If smashing was legal

Am I inflexible, or are they just dumb?
The vastness of mentalities really amaze me.

What works for me

A Walk To Remember was on TV tonight, and I'm watched again, for the zillionth time, even if it's a little bit sappy. I love it, for the way it does things to you, makes feelings well up inside, even if that makes me a suk. Even if the acting is a little basic, the lines a little simple.

I've said it before, a good few times now, happyendings don't quite do it for me. Happyendings never have the same effect, the same ability to draw layered emotion, such twisted heartache. No, imperfect endings are more my thing; they make it all that much deeper, richer, more dimensional.

The The Notebook works for me, too.

Joanne at 22

Dropping by at Jo's surprise 22nd

Organized by Ann -- being interstate won't stop her!

One with Nick for the album

Dinner for Sue

Doing dinner at Liquid

Bom Alaska! Yum!

Celebrating with wine :)

All in a day's work

So the boy has a number of times now said that I give off the wrong impression about my feelings on work. Some consideration later, I figured out it's just me: talking about my day via bitchy complaints. It's not that I dislike work. To me it's just relating (fine, wingeing), but I see how it can come across otherwise. I realized I'm a grumbler in general. Comes with being a little cynical, a little hard, perhaps. But. To counteract that, and to show that I can, I have decided to point out some possible person-specific *ahem* benefits of the job. Let me present, All in a day's work, dedicated to he who is persevering at long-suffering in the UK.

• Hot Brazilian girl comes in to apply for work. We don't end up hiring her, because communicating would have been a little tricky, but she was a looker while it lasted. Who said listening was what I was doing anyway?
  

• Cute chicks come in and let me play dress up with them.

• Two girls come in, one tries on something in the change room, and takes a decade. Door peeps open, second girl slides in, and that's the last I see of them for a millennium. With nothing but time on my hands, I stand around and speculate.

• Guy working few doors down often comes in for a chat. We observe, discuss and compare male specimens available. We look at girls too, but it's admittedly more entertaining watching him go soft over Muscles-Just-Walked-Past.
  

Not half bad little titbits for a single day, don't you think?

The V-S trip

Mercadante Meet:
The food is good, the company, sweet

Italian is good for the Malaysian soul with
pasta, pizza and lots of lemon lime bitters

Fabulous ambience and interesting menus
at The Point, Albert Park

Lively chat over a seafood dinner at
Livebait, New Quay

Docklands is always pleasing to the eye,
even if the weather is a little bit crisp

Lamb is better eaten with friends.
Apparently, they go well, too, with magic mushrooms

Last supper at Soony and Michy's.
Also last chance for the guys to take on Vern for a pre-bucks,
and go at him they did!

Happy hugs all around,
for the couple we'll see unmarried for the last time

More cuddles for friends big and small,
they get a chance, one and all

How cute is this chickadee? Hannah knows she's adorable,
and she knows how to work it!

Sinking

Let me,
she says,
hold you a while.

Of work and its conundrums

I figure it's now or never. I have been putting up with it for some time now—enough to say there is sufficient experience and evidence to eliminate exceptions—and not so long it's yesterday's news. It did take me this long to write up; a good two months or so in short spurts, as I recall, because anymore of it at any given time would have seen me go, simply, ape shit. And so, with no more ado, here is the wonderful life of meeting all sorts:

SPASTIC STICKS
The Spastic Stick is, as her name suggests, thin as a bean and broken in the brain. Blessed with lankiness in arms, torso and legs, the Stick is adamant clothes that are her size don’t fit her, and parrots on and on and on about how everything is by far too small. Apparently the one-size-fits-all knits we sell to size 12 customers don’t make the cut for Miss 6, and small is too small, and medium too medium. Attempting to be professional is not without challenge, when all you want to scream at her is that if she were any flatter, airlines would reject her as an approved runway. In fact, you need to hold yourself back from gauging her eyes out so that there is some sort of curve on the Stick, while you watch her pull and prod at the knit she is wearing until you are positive there is just no way in hell it will retain the shape it was made to be. Of course, you may interrupt with the professional calm and courtesy you do not feel, and stop her, but by the time she verbalises the fact that the knit is imperfect because there is a bump on the sleeve from the cuff of the shirt she is wearing under it showing through, all you really want to do is pay her not to buy anything from you and leave.

* * *

LARGELY DISILLUSIONED
Another garment destroyer, the Largely Disillusioned is, frankly, a tub of lard on legs who thinks she is top shit hot stuff. Now don’t get me wrong because anyone who’s lost enough pounds so they no longer need to be sewn into their clothes is to be commended, but if you’ve gone from Godzilla to a big-sized woman, that’s exactly what you are: a big-sized woman. The Largely Disillusioned drains your life with stories about how they’ve shed oh-so-monumental-an-amount of weight, and how their whole life is changed and is moving in a completely new and exciting direction, and how they need to slowly rebuild their entire wardrobe although having had already spent two small fortunes getting an array of branded merchandise any Stetford wife would be proud of, and other such disgustingly detailed life stories because, after all, they’ve spent their life previous to this feeling fat and ugly in their fat and ugly clothes. I get it. You want to look good, and it’s my job to help you achieve that. But really, spare me the Cinderella story, because trust me, I’ve got my own. I’m being paid only so much to dress you, and by far too little to even pretend to be interested in playing your attentive and concerned therapist.

Just when you think having to lend your ear is the lowest point of your day, you discover the elephant has taken a mountain of garments that are not her size, which she will, naturally, tirelessly attempt to squeeze into. Therein lies your dilemma. You are unsure how to tell her her fat ass will simply not fit into something that small without insulting her. You don’t want to discourage her by suggesting that she is bigger than she thinks, because bursting her wonderful bubble of misconception about herself will guarantee she buys nothing whatsover. So there you are, praying frantically she doesn’t bust the seams, while you have you pinch yourself—hard—so you don’t burst out laughing at how much of an idiotic sausage she looks in what she’s got on. Not falling in stitches is hard, let me tell you, when the clown looks nothing more than like she’s pushed herself, lumps and bumps and all, into a very stretched, very taut, very tight rubber.

* * *

B-O BOMBS
The B-O Bomb needs no introduction. Thankfully rare, but potent when ignited. And just so you know, the B-O Bomb is so bad, the scent she leaves behind is enough to wipe out the enemy—and every other customer in between. In other words, you hold your breath for as long as you can bear, quickly hang up whatever she’s tried on, and leave to air til the cows come home. Anti-gagging is an essential skill.

* * *

THE WON’T GIVE UP-ER
It has been determined, whether by discussion, or through relentless trying of garment after garment after garment—which we will later have to refold, re-button, re-turn right side out, hang on designated spot according to size progression and in properly spaced distance with relation to all the other hangers while simultaneously having to serve other customers, process other sales, make and take calls from other stores for stock checks, which then lead to processing stock transfers, or entertain ones from stupid, long-winded customers (I saw this top the other day that I liked, I don’t know what it’s called, or how much it cost, or what material it was made of, I think it was black with white print, no I don’t know what design the white print was, it was a three-quarter sleeve but it might have been long, yes there are some buttons running down it but I can’t recall if it was all the way or only at the top, a collar–hmm maybe, and I’m uncertain if I’m an 8 or a 10, I might need a 9, do you do size 9, can you hold one for me, no I can’t come in today, it will have to be next weekend, oh you can’t? Oh.)—that we simply do not have what it is The Won’t Give Up-er wants.

Sometimes, there are very specific qualities which are sought for, and other times, there is just no satisfying her. Just because we may not have something carbon copied down to the last stitch in her mind does not mean we don’t try and show her something else that may be a well serving alternative. Nothing qualifies, unsurprisingly, but for the Won’t Give Up-er, this is far from her cue to go away. One subspecies of her refuses to shut up, as if by talking, the illusive item she searches for in vain will magically manifest itself. The second subspecies tries something on, then stands in front of the mirror for­ever and looks at her reflection from the front, then left, then right, then back, then front, then left, then right, then back, then front, the with her face tilted one way, then the other, then back the first way, then she checks her left profile, then right profile, then back, then… Let me make clear that by this stage, we have pretty much told her that this is all we’ve got. If she likes, she can have it, otherwise, it’s not a crime to leave it. What does the Won’t Give Up-per do? She doesn’t give up! And the day has only just begun...

* * *

BRAINLESS PROFESSIONAL
Because, clearly, being a professional does not equate to having brains. Case in point:

Sharp-looking woman in fashion suit enters store. Browses around, then asks when our new stock will arrive. I tell her the current stock is the new stock. She wants to know when the suits will come in. There are suits on the rack. All six styles of them in jacket, pants, skirt. I say so. She says no, the suits for work. Formal suits, she insists. For, you know, corporate wear. I say, these six. These are the ones. She says oh. These for work? Of course, I say, adding that all our suits are a classic one-button cut made from a 100% cool wool the whole spiel. And yes, I say, because it is a classic style, it is timeless and very suitable for her purposes. Bla bla. Oh, she says. Oh, indeed.

I rest my case.

* * *

CIRCLING DESTRUCTOR
Professional destroyer, the Circling Destructor goes round the store looking, does not find anything, then goes around again, finds nothing, and heads into third round, who knows why, oh it’s so she can gear into her seventh round around the store, and by now I’ve lost count because I’m too busy controlling myself from strangling her. Did I mention each time she goes around she destroys everything? For every round she makes, I have to make a round rearranging the stock, spacing the hangers, refolding perfectly aligned stacks of jeans… I kid you not, if I didn’t know better, I’d say she was circling around and round and round in some satanic ritual where the garments she so desires will be magically willed into her bag and she can then walk out with the goods undetected by security, and leave untouched. That, or she must think that circling sheds pounds, and by the time she’s done with that and wants to try something, she’d have gone down from a Large to a Small.

* * *

BITCHY BYSTANDER
The Bitchy Bystander is the annoying counterpart who accompanies the shopper. If we are lucky to get so far, we offer the Bitch a seat outside the change rooms while the customer is being served. If said Bitch is being a first-class snob, standoffish qualities are displayed in full glory, and we leave the Bitch to stand arms folded and face frozen at a corner, looking like someone just shoved a baseball bat up where the sun don’t shine. By no means is the Bitch limited to females only; men make excellent candidates for the role as well. There are two categories of Bitches to note: The first is, as mentioned, the jerk or witch who arrived unappreciated, with the customer. They are the greater of the two evils. But first, a word about the latter.

The second category of Bitch—typically female— is no more endearing than the first. Because the person who is trying on something is a total stranger to you and is therefore, none of your bloody business and you should not volunteer to interact with them. I think it would be suitable the Bitch kept opinion to herself, and not give the negative thoughts about something she clearly knows not much about herself, to someone who did not even ask for it. And she should keep her hands to herself, and not touch strangers to feel the fabric of the garment the customer is trying, nor tell said customer to pick one item over the other when both items could well be winners. Ideally, she should sink into the floor, but I'd take sitting mutely minding herself and not trying to influence my customer, quite willingly.

That's Category 2 Bitch. I'd assume Category 1 needs no introduction. C1B is deemed the more evil because he or she has greater influencing power over the customer they came with, and their sulky, unenthusiastic attitude can rub off customer and make a potentially good sale go to hell and beyond.

* * *

THOSE WHO DESERVE TO BE ELECTOCUTED BY PHONE
First, they’re dumb, then, they think they own you. They ring the store, don’t have the style name or number of something they want, don’t know what material it is made of, offer details of the garment they insist it has when there is none... basically they cannot describe jack. You take a while to be absolutely sure you don’t have what she’s talking about, because hey, you want to get it right for the customer. Then she has the nerve to speak to you like you’re a pea-brain when she’s the real intellectually-challenged one here. You know what? Even if I had what you were after, I would not tell you so just because you’re a condescending and impatient piece of work who thinks she can treat others like second-class potted plants. Darling, if I were a fern, you are a speck in the wallpaper design the fern sits in front of. Don’t speak to me like a moron when you the simpleton here. It’s like a chef who does nothing but glares and curses at the oven and is upset the oven doesn’t automatically bake him a cake. Get over yourself, and come back when you’ve learnt basic manners, thank you very much.

* * *

THE TACKY TART
She walks in wearing faux fur, cheap imitations, and shabby animal prints, with brightly painted face and brighter personality. So she’s all big hair and rough round the edges; not everyone’s born into privilege. Still, her taste is vulgar, and she can never find anything from our classic range to suit her style. Still, she comes back, in all her tacky glory, and wastes her time and ours. Her shoddy brain doesn’t comprehend our style will never become the look suited to show that you may well have just come off the streets at dawn.

* * *

ASIAN DRAINERS
These are the worst. Of all time. They deserve a thesis of their own, these dimwits. But just thinking about where to start drains my life. Ask, and you may be inundated with an onslaught of abusive opinion. Barrage warning hereby given.

Apple hits the spot

I'm not big on beef patties, but I am a fan of Macca's (or any food that's bad for you, really) so today I decided the new NameIt burger was on the menu for lunch. My meal, I found when I opened the bag, came with apple pie.

Apple pie! I thought with happy surprise. I didn't recall it being inclusive in the meal, and I'm sure I didn't order it. I checked my receipt. It said, along with my order, Apple pie $0.00.

OK, then. Everyone knows you don't say no to apple pie, free apple pie no less. Free apple pie for me it is.

I can't think why else, but C says calling little Asian blondie babe sure didn't hurt. If that's what it takes, babe to her anytime it is.

Did your meal come with pie?

I'm addicted

to avocado shakes.
I might as well be addicted to fat.

At this stage, I don't think I can lay whole blame on winter. Boo.

How cute is this tot!

Here we go again! That girl and her camera -- always causing a flash flood!

The little bubs at her cutest yet. She's now really responsive and all the more cute for it.
I could eat her, this one.

They have meds for this kind of thing!

This whole hormonal thing is getting too much for me. By far too much when you're going along your merry way minding your own business, and torrents of tears come without warning or the ability to stop. Far too much that you're still at it at 3 in the morning, and you are genuinely perplexed by what it can possibly be that triggered this, and am upset that you're upset for no good reason, which furthers the tears, and ensures an endless vicious cycle. It's just too much when you finally pass out into the welcoming arms of unconsciousness, only to be woken with a jolt to the knowledge you're 15 minutes away from the beginning of work, evidently so drained you've turned off your alarm with no recollection of doing so whatsoever, and you're not up much less ready to go, and you race there a complete mess on a Sunday tram timetable. Oh course, it's not perfect if it's not capped off with feeling like a panda, having to deal with tired, swollen eyes for the rest of the day. Thank goodness for makeup and strong coffees, but I'd rather pummel the emotional coordinator inside. Clearly sleeping on the job.

Bonkers for Blokus

Look what lucky me scored last weekend! Many thanks again, Oh Blokus Bestowers. Indeed, you have made my week.

This quick game for 4 is easily addictive, and you know you're getting hooked when you need to play until you win. Ok, maybe that's just my need to win. Winning, of course, is far from the case, so anyone with fierce competitive spirit up for a game, I'm ready to go when you are!

Each player gets a variety of pieces in a given colour, each piece being a certain shape made up of anywhere from one to six squares. The purpose of the game is to use the maximum number of pieces on the board, but here comes the tricky part: pieces of the same colour can only touch each other at the corners, never along their sides.

The players move in turns, and as each piece is placed on the board, strategies need to continually evolve. Smart moves will enable you to extend your territory and block your opponents.

This game is quick and very fun, and will leave you, as it has done me, shouting: 'Again!' time and well, again.

So, the invitation stands. I will trade food for players. Any takers?

Being at the bottom of the food chain

SUCKS.

Momentos

Preppy sweaters
Soft skin
Crisp white sheets
Issey Miyaki
A list of songs
British accents
A pendant
Little lane ways
Dogs
Stolen afternoons
Stripey socks
Indulging the day
Buttons
An intimate moment
Cufflinks
That apartment
Maroon boots
Vietnamese Beef noodles
Restraint
Sharp shirts
Good coffee

I would go on, but where do I stop?

Just have to say

I don't know what it is with these... strange types. Those types who ponder and think and mull over whether or not to get that pair of black pants they've tried on for the last half hour now. That straight black pair. In the classic cut. Which look like... standard, black trousers, that look like every other pair of standard, black trousers.

I understand if money is an issue. Despite the fact that you cannot grasp the concept of going somewhere within your budget, where there is something available to you for the set amount of money you are willing to spend, and that standing in those pants for an eternity is not going to change the digits on the price tag.

I can understand if you want to be 110% sure you love those pants without a shadow of doubt because, hey, you need to be absolutely sure you will actually end up using this pair of standard, black pants which look like any other pair of black pants. I may not love you, but I can still understand.

I can understand if you're in something radical, perhaps a pair that is only three-quarters long, or made of silk, or has holes deliberately put into it as part of design. But you are not.

I cannot understand -- and do tell if I'm the abnormal one here -- when someone stands around in a pair of standard, black pants, claims repeatedly her liking them, and looks and looks and looks at herself from every angle under the harsh shop lights, and then exclaims she needs to sleep on it because -- wait for it -- she needs to think about what she can wear with it.

If ever I needed anger management classes, it might as well be now.

I smile my pretend-to-mean-it-smile, tell her that's fine, and see you again.

Not two steps towards the exit, she spies and oohs at how this pink stripe shirt would actually look lovely with those pants. And then she finds a blue knit which will suit it very nicely, too. And oh my, even this mocha silk top. All of which I have already told her, mind you. In great detail. Of course, she says, you're right. Then again, she needs to make sure she has something in her wardrobe she can match it with, so she will be back soon. And this green top would work as well, wouldn't it?

I know I can grow in patience, that in fact, patience is often a choice. I am becoming more convinced, however, that some people cannot grow out of their stupidity. Can't expect much of half-wits, I suppose.

I just had to say, and now I have.

And tomorrow, I may well just have to say again.

How to tell someone's no longer a carefree uni student

She has a few things she can think of to say, but there is never time. Well, maybe there is, but there is certainly no energy, and any free time she finds on her hands is sleep time. To be fair, she has tried blogging -- specifically, writing up and tweaking drafts to post -- but yes, it takes that long that even she is over waiting.

It is that tiring, this getting dressed and made up each day, surrounded by clothes and all the things fashion, and complimenting clients to make them feel good about themselves so much so she could be a dairy cow, that much the amount of butter she churns, that she does not even have a night out, much less a vain picture or two of, to slip in in place of a decent rant.

The work is hardly rocket science (though be careful not to underestimate the skills and patience needed for it less you find yourself at one end of unfriendly debate), but by the end of each day, she is dead to the world. Hell, she is dead to herself.

Only one conclusion can be made: so not ready for motherhood (not that she wants to escalate there anytime soon); she needs some mothering herself.

Quod me nutrit me destruit

And thus, willing or otherwise, life continues.

You know what?

I fucking hate it when I can't keep my emotions in check. It's just so... girly and annoying. Being emotional is bloody inconvenient, especially when there isn't an emotional bank from which you can draw. And no, it's not that time of anything.

May

Here are some long overdue shots of May's birthday at Cafe Italia. What would have been the easiest surprise ever to pull off unravelled itself when I sent Euge a text late one night to confirm some details, and as his phone beeped, he nicely called out to May to pick it up and read it. I know. Oh well. It was still a good time, and I think everyone had fun.

May celebrates a whole number birthday
with family and friends...

and more friends
and darling baby...

and more friends
and devoted husband! ;D

Food always plays a significant part
in all our celebrations

TK gets peppered up. Not to miss out on the action,
Vera stretches out for some, too. Whatever TK has, she wants More!

Food and friends maketh us a happy bunch.

Free smiles all round :D

Faith's a charmer with the boys
And all she has to do is be herself

Now we know where Faithy gets all her cute expressions from!
Like mother, like daughter ;P
That was the real progression of the family shots too:
Curious Face, Wailing Face, Bewildered Face!