Mid-life crisis

You know you're on the wrong side of 40 when *getting off the couch* results in a sprained back muscle.

I honestly don't know how I did it. I was lying on the chaise longue and getting out of it has always meant scooting your bum to the edge before you could swing your legs on the floor and haul yourself up. I was doing that but my feet were not solidly grounded on the floor because there were two dogs under my legs when I leaned forward and that did it. I already have a bad back, what I did just aggravated it.

I didn't realise how bad it was. Well, there was a momentary flash of pain that made me want to spit out the coffee I just swallowed. But after that, I didn't feel anything. I could even walk the two dogs and bend down and pick Queeni up out of the neighbour mak cik's way when she was sweeping the corridor when we went past.

Never underestimate adrenaline until it wears off. One hour later, I was immobile in the shower. It took me 20 minutes to get my pants on.

The doctor proclaimed it to be a bad sprain which would take a week to heal. But he only gave me 3 days' MC. What, doctors think that there are only 3 days in a week?

Now for part 2 of the sorry story. Doc also gave me muscle relaxants and heavy duty painkillers that had to be taken with an antacid. I took them on a full stomach but still, the medication churned my stomach so much that I spent all night and most of this morning puking.

Moral of the story: Never ever get off your couch. Stay on it. Wallow. Getting off the couch results in Bad Things.

About last night...

I check my junk mail folder once in a while just to make sure that no legitimate email slips in there (you know who you are, who sends L emails with .doc attachments to my email account, which go straight into the Junk folder because of the said attachments, which cannot be read anyway because this Mac does not have, *will never have* MS Office, dammit.).

But I digress. Back to the Junk folder. Where I saw mail from:
Sender: Mohammad
Subject: I won't forget last night
That sure stood out from the crowd offering replica watches, discount medication, software and performance enhancers, especially during Ramadan. Even so, it cannot be The Mohammad. Although Jesus did send me email once. And he had a Latino surname and was selling medication. Siddartha Gautama does not have email yet, I think.

Last night. Last night I went to the office party for the paper's 31st anniversary. Where I got sabo-ed by the deputy chief sub who was prowling around with a wireless mike ... after having been slapped on the wrist by him the previous night for a subbing infringement.

I'd rather forget last night. If that's okay with Mohammad.

Spooky story

You know all these real ghost stories that happened to a friend of a friend of a friend? This is the only one I can tell, and it happened to a friend of my friend and I swear it's true. Sumpah.

A woman who works for her friend recently adopted a rescue dog, an Aussie mix. She calls him Curley and he is deaf.  He is an older dog found wandering around. The rescue group people noticed that Curley goes crazy when older men come around so they surmised that he must have belonged to an older man who may have either passed away or had to go to a nursing home or hospital.
 
One night, the woman woke up and saw a spirit standing by her bed. It was an older man and Curley sat up in bed, staring at him and wagging his tail. When the woman finally got the courage to speak, she asked the spirit if he was Curley's owner, and then it faded away.

Curley had been having some issues and his owner is working them through with him. But since the man appeared, he has been a much better dog, she said.

What spooks me out isn't so much that the woman saw the spirit, but that the dog also saw it, and sat up. *And wagged.*

But I guess maybe Curley needed some closure from his former owner, that he needed to be told that his former owner couldn't take care of him, so the new owner would. And maybe the former owner also needed to know that Curley is being taken care of. Hence the visit. So maybe this is a good sort of spooky story.

Clean bill of health

HRH went for her six-month check-up following the amputation, following that nasty mast cell tumour episode. She's got the all clear. We are happy.

What wasn't a happy start this morning was trying to get a cab. It still doesn't pay to be honest. We could have used the automated booking, but as always, bypassed that to tell the operator to indicate to the driver taking the booking that we have a dog in a carrier, especially as this is the Ramadan month and we don't want to screw up a Muslim driver. We ended up getting screwed. It took more than 45 minutes to get a cab and that was after lost tempers and indifferent operators. We were late for the vet appointment, but they were very nice, as always. They even called a cab for us, for the trip home.

That time round, we got a driver who was very concerned about Queeni -- since he picked us up at the vet, he thought she must be ill. He used to have a dog, a Pomeranian. He talked about it all the way back, how it used to run around naughtily but became quiet and still when it was ill, how it used to wait by the door for him when he went out, and how it leapt and jumped with joy when he came home. He was smiling as he recounted all that he loved about a dog, now long gone. It made our day too.

There's something about dogs.

The perils of subbing, part 2

I thought it was too good to be true when the copy subbing workflow slowed to a trickle at 11pm last night, with an hour to go before offstone. Damn right it was too good to be true.

One innocuous foreign page, assigned at 4.30pm and with the line-up ready at 5pm, was forgotten until 11.30pm, with half an hour left on the clock on a die-die-must-meet-offstone night because there was a supplement insert to go with the regular paper.

No one had the heart to blame the page sub for forgetting about it. She had two early pages, one of which was killed in a pagination rejig -- after she had finished the page. Then as the night progressed, she had to switch her focus to the VIP front and prime pages.

But it did mean half-an-hour of frenzy for the rest of us. And I guess there's no such thing as a full-page house ad.

The perils of subbing

... trying not to get teary eyed while going through the pictures and wire copy coming out of Myanmar.

The White House of course has already made its statement; the UN Security Council is convening (probably already has by now); even China, the junta's only friend, has had a discreet word. Only Asean, with Singapore in the chair, hasn't said anything. What goes on in the neighbour's backyard is the neighbour's problem. Typical.

[Update late on Thursday night: Reuters has photos of the AFP photog moments after he was shot. I don't think anyone could use those photos.]

The morning after

... Mid-Autumn Festival and the lanterns are still hanging prettily on the trees. What's not so pretty is the new footpath splattered with wax and scorch marks. And what's more insidious is that someone strung a line between two trees in the field, presumably to hang lanterns on last night. I hope no late night dog walker got decapitated.

Signs and wonders

One morning, this sign appeared at the edge of the field outside our house. I wonder what it's going to achieve. The people who already pick up their dogs don't need it and the people who don't aren't going to be cowered into submission by a wordless sign.

As it is, we already differentiate the dog people in this estate into those who pick up and those who don't. Those who don't are usually also the ones who keep their charges on a tight leash and won't let them socialise even though their dog and mine are madly wagging their tails at each other.

So not surprisingly, those are the dogs whose names we don't know so we've formed our own: Devil Dog for the aggro Japanese Spitz; The Schnauzer With the Tail, to differentiate him from the rest of the Schnauzer crowd, most of whom we know by name anyway; Ugly Shihtzu, but then L thinks all Shihtzus are ugly -- and we say this having had a pug once so we've nothing against adorably ugly dogs. Actually, we finally found out Ugly's name. It is Yogurt. As in dairy product. He was better off as Ugly.

Once, one of the the non-picker-uppers' dogs was in the middle of a squat when I was out walking mine so I walked over and offered the woman a sheet of newspaper. I don't read English, she said in Mandarin. In my limited Mandarin, I told her it wasn't for reading, it was for picking up her dog's poop. She looked clueless.

I wonder what excuse she'll use for not understanding this pictorial sign.

Sleep positions

Now that Rupert has won bed privileges, the two dogs start the night like this, mirror images of sleep, with HRH Boss taking the top of the bed, of course.

Then when we get in, Rupert tries to move to the top of the bed. Some nights, HRH gets grumpy and growls at him, so he hops off to sleep in his dog bed in his Cinderella corner of the room. On the nights he gets to stay on the bed -- and that's usually only if she is too sleepy to budge herself or him -- he puts his head on the pillow, and his bottom half is under the duvet. By the morning, he has shifted so that his head buried under the duvet (I don't know how he breathes) and his ass is next to my face. That's phase #1 of my morning wake-up.

Once, just at about dawn, I stirred because there was a weight on my pillow. I opened my eyes to find HRH sitting on the pillow, perched on the highest ground she could find, looking down at Roop in consternation: how the hell did he get up on the bed? Didn't I push him off?

Rupert gets up when L does, and is taken out for a quick pee. I don't trust him on the bed when he has a full bladder. Then he jumps back up on the bed for round #2 of a lie-in. My phase #2 wake-up finds a dog on either side of my legs, lying sphinx-like alongside me and facing the door, like two sentries guarding me since L has by that time left the house. It's a great, safe, warm feeling to wake up to. Much better than a dog's bottom in your face.

Breaking the jinx

You know how there's always one person in a group that always -- and repeatedly -- gets the full brunt of Murphy's Law? It used to be me. This January, when I started doing layout, I was always the one calling Help Desk. Pages hung on me, and unexplainable e-hiccups happened to me. Only me. Once, my page froze and was so messed up that Helpless Desk couldn't fix it. They had to go to Pre-Press to get them to delete the page and then create a new one so we could start all over again.

At another time, another job at a small outfit where the tech guy was outsourced, I had to call him so often that soon, he started his day by calling me to see if I needed him to come in. L, who at that time worked for a computer firm, was even going to get me one of those anti-static wrist bands their assembly-line workers wore, just so I wouldn't zap and fry my nth computer.

Anyway, all the tearing of hair over doing layout on an antiquated software (it was so user-unfriendly it had no 'undo' option, which forced me to re-do a lot of things over and made me slower than I already am) stopped for a merciful two months when we switched to a new layout software and the senior subs had more serious technical fish to fry than helping out someone new to layout. I went back gratefully to copy subbing -- something I'm used to and something I'm so much better at.

But a sub must draw pages and so after the dust of the new software settled, I'm back to drawing pages again. This time, I can at least blame all the knotty bits on new software.

Only, I'm not the jinx anymore. The other new-to-layout sub has been the one struggling with the page rejigs (one hour before offstone), the change in line-ups (and nobody told her until she had to send a message begging the copyeds to clear the story and then one of them told her nobody touched it because it was being held over) and a printout with fonts all gone wrong although they looked fine onscreen while my pages breeze through with plenty of time to spare.

Last night, the only thing holding up my page was waiting: For Production to enhance a picture. They forgot. For Foreign Desk to update one of the stories. They forgot. For the proofreader to okay the page. He forgot. Frustrating and time-wasting but at least not as panic-inducing as a line-up change, a page rejig and a printout that didn't match what was on the screen.

I feel for my colleague. And I just know that as soon as I set this down in writing, I'm tempting fate and the jinx will be mine to carry again.

Good enough to eat

In answer to an enquiring mind, the "flavoured" dog shampoos mentioned in the last post include: "Banana Oatmeal -- a rich, banana delight blended with moisturising oatmeal oils" and "Tropical Twist -- a fruity, citrus zest enhanced with a kick of wild cherries".

The first sounds like breakfast and the second a cocktail. Who comes up with this stuff? And did they consult a dog? I think dogs would prefer flavours like Fresh Roadkill, Yesterday's Ditchwater, Pungent Puke and that classic favourite, Eau de Skunk.

Rawhide!

This is Rupert's first rawhide. He's more than a year-and-a-half old and he's never experienced a rawhide chew. I just simply don't trust him with them, he's the sort of dog that gulps his food and I'm leery that he'll try to swallow the softened end of a rawhide chew and choke himself. As it was, this chew had to be removed after 15 minutes. HRH of course, was an old hand. Err, paw. Err, expert.

So rawhide here is more of a special occasion treat. The occasion this time is a bath -- which shows you how often they get baths. The rawhide was free from the pet supply store -- which must really like us for the amount of dog food two dogs can plough through. So since I had some on hand, I gave it to them as a post-bath treat. I thought that Rupert needed to experience rawhide, otherwise it would be like arrested dog development or something.

These rawhide chews are tiny -- after all, they were free. I've got a monster-sized one that's a foot long, presented to HRH as royal tribute from J's Bully. It's been in the store room all this while because HRH just isn't interested in chewing. Maybe it's time to give it Rupert now that he hasn't done any rawhide damage to himself.

Also in the store room are several bottles of dog shampoo in different "flavours". Several times, the pet supply place has also given me a free bottle of shampoo with a bag of dog food. All those bottles in the store room also goes to show how often the dogs get baths.

Doggone it!

We have two ceramic dogs -- those little gegaws you find in novelty gift shops -- outside the front door on a plant stand. We didn't have anywhere to put them inside the house, mostly to do with Rupert and breakage reasons. When we put them outside months and months ago, I had at first wondered if the Muslim neighbours directly across would be offended by not just graven images, but of haram dogs. The wife's reaction was; "Oh, so cute!"

So they stayed out there. Besides, they wore little plaques that say "Welcome" around their necks, they looked better outside the front door than inside the house. In any case, they were too cheap to steal, I thought.

Well, not to somebody. Early yesterday morning, they were still there when L walked Roop. By mid-morning, when HRH was ready for her constitutional, they were gorn.

And a fat lot of good the two real dogs in the house were.

Lost in space

I got home early enough last night to catch the opening episode of the seventh season of The West Wing. I tried to follow it but was hopelessly lost.

At first I thought it was because I hadn't followed the series chronologically. I started watching it when it was maybe the third or fourth season -- you miss a lot of prime-time TV when you work nights -- and then found it so good, I caught the missed earlier seasons on late night repeats. Which meant that every time I caught it on TV, I had to first take a few minutes to mentally place what season I'm at, caught between a rerun/prime-time sort of warp.

So I thought that was the source of my confusion yesterday. Then, some full 15 minutes into the show, I realised that I was confused because I was mentally placing the characters in a different White House. All this time, I was trying to relate the goings-on to Commander-in-Chief. Different series (which I also enjoyed), different president, different staff, different characters.

Just one same old muddled brain.

Music, part 2

The place where I go to get the cricks massaged out of my neck and shoulders started off as a foot reflexology place. Somewhere along the way, they threw in a couple of massage chairs like an afterthought and now the back massage business is taking off and pulling ahead of the foot reflexology portion.

Which means it's now full of younger office workers now (instead of the uncle, aunty foot reflexology crowd), all facing the same problems like me, as a result of eight hours hunched in front of a computer. And that's only for work. We spend more hours hunched in front of another computer for fun after that.

But the staff all come from the foot reflexology era, ie all older uncles. Which means what they play on their sound system reflects their taste (well, you can't fault them, they get to chose the music if they have to listen to it all day) -- soothing music, instrumentals (mostly piano) of ballads from a bygone era. I can recognise Elvis Presley (if only because he is king) and Patti Page (from my Dad's records, I quickly add before someone puts a time stamp on me) and once, something I vaguely identified as Chinese evergreens.

And then last week, the music changed. It appeared to be a compilation of boy band songs. I think that must be their effort to stay ahead with the clientele. But that was when I realised there's a fine line between soothing and annoying.

The earth moved

A friend of mine who's into astrology said a few days ago that there's an eclipse on Tuesday and wondered what would happen. It would be like having the rug pulled out from under your feet, she said.

I'm not much into astrology but neither do I disbelieve it. Let's just say I'm aware that there are a lot of things beyond my understanding and I remain happy in my ignorance.

So I wondered what would be disrupting thing in my day. At first I thought it had to do with having to do page layout (instead of copy subbing, my usual duties) for the first time on new software -- it was actually quite bad, I had so much trouble fitting things, I took four hours to do a smallish page with a biggish ad and just two stories.

Then the quake struck in Indonesia. And I didn't even recognise a tremor when it shook the chair I was sitting on. I thought I had swivelled my chair absent-mindedly. I was also momentarily dizzy. But I thought it was just me.

Thanks to the news wires, we quickly realised it was two earthquakes in succession and a tsunami warning.

Back in March when a quake struck off Indonesia with reports of tremors felt in Singapore, E in San Francisco -- where you're more likely to find an earthquake supplies shop in your street corner than a 7-11 -- asked if I had felt anything. The quake then took place around noon and I was ashamed to say that I had slept through it. But it made me feel better as I added that the dogs were with me in the bedroom and also slept through it.

This time, L reported from home that they were all antsy and growly. The curtains were drawn and the windows shut with the airconditioning on so he didn't think it was any passing dog outside that sparked it. He himself felt nothing.

Just five minutes down the road from our house, some housing blocks in Potong Pasir and Serangoon were evacuated, as were some office buildings in the commercial district. I bet the RCs in Potong Pasir and Serangoon were really "on". All those SCDF disaster mock-up exercises were finally being put to good use! I bet they were raring for the chance to go do a real one.

It also didn't escape me that this quake took place on the night before Ramadan. Let the Islamist who said that the Boxing Day tsunami was a punishment for Christian infidels -- never mind that it killed quite a lot of Muslim natives along with the Christian tourists -- make what he will of this quake. The gods are fair.

Stolen music

I don't know who Rihanna is, I only became aware of her when I watched the Live Earth concerts on telly in July. I don't follow current music anymore, I don't require singers to dance, strip or do whatever they now do. Instead of singing. Or even songwriting.

Anyway, this Rihanna. I keep hearing her Shut Up and Drive on the radio and the only thing I like about it is the bass riff. And it isn't just this old fogey thinking that it sounds familiar. Itt's stolen from New Order's Blue Monday isn't it? L is no help, he thinks that all modern music is stolen since, oh I dunno, Vanilla Ice.

So to exorcise Rihanna, I had to play New Order. Very loud. And then of course, I had to dance to it -- to Queeni's disapproval (there's no amusing these royals) and Rupert's delight. I should take up canine freestyle with him.

9/11

There is something about Sept 11 that has been imprinted on the global psyche. A couple of weekends ago at the supermarket, L picked up a carton of our usual brand of milk but put it back because the use-by date was Sept 11. He just didn't want to buy something with that date on it, he said it "felt weird", so for that one time, we switched to another brand of milk with a different use-by date.

But here's somebody who doesn't feel any bad karma to Sept 11...

Escalating observations

Much has been said about Ugly Singaporeans. I think some of them don't set out to be ugly (and we're not just talking about the looks department) but they become boorish to other people because they haven't/don't/can't/won't realise that they, as individuals, have to share space with other people.

They are the ones who won't hold the lift doors; stand in front of the bus and train doors and block people from getting on or off; walk upstream from you and steal the next taxi; and the gaggle of four teenagers who must walk four abreast across the footpath and expect you to give way, even though you're loaded down with heavy grocery bags, because it would just so kill them to break formation and interrupt their chatter.

And Ugly is not just a Singaporean thing. One day I will tell you about an Ugly Whitey on the train, but preferably face-to-face and not just because of R(A) language (not all mine) but because you can then buy me a drink after.

Anyway, this Ugliness by unthinking osmosis came to mind when I had to get on a peak hour train a couple of days ago. (I work nights, I usually avoid the world when it needs to commute.) Everyone got on the escalator (which I usually avoid because there's a lemming-like bottleneck of commuters automatically headed to the escalators while the stairs are empty but that day, I got off the train right at where the escalator was) and as per standard commuter practice here, stood on the left side of the step, leaving the right side as a passing lane for people in a hurry. Except for one person. Everyone who was walking up had to sidle round her before they could continue walking up. They all tsked at her when they had to get past her. She was clueless, she had absolutely no idea that she was in the way. Because she continued to stand on the "walking lane" on all the three escalators it took to get from the platform to the street level.

Later, on another escalator -- but a much narrower one that wasn't designed for standers on the left and walkers on the right -- I heard someone come up behind me, and so pressed against the side so that she could get past me. She continued on her way, wordlessly. "You're welcome," I called out after her. She looked back puzzledly. I bet she's a nice girl, great to her friends, polite to company, respectful of her parents, pays her taxes. But she was Ugly at that one instant.

This just in

Chip implants have been linked to tumours in animals. Microchipping is a requirement now, for a dog licence. I'm nervous. To microchip or not to microchip?

[You techies will laugh. But this e-challenged person will buy 4D today because I managed to do a hyperlink on my posts at last! With html coding, okay, because Blogspot does not have a tab for the hyperlink function when you post in Safari.]

Watching what you eat is not for dieters anymore

M is in China. For business -- there's no pleasure in a trip to China nowadays, he moaned.

Over the years, I've given him all sorts of wishes for all his trips -- a safe flight when he went back to the US, a great trip when he went to Bangkok, and always "drive safe" for all his commutes to KL.

This time round, I said something I've never said before. "Eat safe," I told him.

Crowded bed

Since Rupert moved in last September (my goD! it's been a year), HRH has never let him on the bed. Our bed. Her bed. That is the holy of holies in this den and she once famously head-butted Toby, twice her size, off it when he stayed over. She also religiously defends it from the housekeepers when they try to straighten the covers or dust around it.

So all this time, Rupert has been sleeping in the dog bed in the corner of the bedroom, like some outcast Cinderella. The only time he ever jumped up on the bed was months ago when Queeni was overnight at the vet's for her biopsy and again for a subsequent operation.

But last week, he has been testing the waters, nosing the edge of the bed, hopping up and hopping down. I think it was a combination of factors. L had been working late, which meant that Rupert had been crated for eight or so hours, instead the usual four hours -- the interval between when I leave for work and L returns. One night to my horror, I came home to find that L wasn't even home yet.

So I felt really bad for Roop and I didn't shoo him off the bed when he clambered up -- probably in search of company but really I bet to see how much sympathy he could milk. To my surprise, Queeni didn't chase him off as she usually does. Instead, she moved down to the edge of the bed to lie next to him. Then he got off and went to his Cinderella corner.

Last night, he jumped up on the bed again. This time, he wedged himself between my legs, curled up and went to sleep. Queeni didn't bat an eyelid. Since she let him up, I would too. That was when L came in and found that there was very little room left on the bed. He's lucky we have small dogs.

So now the bed sleeps four. That's another reason not to get another dog.

Lives will be lost!

That's a lot of nice trees that are going to come down when this proposed commercial and residential development comes up. Sigh.

I think I'd rather have the trees.

Making tracks

Nice path isn't it? If they had this in commercial floor tiles, it would be on my floor. Oh wait, I have two dogs. All I need now is cement...

Back to work

I've been home the past week, clearing leave. How did you think I managed to post daily for the past week? I have much admiration for http://funnytheworld.com/ -- daily journal entries for seven years -- how do you do it, along with the foster puppies?

So after spending much time watching the trees outside the window grow and providing a lap-top nap-spot for the furkids, how to go back to work today?

Talking back

Overheard on the bus, from a couple of seats behind me.

Mother, remonstrating misbehaving child: "Naughty boy."

Her son begged to differ: "Good boy."

She disagreed: "Naughty boy!"

"Good boy!" rising in volume.

"Naughty boy!"

"GOOD BOY! GOOD BOY!" And it went on for the rest of the bus ride.

Thank god Rupert doesn't talk back like human children.

Would you pay $12.50 for this?

L jokingly threatens Rupert (at least I hope it's a joke) that we would sell him, especially when he had made transgressions involving inappropriate peeing.

We're not the only ones issuing parental bogeyman threats. C regularly threatens Colin, Rupert's brother, with dumping him at the SPCA, mostly also after transgressions involving wrongful discharge of body waste.

Anyway, the last offer we've had since L put Roop the Poop on the market was $12.50, from I. But I think it will come to nothing since she is probably going to adopt Chester. For free. (Chester is a wiry fox terrier that C is helping to rehome because there's a new baby who's allergic. L and I agree with C that since the dog was in the house first, it should stay and the baby should be the one to be put up for adoption but just try telling breeding humans that.)

Now M is thinking of getting a second dog because Vivi is so needy. Seperately, E is also wondering about a second dog because he thinks Sophie is lonely when she's alone at home when he and his wife are at work.

Getting a second dog to entertain/be a companion to the first dog doesn't always work out the way you hope. So that's when I offered them Rupert as a test drive. He's good with other dogs and other people. He's just not so good about the peeing thing.

So maybe we could hire Rupert out, I told L. He has a better idea. We should just loan him out at no cost. Then when M and E get so sick of mopping up pee, they would pay us to take Roop back, he reasoned. And if we can foist Roop onto other people and they would pay us to return him, then we can make more than $12.50 and still have our capital. Like a Nigerian scam that can regenerate itself. Whaddaya think? I mean, it's time Roop earns his keep.

Bottle to go and the cups also came

We had dinner at a Korean restaurant a couple of days ago and L ordered a bottle of Korean sake to go with it. I didn't know Koreans had sake. I didn't like it. It was like drinking neat alcohol, there was no flavour nor fragrance to it. We couldn't finish it, so L screwed the cap back on and asked the waitress for a plastic bag to take the bottle away with us. To our surprise, she also put into the bag two sake cups, carefully wrapped up in paper napkins. That was nice. Wish I could say the same of the sake.

Holding paws

Last night, L was scrupulously wiping Queeni's paws after the last walk of the night and she was fussing. He remonstrated with her: "It was muddy outside and Daddy must wipe you clean so later we can hold paws in bed."

It's our fifth anniversary of being Properly Married tomorrow and what happened to holding hands with the wife?

Water, water everywhere

Along with the new paths, we seem also to have got canals and a swimming pool when a monsoonal downpour hit us yesterday.

When the path was relaid, the excess cement powder was swept off the path onto the grass, which meant that the grass at the edge of the path died and created a ditch-like depression which filled up with water when it rained.

If that gives us a mosquito problem next, who do we offer as a blood sacrifice? The town council people, the workers who did the path or their supervisor who came and gave them directions and then retreated into the shade?

Schwarz

Nine years today and missed as much as ever.

Schwarz belongs to that era before my camera went digital and I've realised I haven't any e-pictures of him. I have tons of olde worlde physical photos -- matt and glossy, remember even that? -- and I know some people helped me scan them but that was about two hard disks ago. Which means I haven't got any in this iBook.

This picture, I got off a cobwebby geocities site that I'm surprised is still around.

It's nice to think of the two boys together still like that.

Going home

At work the other day, a colleague was using the office's night transport booking system for the first time and asked me to check if her booking was done correctly because my name was the only one on the booking list at that point in time.

Quite a lot of people take the office transport home, it's just that most of my colleagues book it just before they leave as you only need to book your ride home 30 minutes in advance. Me, I book it the minute I arrive at the office. That was why at the start of the work day, only my name showed up on the booking list.

"You mean you think of going home the minute you come in?" my colleague asked, quite incredulously.

I do, actually. How can I not? Look at these two sad faces. It's a guilt trip every time I leave.


Is it so wrong to want to go home the minute I reach the office?

Don't play that again

There's a Malay wedding going on downstairs, complete with DJ and karaoke. Which means that we're hearing some pretty okay music (from the DJ) alternating with caterwauling (from the karaoke singers -- and why are tone-deaf people so damn fond of karaoke?)

So far, the only song I can recognise, ie the only English number, is a Roxette song -- the one in 'Pretty Woman' with the chorus "it must've been love, but it's over now" ...

Erm, isn't that a little inappropriate for a wedding?

Where are we, really?

"What place is this?" demanded the caller when I picked up the phone.

This was the place where minutes ago, I had just woken up to a mopping job -- left directly outside the bedroom door by a foxie protesting that I was sleeping in too long. And as if that wasn't enough, That Dog stepped into his own pee and tracked it round, leaving a trail of paw prints in pee. And just after I finished rinsing the mop, That Dog produced a follow-up job -- a neat little pile of poop. On exactly the same spot.

The sixth level of hell, my pre-caffeinated being was sorely tempted to tell the caller. But I don't think that was the answer he was looking for.

It turned out that he was returning a missed call on his mobile. L must have called him earlier in the morning from the home phone before he left for work. "He's a lawyer," he explained later, "they all talk like that." Brusquely, I think he means, not existentially.

Insert your preferred lawyer joke here.

Goodbye Riley

Riley (with his sister Hannah on the left in this lovely picture) was diagnosed with epilepsy when he was 2 years old and with Cushing's Disease when he was 4. Two months ago, at age 6, he had a brain tumour. That's a lot to bear for a little guy.

He isn't one of mine but lives in Texas. Funny how a little dog at the other side of the world can take a little piece of your heart when he leaves.

International infamy

ES writes from Sydney that Sera "has been doing Ruperts" on their balcony. Wow, my lean, mean pee 'n' poop machine has coined a new word. OED, here he comes!

Scary stuff

Nowadays, there's nothing scarier than a label like this.

Oh wait, there is. Like applying for permission to reincarnate. (http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/world/article2194682.ece) Hey, that's a China thing too! Don't you just feel for the lamas? I mean, imagine having to fill out an application in triplicate before even deciding how and who you want to come back as.

The chicken jerky dog treats the dogs love is an American brand, and when it ran out, I got another bag, only this time, I noticed the little scary label that just because it's American, it's not necessarily made in the US of A.

The brand checks out okay, it's not on the list of recalled pet food. But now Wal-Mart has taken its chicken jerky off its shelves (http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20070821/ap_on_bi_ge/wal_mart_dog_treats) on customer concerns and before any testing even shows any nasties. Just in case.

Well last night, we threw out the bag of jerky. Just in case. We're scared of all China-made pet food now.

On the news the other night, the Chinese authorities defended the safety of their food, saying that 85% of it passes muster. For something that you consume into your body, 85% doesn't sound like a high passing grade, you'd expect something no less than 98%.

The last time I was buying toothpaste, I looked long and hard for where it was made -- in Malaysia. Ah, good stuff, said L, as he plonked it into the supermarket trolley. Not so long ago, when I was a kid (of course it's not that long ago), my mum used to scorn Malaysia-made goods because it was local and must therefore be inferior to imported goods.

How times have changed. Now, if it's local, you at least know where to go to sic your dogs on the erring manufacturer. First you brush his teeth, then the lapdogs can lick him to death.

Remembering a friend

I don't think any one dwells on Paddy's (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paddy_Chew) death anniversary much, I think he's more thought of during the Candlelight Memorial in May.

I only remember the August date because this is a difficult month -- both my furboys left me in August, and Paddy's death anniversary is just a week before Schwarz's.

Also, one of the August associations with Paddy is how much he loved the National Day Parades. Every year when National Day comes round, I remember watching his last parade with him in the hospital room where his sister had rigged up a portable TV. He would have loved this year's parade on water at the new Marina Bay location.

It's also apt to remember Paddy now. MediaCorp has a locally filmed biographical series called 'Life Story' which reenacts the lives of local heroes. Judging from the trailers of the new second season (http://ch5.mediacorptv.com/shows/drama/view/1550/1/.html), Paddy's life story is deemed inspiring enough to be told. How nice, that finally the Establishment gives a nod to an Aids activist. And an out gay man at that. Only the MediaCorp site refers to him as an "Aids sufferer", which sounds so passive and well, so unPaddy. And judging from the trailer, the actor who portrays him is completely unPaddy too. I just know Paddy's going to bitch about how it wasn't glam enough.

Being neighbourly

L can't manage walking the two dogs together so he takes them out one at a time. Which means that when he meets any of our canine neighbours downstairs, he is very conscious -- guilty, even -- that the dog left at home is missing out on the social niceties of butt sniffing.

His solution? Bring them all home. Last week, he met Harvey (the Papillion from the flat directly upstairs) and Jagger (the giant Jack Russell from the next block) downstairs while walking Queeni. Doggy socials took a while and all this time L was fretting that Rupert would be up to no good home alone.

So that's how doggy social hour ended up at our flat. I was at work and L kindly took pictures so I wouldn't miss out. However, most of them aren't worth posting because they are all of dog butts.

Rupert, he said, was the consummate host, moving about the two visiting dogs, showing them his toys and leading them to the water bowl, where everyone had a communal drink.

A few nights later, I came home to be met at the door by *three* dogs. Ginger the English springer spaniel is from down the corridor, the only other female dog around and fondly referred to as Rupert's girlfriend. He had no niceties with her, no offering of toys, no nothing, they simply chased each other round the room, on and off the couch -- for an hour. Queeni, if you can even see her at all in the above photo, is sulking under the table. The hostess with the mostess she is not. Luckily, Rupert more than makes up.

If Roop, given his lack of brain matter, can represent Clueless Male, then this must be indicative of how Clueless Male -- canine and human -- treat their buddies vs their girlfriends. The buddies get the beer (well, the canine equivalent in the water bowl) and the girl gets the chase.

Home improvement

The kids in the neighbourhood and the dogs are going to be screwed this weekend. The path that runs round the field -- which the kiddie cyclists use as their racetrack -- has been cordoned off.

Along with the paint job the exterior of our blocks received, we are getting the paths redone. That really involves drilling up the existing path, laying cement over it, with a sprinkle of fine gravel that dries into the cement. I guess it's an improvement over the current path, which is paved with a glazed tile that is slippery in wet weather.

But you'd think that estate designers in the first place would have realised that problem with glazed tiles outdoors -- even if they were pretty, and some of them have a fish motif stamped on them, to go along with the nautical theme running through the estate. I guess my tax dollars are still hard at work.

This is the face of desperation

Here's Vivi so desperate to play ball that she ventured into the bathroom and dropped her ball-ball enticingly into the shower stall when her dad was erm, sitting on the throne.
[Here's where my finely trained journo brain races to ask: Why does M have a camera with him when he's on the loo?]

Mine, on the other hand, will never go into the bathroom because they know that it is a place where horrible things involving water and shampoo are done to them.

Rupert though, sweetheart of a mama's boy that he is, will poke his head round and check on me when I've been soaking in the tub for a while. But he'll back out hurriedly once he's sure that I haven't been harmed by soap and water.

Queeni, let's just say that should I die unexpectedly in the tub, when CSI finds my calcified remains, they will find a Schnauzer snoring peacefully in the next room. OK, to be fair, she may wake up. But only because she's hungry.

But then again, I wonder. If I don't get her out of bed and take her downstairs and then serve her lunch after that, I wonder how long she'll sleep before she feels the need to pee and eat.

The possibility of pigs flying

It's National Day season and there're displays of buntings and banners all over with the theme of this year's National Day printed on them: Celebration Singapore, City of Possibilities. You can't run from them. There're a few all over my estate and there's a huge one on the office perimeter fence.

So what sort of possibilities are in store for Singaporeans?

The Penal Code will be revamped to suit the times but there is no possibility of revoking Section 377A that makes homosexuality a criminal act.

There's even less possibility of same sex marriage, and economically active sons and daughters of the country have to move elsewhere to marry the love of their lives.

There's no possibility of a single mother and her children being recognised as a family unit that qualifies them for assisted public housing.

There's no possibility of subsidised antiretrovirals even though the health minister wants to make Aids testing more inclusive, even mandatory. In other words, there's no follow-up help once you're found positive.

There's even less possibility of generic ARVs because we want to be First World and play nice with patents. Thailand, on the other hand, stuck its finger at Big Pharma and went its own way to make generics -- with the surprising possibility that some firms would contribute their formulas rather than to lose a market altogether.

And there's absolutely no possibility that my furkids will be welcome at Bring Your Child To Work Day.

But we did achieve one possibility -- we constructed the world's largest floating platform for the National Day Parade off Marina Bay.

Wow. My tax dollars at work.

Spock

Six years today and still much missed.

I don't know what else to say that I didn't already write this time last year. But now, I have Rupert. And I see bits of his devilry in Roop the Poop. But there's nothing like the old scamp.

Generation gap

I don't feel my age although parts of my body make me painfully aware of it now and then.

Then I got to know one of the interns in the building at work and realise that he's leaving next month for my alma mater. It's been 20 years since I was at Warwick but even so, that wasn't any more than a figure in my head -- even if two decades sound like a scarily long time. But you don't feel like someone's auntie, not when you can yakk about Neil Gaiman with him.

Nice fella that he is, he agreed to keep in touch. And promptly asked me for my MSN and Facebook contacts. I have neither. And that was the only time I felt Old. Was it so long ago that keeping in touch with friends when I was at Warwick meant writing them snail mail. The type that you need to stick a stamp on, post, and then wait maybe a couple of weeks for a reply.

Okay, I don't write snail mail anymore -- even if I do send out Christmas cards that way, there's nothing like a seasonal stamp on an envelope for an olde world festive touch. Oh lord, if I'm going on about the Good Old Days, that can only mean I am Old. But don't call me Auntie.

Internationally mixed up

I've never wondered what made a Swiss roll Swiss until now, when L came home with a vending machine snack that apparently didn't think being Swiss was foreign enough -- this cake (made in Malaysia) felt it had to be London and Swiss to get some consumer cred. Even if it was a very South-East Asian coconut pandan flavour.

Or is this what globalisation is all about?

Lost in translation

I had the Chinese TV station on when the news came on, and there was this fun item about workers abseilling down to clean Big Ben in London. And in Mandarin, the transliteration of Big Ben was da ben zhong -- which for a moment, I thought was big stupid clock.

Clean sweep

I actually woke up early enough this morning (thanks to Rupert's bladder) to see the cleaner sweeping the leaves and the paths of the grounds downstairs.

Can you actually say you've woken up when you've never really slept? Napped for two hours was more like it -- a combination of having a hard time fallling asleep and not being able to stay asleep.

Anyway, the early morning cleaner. She had a pan and broom and was clutching what I thought at first was an inflated plastic bag but I soon realised was a red heart-shaped balloon. I guess she must have found it somewhere in the field and picked it up, saving it to take it to a child who would be surprised later in the day with a red balloon. And who wouldn't want one (other than whoever left it behind)? How nice, working with a balloon in hand. Maybe I should take a balloon in to work with me today.

My food is talking to me

And it has some wacky things to say. I was happily tucking into assorted pastries -- croissants, fruit and chocolate rolls -- and reading the label and ingredients list like the compulsive reader that I am. "Product of France, baked in Singapore", it said. That's a new one to me. I don't know what that really means -- if some of the dough originated in France or the French were laying claim to have invented croissants, even the ones baked in Singapore. It's a whole new take on copyright.

Speaking of food labels, I switched to another brand of chamomile tea. This one isn't just any old chamomile, the label on the tea bag says: "Quietly chamomile". Like it's a little more soothing than one that's just plain chamomile. (Yes, R, it can only be Australian, sort of on the same basis as Cat's Piss wine.)

I'm looking for something that's louder for a morning drink. "Screaming caffeine" would do, I think. Or how about "Loud, in your face green tea"?

"Machine break down"

That's not a sign you want to see on the coffee machine -- the fancy one manned by the Spinelli's barista in the office canteen -- when you're desperately in need of caffeine. I was seriously in need of something to spring my eyelids open because I had been up early. I had been up early because L started a new job and is now out of the house first thing in the morning and I cannot lie in because he's no longer around to take Roop the Poop out. Well, he does, first thing in the morning but Roop needs to go again. And again.

Anyway, I'm rambling. You see why I needed caffeine?

The barista could only handle ice blended drinks (pooh, those are more like desserts than a serious caffeine injection) and the only coffee to be had was the roast of the day, that is, the stuff in the coffee pot. Normal coffee.

That's when I realised that I only drink "normal" coffee at home. When I pay for someone to make my coffee, I want the fancy stuff from the machine -- espressos, cappuccinos and lattes.

I don't know how I became this way. How did I even drink instant coffee not so long ago?

It takes a woman

... to notice that you've got your hair done in the week that you were away from the office (http://snugpug.blogspot.com/2007/07/purple-reign.html). L, who was with me the entire time at the hairdresser's, looked long and hard after it was done and said he couldn't see any difference. While my colleague, at one glance, knew it had been coloured, even if it was subtle compared to all my previous hair colours, and had a trim.

The last but one trip to the hairdresser's, when L was not with me when I went to my usual colour guy, a friend actually texted L when I was on my way home, to tell him what had been done to my hair so that he could notice and compliment accordingly.

Kick start

This stuff looks like it's radioactive and can glow in the dark, doesn't it? I don't know how kids can eat this voluntarily and how parents can feed it to them. I only ate it because I needed a sugar high to kick start my first day back at work after after a week of lounging about at home. And that it came in bright cheerful colours only helped. It might have helped more if it was a little less florescent.

Oh, I don't normally eat sugary cereals. But L gets a hankering for them now and then, so he buys the variety packs, the ones that come in a single serving size. But as he is allergic to some fruit, he is suspicious of the so-called fruit-flavoured cereals. Only I don't think there's any real fruit in this bowl.

Grrrr

I am rapidly going off Cheap Flat-Packaged Furniture Co. Last year, when we bought a couple of thousands of dollars of furniture for our new house, they never told us that what we spent more than qualified us for their privilege card.

So recently, when a magazine coupon let us sign up for the privilege card for spending a tenth of the usual amount needed to qualify, I thought I would finally be able to get it.

Only to find out at the store that the amount had to be spent in the main store, not in the food outlet. A stipulation that wasn't in the small print anywhere on the coupon.

I would have let it pass, had it not been a double whammy of missing out. I really felt cheated out of the card the first time round. So as L suggested, I went on the Net, found their website, contacted them, and expressed my disappointment. Twice over.

And for good measure, added other less than happy experiences. Like the time when we bought the furniture, paid for the assembly, only to find out that delivery and assembly was done by their subcontractors, some of whom had no idea how to assemble certain items. They puzzled over the pictorial wordless instructions. I could have figured out the wordless instructions myself, only I had paid for some professional to do it more expertly. It certainly didn't inspire any confidence in their ability. In fact, one of the workmen flatly said he didn't do shelves, and left our unit half-assembled because it was beyond him. He would come back the next day, bringing along a colleague who knew how to do the job. To his credit, he did. But this was at a time when we hadn't yet moved in, so we had to make arrangements to go back to the new flat to let in the workmen.

Then this Chinese New Year, when we changed the removable couch covers, we found that covers without elastic are hard to get round furniture edges when sewn to exact measurements. It's like an irresistible force meeting an unmovable object. Not impossible but tough. L, getting irritable as he wrestled with the covers, said that he would like to invite Cheap Flat-packed Furniture Co's general manager over to personally change the covers to see how easily he could do it. So in my email to Cheap Flat-packed Furniture Co, I extended the invitation. That was last month. I guess he's not coming.

Life lessons learnt from dogs

Forget all about that sweet homily you've seen often circulated round the Internet, the one that tells you to go through life with your head stuck out the car window, roll in the flowers and welcome home loved ones enthusiastically with a running jump.

The true lesson in life from a dog is what I got off my dog e-list the other day, something which appears to be Rupert's personal motto (C, who owns Rupert's brother, along with another wiry fox terrier, says it's every foxie's motto):

Handle every situation like a dog -- If you can't eat it or screw it, piss on it and walk away.

Hanging up the brushes

Our groomer called and told us that she is giving up her shop unit at the neighbourhood mall in December. Well, she's not exactly giving up the shop per se, she is giving up the dog grooming and pet goods business and will convert the shop into a gaming centre. After December, she will still take grooming clients, but on weekends only, at one of the pet farms on the same road as the dog run which we go to frequently.

So we will probably still see her. Although it might take some explaining to the furkids that when we drive down that road to the dog run (Rupert recognises it), it may not lead to a fun time in a large field but to baths, haircuts and nail trimming. They will be in for a shock.

And possibly the saddest part of it all is that there's more money in computer gaming than dogs.

Vet visit

Rupert was due for his annual vaccination at the end of July, and since I am on leave this week, it seemed like a good time to get it done. Which meant that Murphy's Law kicked in and the car chose this week not to start.

The Chevrolet people came, jumpstarted the car, towed it off and it has been sitting in their garage since Monday because they have not been able to get a check-up/fix-it slot for us yet.

Okay, never mind, let's do Plan B. Leave one dog at home, take the one that needs the shots to the vet in a taxi. Two humans, one fox terrier, we outnumber Roop the Poop two to one, we can handle it.

Which, of course, prompted Murphy's Law to swell up to a double dose. Queeni's Schnauzer Bumps (seriously, that's the name of the itchy, bumpy skin condition Schnauzers are prone to) flares up and she must have been going for her tail because the base of her back and her tail are red and angry. It was really ugly looking, just short of dripping blood.

Called the vet double quick and made an appointment for two dogs. The receptionist is used to us, one dog at a go and wanted to make sure: "Is this for Queeni or Rupert?"
"Both."
"Alamak."

Her response just about summed it up nicely. We called for a cab and as always, we skip the automated booking to talk to a human because it's only fair that the operator/dispatcher indicate to the driver that we have a dog -- in a carrier, we always stress -- so a Muslim cabby wouldn't pick up the booking. Although we've had Muslim cabbies before who didn't mind the dog and non-Muslim cabbies who did.

Couldn't get a cab. Sometimes, it doesn't pay to be honest when you say you have two dogs. In carriers or not. So we got a bit economical with the truth, we just said: "Got dog. In a carrier." Without specifying the number.

So we finally get a cab. And then the next problem was Rupert in the carrier. Grown too big and strong for the soft-sided carrier, he tipped it over and got out of it three times between our front door and the taxi waiting downstairs. But mercifully, he behaved in the taxi because I had one of his bones with me and rammed it into his mouth everytime he as much as lifted his head up. He obligingly gnawed on the bone instead of doing what he always does in cars -- try to cover every window because he can't decide which window to look out of and thinks he's missing something at one window while looking out another.

When we got to the vet, Queeni glowered at everybody while Rupert loved everybody. He loved Dr P, even though he got poked with a needle twice -- once for the vaccination and another for a blood test before starting on heartworm preventive.

Queeni was fairly well behaved, none of that growling and thankfully none of that biting the vet business. Dr P asked if she ever growled at Dr T, the senior vet who took over her care when he removed the mast cell tumour (Queeni was seeing Dr P today since she might as well see both dogs together at one shot). We don't think so. Yeah, there's something about Dr T, said Dr P. Well, we're happy a fellow vet thinks as highly of Dr T as we do.

And boy, do we love our vets. I didn't realise until I got home and looked at the receipts that I realised she charged us very cheaply. Since Rupert was there for a vaccination and annual exam, we paid for that package, which does not have a consultation charge. I expected to pay consultation for Queeni but for that, I was billed for "repeat consultation/short examination for second dog" -- which was considerably less. OK, granted that over the years and many dogs, we have probably paid for Dr T's Lexus, the renovation of the new hospital wing and his kids' college education, but it's nice to know they're making things easier for us when they can.

And the taxi ride home posed less complications. We called and punched in the code for the vet hospital because it was registered on an auto phone-in booking line. We reasoned that there was no need to talk to a dispatcher this time because any cabbie responding to a call from a vet hospital would be prepared to pick up a dog. Or two.

The furkids have passed out from exhaustion. I think I will soon, too.

Basket case

So I'm home on a week's leave and we're not driving up to Kuala Lumpur with A as we first planned on doing a couple of months ago, for a whole bunch of reasons. And if I thought I'd be home with nothing to do, then I was very, very wrong.

The furkids -- well, mostly Rupert, actually -- are doing their part in making sure my time is well occupied by filling the mending basket. Almost all the stuffed toys require surgery.

Most of the cases are straightforward but Turtle on top of the pile has complications. He's not an open and shut limb-stitching case like the others. His problem is that he's so old, his fabric is coming apart in little clumps, with much assistance from Rupert's teeth.

It is probably time to retire Turtle. And that's the bittersweet part. Turtle came with Queeni some six years ago. At that time, when R handed Queeni to me, he put with her in her carrying crate one of his Tshirts and Turtle, saying that Turtle was her favourite toy.

And indeed it was. Turtle helped her settle into her new home, helped her establish playtime with her new family. Then along the way, many, many other toys were added and a few years ago, she stopped playing with Turtle. There were toys that rolled, rattled and squeaked. Turtle's time was up even then.

But I'm not sure if I can throw Turtle out like all the other toys that were damaged beyond repair. Turtle is part of Queeni's history with me, and I suppose he will now join that storage space all dogparents probably have -- the place where they keep the furkids' baby teeth, puppy collars and outgrown toys. It is where I kept a couple of Spock's favourite toys after he died, while the rest were donated to SPCA. Another dog, another time, another keepsake.

Purple reign

Yesterday, the first day of a week's leave from work if you don't count Saturday and Sunday, I went to spoil myself a bit. I went to the hairdresser's and then I got a much-needed neck and shoulder massage at the reflexology place next door.

It didn't actually start that way. L needed a haircut so I went to the mall with him, and since I was there, decided I might as well get a trim anyway, my hair was starting to get wild. It's been maybe five months since my last hair cut -- that's how long that recently uploaded picture taken at the hairdresser's was sitting on the mobile phone because I forgot all about it.

And since I was getting a hair cut, I got talked into getting a colour job. Five months since the last one, my head was now double toned -- black at the roots and a variegated brown six inches down till the ends. Variegated because it bore the history of a series of different toned streaks in different colours.

I am now done with multicoloured hair. While that's fun to have, it means that you really should go back and get the colours touched up every month or so and I'm too lazy to do that. I figured if I dye it to a colour closer to black (not black because why dye your hair the colour it comes in?), then when the black starts growing, the double tone wouldn't be so obvious.

So now the hair's purple. Not very purple though. It's pretty close to black with the purple coming through only in the sunlight. Good enough for me.

More music

Yesterday, we had on TV the four-hour abridged version of the recent 24-hour Live Earth concert (http://snugpug.blogspot.com/2007/07/24-hours-of-rock-n-roll.html). The original was way too much music at one go -- while it was fun staying up till way late to watch it on TV, it was strange going to bed to rock music, waking up to it still in progress and it was still loud and pumping when I got ready to go to work.

And I'm still not sure if it ever got anywhere near what it was meant to achieve. Unlike Live Aid, you don't see visible results like a convoy of trucks rolling off for Africa. You go to a concert, or watch it on TV, feel really good and virtuous that you're part of something, but when the music's turned off, what exactly have you done to save the earth?

Still, the abridged version was nice in that it let me catch up on the bits I missed when I was asleep or at work. And finally, I got to watch The Police. So Stewart Copeland now has to wear glasses. And Sting, who used to be the good looking frontman of the trio, is the only one with significant hair loss. This must be what they call retribution.

Mother of all water bowls

When HRH was the only dog, her water bowl was a cute little bowl from a child's breakfast set. It had a cartoon of a fairy princess and it suited her.

When Rupert came along, the fairy princess had to go. It wasn't that it was too girly for him but that the bowl just plain wasn't big enough. Rupert doesn't so much drink as stick his head into the bowl, displace the water, and then lick some off the floor, then shake his chops and send water spraying everywhere. When I found myself refilling the princess bowl four to five times a day, I switched the vessel to a deep, wide Japanese bowl meant to hold ramen. It was heavy enough so Rupert wouldn't be able to send it flying -- we ruled out plastic dog dishes a long time ago. It was functional, but it wasn't well, pretty. Unlike the princess bowl.

So when I saw this huge, bone-shaped dog dish, I had to get it. It's more like a water trough than a bowl. The biscuits are there for size comparison. The bowl could easily hold a whole bag of biscuits.

And I'm sure it would make Rupert very, very happy. I think Vivi could take a swim in it.

What a big nose you have!

Rupert wins, I think.

"Sharper than a serpent's tooth..."

'King Lear' makes me cry everytime I read it or watch it. And now, it's making me cry without my even starting on Act I, Scene 1. Because I can't get tickets to the Royal Shakespeare Company's production that opens tonight, with Ian McKellen as Lear.

Tickets were sold out weeks ago. And these were at prices that I consider exorbitant -- $200 to $500. Even the RSC doesn't charge so much on home ground. I suppose there's the cost of touring -- Singapore is the only Asian stop on this world tour. It cost the Singapore Repertory Theatre $1 million to bring in the RSC and I suppose they are making good that money.

The most ironical thing is that Sir Ian told our arts reporter in an interview that Shakespeare and Chekhov (he's doing a double bill) is not high brow and that students should come and watch. What student could afford $200 and that's the cheapest seat? Well, there's an even cheaper $80 seat but your view is obstructed, the ticketing site kindly tells you. Even I could ill afford a ticket and I was just going to buy one ticket for myself and leave L at home.

But all that's moot, of course. There are no tickets to be had. I'll just have to read my well-thumbed copy of 'Lear' tonight while those in the $500 seats rattle their jewellery.

My brains are fried

That's why I haven't been updating the blog. Besides, it's kinda nice to let sleeping dogs lie... :p

It has been crazy at work because we're in the midst of switching to a new software and a new system. It's all I could do to keep abreast of things, and it made it all the more harder to come home and turn on yet another computer (and a different OS too) for relaxation purposes.

For the past three weeks, we've been trying to get the hang of the new system. We've got a guy from the ITD helpdesk permanently sitting with us and it was embarrassing how often I had to get him to come over to help me do the simplest things. Up until now, we've had one foot in the new system and another in the old but by tomorrow, we will be switching completely to the new system. And all hell will break lose. And Helpdesk Guy will probably go postal on us.

Oh, the picture. L took it, quite a while ago, using my mobile phone camera and I'd forgotten about it. We were at the hairdresser's and as always, it takes longer to do a woman's hair than a guy's and he was getting bored. I'm getting a steam treatment. It looks like I'm being cooked, doesn't it? I sure felt like I was dim sum.

Sleep ... a pictorial study

This picture is here so that I can have a reference for the picture in My Profile. When I uploaded a picture for it yesterday, and deleted that blog entry after that, the profile pic went away.

Crazy old world

So Paris Hilton's time in jail made the news here. I didn't care much about it. Scooter Libby's indictment and sentencing didn't make the news here but I followed it out of interest after all that business with the NYT reporter going to jail.

Is it just me or doesn't it bug anyone that Paris Hilton did more jail time than Scooter Libby?

24 hours of rock 'n' roll

... and I'm tired just thinking about it. On the wrong side of 40 now, I can't party all night anymore, never mind 24 hours -- even if it's on a couch in front of the TV for the Live Earth concerts.

Actually, I've got some misgivings about this 24-hour worldwide concert. I seriously wonder how much of the earth this song-and-dance routine is going to save. I mean, all those rock stars performing aren't within walking or biking distance of Wembley or the Giants Stadium or wherever they are supposed to show up, and have to be chauffeured in, if not flown in. And think of all the resources needed to rig up for the concerts, and more for the worldwide live telecasts. That's one huge global carbon foot print, isn't it?

The local TV station got into the act by encouraging people to wear green. I just don't know how wearing green and slumping in front of the TV is going to placate Gaia around these parts. And this is the country with the tourism board, ie govt, endorsed month-long Great Singapore Sale. Reducing consumerism is just not on the consciousness of a people whose national pastimes are shopping and eating.

I just can't summon up any enthusiasm for the Live Earth marathon concert. There's no vibe to it, not like what I felt for Live Aid when I was in the UK, oh lord, was it almost 20 years ago? Maybe you just had to be in a place where it's actually happening, watching it on TV just doesn't cut it. Or maybe I'm just more cynical now. Whatever it is, I think you can only pull a Geldorf once.

And just like with the Grammys earlier this year, there's only one act I want to watch -- The Police. The concerts open with Sydney first. I don't know half the acts appearing. For me, Australian music died with Michael Hutchence and when Midnight Oil disbanded. And who knows what Jimmy Barnes is up to now? The Police appear in New Jersey, so probably that's 20 hours into the telethon. I don't think I could last that long and I shouldn't leave the TV on all that time. That's hardly cutting down on electricity. Not very green, is it?

Veni vedi veci vino

I had the day off today and we went to the hypermarket where I found Leonardo last week -- we like going there on a weekday when parking is a breeze and L loves the American-style standalone building surrounded by a free carpark -- as opposed to the usual supermarket inside a shopping centre where you have to jostle with other mall goers for a (paid parking) spot in the basement carpark.

This time, I found Leonardo next to Mona Lisa. OK, this time, it's way too tacky for me. I left her smiling on the shelf.

What I also found were two other chianti brands. That's when Leo got dumped. It was like a goldmine, going from no choice of chianti to a choice of four. And this was at a discount hypermart not known for luxury items.

La vita vino

What's there to do when you were a famous artist and inventor in your lifetime and you've inspired a best-selling page-turner (and less successful movie, despite Tom Hanks in it) after your death? You lend your face and name to wine.

I saw this Leonardo chianti in the supermarket and bought it because I like chianti and up until now, there's only one brand of chianti (Ruffino) that is available at the supermarket. Oh, I'm sure the upmarket wine shops will have a good selection of chianti but I mostly buy my plonk at the supermarket. I was actually very hesitant about Leonardo, I thought it was kind of tacky drinking wine endorsed by a dead white man. But actually, it wasn't half bad. And cheaper than Ruffino.

Comic strip stars

L drew this, inspired by the furkids. I'm not sure if you can make out the writing though, I haven't got a scanner so I took a photo of it. I'm also not sure if there will be further instalments. Genius is hard to predict. :)

Naughty bits

It's an old wives' saying here that a child with two hair whorls on his head is extra naughty. So does it mean that Rupert, with two hair whorls on his rear end, is extra naughty then? Help.

He came aptly named. Depending on whether he has committed transgression No 1 or No 2, his name routinely gets changed to Roop the Poop or RuPee. Usually it's one or the other but today, he surpassed all expectations and managed to do both. In rapid succession. In inappropriate places. Nowhere near the pee pad. That Dog.