On Friday I lost my mobile phone.
I was sitting at the Caffe Cino outlet in KL Hilton discussing work. The damn phone must have fallen out my of pocket as I sat there on the sofa. I left the place and realised this as soon after I drove out of the parking lot. I immediately turned back, parked my car and ran up to the place. Needless to say, the phone was gone.
I enquired at the establishment but no one had reported a lost and found mobile phone. I made calls but no one answered. At one point someone did, but did not speak. Instead I was treated to a surround sound of the inside of someone's pocket.
So there. My phone was gone and quite possibly, someone in Hilton had found it but had decided to keep it. I'd expect this at Rumah Tumpangan Kiew Kiew (not that I ever go to someplace named Rumah Tumpang Kiew Kiew), but this was the Hilton, dammit.
But perhaps my expectation of the establishment is unrealistic. After all, the tone and manner of the place did take a dip when their famous heiress spent a few nights in the slammer. Heh.
The phone was a Nokia 6280. It's pretty worn out. But I cherish it, simply for the fact that it took plenty of pictures, many of which are still inside the phone. So... um... if you happen to spot any pictures of me with Cecelia Cheung or Gillian Chung on the internet, please destroy them. Do NOT forward to Mae!!!
Seriously though, I have pictures of my family in there. *sigh* I actually sent an SMS to my phone to appeal to the finder to mail my memory card back to me. But I am not hopeful, cos you can't expect a dishonest person to do the right thing, can you?
BTW, some of you might wanna SMS me your numbers.
Monday, February 18, 2008
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Reunion
This year, we didn't go home to Taiping for the Chinese New Year. Since Grandma's passing, her sons and daughters decided that they will no longer convene in Taiping for the reunion, but will instead do their own thing. It's a crying shame, but I suppose this is the natural progression of things.
This year, Mom made the trip down here instead. My brother-in-law booked us at a Chinese restaurant and it was a reunion of his family, ours and my stepmom's. As dinners with our family go, the food was great and the conversations excellent. Yet I can't help but miss our reunions in Taiping with Mom's siblings and my cousins.
Our family is a motley crue of the craziest people you would ever see. They're funny, loud and they all love food.
Reunions start early in Taiping. By 3pm, everyone's home. Most of us would gather in the kitchen and there would be plenty of washing, cutting, cooking, cleaning, tasting and other stuff you do in the kitchen. And our home would be thick with camaradarie and laughter. So much so, some of us just came into the kitchen for the fun of it. So much so, our poor neighbour next door would peek his head into our kitchen and remarked how much he wished he were part of the family. That was our tradition.
Too bad Grandma's gone. I suppose now we'll have to make our own traditions. Maybe next year I'll make everyone come to the house and wash and cut and cook and clean.
This year, Mom made the trip down here instead. My brother-in-law booked us at a Chinese restaurant and it was a reunion of his family, ours and my stepmom's. As dinners with our family go, the food was great and the conversations excellent. Yet I can't help but miss our reunions in Taiping with Mom's siblings and my cousins.
Our family is a motley crue of the craziest people you would ever see. They're funny, loud and they all love food.
Reunions start early in Taiping. By 3pm, everyone's home. Most of us would gather in the kitchen and there would be plenty of washing, cutting, cooking, cleaning, tasting and other stuff you do in the kitchen. And our home would be thick with camaradarie and laughter. So much so, some of us just came into the kitchen for the fun of it. So much so, our poor neighbour next door would peek his head into our kitchen and remarked how much he wished he were part of the family. That was our tradition.
Too bad Grandma's gone. I suppose now we'll have to make our own traditions. Maybe next year I'll make everyone come to the house and wash and cut and cook and clean.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Angry Boy
"Today, I'm very angry," my little boy tells me last night in bed. He was probably upset that he had soiled his diaper, and that I had told him off about it.
"Who are you angry with?" I asked.
"I'm angry with Kakak," he answers spitefully, redirecting his anger to our maid, Anie. "Well, you can't be angry with Kakak," I advised, "not if you want her to wash your bum-bum."
As Anie was dealing with him, she enquired about his temperament, "Jesse is angry with Kakak?"
"Nooooo," he answers in the sweetest little voice. "Jesse is angry with Mommy," explained the little politician, in the most matter-of-fact tone that a four-year-old can muster. However, all that time the boy didn't know that Mommy was within earshot.
"What!?!?" Mae's blood-curdling voiced boom from inside our bedroom. "Why are you angry with Mommy?"
With that Mommy's faithful little subject scurried into the room before the Queen. He stood there looking most apologetic, as he wracked his brain for a good save. And then it came, "because Mommy always makes the floor wet."
Mae is always making a mess of our bathroom, and I once unwittingly told the boy so. The little rascal had stored this, and probably other tasty bits of information to be used to negotiate his release in sticky situations. And while the boy gets Her Majesty's royal pardon, Daddy gets a boot to the head for releasing sensitive information to the child. Hehheh.
"Who are you angry with?" I asked.
"I'm angry with Kakak," he answers spitefully, redirecting his anger to our maid, Anie. "Well, you can't be angry with Kakak," I advised, "not if you want her to wash your bum-bum."
As Anie was dealing with him, she enquired about his temperament, "Jesse is angry with Kakak?"
"Nooooo," he answers in the sweetest little voice. "Jesse is angry with Mommy," explained the little politician, in the most matter-of-fact tone that a four-year-old can muster. However, all that time the boy didn't know that Mommy was within earshot.
"What!?!?" Mae's blood-curdling voiced boom from inside our bedroom. "Why are you angry with Mommy?"
With that Mommy's faithful little subject scurried into the room before the Queen. He stood there looking most apologetic, as he wracked his brain for a good save. And then it came, "because Mommy always makes the floor wet."
Mae is always making a mess of our bathroom, and I once unwittingly told the boy so. The little rascal had stored this, and probably other tasty bits of information to be used to negotiate his release in sticky situations. And while the boy gets Her Majesty's royal pardon, Daddy gets a boot to the head for releasing sensitive information to the child. Hehheh.
Monday, February 4, 2008
Passport Photo
It occured to me that I will never have a nice passport photo. Given my track record with the damn thing, you'd think it was against the natural order of universe for me to get a decent passport photo.
Last Tuesday, as I sat before the photographer, I thought to myself that maybe this year I'd have a better shot seeing that I didn't have to wake up at 5am to queue up at the Immigration office. Yes, our governmental processes used to be much more of a pain in the ass that it is now, but I digress. And so, I flashed the cameraman my best snarl (For some reason, it just feels wrong to be all smiley and cheerful for official photos).
Needless to say, it was another crappy photo. I look old, tired and guilty. If I were ever hauled into the interrogation room of a foreign country under the suspicion of smuggling child pornography, I'm gonna be in deep trouble. (No, you bastards, I will not scan and publish it here.)
The past years were no better. In my last passport, I look like a refugee from the killing fields who had accidentally stepped on a land mine. But at least I looked young then. Heck, I WAS young then.
Going back further, even my childhood passport was not spared. I got my first travel document at the age of 8. In it, I looked like the bargain bin special of a fledging third world child sex ring.
In retrospect, I probably should have gotten the photographer to reshoot but that would probably be another exercise in futility. Maybe I just ought to smile more for these official photographs. Oh well.
Last Tuesday, as I sat before the photographer, I thought to myself that maybe this year I'd have a better shot seeing that I didn't have to wake up at 5am to queue up at the Immigration office. Yes, our governmental processes used to be much more of a pain in the ass that it is now, but I digress. And so, I flashed the cameraman my best snarl (For some reason, it just feels wrong to be all smiley and cheerful for official photos).
Needless to say, it was another crappy photo. I look old, tired and guilty. If I were ever hauled into the interrogation room of a foreign country under the suspicion of smuggling child pornography, I'm gonna be in deep trouble. (No, you bastards, I will not scan and publish it here.)
The past years were no better. In my last passport, I look like a refugee from the killing fields who had accidentally stepped on a land mine. But at least I looked young then. Heck, I WAS young then.
Going back further, even my childhood passport was not spared. I got my first travel document at the age of 8. In it, I looked like the bargain bin special of a fledging third world child sex ring.
In retrospect, I probably should have gotten the photographer to reshoot but that would probably be another exercise in futility. Maybe I just ought to smile more for these official photographs. Oh well.
Friday, February 1, 2008
Project Codename: Cicakgirl
It's Maya Karin. In red leather. And all over me. Which explains the shit-eating grin on my face. Took awhile for Mae to slap it out of my system. Hahahaha.
Seriously though, it was all work and I'm happy to add that Maya is as lovely in person as she in on screen - unless you only watch the scary bits in Pontianak Harum Sundal Malam. Very down-to-earth, and very nice. Despite me poking a camera in her face the entire time. :)
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Superman Returns
If you haven't already figured it out, Jesse is in his Superman phase now. One minute he's mild-mannered reporter Clark Kent, the next minute he's unbuttoning his shirt and baring his chest all over town. It seems like you can't take any shot of boy minus the pose. It's infuriating.
As you can imagine, he's got a growing collection of Superman paraphernalia, including the costume. But it's not enough that he has the suit, he also insists that I get one. Thankfully, they only have t-shirts for men my size. Just imagine me in blue tights and red underwear. Not a pretty sight, believe you me.
Anyway, Mae decided to get in on the action and got herself a Superman t-shirt too. However, in his eyes, Mommy is Wonder Woman. Now, does anyone know where can I get my hands on a Wonder Woman costume? Please understand that it's not for my
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
No Eye See
I have a tendency to leave my spectacles all over the place, so this morning's episode wasn't terribly unfamilliar to me. Except that after over one hour of searching, the damn glasses were still nowhere to be found.
"Honey," I called Mae on the phone, "did you happen to see my glasses?" Nope. "What about Anie," I asked if the maid had seen it. No again.
By then I had overturned the entire house. I was late for work. And the bloody specs were still nowhere to be found. So, I decided to go to work blind. As I left, I called the wife again.
"Maybe Anie accidentally broke them," I presented my conspiracy theory to Mae, "and decided to get rid of the incriminating evidence." While I spoke, I found myself making my way towards the trash disposal room, half expecting to rummage through this morning's garbage. Thankfully, I came to my senses.
As I drove, I called Mae again. "Maybe you took my glasses."
"Of course not," she snapped, quickly losing her patience. "I can't wear your glasses without getting a headache!"
"Maybe you put them in your handbag by mistake," I suggested, sheepishly. I was getting desperate. "It could happen."
"Don't be silly," Mae scoffed. Damn woman scoffed at me. And I took it like a downtrodden little boy, defeated. Wasted and spent, by my cheap hundred ringgit glasses. And a wife who scoffed at me.
Half an hour later Mae calls.
"Erm... hehe... I have good news and bad news," said a self-righteous monkey of a klutz on the other end of the line.
Ho ho ho. Sweet revenge.
"Honey," I called Mae on the phone, "did you happen to see my glasses?" Nope. "What about Anie," I asked if the maid had seen it. No again.
By then I had overturned the entire house. I was late for work. And the bloody specs were still nowhere to be found. So, I decided to go to work blind. As I left, I called the wife again.
"Maybe Anie accidentally broke them," I presented my conspiracy theory to Mae, "and decided to get rid of the incriminating evidence." While I spoke, I found myself making my way towards the trash disposal room, half expecting to rummage through this morning's garbage. Thankfully, I came to my senses.
As I drove, I called Mae again. "Maybe you took my glasses."
"Of course not," she snapped, quickly losing her patience. "I can't wear your glasses without getting a headache!"
"Maybe you put them in your handbag by mistake," I suggested, sheepishly. I was getting desperate. "It could happen."
"Don't be silly," Mae scoffed. Damn woman scoffed at me. And I took it like a downtrodden little boy, defeated. Wasted and spent, by my cheap hundred ringgit glasses. And a wife who scoffed at me.
Half an hour later Mae calls.
"Erm... hehe... I have good news and bad news," said a self-righteous monkey of a klutz on the other end of the line.
Ho ho ho. Sweet revenge.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)