Arbor Vitae

I’m regressing into a foetus.

I’m sick and I’m craving my childhood security blankets: food and books.

So if you see a deranged-looking (deranged because I’m running late for uni/ work) female reading luridly illustrated Enid Blyton/ Trixie Belden on the bus, that would be me.

My literary choices have been interesting though.

No, I do not crave magazines or other fluffy, glorious eye-candy, zero-brain-power required glossy publications. That’s the kind of stuff you’ll usually find me buried in after a prolonged period of brain strain (read: exams/ assignment time).

Neither do I have a hankering for the witty Jane Austen or the emotive Pearl. S. Buck, although I usually go for chick-lit when recuperating (from whatever it is that felled me in the first place).

I don’t even fancy my current darlings: JD Robb/ Laurell K. Hamilton. *Gasp*

It’s the Enid Blyton/ Trixie Belden series or nothing, baby.

This is a very selective process indeed.

For all I knew, I could have regressed to my teens when I was immersed in the bitchy, promiscuous, risque (well, by pre-Paris Hilton standards), my-squeeze-is-SO-hotter-than-yours world of Sweet Valley High. I got over that too, real quick, *strangled whisper* so don’t tell anyone will you?

Or my very, very early childhood when I insisted on being read to from the same book (101 Stories for Little Friends -this being a literal translation from its Chinese title) over and over and over again - poor Mom!

But how is it that despite all that exposure to monolingual reading material and her own very excellent Chinese, mine still turned out to be a piss-weak example of how not to speak/ write/ read the language. Gah!

Sorry mom, I’m a disgrace I know. When asked, I’ll try not to tell my friends that you’re the financial editor of a Chinese daily. Heaven knows, my Chinese does NOT reflect favourably on yours

But I digress.

So, I’ve been relegated to raiding the local library for my tried-and-true favourites. But this process can get a little…..umm……….embarrassing? *sheepish grin*

When you’re the only human capable of upright stance (as opposed to crawling, waddling and screaming, hey I’d be wailing if I was made to wear diapers too) in the Junior Fiction section of the library, with its Thomas the Tank Engine posters and toys strewn across the floor, you tend to stick out a little, if you know what I mean?

But I was good.

I didn’t deprive any nice babies of their bedtime reading material. I only borrowed the Enid Blyton/ Trixie Beldens that weren’t covered in spit/ other unmentionable body fluids.

So if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to recuperate with Enid’s Blyton Famous Five and a carton of Yam-Yam breadsticks + chocolate dipping sauce for company (what did I tell you about childhood comfort food?) *Grins*

ps: My Famous Five book smells weird. OK. Maybe it just plain smells and I’m therefore not even going to contemplate where it’s been. Read on and ignore smell. Read on and only concentrate on the words on the page. Read on and attempt to inhale through mouth. Read on. Read. Read. Read.

It hurts.

It hurts.

I weep.

A. has informed me he’s compiling a list of words that interest him.

The roll call of honour thus far consists of:

1. Nether regions (his top entry)

2. Swashbuckling (my inadvertent contribution)

Eg: Hey A. were you late this morning? I kinda noticed you swashbuckling your way to the back of the lecture theatre halfway through.

I do not know whether to feel flattered or confused

During the course of a MSN conversation, it suddenly hit me that the K.Fed-supporting, baby-seat-eschewing, Cheezel-scoffing, barefoot-public-toilet-frequenting Britney Spears’s intials are B.S.

Now that amused me. Greatly.

How was it that this amusing quirk had gone undetected thus far? I mean, even the style of the hair scrunchies she favours become tabloid fodder these days.

Wouldn’t this be fair game too?

Imagine what a field day the gossip mags could have:

"Britney’s parenting skills declared utter B***S***!"

"Brit’s mom declares Britney & Kev’s divorce rumours B***S***!"

"Britney: How Kevin B***S***tted his way into being my kept man….uhhh…….husband"

Sigh.

So I guess it’s true huh? Small things for small minds

Anyways, blogs out.

I wonder if missing someone puts you at risk of missing out on everything else in your own life.

I spent years missing everyone: back home, back here, anywhere they happened to be, as long as it wasn’t right beside me.

I’m spent.

It wasn’t always like this.

In the beginning, I never used to be able to go a day without wondering if Mom was coping alright without us, or if my grandad’s eyesight still permitted him to read the paper, or who grandma would get to help her when she wanted her hair dyed that incongruous shade of black.

I missed my friends: their ridiculous jokes, our ensuing wild howls of laughter, the endless gossip mill of you-know-who-is-hooked-up-with-whom, going out at 11.30pm to the nearest mamak stall and eating off each other’s orders of roti tisu and mee goreng. Just knowing they were there and they actually cared.

And before that? I used to read someone’s horoscope in the paper everyday, before I read my own. Every minute I didn’t see him or hear about him or was thinking of him, I missed him. Silly lovesick fool. I have kept up neither that nor the horoscope reading these days.

When you miss someone, it’s as though you’ve inexplicably turned into a highly-strung sensitive. A layer of your skin’s missing and every nerve end is exposed and all you feel is the constant ache-ache-ache.

It only takes a careless, half-forgotten gesture, a lilt at the end of a sentence, that special shade of blue, the cut of a blouse, a whiff of that familiar scent, and suddenly, inexplicably you find your breath’s caught in your throat and your nerves are humming in anticipation.

In the face of all logic you find yourself thinking, hoping against hope:

Is it…? Could it be….? She’s here? He came all this way to…..?

I know I’m not missing them as hard as I used to. I do not miss them publicly and demonstratively and flagrantly.

But I miss them in my own way. Quietly. Unobstrusively. And in the back of my mind, constantly.

i am ShinYi Michelle - sister, daughter, friend, repository of secrets, foodie, mamak addict, long-suffering postgrad, book nerd, fickle-minded music consumer, sole sober taxi-hailer and drunkard-hauler at the end of a night out with the girls.

i just can’t believe how cold it is today - 7C and falling!

i want to go away for a while, to a place where i can just be.

i wish i didn’t always catch the germ du jour around exam time.

i hate feeling like a failure.

i miss my mom, my grandparents and my friends in Msia, oh, and all that wickedly delicious food of course! *GRINS*

i fear failure, public humiliation and letting others down (in that order).

i wonder when my life can truly begin: will this torture regime they call higher learning never end?

i am - not where i thought i’d be at 25.

i sing only under duress and extremely self-consciously.

i cry in private and rarely, if at all.

i made  birthday cards last week for T. and N. - pink, pink, pink, to match the uber-girly phase they seem to be going through now.

i write to emote, to remember, to vent, to rant, for posterity, for my sanity, for my pleasure, as a purely practical measure.

i confused neediness/ clinginess for devotion, i’m not going there again. ever.

i need a kick in the pants, to stop me procrastinating!

i should be doing something other than blogging, at this point in time.

i start fidgeting when i get nervous.

i finish books/ magazines/ random reading material rapidly and ravenously, you’d think ink and paper were going out of style tomorrow, if you saw me.

Riiiiiiiiigghhhhhtt.

So the two of you aren’t seeing each other, huh? *GRINS*

Then how do you explain away the fleeting eye contact, the unusually reflective body language on display and the most suppressed of irrepressible smiles ghosting across your faces these days?

Or the fact that the both of you seem to go out of your way to avoid each other all the time?

It’s like you’re expecting someone to clamp down on your shoulders and bear you away in handcuffs if you so much as sit next to each other during lectures.

Seriously guys, those 8am sessions can be such a drag sometimes….and seeing as how we have ringside seats anyway, we really don’t mind the diversion. *GRINS*

And how is it that you guys always seem to time your arrivals precisely 5 seconds apart every single morning?

It wouldn’t be the fact that you drove in together or were having a cosy little breakfast before the lecture, would it?  *CHUCKLES*  And then you decided to arrive separately, so we wouldn’t notice? *CHORTLES*

Or how about the time I caught you, J., fairly skipping for joy down the stairs. Won the lottery have you, or the sweepstakes or something? Or were you feeling particularly bright and chirpy that day because your crush had …. (you can fill in the blanks yourselves, guys

And those outfits you’ve been putting together lately, J.!  *wolf-whistles*

Why, if I didn’t know better (but oh, in this case I do!), I’d say you were dressing for attention, and simply because you’re feeling that little bit more attractive these days.

Dear J. and K., we all love you, as coursemates and friends and individuals.

We don’t think J. + K. is a bad idea at all, and we’ll love you just the same, whether you’re separate entities or a couple.

And as the end of semester’s coming up, you know what’s going to follow, hard on the heels of our finals - DRINKING!

Someone’s going to have a drop too much to drink and they’re going to want to ask you guys some pretty awkward questions.

In public.

Well…..awkward questions as in awkward for you guys, but funny as hell for the rest of us.

Or heaven forbid, one of YOU could knock back one too many and then proceed to…….well………..spill the beans, so to speak.

And you know what the worst thing is?

I’m going to be there.

And because I don’t drink, I’m going to be sober.

Which means I’m going to remember everything.

And frankly, I’m going to recount my crystal-clear memories of that evening, if any cares to ask later on down the track. And they will, boy, they will.

So you’re going to have to try and get me drunk if you don’t want that happening.

But much simpler just to come clean, non?  *GRINS*

So next time we spot the both of you having a cosy little chat in the stairwell, no need to spring apart like a couple of scalded cats.

And if we catch you, J., playfully punching K. on the arm, no need to look away and blush prettily, like you always do.

And K., for God’s sake, if you feel the need to buy her that cup of morning cappuccino, DO SO, we’re not going to crucify you for being *ahem* nice/ attentive/ sweet to J.

So no need for anymore of that nudge nudge, wink wink business, guys -we love ya and we always will!!!

I hate hoons.

I hate hoons with cars.

I hate hoons with pathetically souped-up cars.

I hate hoons with pathetically souped-up cars and ridiculously loud stereo systems.

I hate hoons with pathetically souped-up cars and ridiculously loud stereo systems that play shit-arse techno tracks.

I hate hoons with pathetically souped-up cars and ridiculously loud stereo systems that play shit-arse techno tracks which invariably seem to be a random conglomeration of THUN-KA CHUNKA-CHUNK DOOSH-DOOSH sounds.

You might think that dilapidated heap of metal you’ve so lovingly modified gangsta/ bogan/ ah beng style (dragon-embroidered seat covers, fluffy-dice-adorned mirror, Initial D decals and all) is a chick magnet *BARFS*.

You’re welcome to that opinion.

But please don’t assume that every single female pedestrian on the footpath is labouring under the same delusion.

And if your advances seem to be received with anything less then fervour by said members of the opposite sex, hmmmmm, now WHY would that be, I wonder??? *snorts*, just shut that darn car door and go your own sweet way, alrighty?

Making kissy faces/ trailing them in your car/ giving them the double phoenix while speeding off like the cowards you are once you realise you’re getting nowhere is NOT the way to go.

It doesn’t make females go: Hmmmmmm, isn’t that a prime example of a fine, upstanding male homo sapien????

Nope.

You’re more likely to get a round dozen of phoenixes in return.

So, drive on.

You can keep those thumping stereos and fluffy dice to yourself.

P/S: This post was inspired or should I say instigated by the carful of rowdy hoons who always seem to be carousing around my neighbourhood Thursday-Sunday nights.

Since I work late and get home really late Thursday night, I DO NOT appreciate having the living daylights scared out of me by this bunch of nabeh good-for-nothings. (Well…..they’re great at being lame-ass purported ‘revheads’, but that’s about it - I mean last time I checked, you didn’t get much go outta a Hyundai Elantra, no matter how souped-up it is!)

So last Thursday, they were up to their usual pathetic kissy-kissy-lewd-proposition antics and I was doing my usual I’m-going-to-studiously-ignore-them routine. But there was no way I could have ignored the handful of ice that hit me in the back, dead-center.

Nabeh. That’s it.

I got my mobile out and said "I’m dialing 000/(insert suitable emergency number here), so stick around, won’t you?"

Gone in 60 seconds. Just like Nicolas Cage’s hair.

————JUNE BABY ————-

You’ve got the best personality and are an absolute pleasure to be around.

And you’ve obviously never been around me when I’m PMS-ing all over the place.

You love to make new friends and be outgoing.

I do, but deep down, I’m rather shy really.

You are a great flirt and more than likely have an a very attractive partner - a wicked hottie.

OMG, NO and NO. You’re kidding, right?!

It is also more than likely that you have a massive record collection.

More like MP3s I ripped off the Internet, but with the cruddy dial-up I’m on these days….*twiddles thumbs and gazes at ceiling non-chalantly*

You have a great choice in films, and may one day become a famous actor/actress yourself - heck, you’ve got the looks for it!!!

I may like films, but as for the latter - again, HELL NO!!!!!

IN the next 6 days you will meet someone that may possibly become one of your closest friends, if you repost this in 5 minutes.

For the former: I think fortunate enough that the friends I have are close enough to my heart, thank you very much. As for the latter: Mmmmmmm-hmmmmmmmmmmmm, riiiiiiiiiiiiiight.

How would it feel to see the first girl you ever kissed, kissing someone else?

Up close, the caught quaver of her breath, the downwards sweep of those eyelashes upon her cheeks. You remember?

How would it feel to see her dancing cheek-to-cheek with that someone, knowing that you were once able to hold her in your arms, just like that?

She’d clung to you then as if nothing else mattered. And perhaps, for the span of those heartbeats, when you were almost afraid to breathe for fear of the sheer perfection of those passing seconds dissolving away, nothing else did.

It was only the two of you then and that circle of light on the dance floor; the music and the magic and the feel of her in your arms were the only things that mattered.

How would it feel to see him slip an arm around her waist, tenderly, protectively, proprietorially, just like you used to do?

And the look she sends him in return, luminous, euphoric, telling everyone, radiating the fact that: ‘I’m his. I’m his. I cannot believe I belong to him’. Only that she used to belong to you then, not that someone else. 

How would it feel to see her hand held fast in his, those fingers, every sinew, every limber joint, every elegantly articulated bone, that used to be clasped in your own?

You find yourself wondering: Does he skim his thumb lightly over her knuckles as I used to do? Does he lace his fingers through hers one by one? Does he ever marvel at the miracle of those hands: strong enough to mold the world to her will, yet more fragile than silken rose petals?

And then you find yourself gazing blankly at the posy of blushing tea roses she’s clutching. Yes, you remember. She’d always said she would carry no other colour but that soft shade of pink, to match the colour of a bride’s blushing cheeks.

And you watch as the inevitable approaches. As the bridal couple progresses down the aisle of well-wishers and tearfully joyous guests.

When at the appropriate moment, you will have to endure being laughingly introduced to that someone as her ‘high school sweetheart’. And present her with the customary chaste peck on the cheek, which exes are never supposed to exceed, in the interests of propriety and polite company.

Afterwards at the reception, you toy with food on your plate: expensively touted, pleasantly bland, extravagantly presented. You go through the motions of eating (Was it chicken? Fish?), but everything tastes the same - as bitter as burnt ashes and the bitterest aloes.

All around you the sea of chatter swells and recedes, only to swell again, indefatigably. This is, after all a happy occassion. The least a considerate guest would be expected to do was to keep up the conversation: be polite, be mindful, keep up their end of the bargain.

You will have to endure the inane banter peculiar to wedding receptions and high school reunions and professional conventions. It’s the result of the conmingling of a hundred individuals, none of whom know each other all that well, but are too embarrassed to admit that fact out loud.

The matronly lady seated to your left who’s wearing an obscene amount of sapphires (Genuine? Paste? Does it matter really?) decides it’s high time she starts playing the part of a considerate guest.

After all, look at the spread they’ve put on, I wonder what the hotel’s charging them per head for this food? Why, I’ve never seen so many roses massed together on tabletops - the extravagance of it all! I do hope they have proper desserts and don’t try to pass off the wedding cake as another course, I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous in my life. If you’re going to do a thing, do it properly I always say. But with young people these days who can tell? Oh, this silence is getting positively oppressive, I’d better strike up a conversation with this young man here.

Having satisfactorily concluded that internal train of thought, she proceeds to tilt her glasses forward to half-mast on her nose, and asks, with the proper majestic inclination of her head how you knew the bride.

And numb beyond repair, you trot out the stock reply - in high school.

She does not know what you left unsaid.

She was my first love. I promised her we would be together forever.

And soon, too soon, the time for the customary toasts has come. You stare dully as waiters, deft and soft-footed, weave nimbly around the tables, filling slender flutes with sparkling champagne.

And even with their ambivalent embracing of Western tradition (hence the champagne and the cake-cutting), there were no speeches, no jovial roasting of the bridegroom by his groomsmen, the bridal couple did not remain at the top table.   

Instead, they moved from table to rose-bedecked table, toasting the guests in their round dozens.

And finally, she, they, arrive at yours.

She’s a little flushed: from the champagne, the tightly laced corset of her wedding gown and the sheer novelty of being the focal point of all that unrelenting attention (the guests, the photographer, the videographer, her bridesmaids, her Mom who simply could not stop fussing with her veil) and just from being that well-loved by that someone.

She’s just as you imagined she would be on your wedding day

You’d always said she’d make a glorious bride.

And realised how right you were as she stops for a moment before you, resplendent and newly-wed, her arm tucked engagingly in the elbow of that someone else. The usurper.

Then for the briefest of spaces, in between the intake of one breath and another, you see something which caused you equal parts joy and pain.

For across that beloved face, the one you know so well, a wisp of regret fluttered; an echo of a shadow of a dream now-vanished.

But within a heartbeat, that moment, like everything else between you and her, passed.

And then she raises her glass and smiles, gloriously radiant, nothing tentative about her: a bride at the pinnacle of her self-assuredness, a bride at her most bridal of moments.   

How can you smile at her in return, knowing that for the both of you, forever wasn’t long enough and tomorrow came too soon?