When your father is an accountant, making withdrawals from the Bank of Dad is never easy.
My kid sisters would agree. Observe.
NEW POCKET MONEY AGREEMENT
EFFECTIVE 1 MAY 2009
Duties we hereby willingly agree to in addition to our current duties for our new monthly pocket money:-
LL
- Keep my worktable, bed and bookshelf neat and tidy. EVERYDAY!!
- Dascha to be fed between between 6.30 to 7pm, bathed on Sat (unless raining), ears cleaned after bath and claws clipped.
- Help Mummy when she is ironing clothes
NL
- Keep my Daddy’s worktable and my bookshelf neat and tidy. EVERYDAY!!
- Dascha’s water bowl (upstairs and downstairs) to be constantly filled with fresh water
- Help Mummy when she is washing her car.
New pocket money – LL RM80 and NL RM40.
Deduction if (1.) is not done per nightly inspection –LL RM1.00 and NL RM0.50.
Couple of previous ‘contracts’ signed with the Bank of Dad:
It’s a good job I live in a different country!
I buy a cookbook.
My culinary skills have been steadily developing. Frozen pizza and nuggets no longer jostle each other for space in my freezer. I can now whip up a mean chicken curry from scratch.
Despite this, my repertoire of dishes is sadly limited. The dinner menu is recycled every week. Even Badger has ventured a comment or two about it. A bit rich coming from a man who can just about manage pasta with reheated sauce from a jar, but I can see his point.
What’s needed is a collection of step-by-step instructions to creating a range of quick and easy, yet tasty meals. Enter Donna Hay.
Glossy pages full of vibrant photographs accompanying recipes like Moroccan-spiced Baked Lamb and Spiced Chicken & Chorizo Couscous. The only way this book could be more enticing is if the pictures were scratch-n-sniff. And although the food presentation looks a little advanced (arranging linguine into clover-shaped swirls is pushing it), the recipes themselves look easy enough for a kitchen retard to follow.
Right, I am inspired. To hell with stroganoff, we’re eating one of Donna’s dinners tonight!
I make myself a cup of tea and settle down to choose a recipe for Badger to cook.
I learn kung fu again.
It is only my first month but everything comes flooding back to me. It is clear that I am pretty talented. Kung fu must be in my blood, just like table tennis and dim sum. I am surprised that the instructor does not point me out to the other students but he probably does not want to publicly upstage those who have been training longer than I have.
I attack the punching bag in a flurry of punches and kicks. If this had been a real person, I would have kung fu-ed him deader than dead.
The instructor stops me, “Whoa, whoa! Slow down there! Take it one move at a time. Accuracy over speed, ok?”
I am a little confused, but then he smiles at me. Ah, I understand. He wants me to slow down so the other students can watch and learn from me. I grin conspiratorially back.
We move on to kicking drills. I concentrate on my technique. Lift my knee, aim, and use my hips to channel force into an explosive kick. My foot becomes a weapon of mass destruction. SMACK! The bag cries out in agony.
“Try to put some power into your kick, I want to see that bag move.” The instructor again. He calls out in my general direction but he can’t be talking to me. My bag moved at least 3cm. So the instructor must be addressing the guy beside me. The poor guy is trying really hard but he has the kicking ability of a jellyfish.
Poor Jellyfish Legs. Maybe I should give him a few tips later.
Some signs of a posh party:
- Waiters float silently around the room with trays of delicately constructed finger food.
- The band members all look like they’ve had a shower in the past week.
- Free flow of alcohol consisting of imported beer, champagne and wine, with nary an alcopop in sight.
- Sneakers are prohibited.
As a student, I am not used to poshness in any form. At the last party I attended, drinks were fished out of the bathtub, the sink was filled with puke, and someone was lying comatose under a table. Extravagance was chips with dip. This being my last year of university however, I thought it wise to begin my transition to the grown up world.
So we go to a posh party. So posh that pockets of French conversation can be overheard around the room. Waltzing stiltwalkers twirl on the dancefloor and at least two people are wearing their sweaters looped around their neck.
I feel a little out of my element but the evening is going surprisingly well. Someone complimented me on my shoes earlier and Badger has managed to refrain from pulling out his Saturday Night Fever dance moves. At one point, I find myself trapped in a discussion about French films but luckily, I have just watched a film that was (a) French and (b) good, so I am covered. Before the conversation can turn to more dangerous waters of French literature (does Le Petit Prince in English count?), a waiter arrives in the nick of time with an offering of cheese and crackers.
“Ooooh, gorgonzola!”
Our little conversation group crowds around the waiter. All apart from me, that is. I do not want to be the odd one out but I am not too sure about this gorgonzola. In my limited cheese experience, I have only eaten hard cheeses, safe stuff like cheddar, swiss, and Jarlsberg. But maybe soft cheeses are another step to growing up.
Besides, Badger is stuffing his face with as much cheese as he can so that his hands are free to grab more. With a stamp of approval like that, I am reassured. I pop a healthy chunk of gorgonzola into my mouth.
And immediately regret it.
Creamy urine. I can think of no other way to describe the obscenity befouling my tastebuds. I am eating creamy urine. I try valiantly to force it down but it’s no use. I gag violently and spit my mouthful out into my glass of champagne. The bubbles fizz merrily around the putrid mass as I begin to dry retch. Badger pats me on the back concernedly and offers me his beer. I chug half the bottle down thankfully, trying to wash the offending taste away.
The rest of the group, waiter included, stares at me with jaws agape. “Is she alright?” one lady asks Badger.
Unable to hold back, I give her (and the peanut gallery) a gorgonzola-tinted beer belch in response.
It is hard to say who is more mortified.
Badger: Sweetie, what does ‘emancipated’ mean?
Me: It’s someone who’s super skinny.
Badger: …You’re a dope.
Eating KFC while watching Obama talk about war
Me: I felt quite betrayed when -
Badger: (interrupting) – when Afghanistan was invaded?
Me: No. When I found out that KFC’s mashed potatoes is actually instant potato powder.
True story.
A mate of mine visited a psychologist the other day. He believed that he might have Asperger’s and wanted to know if anything could be done to help him.
The psychologist hmm-ed and haw-ed a little, then scratched his head and offered a referral to a psychiatrist instead.
My mate was confused. Why, he asked, was a psychiatrist needed?
Look, the psychologist replied, I’ll be frank. A psychiatrist is the only one who can help you if you think you’re a bloody asparagus.
Ba dum tish!
I have always been a little self-conscious.
I hate walking long distances (anything farther than a street away) because I imagine people driving past and saying “Sucks to be her!” In the same vein, I am mortified whenever I trip over my own feet. I try to disguise it by turning it into a jog but I’m not quite convinced that I pull it off successfully. I don’t know which is worse – “Ha ha, she nearly fell on her face” or “That girl has a funny run”. When forced to double back, I cannot simply walk back down the street. No, I have to elaborately pat my pockets down, tap my temple as I wonder where my ‘missing keys’ are, and suddenly realise that they’re probably at home (think light bulb). Only then, with finger raised in an “Aha!” gesture, can I turn back.
This self-consciousness is valid. I know for a fact that people do mock others in the above situations. I know this because I am one of those people. As I drive past pedestrians and cyclists on rainy days, I laugh at each sodden individual, “Sucks to be you, you, you…and yes, you too!” Wallowing in schadenfreude like a mutt in mud, I take quiet amusement in other people stubbing their toes, being stuck in traffic, and eating too much wasabi.
So it’s no wonder that I hate running for buses or trains. What if, horror of horrors, I don’t get there in time? As I’m doubled over panting my lungs out and watching the bus/train leave without me, the world will stop and laugh their lungs out. “Ha ha!” everyone will laugh. “Look at that loser! Bet you wish you didn’t eat that last slice of pizza, eh Chubbachubbs!” And I’ll have to stay there, stewing in my humiliation, until the next bus/train comes to rescue me.
Approaching a bus stop yesterday, I had to weigh all that against the agony of waiting half an hour for the next bus. “F___ it,” I said to myself. “F___ it. If I start running now, I’ll definitely get to the bus in time to at least pound on the doors.” So I swallowed my pride and uncertainty, and I ran. Oh, how I ran. Ignoring the smirks of the other commuters, heedless of the frail old lady I shoved out of the way, I flew for the waiting bus. I got to it just as the doors were about to close. Basking in triumph, I leapt into the bus.
And promptly caught my foot on the step.
Like a horrific car crash, my tumble seemed to happen in slow motion. I squealed like a stuck pig and windmilled my arms to no avail. For a moment, I managed to catch myself with the other foot, but that too betrayed me. Inevitably, I crashed and slid across the floor until I was arrested by the embrace of someone’s ankle.
Crowded as it was, the bus was shocked silent. But then, as the owner of the ankle imprinted on my forehead helped me up, I heard a few strangled snorts start and die abruptly. As if mouths had been clapped shut to contain braying laughter. Even my rescuer looked to be putting so much effort into controlling himself that a few of his ribs must have slipped their moorings.
Karma is a bitch.
Now that I’m on a clinic placement, I try my best to look professional. Gone are the hoodies and sneakers. Instead I’m soberly dressed in appropriate officewear and sensible shoes. If I could, I would grow a beard just so I could stroke it thoughtfully during therapy.
Sometimes though, I suspect that my mask cracks wide open when I:
- Run through the corridors of the hospital.
- Am caught stuffing my face with free biscuits in the staff pantry.
- Scream like a little girl when I encounter a cockroach.
- Blurt out statements like, “I’m going to burn your house down if I don’t get email access!”.
- Almost pass out watching a nurse administer an injection.
- Sprint upstairs two steps at a time.
- Giggle whenever anyone mentions poo.
Just a guess.
…trekking back and forth countless times to painstakingly refill a watering can at the tap. Just so I can sneakily water the plants outside and avoid being caught with a hose on a non-watering day.
And watching it start to rain two minutes after I finish.
