On Hiatus

Almost two whole months of silence. What must the lot of you be thinking? Let it be known to all and sundry (especially the deeply concerned amongst you who feared the worst, i.e, kicking of buckets and whatnot) that life still has a death grip on me so fret not!

Being a kitchen slave for almost 14 hours a day leaves me little time for naught else.

I'll be back though. When, I really can't say. But this I promise you, even whilst cuts, bruises, blisters and burns threaten to render my hands useless forever, I WILL write again. That is the power of Me, lest y'all forget.

5th July 2008 @ Courts Megastore

There is an abundance of Stuff going on in our lives right now, suffice to say that I'm incredibly thankful for having in my arsenal of attributes the most dexterous of juggling skills and swiftness of thought too. Or I'd surely be dead by now.

Blessed am I.

More importantly (note the masterful segue), YOU and everyone you know should go down to Courts this Saturday at 1pm to lend support, whistles, cheers, oogles and whatnot to the finalists of Miss Sweetheart 2008.

And by that I really only meant HER.

Oh and come up to me and say hi aye? Till then.....

Dull, dull, dull

I could go on at length about the dullness of Euro '08 (I'm not only saying that because England is out and thus essentially leaving me rudderless and at a loss for who to root for, since I'm already firmly behind Spain and yea they happen to have the most number of players from Lfc. So what's your point?), the dullness of this season's Top Chef Finale (a reality cooking series which by the way was what Hell's Kitchen started out to be but have since sunk into the deepest, slimiest pit of gratutious drama and yet more gag-inducing histronics for the sake of *good TV*. ) Unlike HK, Top Chef is still ALL about the creating of awesome, kick-arse and of course, impossible to replicate-in-my-own-kitchen food) or even the dull staleness of what 8 days has become (which these days only seem to contain tiresome, repetitive gossip ripped off from the likes of TwoP, Go Fug Yourself and Entertainment Weekly. Then there is the embarressing way they fawn over shows that *are now making it's latest season debut on local TV!! Yeah!!!!* but which in reality are inevitably TWO seasons late. There is NO way you can get me excited over the acerbic wit of Dr Gregory House in the ALL NEW Season of House when I've already watched that like oh, only half a year ago. So please stop trying to make it sound like it is indeed a brand! new! season! Because that's just gross. And y'all come across as fluffing twits instead of the intelligent beings that I know you're capable of being!

But no, of course I will not. Instead let me use this opportune time to urge all of you who are IT Showphiles to make your way down to Suntec today and tomorrow for the best and biggest show of the year. Now why the sudden interest you wonder? It's not like I can actually afford that Asus notebook that I've been lusting after for the past 3 months so this is as good a time as any for me to live my life vicariously through yours. And also to garner a lil support for the baby sis who will be making an appearance with 3 other mates from Miss Sweetheart Pageant 2008 for Courts Auction booth. So go on. You know you want to. Gorgeous machines, even more gorgeous babes, what more could one ask for in these so very, very dull times of our lives?

And I mourn

If you, like me, were up last night watching the blasted debacle that was lasts night's Championship Semi-Finals between Liverpool and Stinky Shit, then I seek your understanding. I am crushed, gutted and devastated beyond words and will possibly need many, many days, pints of alcohol and brain-numbing TV (of course I really meant torrents) to assauge this pain.

I really hate to bring up the humilating mishap that involved Riise the Donkey but SERIOUSLY, boy's GOT TO GO. Useless, ineffective and mostly running around the field like a headless chicken and costing us the home game with his assholery of a head-butted OG, last night he proves once again, how he'll never, ever redeem himself.

Unlike the precious and the most adorable face in English football right now, skipper Stevie G who tried so hard but was thwarted at EVERY opportunity by Stinky Shit Blues.

I know that you who are inherently blessed with the sort of sweet understanding that I can't find anywhere else, will understand that I won't be able to post anything worth reading at this point and will instead heap upon me kindly words of comfort and maybe even a few dozen boxes of Royce Incomparable Champagne Truffle.

I too had a dream once

And that was to teach. Oh not just your run-of-the-mill, garden-variety primary school teacher, putting up with a load of crap from over-indulged, pampered twats but in a poverty-ravaged, god-forsaken tiny-ass village in Chiang Mai. First and foremost (the second, less important reason is that I've always loved to teach), I was badly smitten with the country and to a large extent still am. I cannot explain the whys and hows I became so enamoured of a place that is insanely polluted, tied up in the weirdest most arbitrary, ever-changing rules and worst of all, inhabited by my most hateful and feared nemesis, The Cockroach. Yet there I was, willing to do all that I could to stay there for as long as She would have me.

Alas, it was not to be and all those carefully nurtured dreams were shattered in one fell swoop when reality gave me a good, hard kick in the butt. This girl just ain't white. To qualify as a respected TEFL teacher in the Land of Fake smiles one has to be deemed a *Bloody Native English Speaker* which I apparently am NOT. Doesn't matter if I only think and speak and dream in the damn language coz who gives 2 flying fks as long as I'm not Caucasian. This heart-wrenchingly aching memory was dredged up to kick my insomnia up 24839849 notches by an old post that I'd unwittingly and most unwilling come across while looking up the email contact of a lost friend (where the fk are you aaron?! T'was you who started me on the post beneath and now you've simply vanished! Pfft).

QUOTE(realthaideal @ 2007-07-12 17:30:33)
You gotta be like, fully from some country, where like, they fully speak English all the time. You know what I'm saying ? I mean, like, you fully gotta speak how they speak in the streets, and also be able to sound like some full-on smack 'n stuff who could do some business or something. You know? If you can do that, you could fully be a teacher n stuff.

QUOTE(fennielyn @ 2007-07-12 19:20:43)
What realthaideal says is like totally foreals. I'mma spread the word. No, I mean, like seriously man!! Because ya know like how the media and the TV and the radio and the movies teach us how to, like, speak? And hey I'm down with that! Coz, dude, who can deny such a totally awesome truth, yo. Heck, chyeah. AND if you've got a somewhat *White* look to go along with that then hurrah!, completely *white* looking, even better! I guess then, we don't need anymore evidence to reinforce the fact that this weird-ass, reverse semi-racism is rampant in the teaching (English) realm in Thailand, things ARE just the way they are and I don't see the situation taking a turn for the better anytime soon. Having said that, somehow I can't seem to work up any sort of genuine indignant outrage as I normally would under similar circumstances. It could be that I've grown up, grown older, grown tired of the constant struggle, grown resigned...or it could simply be that I've fallen irrevocably in love with my very real and very sweet Thai friends whom I know don't have a single prejudiced bone in their bodies. What they do have though are some very deeply ingrained ideas and ideals about certain things and how they *think* should be done. Even if they understand how wrong these concepts are, it's hard for them to actually FEEL the wrongness of it and believe me, I've tried to explain so many freakin' times and given so many freakin' examples. After much beating of chest and pulling out hair, I gave up. I still love them though despite the mulishness. They honestly can't help it. =(

A little anecdote. For illustrative purposes only. =P A few weeks ago I tried to explain to this Thai guy whom I'm rather close to how ridiculous I think it is HE thinks that he is *allowed* to have another girlfriend if he happened to fall in love or whatever, with another girl while still in a relationship but a girl, say maybe me, is completely forbidden to see 2 guys at the same time, well just make dam sure he doesn't find out coz he'll freakin' KILL the guy. His words, not mine. (And I know he would too.) Then, something about Thai men being warriors back then blah..blah it's how they've been for hundreds of years, they will not stand to be cuckolded etc..etc.. So that's when the indignant outrage spilled over and threatened to flood my insides with pure rage. We argued back and forth and he even admitted to how UNFAIR the whole debacle is and in my fury I said then the girl should damn well have another bf too if she so fancies and he said, "Mai dai...you're a girl, people will not respect me if my girl has another guy, means you really look down me. I understand that it's not fair, that you will be mad and I don't blame you but cannot. YOU don't understand coz you from farang country." I'm like," ...the hell?? I'm as bloody asian as you are!" Guy getting all exasperated, " Mai chai! Your country already like farang one, cannot compare with us, so you mai Kao Jai" Uhm..kay. And that was that. It slays me still when the memory of that comes back as it does now...but there really wasn't anything I could do to make him FEEL and not just know that it's unfair and so so wrong.

I learned a couple of things that day. That you could argue til you're blue in the face and you could patiently smile until your lips drop off but you can never convince a Thai who's dead set in his/her ways and ideologies of the truth in yours. I'm still trying to deal with that. All this crap has been passed down from generation to generation and also perpetrated by the people they have the utmost respect and love for: the people running the country. How can I possibly hold this against them then? And so I don't. But God, don't even think for a moment that I'm not thoroughly pissed off, because I AM. There is a whole lot of anger and frustration in me, I just don't know WHO and WHERE to direct it at anymore which probably explains the drunken stupor I find myself in more and more each night.

SO, moving along now...I know that try as I might, it'll probably be a bloody hard, uphill task finding any sort of teaching assignment even if I were passionate about and am completely dedicated to the job AND have a truckload of experience to boot. Who gives a rat's ass that I don't speak with any discernable accent and the darn pronunciation is crisp and the only language I dream in, think and speak with is English? In fact, I'm sorely ashamed of the fact that I'm not as effectively bilingual as I should be, considering that I studied my 2nd language for ONLY a good 10 years. If I choose to be completely honest, I really shouldn't consider myself even remotely bilingual. Yea, it really is *that* bad, the 2nd language. Perhaps I'm just not much of a linguist or perhaps it's just that my heart and my mind recognized and fell in love with what I was truly in tune with. I remember also always being singled out by my 2nd lang. teacher who took un-natural pleasure in taunting me with my less than stalwart grades and complete lack of interest. Maybe I found the contempt in her eyes when she looked at me so fking inspiring that I started hating the language even more and in doing so become utterly lost in my 1st language to the point that I had no eyes or heart for anything else. Literally. Who knows.

But because I've been cursed with the ass-luck of NOT bearing even the slightest bit of Caucasian likeness, I'm forever deemed not quite worthy of teaching a language that sounds *that* much more palatable coming out from Drew Barrymore's pretty lips than say...Lucy Liu's little pout.

So yea, I'm still trying to make peace with that and come to terms with the fact that I may never be able to do what I love to do, in a place that my heart wants to be, because of an outdated stereotype, so bear with me here if you detect a whiff of bitterness. I'm completely counting on "And this too, shall pass", to work it's magic.

Maybe schedule a colonoscopy to take the mind off such dreary thoughts and oh to make sure that I don't DIE from the ass-cancer. See, it's working already. (I'll be needing that single-malt now, yo)
[End]

Well, have I completely managed to let go of this strangely deep-rooted longing for the country? There are times when I thought that the desperate yearning had begun to ease, but then I'd hear some go,"Sawadee Krub, sabai dee mai krub?" And my heart would skip 32 beats and then take this godawful plunge somewhere down south and I know. Sigh. I know then that this unwanted, inexplicable attachment I have for this country is still as strong as it was before. My heart had just somehow devised a makeshift shield, a shoddy, cloaking mechanism of sorts to seemingly make the pain invisible, but it just ain't enough to hoodwink this heart forever into believing that it isn't there, nor stop it from creeping up on me at the most unexpected, unforeseen, unforewarned times. And and when that happens, I am robbed entirely of my breath, my whole being suddenly poised and centred around a pain so sharp, so all-consuming, I thought that, this is it, surely Death is now upon me.

But then it passes! Lleaving behind only a whisper that makes me finally kao jai, that it's never going to go away and that I'll have to brace myself for the next time I pass that fruit stall in Geylang Lorong Uneven Number that is run fully by a Thai family and I'm tempted to stop by just to ask them," ah ni mango, tau rai ka?", the next time I see Kao Pad Ng'er sold at some random hawker stall, the next time I spot a bonafide Katoey at some dodgy area which knowing me, I'll probably find myself stumbling into, I'll just have to brace myself for the onslaught of that thing that feels like death yet isn't.

Time heals? Pfft. Fking load of bullcrap.

In which Steven Gerrard kicks arse

In all honesty, I hadn't made an appointment with Stevie nor the match but apparently serendipity and the stars were all so perfectly aligned last night (it is still night to me even if it's bloody 4 a.m as long as I haven't slept yet) that lo and behold, when I turned to the FC, there were the my beloved Scousers playing against Arsenal! Despite having to put up with Monsieur Wenker's ferocious frowns, my eyes were glued to the screen and Oh man, my boys played such wondrous, magical football.

Needless to say, I had the sweetest of slumber this morning, well, as sweet as it could get with it being fragmented and fitful.

Stevie's penalty goal was entered with such finesse and awesome accuracy that it left me and the Gunner's goalkeeper, undoubtedly breathless.

Did you see the look on Wenker's face? There couldn't have been a lovelier sight!

Whilst I savoured the glorious victory that Liverpool and I deserved, it was only ever so slighly marred by the lacklustre and lethargic performance by the Gunners, even with Adebayor's equalizer; they just seemed to suffer from match fatigue and many a times their passing seemed sloppy and half-hearted. I'm sad to see them out of the Champion's League as I'll always have a certain fondness for the team but of course the euphoria of knowing that the Scousers will be in the semis against Chelsea just makes everything in my world alright again.

I love these lil critters

What? You didn't know that I've got a thing for creatures that can flick their tongues out in lightning speed and yet look adorable while doing it too? Well now you know. I love lizards and geckos. I really do. And simply cannot fathom the fear and *eeeeeee* factor that these lovely babies seem to inspire in most girls and sometimes, guys too. You'd think they were being faced by my eternal nemesis, The Cockroach. Geez .

And Hey, these lovable ones don't fking judge you for stuffing your face with chocolate cookies all day and watching Hell's Kitchen and NOW Hustle instead of bloody posting.

So this baby was lurking in one of the many boxes I have in my room which is now, for obvious reasons have been converted into a store room (literally). Don't ask me how he got there but through some fateful intervention (not that I believe in that crap), our paths crossed and despite the terror in his eyes upon encountering my none too benign countenance, I trust that he will soon learn to like me as you have and even perhaps enjoy the captivity that was once so lacking in his life. Oy, at least he doesn't have to scavenge for food nemore okay?

And in other uneventful news, I made a batch of nasi lemak chilli which although was kick-ass, tongue-numbingly hot, still lacked that certain something which of course means MORE tweaking. I swear, Gordon is getting to me and raising the standards of my fking palate which is already astronomically fussy and that, my friend, is NOT a good thing.

Okie, being an absolute stickler for honesty as you should very well know by now, I will admit that all I did was fry the chilli and season to taste (meaning adding heaps of sugar and a coupla spoonfuls of tamarind juice, assam to most of you, to acheive that perfect state of sweetness, stickiness and slight tinge of sourness), t'was not as effortless as only I, can make it sound. I sneezed a billion times, cried copious tears throughout and elicited many, many wtfs! from neighbours who cannot grasp the idea of cooking food that tickles your nose and makes you tear (yes, frying dried ground chilli does that and if you don't believe me, have a go at it) at ridiculous o'clock where regular folks, like you, are probably sleeping. But because you know the sort of sane hours I keep, you, unlike them will understand instead of judging.

Oh, this lovely, fragrant and oh so lemak (coconutty) rice was of course cooked by the Mom, who rocks so hard at manipulating complex dishes and coaxing perfection out of them. That is not the only reason why I love her to bits, there's also the little fact that she's ever so fking long-suffering and patient where my short/hot/violent tempered daddy do-Little is concerned. More on that some other time.

So you already know what my favourite biscuits are. But what about my cereal? I know your insatiable curiousity about the smallest minutae of my life must be getting the better of you since I've been holding out on this rather earth-shattering tidbit for so long, so without further ado, this, my darlings, is the cereal of Princesses.

I cannot abide over-sweet cereal that is coated with sugar and that evil thing, you know, HFCS (high-fructose corn syrup, duh) which is pretty ironic if you think about how addicted I am to my Arnotts shite since they're only drenched in HFCS.

Actually that is my number 2 favourite because in my heart of hearts, I really just long for some of this.

But since I'm in no state to, well okie, not me but my pocket, to spoon these delectable grains of yumminess into my yearning mouth, I've got to make do with Post which really, by all acounts isn't too shabby.

Lest y'all think that I'm only good for ingesting mind-altering, body-wrecking pills, I will have you know that you couldn't be farther from the truth. Being a pill-popper through and through, let this graphic, henceforth dispel every doubt that I only do bad stuff.

Oh, and for those of you who keep bugging me about wtf Rohpynol and zolpidem (aka Stillnox/Ambien) are, here are some pictorial elucidation. Now, can we move along from this rather tiresome and non-productive queries?




And to further discourage you from ever even thinking of going near these evil crap that has no business lurking about in our peaceful, lack of terrorists-running-amok-in-our-midst and non-existent inflation-plagued lives, here are some truly horrifying graphics that will burn your retinas and impress upon you forever the assinine assness of consuming said drugs. Because this is how you will look tumbling out of bed, stumbling into the bathroom whilst weilding your camphone. May these pictures be permanently seared onto your memory and come back to haunt you should you ever be tempted by ingesting rotten, nervous system damaging shite.

And for good measure, here's a truly gobsmacking pic of a bruised vein that happened whilst typing out this post. How the fk it came about, I have NO bloody clue.

*Please do not question the weird-ass font that is a all over the place, I too am as befuddled as you are but don't have the patience right now to go bloody *edit html* because every other way just seemes to fail so screw you and your ever-changing font size and span and height, blogger.

The Suckage of RSS subscription

NOT yours. So you don't have to get all indignant and outraged and sulky now. In fact I do subscribe to quite a few of your feeds and it is solely because of them that I am shown the utter slothfulness and error of my blogger ways. I am also astounded by how quickly and frequently you are all able to update your blogs, almost on a daily and for the super-humans amongst us, bi-daily basis too. It is enough to put this girl to shame.

After much gnashing of teeth and the downing of gallons of Caramel Baileys later, I made the grave and final decision to remove forever, the RSS *subscribe to me* box. It just doesn't seem to be serving any sort of purpose and worse, it leads to unrealistic expectation swhich I could never, no matter how willing the spirit is, be able to fulfil. I know what it's like to be let down and why would I do that to you? YOU, the paragon of all that is sweet and good. I could never.

I hate Wordpress. I really do. Not to be repetitive or anything (which by the mere mention of my absolutely justified, negative feelings about WP, I already am being, so just fking bear with me here) but even after spending hours heaped upon hours heaped upon days, I'm still no where near grasping it. I never claimed to be css/html-savvy but rumour has it that WP is such a piece of cake that you could master it with one hand bound behind your back, watching Boston Legal (if the show ever stopped, I might just cease to exist) whilst prying apart durians that being the loser that I am, always usually are opened by the durian uncle in a half-assed manner which is why prying is required of you in the first place.

It is a lie. An outright deception of the most devious kind. You see, you'd never know they were lying when you look at their blog, which in all their elegant, multi-bar, widgetized glory, belies the effort that goes into putting it all together and making it look so fking simple and simplified to the nth. And they don't want you to know either. After spending x amount of hours googling theme installation, plug-ins installation, widget-installation, you spy that just-kill-me already button and feel almost tempted to grab it, but wait! you then spot yet another site that promises to be The N00b guide to all Things WP and unable to resist the siren call that is the WP helping hand, of course you had to pop on over. I'm sure Tim has helped thousands along the way since the article appeared in 20o6 but as stoic and earnest as I am, he failed where I, an obviously sucky, unteachable WP student was concerned. I'm sorry.

But hope! springs eternal. Right?? I mean, if I am still able to blab on chirply as I have after being sleepless for 29.65 hours and counting, then surely, this is hope talking.

Definitely hope, most definitely not Flunitrazepam because I am apparently, impervious to most benzodiazepams and no I was not told that bloody Rohypnol (which just occurred to me that since roofies don't affect me at all unless consumed in mad quantities, I am thus date-ravage-proof, now how many of YOU can lay claim to that?) is part of the benzo family until after I had it in my grateful hands, which by then, I couldn't care less; even if I did and still do abhor almost all benzo pharmaceutical shite. Sadly, Zolpidem is not something I can afford. Not at the amount I need. What?

Back to hope and whatnot, if this wtf-inducing graphic is not irrefutable proof of sunshiny hope in full, glorious bloom, then damn, I don't know what is.

I have been feeling out of sorts the past couple of weeks. A strange, foreboding heaviness that I cannot place my fingers on plagues a heart that that is already burdened with...IT that shall not be named. [SOL]

I fear for my sanity, which if you don't know by now is hanging by a silvery, gossamer-thin thread. It clearly behooves me and all those around me for me to remain somewhat uncrazy because when madness takes over, I just become a puddle of murky, suffocating melancholy.

Here is but a wee flashback to how I can be when the heart and mind are weighed down by a 1-tonne millstone. 'Tis not a pretty sight, I assure you.

An Excerpt from a darker time...

....It appears that I'm in one of my melancholic bouts. Those of you who know me will know that it is during times like this that I can't help but give the proverbial permanently stitched heart on the sleeve a good airing for all and sundry. And I don't even care if you don't give a damn satang. Not anymore.

Do you know how much I hate tears? People who say that crying is good for the soul, that it's in fact a positive form of cathartic release are just full of B.S. I'm typing this through a fog of water+salt and trust me, I'm not feeling any sort of release here.

Why does nobody place any sort of value on friendships and relationships in this city? No, seriously, I really want to know. *out of sighT, out of mind* seems to be the adage of the day here. Friendships forged are transient and superficial at best and most times casually dismissed when one's tangible presence isn't around anymore. At first, I was appalled and beyond hurt at such cavalier attitudes towards relationships and such but now that I'm wiser (chyea) and been through the whole hoopla a dozen times over with unkept promises of *I'll keep in touch*, *no matter what happens, I'll always have your back*, I now ASPIRE to adopt this same flippant, lassire fare attitude about anything that even breathes.

Having said that, I am still anti-facebook and will not despite mounting peer pressure from all fronts, sign up on the shallowest and most superficial and FAKE *social networking* site to sprout up on the internet ever. As with all fads, this too shall pass. Anyone even remember friendster? 'nuff said. [note the self-righteous, holier-than-thou spirit here, yes you don't want to cross my path when I'm drowning in a pool of pain, disillusionment and severe let-downess.]

I shall strive my darndest to treat folks who pass through my life as disposible, dispensible and replaceable. [she says with such passion, such gusto, such blustering bluff, only at that time she believed she would/could do it]....

So, in the spirit of Good Friday and Easter, I shall strive to shake off this impending, n'er-bode-well feeling that only signals the oncoming rush of something So. Much. Worse.

rescue.me

Tim Tams and other Aussie goodies

I've rediscovered my love for these childhood, chocolatey morsels of pure bliss. Just make sure you get the real stuff. As in the Original Tim Tams and not the *made in Indonesia* shite.

Herein lies the difference.

Tim Tams that you get directly from down under has that unmistakeable and supremely fragrant chocolate aroma owing to the hint of caramel in every Tim Tam slice that the fake-ass ones lack. In fact the fakes smell and taste almost rancid and just plain nasty on the first whiff and only gets worse with every bite. It also lacks the crisp crunch that accompanies every Tim Tam Originals, be it the Double Coat (my current fav), the fancy Love Potion series or the spanking new Tim Tam Crush, which has amongst them some of the most luscious chocolate-coated biscuits, studded with crushed hazelnuts and honeycomb (which I'm pretty much a slave to), and to add to all that chocolatey goodness lies that smooth layer of chocolate cream that had me at first swirl. Yes, I swirl chocolate cream in my mouth before swallowing. What? Bunch of perverts. Really.

Quite possibly the best vanilla cream/toffee biscuits I've ever tasted.

I can polish off one pack of this in one sitting.

I am consumed with lust for this but can't find it anywhere damnit.

And this. Come on, you don't expect me to be able to resist tart lemon cream sandwiched between two melt-in-your mouth slices of buttery shortbread can you?



Vegemite. Now, I can certainly understand where the haters are coming from. It looks and smells like a pile of vile dog pooh that's been left out in the sun all week and thus now posses that over-ripe reek that you can't imagine smearing on your hot toast. Right? Yea, only if you've got such unrefined olfactory senses.

I cannot even begin to articulate the sublime yumminess of Vegemite thinly and evenly spread on a slice of hot, generously buttered toast. Seriously, this might call upon that that thing, what is it now, oh yea, *acquired taste* but damn once you've aquired it, it's bloody aquired you for life. Or maybe I'm just weird like that. After all, I can't think of anyone that I personally know who likes Weetbix as much as I do.

+ + = a little taste of heaven. I jest not.

If anyone knows where I can get my lusty fingers on some Double Devon Cream butter, I think you will have my utter devotion for the rest of my life. And please, before you suggest some ulu town in Doncaster, South Yorkshire, I will send Gordon after your ignorant arse. I will traipse all over this island if I have to but to send me to England, you damn well be ready with an air ticket in hand.

I demand to know. WTF happened to the supply of Violet Crumble here?!


I literally grew up on this stuff. No, you don't understand. When I say literally, I mean this shite, fcuking aided my growth spurt and I owe at least 20lbs and 1.56cm to the countless bars of VC that I consumed daily for many, many years. How do I make you comprehend and appreciate the kind of bond that my precious and now decidedly extinct Violet Crumble and I shared? I have no choice but to show you I guess and THIS truly does epitomize the essence of the relationship that was between VC and I.

Do you know the song Through the years by Kenny Rogers? (I am not ashamed to admit that I listen to Kenny Rogers and even rather enjoy his overpriced, herb-encrusted roast chicken). This is how it goes for those of you who incredibly don't know the song. Dudes, don't you know that this song is a karaoke LEGEND? Geez.

I can't remember when you weren't there.
When I didn't care for anyone but you.
I swear we've been through everything there is.
Can't imagine anything we've missed.
Can't imagine anything the two of us can't do.

Through the years
You've never let me down
You turned my life around
The sweetest days I've found
I've found with you
Through the years I've never been afraid
I've loved the life we've made
And I'm so glad I've stayed
Right here with you
Through the years
I can't remember what I used to do
Who I trusted whom, I listened to before
I swear you've taught me everything I know
Can't imagine needing something so
But through the years it seems to me I need you more and more
Through the years
Through all the good and bad
I knew how much we had
I've always been so glad To be with you
Through the years It's better everyday
Honeycombed my tears away
As long as it's okay, I'll stay with you Through the years
Through the years...
When everything went wrong
Together we were strong
I know that I belonged Right here with you
Through the years I never had a doubt
We'd always work things out I've learned what love's about By loving you Through the years.....

And I weep.

I'm still alive

Yea, so, for those of you who care, I'm not actually dead yet, despite what the lack of posts may have implied. I do have a life outside of blogger ya know? However hard it is for some of your brains to process. It's just this blogger lethargy that has insinuated itself into my life that's hindering me from coming on here. This time, I cannot blame it on Gordon, bless his michelin stars (and yes, I'm still as obsessed with the man as I was before), well, not entirely anyway. It's a whole other thang that I was not heretofore privy to and thus don't know where to begin, heck, I just don't want to k. So go bug someone else.

In other random news, I am still reeling from the sheer Stupidity that is Paula.
No, seriously, I'm talking about dumbness of monumental proportions. Don't you pffft me, I know she's usually in possession of all of ONE brain cell but this just has me gobsmacked. Sounding even more befuddled than she always does (I know, hard one to imagine), she had to ASK what Simon meant when he said that the choice of the bottom 3 idols was spot-on. Omfg.

Excuse me while I go recover.

And on that note, I'm off to catch that ever elusive thing, commonly known as Slumber or Sleep depending on your level of non-insomniacness.

p/s see, I too am capable of succint and not just long-ass posts. Be thankful.

The sporadicness of me

Seriously, did y'all really think that I haven't been writing because of lack of something to say, an opinion to give, a grievance to air, a grumble to murmur or perhaps being suddenly taken with the twiddling of thumbs? Which only goes to prove once again, how very little attention you actually pay to the things that I say and also further reinforces the fact that you'll probably never, ever figure me out. As hard as you may damn well try.

The previous week, I had fallen prey to this and this and this and was handicapped as you may recall. This week however, my right brain and 3/4 of my left were unceremoniously kidnapped by Gordon Ramsey. Yes, he of Kitchen Nightmares, Hell's Kitchen, and recently, The F Word fame/notoriety.

I know, his gutter of a mouth is legen-DARY (god, I can no longer look at this word the same way after Neil Patick Harris, go watch this if you still don't know who he is, loser. Because it's only THE best show since Friends.) but I just cannot tear my eyes away from the screen whenever he's on (and there are only 4 seasons of KN, UK version for me to catch up on, which translates to roughly about 40 hours of TV-gazing, if you're the sort who keeps tracks of things like that), what is it about this craggy-faced, absolutely obnoxious and abrasive fella that has me thus enthralled?

Damn if I know. But I promise that YOU will be the first to know when I find out.

Want to have a little taste of him and the yummilicious dishes he whips up?

Gotta love a man who just can't, for the life of him, comprehend how any red-blooded, sane human being, doesn't love eating meat. Exactly.

What the heck is wrong with y'all? The rich flavour of pan-seared kobe beef is just out of this world and SO worth clogging up those arteries for. Somehow, eggplant and carrots and gluten( oh, the horror) just can't compare. Sorry but I'm just not a salad girl aye.

In other news, I lost my atm card for the the billionth time (I know I'm telling you this as if you care) and am now in even more dire straits than ever.

Obviously, Ignoring that 10-cent coin carelessly dropped by someone (obviously richer than I am) is now no longer an option.

Today, I shall dedicate at least 2.35 hours to penny-fishing/picking. And yes, of course, you will be kept abreast of the results of this utterly brilliant, cash-cow idea. I am nothing, if not generous and sharing.

Until then.

I seek you, yes YOU

Let's all just pretend that THIS didn't happen. That I didn't actually expect the lot of you to heed me. So, knowing how you all rock at blatantly ignoring me, let's move along now, shall we?

I need to know. And this time, I implore you, HELP ME. It is considered good in certain circles, Heaven, for example, to partake in a little charitable act now and then.

How does one make a sticky post? Is it even possible on blogger? Can I make a post that will be annoyingly THERE and in your face, each time you log on to PPP? The post that never goes away, never dies, never gives up, despite being flung your loud and probably obscene curses?

I know that amongst you, walk that rare breed of bloggers, you know, the ones who scoff at wiki for it's inacquracies, who scorn those who use Go0gle as a verb (hey, I'm not judging, coz Lord knows I *Google* everything), the Ones who are born with a Microprocessor that can beat Intel any day, embedded within their brains or some other anatomy (don't think I don't know what and where you're thinking about, you gutter-minds).

And to you, O Know-it-all, I come before you and humbly seek your expertise. I promise to make it worth your while to mentor me, because I, understand and appreciate the distance you'll need to travel, from the upper echelons down to where, mere mortal (read : blogger n0Ob) that I am, reside.

Your compensation shall be great. On this day, four years from now, you will remember how you once reached out a hand to one, less worthy, inexperienced but oh-so-willingly to absorb being.

I await you, O Know-it-all, with the greatest of anticipation and heart, clutched in hand.

You like me. You really really like me.

I've been thinking (my brain tends to do that when my fingers are idle and YOU of all people should know the evil that rendered my hands (yes, both) practically useless, save for the cable remote control), you sure are one silent lot.

I don't know whether to be deliriously thankful (for the lack of flames; though since I've not yet written anything salacious yet, there's no reason for any so that's moot really) or manically depressed because you obviously don't find me worth those few minutes of your precious time.

Please, if you will, and I'm asking ever so sweetly (which you all know is not something I'm used to, being the egoistical, bossy creature that I am) and with the sincerest of sincerity, why? Why am I met with this dead silence over and over again? With the exception of my food god, nobody deigns to even drop a measly HI!. Pfft. The two letters aren't very far apart either, so now that you know, do something to rectify your transgressions. If you're contrite enough, I might even forgive you.

And don't think I haven't drawn my own conclusions (because you know I rock at that) about why with a couple of million bloggers out there and another million blog purveyors, there is no bloody sign of life here. It boggles the mind. And when YOU boggle my mind, you bring to fruition these thoughts.

Possiblity #1 : I've been remiss in putting up tantalizing pictures of scantily-clad female bodies writhing on the bed/sofa/computer table/floor.

Possiblity #2 : You have no idea at all what the heck I'm always going on about, ergo no reason to comment. (Don't go thinking that I'm going to accept ignorance as an excuse coz I'm NOT.)

Possiblity #3 : Alright, this actually is a fact; my posts are usually too damn long and with no clear and drool-worthy pictures to alleviate the monotony, your brains can no longer function. Which of course leads us back to Possibility #1.

I don't know what you people are thinking but I swear I do NOT know Edison nor hang out with the likes of him. SO can you really blame me for the lack of pictures of me, half-clothed lounging on the bed and purring like a kitten? Think about it.

In OTHER news, the folks dragged us to Vienna at Thompson for the last day of CNY. I know right, yet more feasting. And no, my ever-expanding girth is really none of your business.

I wasn't too impressed with the quality of most of the food available, my steak and lamp chops came to the table charred and tougher than aged leather.

The vegetable dishes were cooked to death. The salmon sashimi was a little too salmony for my taste. And get this, watered down WINE. Dudes, you have to BE there to fully appreciate the extreme monstrosity that was the diluted wine. God. Have they thrown all pride to the wind?

But I have to give them props for the divine selection of cakes. Guess what sort? Awww, you really do know me! Yes, cheese cake of the Chicago, NYC, Orea and Blueberry kind. My heart fluttered and I thought I might swoon but since I was quite nicely cushioned between an overly-eager auntie and her daughter, swoon I could not.

I too wondered what the heck these were. Like you, I have the inquiring mind and natural curiosity of a 3 year old. So I took the lot of them and sampled the entire rack of test tubes. What a complete waste of bladder space. Yet more watered-down liquids. This time, apple juice, lime juice, pineapple and lemon.

You should all be so proud of me. Because despite having a pair of hands that can't do squat, I am 1) able to stuff my face with such classy dexterity, 2) operate the TV/Cable remote without resorting to my tongue, 3) finally take the pictures of the masks that I said I would.

For the sake of brevity (which by now you know how I rule at), I'm gonna run. Things to do, (yes, like basking in the fawning of my legion fans), asses to kick, yet more clicking to perform now that my fingers are all healed, ya know, just my usual daily shite.

P.S Hi, now how hard was that? No, seriously. Do something.

You know you're a damn blogger when...

1)It's CNY eve of the eve and you're supposed to be busy spring-cleaning your room but you're checking out your blog stats, once again proving what a no-lifer you are.

2)It's CNY eve of the eve and you ARE busy baking and kneading yet manage to find time in between to run to the 'puter to check out blog posts like *Monetize your Blog NOW*, once again proving that you're a good-for-nothing, n'er-do-well bum.

3)Your kitchen is on FIRE and when you get your butt off the chair and dash madly to said fire, the first thought that comes to mind is, "Omg, this is going to be such an awesome thing to blog about!", therefore affirming the irrefutable fact of your bloody blogger-ness.

So yea, the kitchen was indeed on fire but did I notice the creeping burning smell that was even then making it's way into my room? OF COURSE I did, what, you think that apart from being severly myopic, I've got no olfactory sense as well?

However.

I dismissed it as some yahoo burning *paper money* downstairs and the odour was simply wafting up all the way to the 9th floor of my apartment. (You CANNOT fault me for getting CNY and the 7th month *Ghost Festival* mixed up, I swear that I know not the difference except that on CNY, you get fed more while on the 7th month, you feed The Others (read: the dead), oh and of course there's the REAL cash that's being given out to the kids and unweds. And no, I'm not ashamed to admit that I happily accept all red packets with open palms even if I'm *supposedly* too old for that shite. At least I'm honest about it. What about you?).

Suffice to say that I spent the next half an hour (that I could have better used to do research on SEO tactics) putting out the fire, placating a mother who was almost in tears and scrubbing p the stove, the floor, the table, the island top, the EVERYfcukingWHERE. And where were YOU when I needed your help?

Not being the most placid and calm person on earth, I remained surprisingly unflustered and dare I say, even slightly thrilled, because YES, I get something fun to tell you people about. There is never a day that goes by without me being concerned about alleviating your boredom, because I recognize in you the same craving for my supremely delightful chatter as I do with my other 309485596 adoring, fawning fans from this planet and beyond.

Yoda, despite his habitual spewing of crap and busy with Starwars IVV, happens to be one of my most ardent supporter and I, his. And I quote him, "Less droopy my skin the Placenta mask makes".

I am now, though, so sapped and drained of all physical strength after mopping the floor 19 times to remove every trace of ash that I can barely type. So you'll just have to make do with pictures (NO, not of the fire you crazy lot, how sick do you think I am?!) that I had taken while slaving away at the stove BEFORE said fire. There was much that I wanted to share with you, like how at 2a.m I am still cooking and frying flour (you'll understand why when you see the pics) while most of you are probably out getting wasted.

This is how sad my life has become. Really.

Big-ass pot of grated pineapple cooking and stirred every 3 minutes for 4 hours. Sounds like fun?

Big-ass wok of tapioca flour to be fried until super-airy and super-flyaway and super-light.

Looks super easy I hear you say. BUT WAIT.

Until....THIS

Imagine having to fry flour and stir thick pineapple paste at the SAME time. Seriously dudes, you have to actually be DOING it yourselves to fully appreciate the aching of the arms and pounding headache from the heat (yes, I cannot tolerate temperature that's above 25 degrees, well NOW you know).

In case I made you think that I'm alone in the torture chamber, you can rest easy tonight, knowing that I'm no martyr nor Martha Stewart [not only coz I can't cook without specific instructions but also coz I've got NOTHING taxable and thus need not evade taxes. :-(] and that my ever dedicated Mom, who with her can-do spirit is busy with THIS.

It's impossible for me to even articulate how fcuking labour intensive making pineapple tarts and kueh lapis is. Mom is right now sitting on a stool by the oven baking the Kueh lapis layer by layer. And because she's such a perfectionist, unlike the sell-out Bengawan Solo who now *manufactures* evrything in a factory and thus make crap-tasting Kueh Lapis, she painstakingly applies a thin layer of batter on each baked layer before putting in into the oven and starts the process all over again like 23435 times for EACH cake. And that is why her Kueh lapis is renowned amongst our relatives and friends and everyone clamours for one come CNY. Unfortunately, both her daughters being slothful and baking illiterates cannot render the help that she needs to fulfil all the many orders. So only the select and priviledged few will be bestowed this beautiful creation.

Because me being me and because I rock at multi-tasking, in between stirring and frying I was also able to do this.

AND This.

*gasps* Nicotine Kills and gives you Cancer. (And NOW you tell me.)

But seriously, Do NOT attempt to follow in my footsteps (unless you're invincible and impervious to all kinds of ailments like I obviously am), if you value your lungs and life. And being stressed out is NO excuse either. Which is why I'm not using the feeble excuse of having to finish baking and cooking everything before tomorrow to USE tobacco

You are probably wondering, and where then are the fruits of their efforts?I present to you, The Finest Pineapple Tarts in the Universe. No, Seriously. It's a pity the pictures don't do them the slightest justice.

But trust me (because you know my taste is peerless) when I say that they are the most sublime mix of melt-in-the-mouth buttery pastry topped with a generous dollop of sweet, slighly tangy pineapple jam. If you beg, I might let you try some.

I just couldn't resist showing off what I had for dinner. Once again, the pictures may look crap but let me tell you, there's just nothing like home-cooked chicken buah Keluak and Beef Rendang. So rich, so flavourful, so bloody sinful. What? Like y'all so virtuous and have never indulged in high-fat, artery-clogging, liver-damaging, toxic activities in your lives before. Pfft.

In other MORE important news, new stock have arrived but do you seriously, really expect me to take pictures of them and talk at length about them AFTER all that you know I've been through tonight?

I thought not. You are of a kind and compassionate nature, selfless and understanding, much like myself, which is why you are HERE in the first place.

As digg likes to say while it's digging through your submissions (which we all know it's only coz they're too cheap to buy more bandwidth and more intelligent programmers), Patience my friend, is a Virtue. PAH!

Sleep deprivation serves you nothing but ill will

I fell violently ill on the plane (yes, I know, my body is a complete wuss that CAN'T even put up with a 2 hour plane ride without going limp) and my next door neighbour, a kind gentlemanly Aussie (no they're not all crude and boorish, you judgy lot) was concerned enough to ask if I was alright. (Thanks for being such a sweetheart Matt =)

It could have been me laying my head down on the food tray and sniffling away throughout the flight that led him to think that I was sobbing heart-wrenching tears because of dumpage by some bastard (but since by all accounts, my singlehood is still very much keeping it's status quo, y'all don't have to worry about me being heartbroken and whatnot).

After reassuring him that all was well and that my dysfunctional body that is mystifyingly immune to most drugs if not all (uh huh, even your bloody valium, domicum, xanax, stillnox and what have you (don't look at me like I'm some sort of junkie coz I'm NOT; please keep yourself in the loop of my intimate familarity with said drugs before you start making ASSumptions aye), just will not tolerate re-cycled cabin air (which is still a great mystery to me since everyone else appears to be all fine and dandy), well, coupled with the 0 hours of sleep I got the night before I guess, we struck up a great discussion/discourse on the merits of living in Bangkok.

It's strange, but almost every farang that I've met who has lived there for more than a year is able to see the city for all her blatant and glaring flaws (rats and roaches as dining companions, agressive ladyboys tugging at your sleeve, garbage and insane traffic are but some of the few pleasant qualities of this awesome city), is still unable to let go of her. I mean, sure they gripe a whole lot but to really severe the ties and cut the strings completely, nuh uh, that's almost like asking them to give up their manhood. Or go through a castration of sorts. Jing Jing di, I kid you not. If any of you farangs out there happen to *stumble* upon this post, perhaps you could do me the favour of explaining WHY, why when you lot whinge and complain so much and yet still refuse to go home? *pssst* (Is it the Som Tam?) Or the Pad Ka Prao Nger?
Or has it got something to do with the drop-dead, gorgeous katoeys who can give a regular supermodel a run for her money any day? (No need for shame now, you Nana Plaza regulars, be proud, stand tall and represent your amorality! I will never judge you nor cast aspersions on your fine character because you favour these creatures of perfect beauty. But I cannot speak for others. I am loathed to be judged myself, so fret not dear friend)

Or maybe The exhorbitant sum you as a farang have to pay just to visit a national park or a Muay Thai Kickboxing match even though you've lived there for 5 years, can speak Thai fluently, eat Tom Yum Khai for breakfast, Pad Thai for lunch and Tom Yam Kung for dinner and have a teeny weeny Thai girl perched on your shoulder (read : the double-pricing just coz you look white, while all I have to do is say Mai Chai Farang, lot noi dai mai ka na na na na piiii? and I instantly get an indulgent smile and pay what the locals do)? Is it the sanook and sabai sabai attitude of the people and the city that makes you feel like you're in some surreal, dream-like land where everyone is somewhat child-like and will possibly never appreciate the humour in an episode of Frasier and thus make escaping our *first-world* country so much more enticing? (This I can definitely empathize with, for I too was once so badly enamoured of this city that I was, every waking minute scheming means and ways of staying there legally or otherwise; I really didn't give two flying fcuks at that point, trust me, I would have done whatever it took).

So blokes, seriously, WHAT THE BLOODY HELL is it then, if not for all that and barring the low-ass cost of living in BKK that is? Pray tell. All I seek is to understand. Do NOT start getting all pissy and defensive on me. I am on YOUR side. I reiterate, I merely want to understand the psyche of these particular farangs. Obviously I'm not going to dump you all into one same category. I'm talking about the ones who grumble incessantly but yet don't want to go *home*. Inquiring minds need to know.

In other news, despite not having slept for the past 27.85 hours, I still have loads of baking to do (chyeah, I'm totally your Martha Stewart doppleganger, you really think I enjoy this don't you?) But I know the more cognizant ones will know, actually KNOW the truth.

On that note, I shall proceed to my bloody unpacking, 34.67mins power nap and then into the torture chamber.

You should be so lucky.

Bah.

PPP closed til the 7th

It's now 4.15am and I've just finished helping mom bake yet MORE almond and cashew nut cookies (we're talking about 15 trays here) and another 4 batches of pineapple tarts. Did I mention that her tarts are just out of this world yummy and she never skimps on ingredients and insists on using only the best butter and flour? Maybe one day you too will be lucky enough to taste these lil morsels of divine pleasure.

Til the 7th then!

Happy New Year and don't forget to go forth and Mask!

Just so you know I haven't been lazing around all night

These bottles of almond cookies were hand-rolled, hand-shaped, hand-eggwashed, hand-baked and hand-packed all BY MYSELF. And it only took me all of 6 hours. Now, how awesome am I?

Also as promised, here are some pics of the Q10 mask from Japan that came yesterday. Like I mentioned previously, every word is in Japanese so if any of you posses some kick-ass Japanese reading skillz, what are you waiting for??

Front of box. Back of Box



And finally, the hydro-gel mask itself


Now, you're probably thinking, what the heck is the bottle of Choya doing here? Is she drinking at 11 in the morning, right after all that baking and with the mask on??

See, this is why I love you all. YOU just know me so well! Yes, that is exactly what I'm doing right now. Swigging away from a glass of plum alcoholic drink WHILE testing out the mask. Rather befitting, wouldn't you say?

And don't you forget that I'm doing this for YOUR sake.

The mask is now ready for ordering.

Unlike the Lifecella mask that you can find in Watsons and Guardian, this one is special because not only does it contain Co-Enzyme Q10 to erase those pesky lines, there are also 7 different fruit and herb extracts within to gently lighten and brighten the skin. I'll be posting the full ingredient list once I get the English translation from the supplier.

Have a fabulous Sunday y'all!

What? Just coz I watch Spongebob and eat Nutella out of the jar??

You Act Like You Are 14 Years Old

You are a teenager at heart. You don't quite feel like a grown up yet, but you don't feel like a kid. You question authority and are still trying to find your place in this world. You're quite rebellious, and you don't like being told what to do. You like to do things your way. You have your own unique style, taste in music, and outlook on life.

What Age Do You Act?

Because I was bored

Do you Match Me?

Take My MatchMe Test

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