Rootote Millefeuille

This Rootote Millefeuille is my farewell gift from the people at the lil’ shophouse in Katong, ordered off the stylish site yesstyle.com

Rootote is named for its little kangeROO-like pouch at the side of its range of tote bags. Very handy for the busy city girl, who can simply whip out her cardholder from the Roo-pocket and tap at the Ezylink! This particular one takes its name from the French word meaning “a thousand sheets” and is made of strong canvas and PVC trimmings on the handles and base.

I love how the stripes are boldly splashed across the fabric in varying thickness and colours. And the best bit? Daintily printed, the French line “Le Bonheur est a ceux qui savent rire”, meaning “Happiness is for those who knows how to laugh”, managed to put a smile on my otherwise dour face this morning.

Filed under: all things frivolous, joo chiat , gift, tote bag

Kitty Litter

Changes frighten me. And again, what doesn’t nowadays? Because of the brickbats of changes happening in this month, I’ve been in a foul and bitter mood almost every single day. Oh how I rage against …everything! It’s terrible. These inevitable changes. This thing we call Life.

To make myself feel better, I clear cat-poo. Unlike cleaning up after dogs, clearing cat-poo is remarkably therapeutic. With my cat-loving editor madly shopping in Europe, I have taken over the all-important duty of caring for the two wonderful cats in the office. With much pleasure, I should add.

It’s a great way to start the day. Yes, clearing poo. I’ll have to shake the litter tray and tilt it slightly so all the sand will slide to the side, revealing continents of clumps. Mighty clumps they are! Always in the same spots. Two cats, and you’ll get a fair amount of clumped sand and dainty poo. Then I’ll scoop up the clumps using the little blue scoop, with as much energy as I can conjure from my skeletal arms, remembering a lovely anecdote about my editor’s dead cat at the same time. Regal Mimi, who used to cover up most of her poo neatly beneath the sand, but would make the effort to leave one small piece perched onto her masterpiece of a hill, as if meowing, “Oh look now! I’ve pooed. Now clear it!”

Sand works much better, in my opinion. I detest the crystals, which changed to an ugly blue when they were peed upon. And I hate those Japan-imported fluffy styrofoam-like bits. Those simply don’t clump well. Sand is perfect. With sand, a cat’s litter tray is my preferred version of a miniature Zen garden.

Filed under: belljar, joo chiat

Delicious Chicken Rice

from sbestfood.com

Originally uploaded by jaclynl

I absolutely love the roasted chicken rice from this stall.

The skin is roasted to a crisp and the meat is tender, drenched in soya sauce, with fried garlic and coriander scattered on top. The rice is aromatic and far more flavourful than the more popular chicken rice places around this area – Five Star, Sing Ho and Boon Tong Kee.

What’s really amazing is that they don’t just serve a bowl of plain soup. You’d get a wholesome bowl of chicken based soup filled with melons, corn and carrots too! All these for just S$4!

Yummy Yum Yum Yum!!!

Delicious Boneless Chicken Rice
Katong Shopping Centre
Basement Food Court

Filed under: joo chiat

Back To 1985

I don’t remember any of those exciting cyclonic swirls. It was just ‘plop’ and I was there, in the Joo Chiat shophouse, watching a 3-year-old me crawling around. She was smiling and I remember thinking, ‘how cute I was!’ With the wispy curls, the loose striped shirt. My very young Ah-ma entered and I remember being very happy to see her black permed hair and flowery shirt again.

She spoke to me, I wasn’t invisible. I didn’t dissolve in molecules at her touch. It was so real. She brought me to the kitchen and told me she was going to cook. I watched her intently. She cut up a single huge pork slice and wok-fried it in spices and plenty of garlic. Nothing I remember from my childhood. I only remember the coffee.

Then I wandered around in 1985. I knew distinctly it was 1985. I wondered how the hell I’m ever going to get back. I went out of Joo Chiat and into Katong looking for a newsstand so I could check the papers for the date. It was across a busy road full of erm1985-ish cars and I couldn’t cross it.

It was then I met my mum and she was crying about something. I tried to tell her I’m her daughter from 2006 but couldn’t. Or so I think. Memory plays little tricks, or girls lie little lies that way. We hugged at a bus-stop and I remember sitting down, thinking yet again, ‘How the hell am I ever going to go back to 2006?’

Filed under: dreams, joo chiat

Byebye Blues

Tis a nice day for a sulk, as Belle and Sebastian sings. But I shall try to remain positive, for once.

2005 was ‘ooorrribbllee, in the vilest sense of the word. I’m sorry if I worried everyone. the rather mad jac can get rather mad. But things are easing up. So if I die, I’ll die. If I live, I’ll live. And while I’m at it, I’ll continue being a happy cow and munch on green leaves. Moo! Moo! And I’ll continue writing raw poems I guess.

Yesterday evening, a smallish moth flew into the flat. I wonder if that’s Ah Ma. How I miss her rambling on and on and on about Lee Kuan Yew and racial riots. Now, there is no more Joo Chiat to go back to. The old shophouse is going to rented out. I miss everything about it already, down to that cane vase of plastic flowers peeking through the window.

My Links are not showing up. Gimme a few days to figure out why. I’m a writer. I don’t know what’s wrong with bloody html.

Filed under: joo chiat

I Can’t Sleep

Feeling just a little down. Damn it, damn it, I muttered to myself on my way home. Are the demons coming back? Emailed Em, whom I believe will understand my short little plea for some human contact. Squeak squeak. I do miss you, my dear friend.

Wasted the evening with meaningless work. Lucky I was working with an interesting photographer. He used to be with TNP eons ago, and appears to like me enough to want to share photography techniques. He even accompanied me to eat something he hates – Fei Fei wanton mee.

It looks like it’s going to rain. I love thunderstorms on a night like this. It suits my mind to a T. But I worry about the wild dogs off TPE. I see them some mornings in packs of four. It never fails to amaze me, that groupie assurance. On rainy mornings, I would see them waiting at one of the bus-stops for the rain to cease.

My Ah-Ma isn’t doing so well. She’s wasting away, and I spent Saturday after Saturday sitting at her feet, staring emptily at the screen while she sleeps. She told me today it is painful for her to sleep. She told me last Saturday that she is going to “bye bye” soon. I didn’t know how to answer her. I only nodded apologetically and rubbed her hands. Like today. She didn’t even talk. She loved to talk. I wonder if sitting at her feet actually helps. Her toenails are all yellowish. Unlike Ah-Gong, who used to ease aloe vera into his legs before he died, Ah-Ma would only rub hers with medicated oil. Strong, smelly and effective. She sips Brands chicken essence too. The medicine irritates her. She has to spoon weird concoctions into her mouth, and then wash it down with fruit juice. I think she may not live past December. And then what will we do?

We will dismiss the Indonesian maid. My Pa will move back. Our Joo Chiat shophouse will go into the hands of…I don’t know. I want the Joo Chiat shophouse, but I’m sure it’s not going to come to me. If she dies, and the Joo Chiat shophouse goes, then what’s left of my sheltered childhood? The assurance of belonging? The first word I used to utter each morning in Joo Chiat was “Ah-Ma”. Then she would serve me a cup of kopi with milk. I have been drinking coffee since 5, I think. And she would shelter me from Mummy’s wrathful cane. And she would laugh when I sprawl myself on the living-room floor, looking up at the high ceiling, blocking anyone who walks in.

What if she dies when I’m working? Why am I wasting time on work, when I should be the one rubbing her legs instead of the Indonesian maid (who evidently does not care)?

Am feeling just a little down. Perhaps I should learn not to carry so many emotional burdens on my already-bent back. I should worry, instead, on things I can change – like bills and buying my poor Mummy a proper bed.

Filed under: belljar, joo chiat

Of Uneasy Dreams & Uneasy Deaths

Yesterday was the one evening I could get off work much earlier than usual. I rushed straight home, ate, showered and went to bed at 8.30pm.

In between sleep, I heard snatches of conversations between Mum and my sister Ting – of suicide, and lots of why, why, why. I slipped back into uneasy dreams. In one of them, I was on fast-travelling bus with many others, circling up a mountain road into the unknown. We whirled to a stop in front of a whitewashed building. We had to get special passes before we could proceed.

So one by one, we lined up. Each one recieved a nod from the officer – a thin, obnoxious man, before leaping through a door into what was supposedly our destination. Paradise. When it was my turn, I refused to leap to Paradise (much to my later regret). The thin, obnoxious man took me in.

Once the crowd cleared, he promptly insisted that we go to “Mustafa”. Why now? I asked tentatively, puzzledly. But this thin man insisted. So we walked over to the other end of the room and stood in front of another door. This door was near the entrance of the building. I remember visualising shelves and shelves of groceries as I stood and waited. Surely, that is what “Mustafa” must be like?

The thin, obnoxious man opened the door. To my utter dismay, it was a room of no bigger than our average HDB storeroom. Four white walls, enclosing a fancy fountain. So this is “Mustafa”, I thought, and regretted that I rejected Paradise. The thin man fell to his knees, and begun licking at the water in the fountain. I stared in disgust and disbelief.

As he licked more and more, he started growing fatter and fatter and fatter. Within minutes, his skin turned green and he was making some strange, gurgling noises. Metamorphosis! I screamed inwardly. Finally, he stopped licking at the water. He parked himself proudly next to the fountain. And there he was, a giant green frog. He was disgusting.

I woke up. And learnt of my distant cousin’s suicide with a black trash bag, towel, and masking tape. What is death, I wonder? The unruly death that imposes itself on people. Like a black shadow. Enveloping. So my distant cousin, young. I see him about two times a year, I gather. Each time, a polite nod. Kor. He used to visit Joo Chiat. We would meet over sliding iron gates. It was the same over the years, and that’s what I remembered of him when I met him two months ago.

I didn’t have the keys, and he wanted to get in. We exchanged greetings. He smiled. Nothing out of the unusual. But there, I’m slipping into the cliches they always always write in after-death articles: He was a good basketball player, well-liked by his peers. She was popular and a star student.

Suddenly, death absolves all of wrongdoings and imperfections.

So you are thinking what I am feeling right now. I feel nothing. We are not close. I can continue to drink my coffee. I can continue to put out my laundry. What is he to me but a blurred memory?

Blurred dreams, blurred memories. Now isn’t that life? As the French says, cest la vie.

Filed under: dreams, joo chiat

Of Uneasy Dreams & Uneasy Deaths

Yesterday was the one evening I could get off work much earlier than usual. I rushed straight home, ate, showered and went to bed at 8.30pm.

In between sleep, I heard snatches of conversations between Mum and my sister Ting – of suicide, and lots of why, why, why. I slipped back into uneasy dreams. In one of them, I was on fast-travelling bus with many others, circling up a mountain road into the unknown. We whirled to a stop in front of a whitewashed building. We had to get special passes before we could proceed.

So one by one, we lined up. Each one recieved a nod from the officer – a thin, obnoxious man, before leaping through a door into what was supposedly our destination. Paradise. When it was my turn, I refused to leap to Paradise (much to my later regret). The thin, obnoxious man took me in.

Once the crowd cleared, he promptly insisted that we go to “Mustafa”. Why now? I asked tentatively, puzzledly. But this thin man insisted. So we walked over to the other end of the room and stood in front of another door. This door was near the entrance of the building. I remember visualising shelves and shelves of groceries as I stood and waited. Surely, that is what “Mustafa” must be like?

The thin, obnoxious man opened the door. To my utter dismay, it was a room of no bigger than our average HDB storeroom. Four white walls, enclosing a fancy fountain. So this is “Mustafa”, I thought, and regretted that I rejected Paradise. The thin man fell to his knees, and begun licking at the water in the fountain. I stared in disgust and disbelief.

As he licked more and more, he started growing fatter and fatter and fatter. Within minutes, his skin turned green and he was making some strange, gurgling noises. Metamorphosis! I screamed inwardly. Finally, he stopped licking at the water. He parked himself proudly next to the fountain. And there he was, a giant green frog. He was disgusting.

I woke up. And learnt of my distant cousin’s suicide with a black trash bag, towel, and masking tape. What is death, I wonder? The unruly death that imposes itself on people. Like a black shadow. Enveloping. So my distant cousin, young. I see him about two times a year, I gather. Each time, a polite nod. Kor. He used to visit Joo Chiat. We would meet over sliding iron gates. It was the same over the years, and that’s what I remembered of him when I met him two months ago.

I didn’t have the keys, and he wanted to get in. We exchanged greetings. He smiled. Nothing out of the unusual. But there, I’m slipping into the cliches they always always write in after-death articles: He was a good basketball player, well-liked by his peers. She was popular and a star student.

Suddenly, death absolves all of wrongdoings and imperfections.

So you are thinking what I am feeling right now. I feel nothing. We are not close. I can continue to drink my coffee. I can continue to put out my laundry. What is he to me but a blurred memory?

Blurred dreams, blurred memories. Now isn’t that life? As the French says, cest la vie.

Filed under: dreams, joo chiat

Of Uneasy Dreams & Uneasy Deaths

Yesterday was the one evening I could get off work much earlier than usual. I rushed straight home, ate, showered and went to bed at 8.30pm.

In between sleep, I heard snatches of conversations between Mum and my sister Ting – of suicide, and lots of why, why, why. I slipped back into uneasy dreams. In one of them, I was on fast-travelling bus with many others, circling up a mountain road into the unknown. We whirled to a stop in front of a whitewashed building. We had to get special passes before we could proceed.

So one by one, we lined up. Each one recieved a nod from the officer – a thin, obnoxious man, before leaping through a door into what was supposedly our destination. Paradise. When it was my turn, I refused to leap to Paradise (much to my later regret). The thin, obnoxious man took me in.

Once the crowd cleared, he promptly insisted that we go to “Mustafa”. Why now? I asked tentatively, puzzledly. But this thin man insisted. So we walked over to the other end of the room and stood in front of another door. This door was near the entrance of the building. I remember visualising shelves and shelves of groceries as I stood and waited. Surely, that is what “Mustafa” must be like?

The thin, obnoxious man opened the door. To my utter dismay, it was a room of no bigger than our average HDB storeroom. Four white walls, enclosing a fancy fountain. So this is “Mustafa”, I thought, and regretted that I rejected Paradise. The thin man fell to his knees, and begun licking at the water in the fountain. I stared in disgust and disbelief.

As he licked more and more, he started growing fatter and fatter and fatter. Within minutes, his skin turned green and he was making some strange, gurgling noises. Metamorphosis! I screamed inwardly. Finally, he stopped licking at the water. He parked himself proudly next to the fountain. And there he was, a giant green frog. He was disgusting.

I woke up. And learnt of my distant cousin’s suicide with a black trash bag, towel, and masking tape. What is death, I wonder? The unruly death that imposes itself on people. Like a black shadow. Enveloping. So my distant cousin, young. I see him about two times a year, I gather. Each time, a polite nod. Kor. He used to visit Joo Chiat. We would meet over sliding iron gates. It was the same over the years, and that’s what I remembered of him when I met him two months ago.

I didn’t have the keys, and he wanted to get in. We exchanged greetings. He smiled. Nothing out of the unusual. But there, I’m slipping into the cliches they always always write in after-death articles: He was a good basketball player, well-liked by his peers. She was popular and a star student.

Suddenly, death absolves all of wrongdoings and imperfections.

So you are thinking what I am feeling right now. I feel nothing. We are not close. I can continue to drink my coffee. I can continue to put out my laundry. What is he to me but a blurred memory?

Blurred dreams, blurred memories. Now isn’t that life? As the French says, cest la vie.

Filed under: dreams, joo chiat

Petition For A Park

I am usually afraid to plunge into causes.

I fear the over-zealousness in spirit, the possible slogans, and the eating away of the unique self that is the rather mad jac. I can become a feminist, a Buddhist, a vegetarian, an Oh Save Joo Chiat girl. But somewhere along each path, I shudder and loiter around the 3/4 mark instead, with the finishing line somewhere in sight. Hell, I’m not even mad. I’m just, well, rather mad.

I did not read Greer because after the introduction, I found it too extreme. I choose to absorb Buddhist teachings and not embrace it, I decided it was too pure. I never finished the last chapter of Animal Liberation, because I know once I read the last line, I will have to take a stand. And the Joo Chiat sleaze? Let’s not go into the Joo Chiat sleaze.

Am too apathetic about the world. And this fear to commit to any cause leaves me feeling rather stranded, somehow, somewhat. Other than shopping and singlehood that I clutch to half-heartedly, what do I really on hold to?

Well, anyhow, I was forwarded a Petition for a Park by a fellow Joo Chiat resident – joo chiat