Being a Child

I believe when someone says, 'you have a heart like a child', it is a compliment. However, I think it is an insult to refer your behaviour to that of one. Maybe not equally bad but just as unflattering is when people think that you look like one too. This happened on me recently and the comments can range from 'you just came from school?' from an auntie requesting for donations to 'did you just graduate from poly?' asked by my colleague from work. They thought that I am 20 years old at the max. Even more intriguing is that my project mate thought that I can pass off as an 16 year-old when I was already in university then.
Frankly, I do not think that I look that young, considering all those crow-feets around my eyes, smile wrinkles joining the edges of my nose to those of my mouth and not to mention those permanent make-believe gothic looking dark eye rings. The truth is, I believe I am ageing faster than my grandmother. Nothing in me exudes youth, except perhaps for the facts that I still have lots of hair and that I always use my mother as a shield from taking up responsibilities. For example, an insurance agent will be cajoling me to take up their plans and I would simply say, " I can't make decisions on that because my mother is in charge of my finances." or when this diligent lady from the rainbow association asking me to fill in a form to make donations from my personal account on a regular basis, I only need to explain, " I'm sorry but I don't have my own account, it's a joint one with my mother. I need permission from her."
My mother this.. and my mother that...
Though I agree that I should be more independent and stop relying so much on my poor mother on decision-making, this particular tactic of fending off unwanted attention has so far proven to be very effective. That is, if you were to couple it with a child-like face like mine..

Lend a Helping hand

I was working at the Clementi Sing post yesterday when a skinny up-to-age lady approached me in Cantonese. She looked like a very outdated disco mama with badly-dyed red hair combed back with high blown-up fringe. She wanted to know if we could help her pay some fines using the SAM machine and I volunteered to help even though 1) we are not in charge of this business, 2) I have no idea how to use the SAM machine and 3) she looked so weird.
When we came to the machine, I tried to follow the instructions and scan the barcode found on the letter that she handed me. Nothing happened. Panic started to rise but my self-pride that I am capable in doing this seemingly easy task doused the heat of nerves. As I began to attempt again, a friendly Malay uncle who, I think, had been lurking around the area for the past 5 minutes and witnessed our juvenile comprehension of the machine, stepped in to assist us. He was really a pro and quickly brought us through the many steps that ended with the payment using nets. Unfortunately, the pin numbers written on a piece of tissue that the lady had were quite wrong. Impatience kicked in and I told the lady to check if the pin numbers were correct. She then shrieked out something and I soon realised that it was only her primal way of calling out for her husband. At least he looked more of his age, what a normal 60tish man should look like. They investigated the mystery of the pin numbers for a couple more minutes while I mentally rolled my eyes, folding and unfolding my arms and doing all those actions that screamed of my relunctance to help anymore.
Finally, the old man miraculously remembered the correct pin numbers. As I was about to escape fast in case they had more fines to pay, the lady took my right hand in both of hers in the form of a congratulation and acted as though I had just saved her life literally. Well, I guess lending a helping hand may be quite fulfilling after all though that act of repayment itself feels just as elaborate as making payments using the SAM machine.

Where have all the Wife Biscuits gone?

This is a very belated entry but fault goes entirely to my imbecile internet system. After I came back from a 4-days vacation in Hong Kong, I realised just how popular the Wife Biscuits there are, among my relatives. But unfortunately I only managed to buy back 3 boxes and 1 of them actually contains the smaller versions affectionately called the cutie wives. When my aunt came to my house one day, expecting me to treat her with the biscuits, I had to dig into my luggage and pretend that the wasabi beans, intended as my after-meals snacks, are more 'likeable' and better than the Wife Biscuits. A little unconvinced, my aunt took 2 of the biscuits (there are 6 in each box, and 9 in the cutie one) and so I was left with 19.
I was also supposed to give some to my another aunt but she knew that I didn't buy enough to give to my other relatives. So she kindly said it's alright but I didn't know if I was sincerely wishing her to take some home or that my mouth moved faster than my brain, I asked her "Are you sure? No regrets?" She looked at me and from her eyes, I could see that she thought it would have been rude to reject me, so she took not 2, but 4 of the cutie wives. Left with 15.
Before I left for Hong Kong, my cousin had asked me to help her buy the biscuits so I had to reserve 1 box for her. My uncle had also generously given me $200 for the trip so in return, my grandmother told me to give him some of the biscuits. All in all, I guessed I was left with about 5 by the end of the first week since I was back. I think my brother must have eaten at least 1 of them and my grandfather would have like to find out the difference from those in Singapore. And I admit, 2 were downed by me because I wanted to see if the wasabi beans are indeed better.