At four thirty in the morning just now, I received a rather distressing phone call from Melanie. I know, nobody answers phone calls at four in the morning and I didn't either, at least for the first four phone calls. By the fifth consecutive phone call, I sleepily figured out that it must be a life and death situation, though it probably would be Melanie the one causing the death of some poor customer. That didn't stop me from being furious though and so I picked up the fifth phone call halfway and before Melanie could say anything, I slurred angrily (go figure, try it yourself), "What is it Mel, what the f**k do you want?"
"I'm dying..." Melanie groaned through the phone, her original deep male voice making a special appearance.
See? It is about life and death with Melanie, always. Jokes aside, that did woke me up a little.
"Why, what is wrong?" I said, scratching my eyes.
"I don't know... Come here quick. I can't move, I am practically bedridden!" she cried.
"Fine, I'll reach your place in half an hour. Wait for me," I said sleepily.
"No! Come faster than that!" she shouted on the phone.
"My father owns the taxi company in Singapore is it?" I said, pressing the familiar red button and tossing it on the bed. I grabbed my towel for a quick shower and reached her place in slightly more than forty minutes. Lucky for me, Melanie had given me a duplicate set of her house keys, "in case I am drunk beyond comprehension and lying outside a club like a scene in CSI". I made my way into the house rather noisily, sleepy mostly, but also to let her know that I have reached.
"You said half an hour! It's been over forty minutes!" she screamed from her room.
I opened the room door and Melanie was lying on her bed, in a foetal position and groaning loudly. In her biologically male voice. Her hands were clutching her stomach and she was breaking out in cold sweat, face pale; the palest I have seen her in.
"Shut up Mel, you're going to wake up all the neighbours. It's not even five o'clock in the morning," I told her, putting down my sling bag on her vanity table.
"You heartless piece of shit, I'm dying!" she wailed again in that deep male voice. I need to get used to this, I told myself.
"You're not going to die yet. God is not ready yet to fully recognise your new face," I joked, sitting down beside her on the bed. "Did you eat anything before this?" I asked her.
"No I was from this escort job and you wouldn't want to know what I ate, or swallowed before this," she said.
I laughed so hard, I had to cover my mouth with my palms in order not to wake up the neighbours. Melanie smiled weakly and chuckled feebly, still in pain. I helped her out of bed (she's actually heavier post op I began to realize) and called a cab. I literally carried her from the bedroom, out of the house and straight into the cab. She was still groaning in pain in her deep baritone voice, all the while wearing only hot shorts and a tight Mango t-shirt and the cab driver gave a very confused look, peering occasionally from the rear view mirror whenever Melanie groaned in pain.
It was mostly, "Oh my god!" and "F**k!" and one time she went, "Oh my god, f**k!" and I pinched her and said, "Shut up lah!" It was a very confusing ride for the cab driver, that is all I can say.
We reached the A&E and turns out it was just a case of severe food poisoning. She was on drip for a couple of hours and given the proper medicine, but because it's the A&E and everything was moving at a glacial pace, everything ended only at around noon. That is more than six hours in the hospital and I was very lucky I wore a hoodie over my shirt or I would freeze to death beside Melanie.
What caused the food poisoning was still unknown but it definitely wasn't what I thought it was. "It wasn't my first time Harry," Melanie snarled at me, right forearm attached to the drip.
When we left, Melanie could already walk and she looked like shit. The lady at the dispensary said, "You're so lucky to have a loving boyfriend. He waited for you all morning."
"He is sweet isn't he?" Melanie said, soft feminine voice on display after a whole morning of deep male grunting. I walked away, rolling my eyes and she smacked my butt on the way out of the dispensary and the lady at the counter giggled away like a schoolgirl.
Moral decay this one.
Thursday, November 8, 2012
Sunday, November 4, 2012
Work In Progress
By mid next month, I will have to find a place to stay for three months. The reason behind this is because my mum intends to renovate the entire house, and that too without informing me until yesterday over dinner. She is going to stay at Aunt Sally's place for the time being since Rick has gotten married and there is an extra room. Harold is going to stay at his best friend's place, which is honestly, like his second home. His best friend, Sean, and his mother treats Harold like family. Which leaves me to being the person without a place to stay for three months while the house is in shambles, undergoing a makeover.
"I called Steve and told him I would want only him to be the interior designer for our house renovation," my mum told me over dinner yesterday after dropping the last minute news about the three month homeless renovation story.
"And what did he say?" I asked.
"Oh he was more than happy to help. He even sounded more excited than I am! He said he would do anything, for Harry's sake. You sure you have nothing going on with him? I mean, whatever boys, I don't mind, he is rich, go for it I say," my mum replied.
"That is just morally wrong, on so many levels mum," I shook my head.
"He is coming over tomorrow morning to discuss about the renovation details at around ten. You both better be present and decide about the design of your own rooms. If it was up to me, I don't think you boys would like it," my mum said, clearing the dishes on the table away.
So this morning, Steve came over and the four of us had a discussion about the concept of the house and its design sensibilities, costs, budget, the whole thing.
"Well you know Steve, ever since aunty got divorced five years ago, aunty have been wanting to renovate this house and change things so that you know, aunty won't be reminded of the painful memories because this house was decorated and designed by both me and my ex husband. Aunty wants to move on and this renovation would help me a lot," my mum said, with a sad face.
"Oh god you are such a lying emotional blackmailer! The only reason why you want a renovation is because you have always wanted a walk in wardrobe for the longest time!" Harold outed her.
I laughed manically.
"Fine! I want a walk in wardrobe too using the space from the storeroom beside my master bedroom! You can do that right Steve?" my mum cooed. Harold rolled his eyes.
"Of course I can! How much is your budget aunty?" Steven asked, scribbling away in his notebook.
"Forty thousand? Is that enough?"
"What the hell? Since when did you have that much money to spend? Oh and you scoff at Rick's wedding a week ago? Who is the one NOT acting like a middle class person should here?" I asked condescendingly.
"I've been saving for years. And Steven is going to handle everything from start to finish. We just move out, and come back three months later to a new home. No hassle, no fuss. Thank you Steven!" my mum cooed again.
"Speaking of which, I have yet to find a place to rent for three months because SOMEONE told me only at the very last minute," I said.
"Oh you can stay at my place. I've got three empty fully furnished bedrooms and my parents are rarely in town anyways and I don't think they would mind. In fact I think they would love it if I have some company and guests in the house," Stave offered, with a twinkle in his eyes.
I told him I would think about the generous offer and my mum tested me later on in the afternoon that I am stupid for even thinking of considering the offer. "U cn ask him 2 gv us e red satin couch in his living rm! Pls! Or I won't do e laundry 4 u animre!"
Harold is right. My mum is a lying emotional blackmailer.
"I called Steve and told him I would want only him to be the interior designer for our house renovation," my mum told me over dinner yesterday after dropping the last minute news about the three month homeless renovation story.
"And what did he say?" I asked.
"Oh he was more than happy to help. He even sounded more excited than I am! He said he would do anything, for Harry's sake. You sure you have nothing going on with him? I mean, whatever boys, I don't mind, he is rich, go for it I say," my mum replied.
"That is just morally wrong, on so many levels mum," I shook my head.
"He is coming over tomorrow morning to discuss about the renovation details at around ten. You both better be present and decide about the design of your own rooms. If it was up to me, I don't think you boys would like it," my mum said, clearing the dishes on the table away.
So this morning, Steve came over and the four of us had a discussion about the concept of the house and its design sensibilities, costs, budget, the whole thing.
"Well you know Steve, ever since aunty got divorced five years ago, aunty have been wanting to renovate this house and change things so that you know, aunty won't be reminded of the painful memories because this house was decorated and designed by both me and my ex husband. Aunty wants to move on and this renovation would help me a lot," my mum said, with a sad face.
"Oh god you are such a lying emotional blackmailer! The only reason why you want a renovation is because you have always wanted a walk in wardrobe for the longest time!" Harold outed her.
I laughed manically.
"Fine! I want a walk in wardrobe too using the space from the storeroom beside my master bedroom! You can do that right Steve?" my mum cooed. Harold rolled his eyes.
"Of course I can! How much is your budget aunty?" Steven asked, scribbling away in his notebook.
"Forty thousand? Is that enough?"
"What the hell? Since when did you have that much money to spend? Oh and you scoff at Rick's wedding a week ago? Who is the one NOT acting like a middle class person should here?" I asked condescendingly.
"I've been saving for years. And Steven is going to handle everything from start to finish. We just move out, and come back three months later to a new home. No hassle, no fuss. Thank you Steven!" my mum cooed again.
"Speaking of which, I have yet to find a place to rent for three months because SOMEONE told me only at the very last minute," I said.
"Oh you can stay at my place. I've got three empty fully furnished bedrooms and my parents are rarely in town anyways and I don't think they would mind. In fact I think they would love it if I have some company and guests in the house," Stave offered, with a twinkle in his eyes.
I told him I would think about the generous offer and my mum tested me later on in the afternoon that I am stupid for even thinking of considering the offer. "U cn ask him 2 gv us e red satin couch in his living rm! Pls! Or I won't do e laundry 4 u animre!"
Harold is right. My mum is a lying emotional blackmailer.
The Art Of Gifting
Christmas is only a month and a half away so let me take this opportunity to address the issue that is "The Art Of Gifting". I think it is an absolutely important skill that needs to be practiced and harnessed because let's face it: 99% of Singaporeans give shitty gifts. They do. And we need to stop spending (Wasting, really) our money by buying shitty gifts that is of little or no use for people that matter to us. It reflects bad on your taste (if you have any left in their eyes) and your common sense, in most occasions where gifting is considered part of the practice.
About a week ago, my Aunt Sally and her husband, who we call Uncle Brad celebrated their 28th wedding anniversary. Aunt Sally is a fantastic gifted; she bought for her husband a Dunhill money clip and a limited edition John Varvatos cologne because a, Uncle Brad refuses to carry his wallet around when he goes out and he already has a cardholder and b, he has been using his Aramis cologne for the past twenty years and Aunt Sally says that it is starting to make her lose her sense of smell. The gifts bought is perfect for Uncle Brad, something classy AND something that he definitely would use.
It was a small family gathering and Aunt Sally cooked her legendary Beef Shepherd's Pie and Garlic Butter Prawns Linguine. Uncle Brad was ecstatic with his gifts and to say that Aunt Sally has raised the standard of gifting is to put it mildly. It was Uncle brad's turn to present his gift to his lovely wife and I could almost feel the tension in the room multiplying by ten; Aunt Sally is known to be absolutely critical and fussy, she is the difficult one, my mum is the bitch. Bless my grandparent's souls.
We were all sitting down around the living room and Aunt Sally opened her present; a big box covered in grey gift wrap with black ribbons. My Aunt Sally opened it and immediately screamed, "What the hell is this?!" My mum immediately muttered under her breath, "Uh oh."
It was a karaoke set: A disc player that already has 2000 songs stored inside, and two microphones.
"You don't like it?" Uncle Brad asked. Harold leaned over to snap a picture of the karaoke set to upload in Instagram. Pure comedy gold.
"Do I sing? Am I a singer? Do I look like Donna Summers?" Aunt Sally asked, raising both her eyebrows and her voice.
"That's my Instagram caption right there: Do I sing? Am I a singer? Do I look like Donna Summers?" Harold whispered as he sat back down beside me.
"Well you are always singing, in the showers, while cooking, hanging the laundry. I thought it would be a good idea to get you a karaoke box set and you can sing to your heart's content! Who knows, you may even win the singing competition at the community centre one of these days!" Uncle Brad joked.
"Brad, I will shove this microphone inside of you and I am not talking about your mouth!" Aunt Sally fumed.
Harold and I rolled on the floor laughing. Rick, their newly married son who was seated quietly all throughout suddenly burst out laughing, "Mum! Where did that come from?"
The point I am getting at is, the "Art Of Gifting" is a necessary life (and respect) changing skill. The rule of the thumb for me when buying a gift is, before buying it, always, always, always choose practicality/usage value above everything else. The best gifts are usually not the most pretty, the most expensive, the most romantic or the most value for money.
For me personally, the best gifts are those that the recipients would need and use rather frequently in their lives. And every time they use it, they would be reminded of you. And isn't that the whole point of gifting; for remembrance?
So the next time you want to buy a gift for someone, always remember to ask yourself whether the gift is going to be of any use or is it just going to collect dust inside someone's closet beside one of the One Direction boys (pun intended). And if the recipient you are intending to buy the gift for has everything already, treat him or her to a nice expensive dinner and ask them to shut the hell up. It beats having to receive a karaoke set box.
About a week ago, my Aunt Sally and her husband, who we call Uncle Brad celebrated their 28th wedding anniversary. Aunt Sally is a fantastic gifted; she bought for her husband a Dunhill money clip and a limited edition John Varvatos cologne because a, Uncle Brad refuses to carry his wallet around when he goes out and he already has a cardholder and b, he has been using his Aramis cologne for the past twenty years and Aunt Sally says that it is starting to make her lose her sense of smell. The gifts bought is perfect for Uncle Brad, something classy AND something that he definitely would use.
It was a small family gathering and Aunt Sally cooked her legendary Beef Shepherd's Pie and Garlic Butter Prawns Linguine. Uncle Brad was ecstatic with his gifts and to say that Aunt Sally has raised the standard of gifting is to put it mildly. It was Uncle brad's turn to present his gift to his lovely wife and I could almost feel the tension in the room multiplying by ten; Aunt Sally is known to be absolutely critical and fussy, she is the difficult one, my mum is the bitch. Bless my grandparent's souls.
We were all sitting down around the living room and Aunt Sally opened her present; a big box covered in grey gift wrap with black ribbons. My Aunt Sally opened it and immediately screamed, "What the hell is this?!" My mum immediately muttered under her breath, "Uh oh."
It was a karaoke set: A disc player that already has 2000 songs stored inside, and two microphones.
"You don't like it?" Uncle Brad asked. Harold leaned over to snap a picture of the karaoke set to upload in Instagram. Pure comedy gold.
"Do I sing? Am I a singer? Do I look like Donna Summers?" Aunt Sally asked, raising both her eyebrows and her voice.
"That's my Instagram caption right there: Do I sing? Am I a singer? Do I look like Donna Summers?" Harold whispered as he sat back down beside me.
"Well you are always singing, in the showers, while cooking, hanging the laundry. I thought it would be a good idea to get you a karaoke box set and you can sing to your heart's content! Who knows, you may even win the singing competition at the community centre one of these days!" Uncle Brad joked.
"Brad, I will shove this microphone inside of you and I am not talking about your mouth!" Aunt Sally fumed.
Harold and I rolled on the floor laughing. Rick, their newly married son who was seated quietly all throughout suddenly burst out laughing, "Mum! Where did that come from?"
The point I am getting at is, the "Art Of Gifting" is a necessary life (and respect) changing skill. The rule of the thumb for me when buying a gift is, before buying it, always, always, always choose practicality/usage value above everything else. The best gifts are usually not the most pretty, the most expensive, the most romantic or the most value for money.
For me personally, the best gifts are those that the recipients would need and use rather frequently in their lives. And every time they use it, they would be reminded of you. And isn't that the whole point of gifting; for remembrance?
So the next time you want to buy a gift for someone, always remember to ask yourself whether the gift is going to be of any use or is it just going to collect dust inside someone's closet beside one of the One Direction boys (pun intended). And if the recipient you are intending to buy the gift for has everything already, treat him or her to a nice expensive dinner and ask them to shut the hell up. It beats having to receive a karaoke set box.
Saturday, November 3, 2012
Lisa From (French) Hell
"I hate office politics!" Star complained over coffee yesterday.
"You're sleeping with your boss. You're basically monopolizing the ruling power. So what politics are you talking about?" Melanie replied.
"Mel, you're a hairdresser. Politics to you is if someone ate the cheesecake you put in the fridge at the pantry without your permission," Star snapped.
"I see Starsky is amongst us today," Steven smiled.
Two months ago, we came up with Star's alter ego name when she is suffering from an incurable bitchy streak caused by this thing called The PMS. So whenever the time of the month is about to come and she starts taking this thrash-talking, absolutely sensitive persona, we call her Starsky.
"What actually happened?" I asked.
"Well my company just employed this new HR executive called Lisa. She is not exactly new. She was based in France where my company HQ is at. When they said someone from the French office was going to be in the Singapore branch, I imagined it to be a French girl but it turns out that this Lisa is of the "asian persuasion" species who actually grew up in Bedok. The reason why she couldn't continue working in France was because there was something wrong with her work permit or visa or something so she had to relocate here again after two years. This Lisa is one of the most pretentious person I have ever met in my entire life, and that is putting it mildly," Star said, swallowing her saliva, appalled.
"I knew that was coming, continue!" Melanie said, munching on her banana walnut muffin.
"As a daily routine, she goes around the cubicles and babble away about Paris and France for hours and hours no end. For two whole weeks, every single day and it is so fucking annoying. I couldn't take it anymore so three weeks ago, my colleague Diane bought youtiao and beancurd for breakfast at work and offered her some and you know what she said? "My stomach has been conditioned for the past two years to eat something that is very little on fats, haha. Only butter croissants for me dear." So I said, "Butter has trans fat. Lots of it!" from across the partition," Star regaled.
Melanie and Steve grunted in amusement.
"So me being me, I bought for the entire office butter croissants from Starbucks the very next day and I offered her some. You know what this little fucker said? 'The croissants in Singapore are not half as good as the ones in France, so I'll give this a pass."" Star continued.
"Oh. My. God. The butter croissants in Starbucks are handmade in France!" Steven said, eyes wide open in disbelief.
"Exactly, so I said to her, "That's funny. The butter croissants from Starbucks are hand made in France, using French butter...that has French trans fat." You should have seen her face," Star said.
Steven raised his palms and Star gave him a high five.
"So from that day onwards, she basically and naturally hated my guts and tried to find faultss with me, passing unnecessary comments to whatever I do, with a smile of course. The last straw came last week when I was reading the final book from the Fifty Shades Of Grey trilogy and she saw it and said, verbatim, "I don't know why you're reading that thrash. Honestly, I find it desperate and cheap!"
Melanie gasped.
"So I said, "Well people buy desperate and cheap. This desperate and cheap thing sells, by the millions. That is a. And b, who asked for your opinion, honest or not and since when are you the benchmark for class?""
I raised my palm and Star gave me a high five.
"So you guys know what she did? She bought three thousand dollars worth of stationeries for "office supplies" according to her when we already have enough to last us for an entire year. The best part is, she went straight to the finance officer in our company with the reimbursement form claiming that she has given it to the accounts executive but she hasn't gotten back to her for one whole week, so she had to do it herself. guess who is the accounts executive?" Star asked, shaking her head.
"Bitch!" Melanie exclaimed.
"I so feel like I want to kick her pseudo French ass all the way back to Bedok. And you know what is the worst thing? This morning I received a company memo regarding the Christmas gift exchange programme for next month and guess who I am paired with for the gift exchange?" Star fumed.
"Get her a toilet bowl cleaner with a message, "You need this, for your mouth" or better, buy for her entire Fifty Shades of Grey Trilogy. That'll put her in her place," I recommended.
Star squinted her eyes at me and gave me a smile that said, "I'll buy both." I winked and sipped my coffee.
"You're sleeping with your boss. You're basically monopolizing the ruling power. So what politics are you talking about?" Melanie replied.
"Mel, you're a hairdresser. Politics to you is if someone ate the cheesecake you put in the fridge at the pantry without your permission," Star snapped.
"I see Starsky is amongst us today," Steven smiled.
Two months ago, we came up with Star's alter ego name when she is suffering from an incurable bitchy streak caused by this thing called The PMS. So whenever the time of the month is about to come and she starts taking this thrash-talking, absolutely sensitive persona, we call her Starsky.
"What actually happened?" I asked.
"Well my company just employed this new HR executive called Lisa. She is not exactly new. She was based in France where my company HQ is at. When they said someone from the French office was going to be in the Singapore branch, I imagined it to be a French girl but it turns out that this Lisa is of the "asian persuasion" species who actually grew up in Bedok. The reason why she couldn't continue working in France was because there was something wrong with her work permit or visa or something so she had to relocate here again after two years. This Lisa is one of the most pretentious person I have ever met in my entire life, and that is putting it mildly," Star said, swallowing her saliva, appalled.
"I knew that was coming, continue!" Melanie said, munching on her banana walnut muffin.
"As a daily routine, she goes around the cubicles and babble away about Paris and France for hours and hours no end. For two whole weeks, every single day and it is so fucking annoying. I couldn't take it anymore so three weeks ago, my colleague Diane bought youtiao and beancurd for breakfast at work and offered her some and you know what she said? "My stomach has been conditioned for the past two years to eat something that is very little on fats, haha. Only butter croissants for me dear." So I said, "Butter has trans fat. Lots of it!" from across the partition," Star regaled.
Melanie and Steve grunted in amusement.
"So me being me, I bought for the entire office butter croissants from Starbucks the very next day and I offered her some. You know what this little fucker said? 'The croissants in Singapore are not half as good as the ones in France, so I'll give this a pass."" Star continued.
"Oh. My. God. The butter croissants in Starbucks are handmade in France!" Steven said, eyes wide open in disbelief.
"Exactly, so I said to her, "That's funny. The butter croissants from Starbucks are hand made in France, using French butter...that has French trans fat." You should have seen her face," Star said.
Steven raised his palms and Star gave him a high five.
"So from that day onwards, she basically and naturally hated my guts and tried to find faultss with me, passing unnecessary comments to whatever I do, with a smile of course. The last straw came last week when I was reading the final book from the Fifty Shades Of Grey trilogy and she saw it and said, verbatim, "I don't know why you're reading that thrash. Honestly, I find it desperate and cheap!"
Melanie gasped.
"So I said, "Well people buy desperate and cheap. This desperate and cheap thing sells, by the millions. That is a. And b, who asked for your opinion, honest or not and since when are you the benchmark for class?""
I raised my palm and Star gave me a high five.
"So you guys know what she did? She bought three thousand dollars worth of stationeries for "office supplies" according to her when we already have enough to last us for an entire year. The best part is, she went straight to the finance officer in our company with the reimbursement form claiming that she has given it to the accounts executive but she hasn't gotten back to her for one whole week, so she had to do it herself. guess who is the accounts executive?" Star asked, shaking her head.
"Bitch!" Melanie exclaimed.
"I so feel like I want to kick her pseudo French ass all the way back to Bedok. And you know what is the worst thing? This morning I received a company memo regarding the Christmas gift exchange programme for next month and guess who I am paired with for the gift exchange?" Star fumed.
"Get her a toilet bowl cleaner with a message, "You need this, for your mouth" or better, buy for her entire Fifty Shades of Grey Trilogy. That'll put her in her place," I recommended.
Star squinted her eyes at me and gave me a smile that said, "I'll buy both." I winked and sipped my coffee.
Friday, November 2, 2012
Middle Class Wedding
The past weekend was my cousin Rick's wedding. He got married to Liz, his girlfriend of four years and if the scented wedding invitation card with their own personal emblem is an indication of the grandeur that is going to happen during the wedding itself, then they sure didn't disappoint.
It was a garden wedding and the venue was at the Botanic Gardens. They had two huge canopies and in the shelter were round tables with white tablecloths and lace skirtings, complete with rattan chairs and giant white bows. There were fresh flowers everywhere: Roses, lilies, tulips, orchids, carnations; everything was fresh and in white. And in abundance too. Beside the canopies were three rows of tables filled with at least five different types of cakes, eclairs, cupcakes, cheese fondue, chocolate fondue (complete with artisan breads and fresh flowers), fruit punch and a mind boggling array of hor d'oeuvres.
"Where is the real food?" my mum quipped, staring at the buffet table from afar.
"Mum, it's chic, get yourself together," I said.
"What kind of a middle class family can afford this kind of wedding? Since when did they become rich?!" my mum exclaimed as we were walking towards the venue.
"Stop it lah," my brother Harold said, getting annoyed.
There was also a carousel by the side of the buffet table for the kids to play at, generator included. The dress code was smart casual and my mum had put on a knee length white dress, grey pumps and hair up in a bun.
"How come you are wearing white? You are getting married too?" Harold joked when he saw my mum earlier that day.
"Garden wedding, I'm wearing grey pumps and I have to walk on grass, in the blithering heat!" my mum complained, tiptoeing to one of the canopies.
It was rather hot when we got there. I could feel beads of sweat forming at my back underneath my shirt and linen jacket by the time we got a table. Across us was Aunt Sally, the lady of the hour, entertaining guests. She wore a maroon sleeveless dress and a chunky bracelet and a statement necklace. She was also wearing a turban. Parisian chic if you ask me.
"Look at your aunt. She looks like Carmen Miranda, god this is embarassing," my mum whispered beside me as we sat down.
"Where are the fruits on her head?" I goaded.
"There, on the buffet table," my mum nonchalantly said.
I laughed out so hard everybody around us looked.
"Oi, stop it lah both of you," my brother hushed, clearly annoyed now.
"You guys help yourself to the food, I am going to check on your aunt and check the wedding dais," my mum said, putting down her LV Speedy on the table.
My brother rose and made his way to the buffet table and I asked him to get for me some food as well. Barely two minutes later, my mum came to our table, shaking and breathing hard.
"You have no idea how much they spent on this wedding. A quarter of a million dollars! Harry, when did they rose from the middle class? And so quick?! He bought for her a thirty thousand diamond ring from Tiffany's and the wedding gown is a Vera Wang!" my mum rattled on.
"Mum, he is an investment banker and she is an architect. They are hardly middle class. Middle class is fifty dollar void deck weddings ma. And also, you're so jealous right now right?" I asked.
"I am not! Your Aunt Sally is one of my favourite female siblings," my mum said.
"Aunt Sally is your ONLY female sibling what are you talking about?" I responded, amused.
"Harry, she looks ridiculous," my mum poured.
"She looks great, why can't you just be happy for her?" I advised.
"We are siblings. We are supposed to be judgmental, conniving and egoistical," my mum explained. "And I would hate to see her daughter in law look bad in a Vera Wang!" she continued.
"Where is the real food?" my mum quipped, staring at the buffet table from afar.
"Mum, it's chic, get yourself together," I said.
"What kind of a middle class family can afford this kind of wedding? Since when did they become rich?!" my mum exclaimed as we were walking towards the venue.
"Stop it lah," my brother Harold said, getting annoyed.
There was also a carousel by the side of the buffet table for the kids to play at, generator included. The dress code was smart casual and my mum had put on a knee length white dress, grey pumps and hair up in a bun.
"How come you are wearing white? You are getting married too?" Harold joked when he saw my mum earlier that day.
"Garden wedding, I'm wearing grey pumps and I have to walk on grass, in the blithering heat!" my mum complained, tiptoeing to one of the canopies.
It was rather hot when we got there. I could feel beads of sweat forming at my back underneath my shirt and linen jacket by the time we got a table. Across us was Aunt Sally, the lady of the hour, entertaining guests. She wore a maroon sleeveless dress and a chunky bracelet and a statement necklace. She was also wearing a turban. Parisian chic if you ask me.
"Look at your aunt. She looks like Carmen Miranda, god this is embarassing," my mum whispered beside me as we sat down.
"Where are the fruits on her head?" I goaded.
"There, on the buffet table," my mum nonchalantly said.
I laughed out so hard everybody around us looked.
"Oi, stop it lah both of you," my brother hushed, clearly annoyed now.
"You guys help yourself to the food, I am going to check on your aunt and check the wedding dais," my mum said, putting down her LV Speedy on the table.
My brother rose and made his way to the buffet table and I asked him to get for me some food as well. Barely two minutes later, my mum came to our table, shaking and breathing hard.
"You have no idea how much they spent on this wedding. A quarter of a million dollars! Harry, when did they rose from the middle class? And so quick?! He bought for her a thirty thousand diamond ring from Tiffany's and the wedding gown is a Vera Wang!" my mum rattled on.
"Mum, he is an investment banker and she is an architect. They are hardly middle class. Middle class is fifty dollar void deck weddings ma. And also, you're so jealous right now right?" I asked.
"I am not! Your Aunt Sally is one of my favourite female siblings," my mum said.
"Aunt Sally is your ONLY female sibling what are you talking about?" I responded, amused.
"Harry, she looks ridiculous," my mum poured.
"She looks great, why can't you just be happy for her?" I advised.
"We are siblings. We are supposed to be judgmental, conniving and egoistical," my mum explained. "And I would hate to see her daughter in law look bad in a Vera Wang!" she continued.
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