Humble Abode

For the past year or so, I’ve been caught up trying to turn (what’s essentially) a pile of bricks into a home.

I started with practically living at Borders - thumbing through countless magazines for *cough* ideas (read: plagiarism). Thinking up designs for the loo – u want to pee in a pretty place, no? Trying to prettify walls – one wall WILL be purple (much to the hubby’s chagrin methinks). Trawling through shops for furniture and furnishing knick- knacks – and finding myself uttering “I neeeeed this” more often than breathing. Planning furniture placements – and dreaming up scenarios of entertaining friends over tea and cupcakes (served on cute crockery of course, and oh...oh…with guests and host wearing dresses and pearls). Never mind the fact that I can’t bake for f***. Or don't even like tea very much….

So that about sums up what I’ve been doing for the most part of 2007. And I’ve discovered a whole new world of retail while at it. I thrill over plates and pans. I shiver with pleasure at laundry racks and towels. Garbage disposal systems delight me. Lamps and the like…oooooh…bring it, baby. I am THAT exciting now.

All that planning and buying will soon concretise into what I hope will be my home for the next 10 years at least. Becaaaause dahleeengs, packing sucks…..and unpacking sucks tenfold.

But truth be told, I only have a vague inkling of how my house will turn out fully furnished. I went by the operandi of “I like, I want!” more than practicality and convention. Form over function was the guiding principle. Case in point, my bathroom has faux croc tiles AND a disco-esque ball light feature. Crystal, no less. I guess if people ask, I’ll have to say “oh, it’s themed OTT with a touch of lian chic”. Or “My designer is blind. Poor thing”.

Coupled with my lack of artistic ability whatsoever, it has mostly been a guessing game (or to borrow a popular colloquial phrase…just whack only la). Hopefully, there will be no horrible aesthetic mishaps (as in guests running away screaming in terror). Note to guests: If my home decor turns out to be Buddhist temple meets gay bar meets Ah Hong's Coffeeshop, you should just gush and feign enthusiasm. I’m not opposed to lying. I’ll even give you the script. :P

PS. People, if the décor seems a tad confused, it’s deliberate. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. Pffffft. :P

Form Versus Function

Things I mulled over today.

One. Never underestimate the power of suggestion.

Two. Avoid talking to friend for whom the philosophy of Form over Function is a life tenet.

Three. If you insist on talking to said friend, be prepared to step into the Vortex Of the Unaffordable.

Four. Form kicks Function's butt in said Vortex.

Five. Lusting over a totally useless (not to mention, teeny) piece of furniture that costs almost the same amount of money you would pay to buy yourself a body part enhancement is not going to get you anywhere, if your bank account is on the verge of self-destruction.

Six. Get-rich-quick ideas are hard to come by. And harder to execute.

Seven. Selling a kidney might not fetch as much as you think.

Eight. Ergo, don’t bother trying to sell a kidney to help your self-destructing bank account.

Nine. Robbing a bank (to save your self-destructing bank account so that you can buy useless, expensive furniture) may also not be a good idea if you’re not the type who enjoys being someone’s bitch in prison.

Ten. Stick to Ikea.

Yakkety Yak

I love when my friends and I talk. I really do. It's better than therapy (cheaper, at least). Especially with my best galpal in the whole wide world *cue awwws and hugs*, who’s a gorgeous gem but has trouble seeing herself that way (yes, that’s you Ata). We have countless brain stimulating conversations that mainly reassure our insecure selves and stroke our fragile egos. On a regular basis. And with many encores (read: same questions asked 3 billion times and with 10-year-series type model answers).

Her and me, we can yak till the cows come home, are milked, said milk turned to cheese, said cheese packaged and sold to restaurants and grated over pasta….you get the idea. Hot topics are to do with weight, age and men – we have enough goss and fodder to host a talk show.

To the outside ears, when we talk it mostly sounds like yakyakyakyakblahblahblayakyakblahblahguffaws. But listen carefully and you’ll hear there are actually words being exchanged.

Here’s a sample conversation decoded, just as we were about to leave after a two hour lunch, during which we’ve covered topics ranging from how work sucks, to how work really sucks:

Her:

Oh, oh! Actually I forgot to ask you the all-important question(s) just now:

(a) Am I fat(ter) than the last time you saw me)?

(b) Am I balding? 


(c) Am I fat(ter) and balding?? 


Me:

Oh those are easy ones, sweetheart.

(a) You would look it - but only if you're standing beside one of the Olsen twins. Or Gollum.

(b) It might appear so - if your intention is to channel Diana Ross and one of the band members from Metallica. Simultaneously.

(c) So the answer is a resounding - no, nope, na-ah, nada, tak, nohhhhhhh, you crazy?!, what are you, blind??!!

Like I said, way better than therapy.

Poetry in Motion

A friend of mine recently showed me a couple of poems that he wrote. SO beautiful they made me swoon. And he wrote them in like 5 seconds. I know, *peels jaw off floor*. Such talent never fails to amaze me. He, Da Man.

So anyways, enough about him. Let's talk about me now (it's MY blog. So there. :P). I've never dabbled in poetry writing before. No flair whatsoever in that area. Unless you count the ones of the "Birds Fly High" and "Roses are Red" variety that I copiously and shamelessly repeated in 40 of my classmates' autograph books at the end of the primary school era. Other than that, zilch.

Anyhoo...being in the presence of a poet kinda inspires. So I thought, what the hell. I'll give it a shot. And when better than during a coma-inducing meeting, right?

So here goes....my first, and probably last (as in, people will pay me to never try again), attempt at poetry. Churned out during said boring "kill-me-now" meeting, as I attempted to appear intelligent, all the while thinking "which shoes to buy eh...the taupe or the cherry red....or the fuschia maybe....?". :P


The Meeting

I sit, I stare, amidst the chatter,
Trying to make sense of all the natter,
What lies behind the discourse made,
I wondered as I scratched my head.

Oh I give up, a bore this is,
An hour of my life, flown by, amiss,
I tried, to understand, to grasp, to get,
But all it did was to perplex.

Alas, Mr Speaker, I have to confess,
I don’t quite get what you profess,
Through my mind runneth this attitude,
WTF*** thou-est speakest of, dude?!

Peace Out. Boo-yah.

:P

PS. That whirring sound you hear is most likely Shakespeare rolling in his grave.

PPS. Dear Poet Friend, Amacam? Pass? :P

True Love

Why do you play this game of seduction?
Why am I not immune to your charms?
I tried. I really tried to resist you.
Do not succumb, I repeatedly say to myself.
I will not let you hurt me. No more.

But you were relentless in your pursuit.
I cannot help being drawn to you.
I simply cannot will myself to stay away.
Why would you not let me fight this?

DAMN you, Ben & Jerry. Damn YOU.

You had me at “Chunky Monkey”.
Marry me and be my very own “Chubby Hubby”.
Promise me we’ll spoon all night.
We don't even need any whipped cream.
You, complete me.

Battle of the Bulge

My ex-boyfriend (aka Dearest Husband) said this morning that he lost 2kg. I responded with a " You did'nt lose them...I know where they are." Yessirree bob, I know where the buggers are alright. They've settled themselves on MY hips and tum.

I've noticed that with age, the battle with the bulgemonsters is getting more strenuous. Try as I might (I stopped inhaling the sweet. sultry aroma of Famous Amos cookies for two whole weeks already, damnit), I can't seem to win that game of tug of war with the little cretins.

I could, of course, also stop stuffing my face with chocolates and cheesesnacks*. But then where would I get the meaning of life from?!

Life's too short to wage a war with waffles.....

Cupcake diem, I say....

* I am addicted to cheese-flavoured ANYTHING. Slap 'em on old tires and I'll probably try to munch my way through them.

Fashion Crimes

Shah:
Eh, this morning I witnessed a poor soul who was a walking fashion disaster. The woman had no clue, man…..

Me:
What? Was she wearing jeans so high they said “hellohhhhh stranger” to her boobs?

Shah:
Worse. She was wearing a navy blue pinafore dress – you know, the kind that looks like a skirt with suspenders but all made from the same material…...and a shocking pink top under that.

Me:
The feck was she thinking?! Navy and pinafore…..only passable if you’re 6 and under.....and the pink top had better not be lycra….

(both shudders form mental image of shiny lycra top under pinafore dress on grown woman walking in broad daylight)

Shah:
The disaster was further compounded by a neon green bag and white pumps. Kesian eh. I just don’t understand why her husband or whoever did not do her a favor and stop her from walking out of the door looking like that….

Me:
Maybe she got dressed in the dark?.....

Shah:
If ever you see me dressed like that, promise you’ll stop me from being seen in public. Cuff me to the door if need be. And throw away the key….

Me:
You don't need to ask twice, woman! I’ll yank the fugly things off you myself, even if you kick and scream and try to take my eye out. I solemnly swear on my gorgeous pair of red Jimmy Choos*

Shah:
I knew I could count on you.
(cue violins in background to envelop what was truly an emo moment)

* Them Choos are'nt technicaly mine, obviously....last I checked, they were still at the store window. But at the rate I've been ogling and caressing it each time I pass by the store, we're practically engaged....