Day 59


The Butt of the Joke

Everyone had already left the house this morning and it was just me and mum getting ready for work. I was ironing my clothes outside my parents' room, my back facing the door, when mum came out and burst into laughter.

I wondered at her merriment and thought something in the room had tickled her. When she continued laughing, I looked back briefly and noticed her eyes on the bath towel wrapped around my waist (I was too lazy to wear my pants though I had my T-shirt on). I figured she was just amused about the towel.

But it was not the first time she had seen me thus.

And then I remembered - TO MY ABSOLUTE HORROR - that the towel I had wrapped for modesty (since I was wearing nothing else underneath) was the holey one, and one of the holes was right over my butt crack and right down the middle!!!

Mum continued her way past me and into the kitchen, laughing non-stop. She didn't - or couldn't - utter a word, even as I retreated to my room red-faced - walking backwards of course!!!


Notes to self:

[1] Get rid of holey towel!!!

[2] Underwear - don't leave your bedroom without it!!!




Day 58

 HaPPy BirThdaY EdnA!!! :-D


"I heard you are a girl..."

"...a l33t girl."

Which will probably qualify as the dumbest online pick-up line of the year, and can only come from, sigh, one of the kids.

Sure, being a female in online games has always been fun, and I do enjoy the online flirtations. But while I still like my online games, this particular social aspect of gaming does not hold as much attraction as before. For one thing, the community has gotten much younger in the past few years. So while the paedophiles men might be having a field day, it doesn't quite work the same way for the women, yes? Heh. And it does get tiring going through the same-old same-old after all these years.

Anyway.

The little puppy that came scratching ran away with his tail between his legs after finding out I was almost twice his age. (And good grief - that would be me - he's barely out of his teens!)

But that didn't go too badly, I suppose - I hope he spreads this bit of news around (like the idiot who told him I was "l33t"). Then maybe I will get to play my game in peace. I really don't need to be expending more brain cells figuring out how to exit the 'situation' without too much awkwardness for either party. Mutter darkly.


PS: Now, this one here is what I call an authentic "l33t girl". Batteries included! Heh. Heh. Heh.




Day 57

 "Because what if it doesn’t happen?"




Day 56


Elmo and Mr Tomato

And here is what a squeaky tomato sounds like.




Day 55

 I couldn't fall asleep for the longest time last night - pining for WoW.




Day 54

 She asked me what if the new receptionist stopped picking up calls too.

"Sack her."




Day 53

 A new graphics card it is.




Day 52

 Head. Wall. Bang.




Day 51

 And then my entire display just went kaput. Aaarrrggghhh!!!




Day 50

 The withdrawal symptoms are killing me. Argh!




Day 49


Gone to the Dogs

Of all the toys that have been presented to Elmo, he loves the squeaky ones the most. He seems to derive great pleasure from being able to produce the high-pitched sounds just by chewing on the toy - which probably explains why he thinks my friends are giant squeaky toys. (Except for that one time when he was the one squealing instead when all 7 or 8 kg - then; he's hit the 10 kg mark now - was hung upside down by his hind leg by a very pissed-off giant squeaky toy.)

And woe to the humans if we forget to put away the squeaky toy before bedtime, and Elmo runs amok around the house with Tran'mato, The Squeaky Tranvestite Tomato. Urgh.



I don't know about you, but there's just something so tranny about a bright red plastic tomato with yellow (???) lipstick and a high-pitched squeak of the lampah-kena-squeezed variety.

Anyway.

This morning, I awoke to the Year of the Pig with very auspicious salutations of "Fuck you!", "Eat shit!" and "Fucking hell jerk!"

Ah yes, that would be Elmo's latest chew toy (AKA my sisters' reject toys): Stan "Fuck You" Marsh, one of those 'talking' toys that is "for ages 18 and above". Talk about being foul-mouthed. (I've yet to meet a dog who doesn't have bad breath.)

Bad boy, Elmo!!! Very bad boy!!!




Day 48

 And Mum said: "Fai di gar cho hoi."


In Preparation

The room is still a royal mess.

Between the beach, troubleshooting the computer, a quick nap, more troubleshooting and the reunion dinner, I had just enough time to throw out a few old things, change my bedsheets and clean the windows. Shrug.

So I will be going into the new lunar year living out of a pig sty still, but hey, I figured what better way to welcome the Year of the Pig, eh? Heh.

Talking about pigs, The Youngest just confessed that her boyfriend-soon-to-be-husband is SIX years her junior (fwaaah) - and not two or three years, which was what she told the family. The four (or five?) boyfriends before were one to three years older, with the exception of Number 2 who was a few months younger. Mum, who is a year (only) older than Dad and has always had a chip of sorts on her shoulder thinks all her daughters are fated to marry younger men. And oh, she does not know the truth about her future son-in-law. Yet.

But if going by the attention that the boyfriend of four years (and longest-lasting) has been lavishing on The Youngest, as well as the not-inexpensive gifts - even more admirable considering that he spends little on himself (and he is not the only one of his kind that I know of) - maybe younger men are the way to go.

Unfortunately, I have been cautioned by the fortune teller to beware "handsum young men" in the new year who will try to cheat me of my money. (Righttt. If I don't bankrupt him first!) Instead, I should prepare myself for attentions from "older men" - nevermind if they are 10 years older or divorced, as long as they are not married. (WHAAATTT??? You said "older", not OLD!!!)

I wonder what would freak mum out more. The 6-year difference, or the 6-inch winged creature on my back, which she also does not know about. Yet.




Day 47


To Die For

Culled from The Hooved One.

Seeing as to how I'm ready to jump out of my 12th floor window if I don't get the !!@#%&^#!!! WoW to run in the next few days, I thought I might as well have a go at the Amazing Death Predictor in the meantime:

Click #1:

"At age 40 you will die fighting the Interplanetary War on Terrorism on Phobos, a moon of Mars."

Raise eyebrow.

Page back, click #2:

"At age 72 you will die fighting the Interplanetary War on Terrorism on Camp Harmony, Venus."

What the... again???

Page back again, click #3:

"At age 50 you will be gunned down in the street by hippies after enacting a bill that grants the WTO even more power.

Wahhh... why all so violent one and involves fighting for a cause?!!

Page back one last time, change to birth name, click #4:

"At age 83 you will die in a fiery golf-cart crash, alcohol will be involved."

Hahahaha... yeah, fluffy like the name. Well then, I sure hope it involves lots of chocolate-tinis and cosmos. Heh. Heh. Heh.

But you know, maybe I might just end up with The Hooved One's last death:

"At age 66 you will start playing an online game and become so addicted that you starve to death."

Oh yeah, definitely something to die for. Laugh!




Day 46

 "Sorry, no private lesson today."




Day 45

 SMS of the Day:

"Moan pitifully. No man. No WoW."


Not So-Happy Valentine-less Day

I can't decide what's more depressing: being without a man for almost 5 straight years now (and going strong), or being deprived of WoW for the past one week.

Ok, that's a no-brainer.

Of course it's being WoW-less. Moan pitifully.

I've been going around to my friends' blogs and messaging them to bemoan my WoW-less status. I guess that takes much less effort than updating the OS/DirectX/drivers and opening up my CPU to check if the fans are working, clear any dust bunnies, and move the graphics card to a different slot. See, if there was a man, he would be The One doing these things and I wouldn't be WoW-less now, yes? Nod sagely.

So I decided it would be yoga night - to take my mind off WoW and banish those thoughts of virtual violence. I would meditate and be at one with the universe. And ONE I was - I was the only one in the last class for the night. Even the earlier session, usually full, had only a handful of students. SIGH.

But the good thing was, I had the personal attention of the yoga teacher. It's a rare treat because classes these days are just too big for that. So for 90 minutes tonight, I had my postures corrected and my physical limits pushed as my shoulders were pulled, my sides and back stretched, and my ass stroked.

"Relax your buttocks."

As a hand reached down to stroke my right butt cheek repeatedly (pretty much the way you would a dog), I tried my darnest not to break my "camel" - or wind.

"Use your front side," the teacher continued to coax in that quaint Scottish accent. "Don't clench your buttocks. Relaxxx." (Righttt. With your hand on my ass???)

Oh, it wasn't too bad, I guess. The teacher on duty tonight was female, and married, I think (read: straight) - big rock and wedding band. Not that if it had been R on duty, he would have attempted something like that... mmm... ehhh... splash cold water on face. Heh.

Now, how did your Valentine's go?




Day 44




Day 43

 Whine. Still no WoW. Whine.

Happy Birthday to CirCe :-D




Day 42

 My !!%$#!! graphics card STILL refuses to run WoW :-(((((((((((((((((((




Day 41

 My !!%$#!! graphics card refuses to run WoW :-(((




Day 40


A Girl's Best Friend

The girl got off the bar-top at Archipelago after a half-minute and half-hearted wriggle to Pussycat Dolls which was mostly spent eyeing the ceiling fan spinning just inches away from her head. (Doh.)

We turned back to our drinks and The Best Friend commented on the poor choice of dance spot and pointed out the section nearest to us, where the bartop was not covered with handbags and the ceiling was fan-free. And in the next breath, she declared that she would dance on the bar-top - for my birthday.

Okayyy.

I wonder if I can convince her to dress up as a Blood Elf too. Yeah, there'll be lots of blood all around then. Pant.

Anyway, I'll post more details in March about how you can slip some money into her garters while she's at it - all proceeds will go to my birthday present. Heh. Heh. Heh.

Ahhhh. The things that The Best Friend would do for me too :-)))


Nuts "R" Us

The first peanut came at CirCe in response to something she said. And then another in spite of her warning. In a flash, she had picked up the basket of remaining nuts and flung the contents at his face; most of it landed on the table though.

Jaw. Drop. Mine, that is.

The recipient seemed pretty pleased with himself though, and almost gleeful.

Sigh. My friends, these two. Head. Shake.

Unfortunately, a couple of peanuts came my way too. "Come on," he goaded, almost as if he was encouraged by the earlier reception.

I glowered into my drink and muttered darkly: "You don't want to dare me." And it was all I could do not to empty my half-pint over his head - in lieu of the cold shower that someone obviously needed.

Maybe I just had a long day: busy morning at work; another 'gift'; shopping with the sister; chocolate martinis at Mortens; fortune-reading for the year ahead; dinner with CirCe's family. Maybe I didn't like having the gauntlet thrown literally in my face. Or maybe it was the dare to do something different, something unexpected, something dangerous.

(Just how far are you going with this? Do you even know what you are asking for? Do you???)

And so, turning away from me finally, he took another shot at CirCe.

The second time - another flash of hand and basket - and the peanuts slammed into his face.

(I'm telling you, all that squeamishness with blood and gore? Bull. This one's definitely got a violent streak in her too. Heh.)

Jaw. Drop. Mine, that is. Again.

Some loose bits must have gotten into the eyes, and I was soon passing our friend tissue paper and eyedrops. (Doh.)

And that was the end of the nut-minton for the rest of the night.

Sigh. My friends, these two. NOT. Never seen them before in my life. Head. Shake.


The Gift

An unexpected visitor.

And a book.

What the hell is happening???




Day 39


Thanks But No Thanks

First came a box of bak kwa (albeit in gratitude for some assistance).

Second came a one-on-one tutorial on the Penal Code.

Third came dinner and a somewhat surprising but very nice offer which I will follow-up (the things I will do for The Best Friend, sigh).

And why shouldn't I be looking the gift horse(s) in the mouth?

"Let me put it this way . . . " he offered.

Let me put it another way: it's like being stranded on a desert island with poisoned apples . . .

. . . forbidden fruit.




Day 38




Day 37


Waaah

I stepped forward and offered our guest a plate of light refreshments.

He declined (as expected) even as he lightly grasped my hands (waaah) with those slender and so-silky-soft-must-be-never-do-housework-before fingers and thanked me unhurriedly - almost as if it was the most natural thing in the world to do.

Waaah.

The man sure knows how to work the room and the people. Clapclap.

Anyway, I sure hope some of his good fortune rubbed off on me. Hehe.




Day 36

 "There are so many fragile things, after all. People break so easily, and so do dreams and hearts."

- Fragile Things, Neil Gaiman


WoW WoW Weekend

Ok, maybe not so WoW for The Happy Tree, who provided my Monday morning entertainment, recounting her Saturday night with N at St James, which I had skipped to chiong in Outlands instead. (I spent over the weekend, the average number of hours I usually spend playing WoW in a normal week. Preen.)

She had found herself propositioned by Mr Baldywood, an Indian businessman who was in town for work and had "a very nice suite" back at The Hyatt where they could adjourn for "drinks". Mr Baldywood had so much hair sticking out of his too-tight and too-white t-shirt, it was no wonder he only had enough for a comb-over up north. Otherwise, Mr Baldywood was in very good shape - at least waist-up. Think Incredible Hulk on Pinnochio legs. One cannot help wondering where the Hulk stops and the Pinnochio starts.

So yeah, I failed to "unplug" over the weekend to go out and meet men, but hey, it sure sounds like I did not miss anything.

And, going by recent 'developments', I am beginning to believe that indeed, the only decent men left are: gay (well, the good-looking ones make for really nice eye candy too); too young (pick on someone your own age!); or married (no, no and NOOO - which makes them hardly decent, come to think of it; I mean, do some men actually think a woman is fair play just because she is still single???) And what do all these men have in common?

I know. That hardly puts me in a good place right now.

A taxi-driver once said to me during the ride home from East Coast, with reference to my skates and hearing that I hit the beach regularly, that it was good to keep fit as I did:

"Ni3 kan4 qi3 lai2 hen3 zhuang4. Hen2 hao3! Nan2 ren2 bu4 gan3 qi1 fu4!"

I wish I felt that way now.




Day 35

 "Eh u not angry at me r u?"




Day 34

 The displeasure in her voice was unmistakable.

She finally knows what I know now too - I was not mistaken.


Itching Shedding Evolving

"Can we really change what we are?"

- H E R O E S, Season 1 Episode 13 - The Fix

Or rather, do we have to change to become who we really are?




Day 33

 It's been 10 months???

Time sure flies.


Not So Complicated



In one study, for example, researchers measured pain threshold and tolerance levels in 52 dancers from a British ballet company and 53 university students using a standard method called the cold-pressor test. The test is ingeniously simple. (I tried it at home myself.) After immersing your hand in body-temperature water for two minutes to establish a baseline condition, you dunk your hand in a bowl of ice water and start a clock running. You mark the time when it hurts too much to keep your hand in the water: that is your pain tolerance. The test is always stopped at 120 seconds, to prevent injury.

The results were striking. On average, female students reported pain at 16 seconds and pulled their hands out of the ice water at 37 seconds. Female dancers went almost three times as long on both counts. Men in both groups had a higher threshold and tolerance for pain - as expected, since studies show women to be more sensitive than men to pain, except during the last few weeks of pregnancy - but the difference between male dancers and male nondancers was nearly as large. What explains the difference?

Probably it has something to do with the psychology of ballet dancers - a group distinguished by self-discipline, physical fitness, and competitiveness, as well as by a high rate of chronic injury. Their driven personalities and competitive culture evidently inure them to pain: that's why they are able to perform through sprains and stress fractures, and why half of all dancers develop long-term injuries. (Similar to nondancing males, I started to feel pain at around 25 seconds; but I had no trouble keeping my hand in for the whole 120 seconds. I will let others speculate on what this says about the submissiveness inculcated in surgical residents.)

- Complications, Atul Gawande


Carpet please-walk-all-over-me personality aside, I suppose my tolerance for pain was also developed from all those years of being summoned (brrr!) by my school's Chinese torture chamber dentist more than anyone else, and the six years of orthodontic treatment including surgery.

Excellent book, by the way. Sort of a medical whodunit that is written matter-of-factly but oddly engaging in its unpretentious honesty.




Day 32


One Last Crazy Night

We finally caught Crazy Horse last night. (This has nothing to do with me and my nekkid virtual game characters! Points at CirCe!!!) And it was to be the last show on the last night no less - except a last minute surge in sales extended the cabaret's run in Clark Quay until 4 February.

Wellll, it's certainly not something I would watch more than once, especially at $125 a pop. I wouldn't say the dance took my breath away or left me wanting more, which is what a good dance usually does for me. There was a certain, hmmm, fire missing. But I suppose performing to a less than half-filled hall for a year does that to you. (Note to self: Must catch Cirque de Soleil at the next available opportunity.) And yes, we could see just about everything (yawn, you have I also have) because only a few of the dances had light displays. And I bet the weirdo seated behind us saw even more through his BINOCULARS!!! How's that for getting the full bang for his bucks?

Still, it was worth the experience if nothing else. And I had my favourites, like the very energetic performance of Adagio - something about the platinum blond crop, cage, ropes and oh yes, the bass-heavy music. I also liked the light displays - something about the play of patterned lights on bare skin. Think body art and tattoos. No surprises there, yes? ;-)