Oh, how I envy all those IT people. Raja gives me the eye whenever I categorize anyone with computer skills as an IT person. Apparently there’s a difference. Pfftt! Regardless, they seem to have everything at the tip of their fingers and the corner of their eyes. With their sophisticated knowledge on computer stuff that leaves me totally clueless. They’re just so informational with the growing technology. Hence, the term Information Technology (IT). Which technically makes an individual with such caliber, an IT person. Obviously. I rest my case.

Unlike me. I suck when it comes to computers and anything associated with it. Under it. Above it. Adjacent to it. You name it. As long as it breaths a mother board, I’m horrible at it. It’s true. I’m what you’d call an IT Bimbo. I haven’t the slightest idea on where to even begin when it comes to anything other than online chatting. Which is why the desperate eagerness to become a computer geek.

My first true heart-wrenching, spine-twisting, ego-crushing experience with a computer was eight years ago. There was this Visual Basic assignment I was working on. By the way, yes, you’re eyesight’s perfectly normal. I did type Visual Basic (VB). Somebody please shoot me now.

For those of you who have never gotten the pleasure of being introduced to VB in your lifetime, I hate you. You perfect person you. Anyway, it’s basically a programming language, which is way beyond what I’d ever dreamed of venturing into. So it’s safe to conclude that I was forced into taking this class.

It wasn’t easy for me. Truth be told, I had memorized everything. I wasn’t even improvising on anything. I copied word by word from the text book straight into the program. What seemed like ages finally came to an end. My assignment was completed. I had conquered the inevitable. Ok, now the saving part. I hesitated for a while. There was no saving in MIRC or ICQ. At least not to my clearly limited knowledge. Embarrassed, I looked aimlessly around the computer lab for help. Believe it or not, I was about to ask someone to teach me how to SAVE my files. How lame is that? I’m glad we’ve already established the fact that I’m a total IT Bimbo.

So I gathered my courage and the tiny pieces of what’s left of my ego and squeaked for assistance from my colleagues. Again, it wasn’t easy. It took a little convincing and some cross-your-heart-and-hope-to-die promises on their part that my files were safely stored before I could bring myself to close the program. Amazing. That day, I learned how to save a file.

Impressed with my newly acquired saving techniques, I brought the saved files back home to print out. But there was a major problem. My files were missing. Like it never existed. There was a long pause. A moment of silence. Then sheer panic. Followed by various pardon my french words

The next day, I rushed into the computer lab hoping to retrieve my files. To my dismay, it wasn’t there. There was total blankness. I was disoriented. My work. My assignment. My masterpiece!

Then I realized something. I suck at computers. I didn’t even know how to save a file. What was I even searching for? I needed help. With a glint of hope mixed with despair, I requested the help of my colleagues. And it’s true, I truly suck at computers because they had found my missing files. Here’s the fun part. It wasn’t really missing. Instead of saving them into the diskette like a normal person would’ve, I had saved files that I planned on taking home with me into the computer’s hard drive. What the? Was I planning on carrying the machine back home or something? Seriously. What a Bimbo!

I think what’s worse was that the government accepted me into its tertiary system. Believe me, like yourself, I am truly appalled by this.

Anyway, last night I had encountered another problem. No, not that. I’ve already mastered the saving part. This was bigger than that. It was more of an overall computer issue. My CPU gave up on me, my monitor refused to come alive, and of all things, my iPhone was messing up. Raja said an iPhone is pretty much like a computer, only smaller. It’s no wonder though. ALL COMPUTERS HATE ME. Irrespective of its shape, color, and evidently size. They’re literally out to get me. There’s also this throbbing nerve of the size of a foot that suddenly popped out on my forehead.

So I pleaded for my IT guy to rescue me. Yes Raja, I’m referring to you as an IT person. Bare with me. So with a wave of his magic fingers, all problems disappeared. Ahhh, I felt the killer nerve sinking back into its slumber.

We can all agree that my hopes and dreams of being a computer expert ought to be flushed down the toilet. Merely for the safety of others. And mankind. Instead, I did the next best thing and married my dream. I married a computer geek. Best decision by a mile. I love my IT guy.

My mum grew them years ago. Just 2 petite sized coconut trees on the front lawn. Back then, they barely bore any fruits. And when they did, strangers would’ve already borrowed them without permission in the middle of the night. Which was very frustrating.

So much so that my mum used to tie an eery looking red knot around the coconut trunk. A miserable attempt that she resorted to in hopes of driving thieves away at the glimpse of her fake coconut curse. Something which ultimately failed and backfired because the thieves had obviously memorized the fake coconut removing spell themselves.

However, recently, they seem to be bearing coconuts by the dozens.

And if it was visible to the common eyes, you’d know that Tara had been eying in it for at least half a century, 3 weeks, and 5 days ago. Yup, even before my mum even thought about growing coconut trees. Or when fake coconut spells were conjured.

But she was a point above those thieves. Because she asked. With permission. I think it had something to do with her age and her inability to pull off climbing, plucking, and carrying coconuts the size of her head back to KL without being caught. It’s just a feeling but I might be wrong.

So my dad got the maid to cut down some coconuts for her. What initially was requested as 2 coconuts, was pushed into 4, and finally 7.

Exhilarated. With stars literally shooting straight out of her eye sockets and drool oozing from the side of her mouth, nostrils, and ears, she insisted on heaving all 7 coconuts into the car trunk herself. And no no. Not one by one. As in simultaneously ALL 7 into the back of the car. Amazingly, she succeeded in balancing the fifth coconut with her scrawny arms when everything crumbled. Yes, she has freakishly incredible strength and determination.

Finally, she accepted help from the adults.

While this was happening, she took a coconut, lightly dropped it, and rolled it onto someone’s car bonnet. While this was also happening, one of my dad’s friends who was enjoying every bit of Tara’s actions up til that moment, quickly jumped into his car, started his engine, and sped off. Without properly saying his goodbyes. How rude.

Here’s a photo of Tara’s second batch of coconuts.

I read somewhere that virtually every part of the coconut tree has some human uses. And I bet Tara can also find a thousand and one uses for them too back at home. Home. Where she lives on the 8th floor. With a permanent stained record of throwing things off the balcony. Like her pacifier. Certain decorative items in the living room. And the maid’s handphone.

I was only 8. At that age, it’s perfectly natural for your imagination to kick into overdrive. There were so many things I’d imagine surprising her with. So many things I wanted to make for her. So many things I wanted to buy for her. Unfortunately, at that age, you also have limited financial resources. So all imaginations and wants came to a halt.

But I still wanted to do something special for her.

So I chose breakfast in bed. Yes, cooking. At that age. That was like volunteering myself as a human sacrifice in an ancient ritual killing AND giving my barbie doll collection to the founder and co-founder of that cult. So yes. BEST MOTHER’S DAY GIFT EVERRRR.

I was going to surprise her with home-cooked eggs, sausages, baked beans, with toasted bread. All from the pantry. All of which she paid for. Ah, the simplicity of being 8.

It was as early as 7am. I slaved myself into the kitchen with one eye open. Being 8 also meant that you were vertically challenged, so I had to pull a chair from the dining table to the kitchen stove. I also remembered burning the first few eggs. I guess some things really never change.

Eventually, my sunny side up came out acceptable. The sausages looked slightly shrunk but still visible and 60% edible. And the toast, as usual, was a bit burnt. Just a BIT. The only thing that looked like it was supposed to, were the baked beans. Yes yes, because it came out of the can. But I microwaved it perfectly.

Once everything was settled, I decided to present my scrumptious surprise with a side order of cereal and milk.  That turned out to be the main meal –if not the only edible meal– after all. That, and a tall glass of orange juice. Apparently, adding splashes of soy sauce, table spoons full of salt, and dashes of pepper into every dish was a bit too overwhelming. My ultra-imaginative senses told me that more ingredient meant tastier food. It lied.

One thing I’ll never forget was her expression. She smiled wider than a sunny side up. Her face glowed brighter than a glow stick in a rock concert and her eyes almost teary like a diamond. It was priceless.

I was her BEST CHILD EVERRRR (To my siblings, sorry you had to find out this way).

Today, I woke up to an equally fantastic surprise. Raja made me breakfast in bed. Not because of any occasion. Not because of a fight. Not because he was held at gun point. But just because he felt like it.

I smiled wider than a sunny side up. My face glowed brighter than a glow stick in a rock concert. And my eyes almost teary like a diamond. It was and still is priceless.

For a single moment, he made me feel the same way I think and hope my mum felt in 1991. And I love him for it. BEST HUSBAND EVERRRR. I love you baby.

Just some random pic I dug up.

A question. A question that has been lingering in people’s mind. A question which has eventually evolved to being expressed more and more often within these past few days. Among family and friends. Something I dread to hear again. Haunting me.

“Are you, *clears throat*, Are you pregnant?”.

I feel like barfing and giving my best performance of being pregnant the next time someone decides to come up with that question again. Just for kicks.

It didn’t bother me at first. It really didn’t. It was weeks ago when the first person asked me that question. I just smiled and care-freely shook my head, denying such rumors. Perhaps it was just one of those things that people like to bombard on newly married couples. Breaking the ice maybe. Well, similar reoccurring events happened thereafter. Same questions only by different people. I just absorbed it like a piece of bread in a glass of milk.

But the final straw was when I received a text message earlier today. A friend of mine dreamt that I gave birth to a baby girl. Seriously? Am I channeling weird pregnancy vibes across town. Even into dreams. How is this possible? It’s official. Everyone, except the clearly relevant individuals in this relationship (Raja and myself), knows about our made-believe-baby. A girl nonetheless.

Let me clarify things. NO. I AM NOT PREGNANT. Don’t get me wrong. I’d love to break my back carrying a foetus around for 9 whole months, withhold any sudden urge of projectile vomiting, and battle the unpleasant agony of a beautiful child birth. Just, not now.

So I look at myself hard into the mirror this morning. And yes, maybe me putting on a few pounds had probably contributed to some of those speculations. Big time. So I’m fat. Fatter than before. Does that really relate to being pregnant? Ok, maybe it does. Because of that, I decided to put an end to this madness. At this moment of weakness, I had finalized my two best options of doing so.

Method 1: Exercise more and eat healthily. Which is why I made this healthy looking salad for lunch today.

And my personal favorite. Method 2: Fatten Raja up to make me look slimmer. I’m really relying on this second alternative, which is why I made this greasy unhealthy looking fried chicken and fried potato with chili for HIS lunch. With lots of rice of course. *Evil grin*.

My mission backfired though. I ended up eating the leftovers. A piece of chicken and 3/4 of that chili potato. AND my salad. I ate more that him!

Maybe I SHOULD just continue pretending that I’m pregnant. That way, I’ll be able to carry the weight with some dignity. Nobody laughs at a fat pregnant lady.

Tara: Hello Miss. May I serve you some food and drinks?

Jothy: Why yes. Yes you may.

Tara: This is for you. A big tissue and a nice drink.

Jothy: Ohh..thank you. What is this shiny thingy?

Tara: This thing?

Tara: Something to beat you with.

Jothy: Huh? Noooooo. Tara Don’t!

Tara: *Whack*

Jothy: ADAMMMMMM…..

Adam: TARA! How many times have I told you not to hit people?

Tara: Ok ok. Sorry sorry.

Tara: *Feeling remorse*

Tara: *Back to normal*

Jothy: Taraaaa..NO!

Tara: *Whack*

Jothy: ADAMMMMMM….

Tara: No no. I’m just reading this map.

Tara: See….

The end.

I’m proud to say that the purchase was beyond paramount importance. It was going to change my life in ways that I can never imagine. To tweak my flaws. To upgrade myself. To help me finally develop fine –or any– cooking skills. To….

Wait, I can’t do it. There’s no point pretending. I’ve got to be honest. Truth is, I was hungry. Massively hungry. Fasting month does this to people. Plus, there were many pretty pictures. Mouth watering colored pictures. COLORED pictures. My better judgment was compromised. AND dare I admit it, I was suckered into buying a cook book. This cook book.

But, I’ll show them who’s making who look dumb. I’ll show them who’s going to get the last laugh. I’m going to make my purchase worth every cent. I’m going to flip through the pages of that book and prepare at least one recipe a day. I’ve set my foot down and I won’t budge an inch. Ok, maybe at least one recipe a week. Point is, I’m going to make it happen. Even if it doesn’t taste like it should. Or look anything even remotely close to the pictures in that book. I will have the last laugh.

I made this for ’sahur’ earlier this morning. Yes, the toast looks burnt. Smart observation. But it wasn’t my fault. It was the toaster’s fault. And I think it’s contagious because the beef balls look burnt too. Cooking really is a mystery. Anyway, the important thing is Raja succeeded in finishing the darker, saltier version of that recipe. He loves me. So, HA HA HA. IN YOUR FACE COOK BOOK.

Are you still with me? Ok, good. So one day, Juliana (she’s my sis in law — and no she did not ’shi shi’ in this story) went to pick up Tara (my sometimes lovely niece) from the kindergarten. Usually the highlight of Juliana’s trip to the kindergarten would consists on listening to Tara’s classmates complaining about how Tara was a naughty naughty girl. “Tara licked me”. “Tara pushed me”. And believe it or not, there was even a “Tara threw a chair at me”. Seriously. But this time, it was Tara’s teacher who wanted to have a word with Juliana. Inside the classroom. Oohhhkay. What now?

Apparently, Tara had ’shi shi-ed’ (Yes, I had just used a passed tense for a made believe word. But it was in Reneepedia. I checked twice) on herself in class earlier that morning. On the way back, Juliana questioned Tara about the unfortunate incident. “What happened?”. “Did the teacher hit you?”. “Tell me”. Embarrassed, Tara refused to explain what had happened. She just kept quiet the whole way. Silence is not Tara’s thing, so it must have been serious.

Worried and restless, Juliana kept interrogating Tara. “What happened? What happened?”. Finally Tara broke down and told her side of the story. According to her, she wanted to pee but the kindergarten had CCTVs installed everywhere. Even in the toilet cubicles. Being the innocent girl that she clearly isn’t, she felt shy and terrified that the cameras would see her ’shi shi’. So she peed in her pants instead. She even swore that she wasn’t lying. She swore.

The next day, Juliana confronted the teacher again. Unsurprisingly, there were NO cameras in the toilet. No conspiracy on mild child pornography there. The truth was, Tara was being naughty as usual, so the teacher gently spanked her. I think that made her self-esteem go from hero to zero and down came the pee. End of story.

I don’t know whether Juliana should be worried about Tara’s avid lying problem or elated that Tara will most definitely score an A for creative writing. For a 5 year old, CCTV excuses are wayyyyy off the charts. She is so good. So so good.

I have this feeling that Tara won’t appreciate reading this particular blog post in years to come.

We were in charge of the drinks. Naturally, that includes ice too. So we bought 4 packets of ice cubes from 7-11.

The evening went by as it should. Eating, drinking, laughing, gossiping, etc. While all this was happening, Raja and I took turns refilling the ice cubes into a bowl. Which by the way, was a stainless steel bowl instead of an ice bucket. How sad is that? I need to start being a better wife and get proper kitchenware.

Anyway, I emptied the first packet into the ‘non-ice bucket’ bowl and placed it next to the drinks. As it got later into the evening, Raja emptied the second packet. When I got to the third packet, I realized that the ice cubes were no longer in small pieces, rather frozen together like a big block of iceberg.

So I stood there in the kitchen alone, contemplating on whether I should actually do something about it. Heck. It was too much work. I decided to let it be. With a hint of optimism, I was hoping it will melt and break into smaller pieces. That, ladies and gentlemen, did NOT happen. What was left was a chunk of semi-melted ice cube. Still the same piece, only much smaller than before.

When the fourth time came around, I decided to teach the stubborn ice cube a lesson. So I whacked it with a spoon. The biggest baddest spoon I had in the kitchen. Whack! Whack! Whack! Just when I thought I was getting the message across, Raja’s voice came from the living room. “Err…Baby, are you okay? What are you doing?”. Apparently my disciplining method was making too much noise. Damn.

In the middle of explaining what was happening, I soon found out that Raja had encountered the same problem while emptying the second packet. Unlike me, Raja and his friend used the pestle. The pestle?! So that’s how it’s done. Raja was warning me about the coldness of the ice against my hands and something about using warm water, but I wasn’t really listening. I was drifting away thinking, Man, I seriously need to hunt down the person who gave us that wedding gift and seriously thank him or her.

Thrilled, I held the pestle using my right hand and push aside the mortar. Because really, what could be better than a huge stainless steel bowl as a substitute mortar? Then I started pounding on the block of ice. Bam! Bam! Bam! Again, Raja’s voice intervened from the living room.

Raja: Baby, is it working? By the way, why is it so loud?

Me: I don’t think it’s working yet. But the ice is turning yellow though, from the ‘kunyit’ stain.

Raja: Don’t use that end. Use the other end.

Me: It’s still not working. It’s just flat.

Raja: Are you pounding on the ice??! You’re suppose to lift it in your hand and knock it, not pound on it. Which is why I told you to let the warm water run incase your hand hurts.

Ooooohhhhh, so that’s what he was rambling about earlier on. Seriously, sometimes I seize to impress myself with my stupidity and naivety. It’s also pretty impressive how I got through life this far.

Anyway, here’s a shot of the devil ice cubes in the ‘non-ice bucket’ bowl.

Side note: I’m kind of bummed because not only do I not know how to “properly” operate a blender, I’m also failing at basic mortar and pestle 101. Just when I thought I had fully mastered it. Sigh.

For those of you who are not on the same page, Keith Floyd happens to be one of the finest chefs in the world. Finest. Fine-expensive-est (See how I added that subliminal message in between? See it? See it?). But it was worth Raja’s money. I’m presuming it seeing that I’m his favorite wife.

Anyway, Keith Floyd’s food is simply amazing. At least his recipe is amazing because obviously Mr. Floyd didn’t personally cooked the meals himself. He was definitely somewhere on the other side of the world whipping up god knows what miraculous dish for his hundredth cook book. Show off. So whomever his prodigy were, they made an excellent dinner for us.

The menu was crazy. Pages and pages of mouth-watering dishes. Everything looked so good. We ended up ordering the lobster bisque as our soup starter. The tom yam goong and green curry prawn, which are clearly main courses, as our appetizer. And a heavenly juicy steak with a really really long name. I seriously can’t remember. The serving came exactly in those order. So when the “I-can’t-remember-the-name-steak” arrived, we were already stuffed.

But come one, this is FLOYD we’re talking about. I didn’t care if I had to sleepover there to finish that steak. I WILL finish that steak. As I successfully cramped that last cut of meat in my mouth, I glimpsed at Raja. He looked bewildered. Bewildered that he just married a ‘black hole’ monster. What? I hate wastage. And I don’t care because I know I’m still his favorite wife, regardless.

This wasn’t just any dinner though. It was our first formal dinner outing together as a married couple. Yeah yeah, you can count on Mrs. Big-a-Dealio to list all the “first” activities as a couple. Brushing that aside, I can’t think of a more suitable, more romantic, more fabulous place to have our first dinner than an exquisite restaurant on an island. Floyd’s Brasserie. Thanks baby. And Juliana too for recommending the place.

As we sat on the bed together, we exchanged smiles. His mom and sister were on the bed too. No no. It’s not what you think. It was gift-unwrapping time.

The first gift we decided to unwrap was nicely decorated in a bright pink wrapper. There was no name or card on it. Being the bride, I had the honor of ripping off the first gift. There was a pause. Much to my amusement, it was a mortar and pestle. Seriously? Is this a prank? A joke? Or did someone really meant to buy us that. But really, I shouldn’t be judgmental. I should be thankful. And I am.

So we moved along with unwrapping the other gifts. Among one of the other gifts were a blender. I’m thinking, that’s more like it. Now, let’s fast forward this scene to the week after.

Yes, the week where I’ve just begun to cook. To perfect my recipe (you can laugh now), I needed to blend some onions and garlic. Naturally, I reached out for the new blender. But I was a bit confused as it had three different blending containers. One tiny container and two identical big ones.

This is the part where the Hero usually walks in, and sure enough, along came Raja into the kitchen. The following conversation occurred:

Raja: What are you doing?

Renee: Trying to figure out which container I should use.

Raja: Here, let me show you. This small one is for dry items, like peanuts. And these two big ones are for wet items. You can use one big container for spicy ingredients such as chilly and dedicate the other big container for non-spicy ingredients.

Renee: But I only need to blend a small amount. Maybe I should use the tiny one.

Raja: But I just said…

Without any hesitation, I grabbed the tiny container and inserted the onions and garlic. As I pressed the ON button, it refuses to blend fully. The small chunks were stuck. Glancing back at Raja, I can almost hear him saying “Jangan monyet, jangan”. Gently, he walked towards me and helped me blend the onions and garlic using the “correct” blending container. Whatever.

That’s when I remembered the mortar and pestle. And I understand now why anyone would want to get me one of those. They know me so well. I can’t even operate a damn blender. So I thank you, whoever you may be, for giving me an awesome kitchen appliance, the mighty mortar and pestle. I understand now. Thank you.