My NS expereince was full of shit

One thing springs to mind when I think of National Service: Shit.

Oh, no, no, no -- this is no verbal diarrhoea. NS indeed reminds me of poo-poo. Lots and lots and lots of it, in fact.

I don't know about my fellow countrymen who've served the nation, but while I was in NS, I did a lot of sai gang.
 
You see, I was in the Police K-9 Unit and one of my postings was to the kennels where a large part of what I did every day revolved around scooping up poo-poo that collectively belonged to many, many dogs.

Truth be told, my job in NS stank.

Truth be told, I loved it.

As disgusting as it may sound, being around so much dog faeces has helped me learn to, erm, eat humble pie.

Don't get me wrong though. I don't have perverted preferences when it comes to food choices.

But the thing is, when I was younger, I had never imagined I would one day end up working as a kennel hand in NS -- a job that requires me to get my hands dirty. Very, very dirty.

I mean, yes, I did wish that, when I became a reporter some day,  I would have many, many scoops. I should have been more specific.

On day one of my kennel-hand duty, I was given a grand tour of my workplace, and a detailed brief of my daily tasks -- which took my breath away.

But hey, when work needs to be done, it needs to be done. Somebody has to clear the shit.

And so, I bit the bullet and started doing my job.

Pick up the spade, enter cage, scoop up poo-poo. *gags*. Enter second cage, scoop up poo-poo. Don't look at that shit, Wai Kit! Enter third cage, scoop up poo-poo. Wait. OMG. Is that SHIT on my fingers?! I think I'm going to faint. Enter fourth cage, scoop up poo-poo. Oh, gawd, when is this going to end?!

Of course, I had other menial -- and meaningful -- duties while in NS, but you really can't blame me for remembering mainly the sordid details of my work.

I remember I used to dread entering a particular cage, whose occupant loved playing with his own poo-poo. And it didn't help that it was the mushy type. Every time I stood outside his kennel, I felt like I was staring at a crime scene - the floor, the walls, the gate... all stained.

But our canine friend would think nothing of it -- he seemed to be in a perfectly merry world of his own, who is always happy to have a spade-carrying visitor.

And when I say happy, I mean rrrreally happy. The moment I step into his cage, he'd go wild with joy... and start prancing on me like I was his long-lost buddy. Get down, boy! Stop giving me high-fives on my shirt!

Every time I'm done cleaning up his kennel, I'd need some serious cleaning up myself. 

Eerily enough though, I began to think nothing of it as days went by.

Soon, I started to look at poo-poo in a different light. Some came in different shades of brown, green, and dark chocolate. Some were aqueous and mashed-up. Others looked heartily chunky.

And it didn't take long before I took pride in my work.

Shit on my fingers? Aiyah, just wipe it on the corner of the spade lah. There's a lot more poo-poo waiting to be scooped up -- don't waste time!

And once I got past the eew-factor of my job, I actually started to love it.

Even my visits to our poo-poo-playing canine friend became less dreadful.

Yes, yes, you're happy to see me and you want to high-five my face. But can you please wait for me to clean up your soiled walls, at least? 

Often, my work is laborious. As soon as my day begins, I'd sweat like a melting candle. When I'm done with my duties at the end of the day, I'd feel like I had a shitty day -- but one that's totally worth it.

Surprisingly, I had never regretted asking to be posted to the kennels.

Sometimes, I felt like I was one of the hardworking seven dwarves, cheerily marching into the mines, spades in tow to dig for gold -- and singing while at it.

And it helped very much too, that my fellow dwarves all took pride in their work -- which was a huge motivation boost for me.

None of them complained about work, and we all got along very well.

Naturally, the kennel became a favourite hangout for most off-duty dog handlers -- and I'd like to believe it's because we made the place a positive and merry environment.

The place was always bustling, filled with our laughter and banter while we worked.

I like to think of my workplace as a fish market -- smelly but not off-putting because there're always hearty fishmongers around. Again, I reiterate I don't have perverted preferences when it comes to food choices.

It's been a decade since I've completed NS, but every time I think of my happy days at the kennel, I smile fondly.

Every one of us has unique and special memories of our NS days.

For those who haven't done yours, I wish you'd have scooped up loads of happy memories by the time you ORD.

For those who have, let's take a moment to reminisce those days, and remind ourselves how lucky we are, that while serving our nation, we were able to forge friendships that helped weave heart-warming and comforting memories that bring a smile to our faces.

PG please, no kidding

Not too long ago, a brave friend did what I had no courage to do: Yell at a parent who allowed her two-year-old kid to make a din during lunch -- for two effin' hours.

I am still waiting for a braver friend to go one step further -- slap the parent AND the kid on my behalf, but I don't wanna go there (to Hell, I mean).

My friend's yelling got me thinking.

To set the record straight, I love all kids -- just as long as

a) they're sleeping in their pram
b) there's a plaster over their mouth
c) they're still curled up inside their mummy's womb.

I don't know about you, but the last I checked, I have no motherly instincts that want to nurture every screaming child, so please don't yell at me for being kid-intolerant.

I simply cannot calmly float over to a wailing kid in public, gently wrap my arm around that rascal and press his head against my breast and hush him to a lull like Mother Nature. Sorry, I just can't.

But I don't hate kids per se.

I do like some of them -- the well-behaved ones.

And in my defence, I can be patient with wailing kids. For 15 minutes, max.

Once that time limit is up, my DNA automatically rejects wailing kids -- even if they're still cradled in my arms -- and only God knows what I'll do when that happens.

But let's not get distracted by the wailing -- and get back to the real targets of my post: Parents who don't bother.

I always believe that kids behave the way they do because their parents allow for such behaviour.

So, while I do have some tolerance for kids, I have zero for their parents.

I know I'm not qualified to say this since, God forbid, I don't have any kids yet. On a side note, I cannot imagine what evil I'd bring to this world if I have mini replicas of myself. But if I do have kids, I promise I'll cane the hell out of them if they misbehave.

Now, I'm not about to give a lecture to parents, but in my opinion, I believe in not sparing the rod, lest I spoil the child.

But that's just me.

I mean, I think I'm a pretty decent adult partly because, as a kid, my buttocks and the house cane were like the best of buddies -- they meet regularly and make a lot of noise when they do.

Some parents are very liberal -- they patiently prep-talk their kids. Hey, I have no problems if that works for you, really.

But when prep-talk fails, then parents, you'll have to let the cane do the talking.

If you're too soft-hearted (or lazy) to cane your kid, then society will have to do it for you.

So if you don't do the caning, then the school discipline master will. Or, the NS sergeant will have to help you discipline your kid. Perhaps, you can leave it to your kids' future bosses (or colleagues). Worse, you let the court mete out punishments for your kids.

I know it's grim, but it's not an unreal possibility.

So dear parents, do us and society a favour. Beat the hell out of them if they misbehave.

Our Father in Heaven

Friends who're close to me would know that my mom is an unfortunate woman because

1) She has a son like me
2) She's the target of most of my jokes (fat ones, mainly).

I can't help it.

You'd understand why if you've seen my mom -- and trust me, she's very hard to miss.

But today, the topic isn't on her but my father -- the man whom my mom married (and these days, it's helpful to be specific).

Here's a column about my father, which was first published in Lifestyle in June 2010:

-----------------------------------------------------

Over the years, I have become more distant from my father.

I seldom speak to him these days -- the last time I did was three months ago. I'm still writing for a living, and Kin is still studying in the UK, I told him telepathically, as I tenderly ran a finger over his youthful face on the photo embedded on his urn.

I was four (and younger brother Kin, one) when cardiac arrest robbed us of our Papa.

Needless to say, Mummy doubled up, taking over the paternal role as well (I'll leave the fat jokes for another day).

While I am indeed sad that I didn't grow up with a father, I am comforted by the fact that I still have vivid memories of him.

I remember my tiny self standing at the corridor one day, enraptured by the sight of a huge, blue bicycle Papa bought me. I could only manage to waah, waah, waah in awe, which drowned out Mummy's disapproving mutterings in the background.

Playtime with Papa was also something I looked forward to. "Keep climbing and go all the way to the top," he'd encourage, as I struggled to scale that monstrous-looking structure at the playground.

Papa had a mischievous side too. Just for the kick of laughing at his sua-ku son, he'd encourage me to speak in front of the moving fan, just to see how I reacted to my wind-distorted voice (I was obviously thrilled by that amazing discovery, and Papa would laugh at my reaction).

Once, I was out with Papa and Mummy, and being the day-dreamer I was, I held the hand of a total stranger. I only realised it was a stranger's, when I heard Papa guffawing away at me. In retrospect, while Mummy was the one who taught me to laugh at myself, it was Papa from whom I learnt how to laugh heartily at others (complete with finger pointing).

And then, there were the painful memories, when Papa caned the hell out of me after he caught me bullying a bunch of older kids (in retrospect, I'm glad I threw pebbles at the kids for no apparent reason, for without that, I'd have one less memory of Papa).

As I grew older, I got to know Papa better through Mummy's reminiscences.

Papa cooked well, and was a man with a big heart. Mummy used to say he'd ignore able-bodied beggars but would buy food for the elderly ones who looked too weak to work.

There are many similarities between us too, says Mummy. We both love spicy food, and like Papa, I am linguistically inclined. I look like him, stand like him, smile like him.

I have imagined, on many occasions, how my life would have turned out if Papa hadn't died.

But I've learnt from Mummy that we shouldn't lament at things beyond our control (she led by example by biting the bullet and cheerfully bringing us up).

What I can control, would be how I choose to lead a meaningful and happy life and being a positive influence to those around me. Just the way Mummy (and Papa, I imagine) had shown me.

Happy Father's Day, Papa -- and Mummy.

Update: Kin is no longer studying in the UK. My very bright brother graduated with first class honours, and is now holding a job in a huge MNC. Papa will be proud. I am.

Operation fitness

Exactly one year ago on this day, I was drugged, slipped into unconsciousness, and allowed surgeons to cut me up in my sleep, so that I could recover from a sports-related condition (those who are fortunate enough to have not seen photos of my recovering wound should count your lucky stars).

It took me about two months to heal completely -- and my downtime was a welcome change: No longer did I feel obliged to wake up at 5am to run (and on certain days, 6am to swim), or late-night bike riding sessions if I had signed up for a triathlon race.

But while my physical-activity level dropped to near-zilch, I was physically active still, when it came to eating.

Not surprisingly, in a matter of two months, I went from triathlete to triangle.

But don't get me wrong.

Despite that, I was still in shape. Round is a shape.

And since most good things come in round shapes -- mooncakes, gold coins, halos -- I was in good shape.

But then, I started to worry.

Before my surgery, I won't have problem running from Boon Lay to Pasir Ris, non stop. So imagine my shock when, two months later, I was out of breath when I climbed a flight of stairs.

Then, out of my kind heart, I began to worry for the living things around me. God bless any horse I sit on.

And so, in October 2011, when I was given the all-clear by my surgeon to resume my active lifestyle, I went all out: From park connectors to swimming pools.

My aim: To stop panting like a pervert whenever I took the overhead bridge, and to get back to my pre-surgery fitness level.

Like every marathon route, my journey was painful, and very tiring but a hell lot of fun.

And it's proved one thing -- it's never too late to start (or restart) a healthy lifestyle.

What sort of boss are you?

I'm the new editor of Men's Folio.

That was the cue for the few of us to erupt (yes, some people erupt when they're excited) in a series of noisy cackles and congratulatory chatter, which I'm sure sounded like a variation of dolphin dialect.

The last I checked, we were in public but when friends break great news such as this, it's only right to rejoice with abandon. To hell with the nearby diners.

My friend Aaron has always dreamt of being an editor of not just any magazine, but this particular title.

So you can imagine his -- and our -- joy that Men's Folio is his latest portfolio.

As our collective thrill sizzled to a level within societal tolerance, so began the questions.

The few of us -- all self-respecting kaypoh journos with too many questions for our own good -- started grilling him.

What changes will you make to the mag?
Will there be a wardrobe overhaul?
What pose will you strike for your editor's photo?
Do you need assistants?
Will you remember us when you're famous?!

Decisions, decisions.

Of course, Aaron isn't that shallow -- so one of his main concerns is how he'd be as someone's boss.

And that was when he parried our questions with his.

Now, everyone else was able to contribute with meaning to Aaron's query.

Di, who used to be an editor at several mags, is now her own boss (PR PEOPLE -- in case a potential client is reading this. They deal with, erm, people, I think). So she gave her views.

And then there's C, who runs Wedding and Travel and her company's events and PR arm. So she too, gave her views.

I had many, many views, but none of which was credible because I'm nobody's boss.

Which got me thinking... what sort of a boss would I be, if I were one?

(Notice how I've hijacked Aaron's moment and readjusted the spotlight on myself?)

Granted, I'm a pretty easy-to-work-with person (colleagues, ex-colleagues, enemies, resist comments please) but I think I won't make a very good boss.

Thankfully, I'm not alone.

I have friends who tell me that being someone's boss isn't part of their goal.

I also have friends who tell me being someone's boss isn't part of their goal -- they want to be everyone's boss.

A female friend told me she'd rather "put my head down and just work, and do what I'm good at doing".

I wanted to know just what sort of work required a person's head to constantly be down, but I didn't press on.

But just for the fun of it, I did a quick survey among friends who aren't bosses yet, and asked them what sort of boss they might be.

L, marketing exec, 33
I'm an office bitch, so my next step is to be office bitch boss. I'm very black-faced at work one. People are scared of me but I like it that way. They won't climb over my head. So I guess I'll be a terrorising sort of boss.

D, engineer, 33
If I get promoted and I'm one rank higher than my boss, I won't fire him... I'll make sure he's hired under me... so that I can torture that mother-f***** every f****** day.

B, art director, 33
I'll be stoic. I don't think I'll laugh with my colleagues anymore, 'cos there needs to be a professional distance. I think I'm too soft to scold anyone when they need to be told, so I'll have to work on being thick-skinned while maintaining professionalism.

BC, soon-to-be deputy director, 32
I'll cut off all ties from my staff. I will be harsh because in my industry, speed and efficiency are key factors. I'll stop lunching with my staff so that they can bitch about me during lunchtime.

E, senior teacher, 34
There won't be a difference lah. Why should I change just because I'm in charge of others? I'll be open, approachable, and aim to work with my staff to solve problems. As teachers, we must have common goals to achieve so if I need to manage people, it'd be in this aspect -- to motivate them and steer them to the right direction.

P, architect, 33
It would be tough 'cos I don't think male staff will take to a female boss well. But instead of ruling with an iron fist, I'll charm them into subordination. Muahaha...

S, corp comms exec, 29
There will be rules which I'll set from day one, and I'll make sure my subordinates are clear as to what I want -- and I'll make sure I work doubly hard, so that when I need to tell off my staff, they'll know I practise what I preach.

A, editor, Men's Folio, 33






I hope this space will very soon be filled with meaningful words, Aaron. Words which will make a difference not only to your readers, but also to those who work under you.

All the best, and do the write thing.

Do you think you're ugly?

I’m handsome.

I think.

At least, I know dozens who’d agree with me – my mom, PR people who need editorial space through me, and hordes of friends who reside only in my mind.

Okay, Wai Kit, let’s face it – I have a galaxy of pock marks, and the most notable thing about my features is that they are functional.

Sometimes, I wonder if I had unknowingly said something that offended my maker just before my looks was being decided.

In the words of a very kind-hearted friend, my looks can best be described as accidental.

“Macam kena langa by the lorry, then not enough, the lorry gostan and langa again.”

I also sometimes wonder if I had unknowingly said something that offended this friend of mine.

Yet, my friend’s words didn’t langa me one bit.

Sure, I don’t look like I’d just stepped out of the pages of GQ, and most of the time, I make heads turn – the other way.

But the fortunate thing is, I don’t hate the way I look.

In fact, I feel a hundred per cent fabulous about myself.  

Because I’m confident.

And here's why I'm writing this -- because of a friend. 

 

Monica (not her real name – and I love the way I stress that it’s not her real name because it adds so much journalistic gossip to the story) is an intelligent woman in her late twenties.

She’s highly qualified, holds a decent job and most of all, a beautiful woman: Doe-eyed, a winsome smile that make heads turn (the right way) and to top it off, a svelte figure some would kill for.

Best of all, she’s got a good heart. She’s kind, compassionate, understanding.

Some girls just have them all. Or do they?

Thing is, Monica – despite her appearance, intellect and inner beauty – is the most diffident woman I know.

It’s sad, and wait till you hear why.

Her boyfriend of many years – who, if I may add, isn’t exactly God’s gift to women – doesn’t appreciate her one bit.

From what I’ve heard, he takes her for granted.

Worse, he crushes her confidence, and compares her to other women on the street.

He’d say nasty things about her – in her face – making Monica feel less than who she really is.

Not surprisingly, Monica has zero self worth, which, to me, is shocking.

I almost choked on my Americano when she revealed this to me the other day.

I thought to myself: How in the world could a woman like Monica feel so small?

Come on. She has all it takes to feel super confident, and rightly so.

It pains me to see that she’s not living to the full extent of her beauty.

I’m not asking Monica to flaunt it. But at the very least, I would like her to recognise that she’s beautiful.

But no.

My friend feels inferior because her loved one tells her she’s ugly. Look who’s talking, Mister No God’s Gift to Women.

After hours of prep talk, some tears and words of reassurance, I left the café with a heavy heart.

And that’s why I’m writing about the importance of confidence.

Look. I'm not exactly God’s gift to women either, God forbid.

But if a person like me can feel like a million bucks, then why is a woman like Monica feeling like a million f***s?

The way to feeling – and looking – beautiful starts from within.

In my case, I’m a one-room flat on the outside, but a grand, luxurious home on the inside. And that makes my property value go up.

In Monica’s case, she’s already hot property to begin with. All that needs to be done is a bit of sprucing up so that the interior of her residence lives up to her property value.

And it’s doable.

Like how we spring clean, start by clearing a bit here and packing a bit there, and then some sweeping, mopping and before we know it, the cluttered mess in the house is gone.

So, my dear friend, Monica, you can do it. You will do it.

You’re beautiful.

I know.