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i embarrass myself sometimes

i embarrass myself sometimes

Who says nothing exciting ever happens on grocery runs?

July 1, 2013

Sundays are my designated grocery shopping days. It’s wonderfully therapeutic pushing my trolley up and down the supermarket aisles and even if I don’t really need a restock on supplies, I like bringing the kids along with me to pick up some apples, milk and a tub of ice cream.

Ok, I know lots of people who dress real nice, put on makeup and falsies for a trip to the supermarket and hats off to them but I’m not one of those people. My supermarket shopping outfit consists of flip flops, shorts and if I’m lucky, a tee that isn’t covered with baby-puree stains.

Admittedly, yesterday wasn’t one of those lucky days. I was out on my regular midday grocery run at my neighborhood supermarket, looking as auntie as I possibly could – hair  out of place, decked in my favorite comfy shorts and a tee the husband insists should have been converted to a floor rag a long time ago. Baby Finn was on my right hip, dressed in an old hand-me-down romper and looking a little grubby. Next to me, Kirsten was wearing an outgrown dress that’s all faded from repeated washing. It used to be her favorite princess dress from a year ago but now, it’s worn out and 3 inches too short for her. But she insists on wearing it so I let her do it when we take these short trips out of the house.

At the supermarket, the first thing we usually do is get a trolley so I can dump the kids in it but yesterday, we were out of $1 coins so I dug out a 50-cent coin, two 20-cent coins and a 10-cent coin, headed over to the nearest friendly-looking lady and asked if she had a dollar coin to exchange.

The first lady I approached didn’t have any. I glanced around and spotted someone else.

“Hi, do you happen to have a $1 coin I can exchange with?” I asked, holding out my hand with the bunch of coins in it.

She looked at me like she didn’t understand a single word I just said.

“I need to get a trolley and I’m out of $1 coins. Do you have any to swap?” I asked again, this time giving the coins in my open palm a little jingle.

She glanced at Finn who was perched on my hip, then at Kirsten and back at me, with a look I couldn’t quite place.

By now, in my head I was a all like “C’mon lady, it’ll just take you 10 seconds to check your wallet. Surely your pack of grapes can wait 10 seconds.”

As if she could read my mind, she reached into her wallet and started digging. She found 30 cents. Then she started rummaging the rest of her bag for more loose change and after an uncomfortable minute or so, she managed to locate another 35 cents. She held the 65 cents and hesitated for a moment before attempting to shove the bunch of coins into my hand.

At this point, it suddenly dawned on me that OMG SHE TOTALLY THINKS THAT I’M BEGGING FOR MONEY. She must be like “Poor disheveled woman with the scruffy baby and the gaudily-dressed kid. Looks like someone has already given her some coins. Maybe if I give her 65 cents, she will stop harassing me and go away.”

I’ve never actually asked a stranger for money and certainly never met anyone who thought that I was asking for money so I had no idea how to react. I was like “No, no, I just need to EXCHANGE my money with your money so I can get a trolley,” gesturing to my coins and the trolley station like an idiot. “I’m really not trying to take your 65 cents.”

Behind me, the husband (who had witnessed the entire exchange) was trying his best not to fall over on the floor laughing.

I suppose there’s a first time for everything, even asking strangers for money.

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i embarrass myself sometimes, not feeling so supermom

Spitting. Not cool since 1997.

January 31, 2013

It’s probably my fault for teaching Truett how to spit. I don’t know why I did it but it was one of those things that just sort of happened.

He was brushing his teeth and gargling his mouth with the water the way most people do. You know, like standing over the sink and letting the water fall out of his mouth. And then I thought, ok he could do that, or what would be even cooler is if he could learn to spit like a real man.

At this point, I blame Leonardo DiCaprio, who spat with such finesse in Titanic that I remember watching it as a 15-year-old and thinking that one day I would teach my son the proper way to spit so that if he ever needed to win a girl’s heart by spitting, he’d know how to.

Admit it, you thought it was cool too. I won’t judge.

Fast forward 15 years and even though my rational mommy brain said “that’s a terrible thing to teach your kid”, some part of my residual 15-year-old subconscious mind was all “shut up, spitting is cool.”

So that’s the story of how I taught my son to spit.

Which was a while back and it was a one-off thing. Not like we made it a daily practice session or anything.

A couple of day ago, I was picking the kids up from school and I was preparing to load them into the car when this elderly man wearing an ah pek white singlet walked past where we were standing. The kids politely made way for him to pass and just as he ambled past, he cleared his throat with a loud, manly grunt. You know, the kind that sounds like the throttle of a speedboat, “HRRRR-EHHHRRRM!!!” So we all turned to look and right then, he spat out the biggest glob of phlegm I have ever seen. It flew like 5 metres from his mouth and landed right smack into the drain beside him.

Kirsten immediately covered her mouth and said “EEEEWWWWW” while Truett looked on with fascination. I would even go as far as to call it awe. He looked at the old uncle and then tried to peer into the drain to locate the massive globule.

In comparison, my feeble attempts at spitting must have seemed terribly lame. This, this is how a real man spits, he probably thought.

“Son, remember the time mommy taught you how to spit?”

He nodded, a little too enthusiastically.

For the record, I deeply regret ever teaching him that. “Ok, don’t ever do it, it’s gross and germy. If you have phlegm, use a tissue ok?”

“Only can do it when I’m brushing my teeth?” he offered helpfully.

“Um, I think let’s not ever do it at all. Spitting hasn’t been cool since 1997. We’ll find something else to learn, how about that?”

“Like swimming?”

“Totally like swimming. Let’s do swimming.”

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how i pretend to be a cool mum, i embarrass myself sometimes

How NOT to work from home

January 9, 2012

I really enjoy working from home. It’s very liberating. There’s no one breathing down my neck to monitor my productivity. There’s no one to judge me when I have crazy hair. There’s no one to give me the stink eye when I’m late or write me passive aggressive emails explaining why “jeans is not an appropriate dress code for work”. And there’s no one to tell me I can’t take a nap when I damn well feel like taking one.

I get judged on one thing alone – which is the quality of work that I deliver. Nobody cares how I do it as long as it’s done.

But I’ve come to realize that this sort of arrangement only works with folks who are self-motivated and organized and responsible and non-procrastinating. All the qualities I don’t seem to possess.

Instead, here’s how my typical day goes down.

Every morning, I prep the kids for school, pack their bags, drop them off and send the husband to work.

Then I get back and turn on my laptop to make a list of all the things I’m supposed to do for the day.

Great, list completed – this level of productivity deserves a cup of coffee. So I take my time to pull a beautiful shot of nespresso and froth the milk to perfection.

Wait, a Facebook alert. Must. Resist.

Ok, since I’m enjoying my coffee anyway, I might as well browse Facebook for 15 minutes.

Time check, where did the last hour go? And how did I end up with 13 opened tabs on my browser? Just let me finish watching this baby panda youtube video and then I’ll get to work.

10.52 am. I should probably start with the easy emails frist.

  • “68% off authentic Italian cuisine” – 68%? Blistering barnacles, buy now!
  • “Boost Your Stiffness” – Reply “Dear Maribel, my stiffness does not need boosting, stop sending me spam. Also, I’m not David.”
  • “ASOS Sale Now up to 70% off” – I’m going to be disciplined here but just in case, *bookmark for later browsing.

Clear a bunch of work emails. Look at how prolific I am today. Hi-5 self.

12.30 pm. Time to pick up the kids.

Bring the kids home, put them to bed, fix my lunch, read a couple of blogs and squeeze in a second cup of coffee before the kids wake up.

Finally get down to writing. Struggle to write a paragraph then realize I haven’t showered the whole day. Go take a shower to freshen up and clear my head.

Reread previously written paragraph – hate it. DELETE.

Maybe I should blog instead. Stare at blank screen while grabbing my face for 5 minutes. My brain seems to be broken. Screw this, I’m going to watch Alicia Florrick kick ass at her job for motivation.

“Mommy, can we go to the playground?” Why of course, sweetheart.

Come back, fix dinner, play with toys, feed the kids dinner, read stories and put them to bed before getting back to more empty screen staring. Decide to finish the work tomorrow instead.

But of course the same thing happens tomorrow and the tomorrow after, until my deadline approaches and I realize that I’m suddenly able to finish in 24 hours what I couldn’t in a week. Apparently, there’s nothing like a client breathing down my neck to maximize my productivity.

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i embarrass myself sometimes, lists you should paste on your fridge, stuff best described as not safe for parents

Booger Bites

December 9, 2011

Boogers. We’ve all eaten some. And by we I really mean me.

I was about 4 and I had discovered the simple satisfaction that is nose-picking. I didn’t care much for cleanliness in general but I was um, picky about nostril hygiene. The quality of my life at that point was easily determined by how booger-free my nose was. The problem was that all this gold-digging left me with a by-product that I had to dispose of.

I could smear it, wipe it, flick it, wash it away or roll it around while thinking of more efficient ways to discard it.

It wasn’t long before it occurred to me to eat it. It seemed like such a good idea at that time because it did after all come from my nose and the proximity to my mouth made it practically edible. It’s all connected inside anyway, isn’t it?

I have to admit that my first booger bite wasn’t great. It wasn’t terrible but just very meh. With all the other snack options available to me, eating booger was way down the list, occupying the spot below wholemeal bread but above celery sticks.

The response I elicited from my bite of booger, however, was far more interesting. Grown ups seemed to find it a vile and disgusting habit. Some told me that it would give me a tummy ache and others even told me that it would make worms grow in my stomach. To the 4-year-old me, it was equal parts fascinating and terrifying. While I wasn’t entirely keen on the idea of having worms grow in my stomach, the rebel in me was already plotting to make it a regular snack option just to call their bluff.

I’ve since stopped it (seriously, I have) but it took my several years before I realized that me eating booger just to disprove a theory was dumb on so many levels. Plus it wasn’t even that nice.

Several days ago, I spotted Truett picking his nose and putting it in his mouth so now I’m considering my options on how to deal with the situation.

1. Leave him to outgrow it. I’m fairly confident that the taste of booger pales in comparison to Ruffles chips and ice-cream. which means that if I offer him tastier options, this gets phased out quick and easy. But then again, he might find it delicious and never stop.

2. Scare him into change. I could go with “son, that’s a vile and disgusting habit. You will get worms in your stomach that will eat their way up to your mouth” but off the top of my head, I just came up with many viler and more disgusting habits that will require this approach. I should probably save this for the day he attempts to eat someone else’s booger.

3. Tell him my booger story so he doesn’t have to learn the hard way. But any story that begins with “mommy used to eat booger too...” doesn’t make me sound very credible.

4. Get some worms for a live demonstration. It’s likely that my kids inherited my rebellious streak so this will probably backfire.

5. Tell him to stop it because mommy says so. Hah. Right, if only this ever works.

Any ideas?

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i embarrass myself sometimes, not feeling so supermom, stuff best described as not safe for parents, unqualified parenting tips

Truett and the Crazy Elevator

October 20, 2011

I really don’t like to do the putting people in a box thing but let’s just say that if I absolutely had to do it with the kids, I’d put Truett in a box labelled “Not Likely to Get Stuck in Sticky Situations” while Kirsten would end up straight in the “Look, A Sticky Situation – LET’S GO THERE!” box.

I’m speaking metaphorically of course, but now that I think about it, it might not be such a bad idea to put them in a real box like this when they’re being difficult.

Relax, I’m not going to call it the Box of SHAME. I’ll christen it with a cute name like Time-Out Corner and paint pretty little pink flowers on it. I’m considerate that way.

So back to my story – there are these elevators at my block that are mental and I suspect, a little evil. The button that’s supposed to keep the door open works sporadically at best, meaning that the door shuts anytime it damn well pleases. I’ve been attacked by the crazy doors on numerous occasions and one time, the door shut right after Tru stepped in even though I was pressing the button to keep it open.

Good thing it decided to open again after a few seconds but those few seconds must have been an eternity for him because after that incident, Tru is extremely cautious when it comes to elevators.

Kirsten, on the other hand, does not care about getting lost or injured or trapped in confined spaces. She’s 10 times more likely to disappear into a drain while walking (true story – she’s like 1 of 5 people in the world who managed to graze her armpits) or run into a wall.

A couple of days ago, we were on the way back when Kirsten suddenly decided to dash into the lift. I was several steps behind and I was about to run after her when out of nowhere came a flying ninja tackle from Truett. It all happened very quickly and next thing I knew, they were both on the ground with Tru grabbing her in a stranglehold inches away from the evil elevator door.

Kirsten was obviously upset at being tackled but it was nowhere near as upset as Tru was. He was furious at me for letting her run unsupervised and upset at his sister for being so reckless. “You don’t ever do that again, you understand?”, he yelled at her.

Then he turned to me and said sternly, “Mommy you carry her now. You must take care of mei mei better and don’t let her get lost.”

Yes, sir. 

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i embarrass myself sometimes, not feeling so supermom, side effects of motherhood

Super Shredheads

August 11, 2011

I’ve been shredding again. The last time I only managed to last 22 days before a lethal combination of fried chicken + fatigue resulted in a swift and decisive end to my exercise plans. To be fair, it was deliciously crispy chicken with golden brown skin that was fried to perfection – the kind worth getting fat for.

For several days after that, I dreamt of Jillian Michaels yelling at me to “fight for it” as she pinned me down in a stranglehold and confiscated my bucket of Popeyes. It was brutal.

The great thing was that in those 22 days, I converted at least 10kg of fats (more or less) into pure unadulterated muscle mass. And I know this because when I sucked in my stomach really hard, I could see the faint outline of pectoral muscle definition. Oh, sweet definition, how I’ve missed you. Once upon a time before I had kids, I once had stomach muscles. Now, I have one rather large mass of soft-ish tissue.

Yes laugh away, but pop 2 kids and then we’ll trade pictures of our jiggly bits.

That was probably the only reason why I even lasted 22 days in the first place – visible results. I could feel myself getting fitter just after one week of jumping jacks and bicycle crunches. By day 10, I stopped feeling like I was going to pass out from sheer exhaustion.

But discipline is a funny thing. The moment you stop, it takes you 10 times the effort to get back on track. You either progress or you start regressing.  I was down with a bout of food poisoning and after 3 days of non-exercise, all my resolve had turned into cravings for ice-cream and mee pok with extra lard. And the longer I didn’t exercise, the more difficult it got to put in that DVD again because I knew I’d be back to square one with all that huffing and puffing. Vicious cycle, really.

I just realized that it’s now the middle of August and I’ve still not achieved my resolution of completing a full 30-day shred. That leaves me 5 months to get to it.

I was doing my shred the other day and Kirsten was standing by eyeing me with interest. So I casually asked her “want to join mommy, sweetheart?” She pondered a moment and back came her reply. “I don’t need to do exercise, only mommy needs. You do your exercise very well ok.”

“Well, thanks a lot, princess. One of these days, you’ll have jiggly bits of your own.”

Guess I’m just going to start by putting on my running shoes every morning and see how far I get.

What’s your exercise regime? Need a little help here. 

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a spot of singapore, how i pretend to be a cool mum, i embarrass myself sometimes, stuff best described as not safe for parents

My lunch date with Dr Tony Tan

July 25, 2011

Last week was a bit of a whirlwind. There was the SG Blog Awards on Saturday and the day before that, I was invited to attend a lunch with Dr Tony Tan. And I’m not referring to my general practitioner who happens to share the same name as The Dr Tony Tan.

Apparently, I was there because I wrote this piece on the General Elections that went viral and almost 5,000 people liked it on Facebook. They said that according to several sources, I was some sort of a trailblazer in the online world in Singapore. So not making that up.

From the invite, the purpose of the lunch was to discuss how digital channels are transforming discourse and opinions locally and internationally. I had to read it many times because I have no idea what many of those words meant and the only transforming I’m good at has to do with Optimus Prime and his gang of Autobots. But then I couldn’t pass up a chance to get up close with The Dr Tony Tan, so I turned to my good friends, Google and Wikipedia for help.

I figured there’d be lots of important people there and I could sneak in behind to blend in with the wallpaper but when I reached, I was brought to a room with a round table and 12 chairs. 12 chairs. Plus, there wasn’t even wallpaper for me to do the blending with. Or there was, but I couldn’t be sure because I had a mild panic attack and things got a little fuzzy by then. It was a good thing I arrived 15 minutes early so I had plenty of time to sneak off to the bathroom to throw up a little.

And then people started arriving. People who were like the biggest shots in the digital media scene, all of whom I stalk on a regular basis. People like Alvin Lim, Ravi Philemon, Pat Law, Mr Miyagi, Cherian George, Alex Au, Mr Brown and Kien M Lee.

They all looked like they came from very important meetings so I tried my best not to look like I came from a very important diaper change. Next to the table with 12 seats was an important chart with names and designated seats, which meant that I couldn’t skulk away and pick the least conspicuous seat. Not that there is such a thing as an inconspicuous seat at a round table anyway.

During the lunch, I wrote a mental journal in my head so I’m just going to post excerpts from said journal.

I’m supposed to choose between salmon carpaccio and goose liver. I’m not a fan of liver but I’ve always been taught not to order food I can’t pronounce. Is it kar-pa-chio or ker-pay-chio? What is carpaccio anyway? I’m going to be the dork that makes a wrong order. I’m just going to say salmon and hope for the best. Oh wait, Alex said kar-pa-chio. Guess I was 50% right.

Dr Tony Tan has arrived. I’m so close I can actually touch The Hair. Must. Resist. Temptation. Now’s not a good time to get myself incarcerated.

Oh, oh, oh, round table introduction time. Now’s the perfect time to start panicking.

Why are there so many forks and knives? I should casually stall for time and pretend to drink my water so I can observe what the others are using. I knew I should have paid more attention when I googled fine dining cutlery. All these tiny forks are so confusing.

Did Dr Tan just direct a question at me? I think that’s why all these people are looking at me. I generally don’t throw my hands up and shriek but I think this is one of those moments in life when one is allowed to. OK THINK, WOMAN, THINK.

Crisis averted. They are now looking at someone else.

I’m fairly certain I didn’t silence my phone. There is no discreet way to do this with my bag on the floor. Maybe if I step on it hard enough, it will disable the ring function.

Why is it that everyone else here is insanely smart? They are all taking turns to say things that I don’t understand. Now I’m torn between nodding thoughtfully or raising a questioning eyebrow. They may just see right through too much nodding. I’ll go with the eyebrow to mix things up a bit.

I really need to pee but nobody is moving. Hopefully this violent shaking of my legs will make it go away.

I actually came prepared with a question but it has to do with Dr Tony Tan’s hair and Mr Brown beat me to it.

I think I made it out from the lunch unscathed. As a reward, I totally managed to score a photo with Dr Tony Tan. Which I’m going to frame up and hang in my living room.

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