -- but one sticks in my memory: Cinderella. I'm not making this up. You can't make up a real life person with a name like Cinderella. I've always wondered if she found her Prince Charming. Or if she ever met Snow White. I wouldn't put it past there being a Hong Konger with that name.

Back in uni, there was a student called Hedges. You come across a name like that, of course you gotta ask how he got it. He said his Dad got it off a cigarette packet. And that there were two names on it but Dad thought Benson was too ordinary so he picked Hedges. Hedges wisely used his surname instead of his first name all his uni life but it didn't stop me from calling him Trees, Shrubs, Bushes etc for three years.

And then there was Margarita. A perfectly normal Hispanic name but you wonder why a Cantonese girl from solid southern Chinese stock born in Hong Kong whose family speaks no Spanish is Margarita and not Margaret. She said her father was drinking margaritas the night she was born. Thank god he wasn't drinking Stolichnaya.

What's in a name?

The spam has been getting worse lately but even so, it's almost entertaining the names of the purported senders. I've got e-mail from:
Herewith Mickens (must be an Amish chap, brother of Theregoes Prudence Verily)
Hitachi Maxtor (new merger, I suppose though as a person Apple Lenovo sounds more like a pop star)
the Fifth Third Bank (and why not the Last Two Hundred and Sixty-second Bank?)
Neal Ayala (does he know who the Ayalas are in the Philippines?)
Hippolyta Mastrangelo (must be sister to Archimedes Eureka)
Catahecassa Schrick (who is friend to Catchupwithyalater Smith)
fydaJUrikzcp Tarrancer (must be a Polish first name)
Cummings (can't be from ee, this guy uses upper case)

I used to think the most fun job would be to invent names for lipstick and nail polish colours. Now I think it must be to invent names for spammers.

Taxes and death

As sure as the above, the deduction plan to pay my income tax by a monthly Giro instalment arrived.

I don't get it. In early 2005, my monthly deduction was $55. It crept up to about $70 by the end of the year. Starting this October, it will go up to $107. I am paying twice what I paid in early 2005 but I sure as hell am not earning twice as much as I was then.

And on top of that, the tax rate after the first $10,000 has dropped (from 9% to 8.75%). So I don't know how that adds up. And should I even start counting on my fingers and toes, a little addendum at the bottom of the notice: "You have to pay this amount whether or not you have any objection."

And below that, in bold letters, a chirpy "Thank you for your contribution towards nation building!" (with the audacity of the exclamation mark!)

Am too grumpy to respond nicely, not even a semi-automatic "you're welcome"

I see dogs

Through the bus window yesterday, I saw an old man, shirtless in the afternoon sun, walking his brown dog on a leash. The bus went past a petrol kiosk and I momentarily lost sight of them. After it went round the station and I could look into the field behind it again, I craned my neck to catch sight of them but they had disappeared like they were never there.

I don't know why I keep seeing dogs or running into them. I've written about Yellow Dog before and the Stray Guy who got the pizza (we haven't seen him since his pizza feast, and I keep thinking that the next time we order pizza, maybe he'll come back).

Last week, at the bus stop across the road from our development, a black dog came ambling down the sidewalk. He was all black but his muzzle was a grizzled white. He was quite nicely filled out and it was only when he passed that I realised he had a collar. So maybe he wasn't a stray after all but I do wonder where he came from as there are no flats on that side of the road and in any case, he's too big to be HDB-approved. (HDB is public housing and you are only allowed small-sized dogs, mostly the toy breeds.)

I minded my stranger dog manners, turning away from him so I wasn't facing him head-on as he approached. And he minded his own business, walking straight ahead before clambering up the grassy bank into the field behind the bus stop, then headed for a clump of bushes to mark them.

It was then that I remembered that my newish cellphone has a camera and I could take a picture of him. Sometimes I still forget that this phone does more than make phone calls! I fumbled with the cellphone but by then he was too far away. Anyway, just at that time, the bus arrived. My last view of Black Dog was through the bus window as we pulled away. By then, he had gone behind the bush and it was so small and sparse that I could see his head sticking out on top and his long curvy tail poking out the other end, making him look like a dog-shaped topiary. It looked rather amusing and I'm beginning to fear that what I thought was a giggle in my head was done out loud because people in the bus started to shift away from me.

If only I got the photo...

Trees

Today I have grown taller form walking with the trees.
- Karele Wilson Bake

But what if there were no trees?

In which case, most Singaporeans would be shrivelled up.

It's bad enough about the trees in "our" field being cut down to make way for an exercise station, it's even worse raping the remaining grass to lay down a cement path leading to it. Three paths, actually, on three sides. At the narrowest width of the field, it's only three feet of grass to cross to get to the exercise/fitness thing. You'd think anyone going to use the exercise equipment would have sports shoes on and can walk across a bit of grass.

I don't know what it is with this Singaporean aversion to greenery. Recently, a Sunday Times columnist remarked that Orchard Road wasn't as bright as shopping districts in other countries and surmised that it was because there were too many trees! Cut down the trees, he wrote, and you'll be able to see the building facades, the lights will be brighter, the shopping ambience will be more vibrant. And this is a chap whom I know and is a perfectly reasonable fellow -- he once wrote a brilliant piece on why Annabel Chong should be designated as a Singapore icon.

But all is not lost. www.yawningbread.org has a lovely photo essay on Singapore's greenery -- click on Our Trees, I can't find a direct URL to that page.

I can feel myself shrivelling already. I've never considered myself a tree hugger -- despite the several pair of Birkenstocks I own :) Maybe I should now.

Somewhere to rest my head

When L ordered McDonald's delivery last night, HRH's chin rest of choice suddenly became Daddy's knee.

We've sunk to a new low with the Big Mac delivery. Now, our phone number -- and our address -- is on the delivery database for McDonald's, KFC, Pizza Hut and Canadian Pizza. Is there any other junk food on wheels that we haven't covered?

Heartless

The biggest buzz in the last two days is that of the body of a dead newborn found in the staff locker of the supermarket near the office, a supermarket I sometimes go to. The supermarket staff couldn't bear the foul stench emanating from the locker, used a master key to open it and found the baby. The police don't know yet if it alive or dead when it was left there.

The supermarket is so close by, the photographer got there in time to take a picture as the police took the body away -- in a cardboard box used to pack vegetables. I suppose that was why the reporter asked some supermarket customers what they thought of the find. I suppose he couldn't get to talk to anybody else. I would have thought you'd probably want to talk to the guy who used the next locker, for instance. Of all the people the rep picked, it was a couple of sixteen-year-old students who said the baby's mother was "heartless" to have abandoned the baby's body in the locker. First off, I don't know why he asked a couple of teenagers who clearly can't think out of their own experience. They obviously couldn't empathise with someone who had a baby she wasn't prepared for, may never have wanted, who, for nine months didn't know what to do as it formed within her. She probably delivered it on her own, scared half to death with the pain, with what she was going to do with it, maybe it was dead, maybe it wasn't. So frightened, so alone, with no one to turn to, nowhere to go, she left it in a locker. And let's not even go into post-natal depression. I think they were the heartless ones discussing someone when they had no idea of what it is to walk in her shoes. There's one life slipped between the cracks, one baby slipped away. Oh geez, this is a depressing post. I think missing Spock is still hanging heavy on me. I'll try and write something more fun tomorrow.

Spock

Today is the fifth year anniversary of Spock's passing. The Chinese mark death anniversaries but I don't really know what they do. Me, I just hold his collar in my hand, hug my little gangster dog in my heart, smile a little, cry quite a bit. Five years and it still cuts deep, the heartbreak you feel when you see your normally spunky Jack Russell still and weak from the tick fever that claimed him.

August is a bad month for me. It will be Schwarz's eighth year death anniversary in two weeks.

Run like the wind, my wild little boy. I miss you.

millywlly wrote this eulogy five years ago:

Spock --

Ambassadoggie par excellence
One pooch neighborhood alert system
Ear washer for old doggies
Lover to Miss Sadie
Snoop and beggar rolled into one small package
Leaper of tall tables in a single bound
Cherished friend
Adoring younger brother
Beloved son
Angel

Spock!

They do not go quietly, the dogs who've shared our lives.

Band of Fathers

See the glint in all the furkids' eyes? It says: Sucker Dads, every one.

Overheard

At the Ikea cafeteria last week, a girl in the line behind me to her friend: I didn't bring my wallet, can you pay? Her friend does.

At the next table at Forum Galleria food court today: I forgot to withdraw money. Can I borrow some? Her friend fishes out a $10 note and off she goes to get her food.

Two little things that wouldn't have stuck in my head had they not happened almost back to back. I'm almost dumbstruck. Maybe when you're young, you always get help when you ask for it. Or maybe it never occurs to you that people may not always help. I don't know. Growing up alone and an only child made me self-reliant to an extent that I never get caught out without money. I always have an emergency $50 note tucked away somewhere. And if I have no money on me, I just don't eat till I get home.

Anyway, the two girls at the food court: One just got home from London and was complaining about the shopping. The High Street brands are at the most just S$30 cheaper than what they cost here, and she couldn't find any XS. This XL (in Singapore size, British size 16) hates her already.

Kiss The Sky

It's a poor picture because it was so magnified. The little lizard is only about 4cm long. He's usually behind the shelving unit but last night I saw him on the ceiling, in the bit where the retracted false ceiling is painted to look like sky. We haven't named him yet but I guess I now have a name for him -- Jimi.

In the old flat, we also had a resident lizard. That one was named Tshirt because the night we saw him, L (or me, can't remember now) was wearing a Tshirt with a gecko picture on it.

Hawaiians say geckos bring good luck to the houses they are found in. That's nice. I just like having them around because they get rid of mosquitoes and all the nasty flying buzzing insects.

National Day

It's National Day today and I'm working. I'm sorry to be missing C's picnic -- I want to see and play his new puppies so bad. But I'm not sorry to miss National Day. I used to like watching the parades when I was a kid. But I was a kid then, when marching columns, mass displays and jet fly-pasts were a wonder to watch. But now, they don't do anything for me. National Day has been reduced to a bunting of tiny red and white flags outside the office window.

Oh, the stack of boxes have there forever. One day, someone put up a sign "Box Office" (well ha ha) on the wall and I guess that means the boxes will now stay there forever.

Aaaack!

This is not a nice sight to wake up to... :(

Couch camouflage

The difference between the dog and the cushions is that one moves... a little...

If I had done like M and got a couch in colours that match the dog, I might never see the dog again. M's idea is that shed fur would show up less. He's lucky his dog moves fast and frequently.

Uninvited

The neighbours next door are having a party. They're an Indian Muslim family and probably that's why HRH (okay, we: dog + humans) hasn't been invited because she's not going to mingle too well with the guests. She is protesting by alternating between low growls, shrill barks and muted woofs at their comings and goings that she can hear through the front door.

It's a big split-level party. They've laid out the food and some tables at the common deck area downstairs, and some chairs at the stairwell landing next to us so there are people are wandering up and down the staircase to get food, people spilling out of the flat to stand about at the stairwell. HRH disapproves of it all.

The party started mid-morning and crescendoed to a buzz at lunch time. It's now died down and a lot of people have left, but others are starting to arrive. Looks like it's the wave for tea time. Karaoke has just started but far from being perturbed, L is highly amused because someone is attempting Elton John -- his favourite singer of all time.

L thinks we should be neighbourly and wander over to mingle. I wonder if they need help with the leftovers. :)

Fetch it yourself

Last weekend, we took HRH's ball down with us when we walked her in the field downstairs. We tossed the ball, she flew across the field to retrieve it and it won her a following of kids who tagged after us, all wanting to take a turn to throw the ball for the dog. She kept on running to get the ball. But she soon stopped returning it.

We thought we should upgrade the ball to a frisbee. I mean, frisbees, running dogs, grassy field all kinda go together, right? And not just any old cheap China-made plastic disc for HRH but a Canadian-made, vet-approved (yes, it said so on the label), soft-to-the-mouth designed-specially-for-dogs frisbee. It's that red thing on the couch next to her -- it isn't a solid disc like the classic frisbee design, the little cut-throughs are meant for dog jaws to clomp through in a leaping catch.

It flies perfectly. It sailed fluidly across the field. Watched by a Schnauzer who made no move to run for it nor to retrieve it. So there we were, L and I tossing the frisbee too and fro, while making encouraging noises to HRH to join in while she just stood there and looked.

Anyone wants an almost brand new frisbee? Vi? Toby?

The green is gone

How is cutting down a few trees an improvement project?

Ever since we first viewed this flat, there was this banner in the corner of the field proclaiming that an improvement project was coming our way. There will be fitness corner coming up. I guess the town council needed to feel that it was busy doing things with our money to improve our lives.

So yesterday, workmen put up hoardings all round the centre of the field, leaving just a little bit of green at either end. Luckily, we still have the remaining little bit of green visible from our window -- the green that attracted us to this flat in the first place.

But that wasn't all the green that we were losing, as I realised, when the hoarding was up and the buzz of chainsaws started. They were cutting the trees in the middle of the field!

Now, at least three leafy, shady trees are gone. Presumably with whimsical sculpture of a metallic dolphin fin coming out of the grass since it's hidden behind the hoarding where dreadful things can happen.

In their place will be three senior citizens' fitness corners and three exercise corners, says a notice on the side of the hoardings.

I really don't know how an inclined plane for sit-ups is an improvement over three leafy trees.

Mr Toesies get busy

Mr Clumsy stubbed Mr Pinky-toe on bad, bad Mr Bed Leg. And it's all Mr Bed Leg's fault for being there. Where it's always been. On that same spot. Forever and ever, amen.

Mr Pinky-toe and his neighbour are a glorious technicolour now so the photo doesn't do it justice, the colours didn't develop until yesterday morning. Mr Pinky-toe here is being iced while HRH had her paws full trying to look after two sickie parents. (She has to do it in comfort, with a chin rest. It's a royalty thing.)

L very generously allowed me to take this picture since I "might need content for the blog".

On Monday, along with the cough mixture and painkiller for the respiratory tract infection, the doctor also issued anti-inflammatories. Let's just say that with the swollen toe now, the anti-inflammatories are doing a two-in-one job and L is getting his money's worth.

His n hers

If it's not one thing, it's another. I've succumbed to the bug that was going round the office and on top of that, passed it on to L. He gets bugs really easily. I don't usually but this one must have caught me with my, err, knee down.

Which means L is much sicker than I am. I only have a bottle of cough mixture and anti-inflammatories. Everything else -- especially all the candy-coloured pills -- are L's. The Strepsils was a desperate -- and useless -- attempt at self-medication over the weekend until we saw the doctor -- together -- yesterday.

The thing about being home from work for a few more days is that you don't want to be too sick so that you can actually enjoy your time off work. A cough that a suppressant can take care of and a low-grade on-off fever works just about fine -- sick but not so sick that you can potter around the house, cook a little, actually taste what you cook, toss a few toys when the dog demands it, and best of all -- watch more TV.

Everybody likes pizza

Even stray dogs.

There's this stray that we've met now and then when we're walking HRH. Thin mutt, still juvenile, with lovely clear golden-brown eyes. She has always wanted to play with him but like most strays, he never has play on his mind. He quickly marks and trots off on his own business. The first time they met though, he stood still and gazed at her. She was delighted but I kept her on a short leash because he had tufts of fur missing from his flank and I was leary of sarcoptic mange. After that first encounter, he never stopped long enough for me to go back upstairs and bring down some food and water.

Last night when I came home from work, I saw him rooting around the garbage dump. At least he was at one spot long enough. I thought of bringing him down some Eukanuba. But L grabbed the pizza box instead. So Stray Guy feasted on a good half of a 12-inch Meat Lovers and a container of water.

Think of it from HRH's point of view: Hooray, Mummy's finally home. I'm gonna attack her with kisses. Wait a minute, she's going out again. And taking Daddy with her. And he's taking the pizza with him. Hey! Pizza comes into this house. Pizza doesn't leave this house. What's going on here?

L is quite taken in by Stray Guy. He thinks if it comes back often enough to feed, it might start to trust us, and maybe, just maybe, we could see if it would take to four walls and a roof. And then HRH will surely have something more to say.

Kaypohing* the neighbours

(*kaypoh = busybody)

The thing about staying home with a bum knee is that you spend a lot of time looking out the window -- especially when the rabbit-ears antenna on the TV picks up only one English language station.

When you just can't stomach Yan Can Cook, the block of flats across the field is more interesting than TV. You can't actually look into anyone's windows -- they're too far away. But you can catch a glimpse of life when someone stands at the window. And because the flats are laid out linear so that the living room window is next to a row of two or three bedroom windows, it's like looking into a live-action doll's house.

You can tell who's home and who's not, whether someone's in the living room watching TV with the lights off from the flickering coming from the window, or a child in the bedroom studying from the glow of a desk lamp. The ground floor flat has a white dog that hops on to some furniture under his window to stick his head out and check things out. There's always karaoke drifting out on Saturday nights -- we can't hear from our flat, thank goodness, only when we're at the foot of the block when we walk the dog. There's Malays songs coming from a corner flat. And once, Old Rugged Cross karaoke-style from the white dog's flat. I didn't know hymns come in karaoke, but I shouldn't be surprised.

The apartment on the second floor directly across the field from us -- which makes it our opposite number -- has been under renovation. It was quite interesting to watch from our perspective. It must how the other neighbours saw our renovation. And it's sort of like tracing our own steps of three months ago.

About four or five weeks ago, we saw all the windows flung open and people standing at them, pouring over charts. Ah, the design stage. A few days later, we saw naked bulbs hanging from the ceiling. Ah, the electricity's in. Some days later, we noticed when we were walking the dog one night that the harsh light had given way to warmer lighting. Ah, the lights have been put in. That was pretty quick work. A few days later, we saw the windows thrown wide open, and newspapers sticking out where they had been pasted round the sides of the window frames. Ah, they're painting the walls now.

There has been little activity in the past week. Yesterday afternoon, someone was cleaning the windows and the window grilles. When we came home in the evening, light was pouring out from all the curtainless windows until past midnight. I think we're getting new neighbours pretty soon.

Home with HRH

You'd think that HRH would be happy to have her Mummy home for three days (if I hadn't been on the e-mail to you recently, I fell on Monday evening, landed awkwardly on a knee already wobbly from the torn ligament in previous similar fall). Apparently not. That's three days of foregone afternoon naps for her. Although having her human home means that she can demand that I take her down during doggy social hour at the field in the late afternoon, dicky knee or not. I've discovered that she's learnt how to push her head under the curtain so she can look through the window and bark at running kids, growl at the tricycles and whine at the dogs.

She's quite sweet. When I fell, I was bruised, winded and in pain, so remained on the kitchen floor for a while. Then I wasn't sure if my knee could take the weight (the last time I damaged it, I tore a ligament and the knee buckled completely when I tried to stand) and I was terrified of that so I crawled out the the living room. She was napping on the sofa, and the back of the couch prevented her from seeing what I was doing, but she knew it wasn't something I usually do. When I hauled myself up on the sofa, her ears were stressed back. My Tshirt was soggy from the cold sweat I was in, and the little dear just lay by me and licked me till I calmed down.

The knee is much better, thanks, everyone.

Schnauzer social hour

... and I have no pictures of it. Wail.

I'm home for a few days with a bum knee, saw a pair of Schnauzer parents walking their furkids downstairs, so HRH of course had to go and join in the fun. And of course every Schnauzer had perfectly white paws except mine. Sugar's Dad says hers are brown, between the toes. I didn't see any brown.

I thought HRH was tall for a mini-Schnauzer because the ones that we see here are the really small ones out of Asia. The Taiwanese breeders are coming up with mini-minis, even. And then we met Junior yesterday. Towering above the others and he's only eight-months old. He's going to be even taller when he's all grown up. Sits perfectly too. Put HRH to shame.

We didn't get any human names of course. Everyone was either Queeni, Sugar or Junior's Mummy and Daddy.

You had to be there. Or you had to be a Schnauzer parent.

Blog-worthy

... to fans and subjects of HRH, that is. L took this picture and said I had to blog it. So here it is. He had gotten out of bed, and as always, HRH rolled over onto the warm spot. I had turned over and still half-asleep, automatically gave her a tum-tum rub. It's a Pavlovian thing --- you see a dog belly, you rub it, whether you're fully awake or half-asleep. I guess I'm a well-trained dog-owner. And L a well-trained blogger's husband.

We were debating whether to bathe HRH on Saturday because she's been scratching a bit. When was her last bath, I asked. L's answer: Check your blog. I just knew there was a purpose to this blog. :)

Before and after

HRH had a haircut a few weeks ago. I meant to post the picture then but every day, there was something else to blog about. I've surprised myself, I've actually managed to maintain this blog, there's actually stuff to write about.

HRH gets a puppy cut, not a standard Schnauzer cut. And when she starts to look like an Ewok, she gets cut again. We used to have her shaved, much to everyone's horror, when we were novice Schnauzer parents, but now we've discovered the puppy cut and a patient groomer. Still, it means she hovers between a sleek greyhound look and a fuzzy teddy bear look.

I know some of the other Schnauzer folk, especially the show people, hate me because my Schnauzer doesn't have the Schnauzer show cut -- no eyebrows, no beard and no belly fringe. I have no real defence other than I don't much care how HRH looks, as long as she is comfortable. The beard is murder to comb out and belly fringe knots something horrible. And she's a girl, I don't really want her to look like Fu Manchu.

So why did I chose to have a Schnauzer? The simple answer is: I didn't. She chose to have me. As did the Jack Russell before her. I was ready for a dog, the dog was ready for a home, it mattered not what breed the dog was. So she arrived a Schnauzer. And she arrived at a Chinese home. I don't think it mattered to her what race we were, as it didn't matter to us what breed she is.

I know some people do a lot to further their breed. Which is fine, really. I'm just not a show person and I don't need a show dog. At best, Kennel Club standards are just something that some dead white men once put together. At worst, the breeding circuit is like someone's idea that only blonde and blue-eyeds are the only ones that should be allowed to breed and look where that idealogy led to some 60 years ago.

If you ask me, I don't think HRH cares whether she looks like a Schnauzer either. She doesn't look in the mirror much. And she doesn't seem to care how the other dogs look. A good sniff at the butt does more than a good haircut. It's all olfactory to them, they're not going to bother who does your hair.

And I don't think Schnauzers ever decided one day what they had to look like. A person made that decision, somewhere along the way, it became a Kennel Cllub standard and now they have to live with the beard and fringe, like the poodles have to live with their pouffe cuts, the poor things.

It's also like stereotyping during Racial Harmony Day in school when the Chinese show up in qipao, the Indians in saris and the Malays in baju kurong. And then the next day, everyone goes back to jeans and look like normal people again.

So my Schnauzer just doesn't wear a Schnauzer costume. This also sorts out the dog people who're in the know, the ones who can look beyond the closely cropped standard dog look to ask me if she is a Schnauzer. Yes, she's a Schnauzer. More importantly, she's all dog.

Racial Harmony Day

Yesterday must have been Racial Harmony Day because all the primary school kids in the train were out of school uniform and the Chinese kids were in satin qipao tops, the Malay kids in baju kurong and the Indian kids in saris.

If you ask me, that's more like Racial Costume Stereotyping Day.

We didn't have Racial Harmony Day when I was in school. I guess we didn't need to. We intermingled without realising what race we were, and after school, were in and out of each other's houses, eating each other's food. And it wasnt just during Chinese New Year or Hari Raya.

Some time in the last 10 years, the education ministry realised we were going to have a serious problem if the Chinese kids didn't have Malay friends and so on, and instituted Racial Harmony Day.

I asked my nieces and nephew what they did. They said they could wear costumes to school and not school uniform. That's what the qipao, baju and sari were to them -- costumes. Because nobody wore stuff like that on ordinary days. They also said they had the day off classes and sometimes got to watch concerts where the Chinese kids would stage a Chinese fan dance and the Malay kids did a Malay harvest dance and the Indian kids did an Indian dance. Ah, Cultural Show for Tourists Day, then.

When I was in junior college, we had a lot of oversea students, so we had an Overseas Students Day when the Malaysians, Indians and occasional Korean and Japanese would show up in national costume, perform a few folk dances and passed around home-cooked goodies. The Singaporean students thought the foreign students shouldn't have all the fun, so they started turning up in national dress and brought along food that you would normally see during their festivals. Only being Singapore, there was no national dress, so the Chinese kids turned up in something Chinois, the Malay kids dug out their Hari Raya baju and the Indian kids turned up in saris. And later on, it got boring wearing your own costume, so we switched. Indian girls who would normally never wear qipaos borrowed one from a Chinese friend and that was when I learnt how to tie a sari. Now that, if you ask me, was truly Racial Harmony Day.

Wow! We're in the papers

Our flat got featured in Shin Min (local Chinese rag that has the scandalous headlines and pixellated pictures). We're safely in the inside pages though -- the interior pages -- way at the back, past all the tabloidy Seven Deadly Sins stuff.

Fancy that, our home made the cut for coverage. OK, it's Shin Min, not Martha Stewart's Living, but by our standards, that's still a golly gee event.

What happened was that the reporter, who had featured some of the homes our interior designer/builder worked on before, asked him if he had done a resort home recently. So he e-mailed her pictures of flat, and the surfboard, picnic table and cloudy ceiling apparently qualified. Though I still maintain that ours is a Beach Shack look, not a Bali Resort look she was probably hoping for.

The reporter came round with a photographer last week. I meant to take pictures of the photographer taking pictures but during the shoot, quite completely forgot to do so. I didn't want to be in the shots, but thought HRH should, only she wasn't very co-operative. She wouldn't stay in the frame but kept coming towards me so the photographer gave up. The shoot didn't take as long as I feared -- it was newspaper click and shoot so there was no styling, no props that they brought along, no lighting. I only had to move some unpacked boxes out of sight. But you can see some of the unpacked plastic bags stowed at the bottom of the closet. I didn't know the photog opened the closet to take the pix.

We're the page lead with three little sidebars across the bottom -- the bit going down on the right side isn't us. The headline says something to the effect of: Home and Beach, with a deck that says: Blue sky, white clouds, surfboard.

Basically, the reporter just repeated what I told her -- that we were beach bums, that we had a beach wedding, so it wasn't surprising that our house took on a beach look in the process of renovation. HRH got honourable mention in the bit where she goes on about how the dog has the run of the house. Hmm, I guess ruling the house doesn't come across the same in Chinese.

The rep got some things wrong though. She said the designer came up with the "skylight". Hey, that should be properly credited to me! And she said L and I met in Hawaii. S says I should ask for a correction. Hawaii wasn't where L and I met, that was where we got married. We met in the newsroom. In Teeline class (or goofing off at the back of Teeline class), which I bet that reporter doesn't have to pass at 100 words a minute. She didn't have to go through all the annoying dumb questions I used to have to ask, like full name, age and occupation.

L was at work during the photo shoot and the interview, so the reporter never met him. She's probably under the impression that he's a tanned, bronzed Hawaiian surfer dude. Hahaha.

Ah, balls

I have been shamed. I'm a bad mummy. Last Saturday, all HRH got was a bath and I posted pictures of it on my blog. Last Saturday, V got a bunch of new toys and M posted pictures them on his blog (2andhalfcents.blogspot.com).

Not that I'm mounting a defence but here's one reason why HRH doesn't get new toys very often. See these two balls? They're identical, only one is older and has lost most of its markings to play, Schnauzer teeth and saliva, and countless throws, retrieves, aching arms and the wear and tear that comes with a ball being dropped on your face in the middle of the night when you want to sleep but HRH thinks you should play because she is up.

And when V finally killed its squeaker, I bought a new one -- completely identical -- to replace it, thinking that HRH would prefer the new squeaky one since the old one has been silenced. Nope. She won't have anything to do with the new ball. You can throw both at the same time and she'll take off after the old preferred one. And anyway, the squeak in the new ball didn't last long anyway. V killed it the last time she was here.

Festival

This morning, there was no sign of the festival that was going on in the field downstairs yesterday. I still don't know what it really was. The family who lives downstairs from us organised it. One of them is some sort of Chinese medium or priest or something, and the festival is for the goddess that she represents.

Yesterday morning, there was intermittent music wafting up -- wailing erhus, Chinese pipes and boinging gongs and cymbals, and some chanting. There were fairy lights strung about the trees so it looks quite pretty at night. But in the daytime, it was a bit hazy and smoky from the burning joss. It was festive though -- there was a food tent by the side of the central tents where the altars are set up, with a towering steamer belching out nice with the clouds of steam. In front of the whole setup, there was a painted facade erected along with the canvas shelters, and it says (in Chinese): Celebrating the lady in white's thousand autumns.

I took a couple of photos using my cellphone but when I tried to download them today, I couldn't find the photos. I think I didn't store them properly after taking them. See, I should best leave cellphones to make calls.

I do wonder who the lady in white is. On the facade paintings, she's pictured sitting on a lotus. L thinks it's Kuan Yin, the goddess of mercy but I don't think so. Kuan Yin is always standing, and holds a vial and a whisk. This lady in white doesn't.

Downstairs Family speaks no English and my Mandarin is limited so I can't ask them more. So far, we've only nodded, waved and talked about the weather and that classic Chinese conversation starter of: have you eaten yet? They're friendly with HRH and once, the lady asked me what sort of dog she was but I didn't have the Chinese for Schnauzer. She made cooing noises at HRH who wagged back. The language of friendship is quite universally straightforward.

Shrinking world

Last night, we got the newsbreak of the Israeli attacks on Lebanon not through the wires -- we'd done a night's work and were on the way home in the transport van -- but from a call to E's cellphone. It was from a distraught relative. His sister was due to fly out of Beirut but the airport was being bombed. E thought she might drive to Damascus and fly from there. I hope not, now. We now know that the road has been bombed out too.

How small the world has shrunk. Shelling in Lebanon and E is shitting bricks. Two planes fly into two towers in New York and P is on the email about what's happening as her city collapses into confusion. Bombs go off in the London Tube and I worry all the way home until I get R is on the phone, having found her home number on the Internet. Bombs go off on the Mumbai trains and N freaks until his mother is calls to say she's OK.

You always know somebody. It's less than six degrees of separation in a global village.

Stereotyping

"I said do you speak my language?
He just smiled and gave me a Vegemite sandwich.
I said oh, you're from Down Under."
- Men At Work, 'Down Under'

OK, so I've been told of my food rights and that I'm well within them to expect curry devil and feng at an Eurasian do.

So food stereotyping is good stereotyping? Well, thank goodness it's permissible then because when I go to an Eurasian Christmas, I look forward to the devil and feng. I look forward to Hari Raya because the neighbours make some solid rendang. And at Chinese New Year, my mouth waters for bak kwa, pineapple tarts and love letters. Everything is defined by food. Oh dear, I sound like such a glut.

It's got to the point where bak kwa *is* Chinese New Year. You can get bak kwa all year round, but it just doesn't taste as good as it does during Chinese New Year even though you know in your head that it really is the same thing, from the same shop, prepared to the same recipe.

Just like how Vegemite sandwiches (yes, I actually do like the stuff) tastes blah here but like heaven on a diveboat off Cairns. I suppose it's food association.

It's funny how a bite of something that you don't normally eat takes you instantly back to another time, another place. Branston pickle on cheese sandwiches takes me back to lunches at the university chaplaincy. And when I'm away from Singapore, chicken rice instantly takes me back.

More food memories. I can still taste that potato soup full of fresh herbs from that shop between Tahoe and Sausalito -- which L doubts we'll ever find again when we go back because we had no idea where it is, we were driving and stopped where we felt like it.

Outside of Singapore, different foods take on a sort of gastronomic welcome that says, hey, you're here, now have a bit of what we're eating. And it's good, eh? Although, context is all. I shudder at chip butties now but I'd eat one happily in Blighty. Same with spam wusubis in Hawaii.

I'm getting nibblish...

It's over

Italy has won the World Cup. Hurrah for them. Now go away and leave me alone for another four years.

Actually, two years if I take the European Cup into consideration.

As you can tell, I don't care very much for football. Or any manner of sport. But sometimes you need to feel like you must keep abreast of the greatest game in the world tournament. I slept through the third and fourth placing match on Saturday. On Sunday, when I left the house, I had no idea who won. So I tried to decipher that from the Shin Min the guy on the train next to me was reading. Never would I have imagined that I would read a Chinese newspaper for football scores. I surprised myself that I knew the Chinese for Germany and Portugal.

On Sunday, since I still was up at that late hour, I felt I should watch the Cup Final. I lasted until half-time and that's when I fell asleep, lulled by 15 minutes of ads. The funny thing was that L, who was asleep earlier, got up to watch the second half. So you could say that between us, we watched the whole match. Great partnership eh? I watched Zinedine score the penalty. I watch the Italians equalise. At this point, I realised that I did not know the name of a single Italian player. The only thing that went through my head as I watched them running up and down and around was: Who designed their jerseys? That swath of dark blue under the arms make them look like they all had sweat patches under the arm pits. And what's the font for the players' names on the back? Nice font.

Guess this is how a woman watches football huh?

Eh, where's the devil?

W's wedding dinner on Saturday night and it was stressed that it was an Eurasian affair so it had to be formal dress (L dusted off his suit and I was wailing "I have *nothing* to wear!") and there would be dancing.

It's a nice change from the 10-course Chinese banquet, after which the bride and groom and their families form a line at the exit so you could shake hands down the line as you leave. This one melted down into a disco party and you could come and go as you pleased. We left to Village People and YMCA spilling out of the hall and into the rest of the building. Only thing missing was curry devil and feng. The wedding cake was a yummy sugee cake, made by one of W's aunts. I didn't wait to bring my piece home. Waste of good sugee cake to put it under the pillow (or don't you do that any more if you're no longer a young girl?), I ate my little parcel of cake there and then, for dessert. Is it like typecasting to expect curry devil and feng at every Eurasian do? It's like you'd expect a solid rendang at a Malay wedding feast.

This was a buffet followed by dancing. Which was nice. Except that the DJ probably prepared his playlist according to tempo and never listened to the songs he was playing. After W and N led a couple of slow dances, he upped the tempo with that insipid song whose title and singer aren't worth my remembering, it was basically about a little bit of this girl, a little bit of that, and a chorus that goes a girl here, a girl there, a girl everywhere. Followed by That Thing You Do -- which has a nice upbeat tempo but is really about breaking hearts. I mean, how apt are those for weddings? It's like people in discos jumping and partying to Gimme Hope, Joanna. Or when the DJ wants to turn down the tempo in the slow segment and they say they're putting on a song for all the romantic couples to slow dance to, only they're smooching to Tears In Heaven.

Is there such a thing as song lyric illiteracy?

Picturesque speechless

*Somebody* doesn't like the tub as much as I do.

Hamstrung by technology

We activated our land line's voicemail last Friday. Yesterday, the Big Phone Company -- OK, Only Phone Co here -- turned it on. Very efficient. Except they didn't tell us it was turned on or how we would be notified if people left voicemails. All we knew from our end was that yesterday, our dial tone suddenly turned from a continuous dial tone to a beeping dial tone.

Which the modem did not recognise. Which meant I spent my day off frustrated by the lack of Net access and a Big Phone Company operator who couldn't understand how a dial tone can change, why the phone line can still dial out but the modem can't. She'd send a repairman round.

The repairman came round today and didn't find a fault in the line, of course. Just the funny dial tone. Which he can't do anything about. Back to calling Big Phone Co. Only now, I got a bright, helpful operator who though it must be the new voicemail. The break in the dial tone is to alert us that there's new voicemail. So I tried to access the voicemail. It needed a 4-digit password. Which I didn't have. Because Big Phone Co gave no instructions when they helpfully turned on the voicemail, remember. Back to Helpful Operator. Got default password, cleared the voicemail, dial tone's back to the continuous sound that modem is happy with. I'm back online.

But I didn't need all that aggro from yesterday and this morning. And the repairman wasted his morning too.

All because someone left out instructions.

The following was to have been yesterday's blog had I been able to post:
Happy Fourth of July to my friends who celebrate. Over here, we've already had our share of fireworks. On Saturday, at the al fresco grille for M's birthday dinner, fireworks lit up the distant evening sky. We told M we had it specially arranged for his special day. Although of course it was probably for the National Day Parade rehearsal. Or for Youth Day, as G pointed out as her sister was there for those festivities and couldn't make the dinner.

Having moved out of range of the National Day Parade, I'd quite forgotten that now is about the time the rehearsals warmed up. Last Saturday, at my parents', jets screamed overhead in formation and then in a starburst. HRH did not appreciate it one bit. All she heard was the supersonic reverb and it didn't occur to her to look up at the display. Ah, just like the generation of dogs before her. She missed the helicopters too, just barked at their annoying chop-chop sound.

I'm sure the air force can do a good job keeping the peace when required. But they sure cause a lot of disturbance in peace time.

The couch is not enough

Royalty must lie on cushions. And the spot must in the cool aircon draft. Overlooking the view from the window is also necessary.

HRH would have a fit if I told her that Driveway Dog that lives opposite P sleeps on concrete.

Last Friday, went past Yellow Dog and his friend again. This time, they were almost up by the road and I could take a closer look, particularly as roadworks meant that the traffic slowed to a bottleneck right by them. There's a construction site that has just been set up at the edge of the field, and it looks like the dogs came with the construction people. So they're construction site dogs then, which is pretty common. Some construction site dogs are actually quite well taken care of, they've had their shots and stuff. But I didn't see a collar on Yellow Dog and Friend so I wouldn't assume that. At least they must be fed, they certainly don't have the lean and hungry stray look. Bet cushions aren't in their vocabulary. HRH has a lot to be thankful for.

Not everybody speaks football

And if they did, the conversation is drawing out to an end pretty soon. Whew.

On Friday, I came home to an empty house. L had given notice and decamped to a friend with cable TV. He took HRH with him. She was quite the party animal, I later heard, demanding biscuits and bellyrubs from everyone, little slut.

I pottered happily round an empty, quiet house and went to bed early. Next thing I knew, there was a scratching at the bedroom door and I opened my eyes to that split second of two paws and a furry face in the mid-air, inches away before I felt the crashlanding and had the wind knocked out of me. Oof. Guess my doghter loves me. L said she spent the last hour of their visit sulking in her carrier with her tail down because she wanted to go home to Mummy.

Yesterday was M's birthday and family, friends and furkids all descended on our favourite dog-friendly grill. I'm sure the pix will be on M's blog pretty soon. This place is tucked away in the depths of the old Seletar camp and it's like a secret place -- like Heidi Klump keeps saying in that Runway show, "you're either in or you're out" -- you either know how to get there or you don't. It's got no aircon, no frills, no TV and definitely no World Cup.

Very rare, a World Cup free place. Even the kopi tiams in the heartlands of Ang Mo Kio have a TV or two blazing away to crowds of bleary-eyed football fans.

And then, as we drove out of Seletar, past the black-and-white bungalows, there was Portugal vs England, glowing in the dark, large as life and twice as natural. Someone had a projection TV thing set up and was using the side of his house as the screen! Talk about a block party. That guy must be a real hit with his neighbours.