No drugs of any kind.
No firearms or weapons of any kind.
No bodyguards are permitted.
You might think that these are the entry rules to the PEOC or the Grand Mosque in Abu Dhabi, but they are not. These are the entry rules to a restaurant in KL. Fancy, eh?
I got an invitation for a night out from a mommy friend and she reminded me (again) that this place we are going to has a strict dress code policy just in case I am minded to turn up as I normally do in my comfy t-shirt, cargo pants and Hush Puppies. I did manage to find a dress that would fit me for this occasion and I must agree that black is a most wonderful colour indeed because you can be squeezing into a dress like a bak chang, which in Hokkien lingo means a tightly wrapped glutinous rice dumpling, but black makes it look painless, unless of course if you have to lift up your hands above your head but thankfully in a place that did not permit firearms or weapons there is no danger of that happening.
I arrived fashionably late after discharging mommy duty ferrying the kids to classes, and having to brave the storm and wade through some flood waters. Upon arrival, I was directed by five different staff at different points to the lift that took me to the fifty seventh floor of the tallest building in the city and as soon as I exit, there were three more staff at hand to usher me to our table. I could see that this place is going to cost some because before I even got to the menu there were already eight headcounts on the payroll. In fact when I finally took a peek at the menu I can see that the prices would likely induce a myocardial infarction on most honest hardworking middle class folks not otherwise on corporate entertainment expense account.
Having said that, from what I observe, the newspapers and everyone at large must be wrong about the economy because notwithstanding everyone moaning about the price of chickens and eggs, there are a lot of folks with pockets full of dough because this place is chock-full of diners sipping wine and eating fine food, and a place that has eight pairs of legs padding about in tailored suits providing ushering services is not cheap by any means.
So as not to look entirely like a cheapskate though I would normally not care to deny this fact, I skipped the appetizer and chose the baby lobster pasta, which costs almost as much as an arm and two legs. Okay, maybe I exaggerate. But it is the most expensive thing I’ve eaten this year. As soon as the food is presented before me I am relieved to see a brimming plate but the server quickly whisks off the lobster shell which is apparently empty and leaves what looks like half a dozen strands of pasta on my plate so I quickly load up on the free bread and butter to obviate the need for more sustenance from our neighborhood mamak stall, especially after already busting my entertainment budget for the entire year. The food is alright, though a little steep, but you pay for the view and the service. My mommy-cohort was feeling cold somewhat and a waiter appears out of nowhere, whips out a shawl and drapes it around her like a trained valet, though I wonder how long they were observing her before the shawl draping protocol kicked in. I think it might have been less creepy if he had actually asked if she would like to have a shawl…
Baby lobster pasta sans lobster shell
View of KL from 57th floor, KLCC
The initial agreement with Hubs was to get home around nine-ish, but mommies when let loose for a night without husbands and kids and pets and other distractions have so much to talk about that we did not finish until way past eleven. We talked about childbirth and choice of painkillers, we talked about kindergartens. We talked about tuition and various enrichment classes. We talked about the great teachers and the mean ones, and the school. We talked about the other classmates, and our kids’ challenges. We talked about our childhood. We talked about the food we cook or mean to cook and snacks. We talked about boarding school and university and discipline. We talked about crime and security. We talked about our kids, their personalities, the games they play and the tv shows they watch. We talked about their dreams.
As you can see mommies have a lot to talk about.
We talked about nothing that really mattered and everything that does. I was really apprehensive at first, going on a night out with mommies I’ve only known hardly a year. I would normally rather spend my time with my kids and Hubs. But as it turned out, it was very therapeutic. I highly recommend it, though not necessarily at a fancy place where you have to install your bodyguards in a waiting room and check in your guns, if any.
Mommies face a lot of challenges. We seem to spend a lot of time doing things that suck up all our time which seem all too trivial to mention. But it matters because someone has to make sure the home machinery is well oiled and running. Picking up the kids, having food on the table, books in their bags, homework done, snacks in their boxes, water in their bottles, writing and art implements in their cases, money in their pockets, plaster for the cuts, doctors and medicine for their sniffles and fever, the right amount of chicken, meat, fish, fruits, and vegetables in the fridge, toilet paper and soap in the bathroom, toothbrushes, toothpastes, dental appointments, batteries for every electronic item in the house and knowledge of where any given toy, book or thing is located at any given time. All too insignificant but yet necessary. And then we gotta make sure they turn out alright as fine upstanding citizens who hopefully won’t abandon their parents in squalid old folks homes. As someone once said, no one knows what we do until we stop doing them. Of course I’m not discounting the role of daddies. But Hubs doesn’t need to talk about all that because he watches Formula 1 and plays squash for therapy. And when the going gets tough, he can always skip off to work and by the time he gets home, all the stars and planets would have been moved and realigned and once again spinning in their rightful places and orbits.
Mommies need solidarity. We need conversation. We need to unload so that we don’t implode.
Coffee, anyone?
momsterthoughts 