Last night I had the sudden urge to go for a spin. With the window down and the wind rushing in my ears, I drove around the estate, not sure what I was looking for.

Back at home, with the TV off, the house felt strange and forlorn. I fell asleep with the TV on. The last time I did that, I was alone in a hotel room in New York.

Being married is a strange thing, no? When you're together, you just wish that you'd give each other a break. When you're really alone, nothing feels right without someone in the next room, even when he's just snoring.

I miss having you around.

Lazy lazy lazy.

The husband fought a losing battle and has succumbed to the z monster since 4pm. And I've been putting off housework the whole day. Need to get my fat a** of the couch.

On the homefront, I've been feeling a bit claustrophobic the whole day. You see, yesterday I went with the sister to view an apartment for her big family (Husband and wife, 3 kids, a domestic helper + endless freeloading visitors like yours truly). 2000 square feet. My tiny flat in the northeastern part of Singapore has never looked the same since.

All has not been rosy on the work front. Expectations have been too high, I suppose.



Listening to: MayDay
Reading: The Amber Spyglass by Philip Pullman (again)

2 heart attacks from the mailbox (the dead tree one) on the same day:

1) A letter to the husband saying that he (or the driver of his car) exceeded the speed limit at Upp Thomson Road one fine April morning. He was overseas, so that leaves me as the usual suspect.

2)









'Nuff said.

Qn.: What makes a good wife?

A. Keeping the house spick and span
B. Knowing how to whip up award-winning masterpieces in the kitchen, at a moment's notice
C. Adept at removing all manners of stains on any shirt, no matter how old
D. All of the above, and having a stable income

I used to think that being a good wife surely means all of the above, and more. Like, making your husband's favourite cheng tng during 'a bit of spare time' on weekends. A year into the marriage, I'm beginning to suspect that Option D isn't even humanly possible.

There used to be a whole generation of women who just knew how to cook, clean and look after the brood. These women were our mothers. They were always there to pick up after you, to make sure you had your breakfast before you went to school, to have dinner waiting no matter what time you got home. But they did not have their own careers. At least most of them didn't.

Most women (and some men) in our generation grew up on the notion that a good wife had to do all that. So we modern women juggle work and housework, steadily and silently ploughing at it like all good wives do. I actually feel bad when I see dust collecting on the window sill. I wrinkle my nose in mock disgust when the husband suggests getting part-time help to clean up the house.

Slowly, I'm coming round to the fact that something's gotta give. As much as the husband needs his own quiet time on weekends to recharge, so do I. So I'm telling myself to let go as much as I can. I'm not Superwoman, so I remind myself to lower my expectations when it comes to the definition of a good wife. And that when the husband mops the floor, just for a while ignore the fact that he didn't mop under the bed.

Now excuse me while I go scrub the toilet.