for the price of a cup of tea

I’d like to say the reason I haven’t written much was because I was busy travelling and acting decadently scandalous ‘till the wee hours of tomorrow. Fortunately, I have sufficiently shitted through my fingers to fool no-one. I’ve just been lazy.

It’s been three weeks since I’ve moved in with Blond Monkey - roommate and relegated boyfriend - and I still haven’t unpacked. Mostly because there isn’t exactly any room to put away my color-coordinated wardrobe, the entirety of which I had cleverly brought with me. I could, of course, clean and order the closet to clear out some space but that would just defy my obstinate lazy stance and foil the only thing I may succeed in throughout this whole trip.

We go out, we eat, we shag, we cry, we laugh and start saying ‘we’. It’s enough to make me sick. Only, it hasn’t. The best moments are those spent when he plays some music and I read blogs the guardian while sipping tea. Ladies and gents, fags and faeries, I’ve become a 67-year-old semi-retired bore living beyond her means before my time.

Words cannot express my joy.

On the home front, I’ve recently spoken to my little cousin, aka Little Boy Whore, he of taciturn moods and tight pants. With all the blossoming vigor of his youth, he is planning a trip to New Zealand and Australia in May, despite being for as long as I’ve known him not the wanderlusting type. Hearing of his exciting new plans and the anticipation of his curiosity makes my heart soar. But despite my glee, I could not help a drop of regret sipping into my joyful heart. I wish I had the ability, the vision, direction and guts to travel far and wide when I was his age. To feel that drum in your head and just follow it. Right then and there, without question nor fear. To have fun while playing and not playing to distract.

Usual nostalgic bollocks, you get the idea.

As for The Crazy Woman, I've been avoiding her calls even though I terribly miss her. I'm not quite sure how that works yet, and quite frankly I can't be bothered thinking about it. Despite shooting our usual banter nobody understands (seeing as it is in our Crazy Language, which she took years to forge and perfect) there is always a dark gleam behind her upbeat speech. I can tell when she is holding her tears. Bless her for trying but I selfishly cannot deal with it at the moment (when can you ever deal with that?) Instead, I let her linger and cut our occasional conversations short with some feeble excuse. I know I will pay for being such an awful daughter but as these things work, I won't regret it until it's too late.

Thank goodness there's tea.

wake up

Last night it rained.
With thunderbolt and lightening.
(Very very frightening me! [Galileo (Galileo!), Galileo (Galileo!), Galileo Figaroooo Magnifico-oh-oh-oh-oooooh….)

Ahem.

*cough cough*

I used to be awfully scared of thunderstorms.
I remember when I was a kid, I’d be dancing around our tiny old kitchen as if I was the queen of the world when lightening would suddenly strike, and I’d scurry under the table to hide between my mother’s legs. I was scared of the Heavens Emperor. I was scared that he might be angry. At me*. For being so defiant, I think....

Over the years, I’ve come to see that I tend to project the image of a mighty strong girl for the folks Out There. It never occurred to me that I could ever be anything else. I never saw anything else. My sister was already the untouchable princess that she was - needing no one and fearing nothing. And there was my mother - the exemplar for us all, the pillar for us all... So how would I dare to be anything less? How woud I dare to defy her? How would I dare to disappoint? Her… I guess I always knew. But it still devastated me in an earth shattering way when I realised that I was – am – neither strong nor brave. That my mother’s courage, my sister’s strength, fell short on me somehow. Only pride succeeded in trickling down. Stupid vapid pride.

Over the years, I’ve come to learn how much of my mum was in me. Everybody knows that I have the same rambunctiousness as my father’s - his boldness, his loudness, his obstination, his obnoxiousness. But underneath it all, I am still but my mother’s daughter. Her spitting image.

Over the years, I’ve come to know that there is still a cord thicker than flesh and blood, stronger than bones, engorgingly grasping, grabbing, gripping and grinding through my guts, galvanizing me with her joy, her pride, her pain, her sorrow. Giving me her love.

But I’ve come to love thunderstorms over the years.
I love the frightful awe it commands. I sat in the blackness of my room last night and watched the trees dancing at its whim, chairs flying at its swift. I love the bolts of light. I love the rumbles of the earth. I love the calm inside...

I knew there would come a time where I’d finally have to let her know. That though I’m still scared of thunderstorms, I want to soak in it. And how I need her to be the calm inside....




Last night it rained.
And while I watched the sky cry, no matter how much I’ve prepared myself to face her phantom pain, how hard it’d be for her to let me go, I realised how gutfully painful it was for me to leave her behind... How despite it all, and whatever I might need to do, I am still always that scared little girl who wants to run to her mother's warm embrace.




And I'm forever grateful I still can.

My brilliant pillar.
My beloved mother.
My bountiful strength.




* Yes, i know. Self-centered as ever. That much either hasn't changed.

alors alors

Who misses bullet-points?

*raises hand like a 6-year-old teacher's pet*

• Went to see the Man Whose Smile Melts My Cold Heart (commonly known as Dumas) over the weekend. Despite some technical mishaps, the concert was all in all fabulous. Sing-alongs, inconspicuous loops, crazy dancing sequence (oh! to the flutter of my beating heart!), acoustic rendition, rocking riffs – it was wonderful, man! And forget about pyrotechnics, spectacular sets and huge screens, it’s all about BALLOONS, people! Unleash some balloons from the ceiling during the second encore and it’s all to make my heart jump with yearning childhood glee! The loveliest surprise of the evening though was the opening gig in the svelte body of a local singer, whose honey musked voice warmed the back of my neck in the sweetest of ways. Alone with a guitar, a harmonica and some few finger clicks, he sang pretty pretty little folksy-pop songs with sorrowful humour that surely delighted the soppy little girl that I am. Oh yes. I want to have his babies.
  Which is necessary to understand, you see, as it may or may not be one of the reasons I ended up buying his record right after the show. *blush* Unfortunately, I only realised the next day that the two songs I really loved were not on it and that he is indeed much better live. *pouts* That’ll teach me to spend money on cute boys. It’s still decent though. And after a few listen, it somehow makes me want to sit by a window sipping hot tea, and write….
  


• Light Bulb Moment of the Week: Lying to mum about having already bought her Mother Day’s gift but forgotten it in someone’s car when in actuality have forgotten it altogether is A Bad Idea. Especially when she is The Crazy Woman, loves gifts and insists that this ‘Someone’ drives by to give it back and, when you point out how unnecessary this is as you are going to meet this ‘Someone’ the next day anyway (lie #2), suggests on driving herself to ‘Someone’’s house to pick said un-existing gift.
  I am going to be struck by lightening and burn in hell, etcetera, etcetera, but it still beats having to see the disappointment in her eyes. There is just so much this poor woman can take [in a very near future]. Besides, the way I figure, her being deceived and my incapability to look her in the eyes for the entire day balances one another out. *wiggles thumbs up*
  


• I have fallen in love with ice wine. Or as I like to call it Oh Sweet Nectar Of Gods. *drools & falls over herself*
  


• I have discovered that the sound of motor trucks can simulate bird speach. Or vice versa. As I laid in bed this morning in the sweet slumbers of five a.m. and was gently woken up by construction workers who, within some few 50 metres away from my bedroom window, were busy grilling, moving and shoving large things about, it dawned on me that I was probably onto something when gently tweeting pierced through my ears.
  In the name of science, I shall transcribe here a part of the conversation for future references:
  
  

  "Broom, vraaaaaaahh!"
  "Tweet! Tweet! Tweet!"
  "Brrrooom broom Brooooooooomm."
  "Twee-twee Tweet! Tweet Twe-weet! Tweet!"
  "Vrrrrreeeeeeee-IIIIIIIIIGH!"
  "TWEEEEEEEEEEEEET! tweIIIIIIIIIIIT! Twee..."
  "...rrrrrrrrrAOORGGGH! VRAOOOOOOOM!"
  "Tweet-tweet-tweet-tweet-tweeet-tweeeeeeet-tweet-tweet-tweet-tweet-twee tweeet twe..."
  "..."
  "Twee-twet-twet-twetwetwetwet tweeeeeet?"
  "Pssssshhhaooorgh!"
  "TWEET TWEET TWEET TWEET TWEET TWEET!"
  etc.

  Is there someone out there to confirm and/or translate? If you are an ornithologist, zoologist, biologist, sound engineer and/or bird hunter, please leave your answers/rates in the comments below. Thank you.
  


• What a lovely Spring day it was yesterday.
  
  
  Which, of course, also meant Great Shopping Spring Day. As I busied through my carefully planned schedule, I stumbled upon a hardcover of David Sedaris’ Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim for a ridiculous 7.99$! Which, with my irewards rebay, came to a total of 7.62! Huzzah! With the book in tow and an extra beat in my steps, I then wandered towards Shop With Enviable Frocks, and just look what I’ve got my hands on now (aside some Fruit-Of-The-Loom undies):
  
  
  I know. Please stop looking at me like that. I’ve been coveting this skirt for months, OKAY?! And just when I thought it wasn’t meant to be, there it was, hanging sheepishly on its little lonesome with a SIXTY DOLLARS LESS price tag! Zoing! As if that wasn’t enough proof that Fate was bringing the two of us together, it was in MY EXACT SIZE! Angels could have flown down and chanted for our holy union and it wouldn’t be so perfect! And I just look so puhr’dy in it, ma!... *puppy eyes*
  


• Question of the Week: What causes two seemingly full-functionning adults to make out in the middle of a café? In broad daylight? Where there are actual people around? Hm?! I’m aware that T’is the season to be horny, and while some superficial people take more joys in finding the perfect all-year-round skirt others prefer giving in to the throws of hormones love, it still doesn’t explain why they have to - oh but literally - LICK EACH OTHER’S FACE OFF! RIGHT. IN. FRONT. OF. ME! And loud enough, in fact, that I can HEAR them when my ears are PLUGGED IN! Gah! Sure, I suppose a normal person would simply look away, but:
  
  

  1) Where I am sitting, I’d risk developping cervicalgia if I were to turn to either side, and frankly (a) I'd look [even more] retarded should I position myself so awkwardly, and (b) why the hell should I discomfort myself for their sake anyway? Are we not in a public space after all? Mutual respect, consideration for thy neighbors, etc, etc. GET A ROOM, YOU!;
  
  2) In some twisted way, it’s just morbidly fascinating, innit? Like watching a car crash, or a baby taking a fall (or is that just me? anyone?), your eyes can’t seem to escape such odd manifestation of the human body. (Lordy! Even as I type these words, I can see their tongues sipping out like ol’Nessy peeping for air from the corner of my eyes!) *shudders*

  …Which brings us to Subquestion of the Week: Is it terribly shallow of me to find unattractive people making out the best premarital-sex prevention method?
  


• Okay. What’s the deal here? That’s the second person to come up to me today and start a conversation out of the bloody blue. Is it because of the season? Is there a drug sale going on and everyone’s on crack? Do I somehow look like a nice sociable person?! [Note to self: reconsider goth look.] The strange part is I am actually engaging in the conversation. While my head screams for me to shut the fuck up and run away, my mouth keeps rattling on, jolly answering to their questions, attentively listening in, and (oh why, in the name of Sweet Frozen Grapes!?) pertinently raising side issues! Pah!... Further proof that there is an important link missing from my brain to my mouth.
  


• It is unfortunate for me to announce that Pollens have officially declared war on me and taken over my respiratory system. If I wish to have a winning chance against these nasty little buggers, drastic measures must be taken for the greater good. Will you please excuse me now as I go cut my nose, peel off my skin and poke my eyes out.
  This, hopefully, might also discourage strangers from striking uncalled chit-chat with me.
  As they say, two birds with one stone.
  Sadly, only figuratively.

And it all ties in together. *bows out*

heart in a cage*

Coffee shop.
Drinking coffee.
And stealing internet.

“…So he was an engineer, Italian. Had worked for a few years, and said he’d saved up enough money to be salary free while he does his MBA. So, we went out for coffee, the four of us, and they hit it off! Really liked each other, went out, getting very serious. Then… he dumps her…”, the sassy girl with the most horrendous beige jacket two tables away from me murmurs loudly with an appalled expression, emphasizing her disbelief. Dumps.

[Note to self: Never buy beige jacket.]

“He says ‘I’m not ready for anything serious right now’”. Pause for her prettier friend to react. Pretty Friend gasps. “And I felt so bad! I mean - and she didn’t say this but I know how she thinks and she wants to get married and y’know - but for Jen, this was for her the guy...”, she continues. My heart cringes. “… And she’s such a sweet girl, good family, intelligent, involved in the community but she tells me, ‘It’s hard you know? I just don’t know where to go? I work everyday, and see the same people everyday. I try to go out…’ But she’s right, when you reach a certain age, it’s hard... I mean, she’s twenty-eight now…”.

*breaks abruptly screech across the room*

Um. Since when did twenty-fucking-eight years old became ‘a certain age’? Who are these girls? Time-travellers from 1946? It would certainly explain the odd taste in professional wear. And she does look rather young come to think about it…. Hmmm. Could it be that I am in a sci-fi novel?...

Pretty Friend nods agreeably. “Yeah, it is hard”, she mumbles over her tea.

Erm?! But more importantly, is that what I will turn into one day? A Twenty Something Working Wife Trying To Have A Baby While Setting Up Her Single Friends Keener? (Alright, so i’ve been listening in for a while…) Is that what I am expected to aspire to?

Spring is never good to me. Aside from the pressure of Being Happy, and enjoying the renewed weather when you’re feeling more like the residue mud underneath, with this sunny season also comes the pre-programmed hormonal button in our animalistic nature switched on to ‘Fornicate’. Always. Like a bloody fucking clock. What's worse, I also become filled with this strange intense desire to be with someone. To settle down and procreate, or, in more brainwashing rom-com terms, to fall in love and live happily ever after. The most disconcerting part is, I actually buy into all of it. Yes. I do believe I want it.

That is, until that conversation.

I do feel bad for Jen. Who is only twenty-eight years old, wants to get married, can’t, and already pitied & condescendingly considered as a freakster by her loved ones. I feel bad for her broken heart. Honestly (tch - i’m not heartless). But in that entire conversation, the conversationalists included, the only one that seemed to make sense to me was sadly the idiot MBA dumper! And then I can’t help but wonder [à la Carry Bradshaw - without the pouffy hair, divine shoes & general fabulousness], is refusing to get married a symptom of our selfish young self’s Fear Of Becoming An Adult? And for me, the real question is, what is an adult? How does marriage define it? And why does everyone seem so keen on it anyway? Like misery, does absurdity simply love company?

I am not against marriage per se. Actually, I get quite excited at weddings – what’s not to like? Pretty sparkly clothes? Good. Ginormous cake? Good. Corny music to drunkenly dance to? Good, good, good. But marriage is trickier than one massively expensive party, isn’t it? I just don’t quite get it, you see. I suppose I understand that some people want to get married because it sets their relationship in stone. It’s a further, formal form of commitment. Very well. However, can one not be as committed to a relationship and have every single person important in their life be aware that they are firmly serious & dedicated to that relationship just as much as a married person is? I’m well aware that, even when ridden with all these statistics on divorce, studies have shown that married couples are more likely to stay together than unmarried couples. Yes, yes. But, the first thing that comes to mind is, what do I care about these other couples? And second, are all these people together because they are really happy & in love? Because aren’t there sadly those who simply maintain their relationship because it would be such a big long hassle to actually go through with a divorce? That their being together is dependent upon the effort to get out? Now to me, that argument sounds a little insulting, is it not? Knowing that my partner is staying with me out of… laziness? Call me innocently idealistic, I do understand that relationships are hard & certainly not always rosy, but I’d just rather have someone who is consciously intended to be with me. Out of his own will. Or because he cannot help it, as in, I’m the the absolute bee’s knees to him, that sort of soppy crap. Not because it’s 'too complicated' to get out. Because if I want out of a relationship, whether it requires me to lift the goddamn Mount Kilimanjaro or fly to the moon, I would. Never mind the hassle of divorce.

Inversely then, I suppose one can ask is marriage necessary in order to completely be with someone. Because… it is what society expects from us? Because that is what my parents demand from me? So I can ‘rightfully’ have children? But isn’t that what my sister is there for (bless her heart!)?

I mean, technically speaking, all above reasons don’t really make any sense, now do they? One can perfectly cohabit with one another in utter love & commitment (which are no easy tasks in & of itself, if one must insist that nothing good comes without effort), and have children just the same (biology doesn’t require a license to actually occur). So… why exactly does one go through all that contractual paperwork & financial predicament to get married if it is not really necessary? Ruling out religious purposes**, is there some other deep fundamental reason altogether?

… Is it out of fear? Or rather to get rid of that fear. The fear of being considered as marginal, unwanted, rejected, abandoned and/or alone? And knowing that a piece of paper binding the two of you together is somehow a sufficiently satisfying security net?

Two friends and a (younger!) cousin of mine are now engaged. To be married. And it freaks the begesus out of me. Not because I don’t want them to get married - I’m happy as long as they’re happy, of course, and hope that they are doing what’s right for them. The problem is, like Jen, I have suddenly fallen into that age bracket of folks who, by association, are ‘marriable’. And am now faced with the question more than I have naïvely expected. Even my mum is hopping on the bandwagon and have keenly asked me on several occasions if I’m to get married as well, which, between you & me, dear blogosphere, throws me slightly out of my delusional egocentric orbit as she has never asked nor alluded anything regarding my romantic relationships before. Ever. Which was fine by me, thankyouverymuch! Alas, no more!***

Aaaand... here I stand now.

Twenty-four years old & unable to come up with any good reason that would ever push me to do it. Even if the fear is there. But in many ways, I think I’m very much still that same Seventeen-Year-Old Girl who refuses to give in to what she considers as The Man. Or do things out of fear. Especially when it comes to love****. Utterly naïve? Perhaps. Hopelessly juvenile? Most likely. But until I can find a good reason***** for it – for me – I just can’t seem to wrap myself around the concept, is all.

...Which doesn’t mean I haven’t wondered what I’d look like in a pretty white dress. I usually look good in white.

“Truth is, and I hate to say this, but when you spend all those years trying to get ahead, set your career up, or you know, find yourself or whatever, I mean that’s what happens…”, wisely muses Twenty Something Working Wife Trying To Have A Baby While Setting Up Her Single Friends Keener as Pretty Friend shrugs distractingly.

[Note to self: Step. Away. From. The. Table. Sloooow-ly.]




* Hullo! Slow day? (And honestly, if you are reading this, the paint must have already dried , eh?). Click here then. Just bc it's a great song. As you were.

**Not bc that is not worth considering, quite the contrary. Though i am not myself religious, in such cases, i understand why would one desire marriage, assuming that uniting under God factors somewhat importantly in a religious person’s wish to be married. Do feel free to correct me if i am wrong though.

*** Being the kind of conventional yet independent strong lady that she is, The Crazy Woman never really wanted us to be linked in anyway with boys, you understand, yet there she was, non-chalantly MAKING PLANS FOR MY WEDDING! With whom? I haven’t a clue. What that does imply however is we must have The Talk sooner than I have planned… (no, not that kind of talk. That kind of talk shall, hopefully, NEVER be discussed with The Crazy Woman as she is, well, crazy - The Talk I am referring to is not that much more pleasant though, as it might get her, well, crazier…).*shudders*

****Assuming of course that one gets married out of love and not some economical/political arrangement, in which case it’s a whole other post.

***** And, um, a boyfriend, of course. If one is to be sensical about it and all. Carry on.

big mouth strikes again

As some readers who (somehow?!) stumble upon my virtual meanderings may have realised, I don’t dive much into political/social discussions around here. Nope. Aside for the fact that I am fundamentally self-obsessed and frivolously cultured, this is also because I rather have what I deem as 'Adult Conversation' live, so to speak. With friends and/or family and/or random strangers over food and/or/of course lots of liquor, where one can thoroughly enjoy all the passionately weird facial expressions, vociferous highs & lows, exaggerated & dramatic hand gestures, in-jokes, rabid retorts, and a building momentum where everyone ends up shouting at one another. Ah! Good times! I think I have a belligerent streak in me, which may have been passed down courtesy of me Daddio. (Not that The Crazy Woman is a kitten either, but when discussions are mixed with my dad’s right-wing friendly obstination and my conviction that I’m always right, it always makes for a particularly… auditive experience, whereas my mum simply prefer to shy away from direct confrontation by giving us the Evil Eye.)

Anyway, all that to say (and also to provide further proof that I can’t help but to talk about myself anyhow – seriously, it’s a curse) that this is going to be one of those 'Adult Posts'. Sort of. (Oh, who am I kidding? It's not.)

I am not going to pretend that Canadian politics is all that exciting (OR that I actually know much anything about it), however last night’s electoral run was some kind of roller-coaster that may or may not have seen yours truly rise from her drenched sweated seat* & hop around the house making jihad chants** as the thin social fabric that have leisurely rocked her priviledged ass crumbled when the Action Democratic Of Quebec rose from the bowels of hell. Yes, the ADQ that promises to solve all of the financial, educational and health issues from its own windy fart. Um. Yeah. I suppose if I were high on myself [enough] and gulped down an entire bottle of Ritalin, I could have come up with a loosely similar ‘program’. AND WIN 31% OF QUEBECOIS VOTES! Squashing the PQ to the grounds as the LEADING opposition!

Now, being a non-separatist and all, I have never been of the Parti Quebecois, but at least i enjoyed and would actually listen to what they have to say. They're like the arch nemesis of the Liberal Party, and seeing them crushed - but literally - was heartbreaking in the same way that seeing David Xanatos being destroyed by Demona*** would be devastating!

While Beelzebub Junior slowly wraps his dirty little fingers around the confusedly 'leftist' political throne, it was announced that the barely leading Liberal Party was going to reign as a minority government - which was no big surprise, really - BUT WITH NO PREMIERE AS CHAREST LOST IN HIS COUNTY! Oh the horror! You should have seen my poor sister who is a die-hard fan of the Liberals. There were sighs, then cries, then a lot of screaming and death threats (while I congratulated myself a little in the inside for making a good call by running away from it all to England [soon enough, I cry & plead hopefully!]). We figured that all was lost and everything we held dear - the life-long battle between the Liberals & the PQ, the stable shitty government that everyone complains about which allowed all this spoilt whinging anyway - was surprisingly twirling down the drains! Oh, save the children! We were finally going to taste true chaos! As I already began dancing & chanting in my indigenous taunt****, a sudden frantic recount in Sherbrooke settled, at the very last possible minute, that – hurrah! – we were going to have a legitimate leader after all! What a [insignificant yet relieving] turn of events! We all gathered around the telly keenly waiting for the poor man to deliver his defeated speech of victory at around 1am, and I was genuinely glad and touched by [and believed!] his dignified & humble discourse. That of the sad PQ leader, André Boisclair, reeked however with understandable disappointment and held-back tears. It was quite sad, honestly. And queasy to watch.

Anyhow, it’ll be interesting to see in the next few weeks & months as the ADQ gather their shits together trying to figure out what the hell they are doing in the National Assembly while the two arch rival PLQ & PQ might finally join force to battle against a common foe. Oh, these are exciting times***** indeed!…

Will be back to my usual uninformative shallow naval-gazing self soon enough. At ease.





* Right, well, yes. I suppose i should specify right away that i am infringing the first law of voting, in that i am whining here when i *cough*didn'tevenvote*cough*.... BUT! I wanted to, but, then i just...didn't really care give a shit could.... Ahem. Besides, it's not like it would have counted anyway seeing as where i live people are actually literate and didn't vote for the devil, so there. Really. It's not all that bad!... All alright! i'll sign up for some extra volunteering be really keen and helpful and extra nice, from now on, yes? It balances everything out in the end! Um...Look! A bird!
**Right, should have warned that this wasn't going to be necessarily very PC either, eh? (Tch, of course, i mean in a ironic way... ahem.)
*** Yes, well, i've been oddly reminiscing about my childhood lately.... Suppose when things seemed much simpler, and my biggest concern was either gargoyles & humans can have babies and whether or not i could steal wear my sister's Calvin Klein socks to school without her knowing it. *sigh*
**** cf. 2nd endnote.
*****Ouh! the possibly really good exciting news of the night was that the Green Party actually increased in popularity! Yay! And I'm not all dead and cynical in the inside!

picture of my life

While some of my friends are raising havoc at a Frat Party this very minute (it’s all about them cheap beer, young impressionable 17-year-old girls and sexually confused first year Saskatoon lads, you understand... god speed, me boys, god speed!), I am neatly tucked away in bed with a facial (yes, the Depends pads are very comfortable, thank you for asking). Although the unsurpassable amount of beer that taste like piss and drunken pretentious college boys whose best pickup line is "you're such a hawt Asian* chick - burrrrrp" would ratle up any girl's fantasy, I just have the feeling that I can't resist biting some heads off tonight. And speaking of biting, I have not yet digested all that I have eaten, so thought as well to spare the lovely folks at Sigma Chi Lambda Alpha Omega Delta I Haven't The Slightest Clue Really the sweet smell of my bowel movement over the delicious sex pheromones & vomiting sweat. Case in point - what I have ingested today:

• 2 bowls of Crispix** cereal [which the only grocer carrying it, in a fit akin to Jack Bauer's torturous rage, is no longer selling. They have stopped having it for a while but around Christmas, much to my childish delight, decided to restock only to YANK IT away from its shelves again. Why, dear Metro Gods, why?]
• half a roll of rosette de lyon sausage from La Charcuterie de Père Lemoine, with enough black peppers to start a small fire in one's throat.
• a plate of linguine (couldn't resist taking picture of it - notice the melting garlic butter on top. Mm-aaaarrhhh....)
• a plate of sweet sticky rice with fried onions i had to fight over with The Crazy Woman.
• Yummy roast chicken with steamed rice [that would be supper, in case anyone was wondering, courtesy of The fabulous Crazy Woman.]
• A pot noodle. Or two.

[Note to self: must learn to say 'stop'. And actually stop.]

Have also been geekilly youtubing all the music videos i've missed out on, and came to the conclusion that it seriously sucks rats balls to be on a tight budget, as i absolutely must get my hands on The Good, The Bad and The Queen record, as well as the new Arcade Fire***!

And these shoes!

Dancing shoes.
Only-In-My-Dreams shoes.

Prim-And-Proper-Sunday-Garden-Party shoes. (Not that i have ever been, or know anyone who's gone, to a garden party before.)

For some reason remind me of Jem-And-The-Holograms shoes. Which makes me want them even more. I mean, i've even named them and all, so of course they should be mine!...

Yes, it is a sad life I live.

*That would be something not to say to get a girl. EVER. But that is a very long post for another day, i'm afraid...
**As oppose to something like Coco Puffs, or Lucky Charms, i always very boringly prefer something relatively plain in taste. They are the ones that you can eat endlessly, in my opinion. Although i oddly feel like having some of'em Lucky Charms now....
***Speaking of which, their encore performances here were completely SOLD OUT TODAY! *cries* Due, might i add to a bunch of LYING WHORES at one shabby music store who told us they were to go on sale TOMORROW. May you have CRABS, Dirty Blond Shag Boy and Old Nancy Dweeb With Scary Neck Rash! Freakishly gargantuesque Super-Crabs! Now if anyobody can tell me how to get or has an extra ticket, i will gratefully repay them in any way possible. With anything. My soul, anyone? Seriously, anyone?...

china pig

When I was growing up, my hands-down top favorite holiday was Têt, or more commonly known as the Chinese Lunar New Year. More than Christmas, more than Halloween, more than my own birthday or the last day of school (which is, of course, of 'Holiday' status in any young impressionalbe little mind) I would anxiously wait for it to come and wonder why it couldn’t make up its mind and stick to one fixed day already.

There were all these traditional little rituals surrounding it: the bidding farewell to the Three Kitchen Gods the week before, who were believed to live in every household’s oven as to keep a keen eye on us during the year & report back to the Heavens (and who, once away, I always thought could not see us anymore, and therefore licensed everyone to act in a most unexemplary way, although unusually, I noted no such increase in crimes or misbehaviours during that week. Yes, the Asian Guilt is that powerful…); the big cleaning of the house to receive the New Year in stride; the picking of clementines from the pagoda tree, upon which is delivered our yearly fortune; the well-wishing to our elders who’d then give us in return little red envelops filled with monetary good luck (also my only steady source of income from the age of 7 to 16).

The family gatherings during Têt were particularly filled with craziness. Gambling, laughing and giggling and lots of screaming. We'd always fight for food, or to get ahead in line to wish my eldest aunt a good year (and really for the biggest envelop. Ahem), or be last with my sister because we’d never know what to say to our own parents (we’re not too good at expressing our feelings, always wanting to cry, y'see [from resignation and/or despair… Bah! I kid, I kid! Of course, nothing but love and gratitude, mum!... hahahah... I will be struck by lightning one of these days. Seriously.]). And then, of course, there is The Food.

Shrimp & Lotus Salad.
Sweet & Spicy.

Imperial Rolls.
Aren't they just perrrfect?

Assortment of fresh meat.
Best with lots of beer.
Aye.

Fried Tofu with lemongrass.
Or, The Only Tofu I Eat.

[So Good I'm Salivating All Over My Keyboard] Quails.

The traditional Square Sticky Rice Cake.

Almond cake.
Bite size.
Bloody brilliant.

Soursop candy. Heavenly

And My Absolute Favorite...
Chewy Mung Bean Rice Balls.
(Gooey, gingery and oh so gooooooood.)

How convenient it should be the Year of the Pig, innit? And there are heaps more too, but as it is fairly impossible to take pictures and have to win the fight for the last piece of fried lobster tail at the same time, i had to prioritize, you understand. It's a wonder i haven't burst through my new pants already, that's all i've gotta say.

But of all these celebrations, there is one particular reason that makes the New Year the crème de la crème of all holidays. When i was a kid, i used to love watching my mum prepare all the meals and all the minute attention she'd give to each superstitious detail. The gracious beholden humility she'd pray to the Heavens and Earth. To our ancestors... She took it all very seriously, and no matter what mood you were in, or whether you believed in a higher power or the Earth spirit or nothing at all, her attentive devotion was always enough to render a genuine purpose to it all.

And it still does. It is the only time in our household when everyone is completely silent. In a heedful quietness. Peaceful and febrile, ready to welcome the New Year.

When i was a kid, it was also the only time i could stay up past midnight, regardless of whether i had school the next day or not, just so i can be part of it all. It was a family thing. We'd tell eachother the same old stories again, and we'd laugh about it again. And having to be part of it once more, i realise it is still the only time when i feel like that exact same kid. Again. And why it is Reason Why I Love Being Asian #1.

girls talk

Busy busy little bee I’ve been lately, but no worries for I am happy to report that I’m in a particularly whinging mood today, and since there is a shockingly debilitating amount of work to be done, here goes my rampantly avoidant fingers! Huzzah!

For a little while now, I’ve been distractingly looking for an obi/gyn (operating word being ‘distractingly’) but having never gone to one before and being a fully grown 24-year-old lass (do I need to reaffirm my Queen Procrastinator crown?), I am understandably growing a certain discomfort at such an idea as I surely do not wish to turn into those ladies with a tumour the size of Dom Deluise sitting on my hips before the authorities have to carry me out through my bedroom window and find myself on TLC (especially since I am cultivating the possibility of getting me one of them "sex partner"). So today, I gathered all the critical researching abilities my pedantic acculturation have offered me thus far and googled up all the info I needed. Yes, Google folks, my undying love to yous. But that is where the love stops.

Seriously, had I known it was such a feat to find a decent gynecologist I would have agreed to let my mum check on me, give me her Hot/Cold-Oh-God-My-Daughter-Is-Not-A-Virgin-Anymore diagnosis and Eat-More-Soup-&-Vegetables-To-Cleanse-You-You-Dirty-Whore prescription*. Okay, not really. But that’s only bc she has the reputation of being The Crazy Woman (as clearly confirmed above) and I’m not too keen on dying yet. After finding some very useful sites, it sadly however pointed me towards directions where the specialists were either unavailable, disappearing into maternity without warning or re-referring her patients, great but not taking new patients, taking patients but only interested in obstetrics, or taking patients but are "cold" "condescending" "money-hungry bitches". Excellent! How I suddenly felt so warmly supported by those who understand women’s need to accessible healthcare! Ggnnnn-arrghh Grrr.

Maybe is it that we have a crap healthcare system here in Canada? Or just in Quebec? Are all the qualified, kind and accessible doctors gone to Timbuktu or something? I mean, I’m fine that they are in Timbuktu, actually I feel pretty great about it - it’ll be fantastic that good doctors are where there are very much needed - but shitty hell, can there please be enough to go around for us all? There’s this consensus that specialised physicians here in Quebec are well underpaid compared to say their colleagues south the border, or even in other provinces. Countless times have I met students from outside Quebec who are here bc the University tuition is ridiculously lower than where they live (even under International Students fees), and who, once have sucked out all the blood got their degree, run away where the salary is that much more appealing. Boo! Hiss! Yes, but - though I am whole-heartedly abiding to the idea that qualified medical care should not be a matter of money AND available for all – how are we supposed to offer such services – no! – rights unless the government can actually attract these greedy whoring pansies specialists with something more than a virtuous idealised vision for them to stay in the first place? And need I mention the deplorably chaotic environment & insane hours these folks we’re counting on for saving our lives work in around here? I wouldn’t trust my laptop to someone who hasn’t slept in 24 hours and gets to practice their skills once in a blue moon while leaving computers discarded all over the floor, let alone my glorious punani, would you? Seriously, if I was one of them, I’d fucking run away too! Yes, I’m blaming the government, people! It’s the bloody government I am blindly pointing my finger at for being unable to spread my legs and have a good woman uncomfortably probe me! Really, is that too much to ask?!

After five hours – FIVE. HOURS. – of searching, calling, sneering (one fucking receptionist laughed at me when I asked her if the doctor is taking new patients! LAUGHED! Am going to stalk her down and cut her!) and rejection, I pulled out my last card – calling my sister’s gynecologist. I don’t know, isn’t it weird to have the same obi/gyn as one's sister’s? Isn’t it like a little incestuous somehow? To have the same person touch us both…there?

*tries desperately to shoo mental image*
*whimpers & runs away*

I called anyway. A recording of a lady who seemed to think that everyone who dials in must be either dull or doesn’t have anything else to do, contemptuously gree…ted…me…by…tal…king…like…this. It took her TEN MINUTES to finish telling me where the goddamn clinic was! Then, cut to sleep-inducing music for another five minutes. And cut back to her telling me how…an…nu…al…con…sul…ta…tion…is…a…non…pri…o…ri…ty. Cut back to Bang My Head On My Desk Music, then dring!, followed by me being so elated I can do back flips to “….o…ur…cli…nic…is…si…tu…a…ted…in….” FACKIU! Forty-seven minutes & thirty-six seconds later, I was FINALLY able to speak to a real person, who informed me that my sis’ gyno is “probably” not taking new patients [OF COURSE NOT!] and if she does, she’s only interested in obstetrics [BECAUSE SINGLE CHILDLESS WHORES ARE NOT WORTH IT!] and besides, the earliest they can take me is in May [BECAUSE YOU DESERVE TO DIE NOW YOU SELFISH SLUT!].

Ugh. I finally resolved (because I don’t have that much hair left to pull out) for an appointment with a resident doctor in March - which isn’t that bad, i know. But yes, just a little rez for me. I’m too beat-up to care at the moment. They just better pray that this paranoid hypochondriac won’t die from some crazy sex monkey disease** until then, or I will raise back from the dead to haunt every one I spoke to. Especially that sneering receptionist (sleep with one eye open, bitch).

*takes a deep breath*

Well, that was therapeutical. Too much information? Well, too bad, here’s another one.

Yes, you read correctly. I am thinking of taking myself a sex partner. Some might call it a ‘lover’ but there’s something ominously old-world about that word that conjures images of consumption, opium and/or jumping over the train tracks for me, which despite the notes of glamorous romanticism, is not exactly what I am aiming at. Others, being more au courant I suppose, might refer this as a ‘fuckfriend’. Now, I don’t want to appear semantically anal but a fuckfriend to me implies that you fuck before being friends - nothing than a booty call, or a last call - and although it is all well & nice, a ‘quick’ & ‘easy’ shag isn’t quite what I am looking for either. I want a sex partner. Someone with whom I have a very adult arrangement that includes mutual respect, warm company, good conversation and your frequent sexual tryst, of course. A partnership, yes? But without the obligations & attachment usually implied in your regular romantic relationships. In other words, I want all the ‘good’ parts of a having a boyfriend and none of that ‘bad’ stuff. (I am a greedy lazy bum who wants to have her double-chocolate with mocha & vanilla swirl cake and eat it too. Hello!) But it sounds very mature to me, very adult. It’s clear, and clean, and honest. There’s no beating around the bush, no playing games, and that’s what I want. Because if I have to go through one more of those first encounters, flirting, get-to-know-each other conversational bullshit I think I am going to chew my left arm off and spit it back on their face before kung-fu kicking myself senseless - not quite the image i like to give off. Not the first time anyway. This way, everything is already on the table, and therefore should be easier, no?

Seriously, the more I think about it, the more it sounds reasonable, sensical, logical. And feasible… as I just might have the perfect candidate for the position too… The only thing left to do (aside from not dying from consumption before March) is to get over my prudish reservations and ask him already. And down an entire bottle of vodka.

Oh, stay tuned folks for my impending Most Embarrassing Moments!...



* Don't ask. It's an Asian thing...
** Not that i have had any intimate acquaintances with any monkey. Ever. Crazy or otherwise. Just so you know....

have a cuppa tea

We were having brunch in my sister's kitchen.

"I am sooo tired...".
"Why?", i iquired, quizzically.
"Because i woke up at 6?", said she in the condescending tone she was congenitally blessed with.
"Why?", i responded in the annoyed fashion i was habitually trained.
"Because i had to clean the garage?", she continued in her charmingly loving tone.
"Why?!", i asked with my eyes criss-crossing in their confused self-injuring manner.
"Because the painters were coming early this morning to paint the garage?" Ah. No, wait...
"Why didn't you clean it last night?"
"Because i was watching Naruto until 1 o'clock in the morning?" Right. Silly me.

My mum cheerfully waltzed in. She was bright & sunny, and her cheeks were rosy from the frisky autumn wind. She looked like one of those cute little Inuk dolls. She put on the kettle, took out a cup, and proceeded in doing her New Thing - grabbing my sister's boob. "Yours are like flat steamed buns, and hers [mine] are like puffy steamed buns!", she declared, triumphantly, poured herself some tea, and coyly walked away.

My sister stood stunned in horror. I rolled on the floor laughing until snort came out.

Ladies & gentlemen, i present to you my mother, The Crazy Woman.