No apologies for my brutal honesty

I Should Tone It Down?

A few years ago, 2 of my ex-bosses met and I introduced them to each other. One of them said to the other, "You will need to get used to Jo's brutal honesty.". Family and friends close to me know me for the upfront and straight-forward character that defines me. Over the years, many have advised that I should "tone down" my personality. It's like asking me to get neutered. Recently, someone offered a helpful advice, requesting me to "tone it down" and tamper what I described for better want of words, "my exuberance". They might as well have asked Joel to get a sex change, or gotten David to remove his testicles.. with a fork.

I Demand Honesty

It took me a couple of days to mull over the advice, finally concluding that I am what I am, with no apologies. However, I owed it to myself and to the people around me who have to put up with my brutal honesty, to explain why rules of engagement with me must always be defined by complete transparency and openness.

A Lesson In Brutal Honesty

When I was 8 years old, in 1978, while being tutored by my Mandarin tutor at home, a gang of men barged into the home. Mum and I almost had a heart attack and they told us to be calmed as Dad was joining us soon. They bellowed that they were from the Internal Security Department (ISD) and proceeded to ransack our home while my tutor comforted my sobbing Mum and me.

When Dad finally arrived, accompanied by more ISD chaps, he was in handcuffs. Mom was sobbing uncontrollably by now and when I wanted to run to Dad, the men prevented me from doing so. I shouted at them, " This is not right. He is not a criminal. You only handcuff a criminal.". I was only 8 years old then. At that point, I thought I spoke more sense than all the adults in that house. No one could provide answers. So I had decided to take control of the situation in the only way I knew, to question what I thought was not right.

Dad was detained for a few months, without trial, under the Internal Security Act ( ISA). His crime? For being part of a civil rights society formed amongst a bunch of friends, committed to free speech and thought. - ( For more information about Function 8, see http://fn8org.wordpress.com/2011/10/03/dr-poh-soo-kai-and-mhas-fiction-of-his-involvement-with-the-injured-bomber-part-1/ ).

During my weekly visits to Dad, beyond the blue gates at Thomson Road, I looked at the ISD chaps with disdain. And I will snarl at them, telling them to "take care of my father or else...". I abhorred the smirk on their smug faces that reminded me of clipboard-toting civil servants I see today. In particular, I can't stand the ones who leave me with a parking ticket that glaringly declares how much more fun their meaningless day was now that they had spoiled someone else's by issuing a fine just because my meeting couldn't finish in the time limit stated on that parking coupon.

A year after Dad's release, he was invited to a "friend's" home for a housewarming party. The minute I stepped into their home, and upon recognizing the host as the man who arrested my Dad, I told him, the host of that party, to go screw himself. I was 10 years old then. And I took control of the situation in the only way I knew. I had to be brutally honest. I couldn't be in the same room with my father's captors.

Standing By My Beliefs

I liked to think that over the years, I stood by what I believed in, and I will continue to stand up to what I feel is not right. I couldn't associate with anyone that thought otherwise. As I grew up, those that crossed my path, beyond the "brown-nosers" like the ISD chaps, were the sycophantic and hypocritical "bible-bashers" who knocked my head with prescribed notions of values.

I stood up to my ex-husband and our families. And sadly, I had to stand up to friends who chose to take his side.

I got married way too young and realized too soon that it was a mistake. Mum said that I had to " make the bed I slept in", insisting that true to her Catholic values，I had to be in it for life. I didnt. I chose to part ways as amicably as I could but in disappointment, Mum and Dad cut me off for a few years. That hurt for a long time. However, in brutal honesty, I told them that it was my life, I made a mistake, and it was my responsibility to clean it up, with or without them. That was how I took control of the situation, in the only way I knew how to.

Years of single parent-hood, and life without Mum and Dad, had honed that same conviction to stand up to what's not right. Thankfully, many years after, remarried and with Mum and Dad back in our lives, I have never stopped standing up for what I believed in.

Today, at work, at home and amongst friends, I am the same. Someone said to me this afternoon," Jo, we are looking to you to make lots of noise about this." To which I replied " happy to do it if you can convince me the noise I make wouldn't be empty and without substance." Yes, I have registered the horror on the faces around the table, but I couldn't walk away with the lie over my head that something will work when clearly, it hadn't convinced me so. And I hoped they appreciated the truth.

I am not in the habit of ruffling feathers and I am not a gun-wielding, hair-shaving lunatic activist either. But I take no prisoners when I believe in doing the right thing.

So, don't mind my brutal honesty. I won't apologise for it.

I have already got a Valentine

I dislike Valentine's Day and all the saccharinely sweet trappings that come with it from flowers, candle-lit dinners, heart-shaped balloons and cheesy cards.

It has been almost 11 years of marriage and 14 years of best-friendship and I counted 5 occasions that he's sent me flowers. 3 of these were to say he's sorry for something stupid that he's done or said.

Don't get me wrong. I am not whining again. Flowers are just not my thing. I do love tulips, so David had 1 tattooed on my ankle instead. Then years ago, I had asked him to buy me a sunflower tattoo to add to my repertoire of "non-wilting" flowers, this time on my thigh. And because my sunflower tattoo looked quite lonely - or the canvas was too large - he then bought me a dragonfly tattoo to keep it company. 5 tattoos later, and almost running out of space, I had decided that I would prefer a fabulous home-cooked dinner whether or not it was Valentine's day.

Then I remembered the first dinner that he had cooked for me. It was a chicken pie. The crust however didn't turn out right, so he proudly presented me with a plate of his gourmet chicken stew instead. My first thoughts as I remembered, was that the bloke was oddly creative. He had done whatever he could under the circumstance to ensure that I got fed. Truly a man after my heart.

He hasn't stopped since. Today, he prepares my breakfast everyday. He butters my toast, brews my coffee, sometimes drawing a heart shape on the foam, pours my juice and prepares my pills for me every morning.

When I need a durian fix, much as he hates the smell of the fruit, he would gamely drive me to a durian fruit stall at Geylang, pick out the best and the biggest durian, then sit there to watch me polish off the entire fruit myself while he happily munch on a slice of pineapple.... the smells notwithstanding.

Everyday without fail he would tell me he loves me "up to the sky and back", whether I am in a bad mood or not.

So while most of the world is celebrating Valentine's day, I am truly grateful that my Valentine's day has never stopped the day I married David.

Let local fare be simply just that

I gritted my teeth and barely held back a loud groan as I turned the pages of the newspapers this morning. My palm oozed perspiration and I was overcome with a sense of nausea. No, the stock market didn't crash again and no, I wasn't reading the sidebar advertising the latest Spring/Summer collection of some branded bags.

I was reading the Lifestyle section of the Sunday Times, glossing the food reviews of some local dishes at restaurants that had taken a fusion twist. "Local Fare Goes Mod", it says. Honestly, it should have been titled "Local Fare Gets Mocked".

Laksa clam chowder served in bread bowl with a drizzle of truffle oil ($14), chilli crab linguini served with soft shell crab ($25), and check out the piece de resistance, bak chor mee pasta ($13.90). What in the wee man's name is this abomination, bak chor mee pasta?

I was stupefied by the increasing number of restaurants serving such "haute cuisine inspired by tradition", and even more flabbergasted by the prices accorded to these dishes. For example, a chilean sea bass with chin cha lok (fermented shrimp) salsa sets one back at a whopping $35. I was insulted.

I grew up in Singapore enjoying local fare for what it was. It's delicious simplicity that was cheap, not always nutritious, but easily accessible. Most importantly, every bite I took of these dishes were steeped in the comforts of my childhood memories full of great times and good fun.

When I was little, Mum and granny used to take me to the wet market at Upper Serangoon Road in a trishaw. I was wedged between them and their basket of vegetables and fish at their feet, in the trishaw. They'd then drop me off at a dingy coffee shop for a bowl of bak chor mee (minced pork noodles) costing a few cents then, while they went off to buy more meats and vegetables at the wet market. Today, I still visit the same bak chor mee stall although he's moved to a better and brighter premise. A bowl of bak chor mee costs me $4 today, but I swear every time I slurp on every strand of those noodles, I can still smell the vegetables and fish in Mum's and granny's basket, and I can feel the balmy breeze brushing against my face as I ride in that trishaw.

Singaporeans are a discerning lot who are very protective of their traditional local fare. A testament to this was a cross-border spat between Malaysians and Singaporeans last year or so, not about land or water, but about food. Did chicken rice, nasi lemak, chilli crab originate from Singapore or Malaysia? Remember the press headlines when that spat surfaced?

So I have to thank Hedy Khoo who writes the weekly Hed Chef column in The New Paper. Today, she showcased granny's chicken curry recipe. It's a very simple chicken curry that's filled with so much of granny's passion for cooking. So much love goes into it whenever she whips up the dish. And for me, the dish pays homage to the memories of my childhood with granny, when she dragged me from home to home of friends to play mahjong, when she cooked for me, when she cut my hair, when she waited for me to come home from school and yes, when she brought me out for a delicious bowl of bak chor mee during our trip to the wet market.

My childhood was unpretentious and simple. I hope our Singaporean local fare will remain the same.

Home is best

Oh how I love to be home. The Siem Reap trip was great but home's best.

While David is having the post-holiday blues now as I write this, I am just ecstatic to be home.

On looking back, I think I may have pushed the envelop a little more than I should with David. He did deserve a wonderful holiday, but he ended up with what I can possibly describe as the worst travel partner.

At home, he gets pushed down my list of priorities unintentionally on almost a daily basis. And on this trip, the alone time didn't spare him either as he played second fiddle to my blackberry.

The Siem Reap trip was organized with the intention for us to have some restful, together time. We seldom have holidays, because we just don't have the time and I do detest holidays. So, this trip was planned since last November and I knew David was counting down the days since then.

However, I was on my blackberry throughout the trip, barking Nazi orders and generally thinking about work. While David was happily taking photographs of the temple ruins and tracing his finger around the carvings as he gasped in awe, I was writing my emails on my blackberry while leaning against a statue.

When he wanted to visit the land-mine museum some 30km away, I'd rather sit at a bar preferably with wifi access and cheap cocktails.

When he was cooling off in the pool enjoying a piña colada, I was on my deck chair clearing my emails.

When we arrived home from the airport, I was more excited about seeing Joel and the dogs, not necessarily in that order, while he trudged behind with the baggage.

When he wanted to sit by me and show me the photographs that he took in Siem Reap, I'd rather write my blog.

However, I know I am home. And I love to be home.

I know I am home when David walks into a conversation between Joel and I, and suddenly smothers Joel with his well-worn socks while laughing out loud... to Joel's utter disgust.

I know I am home when our helper, Evelyn, goes through David's luggage and can't tell the difference between the clothes to be laundered and the clean ones.

I know I am home when I see Joel and David glued intently on the TV, with hands firmly gripping the PS3 controls while playing a game and giving each other instructions on which "enemy" to shoot next.

I know I am home when the dogs sit quietly in an organized row staring at me as I eat my dinner, with eyes following every movement of my fork from the plate to my mouth.

I know I am home when Evelyn discusses the next day's dinner menu with me, while complaining about the price of fish at the market and at the same time, hollering at Joel to finish his vegetables.

As I lay in my own comfy bed, travel weary, but surrounded by David, Joel, Evelyn and the dogs, I feel so grateful to be home.

So I thought that with this blog entry, I'd give David his time, and show off some of the beautiful photos he had taken at Siem Reap. These photos were taken, while I was on my blackberry.