Hip Hip Booray

"I knew this day would come but I never expected it to come this soon," I said.

"Hunny, all I heard was 'come' and 'soon'," Stanley my sex bunny friend replied, "and I thought I'd be excited by any sentence that contains these two words."

"What are we talking about," Carl the dense one said as he set the tray of drinks on the table. 

"Hot chocolate for you, Stan. Hot coffee brew for you, Adam, and I'm having my all-time favourite of Sunrise," Carl said happily.

I looked at the drinks and it hit me that this day had indeed come sooner than later.

"First, gone are the days when we would order cold drinks by default. Look at us now. Old uncles like us lean towards hot drinks," I said.

Carl slurped noisily to stress that he's still ordering cold drinks like all young people.

"And then, at this age, we're meeting at hospitals."

Stanley pouted.

That morning, we accompanied Stanley to the Singapore General Hospital.

"I am about to to strip naked and wear a loose gown which will give hot nurses -- hot male nurses -- easy access to my regions," Stanley said, "and I thought I'd be excited by any prospects that contain these two scenarios."

Stanley the sex bunny was seeking treatment for an ailment he can no longer ignore: His hip.

For the last eight months, Stanley's been hurting. He tried ignoring it, living with it but could be in denial no more. 

It hurts even when I'm not moving, Stanley said.

"What." Stanley barked at me when he saw my pursed lips which was a deliberate, physical effort to stop myself from saying things.

I shook my head rapidly, lips tightly pursed. Now's not the time to link Stanley's activities to his current plight. 

"Did you hurt yourself during sex?" Carl the dense one, who can never read a room, asked with childlike innocence. 

Stanley diverted his murderous vibes at him.

Just then, a very chubby boy lumbered towards the Coffee Bean counter asking for a cup of whipped cream.

Said chubby boy -- who looked no older than seven -- lumbered back to his seat, spooning the whipped cream like it was ice cream.

"At least somebody is happy," I pointed out at the happy, lumbering child whose future may include hospital visits earlier than expected if he continued his current lifestyle. 

The grand plan was simple that morning. Accompany Stanley for his doctor's appointment. Get scans done to get to the bottom of what's causing Stanley this much pain that he can't squat or walk without sashaying. 

And Stanley can't wait to get back to normal.

"I can't run, I can't walk, I can't do everyday things that are normal to me," Stanley said in frustration.

My lips were so pursed I'm sure they looked white.

Stanley glared at me and said "yes, Adam. That includes sex."

I shrugged in innocent definace, refusing to be called out. I'm determined to be that supportive best friend.

And supportive we were. Later on, Carl and I stood side by side Stanley so that he could lean on us on the way up to see a Dr Chia.

Stanley looked around the waiting area and pouted for the second time of the day.

"I'm old now," he whispered.

"Think of it as you're the youngest here," I said, playing the role of the ever supportive friend.

"We've pulled down the average age of this clinic," I said, patting Stanley on his lap.

"Looking at the quality of patients here, there's nothing I want to pull down," Stanley the sex bunny said without any expression.

Twenty minutes later, Stanley limped his way out and flashed us a smile.

"Dr Chia is cute," he reported. "He's like slightly younger than I am, and he's got that cute geek look which you like, Adam."

"I already have a cute geek partner," I said, thanking Stanley for trying to be inclusive.

"This gives me incentive to get well," Stanley said with a scheming smile.

Now's not the time to purse my lips especially when I needed clarity.

"Seeing Dr Chia gave me hope," said Stanley whose first part of his sentence is something SGH might consider quoting him on and printing his words in large bold fonts plastered just below Dr Chia's photo on a photo wall.

"He is so cute he makes me want to be strong for him. I want my hip to be so strong, it can go from doing hip thrusts to hip trysts."

Try printing out those words in full, in large bold fonts and plastering them just below Dr Chia's photo, SGH.

 

 

 

 ---------------------------

Adam's stories are based on real life events and inspired by real people

No Kidding

If there's a preview of what hell is like, I think I'm in it.

A dining hall filled with at least two screaming toddlers, one baby making nasal wailing sounds from a pram and the collective excited chatter of kids aged between 5 and 10. 

I may have god kids but I am not a huge fan of children, to be honest.

"One gay man's hell is another gay man's heaven," Stanley the sex bunny pointed out. 

Carl the dense one looked at Stanley and delivered a punch to his shoulder. 

"Don't say such things. People are gonna think all gay men are paedophiles," I said. 

"You're right," Stanley agreed quickly. "Not all gay men are paedophiles. But all paedophiles are gay men," he added.

Carl and I each took a step further from Stanley who on some days are known for his loose lower body parts, and today, known for his loose upper body part that is his mouth.

The three of us were in Ikea Alexandra and of all times, we chose a Sunday morning to be there.

It was like recess time at a school tuckshop except the kids are out of control. These Ikea parents have absolutely no authority over their offspring.

Soon, we set our trays of food down -- comprising the quintessential Swedish meatballs, grilled salmon and deep fried chicken wings -- and began passing cutlery around.

"I just love meatballs," Stanley said without anyone asking, as he stared lovingly at a young daddy with a crew cut nearby.

We were unsure if Stanley was appreciating his morsel or the daddy's muscle but I didn't want to ask. 

All I wanted to do was to cure my hunger pangs and then go look at whatever cheap items I can buy for my new home.

Right now though, I'm bothered by the hunger bangs at the next table.

A human child less than 2-metres away (which mean he's within my slapping range if I snap) is busy thumping his tiny, chubby hands on the table. He appears to be around four years old, is obviously restless and hungry, but honestly can afford to skip a meal or two. 

What bothers me is that despite his dining tantrums, his parents aren't at all bothered. They were both staring into their respective phones and chewing their food nosily.

"Basic Punggol straight people," Stanley uttered under his breath. 

Basic Punggol straight people, explains Stanley, are your most basic Singaporean couples.

They're young, and not exactly super rich yet so they depend a lot on government subsidies to buy their first BTO flat which is almost always in Punggol, Singapore's heterosexual couples' property dumping ground.

Usually, these basic Punggol straight couples are in their early 30s. The woman often goes by a pretentious English name like Chantel to mask her hideous real name like "Tan Bee Leng". She is always pale looking, sports long, rebonded hair, and is skinny. She typically speaks only English with a thick Singaporean accent and can't string a word of Mandarin. She would wear spaghetti strap tops and tiny denim cutoffs and address her husband as "Dear" and give her child a trendy name like "Jayden".

The husband, on the other hand, is far simpler. He would usually be fair skinned (because he stays away from the sun and spends most time gaming in his room) and has faded looks: His once boyish features would be marred by the burden of marriage, so he usually has double chin, a slight belly or is out of shape somewhere. His basic Punggol attire is a worn-out army singlet and a pair of Uniqlo bermudas.

You have given this some thought, I pointed out.

Stanley smirked.

If he were an FBI profiler, his sketch book would be filled with extremely detailed drawings given how he loves profiling people. Carl the dense one, if he were an FBI profiler, would have far more empty pages in his sketch book and those that are actually filled would comprise kiddish drawings of people: A simple circle for a head and thin, linear lines to illustrate body and limbs.

Stanley fundamentally dislikes these basic Punggol types because he views them as beneficiaries of the government's housing policies.

They take full advantage of cheap housing in Punggol where they'd do up with your basic Japandi or Wabi Sabi style. Five years later, they sell it off and then make a profit from the transaction and go on to buy a condo in yet another heterosexual property dumping ground (Sengkang) and think they've made it in life.

But I digress.

The reason I can't shift my focus away from kids is really because not too long ago, I had a discussion with a friend who is thinking of adopting. 

M is a high earner in an MNC and his partner -- an American born Filipino -- is equally wealthy.

They'd been together for nearly five years and now, M's partner wants to adopt a child.

"Why would you want that?!" Stanley yelped at that thought.

"Exactly my point," I said, now distracted by another human child whose chocolate sauce by the side of his mouth is drying and crusting, and is clapping for no reason. 

Many gay couples of our generation enjoy the benefits of being gay. Just ask Stanley who's calendar is filled with not only what to do but whom to do.

Most gay people are also wealthy 'cos we're smart, motivated and driven so we tend to be great in our careers (which also translates to a certain level of income).

And so, many of us can flaunt our wealth or simply spend freely.

Which is mind-boggling to us when a gay couple choose to give that up and start an adoption process.

To kickstart the process of adoption, it's $50,000, I relayed that information to the boys. And that's even before that kid comes into your life!

Carl the dense one immediately whipped out his phone to do some basic calculation.

Stanley also took out his phone to do some counting. "Eight people within 0 metres range," he reported after his quick Grindr investigation. 

I mean, when I look at straight couples, I get it. The core principle of their beliefs is a marriage between man and woman and because they put their private parts together where they belong, it's only natural that they follow the reproduction journey and start families and have babies and live in one noisy family unit.

Gay people... I don't get it.

Stanley, in one of his sober moments, later explained why more gay people are thinking of adopting.

Over the decades, gay men have fought to be seen. Fought to not be discriminated against. In the early days, people marched for their rights.

Modern day campaigns now revolve around anti-discrimination policies at work, freedom to love, abolishment of Section 377A, and even pushing for same-sex marriage.

And so, it's only a matter of time that this trend of same-sex parenting would creep up in gay people's radar.

We took decades to normalise gay relationships. Look at where we are today, Stanley said.

The same goes for same-sex parenting -- now's the time when the seeds of these ideas are planted so that our next generation can start to look at gay families as normal.

Carl the dense one looked at Stanley with respect.

I digested his wise words.

And then, Stanley spoke again.

"Speaking of planting seeds... I really want to do some serious digging and ploughing with him," he said, looking at the same young daddy with the crew cut.

 

 

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

Adam's stories are based on real life events and inspired by real people

Halfway Mark

I am slowly moving towards becoming an asshole. 

At the six-month mark of every year, I do a mid-year review of myself and the assessment isn't looking good: I don't quite like myself at this stage.

"Hurry up, Adam. Do you want this or not?" Stanley interrupted at the end of his couch, tapping furiously into his iPhone.

We were at Stanley's cosy Queens Close flat that afternoon for our regular get together and right now, our sex bunny friend is busy buying wine.

"Group buys are the best," he reasoned. "In fact, groups are great," the sex bunny friend added without anyone asking. 

While Stanley was adding to his cart dozens of highly-rated Amarones and Chateauneuf-du-paps, I continue typing this blog entry, lamenting to the boys that I needed to tone down my temper. 

Carl the dense one nodded, and let out a wheezing snore at one corner of Stanley's home. 

"Done!" Stanley said, startling our sleeping beauty. 

"Now, go on, Adam," Stanley said, peering into my laptop screen.

"Do you ever clean your laptop?" he asked and ran a finger across my screen to show me a thin layer of dust. 

"That's another thing to dislike myself for," I said with a pout. "I'm filled with flaws, boys."

Stanley rolled his eyes and walked away. 

Now, let's back up this story for some context. 

In recent months, I've had several outbursts at work. They mostly involve me either snapping, shouting, or being very sarcastic to my bosses or people of higher rank than I.

"That's not a bad thing," Stanley shouted from his toilet, trying to compete with the gurgling sound of his own pee as it made contact with toilet water. 

"I also snap and shout at people above me -- and if I'm in the mood, I also let out a moan and a series of vulgarities that mention my Maker."

Stanley's grin faded when he saw me roll eyes.

"Okay, so you've been unpleasant at work. But from the stories you'd been telling me, it seems like those bosses of yours deserve your fury," said Stanley, best friend and enabler. 

True. That's my constant thought. These idiot management types get paid so much and do so little and when they actually do do something, they're incompetent. 

And that really triggers me.

The latest episode was actually just yesterday when I snapped at an HOD who's infamous for being extremely lazy. That lazy HOD snapped back. And I fought back with more aggression until she backed down.

Though it looked like I won the verbal war, I felt bad.

Not because I was wrong professionally. But because on a personal level, I realise just what a bitch I had become.

Which brought me to the realisation that I'm moving towards being an asshole.

"Sometimes, moving towards an asshole can be a very exciting thing," Stanley said moving his hand and a glass of red wine towards me.

I glanced at his clock which is 5:13pm. At Stanley's, white wine is served before 4pm, and after 4pm, it's red.

"This is a very good Amarone," Stanley said.

A little swivel, a deep sniff and an appreciative sip, and all felt good.

"This is good," I agreed.

"So, you're becoming an asshole. And you know it," Stanley said after sipping his wine. "There's awareness of that, and also an intention to do something about it. That's not the end of the world, right?"

Stanley is right.

The end of the world would be when I don't realise I'm an asshole and even when told, don't want to do anything about it.

It's time to take action, I said to Stanley and the breathing body that's Carl, who's head is slumped on his left shoulder, drool threatening to drip out. 

"Besides, it's only half the year gone. You can always do better in the next half."

"Just as long as you want to do it, Adam. Use your intellect to overcome your emotions," said Stanley who is channelling the Dalai Lama. 

Stanley -- on some rare occasion -- can be so wise. 

"Life is too short. Be the change you don't like, and let's hope your bosses don't poke the bear and trigger you anymore," Stanley continued.

"Though in some cases -- such as mine -- poking the bear and triggering things can be an exceptionally enjoyable activity."   

 

 

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

Adam's stories are based on real life events and inspired by real people

Where There's A Will

Last week, I had the most uncomfortable conversation with my partner of over 20 years J. 

It involved money. It involved love. And it definitely involved drama.

The drama mainly came from me because I was weeping by the end of the discussion with J.

We were at his home and he was making me coffee when he casually informed me he'd asked his law firm colleague Ryan to help draft up his will -- and proceeded to give me a rundown of what he planned to do with his assets. 

It was not a conversation I expected. But it was in keeping with J's character who dealt with all matters of life (and death) in a most detached, clinical way. 

That's what makes him such a great lawyer and problem solver because, unlike me, he deals with facts and no emotions.

Okay, that's not entirely accurate. J's job deals with -- and plays up or down -- selected facts and he does deal with a lot of emotions from clients, based on all the legal stories he'd shared with me over the two decades.

But I wasn't prepared to have such a talk that morning. All I wanted was a cup of coffee after having spent a romantic night at his place, then walk out for chwee kueh at the nearby Chomp Chomp hawker centre.

"Were they tears of joy," Stanley the sex bunny asked when I updated him this news.

"Or were you crying because you weren't part of the will?"

Will drafting, over the years, has become more common among Singaporeans.

And though J isn't expecting to die anytime soon, he has set out plans to deal with the inevitable. 

In our younger days, J would do the same: Chart out plans to save chunks of money in our 20s, start property-buying and investments in our early 30s, crystalise retirement safety nets in our 40s, and draft up LPAs (Lasting Power of Attorney) and wills.

J is the type of person who takes all the romance out of the relationship and replaces it with practicality. 

And over the years, I've come to love this aspect of him.

But a discussion of splitting his assets after he dies pains me.

Again, Stanley the sex bunny pointedly wanted to know if it pained be because he would eventually die, or if they money wouldn't come to me. 

And he isn't joking.

Case in point, his own family drama.

Stanley isn't exactly poor.

In fact, he's born with a silver spoon in his mouth (just that as he grew up, he took that silver spoon out of his mouth and put in other things).

Not too long ago, his mum passed (God bless her soul, the formidable Mrs Monica Ong).  

It was after Mrs Ong's death when Stanley discovered the amount of red tape he had to untangle. 

"You'd think it's straightforward -- that the CPF monies of my mum would easily be transferred to the living family members," Stanley said to me. "No. Not at all," he said.

Apparently, if the living hadn't done any CPF nomination (a process that dictates whom the money should go to in the event of that CPF holder's death, it is a rather long road to getting access to that money).

Long story short, Stanley didn't need the money. Nor did he want any part of it.

But when he discovered that his mum's money had gone to not only his dad but also his sister... Stanley blew up.

In all other circumstances, any type of blowing that's related to Stanley is a good and welcome thing. Not this time.

Firstly, Stanley hates his sister. He sometime refers to her as his nemi-sis. 

I have no idea why he hates her this much -- the gist of it is, Cindy Ong the firstborn is a money squanderer. 

Also, I think Stanley dislikes her because unlike most traditional Chinese families, the Ongs favoured Cindy over Stanley.

Again, I digress.

Stanley was huffing and puffing when he found out he got nothing from his mum.

Truth be told, Mrs Monica Ong didn't have a will. And she didn't have to work. But she did have some CPF money squirrelled away when she worked in her mid-20s.

"Make sure you are in the running for inheritance in your family, Adam," Stanley said to me seriously.

But back to J and his morbid talk on asset distribution.

While I'm heartened that I'm not out of his bequeathing equation, it puts an extra cloud over our relationship.

Because money and love don't always go hand in hand. Well, sometimes they do. But not for me.

If money can split family -- whether it's a dispute over inheritance or in a household business -- then surely it can do damage to relationships too.  

"So...," Stanley texted again. "How much are we talking here?"

 

 

 

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

Adam's stories are based on real life events and inspired by real people

Give Me A Break

Unlike Stanley my sex bunny friend, I have no vacays planned between now and the end of the year.

Stanley's calendar, which is packed not only with what to do but whom to do, is also now filled with holiday plans.

Taipei in the coming weeks, Penang in August, Bali in October and Sweden in December. 

"I envy you very much" I typed in our group chat "Just the Boys" as I lay in bed. 

Carl the dense one began typing a response, then, two minutes later, stopped forming his thoughts and words altogether. 

"I can't wait!" Stanley typed, adding a random gif of a slender woman in spandex wielding a whip. 

I didn't know what to make of the gif and took a leaf from Carl: I stopped responding altogether and allowed myself to drift back to sleep.

It was 10:30am on a Saturday when I put my phone down beside my pillow.

I woke up again at 12:17pm.

Dozens of message alerts had amassed while I was asleep and on the top right corner of my WhatsApp icon sat the number 64. 

I'll get through them one by one, I thought to myself, and opened my IG to do some mindless scrolling.

It was one of my happiest moments.

For the last few months, I had been so busy at work that even weekends meant I had to slog away.

Not that I'm complaining. I love my work and when I say I'm exhausted, it's conveyed factually with no nuance of resentment.  

Of course, any reprieve from office projects is good. 

Like today.

I remember telling my colleagues the night before that I look forward to not waking up by the brutal sound of my alarms -- all 7 settings of them.

And that, I did.

Once in a while, we need that. 

While Stanley is now bitten by the travel bug and travelling with a vengeance, I don't need to do that.

My idea of a break or a vacay is really to wake up naturally, check my phone for messages, scroll IG (which, these days, are videos of pasta recipes and home decor contents), feel the next wave of exhaustion set in while in bed, give in, slump myself back on my pillow and drift away in drowsiness.

And when I have to, have to get up, I do so with the satisfaction of knowing I've lazed around enough.

The entire pace is so decidedly slow that it feels like I'm on holiday already.

Even waiting for my nespresso machine to fill up my coffee cup feels different. Today, it felt zen. On all other work days, I feel like I need to hurry my machine and give me my cuppa so that I can get on with life and do 400 things for my day.

And then, there's the luxury to decide what to eat for lunch and when to eat it.

As I type this now (which is 1.46pm), I still haven't eaten. 

I have leftover pastas in my fridge and I'm in no hurry to eat them just because I'm not used to eating anything after I just got out of bed.

And instead of reading a book, I decide to blog. Which is such a calming activity for me.

In between writing and listening to Mando ballads (right now, what's playing on my Spotify is Wang Jie's Ta De Bei Ying [Her backview]), I walk out to the balcony of my rented, tiny apartment and look out.

My point is, this is my idea of a break. A vacay.

Pathetic, I know. 

But it works for me.

Many people talk about taking a break from their hectic work lives. Very often, they mean actual travelling. Like Stanley.

For me though, the idea of holidaying is tiring. I think I've written about this before in my decades of blogging. That I'm a reluctant traveller, as a friend in tourism once pointed out. 

Which is why for me, my idea of a break is just like today. 

I did check my work emails and got some things done, but checking an email work is not. 

As I sit and type this entry, I feel totally relaxed.

I have home tasks to do, of course. Change my bedsheets, do laundry, decide if I want to order in or whip up a simple pasta dish. 

And I'm smiling as I do this because, finally, I'm having a great mental break from work and time all to myself.  

 

 

 

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

Adam's stories are based on real life events and inspired by real people 

Happy Daddy's Day

It's Father's Day soon, so this entry is dedicated to Stanley, Carl and myself. And all our peers in our age bracket.

'Cos technically, at this stage of our lives, we're more than qualified to be Daddies.

"I do NOT want to be a daddy!" Carl said with a pout like a petulant kid at dinner who needs a spanking.

"Oooo, I not only want to be a daddy -- I want to be a Zaddy," Stanley said with a sparkle in his eye like somebody who wants a spanking. Hard.

"What's a Zaddy," asked Carl the dense one who has the attention span and will power of bird. 

"A sexually attractive man, especially an older one who is fashionable or charismatic," I read out what immediate information Google supplied me.

"You will never imagine how many cute young boys this Zaddy has attracted," said Stanley the sex bunny whom one might argue also has the attention span and will power of a bird. 

If we do the math, 46 -- when rounded to the nearest tens -- is 50. So we are old.

Carl refused to look at me when I recited these rules. 

But figure wise, at 46, we are in great shape. 

Carl who's also a gym rabbit softened his stance and smiled reluctantly, then flexed his python sized biceps to prove my point.

Stanley struck a sultry pose and stared hungrily at a passing waiter, his stance obviously hardening.

The three of us were at Min Jiang, Goodwood Park Hotel, enjoying a dim sum brunch.

I personally love the spread there.

At this moment, Stanley is loving the spread there too.

"Is it me or are all the goodlooking daddies here today?" he said in admiration, his eyes not once looking at Carl and me.

"I guess they don't call this hotel good wood for nothing," he decided. 

The daddies around us were indeed cute. They all looked younger than us and still have that fresh-face sheen on them. 

"They better enjoy their remaining years now before their youthful good looks are drained by their horny wives and energy sapped by their very noisy kids," Stanley decided. 

In his dictionary, all straight men end up looking like rubbish no matter how good looking they once were. 

It's to do with vaginal energy in the mix, Stanley said matter of factly.

We daddies on the other hand, thrive as we grow older.  

Without the burden of juggling a family and making ends meet, we are therefore financially independent and free of worries.

Carl nodded and said "this dim sum is damn nice."

Stanley's theory is not without truth. 

As we grow older, especially gay men, we find ourselves looking better.

Not necessarily because our features suddenly transform but because overall, our package gets an upgrade.

Stanley, who loves all types of talk about package, agrees. 

"With more money on hand, we take care of everything -- from head to toe and inside out -- about ourselves.

"This means getting better haircuts, facial care, working out at gyms to sculpt that perfect body and better fashion, consuming supplements and tonic that keep us young and zaddy looking," Stanley explained. 

"But what if that gay man doesn't have -- or want to spend -- money on all these things," Carl asked.

"Good point. Then that gay man just becomes an old man. Simple as that."

"That's elitist," Carl decided then spent the rest of his remaining energy on brunch.

"Not really, no," Stanley said. 

"It's how much that person is willing to spend on himself -- don't tell me at 46 years old, you can't afford a decent haircut or buy sensible clothes that fit you?"

Carl, who will never make it as a good lawyer in the face of challenges and combative arguments, agreed promptly. "That's true. Even I would treat myself to the occasional spa and facial treatments."

"My facial treatments are mostly free and more than occasional,"Stanley said without missing a beat, then "so yes, back to my point that it's not the money."

And Zaddies are our second lease of life, Stanley added, now sounding like a cult leader.

According to Stanley, there are two main types of gay men. Type One: The naturally goodlooking men who are hot. Type Two: Gay men who are not.

"Look at Adam," he pointed at me just as I was about to eat feed myself some pork congee.

"He's obviously Type Two but he's a Zaddy."

"Why, thank you," I said, happy to be complimented. 

Stanley's argument is that based on the laws of nature, no matter how hot Type One gays are, they will lose that bit of shine as they grow older. Type Twos, on the other hand, are never hot to begin with so any minimal effort in trying to look good is seen as a great improvement.

"I take back my thank you," I said coldly.

Channelling my partner J's legal magnificence, I challenged Stanley.

"So, the root of your argument is that Zaddies are basically ugly gay men who are willing to keep up with their appearances. You yourself just said you were a Zaddy. Does that mean you are ugly?"

Rolling his eyes, Stanley would only say "I'm hot now, and that's all that matters."

 

 

 

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Adam's stories are based on real life events and inspired by real people

Host With The Most

As an adult, I've always enjoyed hosting parties.

Stanley my sex bunny friend would also say he enjoys hosting parties. As an adult.

"When I was younger, I'd host them in my bedroom in my parents' home," Stanley said without anyone asking.

"And then when I was a little older and wealthier, I'd host them in hotel rooms," he said. "And of course, these days, I host parties in my own home."

"Wow, that's nice. Are they birthday parties? My first birthday party was at a chalet when I was 21," said Carl the dense one who's always missing the point.

Stanley and I exchanged looks, collectively feeling sorry for Carl who can never see inverted commas the way normal people can.

"Sorry -- let's go back to your first point, Stan," I said. "So you hosted those types of parties at hotels when you were a little older. Just how old were you when you started hosting those types of parties under your parents' roof?" I just had to ask.

Stanley smiled and said, "13".  

Carl beamed and hugged Stanley.

"It's so nice that you get to host birthday parties at 13."

The three of us were shopping at Ikea Alexandra and we were at the lower storey where items like plants and lights and -- my favourite section -- glassware and cutlery are placed. 

I just love, love, love kitchen ware.

I know. It's very aunty. 

These days, it's no longer the men's clothes section that appeals to me.

I'm naturally drawn to the kitchen section of departments like C K Tang and Takashimaya. 

I would admire the assortment of serving plates and bowls on display -- from plain ceramic types to those with loud, colourful prints featuring fruits or ducks. 

And then there's the stemware.

Proper champagne flutes. White and red wine glasses. And whiskey glasses. I love buying them all.

I use the term proper because I do have friends who are improper. 

I've attended enough of those basic straight couples' house warming or dinner parties where they serve food still in their plastic containers.

And they dish out paper plates and paper cutlery as if we were hungry ghosts eating off the floor.

And they have the cheek to serve wine in -- wait for it -- plastic cups.

Plastic cups!  

"Plastic cups?!" Stanley repeated in horror as we passed by the carpet section, giving a middle aged makcik a shock with his sudden shriek. 

I can understand that it's convenient and time-saving to just toss out everything once the party is over. But to me, there's a fine line between convenience and lazy, and being downright disrespectful to your guests.

While I"m not one of those who would pay $700 for a box of four wine glasses, I definitely would invest in buying proper wine glasses. And even if I were to order in, I'll have the decency to transfer food out of their plastic containers and into respectable serving plates and bowls.

For my upcoming new home -- where I'm prepared to be a host with the most -- I've already listed my to-buy items.

At least 10 sets of champagne flutes, white and red wine glasses and drinking goblets for the general crowd. 

But I'll also have a separate set of stemware -- at least six of those types of glasses which are pricier, meant for closer friends when they visit.

Years ago when Crate and Barrel held its closing down sale, I went crazy. 

I stocked up on one of those big, heavy dinner plates, a classy whiskey decanter along with matching crystal glasses, sets of forks, knives, spoons that are so heavy a toddler needs two hands just to lift a spoon. Big serving bowls, plates, ladles also made it to my purchase list. Along with a lovely whiskey cart that was on 30% discount. 

This is why I insisted on a dish washer in my upcoming flat. And this is also why I insisted on owning a three-metre long dining table (which I paid a premium for given that I had to arrange for workers to physically carry it up level by level).

"I"m very interested in the workers who would carry your table," Stanley said. "I wonder if they'll all be lean, fit an sexy."

But back to my point.

Hosting is in my blood.

In my younger days, my family hosted lots of parties. When grandma was alive, she would cook up a storm. My aunties would help with the cooking in the backyard and plate after plate of steaming hot food would be laid on our dining table. 

Grandma loved her parties. 

There was the usual weekend family get togethers of home cooked food. And the Sunday mahjong parties (at least three tables -- one in the front porch and two in our house). I remember there'll be lots of snacks and bowls of Chinese desserts. 

When I was a little older, I would have pretend tea parties with my sister where we would drink tea from tiny colourful plastic cups. There would be a variety of plastic delicacies -- danish, croissant, tarts -- served on tiny colourful plastic plates.

Ideally, I want my friends whom I host to have the ultimate pampered experience. 

As they enter my home, they'll each be handed a welcome drink (Sangria, champagne, sparkling fruit wine) in proper stemware. 

And then, on a three-tier serving tray would be welcome snacks. Home made bruschetta, store-bought curry puffs and air-fried frozen spring rolls. 

There'll also be a huge glass salad bowl where I'll pour my chips into and home made chips dip plonked into a crystal serving bowl. 

And once my guests are done polishing their big dinner plates from a variety of kitchenware containing food I whipped up and cleared their wine glasses, I'll hand them a digestif of VSOP or whiskey in, yes, proper crystal glasses.

Stanley looked at me and said, Okay Martha Stewart. 

 

 

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Adam's stories are based on real life events and inspired by real people