Hi Sze Hwa! *wave*
How's Singapore treating you?
And KPChua! Stop lurking!
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Snobbery at its best
It's official, I'm a snob.
The categories of local inferiority to which I turn up my nose spread wide and far, but then a snob is not one to spare much, is she?
For starters, I find myself wrinkling my nose at the clothes on passerbys' backs as they walk pass me in malls. Not that I have a reaction so adversed I am beyond civil to someone who's garbed in what I sometimes cannot believe to have passed as clothing -- and I must clarify I don't entirely write someone off based on first impression, although I have no qualms either saying first impressions play a part in perception -- but seriously, the shabby finishing of some fabrics, and more horifically, the prints they come in, are just painful to my eye. Marry that to the (lack of) production quality, and -- hey presto! -- it's aesthetic vomit at its best. As if the actual style of the garment is not already an insult to taste itself.
But don't mind my shallow wallowings. That is only second to enduring: "just dial 5672-aye aye nai nai today!" repeatedly on the radio. I would cite more examples, but I'm not in the mood for more self-infliction.
It was funny, I guess, the first time someone (I won't say who) needed to get her "so-syor-lor-gee" textbook. I said: "WHAT?" not because I being a snob; I didn't understand what it was for the first three seconds to turn my nose up to it. On the fourth second, I had tears in my eyes from a combination of realization and disbelief. And while I am resigned to going to "res-tor-ren" for dinners the remainder of my stay, I don't know how long I can keep my distaste in check before I get hit for being too disdainful. Go the lahs all the way; I have nothing against local flavour, but I think there shouldn't be room for pronounciation to be tampered with. Especially pronounciation that makes you sound stupid.
Now I don't mean to be deliberately belittling, say what you will, but with some types of local produce there is just no comprison to its imported varieties, and that's that. I think I was almost clobbered the other day when I took a sip out of a boxdrink of Milo and went instictively: "Yuk!"
How is it my fault if the milk here is sour, and the coffee, oh god, the coffee. Now that is the matter that started it all.
I can appreciate that some things are simply better coming from some places rather than others. Like I don't expect local milk to be creamy and rich, I don't expect local coffee to match the standard of its other bolder, more aromatic counterparts. Being able to differentiate quality is having the skill of discernment, not thinking I am too good for something lesser. If what I need is something better, then I get it from where it is available.
My problem, then, is having to spend ten dollars every single day at commercialised American coffee chains, on something which should but isn't the way it's meant to be. Now I haven't written off local joints without first giving (way too) many a chance, but I think I have wasted enough expectation and suffering on them, so I moved on to (what should be) the trusty coffee chains. A girl can only put in that much effort, and endure so much lactose-intolerance, before going totally mental.
For the life of me, I am already paying you ten bloody dollars, and I don't begrudge you that, but I want a strong soy latte without the foam, is that so terribly impossible? It isn't such a tall order that you cannot give me soy milk -- not sugared soy, good grief! And frothed, not poured straight in for the love of mankind (only the local stores, thank God)! -- and be generous with the coffee. But my gripe only just begins.
The response is always, always the same: "Extra shot?"
"No. Just draw the coffee longer."
"Uh..."
"Let the coffee drip for longer, so if you usually fill it up to here, now let it fill up to here."
I don't know if the worser crime is that some places simply refuse to comply, or that the shots are already sitting there, made ready and waiting before prehistoric times and cold as the should-be-corpse who made it, and waiting to be tipped into my coffee cup.
It is pure adulteration of coffee making, I swear.
My patience for stupid things is close to none, and I have no desire to want to inculcate it, either. Don't tell me the suffering is good for you what doesn't kill you only makes you stronger crap. I have a brain, and I use it to separate common sense from plain stupidity, so I have no desire to tolerate monkeys acting as barristas.
My patience runs thinnest when they want to charge me for that second shot which didn't even come from a fresh draw. If each shot had its dedicated lot of ground, at least I can appreciate why, but take two lots out of the the one and try to double charge me for it, and you have it coming.
Ugh. My snobbery is really just an adherence to some level of standard, clearly of which these fools have none.
The categories of local inferiority to which I turn up my nose spread wide and far, but then a snob is not one to spare much, is she?
For starters, I find myself wrinkling my nose at the clothes on passerbys' backs as they walk pass me in malls. Not that I have a reaction so adversed I am beyond civil to someone who's garbed in what I sometimes cannot believe to have passed as clothing -- and I must clarify I don't entirely write someone off based on first impression, although I have no qualms either saying first impressions play a part in perception -- but seriously, the shabby finishing of some fabrics, and more horifically, the prints they come in, are just painful to my eye. Marry that to the (lack of) production quality, and -- hey presto! -- it's aesthetic vomit at its best. As if the actual style of the garment is not already an insult to taste itself.
But don't mind my shallow wallowings. That is only second to enduring: "just dial 5672-aye aye nai nai today!" repeatedly on the radio. I would cite more examples, but I'm not in the mood for more self-infliction.
It was funny, I guess, the first time someone (I won't say who) needed to get her "so-syor-lor-gee" textbook. I said: "WHAT?" not because I being a snob; I didn't understand what it was for the first three seconds to turn my nose up to it. On the fourth second, I had tears in my eyes from a combination of realization and disbelief. And while I am resigned to going to "res-tor-ren" for dinners the remainder of my stay, I don't know how long I can keep my distaste in check before I get hit for being too disdainful. Go the lahs all the way; I have nothing against local flavour, but I think there shouldn't be room for pronounciation to be tampered with. Especially pronounciation that makes you sound stupid.
Now I don't mean to be deliberately belittling, say what you will, but with some types of local produce there is just no comprison to its imported varieties, and that's that. I think I was almost clobbered the other day when I took a sip out of a boxdrink of Milo and went instictively: "Yuk!"
How is it my fault if the milk here is sour, and the coffee, oh god, the coffee. Now that is the matter that started it all.
I can appreciate that some things are simply better coming from some places rather than others. Like I don't expect local milk to be creamy and rich, I don't expect local coffee to match the standard of its other bolder, more aromatic counterparts. Being able to differentiate quality is having the skill of discernment, not thinking I am too good for something lesser. If what I need is something better, then I get it from where it is available.
My problem, then, is having to spend ten dollars every single day at commercialised American coffee chains, on something which should but isn't the way it's meant to be. Now I haven't written off local joints without first giving (way too) many a chance, but I think I have wasted enough expectation and suffering on them, so I moved on to (what should be) the trusty coffee chains. A girl can only put in that much effort, and endure so much lactose-intolerance, before going totally mental.
For the life of me, I am already paying you ten bloody dollars, and I don't begrudge you that, but I want a strong soy latte without the foam, is that so terribly impossible? It isn't such a tall order that you cannot give me soy milk -- not sugared soy, good grief! And frothed, not poured straight in for the love of mankind (only the local stores, thank God)! -- and be generous with the coffee. But my gripe only just begins.
The response is always, always the same: "Extra shot?"
"No. Just draw the coffee longer."
"Uh..."
"Let the coffee drip for longer, so if you usually fill it up to here, now let it fill up to here."
I don't know if the worser crime is that some places simply refuse to comply, or that the shots are already sitting there, made ready and waiting before prehistoric times and cold as the should-be-corpse who made it, and waiting to be tipped into my coffee cup.
It is pure adulteration of coffee making, I swear.
My patience for stupid things is close to none, and I have no desire to want to inculcate it, either. Don't tell me the suffering is good for you what doesn't kill you only makes you stronger crap. I have a brain, and I use it to separate common sense from plain stupidity, so I have no desire to tolerate monkeys acting as barristas.
My patience runs thinnest when they want to charge me for that second shot which didn't even come from a fresh draw. If each shot had its dedicated lot of ground, at least I can appreciate why, but take two lots out of the the one and try to double charge me for it, and you have it coming.
Ugh. My snobbery is really just an adherence to some level of standard, clearly of which these fools have none.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Beat
That, I am.
Being in one place for no more than 24 hours -- with errands geographically distanced, and requiring important and prompt decision-making -- before flying of to the next, only to be greeted with a whole new set of errands, which might I add, demand what seems like unending time, is taking its toll on me.
End result is my being totally spastic. And by that I mean not having the sense to check in hand-luggage full of new toiletries, which the morons at the departure gate were all too ready to dispose of.
I call them morons not because they cannot exercise discretion to see clear as day that my very expensive facial and hair products are explicitly not the ingredients to making a weapon of mass destruction. I am not calling them morons either -- though they are that and more -- because their backs stiffened as my bag went through the x-ray machine and they pounced, I kid you not, way too excitedly on it, shouting: "Bottles! Bottles! YOU! Your bag?" Because naturally, the entire lounge need be aware that this is how a terrorist disguises herself as some common passenger with the brain size of a pea to try and smuggle liquid onto the plane right in front of their noses.
They aren't even being bestowed morons for wanting deliberately, I swear, to make you feel as though you are being purposely uncooperative and highly secretive, never mind that I am taking everything I think they may remotely want to inspect, out of the bag for them. I'm not calling them morons because they feel the need to have two pairs of hands digging intrusively into my puny little hand-carry like hunting dogs after game in a rabbit hole, and hold up triumphantly a small giftwrapped box, with which one exclaims: "Liquid! Liquid!"
I correct them: "No. It's a bar of soap."
Moron #1 shakes the box vigourously while Moron #2 looks on. It makes some noise. They look at each other. "Liquid!"
Me: "No. It's not."
Moron #1 and #2 stare perplexly at box with a look that must indicate a combination of their putting on their superhuman powers of x-ray vision, coupled with their supreme stupidity. They continue looking suspicious. "Liquid?"
Me: "NO! IT IS A BOX WITH SOAP IN IT. THERE IS NO LIQUID IN THE BOX!"
They put the box back into my bag looking very cheated, and proceed to categorically look over each bottle like my shampoo and conditional and saline come in the most exotic, never before seen packaging. Each bottle is turned over and over, and I half expect some announcement for a new discovery which will benefit the human race at large to be made any second. Finally, I am informed, in tones laced with infinite grace and mercy, that I may keep my perfume, but that everything else will have to be binned because they exceed the allocated weight allowance for liquid brought onboard. While saying this, the morons keep eyeing the bin behind them. The lid is held down by a heavy metal arm and the bin kept, of course, under lock and key. Who knows what biomedical waste some passenger might accidentally chance upon otherwise?
By this point I am livid with their wanting to dispose of my things, and I propose I go promptly back and check my entire bag in.
And what response do I get?
Well, they don't know for certain that I can do that, but they don't know for sure either that I can't. They just think I mightn't. Obviously, they don't care for me to try.
I refuse to give in and stare squarely at them. They refuse to budge.
Said conversation repeats itself way too many times for anyone of average intelligence to have patience for. These officers here must be a special breed.
I make known with no uncertain terms how ridiculous I think they are, furious at their execution of matters probably more than anything.
Moron #1, gleam in eye, and eagerness plastered all over his slimy face: "So I throw ah?"
I glare at him.
Moron: "I throw away?" That eye glints.
I leave my shiny, new, expensive bottles of product on the bench, snatch my bag off the counter in a huff, and storm off without a word. Ok, maybe I gave them one last good glare, too.
If I didn't, and opened my mouth, I would definitely be shouting that: "YOU AREN'T EXACTLY GIVING ME A CHOICE YOU DIMWIT, WHY ASK?"
Don't get me started on what happened onboard.
If I sleep until the sun sets today, I am going to do it without a hint of remorse.
Being in one place for no more than 24 hours -- with errands geographically distanced, and requiring important and prompt decision-making -- before flying of to the next, only to be greeted with a whole new set of errands, which might I add, demand what seems like unending time, is taking its toll on me.
End result is my being totally spastic. And by that I mean not having the sense to check in hand-luggage full of new toiletries, which the morons at the departure gate were all too ready to dispose of.
I call them morons not because they cannot exercise discretion to see clear as day that my very expensive facial and hair products are explicitly not the ingredients to making a weapon of mass destruction. I am not calling them morons either -- though they are that and more -- because their backs stiffened as my bag went through the x-ray machine and they pounced, I kid you not, way too excitedly on it, shouting: "Bottles! Bottles! YOU! Your bag?" Because naturally, the entire lounge need be aware that this is how a terrorist disguises herself as some common passenger with the brain size of a pea to try and smuggle liquid onto the plane right in front of their noses.
They aren't even being bestowed morons for wanting deliberately, I swear, to make you feel as though you are being purposely uncooperative and highly secretive, never mind that I am taking everything I think they may remotely want to inspect, out of the bag for them. I'm not calling them morons because they feel the need to have two pairs of hands digging intrusively into my puny little hand-carry like hunting dogs after game in a rabbit hole, and hold up triumphantly a small giftwrapped box, with which one exclaims: "Liquid! Liquid!"
I correct them: "No. It's a bar of soap."
Moron #1 shakes the box vigourously while Moron #2 looks on. It makes some noise. They look at each other. "Liquid!"
Me: "No. It's not."
Moron #1 and #2 stare perplexly at box with a look that must indicate a combination of their putting on their superhuman powers of x-ray vision, coupled with their supreme stupidity. They continue looking suspicious. "Liquid?"
Me: "NO! IT IS A BOX WITH SOAP IN IT. THERE IS NO LIQUID IN THE BOX!"
They put the box back into my bag looking very cheated, and proceed to categorically look over each bottle like my shampoo and conditional and saline come in the most exotic, never before seen packaging. Each bottle is turned over and over, and I half expect some announcement for a new discovery which will benefit the human race at large to be made any second. Finally, I am informed, in tones laced with infinite grace and mercy, that I may keep my perfume, but that everything else will have to be binned because they exceed the allocated weight allowance for liquid brought onboard. While saying this, the morons keep eyeing the bin behind them. The lid is held down by a heavy metal arm and the bin kept, of course, under lock and key. Who knows what biomedical waste some passenger might accidentally chance upon otherwise?
By this point I am livid with their wanting to dispose of my things, and I propose I go promptly back and check my entire bag in.
And what response do I get?
Well, they don't know for certain that I can do that, but they don't know for sure either that I can't. They just think I mightn't. Obviously, they don't care for me to try.
I refuse to give in and stare squarely at them. They refuse to budge.
Said conversation repeats itself way too many times for anyone of average intelligence to have patience for. These officers here must be a special breed.
I make known with no uncertain terms how ridiculous I think they are, furious at their execution of matters probably more than anything.
Moron #1, gleam in eye, and eagerness plastered all over his slimy face: "So I throw ah?"
I glare at him.
Moron: "I throw away?" That eye glints.
I leave my shiny, new, expensive bottles of product on the bench, snatch my bag off the counter in a huff, and storm off without a word. Ok, maybe I gave them one last good glare, too.
If I didn't, and opened my mouth, I would definitely be shouting that: "YOU AREN'T EXACTLY GIVING ME A CHOICE YOU DIMWIT, WHY ASK?"
Don't get me started on what happened onboard.
If I sleep until the sun sets today, I am going to do it without a hint of remorse.
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
A note on notes
Music, I think, is one of the best inventions ever.
Music made portable is another.
Portable music makes possible the chance of time feeling like a scene from the movies.
Portable music lets you walk the streets with reality a distant buzz somewhere at the back of your mind.
Portable music makes wooshing train rides very, very nice.
Portable music takes place of those things you think and dream about - whether because of its lyric, or for helping you through passing time - until it comes that they are realized, once again.
Withdrawal
Sunday: Visit to St V's to see baby Ethan
Monday: Dinner with the girls
Tuesday: Appointment with SJ
Wednesday: Appointment with JK
Thursday: Keith's birthday dinner
Saturday: Matt & Sue's wedding
Sunday: Drinks with the girls
So, Friday: I am, by hook or by crook, going to slot in some form of workout it really doesn't matter what, or I think I might go insane.
Sunday, March 09, 2008
Too much work
I would update (I have, in fact, a whole host of photos from quite a number of events now) but for the fact that it's just so much easier to post them on Facebook. I don't have to resize the fifty million shots I want to put up, then load them one by one onto an external album, and then mirror them one by one by one again all up here!
If it were a single event, say, I would perhaps be inclined still to take the trouble, but as is the natural course of things such as these, they are as far and few in between as a blossoming flower in barren dessert, and then they come upon you all in the one gush like torrents of a raging river whether you are prepared for it or not with seemingly no end and certainly when journaling them here is the last thing on your mind let alone a priority.
So.
Facebook it is for now, I will quite happily live with.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Ashley's 30th
The birthday boy with wife, bubba,
and best tiramisu ever!
Mr BBQ fires up the grill
and it's a food fest!
Everyone enjoys a scrumptious morsel;
Faith works on her cream cheese...
...which she thinks is delish!
Yummm ;D
Vera and me
baring our teeth for you to see!
Cheryn and Darius
need to catch up - and get next in line! :P
The man of the moment
flanked by stripes and polka dots ;D
S V J stopped by that day to
Come out and play!
Evie with the little one,
who always almost steals the show.
Now you see her, now you don't!
T and Faithy both in pink, awww.
Faith getting special treatment,
in the lap of luxury.
Ash with the girls
and remnants of being marked by...
those who love him best!
Pranksters, these boys.
Can't say there aren't lots of laughs,
even if at his expense.
Saturday, February 02, 2008
Seriously
I didn't mean to blow anything out of proportion. There was no life-altering disaster. I'm not saying nothing happened, because I don't want to trivialize things either. Let's just say I still have matters under control.
But I really do appreciate your concern, and I'm thankful for friends like you.
On lighter, more superficial matters, we've been so bored at work this low season that we've started obsessing about different things. One of which is songs. The ultimate song for different occasions. Specifically, which song would be perfect for different parts of a wedding.
There is this song I adore, and E keeps insisting I incorporate it somewhere. Realistically, it would be best for a first dance. But I highly doubt that will be on the agenda. To which M instantly quipped I should just use it as my sex song. I threw in something about the chance it might not be long enough. And she, quick as a dart: that's the very reason the repeat function was created, my dear.
Ah, we make our own fun.
But I really do appreciate your concern, and I'm thankful for friends like you.
On lighter, more superficial matters, we've been so bored at work this low season that we've started obsessing about different things. One of which is songs. The ultimate song for different occasions. Specifically, which song would be perfect for different parts of a wedding.
There is this song I adore, and E keeps insisting I incorporate it somewhere. Realistically, it would be best for a first dance. But I highly doubt that will be on the agenda. To which M instantly quipped I should just use it as my sex song. I threw in something about the chance it might not be long enough. And she, quick as a dart: that's the very reason the repeat function was created, my dear.
Ah, we make our own fun.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Hello everyone
Thanks for all the messages, guys, I'm OK.
I know you all ask how to make things better. Well, this is my venting space, and venting makes me better.
It'd better. Sometimes, venting's all you've got. And besides, if I were really gonna kill myself (or more accurately, someone else), I wouldn't really say it here now, would I?
I do bleak sometimes. Don't worry!
I know you all ask how to make things better. Well, this is my venting space, and venting makes me better.
It'd better. Sometimes, venting's all you've got. And besides, if I were really gonna kill myself (or more accurately, someone else), I wouldn't really say it here now, would I?
I do bleak sometimes. Don't worry!
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Is there A Clue for sale?
Even if I don't hate you, it doesn't mean I have to like you.
Your indifference is so infuriating, I could smash something, or explode.
I am sick of fixing things.
Just because they can be fixed does not mean you can fuck it up.
If it weren't for you, I wouldn't have to.
I wouldn't need to.
I'd save myself the trouble, and effort, all the waiting, and organizing.
And one other thing: just because I have come to terms with having to rectify it, does not mean I am going to want to talk to you, or anything with you, for the next two hours or so.
Saying sorry cannot lessen the pain -- you should get that, but no.
Get it already, and then leave me the hell alone.
Don't be clueless, fuck up, and then turn around and get pissed at me for being pissed at you.
Bloody insult to injury.
Your indifference is so infuriating, I could smash something, or explode.
I am sick of fixing things.
Just because they can be fixed does not mean you can fuck it up.
If it weren't for you, I wouldn't have to.
I wouldn't need to.
I'd save myself the trouble, and effort, all the waiting, and organizing.
And one other thing: just because I have come to terms with having to rectify it, does not mean I am going to want to talk to you, or anything with you, for the next two hours or so.
Saying sorry cannot lessen the pain -- you should get that, but no.
Get it already, and then leave me the hell alone.
Don't be clueless, fuck up, and then turn around and get pissed at me for being pissed at you.
Bloody insult to injury.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Do what we do
It's not easy to stop from coming across as a hardened, selfish bitch, but how do you do it without sounding insensitive and portraying another badly? I am cut as is; don't add insult to injury with probing questions about something I can only grow more sore about, or demand my cooperation when you don't even know what I put up with.
On the outside, I may seem demanding, but you don't see what I live with on the inside. Gratitude and respect does not equal bowing to someone else's demands, just as being understanding does not mean you are fulfilled.
You get away with so much; don't make me feel bad about having needs, too.
If I take it because I hate being a girl, does that mean I'm tough, or too kind?
On the outside, I may seem demanding, but you don't see what I live with on the inside. Gratitude and respect does not equal bowing to someone else's demands, just as being understanding does not mean you are fulfilled.
You get away with so much; don't make me feel bad about having needs, too.
If I take it because I hate being a girl, does that mean I'm tough, or too kind?
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Choice
I just really want to do it and get it out of my system.
OK, I don't really want it out of my system, I just really want to do it.
I don't need much encouragement, but I never initiate.
It may all come crumbling down, and my self-esteem may be ruined eternally.
So. Should I do it, or should I not?
OK, I don't really want it out of my system, I just really want to do it.
I don't need much encouragement, but I never initiate.
It may all come crumbling down, and my self-esteem may be ruined eternally.
So. Should I do it, or should I not?
Thursday, January 10, 2008
The thing is
The thing is, I've never associated any one of it to you. It's not a bad thing, surely, but is it a good thing?
The thing is, I relate way too many of them to you. It's unhealthy, I'm sure, like that bad habit you just won't break.
The thing is, I don't want to fall into that stereotype. But is being categorized like so something so bad? And if it's merely generalized assumptions, why do I care?
The thing is, I never expected it to take this turn. I certainly didn't plan it, and I didn't go looking. It just happened to be, but many supposed benefits (and I'm not saying there are none) are hot air hearsay.
The thing is, I worry for you. But what can I really do, to help? Am I not proactive enough? Is there a solution extrinsic to you?
The thing is, I don't know how you became this way. But I know your being this way makes me this way. By now, I know to make my own decisions, and take personal responsibility. I just wished it isn't always so hard, so much work.
The thing is, hypocritical behaviour irritates me. But who isn't guilty of it, least of all me?
The thing is, I miss you. For who you are, but also for who I am with you.
The thing is, when prevailing need is left to simmer unattended, to where do you turn?
The thing is, I relate way too many of them to you. It's unhealthy, I'm sure, like that bad habit you just won't break.
The thing is, I don't want to fall into that stereotype. But is being categorized like so something so bad? And if it's merely generalized assumptions, why do I care?
The thing is, I never expected it to take this turn. I certainly didn't plan it, and I didn't go looking. It just happened to be, but many supposed benefits (and I'm not saying there are none) are hot air hearsay.
The thing is, I worry for you. But what can I really do, to help? Am I not proactive enough? Is there a solution extrinsic to you?
The thing is, I don't know how you became this way. But I know your being this way makes me this way. By now, I know to make my own decisions, and take personal responsibility. I just wished it isn't always so hard, so much work.
The thing is, hypocritical behaviour irritates me. But who isn't guilty of it, least of all me?
The thing is, I miss you. For who you are, but also for who I am with you.
The thing is, when prevailing need is left to simmer unattended, to where do you turn?
Sunday, January 06, 2008
Photo Dump 2007: T's Grad
The Life*Doctors join the ever-growing posse
of medical professionals
There is the usual
obligatory family shot
...and the typical Asian shot with the all important cert
(which, as you can see, isn't appreciated by everyone)
T's #1 supporter who plied
steadfast belief from start to finish
One of the Doctors Heng
Guess I have two options where to get drugged up? :D
Snapshots with friends begin,
starting with Evie
Anna is so damn cute
I just love being around her
...and here's a 2nd shot
because I can! ;P
One with Al, the lil' battery pack
of smiles and energy and spark
This little missy gets her turn at 'Dr' next year
And when we first met, we only were wee things
Sidney and T
post nine years of uni
With TK and Vera
Fun times!
All smiles with 3.5 Chans
By this time, it's 4 with bubba Reuben!
Too cool for school
with the Law
And then there's Kam
who's too cool for anything? :P
Not so little Bekky
is adorable with dimples!
(And did I mention, havoc w the xbox?)
Ching and Heng
do their thing!
(and I will leech it off them!)
T with his best friend (awww)
who, in fact, actually almost signed up for med with T
...until, that is, the good wife stepped in!
One for the album with the Chuas
When there are these many boys together,
it normally means mayhem of you-know-which kind
With Han Shin who was, basically, T's secretary
Med school would have been a whole lot more painful without her!
Matt, one of the brainy ones, so cute here
complete with tie and hair combed sideways
Sweet Ingrid
Another one on the brain bandwagon
T and me -- I think he was coerced into it by this time
because all he wanted was to head home for his bbq!
Photo with his girls Lyra and Han Shin
Pretty good for someone dying to take off his regalia
Pleasure State
I admired from afar for a while.
It was a matter of time before I succumbed.
And now, Pleasure State - you are my new lust-have!
Repeated haves, that is.
It was a matter of time before I succumbed.
And now, Pleasure State - you are my new lust-have!
Repeated haves, that is.
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
NYD '08: first minute mullings
2008 marks unquestionably that I have now entered the realm of adulthood, those markers not altogether being deliberate nor unintentional nor of my direct involvement, but because they are parts of life which go on as it does whether you are ready for them or not.
2006 was the year of the weddings; I witnessed eight.
In 2007 - what else - we welcomed new life. All seven to be exact.
This year, we expect another 4, and who's to say there aren't more already in the works?
Am I excited? Yes. Freaked out? You bet.
Do I need to learn to be less of a control freak to really live? Will being less compartmentalize actually make me more happy? Am I not ready, is it just denial? Do my managing mechanisms and coping capabilities need oiling, and what do I do when it is so easy just to give in? Is giving in even bad, or just thought to be unacceptable from social conditioning? Will I learn the balance of contentment, too much being the weed of motivation, too little being the seed of discontent?
I know, I mull.
But I'm taking in the good with the not so good, and making note to remember that things are really, in the end, what you make of them.
This year, I have no lofty resolutions, only this: I know I'm flawed, but that's not stopping me. My frequency may need some work; adjusting in progress.
Life, anyone?
2006 was the year of the weddings; I witnessed eight.
In 2007 - what else - we welcomed new life. All seven to be exact.
This year, we expect another 4, and who's to say there aren't more already in the works?
Am I excited? Yes. Freaked out? You bet.
Do I need to learn to be less of a control freak to really live? Will being less compartmentalize actually make me more happy? Am I not ready, is it just denial? Do my managing mechanisms and coping capabilities need oiling, and what do I do when it is so easy just to give in? Is giving in even bad, or just thought to be unacceptable from social conditioning? Will I learn the balance of contentment, too much being the weed of motivation, too little being the seed of discontent?
I know, I mull.
But I'm taking in the good with the not so good, and making note to remember that things are really, in the end, what you make of them.
This year, I have no lofty resolutions, only this: I know I'm flawed, but that's not stopping me. My frequency may need some work; adjusting in progress.
Life, anyone?
Monday, December 31, 2007
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Friday, December 28, 2007
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Boxing Day
Today, I woke up to have worked for the first time on Christmas eve, and every day leading up to it, with only Christmas day off.
Today, I had my first Boxing Day, like my first Christmas, overseas. Without family. Working. Overtime. In chaos.
Today, I stood on my feet for 12 solid hours.
Today, I developed pains in those spots in my back which normally do all right.
Today, I was thankful in the afternoon I ate the scroll I didn't really want in the morning.
Today, I had my first glass of water at 4, and lunch at 5. In 2 minutes. Standing.
Today, I witnessed first hand, how people are so easily swayed by the notion of discounts. Not that there was any more of it than before.
Today, I am reminded afresh the importance of teamwork, and the value of coordination.
Speaking of which, today, I realized how bimbotic some people are. And am extremely grateful for my common sense.
Today, I properly wore in my new shoes, without the slightest hint of discomfort. Because I didn't have time to feel. No feeling's a good feeling.
Today, my hair worked its way into being due for a wash, even with the wash it had last night.
Today, my body was so confused, I managed just mango and spoons full of ice-cream for dinner.
Today, I decided this would be my first and last Boxing Day in retail.
I'm not ungrateful, but. I don't have dollars (or plastic) to throw around, so I might as well be making some. What did everyone else get up to today?
Today, I had my first Boxing Day, like my first Christmas, overseas. Without family. Working. Overtime. In chaos.
Today, I stood on my feet for 12 solid hours.
Today, I developed pains in those spots in my back which normally do all right.
Today, I was thankful in the afternoon I ate the scroll I didn't really want in the morning.
Today, I had my first glass of water at 4, and lunch at 5. In 2 minutes. Standing.
Today, I witnessed first hand, how people are so easily swayed by the notion of discounts. Not that there was any more of it than before.
Today, I am reminded afresh the importance of teamwork, and the value of coordination.
Speaking of which, today, I realized how bimbotic some people are. And am extremely grateful for my common sense.
Today, I properly wore in my new shoes, without the slightest hint of discomfort. Because I didn't have time to feel. No feeling's a good feeling.
Today, my hair worked its way into being due for a wash, even with the wash it had last night.
Today, my body was so confused, I managed just mango and spoons full of ice-cream for dinner.
Today, I decided this would be my first and last Boxing Day in retail.
I'm not ungrateful, but. I don't have dollars (or plastic) to throw around, so I might as well be making some. What did everyone else get up to today?
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