Being Ugly

What are the specifics that actually comprised of the word "ugly"?

I have a good girl friend who has very high standards of men in terms of physical looks and dressing. Most of the guys she ever gushed about are admittedly extremely good-looking and well-groomed hunks, equipped with muscular physique.

However, this friend of mine seemingly has a low tolerance towards the less endowed and blessed people. There are the ones who are not as good looking, not as well-groomed nor are they blessed with lean and mean to-die-for bodies. So often, I find her retorting "So ugly!" when I am describing a friend, or showing a picture, or judging a person physically present who belonged to this segment of the population.

Despite the frankness and cynism I appreciate in this friend, I find it hard to agree with her most of the times and extremely difficult to label anybody ugly. The most I could do is to express that the guy probably does not suit my taste. And more often than not, I find a person who is highly intellectual, highly talented, a person who is generous and kind, a person who makes me laugh the whole time, much more attractive that some handsome self-absorbed guys. I mean, I don't want to spend my time fighting the insane urge to slap the hunk out of his I-am-so-handsome-everyone-is-looking-at-me mode.

Anyway, the main point is, I never thought of anyone as being ugly. Most of the times, when I am introduced a person, I look for the most beautiful feature. Ah, he has nice eyes. Ah, doesn't she have the most graceful fingers? Almost always, I find something beautiful about a person. I may not be attracted to the person, but that doesn't mean he is ugly.

Ugly is such an ugly word. Do think about it the next time before you use it on someone. Nobody actually deserves the label.

Turns of Tide - Playing Mum to Mum

I remember when I was little, I suffered separation anxiety whilst living with my maternal grandma. I made a huge fuss whenever any of my aunts hogged the phone long enough to prevent me from making my daily calls to my mum. Every night, without fail, I would call my mum to tell her about my day. Further, I will pepper the day with random calls to complain about insignficiant, inconsequential trvia like "Julia doesn't want to friend me!".

Finally, when I reached the age of twelve, I migrated from my maternal grandma's home to my own home. The calls to mum reduced significantly, with the increasing load of secondary-school homework and extra-curricular activities. Still, I will call my mum in her office to gripe, "Today I had to run 6 laps at 3 pm for Netball training leh!", or ask very fundamental questions like "How much water to add into the rice cooker?"

Gradually, years passed and age seeped. With a subtle hint of sadness(?), I noted that I call my mum only to ask the essentials, "Do you want anything to eat? Do you need a ride?" Gone were the gripes. Gone were the bitching. Instead, my mum became the one who began to find the need to telephone me to gripe about family and work woes.

On a normal work day, it is not unusual for my mum to interfuse my time with calls. Yesterday was one such day. Besides the usual errands arranging...

*Ring ring*
Me: Yes, mum?
Mum: Girl ah, I received your credit card bill you know. You spent S$300 on your citibank ah?
Me: Uh, okay.
Mum: You bought cosmetics? (Asked incredulously because it is as rare as a blue moon)
Me: Uh, yah. Why, cannot ah?
Mum: Can, can. (Paper flipping sound in background)
Mum: What's Ministry of Sound ah? Why I haven't heard of such a Ministry before?
Me: Uh...... it's actually a name of a place lah. We bought drinks there.
Mum: Oh okay... just checking....

2 hours later...
*Ring ring*
Me: Yes, mum?
Mum: Girl ah, you know the chiller for the wine? Cannot close, you know?
Me: Oh? (Thinking: So?)
Mum: I so angry with Papa! He say I spoil the chiller!
Me: Mmmm. Wine won't spoil one lah, if you store outside.

1/2 hour later...
*Ring ring*
Me: Yes, mum? (more resigned tone)
Mum: Girl ah, eh you know ah, why the wine chiller cannot close?
Me: No. (But I believe you are aching to tell me.)
Mum: Because got a water bottle sticking out lor! So funny hor! Lucky I found out, blabla
Me: .....

1 hour later....
*Ring ring*
Me: Hello, mum.
Mum: Girl ah, I TELL YOU! I SO ANGRY!
Me: Why leh?
Mum: You know, I went over to Jeanette's house for a 5 mins, I come back and realize the bird flew into our backyard and steal my duck meat!
Me: ...
Mum: I AM SO MAD!!!!!!!
Me: (Don't know to laugh or to cry) Then how, you want me to find the bird a not?
Mum: HAIYAH, I SO ANGRY YOU STILL JOKE.
Me: What you want me to do? I find the bird and kill it la.
Mum: HAIYAH. NEVER MIND! *Slams phone*

Ah, the turns of tide. I must imagine my mum to be quite patient to tolerate all the shiat from me when I was young.

I want a Straw that Sucks!

The downside of my job is that I usually have to lunch alone, unless I do lunch appointments with my professors. When eating alone, I frequently resort to take-aways because it is almost impossible to sniff a seat out during the lunch hours. When eating alone, I further prefer to head to the shortest queue because I detest standing in lines, having the person behind breathing moisture down my neck.

Unfortunately, the shortest queue also mean blandest food. But that, I can tolerate. Soon, the Science Canteen Pasta Uncle began to find my face familiar. Each time my lunch order mildly differs "Macaroni, Cream Sauce, Small, Takeaway." Each time, Pasta Uncle's responds "Do you know how much is the small portion?"

Now, to me, this is rather exasperating but I constantly kept my cool sufficiently to mutter "$2.30, Uncle." For some reason today, I decided to retort.

"Shouldn't you at least know the price of the food you sell?"

Pasta Uncle: Orhh. Cos' ah, Nobody order small-size one!
Me: ...

Pasta Uncle scooped the macaroni.

Pasta Uncle: Enough a not ah?
Me: Yes, yes.

He proceeded to scoop the cream sauce.

Pasta Uncle: Enough a not ah?
Me: Well, I could do with a bit more.

He proceeded with more cream sauce.

Pasta Uncle: Now leh, enough a not?
Me: Yes, yes.
Pasta Uncle: Of course yes lah. If not enough, it becomes big order already lor.

If that isn't dripping sarcasm, I don't know what is.

Pasta Uncle: What you doing ah? Student or Staff?
Me: Both.
Pasta Uncle: Why always DA BAO? EAT HERE LAH!
Me: ...

Grabbing my food and handing him $2.40, I made a mental note to boycott the Pasta Stall forever more, despite its short short queues.

Pasta Uncle: So, I return you 10 cent right?

I resisted the urge to purge my innards and made my way to the drinks store to get a packet of apple juice. What's more aggravating than a Pasta Uncle who can't Shut Up? A straw with a puny hole that render all sucking futile. Give me a straw that sucks! Grr.

Hola!

Move... Moving ... Moved!

And so it happened. The wise sages always prophesize about Life coming into a full circle, how one will ultimately return to square one, how the end is actually the beginning. Ah. As macabre as it may sound, my blogging patterns seemingly comply by the prophecy. I started my virgin blog at the then-primitive blogspot, moving on to personal webpages, tabulas, livejournal and then back to blogspot once more.

The now-blogspot has a lot of spiffy new functions that I have yet to explore. Considering my never-ending backlog of work and appointments, I must be quite demented (or a procastinater, some might say) to embark on this new project.

Argh. Later.