i have moved

http://crimsondevotchka.wordpress.com

see you there.

as i sheepishly return

i know a few people who are going to be absolutely delighted that i've decided to tap into my uncontrollable urge to blog again. chocolate bars can only do so much to contain the shakes.

i'd said to Edna that i wanted to stop blogging and go back to emailing. however, with instant messengers - it's hard to email the very people you govoreet the entire day with.

it's mid November, almost an entire year has gone by again. i still feel like i'm 19 - but i'll be 25 in half a year. you see, the things one thinks of the most when one is not lawfully employed by any corporation can lie wide and varied between practical and hysterical.

i don't want anyone reading my blog to spiral downwards into a vortex of obsessive compulsive worries so i will introduce you to the thoughts that lie closer to the practical musings of my complacent mind.

"what next, dali?"

i wake up, then, what next? i flush cystitis-causing bacteria away, i blind myself with desert sunlight pouring into our living room, then what's next is that i'll switch on my beloved mac, the tv, then plop myself onto our gawdy brown sofa hoping that the rest of my body will wake up within the next hour.

what's next is i conjure, with a magic wand (the cable tv remote control) and a *poof* - an imaginary scrolling menu of foods in the fridge in my head. then which channel to watch, or perhaps iTunes and an early morning session to destroy my new perfect post-Lasik eyesight poring through tens and tens of useless websites.

sometimes i iron, sometimes i watch Martha Stewart, sometimes i shake my head watching Dr Phil, sometimes i get inspired watching Oprah, sometimes i laugh my ass off watching reruns of Third Rock from the Sun and sometimes i grab the kitchen scissors and snip off my butt-caressing curls in the bathroom.


and sometimes, i go, "what next, dali?"

i look for Archaeology or Psychology degrees i could possibly take up, i glide through possible career options online, i surf websites for products i'd like to sell in my shop (1), i read up extensively on charitable organisations i'd like to be a part of, i fantasise about having children sometime in the next five years - including adopting one.

the best and worst thing about being in your 20s is that you have the whole world in front of you and, you have the whole world in front of you.

i've given myself till 31st December to decide what i'll do next.

for now, i'm putting the house in order after weeks of slothing off on the sofa, walking aimlessly between the kitchen and the bathroom, getting lost in between - and i don't just mean forgetting why i went to the kitchen. after all, if your house is not in order - nothing else can be.



(1) the shop i'd open up if we were more sure about how long we're staying here in the gulf

pursuits of the pygal kind

i am butt-deprived.

last night, we ventured into the wild night of the desert to catch a long delayed date at the cinema. we watched The Break Up starring Vince Vaughn and Jennifer Aniston. the movie was funny, excruciating and extremely exact. and i fell in love with the kitchen and white sofa of the movie set.

pros of watching a movie in dubai:
1. people do not chew their food out loud like some of the animals living in Singapore who occasionally wander into cinemas with large buckets of popcorn do.
2. they sell pancakes that you can bring into the theatre with you. never have i ever been so torn between a mouth-watering pancake and salted nachos with cheese, salsa and fresh jalapenos.
3. the theatre isn't overcrowded.
4. i did not freeze my ass off.
5. nobody checked their SMSes except for the lady beside me who politely left the theatre to continue with a very, very important telecommunication act.

cons of watching a movie in dubai:
1. they censored all the butts in the movie. i was counting on seeing JenA's hot naked butt and the delectable tush of the male model Marilyn Dean was sketching.
2. some parents bring their 9 year old kids to watch romantic comedies who become extremely engrossed in their own private conversations in Hindi.
3. movies cost as much as a full meal, or even twice as much, depending on the kind of daily cuisine one is used to. a ticket per person is DHS30, that's about SGD14. and this, on a weekday night. that's a couple of Big Macs.

several days ago, my beloved friend The Geologist casually asked if i wanted to join her in Nice.

NIS!!

hell, yeah. nothing like a walk (caution, poser speak commencing) along the beach on Promenade de Anglais or taking great snapshots at Cours Saleya and laughing our asses off at a sidewalk cafe taking all of the Mediterranean beauty in.

but i/we might be in for a disappointment. first, the flights are practically full - but there seems to be some alternatives. problem is, my passport. it's still being held back for the issuance of my Resident Visa here.

i wanna sink my teeth into a socca, terrorise my friend in the same box we're gonna live in and fully distract her from her Geology pursuits. i'm hopin' i get my passport back in time to book the non-refundable tickets.

and did anyone notice how beautiful Jamie Foxx's lips are?

what do they feed those pumpkins??

yes, i am quite the errant blogger.

as punishment to ravi's workaholic ways and addiction to his acer travelmate (which is, though warm, a poor substitute to a new wife who should be on his lap-top instead), i have whisked his travelmate away from him.

i do miss my mac.

it was 46 degrees celsius here yesterday. it is hot here and i am used to it. there was a magnificent sandstorm here yesterday. and let me tell you, opening your window to get a clearer picture is not, i repeat, not an intelligent way of taking pictures of a sandstorm.

for obvious reasons.

and today, we went to the Singapore Deli Cafe for, well, Singaporean food. managed to get nasi lemak and fantastic authentic sambal. the leaky nasal passages thereafter absolutely delighted me. not that i regretted asking for more sambal and was forced to finish most of it since i was too proud not to finish it after i had boldly asked for more in this sambal-less desert paradise.

i have switched interests, from Ellen DeGeneres to Martha Stewart. Martha has inspired me to grow giant pumpkins weighing 1450pounds.

to whet yer appetite, here's a shot of ravi and i escaping from everybody to the Summer House on our wedding day. the smiles came easy when we were away from the relatives who are always more concerned about themselves, about how they think the wedding should be - than they are about the actual bride + groom.

longest 10 minutes

paranoid, not really.
just careful, you know?
yeah, isn't that how each girl should be?
absolutely! or else who'd we have to blame?
ourselves of course.

there are times in a girl's life when she feels threatened walking home on her own and wonders if she's losing her mind. when she has a visual of herself violently knocking the side of her head trying to knock some sense into herself, "don't be paranoid."

but hey, this is Singapore, it's safe and thankfully, there are lights everywhere.

so it's 0100, i've gone home later than that before.

i pay the bill, i walk out of the restaurant, take a look around to see who's lurking, cross the road and start on my way back to the hotel. the road i take is a very quiet one. many trees, many shadows. i walk past a megamall that's a quiet shell of its day personality. i walk briskly, and my ears are perked up. i pick up footsteps behind me, i think nothing of it. after quite a distance, the footsteps are coming closer. still, i think nothing of it, two people can come from two different places and have the same destination in mind, right in the same moment.

but it's just not okay anymore when the faster you walk, the faster those echoing footsteps are.

i walk in the light, i come to a junction at the bottom of the slope. ahead is a pathway which is lovely in the day, shaded by low trees. but now, it's just too dark for my comfort. i decide i'd cross the road where the pathway is brightly lit and unobstructed by trees. to get to the hotel, i am crossing the road a little too early. at the side of my eye, i can actually see the man in a red polo shirt and jeans and his body language is strange, it is unsure, hesitant - worse, his footsteps slow down when i cross the road. is she going to enter that serviced apartments?

when it's obvious i have no such intention though i sure as hell make it look like i am heading that way, his footsteps hasten again.

ok, at this point of time, it just gets bloody hell creepy.

sometimes you think you are being followed, but you are able to ascertain very quickly that you are not and feel absolutely nothing thereafter. after 5-7 minutes, you're still unsure? chances are, you are right, you are being followed.

i enter a small road towards the hotel which leads to a dead end. i walk up the slope briskly and he walks faster than ever. i avoid the pathway altogether and walk on the road itself, it's so brightly lit by rows of lamp posts on either sides of the road.

the narrowing gap between us just makes my hair stand on end.

i tell myself, maybe Dali, just maybe, he's a hotel patron too. and you know what, if you are, muthafucka, it's not FUNNY scaring someone like that.

i walk faster up the slope, enter the hotel, glance over at the concierge, smile at the receptionist then find myself horrified that this stranger walks into the hotel. he asks the concierge something inaudible.

i head quickly to the elevators and hope i do not have to share a lift with him. the elevator door opens, i step inside and try to close the doors with one tap.

and then he appears.

a short tanned man with wavy hair and large glasses. late 20s - early 30s. long lashes, bushy eyebrows, shifty eyes. oh, and luscious lips. cant forget that.

now, i simply CANNOT enter a lift, OBVIOUSLY look at this guy and close the doors on him, what if he really is a guest of the hotel?

i hit open and the doors retract back to welcome him into the elevator capsule. happily for me, it's the see through elevator that all of the world can look into.

i smile and ask, "which floor?"

he hesitates.

i think, "what the fuck?" and i hope to God for his sake that he really stays here or i'm whacking the back of his head with my bag.

it's almost like he doesn't know what floor he stays on. he looks at all available floors, scans all the floors quickly, lands his eyes on the top row and says, "twelve. twelve." like it's a fucking relief he got his mojo back.

and i start thinking, "great Dali, great risk you're taking allowing this freak into the lift with you when there are three other lifts."

but instead, i say "ok", hit twelve and stay by the door. he walks in to the back of the elevator where the glass windows are. both of us have our arms crossed. i pretend i am relaxed.

i feel his eyes on me, he's watching me.

"are you afraid?"

and i'm thinking "WHAT THE FUCK?!"

the fucker smiles.

"excuse me?" i ask.
"are you afraid?" he repeats.
i pretend i haven't a clue and raise my eyebrows questioningly.
"are you afraid because i am following you?"
"i am not afraid, goodness, no!" and start laughing it off dismissively like i never thought he was following me in the first place. i am pretty sure i had not been obvious except for walking briskly and looking out for traffic.

ding. it's my floor, i say goodnight and leave the elevator. i hope he picked 12 because he's really staying on that floor, not that he was observing which floor i'd get off on or choose the floor after mine and run down the stairs quickly to my floor.

the poseur speaks

we are now back in Singapore, Ravi has lost 2kg more and i have gained 1kg. congratulations to Ravi on both occasions.

our booking at the Rendezvous Hotel fell through 2 days before we were to arrive. how a confirmed hotel booking turns into a "Sorry, we are overbooked" is beyond me. not sure if the blame lies with the hotel or the 3rd party who was arranging everything for us. this 3rd party then rebooked us at the Elizabeth Hotel. it's an okay hotel, mediocre. the bed is nice and warm, the air-con control is out of whack, the newspaper went missing one morning - and the worst - the bathroom isn't exactly clean and i cannot live with this.

never thought we'd do this but seeing how every other hotel is fully booked and is unable to accommodate us for 24 more nights, i actually ventured into Hotel 81 Bugis. and you know what, it's clean, it's modern, it's new at 1 month old, the particular room i viewed is spacious.

i am a convert.

we will now stay at Hotel 81 and chuck all nasty associations aside. i am no longer a poseur.

a few observations on being back in Singapore
1. i knew i loved rain, but i never knew how much i could miss it
2. never realised how clean Singapore cars are
3. observed how green in Singapore is uber green and exquisitely beautiful
4. stray cats and dogs here have it good most of the time
5. i love Singaporeans, i don't care what people say about Singaporeans and queuing cos at least you queue here

when i was at our first shopping spree in Dubai, i naively queued outside the fitting room when everyone walked past me and stole all available rooms. lesson was learnt quickly. same story with toilet cubicles.

and then, i was at this particular mall and saw three ladies standing outside the fitting room. incredulous, i raised my eyebrows and asked "Are you ... queuing?" and lo and behold, they were! so again, naively, i queued.

maximum number of pieces allowed per fitting - 4
number of ladies waiting outside fitting room - 3
actual number of ladies to be fitted - 2 (one accompanied by her mama)
number of minutes Dali stood outside fitting room huffing for her 3 pieces - 15

see, the chick with her mama had 5 pieces of clothing in her hands, that's ONE whole garment more than the maximum allowed. chick's mama gets INGENIOUS idea of playing round the rule and told salesgirl, "i go in too" then promptly instructs chick to choose 3 more pieces for herself to try in the fitting room. now, why couldn't she just say "i go in too", going in and letting her precious daughter try ONE more garment?

no, she went the extra mile. THREE more pieces. that's removing one top, buttoning up the second, admiring self in mirror, mother scrutinizing top on self and wow, before you know it, you're into the next piece 3 minutes later, spending 25 minutes in the bloody fitting room.

Singaporeans are NOT kiasu, their reign is over.

AND THEN, and then, this lady pops her head out of the fitting room, reaches for bag beside salesgirl, FISHES OUT FOUR PIECES MORE and brings them into her cubicle.

now, does 4 + 4 not = 8?
4, 4 does not = 4
another 4 after 4 is 8
eight, OK? EIGHT. EE-EYE-GEE-ECH-TEE, EIGHT, you dyslexic shit.

this, is a Dubaiite's concept of queuing. i do not know if this has anything to do with the fact that every second lady in the fitting room is Indian and people queued in India only if you were ordering in McDonald's, and if the local Emiratis simply followed suit to survive in War of the Fittings.

or,

local Emiratis are just a rude bunch of thoughtless people who couldn't care less, or pretend to not care less. having been in India, and afflicted by the IQueueNauts 85% of the time, i believe the bad experiences i've had in Dubai can be credited to the same 85% of black sheeps roaming the malls.

Emiratis have been extremely polite and charming so far.

i distinctly remember a similarly painful experience in a KLCC toilet and do not want to revisit that moment.

i've confirmed my findings with a fellow Indian friend and he says, it's a dog-eat-dog world to which i replied, "only if you're a dog."

we have evolved, you know? we no longer pick fleas out of each other's hairy backs or lick our balls with our hind foot pointing to the sky as if saying, "look, God, balls!"

so next time you're in a Dubai mall and see a very cross lookin lady with one leg over the other, bent over and swearing in unfamiliar Hokkien swear words - that's me.

nutella in small packets please

you know you've found the pot of gold at the end of the Emirati rainbow when you're told that it might be better for you to "shop the other end because you're too small for the super sized clothes".

it's a day to celebrate when you're kicked out of a super sized department. it's a day to go out, have a 3kg dark chocolate fudge cake, 12oz rib eye steak, strawberry milkshake and scones.

of course it didn't help that i could fit into size 16 pants nicely at the thighs, but am able to collect water in the space around the waist area for an entire season of drought here. i have monumental thighs.

have more pics for ya, but quit salivating, blogspot isn't liberal with mercy today, i am unable to post pics again. someone says it's Internet Explorer, and if it is Internet Explorer, then i can't wait to get my Mac back.

someone told me to get used to Arabic food, but that's not true at all. it's hard to get good Arabic food, and if you want good Arabic food, you have to pay quite a bit. it's like being in India and paying USD25 for a small bowl of briyani. funny thing is, my preferred food here has been Chinese take-out cooked by Indians and pad thai at Hyatt. so it's really not true that one has to get used to couscous (which i hate) and shawarma which i absolutely loved back in Singapore anyway. if anything at all, every 2nd restaurant you see here is Indian - which is food paradise for Ravi and bad for my weight.

like a bottomless well

i love weekends. if not for Ravi's constant availability to the P--- global network, we'd be able to sleep in till 12 or 1, something i did frequently as a teenager (oh my god, am i really not a teen anymore?). going back to sleep is just such a guilty pleasure i cannot accord myself.

weekend breakfasts are beginning to become a little bit of an OTT affair. first, there's bolognese/bolognaise, whichever you prefer, with super long strands of spaghetti and of all things, cocoa in boiling hot milk. and the sauce must be rich and full of minced beef, not the diluted kinds you feel cheated over at most places.


or like this morning, sunflower kernel/sesame wholemeal bread rolls with lavish servings of butter and cheese, eggs, baked beans, honey ham and tomato soup with butterbeans, potato cubes and carrots.

and then you end up as One with the Sofa, never moving your ass till after four in the afternoon.

we have been busy shopping, it's the DSS, the Dubai Summer Surprises - it's the Emirati version of the Great Singapore Sale and i only have this to say, THE DSS IS FAR SEXIER THAN THE GSS. for a variety of reasons. first, you have strange Mediterranean lookin men doing a funny dance on stage at the mall, i didn't quite understand the music, but the constant butt show offs across the stage was a plus.

and then, there are these Part Sales, whatever that means. these signs are everywhere. am i supposed to wait till they become Wholly Sales before i start purchasing like crazy? but i'm afraid that after weeks of waiting, that Part Sales ARE the actual sales, and by then, the DSS is over and everything is back to being almost unaffordable and i'm stuck with an wardrobeful of clothes with fluff and lint from repeated use and overwashing.
[picture missing here as blogspot's being a pain at the moment]

and of course, the number of (cool) free mugs we get for spending money is a +. i usually reject free gifts, but considering the fact that i unknowingly picked up the display set of the free gifts wanting to actually buy them - we graciously accepted 12 mugs. there are two mouths in this house, but hey, with all these mugs, we can multi-drink: tea, coffee, coke, juice, liquer, beer, wine.
[another picture missing due to inability to upload picture for the umpteeeeeenth time].

conclusion, despite risks of being ovenbaked and slightly dust sprinkled in the heat here, the DSS is far sexier than the GSS.
[picture of hazy skyline missing due to, well, you already know]

today, i was reading a magazine that accompanies the local newspapers. there was an article about 10 underrated virtues - one of which is Being Fair.

the cheek.

dare they ASK us to be fair.

what i really hate here is the fact that for some reason, 9 out of 10 people here do NOT get the concept of first-come-first-served. in fact, no need to queue! just shove your way to the front to order your fuckin' burger or push past the obviously-waiting-for-a-fitting-room-me to stand in FRONT of me then promptly walk into the first available room without the courtesy to offer it to me, me, WAITING ME. don't even get me started on toilet cubicles when your bladder is full and you are trying to maintain your dignity by NOT crossing and uncrossing your legs.

reminds me of the time when we vacationed in India - nobody bloody queued 85% of the time. people in ever other country i've been to QUEUE.

so, back to playing fair here, a particular hokkien swear word referring to the nether regions of the female human being echoes in my mind quite a fair bit. i bet they'd have difficulty even spelling The Word, you know, U before E and after E but not after the last E. both locals and expats do it, courtesy and basic chivalry is dead - it's all about ME, ME, ME, SERVING ME.

so you know what? don't try printing an article in a widely read magazine that we should Play Fair cos i do not appreciate baking in the desert heat waiting for a cab that is constantly stolen from us only 5 metres away. they aren't ignorant, they don't give two hoots.

so you learn quickly and do as the Romans do. scan the scene, and shove your way through if they look like a bunch of unappreciative, rude bastards.

i am passionate about cows. i love 'em. they're beautiful, gentile, (smelly) sweet bovine creatures. i love their leather, their moo-s, their beef, their milk, the cheese and butter.

but there's just something about the cows here. the lactose levels in the dairy products shoot through the roof - and send me running to the toilet a little too much.

had a really good piece of beef tonight at the Irish Village. at first i was astounded by how large the serving is.

and then i licked the plate clean.

and then i was still able to have a Baileys Cheesecake - this is the best cheesecake i have ever had in my entire life. the succinct, yes, succinct, flavour of Baileys just melts with the cheesecake on your tongue, and the crust, OH THE CRUST, it's the kind of orgasmic experience you'd have as a kid sucking on Farley's Rusks.
[again, am unable to upload delicious shots of Fillet of Beef and the Cheesecake - but do, do, imagine it in your mind and join me in kicking the wall because i am getting increasingly frustrated with blogspot here].

hooked on creme brulee ice-cream

for the benefit of a friend whose name begins with E-D-N ... (i hope blogspot's good to me tonight)

here's the mixed kebab grill i had at Beirut where we were being stared down by the Lebanese mafia


i finally had a taste of Swedish meatballs at Ikea here.


and today, it was ellen degeneres, more folding underwear into neat little squares, experimenting with new pasta sauces, ironing clothes, ellen degeneres, throwing away a whole kilo of cherries away cos i've forgotten about them, overeating, ellen degeneres, you get the picture.

i haven't started missing Singapore yet. i understand now, that it doesn't matter where we are. home is where Ravi is.

and here he is.

finally, i step into the sun

when someone asks you, "so what are you doing in Dubai?", the ideal answer is not "oh, you know, i watch Ellen Degeneres the entire day cos i have lost track of time and day." oh, and Martha Stewart - i swear she's botoxed, she's practically expressionless, and i just thought she was boring! except for her succulent plants centrepiece arrangements episode which was absolutely riveting.

and i confess, i am a wuss. for some reason, i'm fatigued all the time. it's like 3 weeks of non-sleep finally washing over me at the weirdest times, like when i am folding underwear neatly into small squares or chopping onions - and then i just pass out on the very luxurious sofa (which, unfortunately is also rather ugly - you can't have everything, right). like today, but that's different because i was traumatised by a bunch of Russian chicks manhandling my feet in a bright room filled with turquoise and red chairs. i needed a comfort nap despite the wonderful result that is ... a French pedicure.

i almost never nap unless i'm crouched in pain on the floor from food poisoning or drowsy with anti-histamines.

oh, and over here, they call olive oil ... Spanish oil. well, some companies do. imagine Popeye's girlfriend being called Spanny - might be taking his love for spinach a little too far. and for some reason, there are shelves and shelves of sunflower cooking oil and a very small section for canola oil, and an even smaller section for, well, Spanny Oil. a sunflower growing country is profiting from this country's mad love for sunflower oil.

and here, i will leave you with a couple of snappets, ya know, a play on snippets and snaps and ... nevermind.

i was taken by this crummy yellow building, perhaps reminded of how i myself will be battered and forgotten one day. well, maybe not battered, but almost forgotten.

a souk, or market, or shopping area. something like that. when you read souk, just read shopping.

half of Dubai catapults you into a time warp, into different periods of times forgotten, like the 70s or the 80s, and this building seen from our cab is hard to love, but i love it. i'd get closer if not for the fact i'm dead afraid of perspiring.

and for 25 cents, you get a ride on one of these dhows across the water to the other side.


sorry for the extensive collection of photographs. for some reason, blogspot has given me lots of problems uploading pictures.

this close to getting my own domain - except the idea of doing everything on my own is just so ... unexciting compared to falling asleep while folding underwear into neat little squares.

here.

ravi's laptop does not take to monster fingernails. so please pardon the occasional missing letter from words in the post below.

finally, we're together, after 98 days of eternal damnation. ok, well, it wasn't that bad. being that far apart for that long from each other somehow strengthened the relationhip and gave me (not him, cos he had to start making new friends) the opportunity to hang out with my friends more (hence i was barely sober half the time).

every 2nd person you see here is Indian, i felt i was on a holiday in Kerala or something, except we were shopping in Carrefour and cheering on Brazil in a British pub called Double Decker (where they serve bloody excellent Fish n Chips).

there isn't a cloud in the sky and if you want to know how hot it is here, night temperature, when it's supposed to be cooler, is aroud 35-37 degrees Celsius.

i am 2 weeks away from a major heat rash breakout and an asthma attack from the minuscule desert dust floating around.

and ravi, the bastard, he's lost so much weight.

i'm definitely gonna put on weight here, the menus here were good enough to eat.
and if you stay away from a poseur lifestyle, it can be pretty affordable.

and Klorane hair products here are faaaaaaaar cheaper than in Singapore.

and here, you drive on the LEFT SIDE - i'm gonna get killed if i don't remind myself that.

and no, it isn't true, there ARE trees here.

amidst all useless pointers above, it's just important that we are together again.

goodbye.

it's my last night in this house.

home.

i've officially left my company.

it's a strange feeling.

i think it's emptiness.

the house is empty. my workdesk was empty when i left.

i need half a bottle of whisky.

the countdown is almost over

two more days to work, three more days to dubai.

we're gonna be together again, babeh.

first up, we had a farewell party on friday night. it was a riot. dinner at Tapas Tree - where we all promptly overate. several garlic shrimps, tens of creamy mushrooms, a few sparkling Sangrias, many cubes of beef, many other sinful tapas and a caramel pudding later - i knew i had outdone even myself. and it was only 2145 and the night was just beginning.


i was getting pretty agitated, the person i wanted to see the most had not arrived. the boss' flight was delayed by several hours. we wasted a couple of $50 paellas (can you feel my pain?).

we decided to make a move to our favourite margarita bar. on our way to Cafe Iguana, Anja forced me to turn around - she had to sign the farewell card. there are just no secrets between us anymore - i even found out the ribbon/card cost a bomb, i was warned not to throw the ribbon away no matter what.


at Cafe Iguana, i got pretty restless. i was
1. bloated
2. farting non-potent gas bombs from all that cheese
3. not getting high
4. feeling goddamn fuckin' hot
5. sticky enough for fruit flies to get stuck

Rasheel and her extremely cute friend Mikesh dropped by. i always love having Rasheel around, she's one of very few friends to whom i can announce "i've been farting non-stop lah" the moment she arrived.




to play along, i had to act ABSOFUCKINLUTELY shocked about the gifts.



they got me a beautiful Guess evening bag and Hugo's Intense - no wonder they asked me if i wore perfume. they got the perfume wrong, but they got a nice one - what they do not know is i get perfumes at half their retail price, so they had wasted some good moolah.

some sad faces on the farewell card.


then David Sprengel, the German Intern whom i was hanging out with 2 years back turned up - he was in Singapore for a holiday with his GORGEOUS girlfriend, Sarah. i couldn't be more delighted, i had simply SMSed "Cafe Iguana, Clarke Quay" to his phone, half-expecting him not to turn up.

then everybody got restless - only bloody snakes can keep still in thick heat like that. we decided to move on to Attica, then we saw the queue. no one was feeling slutty enough to throw themselves at the bouncers or pretend that they knew the bouncers. Hans and Jay called their wives to get instant access into Attica, i was ashamed i forgot the name of the lady to whom the co-owner of the club is married. we cracked up - it's a sad day in a man's history when he calls his wife to get into a club. we detoured to One Nite Stand - the live band is always good. only thing is, i can't stand the lead male singer. he bloody masturbates on stage and probably makes love to himself in the mirror. who the hell looks like he's fuckin enjoying the music that bloody much when
1. they didn't write it
2. they are only emulating
the way he runs his hands through his rebonded hair is enough to drop my Black Label. fuck, i'm a chick and i don't even run my hands through my hair the way he does, like i'm bloody coming for God's sake.

but then again, i can't risk running my fingers through my curls as Rasheel can attest to - last time she tried pulling a hairband through my hair, i had to cut parts of my hair.

but this guy, whatever his name is, acts like he's bloody God's Gift to Women, and i hear, that he's having trouble with his marriage. OH MY GOD, he's MARRIED to someone ELSE to whom he must give love TO other than himself?

the three boys, Hans, Jay, Don. Hans shocked all of us when he picked Don up and hung him OVER HIS RIGHT SHOULDER. and here, Don is actually a good metre off the ground in Hans' safe grip - in my excitement, i wasn't able to get a shot which clearly illustrates this (hence, am bad photographer).




Brix was where we finally got it on, though. when all else fails, it's always good to go back to the nest. here, i bumped into Ashraf, Hadi and Hanaan - i was very pleased. had not seen Hadi since he got married a year back, Hanaan since the last time we all got caught drunk in the rain about a year back too - no thanks to Sherif who refuses to let us hang out together for some goddamn unfathomable reason, something to do with "danger", "know too many people" and "wild". string those along yerself.





we decided to make the high risk trip to Living Room where someone stole my handbag. before we got in, Ravi, the bouncer, stopped me in jest and asked "and what are you bringing in this time?". here, some lady approached Jay and got it goin' for a while. when i asked for her name, she said, "I'm Korean." several garbled semi-Korean sentences later, i find out her name is Susan, she's ashamed of her real Korean name and that she's goin' at SGD100/night.

man, that's cheap.


here's Korean. i mean, Susan. and Hans getting high and cracking up at the entire situation.


and then, as witnessed by my trusted camera, here, it all goes down the drain somehow with Jay taking control of the camera and taking a million out of focus shots and random shots of us giggling at everything. and for the first time, Hans stayed with us (Jay and me) till 0600, even suggesting we go for teh tarik and prata. we ended up at Spize.

here, you can see the unavoidable destruction and deterioration in our motor/rational skills.











Jay's magnificent nostril behind Drunk German Chick Molesting Everyone.


never seen Hans so gleeful - it bloody cracks me up each time i see these pictures.



at the end of the day (morning, night, whatever), there was a nagging thought "the packers are coming at 0900", and i was only halfway through the packing. i'd taken it for granted they were coming tuesday/wednesday, but they gave me a ring during dinner at Tapas Tree that "we're sorry, Dali, we cannot make it on Tuesday or Wednesday". in a way, i regret taking it for granted - i couldn't get drunk.

got home at 0630, took a shower and immediately started packing. i was really proud of myself up to this next point. NEVER, should one attempt to empty one's Fatboys when slightly high and absolutely spent. i found myself rolling in styrofoam snow before sunrise. if i weren't high, i would have gotten upset and started crying, but noooo, the hilarity of the entire thing was MAGNIFIED by the fact i now had
1. 2 more hours to pack the rest of the house
2. to clean up the floor and try to salvage as much beads as possible




by 0800, i call The Mater in panic.

but it all turned out well.

Ich bin Soooper Packer.

of laces and beads

i'm getting there.
i'm getting really excited.

2 weeks to my last day at work.

2 weeks, 1 more day to seeing ravi everyday again for the rest of my life after more than 3 months.

the ticket has been paid for, the letter of resignation has been submitted - there is no turning back now, and i can't be any happier.

the last few weeks have been hell for me. while i am proud of the fact that i've arranged for both weddings in Singapore and KL on my own, i am also proud of the fact that finally, i conceded that i need help and have passed the reins on to a wedding planner in Singapore. i'm gonna need help from the bro-in-law for Malaysia.

and finally, dear friends, the acne breakout is going away thanks to three things
1. The Natural Source facial wash
2. Erythromycin
3. Benzoyl peroxide

i'm putting freaking bleach on my face. apparently the benzoyl peroxide can bleach dyed fabrics, a comforting thought, that should you ever run out of Clorox, Acnegel will be there to save ya!

weddings cost a bomb, brings whole new meaning to "new life together" cos you're bloody starting a new life practically from well, scratch.

almost everything's in place, almost.

got the saree


and the empire line wedding dress is ready


we're almost there, baby.

we're almost at the rest of our lives.

i need a big box of chocolates

we're two months away from the wedding.

the lack of sleep.
the nagging thought of having to pack the house.
the worry that the wedding in malaysia will fall apart.
the fear that the place chosen for my wedding in singapore is going to screw up further.

are all culminating in fat, juicy acne on previously perfect skin.

which means i'm going to look like a diseased ogre on my wedding day.

are we going to have enough money without using our credit cards? is everyone going to have fun? will the rusty bottoms of the chairs stick out from under the white covers?

they're right, i'm a worrywort. but when you're a perfectionist and a half, it's hard not to be anal.

the only thing i'm looking forward to is laying eyes on the wedding ring, right now. i've settled on this after weeks and weeks of deliberation. it's funny, sometimes, the first thing you like will remain the only thing you really liked. a colleague said, "some rings you love, others you'll grow to love." and this little gem here is growing on me.



i know everything will be alright. that's faith, no? but what i really need, despite this faith, is for someone to constantly remind me, Dali, everything will be alright.

there is that, then there is this

there are all kinds of people in the world, all kinds of behaviours, strange, then stranger.

there are all kinds of friends in the world.

and the best kinds, are the ones you love dearly, express your love clearly and often for, and feel no obligation to whatsoever no matter what the favour or the gift presented.

and then there are friends, with whom you associate food. take for example, my friend from across the Causeway whose name begins with letters E-D-N. each time we're together, it's understood that we dig for culinary treasures - and enjoy them together. for example, the following foods:





few things in life are better than friends who try to outdo each other by bringing the other to the best restaurants ever. we need a change from the usual prata and teh tarik diet sometimes. and besides, experiencing the best foods with your best friends are always, well, best.

and then there are friends who just know what to get you for your birthday. they know you can be a bitch, they know you have a sense of humour, so they get you a bitchy t-shirt and autograph their famous signatures all over it, give or take a few embarrassing taglines like "Hot Dubai Chick". and to reward them for taking the trouble to know me this well when they didn't have to, i oblige by pretending to be bitchy, of course.




and then there are friends with whom you enjoy eating and (unfortunately?) always end up shopping with. every.single.time.you.go.out.together. she's my Credit Blowuper, and she's also one of the best. i credit half my wardrobe to her very existence, she has what we might call, the Shopper's Aura. each time i'm with her, i catch the Shopping Bug which is very infectious if you are not very careful. today, we had strange sounding foods - Italian, they call it - and they all had names akin to Foreign Flowers or Foreign Dildos. but they all looked good and tasted good. the only thing i can remember, is the Espresso Alla Panna which sounds more like an Indian coffee if you pronounce it really quickly. oh, and good ol' Tiramisu (droolworthy pic below), which sounds Japanese, if you ask me.




i am also, today, the proud owner of 2 Brazilian shorts, an overpriced Marks & Spencer bra, 2 Island Shop pieces. if i weren't such a bloody fat endo-mesomorph, i would have had the luck, if that's what you can call it, of bringing home 5 more exquisitely designed paperbags. hell, i almost entered LifeBaby and i don't even have a baby yet.

so, yes. the Shopping Bug can be extremely dangerous if you are not careful enough to avoid beautiful lacy items, pretty pink tops, sexy calf-baring skirts, calf-enhancing pumps and in my case, additionally, a baby cot complete with a pink ceiling mosquito net. you might actually contract all these items and find them permanent lodging in your wardrobe. and another room, if you get that baby cot/mosquito net item.

i'm off now to watch the Da Vinci Code. i hope the movie is as exciting as the book was for me. and you people out there, ease up, it's FICTION.