perhaps vampires is a bit strong but...

We have a new Operations Manager at work. I’m not entirely sure what he does (carry out spying operations? Operate complicated machineries? Both?), one thing’s for sure, it involves wankery.

On Friday, he did ‘the rounds’ and basically 'taught' us how to sell our souls the restaurant, which left me a trifle confused as we’ve never been busier. He also pulled me aside regarding a complaint... Guess what? It wasn't for me. Another sign that this guy knows his shit: “The one thing you must ensure is to keep that customer and not let them walk out the door, even if we’re full... How do you feel about getting them the ringer?” Faced with the unabashed puzzled (and slightly frighteningly appalled) gleam in my eyes, he explained that ‘the ringer’, instead of being a krav maga move or the really bad movie that Jackass guy was in as I suspected, is a gadget given to clients while they wait for a table at the bar or some such sort, and as soon as it's ready, transmits a ring and/or vibration via a controller so they can trod their way towards gluttony goodness. Not unlike the cattle we ironically sell them. Because, you know, walking up and greet them to the table yourself is just too damn personal for a small restaurant like ours. And I suppose it does slow down the entire spending process.

Derrr...

Sure, I’m no business woman – heck, I’m can barely haggle my way through a decent deal with that shop keeper on the street who sell his pashminas £0.83 more than the one on the other side of the road - but it seems that all these ‘strategies’ and ‘gadgets’ to ‘upsale’ sounds a bit cold and unfriendly, donnit? And from a customer’s point of view, rather obviously desperate? And off-putting? And did I mention cold, unfriendly and, you know, generally unattractive? Because when I go to a restaurant, beside the food, it’s the homely and welcoming atmosphere, the comfort in knowing that you’re not just a walking dollar sign nor will you be treated as such, with overbearing greetings, fake friendliness and obvious sales pitch - that stinking smell of cheese (not the good kind anyway) - that gets me through the door. Or is that just me being childishly naïve again? No, like, srisly, I can’t tell anymore.

A colleague and I, in what we innocently thought was a random conversation with one of these new Sales-y managers (we’re trying to ‘re-brand’ ourselves, apparently), were suddenly quizzed on what the ‘6 R’s’ were. As we looked at him as though he landed from Planet Twat, surprised mostly of the existence of such a planet in the first place, he made a note to speak of it in next week’s meeting. Oups. Apparently, when faced with a complaint, the infamous 6 R’s, as he was happy to inform us, are: 1) Remove object of complaint; 2) Report to upper management; 3) Replace item of complaint; 4) ...frankly, I was too repulsed at this point as I realised how retardedly unaware of his own moronic rapport with human reasonning to concentrate on what he was rhyming at. Then I was distracted in wondering if there’s an R’s rule on how to not smack your boss? Refrain, restrain, re-consider, run and retire?

Anyrooney, if this is how it’s going to be from now on, I’m afraid I might have to kick my Do Not Bite the Hand That Feeds You policy right into Bitchville on these virtual pages. As well as start drinking heavily .

ball cap*

After five months in The Second Most Expensive City IN THE WORLD, I think I’m finally getting the hang of it. But why aimlessly & disorderly ramble on about it when I can use subheadings to fart out air of deluded self-importance? Yeah!

(Even though I’m sure as I type this, I have jinxed everything and will be ridden to bedrest, run over by a mental bus driver & infested with a new form of malaria. It is London after all.)

1. Slaving for the Man Pig

Back home, I worked in a relatively nice restaurant in the heart of one of the trendier places of the city. After six years, and though I met and befriended some lovely folks there, it’s not exactly a place to work on a daily basis if your mental health is so intricately dependent upon your Faith In Human Beings. So you have to ask yourself, why in the name of sweet baby Jaysus have I found myself in one of the busiest and ‘trendiest’ joint in town?




Don’t look at me.
I’ve been punched in the face.**

Also, as I’d hate to ‘bite the hand that feeds me’ (or some other proverb, maxim, aphorism or witticism – you know, one of those, I can’t b e bothered), it is kinda exactly what I’ve asked for, innit? And despite having to deal with people who seem to have bitterly overgrown their nappies & become vaguely aware that it would be somewhat frowned upon to be seen breastfed by their mummies, answering questions to which you’ve already explicitly replied, demands that boggles any human logic and rudeness that brings about the Godzilla within about 50 times more than what you deem should be the legal amount allowed before committing random acts of violence - with compliance and a warm smile! - it is actually not that bad…. (Aside, of course, for the slight twitch I’ve developped in my right arm from restraining it to swing forth.)

The food is purdhy awesome – and free *winks* - and the entertainment from the ubiquitous love affairs, cliques, backstabbing, whisperings and glares is completely fabulous if not completely exasperating.

And I did get to see Hugh Grant.

Complain not lest ye be judged, I say!

2. Being A Consumerist Whore

Portobello market’s insane and TopShop is pricier than it appears. But for the little time and money I’ve had in my name I somehow managed to buy five pairs of shoes/boots since I’ve been here. Count it – one, two, three, four, five – five pairs of shoes/boots in one, two, three, four, FIVE months. (That’s one per month without food, for those out there who’s counting, thank you.) Granted, I’m a long way from becoming Carrie Bradshaw, but foregoing basic survival instincts to, say, live, in exchange for footwear? T’is my new life aspiration!

Seriously. Never have I been surrounded by so many beautiful, comfortable and affordable shoes in my life. Yes, affordable. And comfortable. And did I mention gor-gei-yuuuusss? Forget Mr. Effexor***, give me pumps any day!

You see, the great thing about London, fashion and design are embedded in every corner. Paris is prettier, Florence sweeter, Vienna greater, New York grittier, in my humble opinion, but London’s art culture is within its guts. There’s an artistic urgency here that I’ve never quite felt anywhere else. It’s overwhelming, really. The sheer number of vintage shops, independent music shops, cooky designer products shop, art galleries and art schools and art bakeries and art-this and art-that, is mind-numbing. I never really considered myself to be a small town girl, but ma’, we certainly ain’t in Kansas no more!

Here are just some of the cool places to look for, like, cool stuff I've managed to take in:

• magma: I never quite know where it is located, or exactly how to get there as all the times I’ve stumbled upon it I was lost. But it’s in Soho, and if there’s only one thing I learned here is that every road leads to somewhere awesome in Soho. The flagship is a bookstore that carries cooky arty/design gems I’d all buy if I had the money, while a few steps down the road you’ll find one filled with a buncha cool cards, gadgets and decorations. Utterly useless stuff, yes, but my, how joy-inducing!
  
  
• fopp: Again, another awesome store in Soho. Originally a Glaswegian retailer, it provides books, music, dvds for a fraction of what one of those Big Megatstore offers. One can spend days there rumaging through their floors for big names or dodgy elitist shit. It’s like an music geek’s wet dream and it makes me slightly regret I grew up with Wham! instead (damn you, Big Sister, damn you! *fist to the sky*)
  
  
• Grant & Cutler: Biggest European bookstore I know, right behind Oxford Street, that carries French books. They have piles and piles of books over shelves stocked to the electrical-wired open ceiling. It's neither corky nor pretty like some other smaller bookstore I’ve seen but it feels like one of those school libraries where I used to skip classes to linger in and spent literally hours reading about authors whose works were covered in the same lectures I was incidentally missing. It makes me all warm & gooey in the inside.
  
  
• Marks & Spencer: I get it. I really do. M&S is not just another big chainstore– it’s a wonderful chainstore. And all because of their rasberry & marscapone cake. *drools* For some 4 quid, you can easily ascend to crusty sugar heaven and would pledge undying devotion to its makers with just one bite even though one bite is surely not enough. Unfortunately, others seem to have found this glorious treasure as it is rarely on the shelf for long. *pouts* Even so, like Tom Cruise, I can’t possibly keep such a holy revelation to myself, so just make sure to save me a piece if you ever get your hands on it (no forks needed, thank you).
  

Hm. Speaking of which, why not skip right along to…

3. Eating Until the Fat Lady Blows Up

The consensus seems to be that English food is shite. And I wouldn’t argue much against that had my stomach not been a rubbish bin. Also, it is not so much all English food that are a tad below international par – its pies and cakes and biscuits are absolutely divine.

What is quite special here however, in The Second Most Expensive City IN THE WORLD, is its gastronomical variety. Aside from Chinese & Vietnamese food (oh! My kingdom for a decent phở!), Asian food here, particularly Korean & Japanese, is freakin’ awesome! And if you feel like some Indian, any restaurant you encounter every two buildings can beautifully accomplish the task, let me tell you.

On the European front, a south Italian restaurant, arancina, offers cuisine that makes me drool sexily with longing every two hours, offering seasonal seafood and pasta, a whole range of sweet creamy goodies and friendly local staff. There’s also this belgian bistro I’ve recently found, Le Pain Quotidien, that serves the best in house coffee with fresh cold meats & veggie platters, all served with homemade bread and is, with free internet, my semi-permanent residence.

It wouldn’t surprise me if I needed to buy an extra plane ticket to fit the excess fat I’ve gained when I’ll fly back home. Luckily, I can’t be bothered. Specifically because my brain is busy concentrating on chewing, digesting and making more room for more food. I heart my brain.

4. “There’s nowhere like home.” (Especially if it’s cheap.)

I’ve moved out from The Oestrogen House. Not without a little regret, I must admit, as for the last few weeks I was there, some of the girls have managed to melt my cold barren heart. But when mice moved in, I figured no warm fuzzy human feelings can over-compensate my over-priviledged sissy repulsion towards rodents nesting in my bathroom and fled the fuck out of there.

I am now living in walking distance of Notting Hill, Holland Park, Kensington Gardens and Portobello Road, with every convenience food shop and restaurants I’ve ever craved for right around the corner. And I’m paying a lot less. And it’s in zone freaking 1. It’s freaking awesome.

So awesome, in fact, you feel like there has to be a drawback somewhere…

Like, I don’t know, living with a cat. When you are acutely allergic to cats. But, with the pros being what they are, I figured one just needs to hoover a bit more often and buy more tissue paper. Or, you know, kick said cat.

Or then again, you discover you are highly propelled to kick instead the person you live with, who just so happens to share not only an enclosed tiny space but also a bed and a romantic liaison with you...

Would that be rather inappropriate, you reckon?

No, really.

5. The arh-gn-gn-gn-gnargh Relationship Thing.

Somehow, all the above has blinded me to the fact that (a) I seem to have acquired what some might refer to as a Boyfriend *shudders*, and (b) I am now bewilderingly living with said Boyfriend *gags*.

Yes, I’ve moved in with the boy who was featured in such previous episodes as this, this, and this one too, and that one as well, and ouh! let's not forget this one! Which means, in addition to all the benefits already mentioned, I get the luxury to see him and his strange boy-habits, day in, day out, twenty-four-freaking hours a day, and somehow still want to shag him senselessly. A feat, dear virtual friends, that test the very limits of my sanity.

We have now passed beyond the Farting Stage, Shaving Stage and Having Sex Every Other Three Seconds (Or However Long It Is For Him To Go Again, Ahem) Stage. Frankly, I quite enjoy where we are – the amount of effort, time and energy I am saving from keeping my body primmed and proper can probably get me through a doctorate degree in Astrophysics.

Or, you know, cleaning.

*tears hair out*

Okay.

I. Am. A. Clean-freak.
I know this. This is me taking responsibility, okay?

Great. Can we get to the part where he drives me fucking insane?

By putting the cheese grater back in the cuboard, full of cheese on it?
By covering the stove with dried sticky tomato slices right after I cleaned it?
By piling the rubbish bin so high it becomes the fucking ninth world wonder?
By discarding bottle caps and lids god knows where so the kitchen emits a cheesy-garlic-ketchup smell mixed with cat food?
By leaving my body towel by the bath tub – WHERE THE CAT GRAZES BY?

I mean, seriously. SERIOUSLY! THE MAN IS OUT TO KILL ME!!!

*takes a deep breath*

Right. So maybe he’d have some darn good reasons to plot my demise, and sure, these are relatively 'little things'****.

But... aren’t these 'little things' just ramifications of how he behaves generally? That when push comes to shove, he just doesn’t fucking care enough to do anything? And instead, just bows down, defeatedly, gives up, looks the other way? Out of laziness? That when it comes down to it, he doesn’t have what it takes?

…For what?

...For me?

... How the hell did I become this kinda girl? The kind of girl who needs – demands! – that Love, with the proverbial capital ‘l’, should be proven, challenged & conquered? To transcend somehow? How did I, the girl who is weary of relationship and all its by-products, have such naïve romantic beliefs about ‘Love’? And more importantly, what if my love for him isn’t unconditional?...

*rocks back & forth in dark corner*

Um, yes. All this brought about by ‘little things’. Like him not doing the dishes. Or leaving his dirty socks on my clean undies*****. Neurotic much?




And then... he’d say something like, ‘Should I start tap dancing now?’, and I melt with laughter like a pile of dungshit in an overheated oven, all over again.




I hate relationships******.






* So when I said 'jiffy' I forgot tot take into account that I was also A Lazy Bum. Apologies. I know you were all anxiously biting down your nails, painfully awaiting for an encompassing update. To pardon myself, click here. Carry on.
** Nope, that’s still not getting old, I’m afraid! *thumbs up*
*** Speaking of which, I am weaning myself down to now 35mg per week!! Huzzah! It’s been a long & winding road, but that’s another post for another very fickle day...
**** And there are other 'little things' too – little things that my brain must erase from memory immediately as to keep itself from sucking itself dry out of sheer mercy. (Shush. What do you mean, do I exagerate a bit?)
***** No, but I mean, that’s enough to make me gauge my eyes out.
****** In a ‘not really, not even a little, not at all kinda way’. (Help. Me.)

our faces split the coast in half

For the few weeks that I have been in Britain, I have (in chronological order):

• Bathed with centipedes;
  
  
• Moved five times;
  
  
• For the first time in my life, been stung by a wasp – twice, in the same day;
  
  
• For the first time in my life, been punched in the face in front of my flat, woke up in the hospital with a concussion, memory loss, smashed sinuses and a broken cheekbone, wondering why people here say ‘hospital’ without putting an article before and impressed that I was able to text on my mobile without any spelling mistakes;
  
  
• Spent two nights in [the] hospital with a polite little senile woman pleadingly crying to go home and a lady who wants to get in contact with Whitney Houston’s aunt who was going to tell her where Heaven is;
  
  
• Moved again. For reasons unnecessarily undisclosed;
  
  
• Met The Sweetest of Men;
  
  
• Been hit by a car and sent flying to the ground with a scratch on my elbow and a sore bum, incredulously;
  
  
• Understood the comfort of this whole Tea-And-Biscuits-In-The-Afternoon Thing;
  
  
• Actually liked a cat;
  
  
• Requestioned my entire self-concept [due in no small part to above-mentioned point];
  
  
• Shagged so much my abs ache and legs can barely hold themselves up;
  
  
• Become comfortably accepting in deluding and ignoring my Fear of Relationships;
  
  
• Had a panic attack [due in no small part to above-mentioned point];
  
  
• Quit two jobs;
  
  
• Been wondering for the 472nd time what the fuck I am doing here;
  
  
• And really hoping that all my bad karma has been paid for...
  

... And how have you been?

hands away

Wales was beautiful. The hills, the greens, the sheeps. And how nice people were…. Sometimes, I looked up and breathed it all in. And those moments filled me with a trifle bit more breath, enough to stay one more day.

Because I’ve been wanting to leave ever since I had arrived, you see. If I must admit it. And it’s not something rather easy for me to admit. Not after all this time.

It’s not because I was shacked up in a complete and utter shitty moth-infested hellhole with centipedes crawling up the tub* and folks whose horseshit** depressed me in a way I had forgotten. It’s not because it turned out that I really really– really – hated my job, or because it is insanely ridiculous to find ways to make ends meat in The Second Most Expensive City IN THE WORLD. It’s not even that I so gut-wrenchingly miss my mother’s sweet embrace, or my father’s warm eyes, or my sister’s loud obnoxious voice, or even my friends’ hearty laughs sometimes. It’s not exactly that I think I’ve made a mistake at all…

It’s because I started to cry when I was trying to explain what I was doing here to this beautiful man from Nairobi and he inadvertently gave me a Look. A Look that he quickly, politely, diverted. A Look that I quickly, graciously, recognised. A Look of empathic defeat, comforting pity. A Look that recognised me. And my desperate lies. A Look that unravelled everything.

It’s that I think I’ve slightly overestimated myself, you see. And though I’ve always known I am lost, and therefore must find a way – any way – that would somehow be mine, like a lost child that wasn’t cute enough to make international news***, the one I was counting so much on turned out to be a little… ill-fitted. For me. For now. Because, my dear, you’re even more lost and fucked than you had thought. Because you could never stand the spotlight anyway. Because it’s too soon.

And though I have come here like that 21-year-old girl who three years ago had found something she lost, something I wanted so much to find again, I am not that girl anymore….

So here I am now.
At square one.
Incidentally named Russell.


















Let’s see how we get on, yeah?




* CENTIPEDES!! Yes, we all agree that I am an undeserved prissy little princess but for THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS FUCKING HOLY – centipedes!? They are WORMS!!! With FEET. Thousands, in fact. Crawling. In. The tub. Where one is naked. Now, I somehow amazingly managed to not even mind for the first few days or muster a goddamned word of complaint (mainly bc this one girl did plenty of that), but add it to my growingly shattering state of mind and believe you me that I am feeling slightly robbed for not receiving an honorary trophy of Keeping It Cool In Hell, lemme tell ya… *wiggles finger in the air for no-one to pretend to care*

** In all fairness, I’m sure they are all delightful folks to hang out with. In small doses. (Although I am considering adopting this one guy but that’s bc he saved the little vestiges of sanity I had left, mainly by being a completely pessimistic bitch – and we all know how that’s just music to me ears (he was also queer - my faghag is happy).) But horseshit, specifically, the kind that one throws around to give oneself an air of nobility, be it moral or class or intelligence, as horses tend to convey (as oppose to bulls or dogs, whose shite usually refer to the pedestrian kind one throws around without thought, harm nor belief), particularly kills bc the horseshitter actually holds on to it like dear life, believing so much in its retching stench he/she castrates and/or bullies anyone or anything that might question its integrity, as if they’re on a self-serving high-horsed quest for the Equestrian Excrement Holy Grail, and THAT, my virtual friends, is the sort of shit that kills, okay, kills!!... End rant.

*** I am a horrible pretentious biatch and will die alone & unhappy. (Apply note wherever needed.)

ice cream

Have you ever had one of those crap days that starts out with shit hair only to degenerate from there? Where all the busy plans you set out to do miserably go to the dogs because of painfully little annoying details, and it all ends up being utterly useless, g'ddamit?! So you think "hey, this certainly calls for some retail therapy!" yet NOTHING quite does the trick, and once you find something remotely cute it is so wickedly overpriced that by the time you get to the counter you stomp off bitterly as there is no possible way you can spend 50$ on a dress you're not really even in love with!? And on top of that little hot sundae, every single two-legged specimen walking in front of you is somehow so piercingly eager to be competing in a snail race & keeping you from pacing in the rhythm of the music that keeps you so thinly sane thus far that at the last possible minute on your way home from a completely wasted day, you decide to jump out from the metro wagon just as it is closing its doors, resulting in you struggling to pull half of your body out with all remaining flesh while passengers' eyes are on the amusing aping spectacle that you've become, just to go watch the comical [and hopefully putting-life-in-perspecive] relief Knocked Up, but where, of course, upon your arrival, you have missed the entire previews [or your favorite part of going to the movies - aside sitting alone in the dark for two hours, you crazy person you], bc the nice little lady in front you at the candy store WANTED A REFUND FOR AN EMPTY LOLLY BAG, and when you finally settle into your seat with enough snuck in chocolate to make Willy Wonka murderously jealous, you realise that you're sitting next to deaf grannies who need to repeat EVERYTHING back WRONGLY to one another, AND WHAT THE HELL ARE GRANNIES DOING WATCHING FREAKIN' KNOCKED THE FREAK UP ANYWAY?!!

*breathes*

However, as you are positively a most easygoing & gentlest of creatures, you gracefully let it all ride over you and concentrate on the absolute hotness of Katherine Heigl & the uber deliciousness that is Paul Rudd, and behold! fifteen minutes in and you're already laughing and [almost] forgetting your lousy day away! Yay! And then you come out in the new light of the evening sun with the feeling that, "y'know, life is shit, and life doesn't give a damn that you've made plans, but all you can do is just... deal with it!" Huz-zah! (With a little 'Oh', as you needed a Hollywood movie to remind you of that.)

So, yeah, you deal. With a double scoop of chocolate-chocolate-chips ice cream in a dark-chocolate-dipped-chocolate-waffle cone. And if a bad day can be solved by a double scoop of chocolate-chocolate-chips ice cream in a dark-chocolate-dipped-chocolate-waffle cone, then it's not that bad of a day after all, is it peepster(s)? I thought so.

Carry on, then.

ibi dreams of pavement (a better day)

I was going to write a long, whingy post filled with filthy words beginning like 'fucose' and rhyming with 'clucking' concerning the current state of public transportation in the fair city I live, namely, but not excluded to, the fact that it is, once again - since 2003! - ON STRIKE, which means that between the hours of 9 a.m. & 3h30 p.m., and 6h30 p.m until late-enough-no-one-gives-a-shit, there are no buses and/or metros anywhere, and how despite being what one might call a liberal [if I was ever bothered enough to care] with a leftist inclination, who is really all for unions, the little people, the blue-collars, plaid-collars and dirty-unwashed-collars, and who, by all means, comes from a Stick-It-To-The-Man school of philosophy (I was educated along the lines of the French after all (much to the desolation of a parent with a particular distaste for any form of "commie sympathies")), nothing would please me more however than to see the instigators of this so-called "desperate legal action", i.e. the lovely Mechanics & Maintenance Workers of the STM, who earn a salary of 50,000$ (premium & advantages not included) per year, shoving their whiny little pie-holes up their lazy fat arses.

BUT I am going to write instead about how, without dirty old buses and subway trains that are delayed every second day, on every second line, every day, on at least one line bc of 'bip-bip-beeeep' TECHNICAL REASONS, I am able to get soaked in the sun and breeze a little more as I walked to the bank this morning and truly enjoyed how lovely my neighborhood is. Yes, yes. Ladies & gents, I walked. The entire twenty-five minutes it took. Which depending upon age & technique, could pass as a form of exercise, oui? And I liked it! I really liked it! An allergy pill popped in, I strolled down the sidewalks draped by the occasional cool shadows of beautifully imposing maple trees, children's laughing & giggling breaking between the soft suburb silences, little Italian mamas sweeping their porch, fixing their gardens and yelling in what I can only hope as sweet insults to their husbands. It was marvellous!...

So, dearest Mechanics & Maintenance Workers of the STM, you may cease your lying around complaining about your sorry exploited plight 'working' as long as you please. T’is like water off me back! Which, incidentally, I solely give to the city counsellors in their firm stance of Not Giving In Until You Lazy Arses Actually Provide A Real Service To Start Out With, You Spoilt Arrogantly Idiot Wankers*.

Now, I must take your leave, dear gentle folks, as my bedtime is fastly approaching. I have a bus to catch downtown tomorrow morning. Goodnight.




*Now see, i shall have to loathe you even more as you made me side with The Man. Curse you!

p.s. Hmm... Of all the inane things i've written about in the past, i seem to be dithering a little here, wondering whether to post this or not... Funnily enough, i feel as if i am betraying & stabbing the little Socialist in me and it makes me feel all queasy 'bout it... Huh. The thing is, i'm well aware that with inflation going constantly up as it tends to do, etc, etc, while salaries pretty much stagnate, there are very hard working folks out there who suffer in consequence. That's why i'll always support and fight for unions, but the truth is, if we keep this in context, these STM workers specifically are really detestable bullies!... It's a little like communism, innit? Great in theory but it pretty much shits up the dog's arse in practice. So... As ill-informed and hormone-driven as it may be, i've decided to post this anyway as it's, well, how i feel. And it's my blog. In all its moral and grammatical downfall. *double thumbs up*

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*

thank you for the music

I’m not a music elitist. Really. My darling Big Cuz would beg to differ but he also loves the Backstreet Boys (and if a fully grown 25-year-old man seriously believes that the Backstreet Boys are “great musicians” and expects anything less than endless mockery and patronizing sighs every time the topic of music – or anything else for that matter – comes up then the world is worse off than I have ever expected). I might get a trifle involved & ridiculously possessive with certain bands & songs sometimes, but I am also acutely aware that, hey! It’s just rock n’ roll man! And I am utter shite at these things anyway! Many a-time have I been caught not only singing proudly to the Bee Gees and praising the disco gods that are ABBA (hello?! Aluminum sashes? PURE GENIUS!), but also happily dancing to the Pussycat Dolls (or is it PCD now? Am I cool yet?) and the completely fabulous bollocks that is this. Yes, ladies & gents, I am a shameless dancing whore, and therefore in no position to pass any musical judgements at all.

Also, unlike other hardcore musical snobs that I lovingly know (hey there, deary! How’s it going?), I listen to the radio. *gasps* And not that socially aware pretentious informative one either, no - it’s mainstream radio for me, baby! I enjoy its peppy chatter. Usually, while meandering through my morning routine as to not pass out from the buzzing silence as I brush my teeth, you understand. Or as I go through my besoins matinaux. Which means I mostly haven’t a clue of what is going on other than I mustn’t pass out and fall asleep in my own wee. (No, thank you, morning radio!)

However, it has alarmingly come to my attention that an increasing number of utter & complete shite curiously composed music has gained more and more airwaves time recently, which not only cause the little number of functioning neurons left in my brain to auto-prune but to wake me up in an angry jolt at the sheer offensive unpleasantness of it all. Here are but a few causes for my concern:

Covers & remakes.
Or Much Of The Same Old Thing. Only Not As Good.

It seems that covers and/or remakes are becoming as fashionable as footless tights again. And just like the bewildering piece of clothing, it takes a certain flair to carry it off. A flair that unfortunately is missing in most.

These days, it's Eric Prydz’ 'Proper Education' that is constantly dubbed in me neck of the woods. It’s not that it is bad – or even that it’s a clubby dance remix of Pink Floyd playing at 9 in the morning (and let’s face it, I’d probably embarrassingly shake my ass like no tomorrow if it were played in an actual club, regardless of what time of day it is). The problem it’s that…well, it’s not that particularly good either. Or even – dare I pretentiously say it – relevant. I mean, if you are going to take a well known classic from a 70’s cult rock band with enough hardcore fan base to ruminate in their basement and strike a half-baked outrageous whiny letter to spam the daylights out of the gorgeous Mac on which you produced the song in the first place, at the very least, do something interesting with it, eh. Like this. Biased? Completely. But notice how, in this version, the Scissor Sisters managed to retain the gloomy disillusioned mood of the original while leaving the cringing angst behind for some uber groovy & sexy beats. It’s inventive! It’s fabulous! It’s Is-It-Me-Or-Is-It-Getting-Hot-In-Here kind of music that grabs you by the balls every time you listen to it and doesn’t let go! (Which sure beats vapidly giving a few disinterested pokes to it, now donnit?)

Then, there’s this Gary Jules’ cover of Tears For Fears 'Mad World' that completely defies my purpose of listening to the radio altogether and sends me collapsing in the sink in a bad case of narcolepsia. Ironically, I tend to indulge in these very sentimental slow naval-gazing soppy songs, so if I think it induces untimely comatosis – may it be voluntary or not, due to its monotone and boring beat rather than its depressing content – then, Houston, we have a problem. And how is it that it’s becoming so popular now? Wasn’t this a song featured in Donny Darko some 6 years ago? Why the sudden resurgence?

…Just like footless tights! A-ha! So the mystery starts to unravel….


Boys. Bands. And boybands.

Okay. Justin Timberlake. I must humbly admit that there was a foolish time in my ‘youth’ where I’ve thought, “Huh. He’s kinda cute, isn’t he? And wow, what great skin!”, but that was back when he’d just started his solo career and really caught me by surprise by not definitely sucking [said, I note, in a sexy German accent]. Now, I am convinced that he is on a one-man quest to bring back Castrati on the forefront of fashion again, and unless you are a pedophile hidden under the veil of a catholic priest (hiss!), I really don’t understand why more people aren’t marching against this most barbaric of trends. Instead, Mister Timberlake is swarmed in popularity & praise wherever he goes and even succeeds to make out with the incredibly hawt Scarlet Johansson in his over-hyped and bore-me-to-tears video, which begs the question, “Why, Scarlet, why?” No, seriously, why? At least with Michael Jackson, it was always flabbbergastingly cool (even when he started making out with Elvis’ daughter, we were all morbidly fascinated – that was entertainment!). As for comparison with Prince (for shame!), I believe Mr. Purple Rain has well proven that he had a fair dose of testosrone during his adolescence to reach a decent C.

It is also possible that I may have missed the memo where 12-year-old boys were hot & sexy.
Balls. I’m always left out from these things.

*pouts*

In other boy news, has anyone heard of this guy?


When I first heard him on the radio, I almost shat in my pants thinking Queen had released a hidden track and no one bothered telling me about it. When the truth was revealed that no, Freddie Mercury did not come back to gloriously haunt our airwaves again, I struggled between feeling a little robbed & outraged that this Mika had the insolence to imitate one of the greatest rock n’ roll voices of all time and secretly comforting myself that it wasn’t actually that godawful… Alas, the song tends to get highly on one’s nerve after the third listen, by which time you’ve successfully determined that though similar, he definitely lacks Mercury’s, well, talent. And charisma.

Oh Freddy, you are still the original one & only Fag to the Hag in my heart.
Le sigh.

While on the topic of voices, why wouldn’t Fall Out Boy crawl back to wherever it was they fell from? Their whinging screeching through my speakers is starting to pain me to tears. I know, it took some time but I’d always believed that patience was a virtue and they’d run out of air soon enough. Was that hopeful thinking? Wassit? Because, WHY WILL THEY NOT LEAVE?!

The only problem I fear is, once these emo squealing dolphin-boys are drowned away from the musical ocean (see what I did there? Dolphins? Ocean? Ha! I’m so rad…), old sharks (okay, will stop with the aquatic metaphor now) shall come back with a bloody vengeance…. Bon Jovi? I’m talking to you here. Oh, Bon Jovi, what a love/shame relationship I have with thee…. You were so great back in the day with your long 80’s mop and sleazy tees and ripped jeans, singing and promising debauched love & infidelity with damn-it-all attitude while riding your motorcycle into the sunset like the soft little toughie you wanted me to believe. How many times have I risked being thrown out from a speeding car as I insisted on wailing 'You Give Love A Bad Name' on top of my lungs… Good times. Why then must you return from rock n’ roll heaven with hip trendy haircuts and fashionable leather jackets with half-assed written self-important ballads to shatter my 14-year-old dreams of you? WHY?!

*weeps in her sleeves*

This is starting to bring me down. I seriously need to find me some hot rocker boy to inappropriately perv and conceive many adventurously steamy fantasies over. Any suggestion is welcomed.


Gangsta rap.

I don’t get it.

That is all.

Please don’t shoot me.


Ô Canada, land of crap music!...

Alright. That was a bit harsh. And rather untrue actually.

There is indeed great music grown in this land I live – Arcade Fire, Broken Social Scene, Feist, K-os, Tegan & Sara, The New Pornographers, to name but a few from the English side of the medal. But that’s not exactly what’s being massively exported now, is it? It’s not even getting most of domestic airtime. Instead, you know what we get to hear day in, day out, every fucking day? DO YOU? Go on, have a guess!










NICKELBACK, that’s what!
NICKEL. FUCKING. BACK. Why in the world would anyone want to release this unredeeming horror of a band from our borders – any borders! – is beyond me. Oh! how it shames me…. And I’m not even the least bit nationalistic at all! But is that sort of utter horseshite that's known as "Canadian music"!? (That, and Ann Murray. But let’s leave poor Ann out of this, she didn’t spawn the devil child that is Chad Kruger.) *shudders* God, I feel dirty just saying their name. And not in that good naughty-dirty kinda way either. That can’t possibly be healthy, now is it? That’s not what music is suppose to do? Ever. And can someone please tell me how to differentiate one of their song from another? Or is it just the same old rubbish being endlessly played in countdowns for the past 5 years? Shouldn’t that be illegal? No, really. I NEED TO KNOW!

Oh, and as if that wasn't enough to make one wants to change nationality, who can forget about "our little Canadian princess"? No, I am not talking about this:


but rather this:
Lady Lavigne who, for all the money & marital bliss in California, would not shut up. Sadly. And while I’m fully aware the very high risk of her stalking me down to scratch my skin off and spit in my face, this is something that must be said. For your own good, Avril. Really. May I call you Avril? I don’t care. Listen, Avril, you are quite pretty to look at, seriously. Looking at photo above, no one would think you’re an obnoxious mentally insipid little brat who hadn’t cleaned her nails in three years. I’ve heard you were interested in modeling, or *contains vomit* ‘acting’ a bit. Which is great! Really! As long as you never ever open your mouth again. Please? I’m sure you’d be quite pleasant as a little model. You really do have great facial features, which pains me to see them being so utterly deformed with your constant grimacing & tongue-pulling. It makes me want to slap you. And come to think of it, I don’t even mind if you land a speaking role in a movie at all, for (a) it would hopefully be someone else’s lines & not your own incomprehensible slurring that will be excreted from your perfectly defined lips, and (b) if I don’t want to watch your *contains vomit* 'acting' I will simply not go see the movie, instead of having to endure your banshee voice that every goddamn radio station forces me to listen every goddamn morning! So, it's a win-win situation! Hurrah!

Except for the dancing. What’s all that about, eh? Is that suppose to be "ironic"? Was that the aim? Were you drunk? Because, like, I don’t, like get it.

Like.

… Then again, is it all just me? Am I too old to "get with it"? Am I "out of the loop"? Am I not "hip" enough? Not "in with the crowd"? And, more importantly, when the hell was I ever anyway? So many unanswered questions....

*sighs heavily*

In any case, as I am waiting for my new music to come in through the mail (I love you, Amazon!), here’s to hoping that they will make me all forget & forgive the above and that I won’t throw my radio through the wall in a fit of uncontrollable morning rage. With these new purchases, I really can’t afford any renovation.

make it till monday

I am with influenza. But instead of whinging about the grinding headaches, the bloody (literally and figuratively) stuffed nose, the dizziness and the grogginess and the chilliness and generally the whole of my skin feeling as if it's on fire, i figured it'd be best should i tackle my very first tag (!!!) by the very fabulous Miss Pom some days ago (or weeks? or months? too much cerebral work for proper recollection... Apologies.).

Anywho, here goes, Five Things You Don't Know About Me*:

1. I don't own any white underwear (hey, i didn't say this was going to be 'interesting' - brace yourself...)
2. I don't like to sweat (unless when nekkid and engaged in less than nunlike activities...ahem).
3. I am deeply insecure.
4. Like any Asian kid, i've had piano lessons. Which, like any lazy idiot, i stopped at age 11. Coincidentally, right after my beloved teacher passed away. (May she rest in peace.) The only piece i can play now - perfectly by heart - is Bach's Menuet in G. Just don't ask me what note it starts with. I haven't a clue.
5. I actually quite enjoy Nelly Furtado's new stuff. Yes, i said it. What?! And i think she's looking mighty gorgeous doing it too. (Just as long as you don't look at her too long as she tends to turn towards Excessive Pouting That Would Annoy The Life Out Of Anyone. Aye.)

There. Hope you'll sleep all the better now with such precious information! I shall join you in your dreams....




*Five things who doesn't know about me? I mean, consdiering that i haven't kept this thing up for very long, there're indeed heaps of things many of you out there in the nether land of virtuality don't know. Then again, there are also things here about me that most of people in my real life are not aware of either. Hmm. Tricky. My head is starting to spin again.

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!

song 2

**A NOTE TO HTML**

I hate you. If i you ever see me walking down the street, run. But not too fast please, because i would very much like to scratch your eyeball out and make you eat it while punching your belly at the same time. Repeatedly. Then, i'd grab your balls (or boobs, whichever) and twist it 180 degrees, high kick you in your tender loins and shove you to the ground to stomp on your neck. Then i'd curtsy and leave.

Consider yourself warned.

*squints eyes into small scary empty slits*

**END NOTE**

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....

you could have it so much better

A week in review:

• So my first week back at Uni wasn't as bad as i anticipated. I'm not sure exactly what it was that i anticipated (me jumping off from the Leacock building, my brain to explode, a rabid killing spree - i hadn't given it much thought, really) but it definitely went much smoother than the unsociable, faithless, ill-adapted girl that i can be ever figured it. That, or it is just not hitting me yet, and when it will, it'll be so flamboyantly craptacular everyone but me would've seen it coming for light years!
  Until then though, i've been oddly enjoying being surrounded by all the trendy/arty/messy/drunk/lost/confused/pretentious student species crawling about campus again, along with the trendy/arty/messy/drunk/lost/confused/pretentious professors paving the way. I like to take it as an 'inspiration', hoping that their intent, their hurried purposefulness will somehow transfer onto me. So far, i really like having a routine down - going to classes, reading in the coffee shop, even working an extra shift. It gives me a short-term direction that is very much welcomed indeed. Because all this leads me to be prepped up for my longer-term goal - my impending trip, which, in all probability, will occur in far sooner than i realize! Hurrah!
  
  
• I went to IKEA in the beginning of the week, and i can officially say that shopping for house items far surpasses any other purchasing - including of clothes, shoes, underwear, food, music, books - EVER. It makes me giddy, man. Like Maniacally-Grinning-While-Skipping-And-Humming-'I Feel Pretty' giddy. I was impressively good though, managing to only buy a red wooden chair, a black folding chair for my study, cushions, wooden hangers, a slip-cover for my bedspread (or a 'housse de couette', as the French call it in its weirdest word combination), two packs of decorative postcards, a vase and two desk organizers. That's it!... (Seriously, if i wasn't already on a budget, i probably would have bought those entire living/dining/bedroom sets!)
  
  
• Had an insane shift on Wednesday night at the restaurant. Now, usually, i try not to complain much about work because 1) i am crap, and 2) they [my bosses], as much as i hate don't like to talk about or to them [and so pretending that they don't exist], are still my employers and i prefer not to 'bite the hand that feeds me' - that sort of bullshit. YET, when it is crazy crowded and the boss' son, who also happens to be the barman, not only does JACK SHIT but also DROPS MY ORDER because HE WAS BUSY TALKING ON THE PHONE WITH HIS GIRLFRIEND while TWO OTHER TABLES ARE WAITING, i must comply to a higher moral obligation & the International Employee's Ethics Guide to MACHETE HIS HEAD OFF. Mentally, sadly.
  
  
• On Friday evening, at [ever so conveniently called] Happy Hour, some of my male friends committedly informed me on the intricate sexual activities the crazy kids are practicing these days*. As such, i had the pleasure to learn what The Startled Goldfish**, The Captain America*** and The Deathstar**** are. Thank you, gentlemen, for the unbound knowledge & the little wee in my new panties from laughing too hard. And not to mention the added paranoia each time i'm about to shag anyone ever again.
  We thereafter stumbled in the streets toward the nearest karaoke bar (because drunkenness can only make our voices above par, of course) and proceeded naturally to make utter asses of ourselves. A martini, a pint of beer, a 1L jug of Lady Sidecar and another crap bottle of beer later, i was so pissed that we decided to go to another bar where we met some drunk Mexican expatriates with whom we stroke an incomprehensible conversation. When one of them suddenly hand-gesturingly asked me if i was 'with' J or not, my instinctive reaction was to scream "Si!", much to J's drunken compliance. I know, bad faghag. But i wouldn't have to recur to such lowly ways if said expat - although very nice - didn't resemble anything like this. For some reason, i tend to attract piercingly unattractive drunkards like Britney Spears to bad taste, and i was certainly in no mood to bat them off. I suspect i put out a smell of Little Stray Sheep or something [damn you, Asian blood!]. When i finally got home, i somehow managed to take a shower, brushed my teeth - all while being terribly intoxicated - and crawled into bed only to realize that it was just 11h30. PM.
  Stay tuned next week for my exciting adventures while queuing for my pack of Depends at the pharmacist.
  
  
• Went to a family dinner last night, which featured a small feast of lemon marinated beef with hot peppers & cilantro, sautéed lobster with ginger, fried shrimp with green peppers & onions and durian for desert - a.k.a. Reason Why I Love Being Asian #4, #7, #16 and #2 respectively. I also get to hang out with my 20-year-old cousin who asked me for relationship advices as he is thinking of moving in with his girlfriend of 10 months. Bless his heart and love him to pieces (we grew up with each other and i consider him as my little brother), but how equipped are you to move out on your own and manage your studies and a serious relationship and worrying about generally surviving when you're asking a hardcore SPINSTER for RELATIONSHIP advices?! Great! Another thing to needlessly worry my over-protective head about! Thank you, thank you very much!...
  Seriously, it just makes me shiver in the inside as i think of all the possible ways how this could go wrong... Ugh. I miss the age of blind faith (...not really... But it sure beats the age of patronizing pessimism).
  
  
• Spent the day pampering myself and giving me a Winter pedicure.
  
  
  

  Vixen.

  Not that anyone will notice as it will be hidden under two layers of thick cotton socks. And boots. And 30cm of snow. I'm not complaining though - it's about fackin' time Winter peaked its beady little head in! All this rain & warm weather was starting to freak the snowshite out of me.
  
  
• Also, i've decided to let my fingernails grow into a lady-like length. It feels weird.

Um. That's all i have.




* In a strictly PG fully clothed way, you deviant fiends.
** [WARNING: this end note contains graphic description that may offend anyone out there who innocently & indulgently gives a rat's ass to scroll down here thinking it is a sweet & tender explanation of sexual perversion- HULLO!] When engaging in sexual intercourse in a canine fashion & in front of a mirror, the male exits his penile apparatus from the female's vaginal entry to insert it into her anus, which would therefore cause her to react just like - say it with me - a Startled Goldfish.
*** [WARNING: added to the same graphic description as above, the following notes also shows extreme levels of geekiness - please read at your own risks] When engaging in sexual intercourse in a canine fashion, the male diverts his hands from the female's supporting hips, forms an 'O' with his index finger & thumb, reverts it backwards while spreading the rest of his fingers on his face to make glasses of them, thus imitating Captain America's superhero mask.
**** When engaging in sexual intercourse in a canine fashion [a very inspirational position, it seems], the male exits his penile apparatus just when it is about to come, wait and, when the vaginal entry is slowly contracting back to its original diameter, [with great timing and aim, i must say] ejaculate in it - reenacting thus the scene where Luke Skywalker destroys the Deathstar from within in Star Wars IV. Genius? I think yes.

tout doucement

Something should be said for Monday mornings warmly snuggled in a furry blanket sipping hot Crème Brulée Godiva coffee as Serge Gainsbourg, Barbara & the rest of the 1950's Paris gang serenade me in the background. It feels so decadent i can barely keep my phlegm & snot in. Oh no, wait. That's because my sexy cold refuses to FUCKING. SOD. OFF.

It seems that copious amounts of water, chicken soup, rice porridge, orange juice, vitamin C, Chinese oils, Tequilà, Grand Marnier, Crème de Menthe & the rest of my sister's entire liquor cabinet (mine has somehow been emptied...*look innocent*), there is still a family of goo comfortably embedded in my respiratory system (yes, it's the attention to details that make me so delightful to read, i know). I've managed to narrow this all down to either a case of bad karma (which doesn't really make any logical sense for i am the picture of niceness, you see) or - *gasp* - old age. Seriously. My body, at only near a quarter of a century old, can't seem to cure a simple little cold in less than ten bastard days while Mr. K-Fed has managed to father a small country in that amount of time!

There are some obvious upsides to this, of course. Added to the aforementioned morning (although frankly, for the pure principle of whining, previous mornings were rather spent being completely unconscious - a rather good thing, some might argue), i also get to spend the last few nights in resting (with a better excuse than I Am An Anti Social Bitch) and watching the entire last season of Sex & the City. After the insane amount of socializing the past holiday schedules have found me in, i am happy to report that all this has restored my indulgence towards Human Beings once again. Somewhat.

You see, watching odd social antics on the telly is one thing but actually experiencing them out on my own is a whole other ordeal, let me tell you. It's utterly strange to me in fact. It's not because i am completely unaware of what & how things work Out There, or that i am a hopeless hermit, but it just seems that i've always experienced these things on two levels simultaneously & rather paradoxically. There's the one where i am actually living it, obviously, where i'm in my body, receiving external inputs & giving out internal outputs (sometimes even 'normally', if you can imagine!). And then there is this other level - this out of body experience, or rather a deeper inner body experience - where i witness everything, myself included, from my Seventeen-Year-Old Self's perspective, and it all seems so... weird, man... E.g.:

• Studying in a coffee shop, and then suddenly stop to note that there is this stranger staring at me. After checking if i have zipped my trousers, have coffee dripping down the front of my shirt and/or stained my face with ink dipped in chocolate - all feasible possibilities - i realize, perhaps, he is 'eyeing me' (having to look something like one of those 'trendy slash together' uni student i so often see, i suppose) and wonder how in the world this ever happened? And if this is so, why doesn't this stranger say or do anything to indicate that i am not, in fact, a self-conscious clumsy dirthead but instead a hot self-conscious clumsy dirthead that asks inane questions & gets to study diddly squat? Seriously, some of us can do with a little compliment instead of a scary stare!
  
  
• Flirting at a bar, and realising that i can, actually, flirt! With a guy! In a bar! ME! Which thereafter has the unfortunate result of the most bizarre things coming out of my mouth, such as "I'm sorry, i didn't mean to flirt with you, or act like this bc i'm drunk in any way - it seems that i tend to be naturally like this as well, i'm afraid. I blame it on my fag." Whahhh?!?
  
  
• Shagging on a kitchen table for the first time. All that ran through my mind was 'OhmygawdiamhavingSEXonakitchentable!' . (If you looked up 'smooth', my picture would be right under it.)
  
  
• Having lunch with a once Particular Gentleman who, out of the blue - and really off any topic - decided to talk in detail about a stranger lady he would want to score while carefully pausing AND oddly looking right at me whenever he mentions how hot she is. Me PICKING UP on the possibility that he might be trying to get me jealous - dear lord, why? Do people really do this? And with ME of all people?! And if they don't, why would i even think they would? Weirdness....

Not to mention countless other freaky social phenomena that humbly throw me a little out of the loop, thank you very much. It's as if i'm a lab mouse watching how humans function, and try as i might, study as i can, watch as i do, i will never quite understand the human mating game. Or at least, i will never understand how i could comfortably fit in it (discounting that i could be a pathological case of dysfunctionality, of course). I know humans are social creatures. Their Our urge to couple & mate, to form lasting & secure relationships is a fundamental evolutionary remnant in human psychology. It's normal functional stuff, really. Stuff that makes sense. If their our ancestors didn't bond and huddle together in order to run mammoths off a cliff and drive the Neanderthals into extinction, well, they we wouldn't be here now, would they we? But, to my Seventeen-Year-Old Self, that still doesn't explain why it is normal for one to wait 2 days after a first date to call the other person up, or why it is acceptable to make the other person jealous, play 'hard to get', be rude or patronizing, make the other person feel guilty for not liking you and/or connive the other into liking you only to discover you don't really like them that much in the end (!?!). I mean, really, as if everyday socialising isn't hard enough as it is without having to worry about if you could fall in love with one another.

...That's the ick factor, isn't it? The 'love' part of it all. All this mental hoo-ha & yodelay-hee-haw is because most of us believe that it would - it should - bring us, in the end, this fabulous, coveted, infamous 'Holy Grail of Love'. That it would be all worth it - all the disappointments, all the awkwardness, all the heartbreaks, all the crapiness, craziness & crassness. Because if - and when! - we survive all that, just like Cinderella, Pinocchio or Elisa Dolittle, we somehow get to become more. It's our constant drive to be above & beyond, to self-actualize & better ourselves - that's the ultimate promise of Love, isn't it? But you know what? Love, as far as anyone is concerned, as objective as it can be (because if we cannot count on Science, what can we count on, right?), can basically be broken down into two things: Desire + Intimacy; Desire = Sex, Intimacy = Attachment + Trust.

That's it, folks! Humans are social creatures who need strong social bonds to exist. In other words, it's all a survival thing. Our brains have just wired it somehow to translate 'survival' into 'love', and because we are indeed a tad more complex than your ordinary worm, we create these intricate social schema and rules and norms and concepts for one another to jump through (if for no other reason than because it is admittedly quite amusing to watch sometimes - like going to the circus). And as if that's not enough, throw in some hormones, pheromones and neurotransmitters to the mix, shake it well, let it cool, pour, serve, and voilà! You have your very own Friday Nights Out and 'Til Death Do Us Parts, babies!

Hm.

Maybe i've been watching too much Sex & the City after all (minus the puns & very enviable wardrobe, though i am working on that last point). I was never a die hard fan of the show, i must say. It just doesn't move me, or trouble and rile me up like some of my favorite shows can. Still... every time i get to watch it, it does make me feel better. Actually (and i feel a tad embarrassed saying this, let it be known)... it makes me feel... validated. Because it bears witness to the Single Girl in the strange social game going on Out There. Sure, she may have created quite a few, and i wouldn't even put my weight behind them, but it makes me feel less lonely somehow, less desperate, less pathetic and less weird (and pitiful) for wanting to be happy on my own rather than tolerantly satisfied with a fuckrag who adores me. So there.

Second ponderous 'hm'.

Apologies, i should've warned that this was going to be a rambly whingy post about Singledom. I didn't even know it was going to get to this. I was just counting on the rambly part, really. But lounging here with too much time on my hands, listening to old French love songs with Carrie & Mr. Big still freshly roaming in my head from last night oestrogen binge, as perfect & warm as i feel right now, and despite what i've said previously about boyfriends & getting attached, it just hit me that all this reasoning doesn't matter at all and the one thing that would make my morning even more perfect is having a handsome man watching over me as i type these silly, silly words (in a non-stalkerish fashion, preferably).

I hate how i am programmed. And where the hell are my chocolates?!