Cockatoo

There was a time when I swung a bird from its talons between my eight year old legs, and with all the momentum in my upswing, I shared in the anticipation of flight.  It was in that moment when that dangerous creature reached its capacity of launch, flapping its unpracticed arms with exasperating might, that we both felt ourselves rise, for just a moment.  And I couldn't let go.  Because we both knew she couldn't fly.  And so I set her on the edge of the broomstick, held it out away from my chest, and ran as fast as my little legs could carry me.  I bobbed that stick up and down, letting it sink close to the ground and heaving it upwards with everything that I had.    In that up momentum,  I would see her excitement.  Her head would begin to bob, like, "Yeah," and her wings would begin to shimmy and flap.  For a minute there, she would experience flight with me, our grips both never leaving that stick.  I would soon slow, having never never placed on the presidential fitness test.  I'd sink to the grass, lungs heaving, and collapse on my back.  And she would, in the fashion of a chicken, slink away from me, head bouncing along with every step.

She keeps passin me by

I have to admit, I was surprised when, on my first night in Singapore, the doorbell rang.  Well, it's not for me, I thought.  But it rang and rang and rang, so finally I answered it.  It was McDonalds.  "Uhhhh, just one sec," I said.  I banged on my flat mate's door.  Here you call it flat mate.  If you tell someone you have a room mate, they look at you sideways, like when I make a funny noise and my dog Carmela gives me the cervical lateral flexion question mark.  "You can't even afford your own room, what?"

She looked at me and smiled.  And said, "I'll get you the number for delivery."  There are two 24 hour McDonalds within 3 minutes walking in either direction of my apartment.  I live above a food court replete with chicken rice, chaw siew pork, lak sa, and about a million other tasty items.  I live smack dab next door to the grocery store!  But I'm a bit tired of it all. Eating a lot of subway.  Having mickey D's snacks more than average america.  Gross!  Can't conceive of cooking for myself.  Honestly cannot conceive of it.  And it used to be what defined me.  So I think that part of me is sleeping.  And it's sad.  But what to do lah?

Yesterday I got body slammed walking across an open court yard.  This is a society overtaken with iPads and iPhones and earphones, etc.  Here's the thing.  If I'm walking down a path which is much longer than it is wide, I believe I have the right to walk in a straight line without getting nailed.  Not so.  I saw this couple coming.  Number one.  No one looks around before they move.  It's just a la-la land of, move in whichever direction you want and endure the consequences.  So I saw this couple coming.  I was straight, and they were coming at me seventy degrees on my left.  She was on the left of her beau, her view of me totally blocked.  But I didn't changed my pace.  Cuz I'm going straight.  I missed him by a step, and she plowed into me.  Let me just say, this was not a crowded sidewalk.  "Watch where you're going," I wanted to sneer.  "Whoopsies," was all I could muster.

I would say I've had subways down since my first jaunt around boston when I was 15, with my dad.  I led the way the whole time.  Jumped on the MRT with my friend, and shuffled my way to the middle.  "we're getting off soon," he said, in a 'don't go too far manner.'  I obediently returned and glanced up to the MRT map.  "WE'RE ON THE WRONG TRAIN!!!" I screeched.  I launched into him and knocked him through the doors, and made it through myself just as the doors missed closing in on my shoulders.  The train made it's way off into the distance, as he said, "That. Was not the wrong train."

The job.  The job is going great.  First month yielded great results.  Joined BNI (business networking international).  Doing lots of talks and screenings around Singapore, and you all know how much I love public speaking.  You know some people would rather die than public speak?  And I'm one of them.  But what I love more is pushing myself past my comfort zone.  And realizing that I'm still alive.   It's like breathing fresh air.

To end.  Most of my titles of all of my blogs are just songs in my iTunes library which fit.  But if you're keen, you already knew that.

American Press Conference

No one knows what to make of me.  People constantly speak mandarin to me, of which I understand nothing.  I was told today that I could also pass for North Indian.  I thought there would be more Cantonese coming at me; something I do understand.  When I finally do get across that I'm half Singaporean, they ask; "How long have you been gone?  And when did you get back?" Then: "Ohhhh.  Thought you went away to foreign lands and just lost your accent."


I wrote this a long time ago.  I think it sums it up.

 American Press Conference

 march 08, 2007

I am often mistaken
I am often mistaken
I am often mistaken
And I write with the wrong hand

I am a chamelion
In the backdrop of this land

What are you
What are you
What are you?
They all ask

Depends on the weather
Depends on my task

I see this in you
Is that what you are?

Some countries
Though close
Have cultures quite far
Try again my friend
Yes you, in the back

Your tan comes out nicely
Are you from Iraq?

I'll give you a hint
I was born on an island

I was gonna say exactly
That you were Hawaiian!

I come from the cold
So I'll say sadly, No

Aha!  You've got to be Eskimo

That's not it either
And there's not much else left
These standards in greyscales
I'm going bereft

I'm Chinese with Irish
and I swear I'm not fakin
But I'm not often bothered
When I am mistaken

CMP

Walk the Line

I walk on the right.  My brain screams this every time I'm barreling down the gut at someone and I go right and they go left (my right).  A small poof of smoldering smoke escapes from my head, as I stop suddenly and take a deep breath.  I want to illustrate I'm annoyed.  But it's not anyone's fault that in a country where cars drive on the left side and people are quite law abiding, it is the natural instinct to veer to the left.  There's just a lot more mass to the crowds on the street.  This may be due to the perspective of growing up on a country-esque island (which most could only ever picture in lemonade ads).  For anyone who's ever gone on a walk with me from point A to point B, you know I don't walk; I launch.  So I'm feeling a little claustrophobed every time I have to get on the MRT to get somewhere, and I just can't get around anyone! I'm like the A-Hole driver who revs it up and doesn't quite make the gap, only to come to an erratic halt.  I smile apologetically at the people around me, and a father says to a little one, "Move aside, darling."

So I am learning that if I want to stand on the escalator, I should stand on the left.  As I rise into the ever clear air of Singapore, I suddenly remember . . . and I hop to the left like I just escaped a dog chomp to the butt.  Slowly, slowly, learning the lay of the new land.

Mistaken for Strangers

So I've been needing to create a new blog for the past few weeks.  I wanted to call it cassandramay.blogspot.com.  But it was taken.  She's an American called Cassie, and it's about her time in Spain many years ago.  My dad wrote me the other day, and proclaimed, "Dear Cassie, I've finally spelled your name right, are you happy?"  To which I replied, "My name is CassY."  Have you ever met someone with the same name as you and just felt robbed?  This is my first time.  Sorry John Smith, but it's not cool.  I wonder what she's like.

I'm saying goodbye to the ole vietnamchiropractor.blogspot.com.  Too constricting in it's contentical purpose.  I need to feel like I can make up words and have it be ok.  Cuz it's my blog.  Also, I'm not in Vietnam anymore.  I feel like I live on the subways of Singapore.  It's where I spend the majority of my time.  Underground.  Packed away like a sardine.

So far, Singapore life is good.  but expensive.  In Hanoi, if I returned bottles, I could get six big beers for two dollars.  In a bar, one would be fifty cents.  A little beer in Singapore at the bar is ten dollars US.  And you need only say, I'll have a beer.  Cuz it's only Carlsberg.  I miss my Mannys.

It's weird to be in an Asian country where everyone speaks English.  I delight my cabdrivers (or at least myself) with my broken Cantonese.  I have to repeat myself five times before anyone can understand me.  I expected more people to speak Cantonese, but most speak Mandarin.  I'm not sure I've got it in me to learn Chinese.  This is especially true when English is no problem.  I miss my Russian lessons in Hanoi the most.  They were always delivered with homemade strawberry jam.  Russian hosts will always give you the skin off their backs.  Great people.

I've been in Singapore for a week, and I feel like I've accomplished a lot.  I'll have an official employment pass in two days time.

Here is what fascinates me:  I could have been born and raised here; easily.  My parents left in '77 or '78, only because my dad couldn't find a job to keep him here.  They took two boys, a grama, and four cockatoos.  You all knew Baby, my lifelong menace who died last year while I was vacationing in Hawaii.  When I listen to the Singlish, I close my eyes and imagine who I would have been.  And something tells me I would have escaped Singapore to become a New Yorker.  So who would THAT girl be??

Amazing how life turns out.