Archive for the 'life and such' Category

Mid-20’s Crisis

April 15, 2008

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.


Have I Ever Mentioned What My Ultimate Ambition Is?

April 14, 2008

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.

Sometimes, I Feel Like My World Is A Monkey House

March 27, 2008

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.

Satchel’s Words

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.

Every Instinct Within a Human is Honed for Survival

February 23, 2008

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.

Nothing Much and Something Much

February 17, 2008

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

Took a Tumble Down the Stairs

February 1, 2008

I limped in and surrendered my foot to the doctor. He took a look at it, felt around gently and chuckled, “Don’t you want to celebrate the new year?”

“He must be joking,” I thought. “The new year is a good 10 days away. Surely, it’s just a little sprain.”

The doc then proceeded to extract the most pain possible with a series of bone cracking maneuvers. Good thing it lasted all of 2 minutes. I trooped out, collected my medicated bandages, made an appointment for a follow-up in 2 days’ time and went home confident that I would be able to work the next day.

Next morning, alarm goes off, feet touches the ground – Ouch!

Ok… Maybe it’ll be better after a warm shower.

After shower, step out – Ouch ouch!

Ok… No going to work today. In fact, it turned out, no going to work for 2 days.

Back to doc’s for follow-up. I begin to get the feeling that this is more than just a leeetle sprain.

Surrendered my foot to the doc again.

“You weren’t joking the last time?” I asked. “When you asked if I didn’t want to celebrate the new year? I thought it was just a small matter.”

“Doctors never joke,” he replied with a twinkle in his eye.

After another 2 minutes of pain, he announced, “Come back again in 2 days’ time. And that was not a joke.” *twinkle*

Alright. I get it. It’s more than a little sprain.

My Guilty Pleasure

January 15, 2008

Go Fug Yourself is where I go to gawk over the stuff that celebrities and wannabe-celebrities wear. Actually, I don’t really care if they’re celebrities at all. It just happens so that if one is not famous, no one takes notice of what one wears. Well, don’t take notice enough to want to make a website and put up photos, at least.

Often enough, I see people wearing outfits that are so wrong that my first thought is “Yikes!”, followed by “I so need to blog about this”.

But I restrain myself because, well, that’s not nice. After all, I have plenty of outfits and accessories that others will never be caught dead in. I just prefer to think of them as quirky.

But today! What a day. Today, I walked past a lady whose outfit arrested my vision.

It wasn’t that she wasn’t stylish, nor that she was absurdly outlandish. There was nothing very wrong with the cut, nor the style, nor the fit. The thing that was all wrong was the colour.  Or rather, the colours.

This lady was wearing a black top with a brown skirt, topped with a blue jacket and red shoes.

The brown was a pure chocolate-brown. The blue was well, blue. The red, fire engine.

I think she broke about a few thousand rules. Let’s name some:

1. Never wear black with brown.

2. Never wear brown with blue.

3. Never wear black with brown with blue.

4. Never wear black with brown with blue with red.

I’m not a stickler for fad or fashion. Not the kind who subscribes to lesser rules such as no white after Labour Day, wear darks in winter, wear lights in spring and wear bikinis everywhere in summer. In fact, I pooh-pooh those rules.

But, there are rules that one must abide by. Must! The above being some. The others being never wear navy-blue with black, pink with red, skimpy tops with skimpy bottoms, floral on floral, checks on checks, and such common-sense stuff.

Then, just as I thought I had about recovered from the black-brown-blue-red incident, I walked by yet another arresting sight. This time, it was a lady wearing a poofy blouse over stirrups tights and flip flops.

Stirrup tights. The bane of the ’80s. I thought everyone had been adequately warned by now.

I have to say that I do not fancy the footless tights fad. Footless tights are for modern dance classes with lots of floor work. Cropped footless tights are for modern dance classes on a hot day with *hopefully* not too much floor work. Footless tights with stirrups are for aunties doing aerobics.

I must confess. I once bought a pair of black tights with stirrups. They were cheap, very cheap. The first thing I did when I got home was to grab a pair of scissors and cut off the stirrups. Tada! Tights for modern dance class.

Now that’s not to say that I abhor tights. On the contrary, I adore them. In all colours of the rainbow. I am ever on the conquest to procure more colours. I wear them with skirts, dresses, and even capri pants if the outfit needs a dash of colour. But never with shorts. And they must be footed.

This is correct.

Free People Polka Dot Dress

This is not correct.

Footless Tights

Outside of the dance studio and aerobics studio, tights must always be footed. Always.

But then again, those are just my rules. Not everyone needs to live by them. Besides, everybody knows how fashionable I am.

“It’s Raining”

January 8, 2008

I texted B so that he can make an alternative arrangement to walking home from the train station.

B *mock disappointment* : Oh no. Cannot go running.

Me *flat affect* : Oh no. What a big disaster. You poor thing.

B: Hehe. Yeah.

Me:  Just for that, you’re getting an honourary mention on the blog.

So here it is.

This post is specially dedicated to “Theodore”.

I Just Can’t Get Down To Work

January 8, 2008

I’m so going to pay for this when I’m writing the essay at breakneck speed on the day of the deadline. But, oh well.


Was searching for old school mates on FB and felt the need to put up a half-decent profile photo so they know it’s me. I’m sure they wouldn’t have a clue from my previous South Park character.

And found this photo while I was at it.

Getting Ready To Leave

This was me just before I left SD. Wearing TBF’s clothes cos all mine were either packed up, given away or waiting to be worn to the airport.

Look at all the bags I attempted to bring in with me. There was one gigantic black suitcase, half-hidden behind me, one almost as gigantic polka-dotted trolley, one 75 litre-capacity backpack, one laptop haversack, one green woven basket that would serve as my “purse”. At least that’s what I tried to sell it as.

I had checked in the two gigantic suitcases and was going through security check, trying to convince them that I really only have 2 carry-ons cos the Mogu bear wearing underpants is a neck pillow and the green basket is my purse, or in mother-island lingo, handbag. The security officer chuckled and said, “No can do, Ma’am.”

Ok, so I did a bit of a re-shuffle.

Strapped the Mogu to the haversack. Emptied the four precious boxes of dark chocolate covered soy nuts, previous occupants of the green basket, into a large Zip Lock bag that had previously held clean clothes, then stuffed them all, loose clothing and packed chocolates, into the backpack. Strapped green jacket (seen hanging in the wardrobe in photo above) to the other side of the haversack. Stuffed wallet, travel documents, book, pyjama pants, pills, mints etc etc into haversack. Strapped emptied green basket to the front of the backpack.

Two ladies, natives of the large island that is neighbour to our mother-island, seated across from this mayhem, watched with interest and commented to each other that I was crazy, not expecting that I, of a different skin colour, understood enough of their language to know that. I did not have time to discuss the state of my mental capacity. Not that my grasp of their language sufficed to support a psychological assessment anyway.

Ok, try again. I presented myself to the security officer. Visualise this because there was no time to take a photo.

There’s me, 5 foot 3 inches. On my back, backpack stuffed to the max and green basket hanging from it. On my front, laptop haversack, also stuffed to the max, with a Mogu bear strapped to the right and a jacket and Nalgene to the left.

I was covered from neck to hips with baggage, front and back and sides. If someone had decided to let loose with an AK-47, all I had to do was hunker down and tuck my head in and I’d be none the worse for wear. The only thing that kept me standing was the fact that both back and front loads were about equal weight.

The security officer gave a hearty laugh and said, to my surprise, “That’ll do”. And waved me through! I pulled it off! And didn’t have to pay a single cent in excess baggage.

Power to me!!

Post Lasik Random Thoughts

January 2, 2008

So many days with nothing to do but close my eyes and rest.

Some things I did to pass my time.

Listened to CNN on TV. RIP Ms. Bhutto.

Day dreamed.

Supervised the roasting of a 13.5 pound turkey. Not too large by other nation’s standards, but pretty darn mighty over here.

Attempted to make a tzitzit in the dark. Got as far as the third knot for Yod, which is about the equivalent of getting as far as C out of the entire alphabet, when I got myself into a huge knot. Realised that tugging blindly at a knot is about as futile as giving a chimp a typewriter and expecting Shakespeare.

Speaking of chimps, I did manage to catch a few reruns of that Man vs Beast TV show. It’s a programme that doesn’t require one to have vision to view it. Had wanted to write about it previously but just couldn’t find the words. What does one say about a show wherein men pit themselves against animals in events such as tree climbing and running? Is it not a lose-lose situation for man? If one loses, well, ok, so the animal is a faster runner. We kindof knew that already. If he wins, then what does he say? “Yeay!! I beat a beast! I am better than animal!!” Hmm…

I haven’t seen that many episodes, but it seems, every time an animal loses, it’s because he isn’t aware he’s in a competition, and a nationally-televised one at that. Case in point, man challenges Orang Utan to see who can hang on a hang up bar longer. Man is straining to stay on. Orang Utan swings about, makes faces, pees, then (it seems) strolls off. Man comes down, triumphant, for his winner interview. He says, in gist, “My arms were aching but I held on. It really was a challenge and the opponent was strong, but I held on for the victory!” Yeay for the man!

Meanwhile, Orang Utan thinks, “May I remove these ridiculous black underpants already? They’re wedgy and the colour doesn’t go with my fur.”

On the other hand, the tree-climbing chimp, who also lost because it appears he was enjoying a leisurely climb, was issued a pair of knee-length black with yellow trim gym shorts that were just darling on him. At least he got to look good.

I digress. Back to what I did to pass my time.

Applied eye-drops.

Had lots of random thoughts that I’d thought I’d share here but have long forgotten by now. Can’t be that important then.

Had lots of vivid dreams in my sleep. Perhaps to make up for the lack of visual input during the day.

New Year’s Eve was spent in my dark room listening to the local radio station’s disco hits countdown. Disco rocks. I could almost forgive the DJ for choosing that horrid song as the last one before the countdown. I sang Jive Talking to myself while B sang that horrid song into my ear. There was a little medley tribute to Sir Cliff Richard and I was demonstrating Una Stubbs’ particularly energetic dance when B reminded me that I’m prohibited from excessive head-shaking movements.

Yesterday, I decided to be brave and make a trip to Mustie’s. We were in serious Nacho Libre withdrawal and needed to get our hands on the DVD. I equipped myself with two pairs of shades – superduper-powered water sports serious athlete and oversized white-framed I Love Lucy – and a pocketful of individual serving-sized eye-drops. Turned out that Mustie’s was a bad idea after all. My eyes watered and hurt the whole time we were in there and they had run out of the Nachooooooooooo DVD.

But then, we adjourned to Sak’s (not the Fifth Avenue one) across the street for a late lunch, and boy!, was it a good lunch. The North Indian Vegetarian Meal was huge pile of fluffy savoury pilaf rice surrounded by seven side dishes and one mysterious sweet tasting liquid thing. Maybe dessert?

B just messaged to inform me that there’s a newly-opened apple strudel cafe at his workplace. Two weeks ago, he announced the opening of a gelato stand and a something-else delicious I can’t remember. I worry for his waistline. He resembles Theodore and Nacho too much. But I have to admit, I’d take pudgy over skinny any day.



Ok, got to go get some shut-eye and have more random thoughts. Maybe I’d remember them this time.