Romance Wasn't Built In A Day (Part I)

This entry is a dated one.

Dated being the operative word.

It was early-April.

And it was one of those Friday nights where J and I didn't want to go out.

So he came over to my tiny rented apartment for dinner where I whipped up an elevated lazy dinner of sardines pasta -- fortified with extra ketchup, loads of chopped onions, spring onions, parsley, a squeeze of lime, and spaghetti tossed and twirled classily onto our huge Crate and Barrel dinner plates. 

As I sipped my Pinot Grigio, I sighed blissfully that date night with my partner of more than 20 years can be literally anywhere -- even if we were eating canned and processed food -- and still be enjoyable.

I felt truly blessed.

In our early years, when both of us were in our twenties and having started our first jobs, our go to dating places were, among other cheaper locations, Pasta Mania. 

Most times, we would eat at food courts along Orchard Road, many of them defunct.

Our favourite place was the one at Scotts Road. I would always order Roti Jala with rendang, and he, braised beef noodles (dry). 

Those were the simple and cheap dating places in our early years, which I enjoyed then, and now too. 

Sometimes, we lament that our old cheap haunts are no longer around.

In our thirties, when our bank accounts were fuller, J and I moved on to restaurants or cafes where we didn't need to vacate our seats for others the moment we scooped up our last morsel. We even allowed ourselves the occasional splurge at super high-end restaurants.

Now that we're in our forties, I see us as having the best of both worlds.

It's not -- and never -- beneath us to eat at hawker centres. In fact, we do that still. But we also revel in the fact that we have a choice to live it up or play it down whenever we wanted.

Because at the end of the day, it's not where we go or what we eat that matters.

Right this moment, J is chewing his food slowly and enjoying this very low-cost, high-presentation dinner.

J, who sensed I was staring at him eating, looked up from his pasta. 

He didn't say anything to me. 

He didn't need to. Over the years, we have honed our verbal and non-verbal communication skills.  

I winked at him.

A slow smile formed on J's face, revealing that trademark impish grin that, till today, makes my heart beat a bit faster. 

I set my fork down and playfully dribbled one eyebrow suggesting that dessert was to be served not on my tiny dining table but elsewhere in my tiny rented apartment.

J giggled, revealing his crooked upper canine which turns me on to no end. 

As we cuddled under my blanket that night, J asked if I wanted to take a short break. An impromptu vacay.

I lifted my head from between his neck and collarbone. 

"Are you serious?" 

J smiled and nodded.

But... I am in the midst of an intensive project and can't leave the country for prolonged periods of time, I thought to myself.

Before I could say anything, J said: "A short break and getaway within Singapore. This way, you don't have to worry about being away from work for too long. And it gives you both that peace of mind and mental break."

I looked at J and asked out loud: "What did I do to deserve you?"

"Not that cheap dinner you made for sure," he quipped, and flashed me that boyish smile again.

And just like that, under the most unplanned but most romantic sequence of events that unfolded from dinner to dessert, J and I decided, a romantic staycation it was to be. 

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

Caregiving

Since younger brother Barry's hospitalisation, the Lees have been frequenting Raffles Hospital.

The youngest of the Lees had made history by being the first Lee to be warded.

"I've always thought it'd be you, or mum lying here," Barry said unthinkingly.

Mrs Lee, who was peeling an orange, paused her activity and turned towards her youngest offspring in the slowest of head turns that's designed to instill fear.

"Just saying," said Barry, realising he's in a most vulnerable state right this moment, what with his left foot propped up on two pillows, restricting any form of urgent escape.

Thanks to Barry's insurance coverage, we could visit him whenever we wanted since he's in a private ward.

And so, my sis, mum and I made an outing out of Barry's hospital visit. 

Mum had made fish soup and brought a basket of fruits which she promptly peeled and fed all her children.

"I've come to appreciate life more," Barry said, biting into an orange wedge, juice dripping on his chin in all directions.

"And I'm determined to use this time to properly detox from all the vices in life I once had."

Mrs Lee, old but still sharp, mused: "What vices, I wonder."

It was a motherly tone -- but a menacing, threatening, step-motherly sort of tone. 

Barry, again realising he's trapped in his hospital bed, turned up his charm dial.

"For a start, I appreciate family love. I mean, you guys coming to see me and show me what it means to be family -- I can't ask for more," he said looking pointedly at Mrs Lee.

Easily appeased by all sorts of flattery, our mum rolled her eyes and said "yes, you better know how tough it is to raise you monkeys."

For the next few days, the Lees rotated among themselves, visiting Barry and buying him meals.

By the end of one week, we'd met almost all the nursing staff on Raffles Hospital.

Barry had made quite a name for himself, spreading his trademark humour and courtesy.

Not to be outdone, Mrs Lee had learned the hospital staff's names, even buying them boxes of cupcakes on one visit.

A happy team of nurses is a good team of nurses, Mrs Lee explained, though I am somewhat convinced it was also party 'cos Mrs Lee wanted to lead in the popularity contest which she's up against her son.

Anyway.

Despite Barry's cheery disposition, I realised seeing him in hospital had taken a toll on me.

Sure, I enjoy chatting with Barry and visiting him, but seeing him in such a state had unwittingly affected me.

I didn't notice it until my partner J pointed out that I was increasingly quiet whenever we both met.

I initially put it down to work burn out though to be honest, I wouldn't be sure of the symptoms since I'd never once felt burnt out.

But I felt those symptoms anyway: Fatigue, loss of appetite, lack of motivation. And I was becoming more and more angsty. 

J forced me to think about what led to this burnout, which I thought I was experiencing.

It wasn't until Barry was finally discharged that I started noticing myself being less tense.

J was right. He wasn't convinced I was burned out. It was the stress of care giving (to be fair, I did minimal work -- I mostly shuttled between my office or rented home and Raffles Hospital). 

But the very act of visiting a loved one in hospital did affect me.

I of course didn't tell Barry how I felt.

As I thought about this recent episode, it hit me that tending to a loved one when he or she is ill, can be a potentially daunting experience.

As I type this now, Barry is back home and is adapting to his daily tasks: Moving on crutches to go from his bedroom to the bathroom. And though he had learned from his occupational therapist how to get up and down a flight of stairs, Barry decided not to put that to the test and remained in his bedroom for the most part of his medical leave.

He's still being tendered to lovingly by mum whom he still lives with, and by me and my sis who'd visit him occasionally. 

When I told J that caregiving was stressful, he said nothing.

He simply came forward and gave me a hug.

At that point, all I wished was there wouldn't come a day when I have to be a caregiver to my partner J.

Why, oh why do I have to grow up -- and old -- this soon.

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

Barry Painful

Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.

That's not funny, deadpanned Humpty Dumpty who's hovering my laptop as I type this entry.

Four days ago, youngest brother Barry fell and broke his ankle which required all the king's horses and all the king's men to put Humpty Dumpty together again.

Well, not exactly king's men. Housemen, more like it.

Lying beside me at Raffles Hospital is a broken Barry, wincing at every slight movement. His left foot is wrapped in a massive cast, propped up by two pillows for blood flow post-surgery.

Last Monday, Barry was out drinking with his colleagues at a dart pub just down the road from his office.

"What the heck were you guys doing, drinking on a Monday night," I wanted to know.

Despite Barry's vulnerable state, his priorities were still clear.

"Kor, can you pass me the Oreos?"

Barry's fall was quite dramatic.

He was seated on a bar stool and he habitually tucks one of his feet into the bottom rim of the stool.

But that Monday night, someone accidentally knocked Barry over and he fell backwards. 

"So, I fell but I had no time to dislodge my foot so --"

Crack.

Barry and I paused and looked at the source of interruption.

Our mum Mrs Lee smiled at us and brushed off micro bits of her cleanly halved cream cracker and said sheepishly, "I didn't mean it."

Barry, who has the attention span of a pigeon and the appetite of a boar, said with zest: "It's been a while since I've had cream crackers. Are they nice?" 

You'll have to give it to Barry -- cream crackers and all. The poor fella is in extreme pain but he's as sanguine as can be.

Barry had to undergo two surgeries and one of them sounded traumatic.

In order to fix screws and metal plates on his ankle -- which is what we would imagine a fracture repair surgery to be -- Barry's doctors must first perform what he described as a "put your bones together" surgery.

"Which makes sense right," Barry explained in between his biscuit chewing, "you'll first need to push the fragmented bones closer together."

"Please have a sip of water. Your mouth is drying and it looks like you're chewing sand," Mrs Lee said with great disapproval. 

"So the doctors will have to wrap that cast structure around my ankle."

 The cast structure that Barry was pointing at, was designed to support and put one's foot in place. Think of it as two separate metal sheets placed on both sides of one's ankle such that it envelops and traps the ankle from any movement.

The fun bit is... in order to keep these two separate metal sheets in place, there are actual screws that need to be drilled into the left and right side of that ankle.

Like any good orator, Barry paused and looked at his audience for reaction. 

I was mid-cringe but Mrs Lee -- who's been through greater storms than this -- widened her eyes and nodded eagerly. "Then, then?"

"The even more fun bit of it is, the drilling of the screws into my ankle has to be done while I'm awake. Without any form of anaethesia."

Barry paused and waited for an expected gasp. Which I readily delivered.

Mrs Lee -- who grew up during WWII, survived the premature death of her first love (our father) and who had undergone sexual discrimination in a male-dominated work environment to rise the ranks in her career -- rolled her eyes at me.

And at Barry, she gave him another look that's meant to say "is that all you've got?"

Mrs Lee is the type of audience you don't want at your first standup comedy show.

Barry, who could argue fiercely in court but is useless in the presence of Mrs Lee, began to fumble, his great showmanship now at stake.

"In the end, the doctors gave me some sedative so that I can still describe to them the pain I felt, which would guide them in that cast-insertion surgery.

By the end of Barry's speech, Mrs Lee was rummaging through the huge plastic bag of snacks which Barry's friends had brought over.

"You have very good friends," Mrs Lee said, inspecting the snacks one by one.

Barry then focused on me 'cos unlike our mum, I was pale.

That made Barry smile devilishly. "Quite a story eh?" he said.

Leave it to Mrs Lee to burst Barry's bubble.

"For someone who's stupid drinking ways got him injured, you've got some nerve ya."

Barry texted me privately after we left.

"I'm changing you to be my first next of kin. I'm terrified of that woman."

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

The Overseas Wedding

Sunday dinner at my partner J's.

And it was a crowded affair.

His dining table that's meant for four on most days, is filled with food that can feed 12 hungry people though only his closest family members were gathered at his place.

And that's the real treat for J.

His parents, retired government servants from Jakarta, shuttle between Indonesia, Singapore and Australia in their free time.

This month, the entire clan descended on our sunny island.

So joining J's second brother and his wife -- both of whom have since renounced their Indonesian citizenship and have pledged loyalty to our democratic society, based on justice and equality -- were his parents and his eldest brother who is an Australian citizen.

With all of J's family gatherings, home-cooked food is a must. 

The matron, who is also Peranakan, had singlehandedly whipped up family favourites: Chap chye, babi pongteh, black-ink squid with lemongrass, and 30 sticks of pork satay, courtesy of Lily our sister in law.

It was one of J's mum's favourite things to do. Host parties, feed people, have a great time.

Arguably, that's also my sex bunny friend Stanley's favourite thing to do. Host parties (of a certain type) feed people (provided it's consensual), have a great time.

But let's not go there. 

It's a heartwarming scene unfolding in front of my eyes right now, with too much cackling going on. 

It's the start of their month-long celebrations. J's parents, residing in Melbourne with his oldest brother, flew in earlier this week. 

The idea was for the entire clan to fly to Jakarta to attend a family wedding: The Holy Matrimony of Ignatius Soewarno and a certain daughter of a certain influential tycoon in Surabaya who apparently owns a chain of profit-making businesses.

And I'm feeling very warm and fuzzy.

You see, recently, my elder sis also announced she was proposed to. 

She may be 48, but she can easily pass off as a 32-year-old bride, I kid you not. 

To me, this wedding trip of J's family is a rehearsal for my own family's marriage prep work. 

Ours wouldn't be so complicated though. Both the would-be wedding of Sis and Eddie, my soon-to-be brother-in-law, won't involve family flights.

J's though, oh, it's a major project.

Families like J's where everyone is all over the world takes massive coordination. 

From New Zealand and Australia to Singapore and other parts of Indonesia, there'll be mass migration movement of the Soewarnos and the girl's family whose identities shall remain nameless here.

On paper, the plan is simple.

J's entire family comes to Singapore for a few days of quality time (including tonight) and then fly off to join the rest of the clan.

Flights have been confirmed. Hotel rooms, mass-booked two months ahead of time.

All I need to do, according to J, is to turn up for events when I'm needed to turn up as his Plus One.

And it would be celebrations that last for a week.

There's the family-only gathering of J's nephew. J warned me. That's gonna take two days. Everyone -- from the elders to the little ones -- would squeeze into one of their family mansions and the women will gather to cook for that grand gathering.

And then, there's the wedding mass on Friday for family and very close friends, followed by a reception which, as bewildering as it sounds, involves only drinks and nibblies with no sit-down table arrangements. 

And then, on the day of the actual wedding that involves one and sundry, we were to gather at the venue and party. 

J may not be the party type, but he's a family man.

And if the family event calls for him to party, then party he would.

I told sex bunny friend Stanley the plans.

"Sounds very tiring," he said.

"Right?" I sighed.

"I'm already imagining how, if I were there, I would slot in hookups amid this very packed schedule."

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

She Said Yes

Last week, my elder sis messaged my brother and me and our oldest sis -- who's living in Australia -- in our sibling group chat titled "The Little Lees" and made an announcement that would move share prices. 

Younger brother Barry responded with a group video call without delay. Only oldest Sis Jo didn't pick up (she goes to sleep on Do Not Disturb mode).

"What are you eating again? It's 12:15am," my sis S complained. 

"That should be the least of your worries," I interrupted.

Barry nodded zestfully since his mouth was full.

When he swallowed, he shouted. "WOW!"

Sis smiled then giggled like she was drunk after Prom Night. 

After nearly 50 years of being a single woman (with a tumultuous dating history filled mainly with assholes and a few good men), my sis was finally proposed to.

The man is someone slightly younger but to be honest, they both look good together.

"I don't know if that's a good thing," Stanley, who knows my family well, said when I broke the news to him later.

It must mean that the man looks super old, he said, reminding me that my sis is nearly 50 (though she can definitely pass off as someone in her mid-thirties thanks to good genes).

"But Mainly Assholes and a Few Good Men sounds like a great title for my biography," my sex bunny friend said, adding "will you write it for me in future?"

And so, during one of our regular family gatherings that Saturday -- this time at Tanglin Club -- my sis broke the news to the family.

Her exact words came out without warning. "I'm getting married," she said.

Mrs Lee, ever the dramatic matriarch, set her chopsticks down and covered her mouth with her wrinkly hands in slow motion, eyes fast filling with tears.

Barry leaned over and asked "Why? The congee too spicy is it?"

Mrs Lee hit Barry away and started weeping silently into her hands.

"Orrh.... see what you did! You made mummy cry," I chimed in as I helped myself to a steaming, fluffy piece of Char Siew Pao.

Mrs Lee let out a wail which she failed to control.

A table away, a group of rowdy businessmen uncles stopped toasting one another beer and turned to look at our sobbing mum instead. One of them looked at me quizically and jerked his head upwards which I interpreted as an inquiry that meant "What did your mum eat to make her this upset?"

At a corner, another table of elegant socialite-aunty types -- complete with pearl necklaces and bird-nest hairstyles -- kept stealing secret glances at us while trying to look classy and not busybodies.

My sis, unable to stand the attention, whispered urgently: "Mummy, please stop this right this moment."

Mrs Lee let out another wail, this time, not even controlling her emotions nor volume.

Barry asked "do you think I can be excused from this table and continue eating with those uncles there?"

Sis shot him a look that Barry immediately understood that any movement from him would get him disowned and possibly disembodied.

With impeccable timing, the Tang Yun matron whom The Little Lees nickname Mamasan, strolled over and casually placed her hand over our mum and said "Aiyah, Lei Tai, mat yeh zeng dou lei gom gek dong ah? (Aiyah, Mrs Lee, what's making you so emotional?)

The emotional Mrs Lee pointed at Sis.

Sis looked at Barry and asked: "You wanted to join that table of uncles, you said?"

I took a sip of tea to wash down my second steamy, fluffy Char Siew Pao.

Sometimes, I'm amused at my own family.

One simple message, but it can take a whole 7 mins (I counted) to announce it and even then, it's not over.

To be fair, my sis' announcement does deserve to be celebrated given that she'd been dating this man whom not only she, but also all of us loved.

Tang Yun Mamasan, upon hearing the good news, joined Mrs Lee in Emo Land and started clapping, all the while saying "congratulations, congratulations, congratulations!"

Sis was mortified. This is a PR disaster and she regretted her actions on many levels.

By then, it was too late. Mamasan had help spread the word to the other servers who, over the years, have taken a liking to our dramatic mum for some reason.

One by one, elderly staff of the Chinese restaurant came over and congratulated Mrs Lee and Ms Lee as if suddenly Tang Yun had become the wedding dinner there and then.

The group of uncles collectively toasted our table. Barry raised his Chinese tea cup at them enthusiastically.

The classy tai-tais nodded in approval at our table.

My sis wanted the day to end but was very moved by everyone's gestures.

Finally, Mrs Lee spoke.

"Does Eddie know?" she asked, concerned. 

Barry burst out laughing, his Chinese tea spewing into the air through his mouth. 

I slow-clapped at Mrs Lee's spot-on humour.

Even Eddie, our soon-to-be brother-in-law who was watching the Lee drama unfold for the past 10 minutes couldn't help himself, and broke into a throaty peal of merry laughter. 

Sis was not amused. 

It was an afternoon of emotional rollercoaster ride and I think our table -- no, sorry, our mum Mrs Lee -- singlehandedly raised the raucous energy in that classy Chinese restaurant. 

What followed Sis' announcement was a series of follow-up questions.

Where and when being key.

Eddie and Sis took turns to explain that they're still looking for a place. I knew Mum would secretly want a Chinese-style wedding but knowing Sis, she's the opposite.

But it was happy news nevertheless.

There would be lots to do for the couple, for the family, and of course, Mrs Lee.

She would naturally be excited. This was the first matrimonial event of the Lees, not counting our mum's own marriage. 

Mrs Lee began texting in various of her group chats to spread the word.

"I"m texting the extended family first," she said, as she left a voice message in her "Fami-LEE" group made up of all our aunties and uncles.

"That's not a text, Mummy," Barry pointed out. "That's a voice message. And might I suggest you rename that group to ElderLEES."

Mrs Lee had no time for Barry's joke. Waving him away, she left another voice message in another group chat. I haven't seen our mum so animated in a while.

As Tang Yun Mamasan brought over free desserts on the house to mark this very joyous occasion, I looked from my mum to Barry, and Sis and Eddie, and felt a nice, fuzzy feeling in my tummy.

At last, Sis and Eddie are a step closer to getting married.

Just then, the table of Tai Tais walked past us. A woman who wore her hair that must be fashioned after the late-Queen of England, smiled at our table and meekly said, "Congratulations."

Sis and Eddie, both holding hands under the table, smiled and looked at each other.

That Saturday, my life felt very complete.

 

 

 

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