BREAKING IN THE ZORI

Z came down the stairs with a sweet grin stretched across his face. I looked up and I saw a mess of rope dangling from his hands. I was alarmed. Then I looked lower and I saw Z's left foot sheathed in a roped, hand-crafted flip flop and the other foot  bare. I was relieved.

After scrutinizing Z's zori in my hand I realized that it takes obsession to make a zori (out of rope) and even more of an obsession to wear one. Particularly if it were made of rope. For the past week or so Z had been studying the art of making zori. Zori, for those of you who know not yet, is Japanese footwear that has been around since the Haien period (794 - 1185) before western shoes became popular. They were originally made of rice straw or other plant fibres, sometimes cloth and apparently sometimes even of rope. It takes a sadist to invent one out of rope and a masochist to wear one of rope. It hurts. 

Me masochist. 

When I saw the finished pair proudly displayed by Z and his satisfied expression I was smitten. They were flat and thonged. They were handsome. They were rustic. They had character.  They were the work of a perfectionist. What more could a woman want. They looked better and cuter than the rubber, mass produced, boring flip flops that I wear now and I thought they would make great house slippers. I knew I needed a pair.... I wanted a pair. And I requested Z to make a pair. For me. Since he was obsessed he grinned even wider.

Z spent a good part of the afternoon and part of the evening making a pair for me. By the time I came home from an outing with H at about nine in the evening I had a zori.  For free. It looked so good and it was so painful. 

But that's the price one has to pay to look pretty. And it does look pretty. In a rustic kind of way. As of now my feet are still breaking them in. I am determined to wear them. I can smell my own tenacity. And I have announced many a time at the dinner table that once I'm done breaking them in I could climb Mount Kinabalu barefoot. Like a goat.

If I could wear killer 4 inch heels in my heyday (all day) with the prospect of deforming my toes with naught health benefits, and if upper and middle class Chinese ladies of old had had their feet painfully bound and deformed for life for their men, all in the name of beauty and sensuality, what are zoris I asked myself. Especially if they're going to give me the regal posture of a queen, stimulate vital energy and blood flow throughout my body, reduce stress, improve balance and enhance my physical and mental well being.

At the least zoris are not confined to women and are, therefore, historically, not markers of gender or class, and could, in my opinion, certainly be a panacea for the flat footed.

As I wear them around the house all I feel is a kind of discomfort at first. I've never had foot reflexology but I suspect  that it hurts in the way a foot reflexology would hurt.  It feels very much like walking the pebbled reflexology walking paths at the park. As I walk on it more often I feel less discomfort and more attuned to the pressure points. Z has broken in to his.  And I intend to break mine in because ....

" Once you become use to them and the hanao becomes loose, you will need to push and press down with your toes more firmly to hold them in place, this stimulation of your toes and the build up of the muscles in your feet from wearing Zori will not only make your feet healthier but will have a excellent effect on your body in general. As you may know Reflexologists believe that each organ and muscle are connected by a network of nerves to a point on the foot where the energy terminates. By walk in zori these points are massaged and in addition your spine will become straighter, making your posture more beautiful accordingly."

And ..


"Conceivably, Japan could blame many of its foot problems on the West. Before the start of the Meiji Era in 1868, almost all footwear was either geta (wooden sandals) or zori (thonglike sandals, often made of straw).


I am so breaking them in. Or are they supposed to break me in?

CARS AND ME

I have never been able to develop an affinity for cars, no matter how hard I try. The emotional bond that men have with them is completely absent in me. I regard the car not as another human being but as the ‘thing’ that transports me from point A to point B. Period.

I lack the skill of discernment when it comes to cars or for anything that sits attached to four wheels. As far as I'm concerned, each and every one of them has the same set of four whirl-able wheels, two bright lights right in front, two red ones right at the back, four entrances and no maintenance. They are all of them one and the same. The only feature that differentiates them, one from the other, is the colour which is something that I can refreshingly relate to. Because colours are what I live and breathe for.

Because of that, it has become quite characteristic of me to walk purposefully up to a car that is not mine and attempt to embark simply because it's of a similar colour to mine. I've also attempted to break into someone else’s car for the same reasons. As I was wiggling my car keys in the lock one day a gentleman came over and, seeing that we were all women, asked politely what our intentions were in forcing the lock (his lock in particular). We babbled. In a chorus. And at that instant the true owner realized, to his complete disgust, which by the way was spelt correctly on his forehead, what we were all suffering from (we suffered from car-bungles). In a state of shameful shock we backed off and whimpered. Hurt and disorientated.

So the day that a complete stranger walked confidently up to our opened car door and happily snuggled into the back seat while hugging a bundle of groceries on her lap was one of the happiest days of my life. She sat comfortably for a good few seconds and then started to blink at an unprecedented speed. My husband, children and I stared benignly back at her not unlike the cows on my son’s t-shirt. It was not until the light of revelation had dawned on her that she flustered, turned into a beetroot, hurriedly disembarked and stumbled over to her employer’s car nearby. Now that is what I call a soul maid mate.

I have also come to realize that cars have another very important purpose in life and I can vouch with absolute certainty that my daughter, N, would wholeheartedly agree with me.

For some, cars are not really cars in the sense of being cars, if you know what I mean. For men, it is a Form, an Idea, the Platonic perfection of their unnecessary infatuation. Cars are made to look good, shapely and are blessed with that effervescent glow, so that men are taken in, woo them, caress them, fall in love with them and treat them with such useless, idealistic tenderness the result of which, we women, being the pragmatic green-eyed monsters that we are, have come to regard cars as a substance for abuse.

I, being woman, believe that cars were made, unwittingly, as a panacea for the demented warrior women of the twenty-first century. In order to get from point A to point B, the highway is the holy war path, the car engine the steed and the horn, the jousting stick. And the car, the whole car and nothing but the car? It is mine armour.

What better armour than thy car, me ladies. Thou art damsels within their mighty embrace. Tis why after a war weary day when the fair maiden cometh home she dismounts and leaves her armour safely clamped outside for it to recuperate from the day’s battle and to prepare for the next.

As a mark of all her heroic attempts at bravery my daughter’s car scathingly shows for it. Two long scratches that scratch to infinity on the left side, a whimpering dent in the left corner of her back bumper, a rebellious hollow on her right front door and an amputated wing mirror on the driver’s side. All mustered in good time and speed and I appallingly applaud her.

It is with much reluctance then that I reveal to all men, husbands, fathers and sons alike that in all our girlish attempts at feminizing the car with cuddly toys, dainty tissue box covers and fluffy cushions, those acts are merely beguiling ways to disguise the dark, demented truth of the inner workings of warring women at their height of combativeness.

So beware you small minded road bullies and caressing car adulators out there. We care not for what the car looks like nor for which is ours but for what it is capable of. Period.

Image taken from this interesting related article.

THE INTREPID GENE SKIPS A GENERATION

What do you do when your 82 year old mother decides to go on a 10 day tour of the middle east? A region wrecked in political turmoil. And freezing as well - at this time of year.

I spent a week before her departure bringing her to the mall in search for warm winter clothing......thermal underwear, a  woollen sweater, hat, scarf, woollen socks and a pair of Hush Puppies. I lent her my favourite winter coat. It draped over her quite nicely although she was much smaller than I am. I bought her a set of compression bags to get all the air out of thick clothing so she had more room for other things in her suitcase. As I rolled the bag and all the air hissed out I wondered aloud if she would be able to do it herself when she repacked her suitcases at the intermittent stops along her tour. She answered in the emphatic affirmative. I could smell her tenacity. I'm forever disturbed.

This trip had been quite unexpected and sudden. A friend had pulled her aside at the market one morning and excited her into going to Jordan, Syria and Palestine. My children were very amused when I told them. And they had asked why on earth and at this time? Little do they know. Never plant ideas into my mother's head.

She walks with slow, steady and resolute steps and often I 'll have to slow down so that I could walk abreast with her. I feel not quite normal because I'm an extremely fast walker and to slow down seems like an awful waste of time. But she seems to have settled herself at that speed. Perhaps as a result of age. Or height. Or character. Small. But sure. So sure that freezing point doesn't make her bat an eyelid. That the most unstable political conditions is brushed off with a wave of a hand. That she is eighty and without a travel or health insurance makes no difference in her choice of activities.

My brother had lent her a hard type suitcase and a hard type hand luggage. Both in bright flashy red. The big one had one quirky lock where you had to smack the corner of the case before the lock caught. I told her to sit on it if she had a problem instead of smacking it with her 82 year old hand. Though not in so many words.

Finally H disconnected the battery of her car and I locked the doors of her apartment and doubled checked them. But five minutes into the drive we had to go back for her jacket. She had left it on the kitchen stool. Should I worry? Then we drove the Hyundai the forty-five minutes to the airport, through jams, night lights, tolls and some supplications that I saw her making.

But finally she went off with Happy, Excited and Can't Wait printed right across her forehead. They were flashing like neon signs. I went around telling whomever I knew in the group to take good care of her, her bags and her. While she beamed ecstatically. Quite unperturbed.

As we walked through the bubble doors of KLIA I felt a wave of hot, humid air sweep in. And I remembered that my daughter will be going to India on a ten day trip a few days from today. She too will be going with a group of friends. Backpacking. I saw her counting a stack of rupee notes the other day. A few days before she resumed mugging for her  Finance paper for her MBA. I looked at the stack, fingered it and asked if she will be bringing anti-diarrhea pills as well. She answered with a big roll of dark, adamant eyes. I took that as a yes. I think. Hope. I could smell her tenacity.

Two distinct generations on either side of me going seperate ways, half way across the world, to almost extreme locations. I am forever throwing my hands up at these two women. I wonder if I should shake my head in disbelief or burn a hole in my heart with envy. Because here I am debating if I should get off the couch and get on with my nightmare journey: The Gym. 

The intrepid gene has skipped a generation. Me. Wimp.

FATALISM AND THE HOMEMAKER

                                                                                      

The Greeks were great believers in fatalism. Fatalism is a belief that whatever happens is predestined. Are we homemakers predestined to suffer holidays or to enjoy them?

In preparation for a trip to the United States for her daughter-in-law’s sixth delivery and for a month’s stay there Jamilah Din had envisioned a holiday of sorts in a cooler clime. Then reality struck and she was brought down to earth with an acute thud.

She remembered the story of The Girl and the Ring Cake. A story that has always lived with her forever, it seems. Nobody else has ever heard of it so perhaps it was a sign of an innate destiny of hers that she should have, inborn, such a ridiculous story that it was to haunt her in her later years.

A mother and a young girl lived together in a forest far, far away from civilization.  The girl’s grandmother died one day and the mother had to leave her daughter to see to the funeral arrangements of the deceased. The trip would take about a week. The mother worried and was flustered over how her daughter would survive the week on her own. The poor mother sat down and rummaged her head for a solution. There was only one night left before her departure and she suddenly got an idea. The mother decided to bake a ring cake. A large one. And so she did. When she had done that and the ring cake was ready, the mother happily packed her bags in the morning and before she left she put the ring cake around her daughter’s neck and said,

“Now daughter dear, while I am away all you need to do is to eat this ring cake that I have put around your neck. This will keep you from starving until I get home.”

The mother left and returned a week later. Her daughter had died. She looked and saw that the ring cake had only been half eaten. Her daughter had been too lazy (or stupid), or both, to turn the ring cake around so that she could eat the other half. She starved to death.

Now, Jamilah Din did not bake any ring cakes. Ring cakes would not have lasted a month.

So what she did was to cook, in batches over a period of a month, two hundred and fifty meals, packed them individually, labeled and froze them in re-heatable plastic containers and zipper bags. She listed instructions on how to use the electric steamer, the oven, the stove and ample warnings of the dangers lurking in the kitchen. She made a food chart or a periodic table of sorts of all the meals that her five children would have for a month. Then she printed them out and plastered them all over the walls in the dining room and the kitchen.

An example follows.

	CHICKEN       CHOP	RENDANG	CHICKEN     CURRY
Childl 1	6  ******	5  *****	6  ******
Child 2	6  ******	5  *****	5  *****
Child 3	9  *********	5  *****	6  ******
Child 4	9  *********	5  *****	6  ******
Child 5	9  *********	5  *****	6  ******

	BEEF       STEW	YUMMY   CHICKEN	BEEF       KICAP
Child 1	6  ******	7  *******	5  *****
Child 2	5  *****	5  *****	5  *****
Child 3	6  ******	7  *******	5  *****
Child 4	6  ******	7  *******	5  *****
Child 5	7  *******	8  ********	6  ******

Jamilah Din then instructed them to strike off the relevant asterisk each time they took a pack of food from the freezer. The chart above ensures that everyone has their fair share of their favourite meals without crossing over into another’s domain. This prevents strife and civil war. And probably mud slinging and hair pulling as well.

She then took an excruciating seventeen hour trip to the US, sprinted five hundred meters in her high heels to gate fifty in New York, took the connecting flight to Baltimore, arrived, and in two days her daughter-in-law delivered her sixth child. She cooked and cleaned and wrestled with her five older grandkids for a month, gaped at their crazy antics, answered scrutinizing questions and cooked for a party of ten a day before her flight back. 

She then took another excruciating seventeen hour trip back to Malaysia, sprinted the same five hundred meters, in her high heels, to gate fifty in New York, took the connecting flight to Tokyo and then to Kuala Lumpur and arrived to a home cocooned in dust and to relieved five alive children. They wiped their brows and sighed, "Now,we no longer need to strike off asterisks.".

Jamilah Din's holiday was anything but.

PS: This is a true story. The names have been changed to protect the guilty. The protagonist now resides in Kuala Lumpur and is living the life of a recluse.


The food chart/periodic table is an actual one that worked well. Everyone had food that they liked. And each person could keep track of how much of their ration had been used up without having to check into the freezer (provided they marked off the appropriate asterisk diligently each time). Even if they skipped meals no one else would be able to eat into the other' share by mistake.

The numbers indicate the number of packs there are for the particular type of food followed by the same number of asterisks. For example if there are 5 packs of chicken curry the number 5 followed by 5 asterisks will indicate that. Each time a person takes a pack of chicken curry he or she will cross out 1 asterisk leaving 4 asterisks which in turn indicates 4 remaining packs of chicken curry left in the freezer. And so on and so forth