Holy crap - the lighting in the women's change rooms is brutal! I think I'll stop eating until Friday.
Eh, who am I kidding?
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
Monday, May 23, 2005
I saw the ugliest shoes today. Normally I don't care this much... oh OK, maybe I care a little, and then I heckle. A lot. (I really have to make a deposit in the karma piggy bank soon.)
But these shoes were SO truly hideous I could not stop staring at them. And then I had to tell Janine about them. Immediately. (She already thinks I'm completely mad anyway.)
They were like black suede desert boots with white stitching and two thick red fabric straps across the front. I know this sounds fairly innocuous but you weren't there to see them. Even Noddy would have rejected them. Heck, even Big Ears would have rejected them. And he's a gnome!
Perhaps I'm being mean. Maybe she was at a fair for special people, OK, let's make that special blind people, and decided to help one of them out and bought their special shoes. Maybe she ran out of clean shoes because her shoe rack exploded unexpectedly. Maybe her five year old made them and she didn't want to hurt his feelings. I don't know. I just really really hope she doesn't wear them tomorrow.
Sunday, May 22, 2005
Eh, trying to be ladylike just doesn't cut it for me. I have to ask my mother if the "special" fairy godmother attended my baptism and decided to leave a surprise gift.
The Tupperware party was lovely, and Emma's mother and her friends were lovely, although after too much champagne even lovely Mums start having conversations that freak their children out :) I'll leave the rest to everyone's imagination...
And there was stacks of food - oh Em, how well you know me... :)
In the space of an hour I had managed to:
- spill my glass of water on the carpet,
- spill someone else's glass of white (thank God) wine on the carpet,
- hand round a tray of pastries and watch in horrified slow motion as one fell onto said carpet in an explosion of tiny crispy flakes.
All that was lacking was a large tub of custard and jelly for me to take a pratfall into, or for the small terrier that was running around to somehow become hilariously entangled in my underwear...
Other incidents have included:
- Childhood visits to restaurants ending in a blur of various beverages spilling across tables, Coke, Fanta, 7-Up, red cordial...
- Being invited to tea at the headmaster's house upon first arriving at boarding school, and watching my orange cordial spread like a liquid mushroom cloud over Mrs. Bickerdike's immaculate white tablecloth...
- Cups of Chinese tea at dim sum leaving brown tide marks around islands of steamed goods...
- Watching videos at someone's rented house and spilling red wine over a two metre radius onto their white carpet. It was like the aftermath of Psycho, but less tasteful...
...and the list of spillages goes on. The accidental stabbing, slicing and grating of digits and appendages I'll save for another blog. Also the strange driving events where I become distracted by the second set of lights and not the ones directly ahead, or I start singing along to the radio and miss my freeway exit. Twice. Sonofa...
Friday, May 20, 2005
Remember when Willow met Tara and became a lesbian? Now really, WHO WOULD'VE SEEN THAT COMING?!
Interesting colloquialisms to add to "brown sugar" vocabulary (courtesy of urbandictionary.com):
1. (noun) One with an overinflated ego, sex drive and self-image, and also a complete moron, the Peel is typically a chav, this person believes themselves to be an absolute sex god, and will regale everyone with his (often fictitious) exploits. He also has an obsession with male genitalia.
This particular brand of chav is, as with many, also an alcoholic. The beverage of choice is Carlsberg, and consumption is usually around the mark of 50 pints per week. Consequently, when combined with the hyperactive sex-drive and IRC chat, the Peel will often resort to asking for (gay) cybersex from people who will turn him down repeatedly, but he'll hump them anyway.
One final note to make on the Peel is his fetish for exhibitionism. He will think that it is clever to wear a thong to a formal ball, and then climb on a table and strip off, causing nausea among many attendees.
2. (verb) To leave or exit or evacuate the scene/premises.
3. (verb) To steal.
4. (verb) The act of ejaculating on an unsuspecting girl, used in the context "to peel one off".
Such a versatile word. I think I'll bring it out at the Tupperware party tonight at Emma's Mum's house :)
Emma has threatened to uninvite me if I attempt any kind of homie speak around her mother. I shall have to switch to sweet demure Angie mode. Oh, the strain...
3 packets of mango jelly mix (or tropical fruit jelly mix)
1 large tin of mango slices
1 normal sized tin of evaporated milk
1. Drain the tinned mango and keep the syrup or juice separate. Puree the tinned mango in a blender.
2. Dissolve the jelly mix in 500ml of boiling water.
3. Stir the syrup/juice from the mangoes to the jelly mix. Wait for the mix to cool.
4. Stir in the evaporated milk.
5. Put it into the fridge until it sets.
This makes a softer dessert pudding. I like my jelly quite firm and not so sweet, so for personal use (don't go there!) I only use two packets of jelly and plain gelatine, and skimmed milk. The only thing about using skimmed milk is that it curdles a little when you stir it in. It makes no difference to the taste, but it doesn't look as nice.
Man, I wish I were one, but only if I could be married to Tom, and without the homely aggressive kids.
I have all these back episodes of DH to watch and it's cutting into my bedtime! I'm completely addicted. I start watching at 9pm on my laptop. Then I have to watch the next episode. Soon it's 10.30pm. Hmm, I can squeeze in one more, right? 11pm. I'll just watch till 11.30. I did manage to tear myself away at midnight, but only just. Soon I'll run out, and I'll have to find something else to watch, or actually start doing things that matter in the real world and don't add to the size of my arse.
Those houses are fantastic. I want to live in one. Now that someone topped themselves in one and someone else was murdered in another, the real estate values must be stabilising in the area, right?
They've stolen the set from the Truman Show. Lynette has the best kitchen. Her children need to be sent to military school (that's my solution for everything... People getting you down? Military school! Your fruit cake's sunk in the middle? Military school!) Everyone has the same lawn layout (one tree in the middle surrounded by hydrangeas. Speaking of which, how did Bree's lawn recover so quickly after Mrs Huber rolled the dead guy onto it? Such deep thoughts occupy me as I lie in bed at night). Gabrielle's stylist has to get some glasses. Rex has to get a spine. I have Bree's anal retentiveness and Susan's klutziness, except without the legs that go up to my neck and the flawless skin and the cute little jumpers. Sigh. Que sera sera.
Thursday, May 19, 2005
Right, my BRAND NEW weight-loss strategy is as follows...
Two photos on PC desktop to look at when contemplating consumption:
Photo #1, named "Are you sure you want to eat that.jpg":
Group action shot of the "six marry murderesses" from Chicago in their fishnets and lycra. Reason to be explained in a later blog, say, around June.
Photo #2, captioned "Are you REALLY sure you want to eat that.jpg":
Photo of very stern Jennifer Garner in black leather outfit from Season 2 with very toned arms and abs.
Of course, having these on my desktop is certainly not going to help the lesbian rumours. (It's hard having these broad swimmer's shoulders.)
Past strategy failures include:
Theory: Eating only when hungry.
Reality: Always hungry. Next.
Theory: Eating only at mealtimes.
Reality: Mealtimes become 7 courses long and 2 hours long. Next.
Theory: Keeping healthy snacks in drawer.
Reality: All snacks consumed in one sitting. Next.
Reality: I like this one, but I've had bad luck recently with feeling run down, followed by back problems, followed by flu. Must persevere and go to kendo. I'm sure the Shaolin Temple monks weren't coddled with a cup of Lemsip and a hot water bottle when they got the sniffles.
Where's Mr. Burns? Can't he just pay for the liposuction?
Friday, May 13, 2005
I should never have watched "The Ring". It totally messed with my mind. For two weeks afterwards I kept having "Ring" flashbacks under my eyelids whenever I closed them.
It was the feature movie on the plane that I took from Perth to Singapore en route to London. We found out very late that the flight from Singapore to London was delayed, and that we would have to stay overnight at Changi airport. I booked their very last room with an ensuite before leaving Perth, thinking I was sooo clever. Well...
So I watched "The Ring" on the plane and was very freaked out, even though it was in crappy stereo headphone sound and was showing on a screen the size of a postcard. Then we finally arrived in Singapore and I checked into the airport hotel. We walked through the corridor where the normal rooms were, and then walked straight past them. Then we walked down a long staircase. And then we walked down another corridor.
"Excuse me, where are we going?" I asked the porter.
"Well, ma'am, all the normal rooms with ensuites are taken. But we've got a renovated store room down here that we use for extra guests."
I have to switch to present tense now to describe the terror that followed:
Finally, at the end of the corridor is a single door. He lets me into the room and then ominously closes the door behind him.
The Room is dimly lit, has two single beds, and a TV SUSPENDED FROM THE CEILING THAT HAS BEEN UNPLUGGED AND IS FACING THE BEDS (and is too high up for me to put something over the screen so it doesn't glare at me). I'm starting to freak out again.
Then I go to the bathroom, which has FLOOR TO CEILING, WALL TO WALL mirrors, is ridiculously long and has a dark shower cubicle at the far end. I think I took all of 2 seconds to have my shower. And I certainly didn't stop to make eye contact with my reflection in the mirror.
Then I lie down in bed and discover that both beds are reflected in the television screen. ARRRRRRRRRGH!!!
The next few hours ticked past excrutiatingly slowly as I tried to remember the words to "Hail Mary" and all the songs I was ever taught in Sunday school.
I nearly kissed the cleaner when she started vaccuuming outside my door at 6am. It felt like the longest 5 hours of my life. Ironically, it may also have shaved off 5 years of my life.
Damn those demon children. I'm only watching Reese Witherspoon comedies from now on...
Well, it's the right day for ghosts. It's dark and gloomy, the kind of weather that makes trees look sinister and little children look like they've come here on a field trip from Salem's Lot.
Anyway, I was trashed this morning because yesterday, Miss Nicky, in her infinite wisdom, forwarded on a "Ringu" type chain letter to me. I didn't open the .jpg file, but I read the text at the bottom, which might be enough. I don't know. Anyway, the gist of it was "This is a picture of a woman who died in hospital on Monday [or something like that], you must forward on this letter to five more people or she will come for your soul. Blah blah a woman from Western Sydney ignored this message and died in an accident the next day blah." Now, in principle, I refuse to forward on chain letters or e-mails, even the ones from the Dalai Lama that promise me eternal happiness and meeting my buff soulmate if I send on his happy Prozac message in ten days to ten people. So I didn't open the graphic, because I was in the middle of some work thing, and I deleted the e-mail.
Unfortunately, I have an overactive imagination, and last night I kept lying fitfully in bed, in the dark (ironically, I can only sleep in the dark, but I'm also afraid of the dark), and kept waking up with a start and turning on the bedside light. But I couldn't sleep because the light was on, so I'd turn it off, and then I couldn't sleep because it was dark and a vengeful demon was going to devour my soul, so you can see the bind I was in.
And then this morning, I had a close miss while while driving into work on the freeway. I was changing lanes because I thought my blind spot was clear, and then the car behind me decided to change lanes as well. They nearly ran into me becuase they were morons and it was raining and they had a dark blue car with no lights on, so of course I thought "Argh, she's still after me!"
Hence, I presently have a rabbity nervous twitch and shadows under my eyes that make me look like a vampire. But one of the Nosferatu type ones from the 50's movies and not the sexy Anne Rice ones.
Thursday, May 12, 2005
This is a post from Lnguyen in reply to the thread "Who is your Kendo hero?" Teehee...
"My wife, I don't know how many dan she is but her Ki is so strong that I have to do what she told. Her chudan is so strong that I never control the center in the house. Her waza is so smooth that I fall into the trap to do house chore all the time. Her grip is so strong that I am always a broke swordman. Now you tell me who is my hero."
I like what Joseph Campbell has to say about how to live:
"If you follow your bliss, you put yourself on a kind of track that has been there all the while, waiting for you, and the life that you ought to be living is the one you are living. Wherever you are - if you are following your bliss, you are enjoying that refreshment, that life within you, all the time.
Now, I came to this idea of bliss because in Sanskrit, which is the great spiritual language of the world, there are three terms that represent the brink, the jumping-off place to the ocean of transcendence: sat-chit-ananda. The word "Sat" means being. "Chit" means consciousness. "Ananda" means bliss or rapture. I thought, "I don't know whether my consciousness is proper consciousness or not; I don't know whether what I know of my being is my proper being or not; but I do know where my rapture is. So let me hang on to rapture, and that will bring me both my consciousness and my being." I think it worked.
My general formula for my students is "Follow your bliss." Find where it is, and don't be afraid to follow it."
And from an interview by Bill Moyers:
BILL MOYERS: Do you ever have the sense of... being helped by hidden hands?
JOSEPH CAMPBELL: All the time. It is miraculous. I even have a superstition that has grown on me as a result of invisible hands coming all the time - namely, that if you do follow your bliss ... you begin to meet people who are in your field of bliss, and they open doors to you. I say, follow your bliss and don't be afraid, and doors will open where you didn't know they were going to be.
I have to say I've found that this does happen: you find something you want to do, or feel you should be doing, you pursue it and suddenly doors start to open; you meet the right people, ones who can help you along or mentor you, opportunities and openings keep presenting themselves...
It's like giving a little push to a line of dominos and watching them fall smoothly into their pattern. You can't be apathetic and wait for things to happen, but a little bit of effort seems to cause a veritable avalanche of opportunities and new experiences to come your way.
Friday, May 06, 2005
Have I ranted about this movie before? I probably have, but this is one of my all-time favourite rants, so let's play it again, Sam.
As far as I'm concerned, the only things that save this movie (for me) are Jake Gyllenhaal's abs (I did say, "for me"). I saw this movie in London with my cousins, Ching and Jack (who are girls but those are their nicknames), and Ching's husband Joe. What a great night. It provided us with at least 2 hours worth of ranting material afterwards.
- That stupid policeman. When French woman is frantically banging on the window of the taxi and screaming, I do believe that is international language for "For F*** sakes get me the hell out of this deathtrap!" Instead he stands there scratching his head and love interest girl (or Morona, as she shall henceforth be known) has to come over and translate. "She's saying she can't get out!" Good one, Morona! Maybe you can translate what my body language is saying right now. Just the hands now. Can you?
- And then, after the French woman is rescued, she has the temerity to turn to Morona (perhaps, like the audience, she's sussed out that Morona isn't the sharpest nail in the bucket) and squeal, "Oo-er, I left my passport in the taxi!" "I'll get it!" chirps Morona, despite the fact that a 2000 metre high tidal wave is heading right towards them.
Now, perhaps it's because I'm Chinese, and we are a rather pragmatic race, but at this stage I would have politely responded with some Hokkien obscenities about her private parts and then trampled my own grandmother to get into the building.
Under the circumstances, I think the French embassy would have no trouble believing the story about how you got caught in New York and a giant tidal wave washed away your luggage. That is, if there is a French embassy left. That is, if there is a France left.
- The scene where Morona has septicaemia and they're looking for a cure in one of the medical books. Stereotypical librarian woman is reading, "She'll need antibiotics, or ..." Pause. Y'all know it. Amputation. I can't wait!
And then--dammit, Jake decides to go look for penicillin instead. I'm crushed. Luckily none of them are medically trained, because with septicaemia there's a certain point where recovery is well nigh impossible, and it looks like she's got to that stage.
(By "that stage", I mean the stage where I'd be sharpening my carving knives and singing, "Who wants the wishbone?" Hey, they might be holed up in the library for a while. I'm feeling hungry already. Waste not, want not.)
In fact, her recovery at the end is nothing short of miraculous. She must be related to the woman in Blade who, after having most of her blood drained by Blade (so he can go open a can of whoop-ass on Stephen Dorff), still has enough energy to have a full-on girl fight with Euro-trasherina. Where can I get me some of those supplements? They can't just be taking Berocca, unless it's special gamma-irradiated Berocca .
- The US government has to make a deal with Mexico so that US citizens can cross the border to survive. Is it just me, or on that map did they not outline HUGE expanses of land belonging to the United States that wouldn't be affected by the freeze? In terms of latitude, what's a mile here or there?
- Australia is not listed on the big scary map as a country affected by the big melt. Yay! We're number one! We're number one! Suck on that ... erm ... everyone else! We'll have no one to sell our exports to, but maybe we'll finally win the Winter Olympics! Without someone falling over in the Speed Skating!
OK, maybe not. (Actually, I have a nasty feeling that the meatiest one is ... me.)
"OK, we're all walking home!" said Joe when we got to the car. "God forbid we burn more fossil fuels!"
Tuesday, May 03, 2005
How I love this show. Just suspend scientific fact, common sense and principles of logic and enjoy the ride!
Things I've learnt from watching Alias:
- Don't want to piss off Sydney Bristow. I also want her toned triceps. Whenever I go to the gym I try to visualise them and work towards them. I try not to look in the mirror because I know I'll see a female Eric Weiss instead.
- You definitely don't want to piss off Jack Bristow.
- And the last thing you want to do is piss off Arvin Sloane.
- Vaughn is so very pretty. His range of facial expressions is rather limited but he's so ornamental that it doesn't matter.
- Milo Rambaldi annoys me. I'll bet he was teased at school.
Oh the folly of parents naming their children. This is funny. I particularly like the following entries. Comments in red are the author's, not mine:
I was thinking of naming my son Toolio. Does anyone know the origin on that one?
Toolio DeSac. Boy, can't think of any way that kid'll get picked on. That's one taunt-proof name there!
My husband and I were once told that we should "pray for a name." That in the Biblical times God named many people and still would today if asked. We had a little girl and were very surprised at the name that came to us when she was born and we have been very happy with it ever since. We are doing the same with our baby that's due in October.
Did the fortune cookie slip with the name come before or after the placenta?
These happy parents are hoping for a little brother for their baby, Default Marie.
I went to school with a girl with an unusual name. Hippie parents, meh.
I'm sitting here doing the footy tipping for the work (damn you Stu for making it sound easy) even though I couldn't give a rat's about the sport. Am contemplating my impending HUGE arse mortgage in suburbia and my lack of fame or svelteness. Also my kendo ineptitude.
Mind you, I have some poppy seed cake waiting at home and an episode of Alias to watch. I'm also feeling quite chipper because I've unstrapped myself from that damn corset my mother forced on me for my stuffed back. (It was doing unspeakable things to my body.)
Monday, May 02, 2005
I had to stay home today. My back is stuffed, and so is my knee (both entirely my fault). I can feel the Reaper's skeletal hand trying to cop a feel already.
I love work. It is my quiet, little sanctuary.
But instead I got to stay in bed and lie on my back all day. Woohoo. Yes, I know there are people who would loooove to do that blah blah, but they've never had to live with my family.
No, I don't want to talk about it.