Saturday, November 26, 2005
Mildew
by venitha
Number one on the list of complaints expats have about Singapore: mildew.
I swear I read that somewhere, most likely Culture Shock: Singapore, months ago, well in advance of moving here. I remember warily eyeing my comfy leather La-Z-Boy recliners, fearful for their well-being. Jim claims he remembers this, too (the mildewed list, not my contemplative and squinty furniture appraisal); but perhaps he's just being his normal agreeable self (Yes, dear), tiptoeing with practiced and hard-learned care around my stubborn and I-insist-accurate memory.
I'm more frustrated with my inability to find the infamous list (I desperately would like to know what else is on it), than I am with the reality of the dreaded ultimate complaint itself, mildew. What else do I have the comfort of company, hordes and hordes of expats pale, frizzy, and sweaty just like me, in complaining about, for surely it isn't possible that there is an item on the list that I have not bitterly lamented, nay, shaken a fist at in fury?
Our furniture is faring well, protected by the dehumidifying effect of the esteemed air-con; our shoes, on the other hand, we've apparently thrown to the wolves. (And, as I should have expected, they have gone to the dogs.) In a when-in-Rome nod to Singaporean habits, we've shelved our frequently-worn shoes outside the front door, protected from rain, but little else.
In another nod to Singaporean habits, perhaps I'll toss these sandals down the trash chute and go shopping for some new ones today.
venitha
Can you tell that I'm midway through a book by Kate Atkinson, master of the parenthetical? Lest you think Agilent has forced me off the Perl-y Verilog path onto the darkly overgrown ancient road of LISP. If you understand these last two sentences (without resorting to Google) and you are not married to me, well, that's just frightening.
I swear I read that somewhere, most likely Culture Shock: Singapore, months ago, well in advance of moving here. I remember warily eyeing my comfy leather La-Z-Boy recliners, fearful for their well-being. Jim claims he remembers this, too (the mildewed list, not my contemplative and squinty furniture appraisal); but perhaps he's just being his normal agreeable self (Yes, dear), tiptoeing with practiced and hard-learned care around my stubborn and I-insist-accurate memory.
I'm more frustrated with my inability to find the infamous list (I desperately would like to know what else is on it), than I am with the reality of the dreaded ultimate complaint itself, mildew. What else do I have the comfort of company, hordes and hordes of expats pale, frizzy, and sweaty just like me, in complaining about, for surely it isn't possible that there is an item on the list that I have not bitterly lamented, nay, shaken a fist at in fury?
Our furniture is faring well, protected by the dehumidifying effect of the esteemed air-con; our shoes, on the other hand, we've apparently thrown to the wolves. (And, as I should have expected, they have gone to the dogs.) In a when-in-Rome nod to Singaporean habits, we've shelved our frequently-worn shoes outside the front door, protected from rain, but little else. In another nod to Singaporean habits, perhaps I'll toss these sandals down the trash chute and go shopping for some new ones today.
venitha
Can you tell that I'm midway through a book by Kate Atkinson, master of the parenthetical? Lest you think Agilent has forced me off the Perl-y Verilog path onto the darkly overgrown ancient road of LISP. If you understand these last two sentences (without resorting to Google) and you are not married to me, well, that's just frightening.
