It consisted of 6 pieces of spicy nuggets, 10 onion rings and a drink.
How that relates to the Kung Fu-ing Panda, I have no idea.
Maybe pandas love chicken nuggets. And everybody knows Chinese people love spicy food.
And maybe the onion rings will produce spontaneous and explosive releases of gastrointestinal gases that will aid flying leaps and leaping kicks.
Either way, I ate the meal and still got no kung fu.
I’m currently nursing a bar of Vivani’s Fine Dark Orange, a 70% melt-in-your-mouth concoction that’s made of just four ingredients, none of which are unpronounceable quadruple-syllable words.
It helps that no one else in the household fancies dark chocolate, and The Brother, my most frequent chocolate-purloiner-adversary, is especially averse to chocolate-orange combinations.
I would love to get my hands on their Fine Dark Green Tea, Fine Dark Cassis, Praline Chocolate and Winter Chocolate. Even their made-for-kids Felix bars look yummy. Check out the rest of their stuff here.
The lovely Chocablog has also enlightened me to the existence of a certain Lindt bar, the Chocolat Provence Orange-Thyme Fantasy. Sounds delish. Someone get me one!
Another of Chocablog’s post appealed especially to me – the Lindt Excellence Mint Intense. Mmmm… bright mint, rich chocolate. None of that sweet white fondant. Can’t go wrong.
Ok… Time for chocolate break.
Next table, staff canteen of a local hospital. Not the most romantic lunch date venue.
Mid 20’s, shirt and tie yuppie-wannabe sort.
Late teens/early 20’s, intern/rookie sort.
Man and Young Lady are seated diagonally across from each other at a 4-seater table. They are done with the meals, as evidenced by their empty but uncleared dishes. A throng of lunch-crowders are waiting for them to vacate their table but Man appears oblivious though he sits facing them.
It is not apparent if Man and Young Lady were acquainted before the meal or if they just happened to share a table. They are deep in conversation.
Or rather, he is deep in conversation.
Man is going on and on about football – the difficulties of certain crosses, set pieces, tactics and positions and all that stuff. Young Lady is nodding politely, adding a “hmm…” or a “yeah…” along the way so that it isn’t too obvious that she already knows all that or is bored out of her mind. It does not seem too far of a stretch to imagine that she is cooking up a way to end the conversation.
I gather that Man had learned that Young Lady is interested in football and thought that her, being a young lady, probably did not know more than the very basics of football and thus it was his manly duty to educate her.
At one point of the conversation:
Man: My favourite team is Liverpool. My favourite striker is Steven Gerrard. My favourite defender is …
I did not get to hear who his favourite defender was because I was laughing my guts out. Of course, I couldn’t laugh out loud. This was a no-frills canteen with tables placed two inches apart. I would have been laughing pretty much into his face. And that would be rude.
I did not have to hear the rest of the conversation. Those two lines right there captured the essence of it. It was not the content of those lines, but the spirit in which they were delivered.
If the conversation is summarized in print…
Man, 25, seeking Young Lady for friendship/relationship.
I am a good-looking and adventurous high-flyer. I love football and I love talking about football. My favourite way to spend the weekend is to snuggle up on the couch with a hottie and watch EPL matches. My favourite team is Liverpool. My favourite striker is Steven Gerrard. My favourite football snack is Twisties. If you are a gorgeous young lady who wants to have a good time and learn all about football, call me at 9-LIVE-FAN. Remember, with me, YOU’LL NEVER WALK ALONE.
*guts fall out*
Disclaimer: I mean no disrespect to Liverpool F.C., its staff, management and players, Mr. Steven Gerrard or any other Kopite.
You know, it’s that thing that causes you to nurse a cup of tea or bar of chocolate or bowl of ice-cream and wonder, “What the hey am I doing with my life?”
Then you turn on the telly and some 15 year-old is winning an Olympics gold medal and someother 12 year-old made it to Juilliard and you wonder, “What the hey have I done with my life?”
Then you think, “Maybe I need a new job”. Then you pick up the classifieds and it’s all dullness and receptionist and peanuts.
Then you think, “Maybe I should get married”. Then you look over to your partner and he’s got his nose glued to the monitor, well into his 8th consecutive hour of some online RPG. And he burps. And you think, “Maybe not”.
Then you think, “Maybe I should go further my studies”. Then you do a quick search for some college in some nice place, make a note of their tuition fees, compare it with your bank balance, and conclude, “Maybe not again”.
Then you tear your hair out, go brew yourself another cup of tea, get more ice-cream, put on some make-up to try and feel better, start a sombre life-changing talk with your partner which descends into a “But how would I know what you want” or “But what’s wrong with your life now?” clueless argument and he concludes, “Darling, I think you’re going to have your period” and you scream “You insensitive booger-for-brains no-good pasty-white *beep*”.
Then you eat more ice-cream, topped with more chocolate and have another cup of tea.
Then you dump booger-brain, enroll for that college you can’t afford, pack your bags and get on that flight.
And your period is nowhere near.
That’s how you know you got the mid-20’s crisis.
I think I have, but let me say it again.
My ambition is to live in a beach hut and sell cold drinks to the occasional ang moh tourist.
If I’m feeling uber-ambitious on any particular day, I might whip out some good food and try to hawk it to some ravenous fresh-from-the-sea teenager.
If I’m feeling uber-uber-ambitious, I might produce some craft work and sell them to middle-aged first-time-in-Asia “everything-is-so-exotic” lady tourists.
Somewhere, somewhere. A beach hut awaits me.
It’s almost always hectic and noisy, most times over not-very-apparently important things. And it seems that things are only quiet when everyone’s mouths are stuffed with bananas.
Sometimes, I can’t even go to the toilet in peace without a colony-mate banging on the door, announcing some trivial or not-so-trivial matters in a treehouse-burning-down bananas-going-extinct manner.
Sometimes, I can’t go five minutes without having to mediate an altercation.
Sometimes, I can’t walk in a straight line without stepping on some squeaky toy, article of clothing, discarded shoe or leftovers.
And in the background, and even worse, foreground, there’s always noise noise noise. Even when monkeys are quiet, there’s the traffic.
And the phone, my word, the phone. Does it have to be quite so insistent?
And those on the bus who play that awful music on their cell phones. To borrow Satchel’s words, British pound asterisk ampersand.
The inventor of earphones has turned over in his grave a million times. The neglect of his wonderful invention. Cast away like yesterday’s banana peel. Can’t-live-without for decades and now suddenly made obsolete by gross inconsideration and self-centeredness.
Can I just have some quiet, please?
I mean no disparagement and have the most respect for monkeys and I mean no disrespect to the people I have described here (except for the cell phone music players), just that the mother-island’s iconic zoo’s Monkey Island seems a parallel to my life at this time.
One likes the smell of another whose immune system is significantly different from one’s own, which ensures that their offspring inherit the best possible immune system.
Men pick pretty girls with curves because pretty means symmetric and symmetric means good genes, curves means hips and breasts of substantial size which means plenty of space to incubate a baby and plenty of milk.
Women pick muscular men with body hair because muscles means he can drag home a moose for dinner and body hair keeps her warm at night. Ha!
Despite our modern trappings and recurring fads favouring androgynous women or adolescent-y men, we are not very different from our caveman/hunter-gatherer/nomadic forefathers.
Still very intact is our instinct to react to violence with violence, pain with pain. To give ourselves credit, we have learned to curb our impulses. Some have chosen to rely on the law of the land to hand out appropriate penalties. Some look to higher entities or simply karma to dish out well-deserved comeuppance. Some truly turn the other cheek.
In Memoirs of a Geisha, the protagonist describes her first experience in getting her hair done Geisha-style, the hairdresser dragging hot wax over her hair. She bears with the pain and contemplates that humans have truly been cultivated. If the hairdresser had attempted to do the same to a cat, the cat would surely have made good use of those sharp claws.
Isn’t it instinctive to hit out at someone who hits you? Isn’t it instinctive to be angry when someone assaults you?
Nothing more to say.
So many activities and stuff but nothing much that makes that much of a difference. I guess life is an accumulation of nothing-muchness that turns out to be somethingness at the end of it all.
Mochi is talking and talking and talking. Bilingual in English and Gibberish.
Picks up the phone and goes, “Herro herro?! *gibberish gibberish gibberish* Ok, bye bye!”
Scatters her toys all over the room and exclaims, “OH! See how messy!”
Goes to the door, “Ding Dong! Herro Dar-ing!”
Cookie Monster impression, “Nyum nyum nyum nyum nyum…” Food all over her feet and the floor.
Goes to fridge, “Open up! Open up!”
Points to desired goodie, “Want this want this!”
Renewed resolution to not complain and be positive.
Have yet to clean out my room despite year-end break and Lunar New Year break. There’s always something better to do.
My vision is now pretty much 6/6. Yeay to technology.
I want every day to be Sunday.
I need clothes and accessories that are not orange, green or red. I almost always look like a citrus fruit. In varying stages of ripeness.
Black is so dull.
Anchovies and garlic marinated roast chicken seems a delicious idea.
Calling occupants of interplanetary craft.
I talk too much. Perhaps a vow of silence is in order.
I’ve lost the hollows in my collarbones. I say it’s an excess of lipid cells. Mother thinks it’s an excess of years of age.
Ankle still giving me grief. Seriously, the doc was not joking.
Like I said before, nothing much and something much