If Food Be The Music Of Life....

Crackers. Bananas. Plain toast. Vitamin water.

That has been my delectable menu for the past week. I wish I could say it was some new celeb diet fad I was trying out to shed the five pounds accumulated over the two historic snowstorms of the winter. It wasn't. It was, simply and delicately put, degustation for the debilitated gut.

For someone who is rarely sick, being out of action for a whole week was a major annoyance to say the least. But what was worse than not being able to assume full control of my body and move it the way I usually do, was not being able to smell, taste and consume food. By food, I mean, real food.

It would not have been as bad subsisting on crackers and bananas if I had been able to actually enjoy the act of eating them. Some crackers are actually quite tasty. As if it wasn't good enough for the nasty bug to take over my body, it has decided that while I was playing host to it, there should be no pleasure to be derived from consumption. The bug in question (I wasn't sure if it was viral or bacterial) had me rewired into a Pavlovian anti-foodie. If I so much as contemplated a morsel of real food, the very thought would trip a series of switches to the "eeew" alarm, setting off piercing screeches in my head. Now, that is some serious rewiring to my system.

Like all true blue born and bred Singaporeans, I love my food. But beyond the manic obsession over which Boon Tong Kee joint serves the best chicken rice, I really love my food (like the way I love poetry). If that old cliche was to be asked, I would unreservedly put myself in the group that lives to eat.

To eat is to savor life with its palette of delightful flavors. Food is one of two common passion in most cultures around the world. I believe you can't really get to know a culture until you've tasted its food. I've made it a point in all my travels to eat local. I have my limits when it comes to exotic animals, but unfamiliar smells and flavors do not turn me off. So I've sampled fermented bean curd (the Chinese name is literally translated as 'smelly bean curd') at the night markets in Taipei. It wasn't as pungent as I thought it would be. But that is what I like about trying new and different foods. It's often not what one thinks it would be. I was eager to try Gudeg, the traditional Javanese dish, my first time in Yogyakarta. It is made from jackfruit and said to be sweet. I loved jackfruit so I thought I would absolutely love the dish. Let's just say it wasn't really to my taste.

What is almost always to my taste, though, is spice. Yes, I like it hot. Hotter than Marilyn, and spicier than Girl Power. Having grown up with chili padi and sambal belacan, tabasco sauce is like fairy dust to me. Someone once asked me if I would like some soup with my pepper. I would have, if it was good soup and not processed, canned glob. The only time I came close to burning up from the hot stuff was eating Manadonese food for the first time. That is because Manadonese food does exactly just that -- burns you up from the inside. It is not only extremely spicy, it is also full of spices, creating a blend of layers and layers of flavors that defy description by words. It just simply has to be savored.

One of my fondest memories of living in Jakarta is that of the
bunga pepaya ('papaya flower') dish at Beautika, the Manadonese
restaurant that my girlfriends and I loved to lunch at. With each
mouthful of the deceivingly delicate looking buds, I would feel
the heat spreading inside my body. The first taste tingles and lingers
on the tongue. But already, the fire is ignited within. With each
subsequent spoonful, the second, third, and fourth, the desire to
savor more gets more intense. Ten minutes into the meal, I would
be completely addicted. Alternating between rice and water for
temporary reprieve from the fierce burning that had taken over
my senses, I would be screaming silently: "Stop! No, don't stop!"
The ultimate release and pleasure would come finally at the end of the meal, when every last bud has been devoured. This is the best kind of food lust -- a sweaty, unbridled affair, with absolutely no need to look pretty while doing it.

So you see, I really do love my food. A week without my taste buds is sheer torture. It's time to take charge, and kick Mr Bug out of my life, so I can be free to love my food again.

How To Get To Sesame Street

I just started following @Sesamestreet on Twitter. (Oh, and "Happy Birthday!" to Twitter.)

Yes, Sesame Street. Why not? I love Sesame Street. It's nice to see a Big Bird tweet among the barrage of @cnnbrk, @ bbcworld, @reuters, @huffingtonpost tweets that usually greet me. So while all the news organizations are busy 'breaking' health care reform deal right now (not that this is not great news), I have this big grin on my face sitting in Starbucks, reading Big Bird's post from yesterday: "Know what's as big as Snuffy but doesn't weigh anything? His shadow. Ha!"

I grew up watching Sesame Street. It was a playmate and a friend. It was my first view of a world where everyone was friends, and people (and muppets) came in all colors and shapes and sizes. And it didn't matter. In fact, it was wonderful. Growing up on a tiny island little more than a dot on the world map, Sesame Street was the first global village I knew. Way before computers, emails, Facebook and Twitter, Sesame Street was the social networking channel of those times. The best part was, it was for kids.

Like all childhood playmates, Sesame Street became a distant memory at the back of my mind when I went through the growing years and stages. In high school, I was one of the first groups of students in the computer club.

Anyone remembers this?
I used one of these, or its younger cousin.

Then, in college there was 'live' chatting over the university's intranet, and at work, email became the preferred mode of communication. Some years back, Friendster, My Space, and then Facebook took cyber connection to new realms. Well, we all know who won that popularity contest.

I reconnected with Sesame Street again when I had kids. At 18 months, Amon learned the alphabets from Big Bird, and counted to 20 with Ernie. At two-and-a-half, he was thrilled when Grover gave him a big hug at the 'meet-and-greet' session at Sesame Place in PA (yes, it's a theme park and you can watch Elmo's World 'live' there!). It was Halloween and he was in a Thomas the Tank Engine costume. He was beaming like a beacon when the hayride tractor driver told him he had a great costume, and Zoe gave him a little pat on the head.

For Amon and now, Ariel too, Sesame Street is still the playmate they could meet at the cul de sac. They giggle at Mr Noodles and have a blast mimicking the Count's compulsive obsessive counting. But my relationship with my friend has evolved. Sesame Street turned 40 last year, and is now seen in more than 140 countries around the world. My conversations with my mature friend now revolve around how important it is for every child to have access to its educational content, and how every child needs a space like Sesame Street to call his or her own. This is a space without violence, drugs and overt sexual images. This is a place where people are still nice, and good, and believe in universal kindness and love. This is a place where everyone is equal, and where the myriad of colors of humankind is something to be celebrated and appreciated, and not to divide or deride. Most importantly, this is a place where kids can be kids, for as long as they want, and not have to grow up so fast.

So, just in case I'm starting to sound like an old fashioned pain of a mum, let me remind you that I follow @Sesamestreet on Twitter. So, I'm going to go ahead and say it loud and clear (and don't you call me old fashioned): "Our kids are growing up way too fast!"

My four-year-old is humming Taylor Swift and Lady Gaga songs. She likes the boys from Big Time Rush because they are "so handsome." She has chosen two 20-year-old guys she wants as boyfriends. And she thinks that she will grow up to marry them and live happily ever after. "I want to be 16," she tells me. She thinks it's not cool to be a little girl. And when she is 16, she wants her own puppy, car and manicured nails (in that order). Oh, and she is also going to have a party. And if I'm a bad mum (meaning that I make her finish her vegetables) I won't be invited. Her discourse is created from the mashed up storyline of Nickelodeon and Disney tweeny dramas and 'princess' tales -- formulaic, profit driven products putting kids on an accelerated race to grow up and become consummate consumers of more fads, trends and popular culture.

But short of throwing out the TV, banning internet access at home and not going to the movies, there is nothing one can do to 'shield' kids from these influences. They are growing up in an era when technology has made instant global connection a given norm. In many ways, there are huge advantages to this. While I only had Sesame Street as my glimpse into a global village, my kids have endless channels and media to tap into different cultures around the world. But there is still something to be said about doing some things the old fashioned way (ok, so go ahead and call me old fashioned) in this day and age. So, I encourage them to write cards and letters, as much as email. I just taught Amon how to blog. They read books -- on paper. And newspapers -- in hard copy.

So thankfully, Ariel still chooses Big Bird over Big Time Rush. She is getting an education from Sesame Street and her brother, who gives her lectures on prehistoric lifeforms and shows her his National Geographic magazines. She is a child of her times, but she has her own space to be a child, and take her time to grow up. She has that space where she can feel safe and linger in the comfort of childhood innocence, without losing touch with the frantic world around her.

Every child deserves that kind of space. Whether it is the kid in a developing nation who has no internet access and is learning his alphabets from Big Bird, or the kid in the top economy in the world, for whom 15 minutes of internet a day (as limited by her old fashioned mum) is way too little, he or she needs a place like Sesame Street to call his or her own.

Can you tell me how to get...how to get to Sesame Street?

Nice Girls Finish First...Or Last?

Barely two weeks after winning an Oscar for Best Actress in the movie The Blind Side, Sandra Bullock, Hollywood's favorite 'nice girl' is in the news again. This time, though, there is nothing to cheer about.

The star that everyone likes because she is so sweet (and some people dislike because she is so sweet) is dealing with the infidelities of her husband -- reality star Jesse James -- and, as rumored, possible divorce. It is the same old story. The "bombshell" mistress decided to spill all. The deepest stab must be that the liaisons took place while Bullock was working on the movie that gave her the career win that nobody would have thought her capable of before this role.

Ouch. It really hurts. And the same goes for all the 'good wives' who have been publicly humiliated by sordid tabloid exposes of their husbands' inability to keep their pants on. Whether they move in the political, high power circles (Hilary, Silda, Elizabeth, Jenny, etc.) or the glamor, entertainment circuit (Elin, Victoria, now Sandra), these women have one thing in common. They are the nice girls -- the 'good wives' who played the role of the woman behind every successful man, the capable and loving mother of his children, and yet managed to maintain their looks and poise for HIS public image.

They are also the girls who lost.

Not true? Check out GQ magazine's feature on Rielle Hunter (better known as the John Edwards mistress) for the biggest slap to the nice girls. Sexy pictures in man shirt aside, Hunter lambasted her "Johnny's" cancer-stricken ex-wife for not knowing how to love and keep her man. *SMACK* That was for Hunter. She obviously has no idea what it means to be a gracious winner.

And well, she doesn't need to. The not-so-nice girls do not need to play by the rules of decorum. In fact, the public loves it when they play up naughty and salacious (and in some cases, like Tiger's paramours, the downright sleazy).

So what can the nice girls do? They either retreat gracefully (like Elin) or they stand by their man, weather the storm, and then take charge and build their own power (like Hilary). Or, they can just be practical and dish the dirt on the cad (like Jenny in her memoir). After all, they do need to live...and in many cases, raise their children. Haven't you heard? It's expensive to put kids through college these days.

As Julianna Margulies, who plays the lead character in the TV series, The Good Wife, said: "You either sink or you swim. And you have to swim, because you have children and they have to eat. And how do you get a job in this world, when you’re a women who is 40 years old? You make yourself look good, you cut the hair, you lose the weight…whatever it is."

I interviewed her and the cast in New York last month. (Singapore peeps, look out for the stories in ST Life!.) Margulies' character has to return to work as a junior associate in a law firm after her husband's political and sex scandals land him in jail. She won a Golden Globe for the role. The series, loosely based on real life scandals, is timely. I have to admit I didn't watch it before, but only when I got the assignment. I went through most of the first season in one sitting. The writing is surprisingly good. It throws up all the shades of morality greys and complicated questions about a seemingly simple act of being the nice girl.

And then there are the classic cilches and stereotypes, as Christine Baranski, who plays a single, tough cookie partner in the law firm pointed out. If a woman works hard, and is in a position of authority, she is often called a bitch. If she sets high standards for her staff, she is a bitch. If she drives a hard bargain, she is a bitch. A man who does all of that is just simply successful.

So, the nice girls can't win, can they? What our mothers' mothers told them, and they in turn told us, is no longer true. Nice girls don't always get to live happily ever after. Princesses exist only for Disney's bottomline.

When it is my turn to tell this story to my daughter, what should I tell her? To be a nice girl so she can 'win' in her 20s and 30s, only to fall flat on her face in her 40s and have to pick up the pieces? Or, to be a not-so-nice girl, and forget about the fairy tale ending?

Well, I still believe in nice girls. I would like to think that I'm one. And there's much to be said about being a nice girl. There're many nice girls out there whom I admire and who are winners in their own right, man or no man. Girls like Hilary Clinton, Michelle Obama, and my childhood heroine, Aung San Suu Kyi.

So I'll tell Ariel to be a nice girl. But it's time to re-write the story. This is what I think I'll say: "Nice girls always win. But being a nice girl doesn't mean you have to be a good wife. Rather, think of being a good PARTNER in a marriage. And don't look for a good husband or a good man. He doesn't exist. Look for a good PARTNER. You may not find the person the first time round, and that is ok. It's like poker. You win some, you lose some. Wining is not all or nothing. And for goodness' sake, don't let your partner do ALL the driving! Then, you may have a shot at happily ever after. And if you chose never to marry, that's fine. As long as you're true to yourself, you will be happy."

It's still work in progress. I'm open to suggestions on crafting this narrative. Any thoughts?

Those Who Can Do, Teach

For most of my student life (including now, as a graduate student) my worst nightmare had been less than glorious grades. Yes, I was one of those painful nerds. Anything less than an 'A' (or 98% in Math, allowing myself one generous slip) was not acceptable in my books.

So I can only imagine how devastated I would be if I saw this on my assignment: "-20% for being a loser." It would be crushing to even the most profane, self-proclaimed slacker (there is always at least one guy like that in every class, right?) much less to say the average kid trying to get through school.

Yet this really did happen. A teacher in North Carolina wrote that on his sixth grade student's paper. Her mother is crying foul and calling him a bully. Some other parents swear by the teacher but wouldn't go on camera to be interviewed. According to the news report, the teacher's defense is that this is his way of 'connecting' with the student. Really? A sixth-grade girl needs to be called a loser to perform better?

I believe in maintaining an open, non-judgmental approach. But forgive me, I can't swallow this one.

"To teach is a privilege as much as it is to study with a teacher dedicated to nurturing." I posted this on my Facebook status update as a reflection of how I was feeling (fuming, actually) over the story.

I have a huge respect for teachers. I have done some teaching myself -- tutoring high school kids in Singapore, teaching yoga, and English to disadvantaged children in Asia. To say that it is a tough job to do is to make a major understatement. But mostly, my reverence for the profession stemmed from the teachers who have touched my life.

It may surprise most people to learn this now, but I was a rebel without a cause as a kid. It wasn't the studying part I had a problem with. That was easy. Most of the time, I was bored. The teacher who made learning come alive for me early on in elementary school was Mrs J. Lest you think this is going to be a Dead Poets' Society story, let me disabuse you of the kind of teacher Mrs J was. She was no fun. Seriously. She made us practice reading aloud every day, and she expected nothing short of a perfect score for the daily routine of 20 mental math sums we had to do. She would walk around the classroom of 40 desks and chairs lined up neatly in rows and columns, dictating the sums while we raced to compute the tally in our heads in the 30 seconds per sum time limit she had set.

Cheating was not even a vague possibility or consideration. Not under the piercing gaze from behind her black rimmed spectacles, and her no-nonsense bearing. She would sweep around the room in her bright purple and magenta sari, jet black hair pulled back into a pony tail to reveal the most distinguished forehead. The red bindi dot right in the center of her forehead seemed to put a final period to the line: "Don't mess with me."

I loved Mrs J. Her 10-minute mental sums were my favorite part of the school day. She coached me in taking part in math contests. She also encouraged me to write beyond the formulaic compositions we were taught to churn out at that age. She made me a prefect, and showed me that I had what it took to take the lead, despite being an only child with few friends. She was also the teacher in charge of the school library. When she asked me to become a volunteer librarian, she set me on the path my life would take. The hours I spent after school in the library with her and the handful of students she had handpicked for the honor became the fondest memory of my time in that school. She taught us how to write catalogue cards (yes, the OLD fashioned way with a pen and index card), identify call numbers, Dewey Decimal system, publishers versus printers, authors versus editors, etc. She also showed us the neat trick of using a ruler to smooth out the air bubbles and edges of the clear plastic sheets we used to wrap the book covers up. (Yes, back in those days books were given the respect they were due, wrapped in plastic sheets and not subjected to the fate of tattered edges and torn pages.)

Mrs J ruled with an iron hand at the blackboard but taught with a golden heart beyond the classroom. She was traditional and conservative, never joking with her students. But she let us know that she really cared for us and that her life's vocation was to send us into the world with our heads on our shoulders and hearts in the right places. I wouldn't be the person I am today if she hadn't been my teacher.

There were many others who touched my life too...in high school, college, and especially my yoga teachers.

After I posted my FB update, a friend and classmate from way back reminded me: "Have you forgotten the cretins who used to teach us." And she was right. The truth is I have encountered many seriously bad teachers who did their profession a real disservice. There was the physical education teacher who made a pass at my well endowed friend, and the one who told a bunch of girls that he had porn in his office. The same guy also gave me this advice when I encountered a man who exposed himself to me while I was running in the vicinity of the school: "Next time, just stand there and LAUGH at him." Then, there was the humanities tutor who made remarks about Chinese people having slit eyes and the economics lecturer who loved to scratch his armpits and dismissed Arts students as ever having a chance to do well in his class.

It makes me wonder why some of these people chose to teach in the first place. Unless one has a passion to nurture and educate, to connect with young minds and positively shape young lives, the job can be tedious, stressful, exhausting and seemingly thankless. Actually, it's pretty much that way even for passionate teachers, from what many of my friends who are wonderful teachers tell me. For me, there were times teaching yoga to kids that I have felt my energy and wits completely abandon me.

I completely disagree with the cliche that "those who can't do, teach." I believe that teaching is strictly for those who CAN do. A good teacher has to be a great communicator, a superb organizer, and a skilled multi-tasker, while being well-read and creative. Most importantly, I believe a great teacher is someone who has compassion and humility. No one can know all there is to know. A teacher's job is not merely to impart knowledge, but to nurture the desire for knowledge.

Right after reading that news story about the misguided teacher who thinks calling his student a loser is the way to go, I read an email about an excellent teacher being honored for his work. My friend, TS, teaches English as a Second Language (ESL) classes with the Montgomery County Literacy Council. Three times a week, for three hours in the evening, he teaches at Rockville High School. He started as a volunteer teaching assistant and jumped in to take up the duty when the council needed a teacher for a beginners' class. His class is one of those with the highest and most consistent attendance. This is a big deal when your students are immigrant adults who have to cope with work, family and learning English. The council is giving him the ESL Teacher of the Year Award.

It was because of my friend's infectious passion and dedication that I decided to volunteer as a T.A. for the program. I assist another amazing teacher in an advanced class once a week. I wrote TS an email: "Congratulations! I'm proud to be your friend."

I believe that's how his students feel too.

Being Human

Sex scandals seem to be all the rage these days. Nothing else gets as much newsprint space, air time or net sphere hits as the exposed extra marital sexual exploits of prominent figures and celebrities.

In our unceasing bid to claim our spot in the world of 'have's the dot now has its own national sex scandal too. Well, we already have the F1 and the Youth Olympics. How much more competitive can we get?

Sure, Jack Neo's affairs (reportedly with 11 women, or has the number risen since I last checked?) can in no way rival that of Tiger Wood's sexcapades. I mean, Neo only took young girls aspiring to stardom in his family car. How does that compare?

Also, his misconduct is not likely to affect his professional capacity as one of our top film makers and a Cultural Medallion winner, is it? I mean, he's not exactly the governor of New York or South Carolina. Neo is only a grassroots community figure in Singapore's political landscape and has just enough gravitas for a minister to openly declare his support of the director, actor, producer in the minister's blog.

So why then does this all stink so much? If it's really no big deal, I mean. After all, Neo is in the entertainment industry, and nobody should be naive enough to be surprised that he engaged in some hanky panky. He didn't exactly pile an underaged girl with drinks and drugs. He preyed on girls who wanted him to turn them into the next Fann Wong. He wasn't the first guy in a position of power to do that, and he surely wouldn't be the last.

The truth is I have much deeper admiration for Tiger Woods than Jack Neo. But when news of Tiger's bad behavior broke after Thanksgiving, I somehow didn't feel disappointed. Don't get me wrong, I don't condone his behavior. But somehow, I'm able to say that I will not judge him. Let him get his life together. I just want to watch him play golf. I'm one of those parents he apologized to on TV, whose kids look up to him. Yet I didn't feel like he owed me an apology. That is between him, his wife, kids and family. And as for his sponsors and supporters, they have spoken their part by breaking ties with him.

But with Jack Neo, it somehow hurts. Yes, it does and I'm truly surprised especially since I've been away from Singapore for so long and haven't seen many of his recent movies.

I guess with Tiger, I was never under the illusion that his public persona was the real man. He was all about branding and a carefully constructed media personality. The only time I ever felt like I was seeing the man himself was when he was out there, playing golf -- when he took a lefthanded swing out of a tight spot, or when he revealed the intensity of his emotions under that veneer of calm with that fist pump after a winning putt.

Jack Neo, however, always struck me as someone who was pretty real. His movies reflected the way he thinks and feels...and that is pretty much what the regular guy in the street thinks and feels. If you talk to the taxi driver, you'll hear the same refrains, the same complaints as a character in a Jack Neo movie. He has taken on just about every issue important to the man in the street with his brand of "salt of the earth" social commentary -- from the pressures of Singapore's "A"s obsessed education system, to the disconnection between generations, to the obsession for material acquisition (condos, cash, car, credit cards, career) that drives our society. His representations of the issues Singaporeans grapple with are not particularly insightful or intelligent. But he never claimed to be. He just said it as it was and the way he saw it -- honest and from the gut. He is also probably the only critic of the government that the government actually likes. He was only honored with a Public Service Medal at a National Day Awards -- an accolade not usually given to movie makers and entertainers.

I grew up watching him in his iconic cross-dressing comic act as Liang Popo (a feisty, stuttering granny). I wasn't particularly fond of him but he did make me laugh. While Tiger's persona was carefully crafted and branded, Neo had always just been...well, himself. I guess that's why it hurts. Because Neo had always allowed his audience to feel what he was feeling and know what he was thinking.

Enough has been said about the irony that his scandals broke just as his latest movie "Being Human" is being screened. If I was in Singapore, I would still go see it. I remind myself that Neo is also a guy who needs to get his life together. I feel like he owes Singapore an apology, merely because as a nation, we gave him our love. And when you do something that hurts people who love you, whether you actually wronged them or not, you do owe them an apology. But the truth is, he doesn't owe us an apology. That is between him, his wife, his kids, his family, his staff, and the girls he fooled around with. But mainly, it is his wife he needs to answer to.

The common victim in these scandals has always been the 'good wife' who has to stand by her man and endure the humiliation even as she tries to get on her feet and figure out what to do with her life. Mrs Jack Neo (I don't even know her name, is it Irene?) has unwittingly joined the ranks of the likes of Hilary, Silda, Jenny and Elin (last names not necessary right?). I'm aghast at how uncharitable and mean spirited people can be, especially under the illusion of anonymity on the internet. I wish I hadn't read some of the comments posted about Neo's wife. Leave her alone. Be human.

As for Jack Neo, well, he has always shown us how human he is in his films. Let's give him a chance to do so for real.

Missing Sandy

Dear Sandy,

I'm so bummed I lost you.

How did that even happen without me realizing it? You must have been gone for two months. How did I not know until now? I had always taken care not to leave you behind whenever we went out. Now that you're gone, there's a big hole that none of the others can fill.

It was a beautiful sunny day like this when I last held you and we went out there together. It was mid Jan then and we had yet to be hit by the two major snowstorms of the season. I didn't plan on going out, but a warm, sunny respite in the middle of winter was just too good to resist. I thought we would just hang out for a short round, but when we got there, it was wide open and there was hardly anyone else around. So I decided to take my time, go out on the full 18 and enjoy the afternoon. And what a nice time we had, despite the wet, muddy, slushy ground. In fact, you were instrumental in saving me from utter disgrace at so many holes.

I always check my bag before I leave to make sure you're all there. Especially you. You're the one always in danger of being left behind. I even thought I had cleaned you up, washed all the mud from your face when we got back.

So imagine the disbelief and mortification when I found you gone yesterday. All this time I had thought you were snug and safe in your spot.

This is not right. We belong together. When I hold you, we are in perfect synchrony and we move together like one. You have rescued me from countless bad situations, lifted me up from the depths of bunkers and freed me from so many tight spots. I will always remember our best shot together.

I thought I had messed up and landed in the sand again. But no, I was right out on the edge. It was a really tricky spot to be in. I had to hit from the edge, across the bunker. The pin was towards the front of the green. I had to find a good spot to land on right in front of the hole or I will roll right away behind the pin. Perhaps the worst circumstances really do make warriors of us. But, what the heck. I took aim directly at the pin. You were with me on this one. We did it. The ball hit the pin and dropped straight into the hole saving par.

How will I ever play like that again without you? I feel incomplete without you. But I'll have to move on, like everyone else does after losing a loved one. It's hard. There's the gap you left that can't be completely filled by another. There's having to adjust to new ways of doing things without the familiarity and comfort of having you around. I guess I'll just have to learn not to hit into so many bunkers and tight spots. And if I do and have to call on another partner to bail me out, I'll just have to remember how it felt like with you, and the lessons you taught me.

Goodbye Sandy. If it's meant to be, I may find you someday. If not, then que sera sera.

Optimistic Pragmatism -- Daisies Part 2

One week after I spotted the plastic daisies (see Pragmatic Optimism -- Daisies Part 1) I went back to the gas station again.

Yes, I was obsessed about the fake flowers in a pot of real soil. No, I didn't go there just to see it. I had to get gas. Really. But since I was there, I decided I should take a picture. It was a great subject for the blog.

While my baby (i.e. the car) was drinking from the pump, I positioned my Blackberry ever so carefully, and held it for three seconds to make sure my hand was steady. Click! Done. Easy peasy. I was feeling rather pleased with myself.

"Excuse me. Do you have a moment?"

I looked up. Being from Southeast Asia and having a good knowledge of languages, ethnicity and cultures, I pride myself on being able to tell where a fellow Asian is from. This guy wasn't Chinese, Korean or Japanese for sure. He was distinctively Southeast Asian, and most likely from the Philippines or Thailand. The main reason for identifying this of course is that we would inevitably end up talking about our countries of origin and the FOOD.

"Sure, how may I help you?"

I had no suspicion with regards to his motive. I thought he wanted to ask for directions. I somehow always get asked for directions...be it in D.C. or New York or L.A. or Singapore or Indonesia.

"I have something for you." He opened his wallet and fished out a card that was neatly folded in half. "I offer massage service."

What?! Did I look stressed out or psychotic taking a cell phone picture of the plastic daisies? People take cell phone photos of more ridiculous things, like Metro signage or potholes!

I gave him my best "are you for real" look. "No, thank you very much."

"It's ok. Take it." He reached out and pushed the card towards me. Clearly, we are not going to be talking about food.

"I don't really need it. Thanks." At this point, I was beginning to doubt the legitimacy of his "service" but still felt incredulous that he would size me up as a potential victim/customer. I don't exactly fit the desperate housewife stereotype. I usually get gas in sweats and Uggs. That day I was in a huge sweater with leggings. Nothing expensive or attractive about that.

"It's ok. Take it. First time is free."

I had already used my best "are you for real" look. At this point, it was too late to bring out the witch act. It was clear that he wasn't going to leave me alone until I took the card. So the thoughts ran through my head. What was the worst thing that could happen? I take the card, and he leaves. Optimistic pragmatism.

"Ok, thank you." I gave him a smile to rival the fake, bright orange daisies.

I was right. He left. But only after reminding me to call him. I unfolded the card and saw that it wasn't even a real card. It was an index card that had been meticulously cut in half. Handwritten in blue ballpoint ink was the message:

"I OFFER A GREAT MASSAGE RELAXATION AND MAKE YOUR BODY FEEL GOOD AGAIN IN YOUR COMFORT OF YOUR HOUSE. CALL *NAME*: xxx-xxx-xxxx"

I didn't know whether to laugh, feel violated, insulted or flattered that he offered me a free trial.

This was definitely seedy. (Just in case anyone thinks I'm a good fiction writer, I actually thought of scanning the card and posting the image but decided against it.)

This wasn't the first time I was approached by men of questionable vocation with questionable intentions. The first time it happened, I was 18. I was approached on the street and asked to act in an x-rated movie. I played along, set up a meeting with the guy in a public place the next day and called in the story to the editor of the newspaper I was interning at. This was in Singapore, where such solicitation was not acceptable, consenting parties or not. Unfortunately, my pulitzer worthy investigative piece didn't happen. The editor, concerned about my safety, sent a photographer with a huge bag of cameras and lenses, and a senior reporter with me to the meeting. Whether the guy was a genuine pornography producer or some scumbag preying on young girls, he wouldn't have been dumb enough to show up to the entourage waiting to expose his face on the national paper.

Subsequently, each time it happened, I learned to extricate myself with optimistic pragmatism. I take the approach that if I smile politely, decline firmly and remove myself from the situation quickly, I would be fine. So far, so good. But I'm also aware that many women who fall victim to unwanted advances and assault are often caught in situations they are just unable to get out of.

I still find it hard to comprehend that I could ever be seen as gullible or vulnerable enough to be manipulated into one of those situations. I have always thought of myself as a strong, overbearing personality. In fact, I thought most guys who don't know me would size me up as a balls buster and be terrified of me and my emasculating aura.

I guess it's time to bring that self image down to earth. Now that I'm a mother, and well experienced in my own defenses, my concern is with how I'm going to educate and protect my little girl. She is growing up in times when she doesn't even need to step out of the house to run into a predator.

I just tried to edit my profile information on the social networking site Tagged to protect my privacy. I only have an account because a real friend invited me a long time ago, and have never logged in since signing up. But lately, I have gotten increasingly annoyed by the emails informing me of people who have been "buying" me. So I logged in to remove my information from public view. When I tried to remove my birth date, there was a message that I had to be at least 13 years old to use Tagged.

So if my daughter was 13, she could have an account that allows strangers to view her profile, "buy" and "sell" her, send her winks, kisses, luvs and meet up suggestions. Now, that really scares me.

For now, I'm glad she's still four. I have no idea really how to teach her the intricate lessons of feminine vulnerability and self defense. How can I be talking to her about trust and believing in the goodness of all mankind in the same breath as about being wary of ill intentions? I guess I will figure it out when the time comes. For now, I will take the approach of pragmatic optimism. I believe that the best way to steer her through her life's lessons would be by being her best friend.

I'm going to get gas again tomorrow. The daisies should still be there.

Pragmatic Optimism - Daisies, Part 1

I did a double take.

No, it can't be. But yet it was. Bright orange daisies, planted in dark brown soil in an otherwise inconspicuous white pot, next to a gas pump.

We had just dug out of two major snowstorms and much of the soft, white fluff that had turned into slushy, dirty ice was still in heaps and piles on the ground. It would be a while before spring would blossom again. So how is it possible that this bunch of daisies are in full glorious bloom at a gas station (of all places) brightening up a gray winter's day like a fresh breath of Rachel Ray?

I had to take a closer look. I felt compelled to touch those flowers. The minute I did so, I almost wished I hadn't. Plastic. I didn't know whether to be disappointed or amused. I guess I was a little of both.

Like all faithful Tweeple and FB addicts would, I immediately tweeted and posted the sighting on my status update.

"Is that cynicism or optimism?" I asked.

It would be interesting to see what my friends thought. Was the person who did this yearning so much for winter to be over and 'planted' the plastic flowers as a sign of hope? Or was he/she making a statement about how harsh this winter has been (for those without power, heat and couldn't get to work) and lamenting that spring would not come fast enough?

Was this person someone at the gas station with great work attitude and went the extra mile to provide a cheery distraction to the winter weary drivers reluctant to get out of their cars even for gas? Or was this person thinking ahead to not having to tend to real plants come the season for doing so?

The response I got set me thinking...and thinking.

"I think that's optimistic pragmatism."

Optimism and Pragmatism. One doesn't usually think of the two together. The pairing doesn't quite ring with the poetic partnership of Pride and Prejudice, or Sense and Sensibility. Neither does it have the repartee of oxymoron relationships, like bittersweet or love-hate. Yet it resonates. (I love it when words resonate.)

In the case of the plastic daisies, the resonance worked. If the person responsible for them had been merely pragmatic, he/she wouldn't have even bothered to put the fake flowers in the soil. Why waste money? If the person had been purely optimistic, he/she would more likely have tried to grow a real plant a little too early in the year, in the hope that temperatures would warm up soon.

So then I guess the two are friends. Perhaps they are friends who don't usually see eye-to-eye. But nonetheless, they usually end up working well together. One who is too pragmatic may end up being overly cautious about taking chances in life; and one who is only optimistic may end up leaping in, both eyes closed, to certain peril.

But I still hadn't quite put my finger on how I really felt about the daisies. I kept thinking about them. In fact, the next time I went back for gas, I took a picture of them (and that story will be in Part Deux) on my Blackberry.

I also kept thinking about optimism and pragmatism. It was only in the last couple of days that I realized that I am all about pragmatic optimism. Yes, I reversed the order. Actually I did it inadvertently. In trying to find my answers, I had been thinking about "pragmatic optimism" and how it reflected my approach to life (it wasn't always that way, though). When I decided I was ready to write about it, I went back to check my posting and the quotes (nasty journalistic habit). It was only then that I realized that the response had been "optimistic pragmatism" and somewhere along the way, I had in my mind misquoted it. But in doing so, I had found my balance.

The truth is, I had never been a pragmatic person. In all the choices I've had to make, I had always rushed in where angels feared to tread, followed my heart without a head and done some knee-jerk reactions I fortunately lived to be able to regret. I understand now that all those had nothing to do with optimism. In hindsight, it's always easy to blame youthful foolhardiness on "optimism."

Living my yoga, I continue to believe in optimism as the way to approach all things in life. But now, I also understand the need to be pragmatic even as I am optimistic. This reflection couldn't have come at a better time.

I had recently started the process of reviving my career, and I couldn't have picked a tougher time. The media industry had seen a spate of retrenchments and numerous newspapers and publications have folded. New media and social networking have changed the way people consume news and information. For someone who had traded in suits and heels for yoga pants and mummy loafers for the past four years, getting back in circulation in the current job market is even tougher than for the average job seeker. For someone who had always kept abreast of news and trends (and continued to write and be published) I don't find it that hard to be part of this sea change. I had always loved and embraced technology. I have a HTML certification that is 10 years old!

But it takes more than optimism to convince prospective employers. That is why I'm back in school, pursuing graduate studies chocked full of credits for technical know how -- video production, video editing, multimedia, audio editing, online publishing etc. Journalism is far from a dying career. In fact, the role of the journalist will be even more important in an era when there is so much...too much...information out there, when the line between opinion and objective information disappears into the massive cyberspace.

Now, THAT is pragmatic optimism, as well as optimistic pragmatism.

So, I will plod on. Beyond journalism, I would be really happy doing meaningful communication and media related work in a non-profit. D.C. is the perfect place for that.

And yes, I'm looking forward to spring too. I won't be planting plastic daisies, though. I may not look like that kind of girl, but I do actually like real flowers. I have a decent sized green thumb that fares fairly well with orchids, herbs and ferns. With the job hunt and studies, I may not have much time for digging and sowing. But I could probably manage to revive my little plot of herbs in the backyard. And the phalaenopsis orchids on my window sill are still doing great and blooming beautifully.