Recap! The Year It Was

So this year:

  1. I spent the first six months worrying about every aspect about the wedding – like the invitation cards, the favours, the wedding hall, the photographer, the husband (like he’d better not skive off on the day we got married)
  2. I spent June running around like a mad woman. I had wonderful friends who came over from different parts of the world, I had family and I moved out. Hmm – it seems like I’m forgetting something. Ah yes. I got married.
  3. I spent the rest of the year then getting used to moving away from my family. Well, all five minutes away. It was six months of building a home with Eizwan, going Ikea shopping, battling roaches and then giving up on washing your on bedsheets. The laundrette does it better. All very domestic – but all very fun, at least for me.
  4. I closed a few contracts on my own this year – nothing very big, but certainly very exciting for me. I also got my first paid work to do creative writing! I can officially say I am a screen writer. Sort of. It’s not quite on the screen yet.
  5. I fell sick. Many times. Over and over again.

Officially an exciting year I would say.

It did feel that it just flew by. Although I did know it was going to fly by. The wedding preparation took up a big chunk of my life and time. I remember at that time, I went through a myriad of emotions – a lot of doubt, a lot of frustrations, being nervous – that I did not have time to enjoy it.

Looking back, I have to admit – I sort of resented the entire wedding preparation. By no means I am ungrateful, I am forever grateful to my family and friends who bent over backwards to give me a very beautiful wedding. But a wedding! It’s just not for me. The whole experience was very odd for me, so much time and effort for just one day dedicated to myself and Eizwan – a necessity, I suppose, rather than the dream experience every little girl had wanted.

It’s the after the wedding that I really enjoyed. I am a calmer person and feel that I have a greater purpose and feel rejuvenated. There is a sense of stability that was missing in my life prior to getting married that I really value. Have I changed much since I’ve gotten married? I doubt it. The biggest change however that I don’t feel marriage entraps you as popular culture suggests. It’s empowering, it gives that feeling that you can do whatever you want.

Plus, now that I actually have more time when my life isn’t caught up with wedding. I’ve picked up again on the damned novel – of which I’m going to finish it this new year. I’ve started reading again – which is good, I’ve forgotten the pleasure of a good mystery novel.

I’m no longer just dreaming now, I’m doing. Whilst the past few years, the New Year’s gives me a sense of regret, a sense that I’m not doing anything with my life, that feeling has somewhat diminished. Do I have regrets? Yeah, sure. Insecurities? Yeah.  Think they’re always there. But quieter. And with a lot more hope for the future. I’m really looking to the new years. May it be better, more awesome than this year already was.

Happy New Year everyone!

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An Ode to Malaysian Food

There is this lovely feature on the Guardian about Malaysian food, which I lapped up greedily. I have to admit, I find it a funny sort of perverse pleasure reading up what other people (read: Westerners) think of Malaysian cuisine. I suppose it’s like reading reviews of my favourite shows – you want people to love it as much as you do.

It’s funny when I read food blogs and the write about being obsessed with food. I don’t think most foodies in the West ever come close to how obsessed Malaysians come to food. We may not have the fancy restaurants that serve tasting menus but the obsession when it comes to food is certainly insurmountable here in Malaysia. It’s like when I complained at work that I’ve been eating too much, an Indian expat who was listening in jumped in and put in his two cents: “You’ve put on weight?! I’ve been here six months and I’ve put on 10 kilos. You Malaysians can’t stop eating.”

We eat. A lot. It’s no joke that it’s some sort of marathon or a second religion here –Book Clubs frequently have to bribe people with tea and snacks for people to attend. In my previous job, we had a snack committee to make sure that the kuehs served were not repeated over various meetings. A meeting outside will usually have 5 meals served – breakfast, morning tea, lunch, afternoon tea, dinner. And a friend of mine who was in London ate at a Malaysian restaurant to satisfy her cravings for Malaysian food – and when it did not taste the same, she sat down and literally cried over her nasi dagang.

But as the article wondered aloud, why was it that Malaysian food has not done very well outside South-east Asia?

I do personally feel that one of the reasons why Malaysian food don’t do as well overseas is that – well, unless it’s done right, it’s not going to taste very good. I can’t eat at Malaysian restaurants overseas, I think they taste awful compared to the real deal.

But almost all Asian cuisine overseas have been bastardized to some extent to fit local tastes. My brother adores sesame chicken and kung pao chicken in the US, but when I ask him if kung pao chicken tastes anything like the chicken cashew nut we get here – he gave me a dirty look and said, honestly, in the States, they all taste the same to him. Chinese food here is better. Of course, it’s better. We’re Malaysians. We think very highly of all our food here.

It’s the same with Thai food, I read in the Guardian that most British have taken a great affection to Thai Green Curry – a mild and sweet curry. Mild and sweet, I thought. Are we eating the same curry? The last time I had a Thai Green Curry at a restaurant in KL, I wanted to die from how spicy it was, and I drank copious amount of water that I was too bloated to walk out of the restaurant.

Don’t get me started with satay, especially the peanut sauce which in the West, is made with peanut butter. I still weep at the thought.

It is not to say that localizing food may be a bad thing. Whilst I do feel that it is wrong to localize Asian food (heck, I’m Asian) but, I do recognize all over the world, we localize. There’s no bacon in most Western restaurants in Malaysia – we have beef bacon; some Malaysian Muslims don’t even know that real bacon originates from pork! The lasagna I had at TGIF Delhi had garam masala. Certainly not very pleasant for me – but very popular amongst the patrons there.

In a long-winded way, I think the most probable reason why Malaysian cuisine has not been able to do as well overseas is that our cuisine is not easy to localize. How can it be? One of the things that make me so proud of being Malaysian is how we’ve taken to each other’s food culture despite claiming to hate each other rather openly. We take Indian spices, the Malay’s fresh herbs and Chinese ingredients, cooking techniques, combine them in a pot and serve.

This makes our ingredients very expensive. A friend of mine asked me for a recipe for Malaysian Chicken Curry. As I listed down for her what would make it authentic – I realize it would bankrupt a restaurant overseas with the ingredients we use. We don’t use 1 teaspoon of curry, or 1 tablespoon. It’s five heaped tablespoons of curry per half a kilo of chicken. On top of that, star anise, cinnamon sticks, cloves, cardamoms, fenugreek seeds, cumin, coriander seeds, mustard seeds and curry leaves. And then lots of onions, ginger and garlic.

All of these things are readily available here – our spice section usually takes up an entire aisle – and they tend to be very cheap in Malaysia. If I had to recreate an authentic Malaysian recipe in England, I’d have to be either very rich and willing to let all these exotic spices go to waste in the pantry – or enjoy Malaysian food so much that you’d cook up a curry, assam pedas, once a week. Fantastic if you’re Malaysian, but not so if you’re not Malaysian. I fancy myself a steak and kidney pie every so often, but imagine having to eat it weekly. Um, no.

Since I’ve gotten married, I’ve been at it in the kitchen, trying to recreate a Malaysian curry recipe that I would be happy to eat weekly. There are thousands of recipes out there – and having tried some of them, unfortunately, the ones by Malaysian bloggers overseas just aren’t as good as the ones here. I do believe it’s because you can’t be as generous with the ingredients as we are here, to toss in as many spices as possible with a lovely dose of fresh herbs.

Which is a shame. Unlike the Thais who seem to know how their cuisines is balanced between sweet, savoury and spicy, Malaysians seem to go a lot more with their gut instinct when it comes to cooking – it just has to taste right. There’s no balance to look for – rendang (stewed beef in coconut) is not going to taste like asam pedas (tamarind fish stew) which is not going to taste like masak lemak cili padi (Chicken in Chili coconut cream) or a roti canai (flaky, sinful pancake). Our food, I don’t believe is as spicy as people make it out to be – certainly there are cuisines out there that are spicier (then again, when I dragged my poor friend for an assam laksa, and I said it’s not that spicy, he choked as he slurped the red broth), it’s just Malaysian. Just like it’s countrymen, Malaysian food is filled with excesses that somehow just come together on a plate, balanced in its own unique way that can hardly be expressed in single word.

I think when you’ve gotten a chance for real Malaysian cuisine – and when I mean real, I mean, in someone’s home where someone had been pounding and roasting the spices for hours, spending hours roasting and simmering three types of fish and painstakingly picking out the bones to make a lovely, thick laksa Johor broth – you would fall in love just as the way we have with our food. But since it’s not that easy to haul a random Malaysian and then force them to cook for you, the next best thing is to be able to localize Malaysian recipes in Malaysian restaurants overseas to make it more palatable to Western tastebuds before introducing them to the real thing.

But until we can find a way to localize rendang, Malaysian chicken curry, to suit overseas Western tastes, sadly, I feel that Malaysian food would always remain, the food world’s best kept secret.

Treats for myself – The Closer

As we stretch into the final week of the year, I thought it deserving (for myself anyway) to give myself little treats. It had been a long year and certainly momentous (for myself anyway) and although I feel the need to keep on working to the end, I think it’s fair that I go a little easy on myself since I had to keep working all throughout my bout of lung infection.

So treats to myself include eating cookies that Eizwan baked for breakfast, eating discounted Christmas chocolates, Ghirardelli, yum yum, and after saying goodbye to the husband as he’s about to leave for work and then to continue on sleeping all the way till 10am.

After that really difficult month of trying to recover, and heck, the myriad of illnesses I’ve had this year – I’ve come to the conclusion that I do work too hard and that I push myself far too hard. If it’s not work, it will be housework, if it’s not housework – I’ll be attempting some mad-cap recipe that requires hours of standing and chopping and it’s not that either, it would be visiting gazillion relatives, some are mine and the rest I’ve gained through getting married this year.

So I’m taking it easy – I’m not going to feel guilty as I eat chocolates and coffee for breakfast. I’m not feeling guilty when I sleep in.

Now, if only my subconscious would do the same. I’ve had odd dreams of eating wholemeal bread and then Eizwan stopping me from eating fried chicken. That’s a bad one. When your subconscious become your husband and his look of disapproval is everywhere! Even in your dreams.

***

Another treat I am thinking for myself is the Season 5 of The Closer. I realize I rarely talk about The Closer, although I cheerfully confess myself to be a big fan of other police procedurals. But The Closer is one of my favourite TV series and certainly my favourite police procedural on TV.

The Closer doesn’t get much love from mainstream media, heck I caught it by chance when I was in the States for my brother’s graduation. The family was hooked and fell in love with the Chief, Kyra Sedgwick’s Detective Brenda Leigh Johnson who leads her super capable team of Priority Homicide Division.

Police procedurals on telly these days are focused on two things – a ridiculous amount of dependence on forensics or criminal psychologists. I used to be a very big fan of CSI, in its very early years when the mysteries were darker and Grissom was almost, but not quite, the classic overworked police officer who was growing weary of the dark ways of the world. But soon the dependence on forensics became overbearing that the series lost sight of actually solving mysteries. And then there were the over-the-top and non-existent forensics techniques, the crime scene workers ever growing boobs AND the cases becoming more and more ridiculous, to the point that I usually am able to figure out the killer and the twist within the first five minutes.

It usually tends to be the peadophilic, incestuous father who is sleeping with his daughter. Wait, that’s Special Victims Unit.

Am not a big fan of criminal profiling either, but this was an unfortunate byproduct from my own research whilst I was working on the novel. Criminal profiling had been denounced as an inaccurate science – replaced by the dull mechanics of a computer calculating statistics and correlations instead – and so when I see a flamboyant character coming up on a profile of a killer based on the victims or way of killing, I think of a real case in Britain which ended miserably for many people, both in the force and in public.

But there is something special about The Closer. The team hate each other at points, they bicker and argue. The team isn’t made up of beautiful people – just people who could actually look like cops. There are always politics within the office they have to contend with and the team frequently bribes the Coroner’s office to get priority on autopsies. Chief Pope is constantly on Brenda’s back for going over budget to solve cases – and I love that the boundaries in this world is ‘real’. They have budget cuts, they have politicians and District Attorneys running for office to please, they have the media who can be quite unkind to them. They are all real restrictions that a lot of civil servants actually do face.

But most importantly, at least for me, the mysteries are fantastic. They are engaging, they are complex and they cover a myriad of social issues ranging from drug killings, gang fights to the bitchy jealousy with the posh areas of Beverly Hills. They’re not just crimes of passion (am looking at you Bones). They have a good balance of forensics and detective work, and the focus of the show is on “The Closer” i.e. Detective Brenda Johnson’s ability to “close” a case by egging out a confession from the suspect. She borders on unethical and breaking the law – but that what makes it so irresistible. The bad guy is caught at the end of the day and the good guys win.

So, off to Amazon for The Closer. Definitely a worthy end of the year treat.

Thank You UMMC

On Friday, the husband called me up. I was at my parents and resting, after nearly a month of being sick with a prospect of recovery ahead of me, there was no way I was not taking that chance of just resting. But on the phone, Eizwan sounded down-right miserable, his voice strained with sniffles and coughs and he sounded like he had been crying for hours. Which, I know the commute to KL is a bitch – but it can’t be that bad.

That was when I decided to go into crazy bitch/wife mode. Over the phone, Eizwan argued with me, the macho man that he is, insisting that he was alright. I argued back, insisting he wasn’t, insisting that he come over to my parents whereby we’ll eat and then Jan, my brother will take him to the hospital.

Which turned out to be a wise decision – Eizwan was quite ill when he arrived home, walking as though he might collapse at any time. The trip to the hospital was what he needed – after a month of sniffles, coughs and a raw throat, he was prescribed very powerful antibiotics and instructed to rest.

Saturday was rest day, which was what the Doctor ordered. It was quite funny to see the two of us, husband and wife, more like a trainwreck, collapsed on the sofa together, wrapped in blanket as we shivered through the day, hoping to make some sort of recovery soon.

And then Sunday happened.

Sunday morning, my grandmother calls my parents up, panicking. My 90 year old grandfather who has a history of bad coughs was struggling to breathe. Now I did not blog about this, but a month before my wedding, my grandfather fell very ill with coughs that he could not seem to recover from. We made daily trips to a private hospital near their place – and instead of getting better, he was getting progressively worse. At that time, we were frightened that he would be too ill to attend the wedding but thankfully, he recovered within a week of the wedding.

Expecting something like before the wedding, my parents were not too concerned. The last time he fell ill, he needed a bout of steroids to make him feel better. This time….

When my parents called me up later during the day, apparently it was really bad that my mother wanted to cry from the sound of his wheezing and my father felt so helpless. He wheezed like every breath was his last, a ragged breath like no oxygen was getting through.

My parents rushed him to UMMC which thankfully, was the wisest decision they made.

There’s a kind of disgust the middle class hold towards the government hospitals in Malaysia. When my mother was mentoring young entrepreneurs, one of the entrepreneurs was telling my mother how, when he was down on his luck and he had no money, he had to take his son to the government clinic. “You have no idea how embarrassing it was for me,” he said. “I kept looking around to make sure that no one I knew was there.”

Another friend of mine told me about the death of her aunt post-surgery. “Well, you know what it was like,” she said. “Government hospitals, probably fucked things up.”

Well, this government hospital did really well. From the moment my parents arrived at the hospital, they rushed a wheelchair to him and rushed him straight to Trauma. This, was miles better in comparison to the so-called private hospital treatment. When my grandfather was ill earlier this year, they made him walk all the way to the treatment room, despite him being barely able to breathe.

The attention they gave to him, the medication they provided him was top-notch. My grandfather was diagnosed with a lung infection, and they gave him the same medication that I paid top dollar for – for free! The nurses hovered over him, the specialists came in twice a day to check up on him. I joked with Eizwan that my grandfather was probably going to recover much earlier than we would.

It was very frightening, how fast he deteriorated. What started with just a mild cough on Saturday resulted in a full-fledged lung infection by Sunday. Sunday afternoon, all his grandchildren sat on the floor of his hospital room, keeping watch. In between amusing ourselves, we watched how the nurses professionally administered his medication. Although my grandfather’s brother came in a bit later, slightly berating us for choosing a government hospital as opposed to a private hospital – I can safely say that we made the right decision – especially for him.

I’m a little suspicious lately of private hospitals. One of the more premiere ones turned my aunt away when they found out that she had a late-stage cancer – and with nowhere to turn, my uncle went to a government hospital who helped her manage her pain till the end of her life, which came just two weeks post diagnosis. Another uncle of mine, was given a clean bill of health from another private hospital and just a month later, died from complications from cancer that the hospital never detected. And then my grandfather’s experience earlier this year whereby a cough was made complicated with suspicion of dengue. It was a good thing that he did not have dengue – but the bad thing was, he nearly had to be admitted because they did not bother to treat him for his cough.

Of course there are good ones, like the ones that helped my grand-aunt earlier this year with her cancer. And my GP who has saved my butt more often than not.

But with all the nightmare stories about government hospital, I didn’t see it. I saw professional nurses, attentive specialists and eager beaver housemen who did thorough check-ups under the watchful eye of the consultant. The nurses were firm and they were attentive, they checked up on my grandfather thoroughly. The medication they gave were even more impressive. You’d be hard pressed to get the stuff he did at a private clinic.

He was discharged today, apparently still weak but lively. He had improved tremendously from Sunday. He was already getting antsy in the hospital, whining about how boring it was and how terrible the food it. But the time in the hospital allowed him to be acquainted with the Ipad, and my 90 year old grandfather is very much looking forward to recovering and for his grandchildren to take him to an Apple store soon.

It’s almost unreal what had taken place over the past few days. From a quiet Saturday to spending the past few days at a hospital, getting acquainted with UMMC. My grandfather is improving and recovering, and at his age, you take whatever is given. For me, I am grateful for the utter professionalism UMMC displayed for my grandfather and putting him on the path of recovery.

Not At All Christmas-y

My BBC Radio 2, yes, I’ve resorted to calling it mine now, I do feel an unhealthy connection to that radio station, keeps playing Christmas-y music. My neighbours have put up Christmas trees and the malls, who are always first to inform of every important holiday, are decorated with trees, tinsel and faux presents. With the Malaysian weather being a frigid 29 degrees Celsius, cold enough to warrant no fan being switched on *oooh* and a blanket to cover myself up as I watch the telly, you would think that I’d feel all Christmas-y.

No. Actually, I do very much feel like a Scrooge McDuck instead.

Well, actually, it’s kinda hard to feel Christmas-y when you’re down with some sort of superbug that has taken away the last week of November and now most of December. Well, I exaggerate. I am nowhere near super bug level, which would leave me isolated in a hospital away from my loved ones – but whatever it is I’ve caught, it certainly makes me feel like I. Am. Never. Going. To. Recover. It’s a bug powerful enough to make me cough up bloody phlegm, pant as though I’ve run a marathon when really, I’ve just gone for a cup of water in the kitchen and for me to break down in the shower, as I imagined my husband living a life without me when you know, I inevitably expire.

Never say I’m not overly dramatic.

However, I am actually finally recovering, with a severe dent in my wallet having seen the doctor three times and the pharmacist twice in a misinformed attempted to self-medicate. There are lessons can be learnt in this escapade.

Firstly, it is, never ever go to one of those chain clinics that your employers force you to go to. I do believe this is the single biggest reason why I became very ill. I took some, piss poor antibiotics that never actually killed off those bugs in me and after another misinformed decision of attending a kid’s birthday party, them bugs came back with a vengeance. So chain clinics may be free thanks to your employers but it’s just a lot more expensive in the long run.

And the second, when you’ve found a good doctor, keep going back to her – despite her antibiotics costing an RM 8 a pill. Nothing beats being able to breathe again and feeling like the skies are starting to clear and bunnies are frolicking in the field again.

So, I hope one would be able to understand, despite the ongoing recovery, I am feeling like a right curmudgeon and hence feeling not at all Christmas-y. I’m still coughing and I’m on a strict diet of no food from these three categories: nothing icy cold, nothing citrus-y and nothing sticky. Sticky being anything that can stick to your throat like peanut butter. Or worst of all, and especially around Christmas – no chocolates.

I’ve gone three weeks without chocolates now, and as the poor husband can attest, without a single chocolate chip cookie. There are many, many things wrong with the world.

But I suppose, as it is the way of the world, everyone else around me is feeling Christmas-y. My father who usually doesn’t care about these things has been watching Jamie Oliver’s Christmas special and wondered aloud if we could do something Christmas-y with turkey and stuffing, and pies, and puddings – his eye cast on me, the usual mad one with the hair-brained ideas of throwing odd parties.

Usually, I’d be the first start googling recipes and then plan something on Christmas Day, something with all the trimmings and the lovely cakes and pies but right now, though the thought may be palatable, unfortunately the energy is not there. I would love to bake an apple galette or a blueberry pie and stuff a chicken (I know, not quite the same, but my oven is too small for a turkey) but until I can warrant a chocolate bar, nothing seems worth living for.

Sniff.

 

Six Months Already?!

Here’s the thing. Today, I was planning on writing a very sappy entry. For the past few weeks, I’ve been mulling in my head a few entries and planning a special one for today. I’ve jotted a few down on paper and my sticky note on my laptop is filled with stuff that I plan on saying.

Heck, I knew what I wanted to write about – I wanted to write an entry today, dedicated to my husband of six months. I wanted to try and attempt a non-sappy entry on what is an essentially sappy occasion. I wanted to share with everyone who reads my blog (all five of you and dwindling) about today.

Today, is something I had been looking forward to for ages. Ever since the day I got married, I had been looking forward to it. Not because I’m some crazy hag who feels the need to mark her relationship at every second (“Oooh! Darling! It’s been 132 days since we got married! Let’s celebrate!”) but because there is something perennially special with the words: 6 months. 6 month is half a year. It’s halfway to one year. It’s like almost a year!

It’s a milestone that suggests, ‘Wahey! We’ve made it.’ Even a month (on the 5 month mark) before we hit the 6 month mark, I’ve already made plans to celebrate this incredible milestone (incredible despite that there have been billions of people who have done the same – but I think it’s incredible, because it’s US TWO, us crazy people, we managed to stay together!) by a sappy entry, going away somewhere and then having a lovely dinner out.

I think some people would be quite upset if they reach any mark, like an anniversary, or a monthiversary and had nothing, especially if they’ve built it up in their heads for ages. The thing I’ve learnt is, since I’ve gotten married is, well, nothing goes to plan! Like I certainly did not plan on being sick again – (5th time this year) – and lying down in bed, re-writing this blog entry over and over again, because it’s hard to write when your head is somewhere else and your body is somewhere else.

But I’m not lying when I say, I really don’t mind.

I know it sounds terribly clichéd and smug when I say, I don’t mind not having a chance to celebrate out and do something special with Eizwan is because the past six months have been incredibly special.

It’s not to say it’s been an easy six months, it’s been a hell of a rollercoaster ride, filled with ups and downs. Everyone had warned me, married life would be difficult but it was only one other person who said to me, “It’s going to be so much fun, starting a new life together and setting up a home together” And you know what? That person was right.

The hard part – well, everyone can tell you the hard part. A chunk of the luxuries both Eizwan and I had been used to had to be cut out. Astro, what Astro? We counted pennies, we argued on what’s right to spend on, what’s wrong to spend on. It takes time to get used to each other, and in some ways, I feel like I’m getting to know an entirely different person.

On the other hand, and I wish someone had told me this, the best part about getting married, is gaining this new partner-in-crime who thinks the same way you do and who wants to do just as many crazy shit. Eizwan knows when I have a crazy idea up my sleeve – and boy, we’ve done some nutty things. The best part of being married and being an adult? No one to tell you that you can’t do it.

So what if I’m going to salvage a 30 year old ice-cream machine on a Thursday night, before hunting down ice and salt and making ice cream at around 11pm?

So what if cleaning the house at midnight seems like a good idea?

So what if we attempted to make cheese with curdled yogurt? (No one dared to eat it, except me and Eizwan. And we’re fine!)

And then spending our honeymoon like it was Amazing Race Asia edition?

Throwing a bimbap party as part of our mini-house warming?

Five-hour Law and Order marathons?

Hmm…they all seem to be related to food. But aside from the ‘nuttier’ things, there were just so many small things that happened between us that, I dunno how to describe it, just so much fun. It’s a bit like my declared competition on who could fill up our respective bookshelves first. What started as a genuine need to fill up our bookshelves on the living room, turned into a competition where both resorted to stealing books from the other side to fill up their own bookshelves. I won by the way.

And it’s more than just having someone with you, who is willing to go about with your mad ideas. It’s being with someone who can listen to your insecurities and then say in a calm voice, ‘Lin, don’t be silly. There are no such things as aliens.’ Or something like that. Eizwan knows when to encourage my ridiculous-ness (“Yes, darling, you can go ahead and spend RM 14 for a box of kosher salt, just because Asian Food Channel said so,”) to appropriately discouraging my insanity: “No, Lin. Eating cookies for dinner is unacceptable. ”)

And Eizwan is my ever-willing partner to listen to my long rants and raves about politics, movies and intellectualism.

I could go on. And you could close the window and stop reading. But I won’t go on because I’ve reached my end-limit. I’ve already corrected every single typo I could think of but probably missed out a ton more because I’m in some lala land where my brain is watching ponies dance with teddy bears.

We’d probably be spending our “special dinner” tonight by ordering in – which is a good thing; no one wants to dine with a patron who sounds like her lungs are trying to escape through her lips. But I honestly can say, it does not matter. It sounds like I’m trying to justify myself but no – the best thing about the past 6 months, had not been the material wealth, or the stuff, or things, or holidays (which there are none). A lot of people make marriage life out to be about material wealth, from what you give on your hantaran, to where you spent your honeymoon, to who designed your dress, to whether you bought a house or not, to the cars you have.  To discount them would be dishonest, material things had made my life comfortable, no doubt. But a chunk of my happiness has been based on the time I’ve spent with Eizwan, the time getting to know him, the time spending and doing crazy things, and the time feeling like I’m a better person, just by being with him.

I love you Eizwan, and happy six months – and looking to many more months ahead.