it's a lazy saturday afternoon.
woke up this morning realizing that the ceiling light was still switched on, yesterday's papers were by my side all creased and abused, and i was half naked and very much unbathed in bed. i had fallen asleep reading the papers without first running to the shower. that's just gross. dragged myself to the bathroom and was even more horrified that my eyeliner and mascara were still very much in place. washed and scrubbed my face thoroughly and crawled back into bed.
and just laid there for 37 minutes, unflinching.
i am not sure what was going through my mind. i was just in a state of ... limbo. in between selves. i can't even remember if my eyes were open the entire time, or if i had closed and opened them.
it's a lazy saturday.
the nice Apple technician came by to fix my drive, finally, i can start burning CDs again and organizing the wedding playlist! but somehow, for some reason, i was uninspired. i felt so ... bored.
it's a lazy saturday.
i took out the Easy Off Bang spray and sprayed some into a jar cap. dipped a couple of cotton buds in and started polishing every single white key on the keyboard. again, i don't know what was going through my mind, if i was thinking at all. i am a blank.
it's a lazy saturday.
i can hear the dull dronings of an industrial drill in the distance. they're building. building, building so many expensive condominiums for yuppies yearning for a taste of a bourgeois lifestyle. and yet hundreds of units are still empty in singapore. and home units are still overpriced. those who do afford, choose homes a notch (or ten) above these buildings.
the leaves on trees around me are barely moving. it's 34 degrees Celsius. i feel drowsy but am resisting the urge to crawl back into bed and waste a good afternoon away.
i want to go to Borders, to collect my reserved copy of Blink by Malcolm Gladwell, but don't. i stay at home. the air is so thick with humidity, it takes effort to move.
i want to go out with friends to Cafe Iguana and treat myself to a couple of mango margaritas and beef chimichangas. but don't. the effort in walking to Clarke Quay feels Herculean.
i want to continue with the playlist but it's boring me.
it's a lazy saturday.
where this lethargy comes from, i haven't an idea.
but i have an idea. perhaps i should crawl back into bed and finish A Million Little Pieces, nap (an unusual thing for me), wake up and live the night like i should live the day. then finish off by starting The Historian.
boy, is it a lazy saturday.
and i just can't get my ass off this chair.
Saturday, March 25, 2006
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
damn, this noise!
the ONLY thing i will not miss about moving out of this apartment, is moving away from a building owned by a kind of (dialect) chinese group. don't shoot me, this is not a racist entry (my mom's chinese), but this is a complaint.
if you want to hold a concert or something of this kind, soundproof the walls or at least sound like you've tried to soundproof the walls. and DON'T FUCKING HOLD TWO EVENTS AT THE SAME TIME i.e. a freaking concert that sounds more like a terrible public karaoke competition (mind you, NOT singing competition, but KARAOKE competition) AND chinese opera.
people who cannot hold a tune and banging cymbals - not a good combination.
because it is so GODDAMN FUCKING LOUD and all their announcements reverberate off all building walls around, i can hear television sets blasting cos people are straining to hear their favourite programs and some fucking idiot thinks this is the perfect opportunity to drill FUCKING HOLES IN HIS WALL.
the combination is disastrous.
and i was excited about leaving work earlier than usual, retiring to bed with A Million Little Pieces, which is, quite frankly, beginning to annoy and bore me.
i understand community values, society binding etc, but PRACTISE PUBLIC CONSIDERATION WHILE YOU'RE AT IT because what good is it to strengthen a specific community's ties and not giving two fucking thoughts about all others who live around the building?
i dont see where the dots can be connected.
they better stop by 10pm or i'm running down with my spatula.
if you want to hold a concert or something of this kind, soundproof the walls or at least sound like you've tried to soundproof the walls. and DON'T FUCKING HOLD TWO EVENTS AT THE SAME TIME i.e. a freaking concert that sounds more like a terrible public karaoke competition (mind you, NOT singing competition, but KARAOKE competition) AND chinese opera.
people who cannot hold a tune and banging cymbals - not a good combination.
because it is so GODDAMN FUCKING LOUD and all their announcements reverberate off all building walls around, i can hear television sets blasting cos people are straining to hear their favourite programs and some fucking idiot thinks this is the perfect opportunity to drill FUCKING HOLES IN HIS WALL.
the combination is disastrous.
and i was excited about leaving work earlier than usual, retiring to bed with A Million Little Pieces, which is, quite frankly, beginning to annoy and bore me.
i understand community values, society binding etc, but PRACTISE PUBLIC CONSIDERATION WHILE YOU'RE AT IT because what good is it to strengthen a specific community's ties and not giving two fucking thoughts about all others who live around the building?
i dont see where the dots can be connected.
they better stop by 10pm or i'm running down with my spatula.
Saturday, March 18, 2006
the bright star.
slap the next person who tells you that eating street food in india and thailand will land you in an E.R. tell them it's not true. that it isn't true eating unclean, porous made-of-basic-component-carbon food which absorbs ozone-depleting particles swirling in smog above is dangerous. that you might, god forbid, catch some kind of pigeon-shit-borne disease from eating puffed flour balls in india or delicious banana pancakes in thailand.
for the home made pita of dali is far more potent.
i survive street food a hundred times, and i do not survive my own fuckin' omelette pita. what are you trying to tell me, god? that i should have gone to the gym instead?
food poisoning is caused by either virus or bacteria. most of the viruses that cause food poisoning are transmitted by food that has been contaminated by faecel matter. i don't recall shitting on my toasted pita (yes, i am THAT paranoid all the time), into my jar Heinz pickles, into my delicious bottle of creamy Waitrose reduced fat mayo but WAIT! perhaps that hen DID shit on that egg. muthafuckin hens.
but i've eaten say 2184 eggs since perhaps the first egg i was introduced to by my parents, so i can't blame these hens, they do lay one egg a day till they lay ten, then they start sitting and incubating like big fat hens that they are. i salute these guys, they are the original feminists.
so, what now, bacteria? i can blame either the salmonellae (sounds like a hot italian chick), campylobacter (the original sophie ellis baxtor), staphylococcus aureus (adios stefan of coccus), bacillus cereus (very serious bacillus), escherichia coli (an eschewing russian bacterium), shigella (shita-verya-mucha-likea-gella), clostridium botulinum (kinda like the stuff people put in their freaking foreheads so they can never, ever, ever frown ever, ever, ever again, god forbid that ever, ever, ever happens so one looks eternally shiny and happy) and vibrio cholerae (she who vibrates).
going by the 9.9 richter movements on my tummy that's causing ripples over the hamidian south, i'd say the vibrating chick's got me, but it's usually transmitted by undercooked or raw seafood, and last i remember, chickens and eggs, in that order, are not SEAfood. i suspect it's the pickles. i won't run out of my bedroom stark naked now to check the expiry date on PRESERVED pickles. it could also be the pita wraps.
for fuck's sake, it could be a million things.
oh wait, parasites and toxic agents can also cause food poisoning.
great.
i am being eaten alive from inside out AND melted from outside in. my future can't be any brighter than the darkness this morning at 0247am.
nothing happened that thursday night i made my toxic egg pita. the egg didn't explode, my tefal pan did not corrode - or perhaps that's the real power of non-stick teflon. i spent the rest of the night beating myself up that i didn't bring my gym bag to work - it is NEVER a good idea to go home to GRAB your gym bag, cos all you do is grab an egg from the fridge, break it into a beautiful omelette over a pan and grab a toxic parasitic viral bacterium at the same time.
and then you attempt to be heroic the next day and go to work DESPITE the new vocal chords your stomach's seem to have grown overnight, making awumbaweh-awumbaweh-in the jungle-the mighty jungle sounds.
and then putting your newfound awumbaweh tiger tail between your legs and admitting to all in your department that it is true, you're looking like fuckin' hell cos you've been poisoned by the al qaeggda.
my tummy rumbles in tropical unison.
dr i-need-more-meat-on-my-bones-you-look-like-you-can-spare-me-more-than-some tells me to eat only cooked food. i guess i SHOULD have toasted my fuckin pickles. hell, while i'm at it, might as well put it on a pitchfork with a couple of marshmallows over a QuickLite fire so they can discuss how to fuck me up when they get inside me later on. no dairy products, no pasta, no spaghetti, no sauces, no fried foods, no, no, no.
i get home, open my fridge and see a carton of lactose-happy milk, reduced sugar soyabean MILK (which i am not allowed to drink either), frozen beef bolognaise sauce i pre-made, those goddamn eggs from hell, those unholy pickles, Ben & Jerry's pistachio ice-cream and other strange stuff in Tupperwares that i am sure even my unhygienic let's-sneeze-12-times-into-dali's-direction-without-a-tissue would not recommend.
i want to soak peanut butter jelly sandwiches in milk and suckle.
BUTTER + MILK = DOUBLE COW SHOT = DOUBLE SHITA-LIKEA-GELLA.
i stand in disbelief at my 10 year old fridge and wonder if the fridge is a ticking toxin timebomb and has infiltrated all my foods.
i pop an anti-nausea pill and pass out on my bed while reading an article on China with a picture of an obese baby as an insert. i get up and whine to myself for 30 seconds that i miss ravi, i miss him doing anything for me, going out to get food for me when i'm sick, drooling, dramatically dying. then i promptly call the dad who's outstationed, and the mom who immediately launches a nagegade. i call ravi and ask him rhetorically, "am i a monster?"
i take a shower, wonder WHY i am still nauseous. i gather all my courage, energy (it's 1730 and i have not eaten since the dangerous egg pita at 2030 the night before) and walk to the supermarket 300m away. i would be breathless and panic stricken 5 minutes later by the lack of my trusty inhaler. and EXTREMELY annoyed that that hot italian guy who's been checking me out the past year would see me without eye make-up, WITH my glasses, dragging my feet unglamorously across the cobblestoned path. it is too late to redeem myself with poise once i realise that 'tis he who hath been watching from a distance who hath emerged from the silver carriage.
once i reach home breathless and throw the soft vitamin-fortified (whatever that really means) bread on the bartop, i wait for someone to hand me a gold medal. alas, all that comes is the rumbling, the overwhelming nausea and cyclical 240-seconds need to gag. i shuffle to the room, strip, wash my hands and greedily rip the bread-tie off the raisin bread loaf. i gobble the first slice. i walk out to the kitchen and spread butter all over 2 more raisin bread slices and swallow these too. i drink 300ml of water and sit on the bed. then it hits me. raisins are mini prunes and butter comes from a freaking whipped up cow. i wince and slap my deserving forehead.
i am a blistering idiot.
i can't be any stupider, can i?
but nooooooo, i can. and i prove myself wrong the very next day. today. i have, again, 3 slices of raisin bread with BUTTER FROM A COW and down it with 300ml of UNTREATED water. then i meet a friend and have a Carl's Jr burger complete with UNCOOKED lettuce, UNCOOKED pickles, UNCOOKED tomatoes, UNCOOKED onions, UNCOOKED mayonnaise. on top of this, i decid, HEY! let's go to the gym!
and now, at 0316, (i am cursing, wondering why www.blogger.com hasn't worked for the 30 minutes since i first tried, but this happens in a high-tech world all the time) i am wondering how i can hide my present state of high all bloatedness and acne massacre from the in-laws-to-be tomorrow.
i have, at my last mirror count, 17 Retin-A spots on my face. this has nothing to do with my natural hamidian tendency to exaggerate or go forward with mass coverage, i HAVE 17 Retin-A spots because i HAVE 17 spots/acne/blemish/evil ugly things on my face. ravi's gonna call me sobbing tomorrow night cos his mother insists he not marry the world's ugliest spotted awumbaweh beast.
oh, the future shines so bright.
for the home made pita of dali is far more potent.
i survive street food a hundred times, and i do not survive my own fuckin' omelette pita. what are you trying to tell me, god? that i should have gone to the gym instead?
food poisoning is caused by either virus or bacteria. most of the viruses that cause food poisoning are transmitted by food that has been contaminated by faecel matter. i don't recall shitting on my toasted pita (yes, i am THAT paranoid all the time), into my jar Heinz pickles, into my delicious bottle of creamy Waitrose reduced fat mayo but WAIT! perhaps that hen DID shit on that egg. muthafuckin hens.
but i've eaten say 2184 eggs since perhaps the first egg i was introduced to by my parents, so i can't blame these hens, they do lay one egg a day till they lay ten, then they start sitting and incubating like big fat hens that they are. i salute these guys, they are the original feminists.
so, what now, bacteria? i can blame either the salmonellae (sounds like a hot italian chick), campylobacter (the original sophie ellis baxtor), staphylococcus aureus (adios stefan of coccus), bacillus cereus (very serious bacillus), escherichia coli (an eschewing russian bacterium), shigella (shita-verya-mucha-likea-gella), clostridium botulinum (kinda like the stuff people put in their freaking foreheads so they can never, ever, ever frown ever, ever, ever again, god forbid that ever, ever, ever happens so one looks eternally shiny and happy) and vibrio cholerae (she who vibrates).
going by the 9.9 richter movements on my tummy that's causing ripples over the hamidian south, i'd say the vibrating chick's got me, but it's usually transmitted by undercooked or raw seafood, and last i remember, chickens and eggs, in that order, are not SEAfood. i suspect it's the pickles. i won't run out of my bedroom stark naked now to check the expiry date on PRESERVED pickles. it could also be the pita wraps.
for fuck's sake, it could be a million things.
oh wait, parasites and toxic agents can also cause food poisoning.
great.
i am being eaten alive from inside out AND melted from outside in. my future can't be any brighter than the darkness this morning at 0247am.
nothing happened that thursday night i made my toxic egg pita. the egg didn't explode, my tefal pan did not corrode - or perhaps that's the real power of non-stick teflon. i spent the rest of the night beating myself up that i didn't bring my gym bag to work - it is NEVER a good idea to go home to GRAB your gym bag, cos all you do is grab an egg from the fridge, break it into a beautiful omelette over a pan and grab a toxic parasitic viral bacterium at the same time.
and then you attempt to be heroic the next day and go to work DESPITE the new vocal chords your stomach's seem to have grown overnight, making awumbaweh-awumbaweh-in the jungle-the mighty jungle sounds.
and then putting your newfound awumbaweh tiger tail between your legs and admitting to all in your department that it is true, you're looking like fuckin' hell cos you've been poisoned by the al qaeggda.
my tummy rumbles in tropical unison.
dr i-need-more-meat-on-my-bones-you-look-like-you-can-spare-me-more-than-some tells me to eat only cooked food. i guess i SHOULD have toasted my fuckin pickles. hell, while i'm at it, might as well put it on a pitchfork with a couple of marshmallows over a QuickLite fire so they can discuss how to fuck me up when they get inside me later on. no dairy products, no pasta, no spaghetti, no sauces, no fried foods, no, no, no.
i get home, open my fridge and see a carton of lactose-happy milk, reduced sugar soyabean MILK (which i am not allowed to drink either), frozen beef bolognaise sauce i pre-made, those goddamn eggs from hell, those unholy pickles, Ben & Jerry's pistachio ice-cream and other strange stuff in Tupperwares that i am sure even my unhygienic let's-sneeze-12-times-into-dali's-direction-without-a-tissue would not recommend.
i want to soak peanut butter jelly sandwiches in milk and suckle.
BUTTER + MILK = DOUBLE COW SHOT = DOUBLE SHITA-LIKEA-GELLA.
i stand in disbelief at my 10 year old fridge and wonder if the fridge is a ticking toxin timebomb and has infiltrated all my foods.
i pop an anti-nausea pill and pass out on my bed while reading an article on China with a picture of an obese baby as an insert. i get up and whine to myself for 30 seconds that i miss ravi, i miss him doing anything for me, going out to get food for me when i'm sick, drooling, dramatically dying. then i promptly call the dad who's outstationed, and the mom who immediately launches a nagegade. i call ravi and ask him rhetorically, "am i a monster?"
i take a shower, wonder WHY i am still nauseous. i gather all my courage, energy (it's 1730 and i have not eaten since the dangerous egg pita at 2030 the night before) and walk to the supermarket 300m away. i would be breathless and panic stricken 5 minutes later by the lack of my trusty inhaler. and EXTREMELY annoyed that that hot italian guy who's been checking me out the past year would see me without eye make-up, WITH my glasses, dragging my feet unglamorously across the cobblestoned path. it is too late to redeem myself with poise once i realise that 'tis he who hath been watching from a distance who hath emerged from the silver carriage.
once i reach home breathless and throw the soft vitamin-fortified (whatever that really means) bread on the bartop, i wait for someone to hand me a gold medal. alas, all that comes is the rumbling, the overwhelming nausea and cyclical 240-seconds need to gag. i shuffle to the room, strip, wash my hands and greedily rip the bread-tie off the raisin bread loaf. i gobble the first slice. i walk out to the kitchen and spread butter all over 2 more raisin bread slices and swallow these too. i drink 300ml of water and sit on the bed. then it hits me. raisins are mini prunes and butter comes from a freaking whipped up cow. i wince and slap my deserving forehead.
i am a blistering idiot.
i can't be any stupider, can i?
but nooooooo, i can. and i prove myself wrong the very next day. today. i have, again, 3 slices of raisin bread with BUTTER FROM A COW and down it with 300ml of UNTREATED water. then i meet a friend and have a Carl's Jr burger complete with UNCOOKED lettuce, UNCOOKED pickles, UNCOOKED tomatoes, UNCOOKED onions, UNCOOKED mayonnaise. on top of this, i decid, HEY! let's go to the gym!
and now, at 0316, (i am cursing, wondering why www.blogger.com hasn't worked for the 30 minutes since i first tried, but this happens in a high-tech world all the time) i am wondering how i can hide my present state of high all bloatedness and acne massacre from the in-laws-to-be tomorrow.
i have, at my last mirror count, 17 Retin-A spots on my face. this has nothing to do with my natural hamidian tendency to exaggerate or go forward with mass coverage, i HAVE 17 Retin-A spots because i HAVE 17 spots/acne/blemish/evil ugly things on my face. ravi's gonna call me sobbing tomorrow night cos his mother insists he not marry the world's ugliest spotted awumbaweh beast.
oh, the future shines so bright.
133 days away
invitation cards
1/4 way through the design. alright, i'm lying. i'm in absolute denial. we've only finalised the size of the card and the font. and that's about it. but i'm blown away by the font. after looking at tens of (i couldn't bear to do hundreds) kitsch retro designs, vintage stuff, fonts, annoying websites, a chocolate wrapper finally did it. who'd have thought? i love it. ravi loves it. even our designer loves it. we love it. and this is about the only thing i am blown away by right now.
rings
called our ringmaker 3 weeks ago and never called back. i am a blistering idiot. i have not decided on my own ring design and have a nagging feeling i never might. i have not found a single ring design that blew me away. i want something simple, ravi wants a simple design. didn't think simplicity would be complicated.
dress
we have decided on our mod look. we're done with that, gown and tux are almost ready. ravi's set on his traditional outfit. and i'm undecided cos once again, nothing has blown me away.
why do i always need to be blown away?
photographer
ravi has left this one entirely up to me. see, i am no photographer, but i know what i like looking at. the one photographer that blew me away, blew me away with his pricing too - literally. i can't inflate our budget because i like only him. he who is twice more expensive than everyone else. i'm not willing to part with that much money, quite honestly. and so, i'm still looking. very desperately.
videography
undecided. do we really want a video? not like we'd watch it over and over again. that would be, sad.
shoes
holy fuckin' crap. who has shoes for elephant feet like mine? i want to be the groom, not the bride.
invitation list
why are people beginning to invite themselves to my wedding? why? WHY? why? they talk about what they'd wear to my wedding, and, er ... hello, who's inviting you again? we're only inviting 100 people, that's 100 people closest to our hearts and everyday lives. if you were close to us a year ago and no longer close to us today, please do not count yourself invited. there has to be a reason why we are no longer close. full stop. and stop asking me, "am i invited?" cos if you have to ask this, you usually are not.
but it'll all fall into place. right?
i'm in nerves and work's driving me nuts. not cos of the actual workload, cos of the people i actually have to deal with. i didn't know assholes were in abundance till i started working.
and my diet's going south. rather, north - of the weighing scale. swear the world is conspiring against me. the day i start watching my diet, people start GIVING me my favourite foods. not for one day, mind you, for the entire goddamn week.
i have a good mind to start starving myself and devote myself to god for another 132 days.
half-cooked perfectionists like myself always put this much unnecessary pressure on themselves. they're nuts and most likely on edge. i am nuts and am on edge. but trust me, i am having fun.
i worry, i worry if my guests will have fun on our wedding day. if they don't, i won't.
save the date, guys, and if you have the slightest feeling you are not invited, please just fuckin' stop harassin' me. wait for the card. and if you don't get one, chances are, you won't. i am very careful. i already have the entire family tree uprooting itself to gatecrash my wedding.
1/4 way through the design. alright, i'm lying. i'm in absolute denial. we've only finalised the size of the card and the font. and that's about it. but i'm blown away by the font. after looking at tens of (i couldn't bear to do hundreds) kitsch retro designs, vintage stuff, fonts, annoying websites, a chocolate wrapper finally did it. who'd have thought? i love it. ravi loves it. even our designer loves it. we love it. and this is about the only thing i am blown away by right now.
rings
called our ringmaker 3 weeks ago and never called back. i am a blistering idiot. i have not decided on my own ring design and have a nagging feeling i never might. i have not found a single ring design that blew me away. i want something simple, ravi wants a simple design. didn't think simplicity would be complicated.
dress
we have decided on our mod look. we're done with that, gown and tux are almost ready. ravi's set on his traditional outfit. and i'm undecided cos once again, nothing has blown me away.
why do i always need to be blown away?
photographer
ravi has left this one entirely up to me. see, i am no photographer, but i know what i like looking at. the one photographer that blew me away, blew me away with his pricing too - literally. i can't inflate our budget because i like only him. he who is twice more expensive than everyone else. i'm not willing to part with that much money, quite honestly. and so, i'm still looking. very desperately.
videography
undecided. do we really want a video? not like we'd watch it over and over again. that would be, sad.
shoes
holy fuckin' crap. who has shoes for elephant feet like mine? i want to be the groom, not the bride.
invitation list
why are people beginning to invite themselves to my wedding? why? WHY? why? they talk about what they'd wear to my wedding, and, er ... hello, who's inviting you again? we're only inviting 100 people, that's 100 people closest to our hearts and everyday lives. if you were close to us a year ago and no longer close to us today, please do not count yourself invited. there has to be a reason why we are no longer close. full stop. and stop asking me, "am i invited?" cos if you have to ask this, you usually are not.
but it'll all fall into place. right?
i'm in nerves and work's driving me nuts. not cos of the actual workload, cos of the people i actually have to deal with. i didn't know assholes were in abundance till i started working.
and my diet's going south. rather, north - of the weighing scale. swear the world is conspiring against me. the day i start watching my diet, people start GIVING me my favourite foods. not for one day, mind you, for the entire goddamn week.
i have a good mind to start starving myself and devote myself to god for another 132 days.
half-cooked perfectionists like myself always put this much unnecessary pressure on themselves. they're nuts and most likely on edge. i am nuts and am on edge. but trust me, i am having fun.
i worry, i worry if my guests will have fun on our wedding day. if they don't, i won't.
save the date, guys, and if you have the slightest feeling you are not invited, please just fuckin' stop harassin' me. wait for the card. and if you don't get one, chances are, you won't. i am very careful. i already have the entire family tree uprooting itself to gatecrash my wedding.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
some people you just don't forget
we have a new colleague. and it can't be funnier. he's funny, he talks funny, he walks funny and he reacts funny.
i hate people who drag their feet. i really do. i get extremely disturbed the same way i get disturbed when my skirt moves half a round around my hips, when i get a wedgie just before i need to sit down in public (happens on a daily basis), when someone rearranges my condiments in the kitchen. so when i first met him, i dreaded, thinking of the days to come having him at the workstation next to mine.
but for some reason, i also knew i'd be wrong this time.
and sometimes, feeling this wrong feels good.
by lunch, we were chatting like old friends. and over the course of the next few days, he started offering me his food.
to me, this is the ULTIMATE intimate type of friendship. sharing food with ME ME ME. ME who eats everything and anything and in two servings.
and one day, he asked me a question i couldn't answer - we are in different departments with different scopes. i said, "why don't you ask your boss?" so off he goes to find his boss. he comes back and exclaims incredulously "he's not coming back!"
not coming back?
"ok, then ask him tomorrow morning," while i was typing away furiously.
"no!" came a semi-hysterical shriek. "he's NEVER coming back!"
"oh. you mean, he's gone?" like, gone-gone fired?
"ya!" a series of hysterical what-am-i-doing-in-this-company giggles ensued. the way his arms fell over the armrests of his blue hair, the way he slumped in his chair in disbelief, the way his mouth was wide open and his legs were stretched out like he was ready to give up - was enough to have me in a peal of giggles.
something about his desperation cracked me up. this guy's funny.
he's been here 3 weeks and he behaves like he's been here 3 years.
some people are just so comfortable, and sincere at that.
you just don't meet people like that anymore.
and once in a while, it's good to be able to feel that maybe, there are more than just 5 of us.
i hate people who drag their feet. i really do. i get extremely disturbed the same way i get disturbed when my skirt moves half a round around my hips, when i get a wedgie just before i need to sit down in public (happens on a daily basis), when someone rearranges my condiments in the kitchen. so when i first met him, i dreaded, thinking of the days to come having him at the workstation next to mine.
but for some reason, i also knew i'd be wrong this time.
and sometimes, feeling this wrong feels good.
by lunch, we were chatting like old friends. and over the course of the next few days, he started offering me his food.
to me, this is the ULTIMATE intimate type of friendship. sharing food with ME ME ME. ME who eats everything and anything and in two servings.
and one day, he asked me a question i couldn't answer - we are in different departments with different scopes. i said, "why don't you ask your boss?" so off he goes to find his boss. he comes back and exclaims incredulously "he's not coming back!"
not coming back?
"ok, then ask him tomorrow morning," while i was typing away furiously.
"no!" came a semi-hysterical shriek. "he's NEVER coming back!"
"oh. you mean, he's gone?" like, gone-gone fired?
"ya!" a series of hysterical what-am-i-doing-in-this-company giggles ensued. the way his arms fell over the armrests of his blue hair, the way he slumped in his chair in disbelief, the way his mouth was wide open and his legs were stretched out like he was ready to give up - was enough to have me in a peal of giggles.
something about his desperation cracked me up. this guy's funny.
he's been here 3 weeks and he behaves like he's been here 3 years.
some people are just so comfortable, and sincere at that.
you just don't meet people like that anymore.
and once in a while, it's good to be able to feel that maybe, there are more than just 5 of us.
Saturday, March 11, 2006
ass*hic*oles
work's been tough over the past 11 weeks. there has been an endless supply of assholes, endless stream of ridiculous emails from endless supply of assholes, endless frustration from reading endless stream of ridiculous emails from endless supply of assholes.
you get the endless story.
at least two of us have been regularly banging our tables, cursing under our breaths, chewing pandan chiffon cakes or lips depending on our penchant for green spongey cakes or bloodied skin, sitting back in our chairs staring at display screen in disbelief.
einstein was right. human stupidity is infinite.
for every infinite factor of human stupidity out there, there's a double factor of assholicness in this universe.
seems like a sick joke, to have stupid assholes around.
yes, this is a rant.
a rant because it is 0500am and he has the cheek to insinuate i have no idea what i'm doing when
(1) he's proven himself to be lazy
(2) he's proven himself to be a liar
(3) he's proven himself to be brash which had eventual repercussions on our biz
he tried to convince me, lie his way through, all i could think off was how annoying his bangs were, that he thought he was so cute with all that excess hair parted in the middle to droop to the sides like that hairy thing in Addam's family. felt like slicing his long bangs off from across the globe. think i can send the $10-haircut-in-10-minutes auntie over there. job over in 10 minutes. getting there's the hassle.
no wonder i've gotten acne on my chin over the past few weeks. never happened in all my 23 years 10 months (around there) of life.
assholes are not just bad for the heart, they are also bad for the skin. they annihilate every vitamin c, e, omega-3, fish oil stuff in your body. they also give you a series of anginas.
and they gave angina its plural form above.
and to you, yes, you, specifically you, you know who you are, if you don't have time to talk about it, don't expect me to have time for you. ever. period.
you get the endless story.
at least two of us have been regularly banging our tables, cursing under our breaths, chewing pandan chiffon cakes or lips depending on our penchant for green spongey cakes or bloodied skin, sitting back in our chairs staring at display screen in disbelief.
einstein was right. human stupidity is infinite.
for every infinite factor of human stupidity out there, there's a double factor of assholicness in this universe.
seems like a sick joke, to have stupid assholes around.
yes, this is a rant.
a rant because it is 0500am and he has the cheek to insinuate i have no idea what i'm doing when
(1) he's proven himself to be lazy
(2) he's proven himself to be a liar
(3) he's proven himself to be brash which had eventual repercussions on our biz
he tried to convince me, lie his way through, all i could think off was how annoying his bangs were, that he thought he was so cute with all that excess hair parted in the middle to droop to the sides like that hairy thing in Addam's family. felt like slicing his long bangs off from across the globe. think i can send the $10-haircut-in-10-minutes auntie over there. job over in 10 minutes. getting there's the hassle.
no wonder i've gotten acne on my chin over the past few weeks. never happened in all my 23 years 10 months (around there) of life.
assholes are not just bad for the heart, they are also bad for the skin. they annihilate every vitamin c, e, omega-3, fish oil stuff in your body. they also give you a series of anginas.
and they gave angina its plural form above.
and to you, yes, you, specifically you, you know who you are, if you don't have time to talk about it, don't expect me to have time for you. ever. period.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
backwards
i'm about to pass out, and i will. i brought the lappie home to do work with, but i just can't do it. tomorrow will come.
i think i found mc hammer's blog in one of blogger's buzz pages or something - i just can't believe it's him. it's too weird. i read online somewhere, last year (on a list of ppl forgotten) that he's a man of the cloth now. well, he sure doesn't write like one!
i look into the mirror and whine over tummy.
i look through the newspaper detailing goodies at the digital exhibition going on - and decide that i will not trade in the printer or buy a new camera. or buy an iPod.
i watch a documentary on terrorists and wonder, why is it that i can't make a difference to make it stop?
i read the papers about 18 men found dead in a bus, all blindfolded and gagged. and allegedly sunni - and victims of sectarian violence in iraq. for a psychotic millionaire, saddam did pretty well in curbing civil war in iraq. once again, why can't i make a difference? why don't these muslims see that sunni, shi'ite, maliki, whatever they are all called etc, etc - it doesn't bloody matter. at the end of the day, the crux of all their beliefs meet at one point, there is no god but God and Muhd is His Messenger.
i have vegetable soup and crispy fried beef. i bite into a cardomom and curse. i hate biting into spices.
i come home and look at the empty room. then wonder why my cashew nuts have been moved two levels up from below - it's now at the top of the junkfood pile i amassed from phuket. nan's been touching my stuff again, as usual.
the taxi driver volunteers a 50 cents discount for taking me on a huge maze ride through the city when he could have taken two straight roads to my place. i didn't ask for the discount, i just asked halfway, "are you lost?" he admitted he was daydreaming. i hope he isn't in trouble. what's 50 cents to me anyway?
ok, a sardine puff, a banana cake, an apple, etc. note to self: not everything should be quantified with food.
i leave the gym, content i had done 62 minutes on the wonderful elliptical machine and burned 593 calories. but i could have done more.
i walk through the entire bugis shopping mall looking for a lock, for the gym locker. i gave mine to ravi as i spoilt his combination lock - the english on the instructions sheet was atrocious, i locked it and we couldn't get it unlocked. i walk up and down cold storage's shelf #9 only to find out it's sold out. i find it at seiyu's luggage section.
there must be a lot of forgetful gymmers or a lot of tourists in this area.
i walk briskly and silently along north bridge road from the hospital. i ask myself, should i go for the surgery?
prof urologist tells me to think about it. either i go for the surgery or suffer for the rest of my life. if i can take the discomfort and pain, why not. but it doesn't make sense to. something-plasty it's called.
sounds like vaginal plastic surgery to me.
this is me.
i am born with tumours and a urethra so deep in, i have to have 5 surgeries before i turn 25.
post-surgery pain in the arm - i can take. but i am not sure i can take the pain that accompanies moving my urethra outwards. i still have to pee 5 times a day, that's 5 excruciating times a day, for 7 days.
i will be biting my lips till they bleed at least 35 soddin' times.
a big part of me says, just bloody do it.
the vagina crouches away, hoping to be forgotten.
i know what ravi'll say, just do it.
who will take care of me when i am healing at home?
i know what to do, but i do not know how to feel. i am cutting myself off from me, so i can make the right choice.
how was i so brave as a child, was it innocence? or ignorance?
or an acceptance?
i think i found mc hammer's blog in one of blogger's buzz pages or something - i just can't believe it's him. it's too weird. i read online somewhere, last year (on a list of ppl forgotten) that he's a man of the cloth now. well, he sure doesn't write like one!
i look into the mirror and whine over tummy.
i look through the newspaper detailing goodies at the digital exhibition going on - and decide that i will not trade in the printer or buy a new camera. or buy an iPod.
i watch a documentary on terrorists and wonder, why is it that i can't make a difference to make it stop?
i read the papers about 18 men found dead in a bus, all blindfolded and gagged. and allegedly sunni - and victims of sectarian violence in iraq. for a psychotic millionaire, saddam did pretty well in curbing civil war in iraq. once again, why can't i make a difference? why don't these muslims see that sunni, shi'ite, maliki, whatever they are all called etc, etc - it doesn't bloody matter. at the end of the day, the crux of all their beliefs meet at one point, there is no god but God and Muhd is His Messenger.
i have vegetable soup and crispy fried beef. i bite into a cardomom and curse. i hate biting into spices.
i come home and look at the empty room. then wonder why my cashew nuts have been moved two levels up from below - it's now at the top of the junkfood pile i amassed from phuket. nan's been touching my stuff again, as usual.
the taxi driver volunteers a 50 cents discount for taking me on a huge maze ride through the city when he could have taken two straight roads to my place. i didn't ask for the discount, i just asked halfway, "are you lost?" he admitted he was daydreaming. i hope he isn't in trouble. what's 50 cents to me anyway?
ok, a sardine puff, a banana cake, an apple, etc. note to self: not everything should be quantified with food.
i leave the gym, content i had done 62 minutes on the wonderful elliptical machine and burned 593 calories. but i could have done more.
i walk through the entire bugis shopping mall looking for a lock, for the gym locker. i gave mine to ravi as i spoilt his combination lock - the english on the instructions sheet was atrocious, i locked it and we couldn't get it unlocked. i walk up and down cold storage's shelf #9 only to find out it's sold out. i find it at seiyu's luggage section.
there must be a lot of forgetful gymmers or a lot of tourists in this area.
i walk briskly and silently along north bridge road from the hospital. i ask myself, should i go for the surgery?
prof urologist tells me to think about it. either i go for the surgery or suffer for the rest of my life. if i can take the discomfort and pain, why not. but it doesn't make sense to. something-plasty it's called.
sounds like vaginal plastic surgery to me.
this is me.
i am born with tumours and a urethra so deep in, i have to have 5 surgeries before i turn 25.
post-surgery pain in the arm - i can take. but i am not sure i can take the pain that accompanies moving my urethra outwards. i still have to pee 5 times a day, that's 5 excruciating times a day, for 7 days.
i will be biting my lips till they bleed at least 35 soddin' times.
a big part of me says, just bloody do it.
the vagina crouches away, hoping to be forgotten.
i know what ravi'll say, just do it.
who will take care of me when i am healing at home?
i know what to do, but i do not know how to feel. i am cutting myself off from me, so i can make the right choice.
how was i so brave as a child, was it innocence? or ignorance?
or an acceptance?
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
skorka majorca
ok, so i didn't collapse at the airport. i was just horrified at the pink counters the interior designers decided to keep at the airport. i mean, they renovate the entire goddamn terminal, it looks gorgeous, and you retain pink counters and pink dustbins that match perhaps, well, my pink underwear.
even the ladies sign isn't pink.
and the pink isn't even pink PINK, it's greyish pink, it's old pink, like pink left out to be forgotten.
i didn't wail at the airport, i guess joy being around helped a little. and ravi rushing for the gate helped. and crying a little, ok fine i WAILED, at home helped.
just three more months, he says.
i know, baby.
three more months. it went by before, it'll go by again, won't it? lost's season 2 dvds will keep me occupied (hooked) on the weekends. and then some kind soul will probably get me the latest season of 24 and time will stand still.
meanwhile, must stick to my 1kg/week regime. it's going well (already??), but i'm pretty sure i'll hit a snag when i reach my old weight of 65-67kg. the weight i'd be happy to stay at.
me no look good when skinny bones.
alas, am blessed with huge gweilo like frame and cursed to shop at only expensive gweilo boutiques for the rest of my life. till all the asians blow up to john candy's size - we're well on our way there!
(must look good in dubai, must look good in dubai, must look good in dubai - must not give husband chance to ogle at hot lebanese chicks)
i say all these and bengawan solo's pandan chiffon cake is hanging on the headboard of my bed, waiting to be devoured at the office tomorrow.
oh, and 100gms of famous amos' choc chip macadamia cookies.
i eat when upset.
on the bright side, this is the last time i'd have to send ravi off at the airport. next time, he'll be receiving me at the airport, then sending me off. then i'll pick him up. then we leave together.
three more months, three more months.
o for distraction's sake!
even the ladies sign isn't pink.
and the pink isn't even pink PINK, it's greyish pink, it's old pink, like pink left out to be forgotten.
i didn't wail at the airport, i guess joy being around helped a little. and ravi rushing for the gate helped. and crying a little, ok fine i WAILED, at home helped.
just three more months, he says.
i know, baby.
three more months. it went by before, it'll go by again, won't it? lost's season 2 dvds will keep me occupied (hooked) on the weekends. and then some kind soul will probably get me the latest season of 24 and time will stand still.
meanwhile, must stick to my 1kg/week regime. it's going well (already??), but i'm pretty sure i'll hit a snag when i reach my old weight of 65-67kg. the weight i'd be happy to stay at.
me no look good when skinny bones.
alas, am blessed with huge gweilo like frame and cursed to shop at only expensive gweilo boutiques for the rest of my life. till all the asians blow up to john candy's size - we're well on our way there!
(must look good in dubai, must look good in dubai, must look good in dubai - must not give husband chance to ogle at hot lebanese chicks)
i say all these and bengawan solo's pandan chiffon cake is hanging on the headboard of my bed, waiting to be devoured at the office tomorrow.
oh, and 100gms of famous amos' choc chip macadamia cookies.
i eat when upset.
on the bright side, this is the last time i'd have to send ravi off at the airport. next time, he'll be receiving me at the airport, then sending me off. then i'll pick him up. then we leave together.
three more months, three more months.
o for distraction's sake!
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
faux art
it's 0046am and i cannot sleep. again. this is becoming a pain in the ass. we are in gallery hotel's #551. the room is very small, but very cosy. what i really hate is the fact that you can hear everything going on in the corridor - and there are always very loud people in singapore. reminds me of the time i stayed at hotel inefficient in kuala lumpur where i could hear everything going on in the lounge 3 storeys below - this was also the time i wrote my longest complaint letter to anyone for anything. it was my first complaint letter.
but it isn't that bad here. the hotel has a funky touch, very young blood. truth be told, i rather have this than a gawdy 5-star hotel.
*thinks of the time she stayed at the renaissance harbour view hotel*
i take that back. renaissance hbv has the best pillows, the best quilts, the shiniest taps, fantastic service, lousy club floor breakfast. i forgot to ask about the pillows when i checked out, i was too traumatised by my host in hong kong to do anything other than remind myself to breathe.
this room is so freezing cold, we had to ask for an extra blanket for ravi - cos he has less fats and i'm an elephant seal - and boiled water cools down in 10 minutes.
it's dead silent. and i'm missing ravi. although he is right beside me, asleep, all snug under two blankets. he looks like a hibernating bear who forgot to wake up and got up with thick moss growing all over him.
he's back for one night before he leaves for dubai.
(note to joy: will you be there to hold me up when i collapse for the millionth time at the airport?)
it will all happen very quickly now.
i'm going to miss singapore. i'll miss my psychotic, dysfunctional parents, their cats, my friends, teh tarik, prata, sambal, OH SAMBAL.
(yes, eds, couldn't talk about the things i'd miss without talking about food.)
and living at mohamed sultan. we took a walk around the area today. when we return, it's gonna be very different, it won't be home anymore.
it will be a memory.
another chapter closed.
but it isn't that bad here. the hotel has a funky touch, very young blood. truth be told, i rather have this than a gawdy 5-star hotel.
*thinks of the time she stayed at the renaissance harbour view hotel*
i take that back. renaissance hbv has the best pillows, the best quilts, the shiniest taps, fantastic service, lousy club floor breakfast. i forgot to ask about the pillows when i checked out, i was too traumatised by my host in hong kong to do anything other than remind myself to breathe.
this room is so freezing cold, we had to ask for an extra blanket for ravi - cos he has less fats and i'm an elephant seal - and boiled water cools down in 10 minutes.
it's dead silent. and i'm missing ravi. although he is right beside me, asleep, all snug under two blankets. he looks like a hibernating bear who forgot to wake up and got up with thick moss growing all over him.
he's back for one night before he leaves for dubai.
(note to joy: will you be there to hold me up when i collapse for the millionth time at the airport?)
it will all happen very quickly now.
i'm going to miss singapore. i'll miss my psychotic, dysfunctional parents, their cats, my friends, teh tarik, prata, sambal, OH SAMBAL.
(yes, eds, couldn't talk about the things i'd miss without talking about food.)
and living at mohamed sultan. we took a walk around the area today. when we return, it's gonna be very different, it won't be home anymore.
it will be a memory.
another chapter closed.
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