doggone year... not

Cat Left: *whiiiiine*
Heeelllp. Dog fatigue.

Cat Mid: *puggish pee pose*
Keep barking. Don't stop. Wide open.

Cat Right: *claws shinging, sing-song*
Ey canine face, coooome nearer...

the indecisive blog

Being a Libra is a curse.

Not only are you the only non-living entity in that Terrestrial Team of Twelve, you're plagued by that everlasting trait CONSTANTLY.

Indecisiveness.

Unbelievably mindboggling at most times but nothing less than a real pain.

Like today. You're filled to your ass with bees in your bonnet on a thousand and one things you want to do and complete - all the time - you suddenly stop and think "Where do I start?"

NOOOOW, that's the worst phrase to sprout in a Libra's brains (we can't decide how many we have reacting at any one time).

And so a whole day wasted tiring my already tired cells on what to do, no, what BEST to do, no, what BEST to do in the MOST appropriate time that I FEEL it timely to do.

Like I wanted to go for a stroll in Bishan Park browse some mags at Kino pop by Raoul at Suntec City hop down to the beach clean my table clear my room read a chapter of my Atwood decorate my office cubicle manage my gargantuan email inbox write a blog entry watch my Muppets DVD get a crack on my freelance work pick up my concert ticket flip through my coffee table cat book ALL AT THE BLOODY SAME TIME.

*sigh*

Yeee-up.

Went through soooo many mental teh tarik somersaults and end up doing what?

A nap.

*non-plussed look*

Happens all the time. Total fucking day wasted.

Such wretched creatures, we Libbies.

Like even choosing what to play on my iTunes now can become a real challenge worthy of a military tactical attack: The mood must be right. The tune must suit the mood. The pace must match the tune. The voice must fit the pace.

That's why Libras should never do sharpshooting, sprinting or sales.

Can die man.

Can anyone imagine Darwin were a Libra? You and me would be half-decided breeds of some half-known critter.

Or picture Columbus de-Libra-rating on his ship: "Hmmm, now should we berth on the portside OR the starboard...?"

Or Hitler driving his commandants nuts: "Chop off their heads... No, no - too messy. Can't stand blood. Gun them... No, too noisy - my eardrums. Smother them... Too tiring, think of the sweat. Er, what do you think huh, Himmler...?"

(Then again, won't be that bad an idea eh, an indecisive suicidal terrorist despot?? "We crash the World Trade. Maybe not, not glam lah. What say we smash that cheesy Liberty broad? Nah, no lives killed lah.)

And so it is with this blog. A whole fucking day to finally decide the time FELT right (all divine courses in the universe aligned) to talk about - INDECISIVENESS.

Neat.

But at least am decisive about something.

Kings of Convenience, the goldsmiths of a bucolic brand of pop, comes to town!!!

Yup, concert ticket booked and ready. Am so looking forward to it.

Now to decide on collection. And how to go down. And what time.

Decisions, decisions...

chinua achebe is so right

This has become a bitching post of late.

(Some will concur.)

Take one bloody urgent leave and you return to your Lotus emails like a splashing period in your face and follow-up work a crazy avalanche. Panicked whole morning chasing departments and peeps. Rushed internal audit session that's a bloody drag of time. Snapped at colleague for concern at wrong timing and prissy mumblings behind the cubicles float back in your face. And they think you don't know.

Super fucked week. Super sleep deficient. Super bummed January.

Super suckie 06. And supposed to be 1 of my lucky numbers.

Fuck...

I am SOOOOOOOOO fucking NOT looking forward to CNY this year.

What with the "Can we go buy New Year groceries on Sunday ALREADY? You haven't changed the sofa set YET. Your room is a total MESS." on top of the "Are you coming back for work this Sat? Yeah, think I might. That's twice in a row already. Why? You want my portfolio? Please take." which has to be shelved for "So can we meet early noon today cos he can't make it tomorrow so we buy those dearly-departed stuff at your place and troop down to his place and Do the Deed." while "I've REALLY GOT to start reading that darn book and PLAN that 4 page cover story AND send out the Q&A for the top wigs or they'd be outstation and I'd get in BIG trouble for missing the fucking DEADLINE." clouds the cramped and crushed cranium upstairs.

Did I also fail to mention "absofuckingly dissed drained dispirited disoriented".

*sigh*

That's the good part.

The bad part is - you start spending.

Your innate long dormant retail-therapy-manic-consumerist-addict button self-activates with frenzied glee. And he's on a roll.

Grabbed CDs like gleeful klepto (more than I should, considering Gene my Saint has been spoiling me with tonnes), dined like chic hippo and shopped like bighair tai tai.

Can you hear it? The bank account is dripping blood. Strange how stress brings out things in you. (No, you're just going through "rejuvenation surfacing", you kid yourself.)

Like wondering in boutiques you don't give half a hoot for and examining things and thinking smiley thoughts: "Hmmm... That porcelain tea set will look CLASSY in the cabinet..." "Hmmm... I am SOOO getting that shirt and long sleeve..." "Hmmm... Would it kill me to buy that bag after eyeing it for eons? NOT."

Wondering in wine bars and before you know it you peer, pirouette and point: "I'll have 2 bottles of vintage Veuve Clicquot and don't bag it in some crummy carrier like the last time or I'll slap you you arrogant-bony-ass-for-a-face bitch so move it lady please with vinegar on top."

Wondering in restaurants during your working lunch hours and taking half the day munching the food.

Wondering in dessert parlours and lapping up glaces and sizzling sodas and stretching your nights while dangling your health on a string.

In short, you become the brainless bozo you despise from your earlier working ethics.

*double cringe*

You're in a conundrum. A pothole. There's no fixing in sight. You don't want to turn back and can't look around.

Things fall around you and nothing holds the centre. What can you do or say?

*pathetic eyebrows*

"Gene, can we meet at Raoul in Paragon tomorrow evening...?"

*perky grin*

prez sighting

Tonight so reminds me of Love Field.

(Not that I'll ever be - or even ONCE THOUGHT I'd be, excuse me no thank you - Michelle Pfeiffer whom I leeerrve to bits but DAMN why the FUCK is she not making movies anymore brings me more sadness than Diana's death).

I digress.

Ok.

Tonight is so Love Field cos Pfeiffer's character sights JFK, the most pop dead prez Uncle Sam ever killed (it was a conspiracy what, right?), at the airport concourse moments before his brain juice blasted all over Jackie's jolly pink Chanel.

(What a waste of cool wool. French cutting too.)

So too I had my little Love Field moment tonight - I sat like 3-table distance away from His Excellency's breath and body odour.

Not that he has any lah (how I know?! he's 3 tables away what!!) but you get the drift.

(Er, no puns intended for second part too. See-rye-yers!)

But la creme du diner pour moi ce soir was sitting next to His Excellency's bodyguard.

Now, THAT I consider quite something.

(Hey, hey, hey, before you breathe, DUN even THINK that naughty thought geddit).

I mean - how often can you say you sat next to National Security right?

And it helps that Michael is a conversant fella, AB-SO-LUTE-LY nooot like some po-faced stiff ass I thought a bodyguard would behave.

He's cool, vigilant - eyeballs darting back and forth at the prez every 15 seconds I worry they'd pop out - but not paranoid, carries a topic comfortably and assuringly (how he got the job, how he gets on with the prez, how he tortured prisoners - I jest) and even shared some personal details and yes, he wears sleeves (seems like they all do, to hide the sword, lightsaber??), a concealed wiry white ear piece in the left ear and a sheer buzz cut (the other 2 of 'em young punk bodyguards have styled hair) too.

Hell, I think they're Oprah-people-trained walking commentaries and information counters cos they're real assured and know eager peeps like yours truly are just kapoh as hell about what they do (contract based, per prez term only, 4 annual fitness tests modified from the Navy SEALS ON TOP OF IPPTs, fuck, man, I can't even finish HALF an IPPT).

Oh and all that In The Line of Fire stuff about running after the prez's motorcade? It's real, so fitness is tres important. But deportment is paramount too - this 49er with 2 grown kids looking like a sturdy and compact mid 30s to me will charm the pants off any one.

(Read: Can almost imagine Small Butt and Gayforce Guy tripping over each other's lily stick legs and red undies to shivvy up to him...)

And yes, the only past prez who roomed in Palais Istana on and off work was the one that just passed - none of the others wanted to stay (it figures).

The prez goes back to his OWN HOME (gosh, only in Singapore will this happen, imagine Bill Clinton or Gorgy Bushy going back to their OWN HOMES... there'd be less trouble eh???) and sleeps in his OWN bed and works OFFICE HOURS just like you and me, which may also include Sats and Suns.

Sometimes, the prez does 3-4 functions a day - can anyone imagine the amount of SMILING and CAMERA FLASHES and GERM AND PALMSWEAT-TRANSFERRING HANDSHAKES he's gotta endure??

*full body cramp crinch*

Sigh. Work is a bitch. Even if you're the prez.

And he has an aide-de-camp that's like his outdoors assistant-secretary who wears a really smart uniform and cap. Goes everywhere he goes. Yes, that includes the lave too, lurve.

And there I was, hours ago, cursing my dumb luck I'm not him and being stuck with that bunch of put-on plastic publishing poodles at the other side of the table who won't eat anything that clashes with their blood type.

Yeah. Go figure. Duh.

So the interviews had to come real later in the night, but I had a good time.

What can I say?

She's always looking out for me up there at such situations.

;o)

"on a clear day..."

...you don't necessarily see forever.

But at least the skies have cleared and it's breezy with just that right touch of sunshine and it feels refreshing for a change.

Now if only the Load and Rush aren't there as a spoiler wet blanket cos everytime I dare venture out for a bit of sun, those bloody phantoms hover about, Dementor-like, humming ominously about unwritten papers and savage deadlines.

Saturdays are not the same anymore. And some things hang like Coleridge's pesky albatross around the neck.

So one gripes and grumbles to vent some spleen. Most times you are caught between the devil and deep blue sea.

Most times you never get what you desire so you just make do. Up to a point, it sucks. Never fails to make me wonder how the rest of the girls sustained for sooo long. Must be a sign of age.

Whatever. Am so longing forward to writing that piece on Monday after work. Just wish I had Sarah's luck.

Yup, I have begun ruffling through the papers.

maudlin month, light laugh

This is definitely not my January to start to the new year.

As if drowning in muggy work and pressed by nonchalant bosses and tied up with endless layers of bureaucratic vetting-clearance and bogged down with endless rewriting of disgustingly dry papers (drypers, they really are, but can't absorb piss at all) that ab-so-LUTE-ly reFUSE to stop bleeding amendments after amendments are NOT enough -

They FUCKING HELL cut off Internet connection to our own personal emails.

Starting today. Just when I needed to check something important.

*fucking furious fume*

Naturally, this animal is PISSED.

FUUUCCCKKK.

So, too incensed to work, deliberately whiled precious minutes away in retaliation.

Opened up my nifty and striking cobalt blue Fox mints container and counted candy loot. 66 pieces of pretty polar mints. Don't care - just wanna waste time to vent my peeves. Packed and nestled my fab blue Fox's cuties in that GORgeous container and marvelled at it for while.

*ahhhh-money-well-wasted-contented-as-post-coital-lark-face*

Back to dreary work.

Fuck.

'Work' is the new 'fuck'. The dirtiest four letter word in humandom, if you ask me.

Total ennui and distraction.

Frust foul furious. Fucking hell. BARRED from our OWN personal emails?? Arrrggghhh.

Grumbled to friend. Grumbled to colleague.

Communists.... Proletariats... Totalitarians... Savages... 1984... Too much... (getting distracted) Totally clueless on tomorrow's dry run - HOW? No time for mountain of notes at all! What's my role? What's my line? HOW?? Not ready! Management papers not done yet! Next week deadline! HOW???

Back to fuck I mean work. Wanna leave but cunt I mean can't.

Then, out of the blue, colleague suddenly sprang this (click image, cursor on image, wait, click bottom right 4-arrow icon, scroll down):

















It just hit me in the face. I never laughed so loudly in my brief working life at ***. There's more (same action above):

















Just when we thought England has lost its powder on Singaporeans, salvation shines her skinny butt from unlikely places.

Priceless.

Lilting and laughly way to end long and lousy day.

knot

Like the weather, things are dreary and dragging.

Seeds are germinating and reeds are wavering and the markings on the creed have begun to peel. Unravelling in sickly large pieces.

And just as fickle as the rain, never ceasing totally at all, it comes in drips and drabs. It hits in between moments and soak you in and you let it permeate, wonder, wander about.

And then, unexpected messages. From them, equivocal meanings. Off them, inferred reactions.

And finally - a phone call.

And you really don't want to presume behind the rustling in the foliage is a bunch of easy birds, that the cottony trail across the sky is anything close to silver or that the distant patch over the other side of the fence seems more verdant though it feels more inviting.

It has come. Like the formidable engulfing undergrowth filled with forboding in Lost, moving towards Dunsinane.

They have come. After barely half a year, the harmful whispers begin.

Prompted by things around you which you try not to put a finger on too impulsively, assign labels and codes too easily. There is much good to be gotten. But there have been shared glances, glaring smirks - weary alliances. Like Macbeth's witches, they eye you knowingly, faces unmoved, eyes unflinching.

And how could she tell? Is she clairvoyant? Did I let on not much but enough to pick a scent? If not, why did she have to tell me? Will I?

The rain outside is relentless, and there are puddles in my head...

duh-me nators

Gleaned sniggles...

"I sent a text message to my sister that her handphone was with me."

"For sale: Bonsai tree. Large."

"Incurable romantic seeks filthy whore. Phone 0207 687 984."

"Is your memory letting you down? And what about your memory? Is it letting you down? Call for information pack right now. Before you forget."

threading

In certain periods and stages, we have strange but ahhh-feel-so-nice crushes.

This couple of months, I developed a sudden fancy-fetish for threading.

NO, not on the face, dearie. And NO, it's not injury-scar fetish, thank you.

It's thread pattern on things. Consumables. Purchases.

Every time I spot anything with that visible sewn track - sofas, bookmarks, briefcases, belts, high-back chairs - my heart goes aflutter with barely concealed glee.

I got infected when I glimpsed an acquaintance's tie that's bought in Bangkok - a cool executive gray number with a bold white sewing outline. I thought it looked rather cool.

But the thing that floored me was a fake Ferragamo burgundy porte-feuille with subtle threading I laid unknowing and accidental eyes on at a heaven-endorsed shop in - where else? - devilish Bangkok.

So drama - macham like turning your head unwarily and suddenly seeing (feel in your blank with something delectable lah)...

I jumped. I dribbled a puddle. It was lust at first sight.

I can't explain it. Threading just has that effect on me. And it has to be used on anything BUT clothes.

In a nanosecond synapse the sight of white threads - I won't take any other colour - on objets d'art translates at once in my mind as:

Neat.
Simple.
Durable.
Endearing.
Handmade.
Pretenceless.
Personable.
Connected.
Unfrilled.
Tasteful.
Bucolic.
Classy.
Sexy.

Oh and strange as it may sound - comforting and grounded too.

But I'm very testy about my threads. Gap, thickness, width and length of threadlet - all must be balanced and aesthetic. Not any old how can already okay.

The right combination usually makes me warm all over. The wrong combination would make me squirm over all.

And I've been on the look-out for all things threaded ever since.

Threaded photo frames are my lastest craze. Even got threaded coasters at a sale. It's a test of true understanding when Wee and Gene got that Flair mousepad for my Christmas pressie ("How ah? Eeeasy lah. When we went in that shop and saw that thing, we looked at each other and said, 'Aiya, that is just SOOOO him lor. No need to look anymore lah - just buy lah...!'"). Already have my walah wallet. Haven't found the all-important notebook yet but I'm not giving up.

Just the thought alone makes me glow all over...

burnfoot

Friends, especially couples, are sometimes concerned about non-mutual acquaintances whom they invite to gatherings and soirees.

Me, especially.

They mean well, as I never fail to exult that fish-out-of-the-pond-and-swimming-in-the-ocean smell, ever afraid I'll get bored stiff, blowing bubbles behind a dead coral staring at seaweed.

But truth is - I never fail to enjoy (or even amuse) myself at such occasions, a small school of fish strangers, so they should rest their thoughtful souls. When JK Rowling unveiled Luna Lovegood in The Order of the Phoenix, Sir Chesire here grinned - her antics, manners, how she immerses in the thick of things in a quirky and unobstrusive way...

ANYway.

I haven't had a barbecue in AGES and yeterday's was a really cool recap. It was nice to just laze aimelessly and sit expectantly while able hands and hosts prepare and serve your food.

And at what a pad - meandering squashy stairs that's ever so colonial leading to - voila! - a rooftop rendezvous. Cool aftershower evening air, sky starless but relenting. Radio music. Lighted block candles in ornate lanterns.

Delightful space. A tad dark but decent company (not too many thorny and showy fishies) and even more delish staples. Suffice to say, I stuffed my face (and eyes).

Suddenly, drizzle on face. A hasty retreat and off to quality time with HUGE cuddly canines. Handsomely sharp lupine features and waxy rug fur and moments of fun. Group therapy for all around.

Then Ben & Jerry's for more salve. Old Maid (so scandalously primary school leh!) for ice breaking. Heart Attack for - what else. And then, as all roads lead to Rome, all talk topics tick towards that track.

Spirit stories.

Common threads to briefly connect uncommon souls. Everyone hooked, lined and sunken.

Only to emerge at 3. Depart dented but contented.

Definitely something to chew on in years to come.

dripping into the new

Drizzle. A splash in the morn and a wolf-down in the noon with the fam.

Shower. A little doodling with my precious buys from the book sale. A glass of red.

Slight rays of light. The same red, a decent red book, a lighted bamboo scent, a quiet closed room in the lazy noon, a ready bed. Lounge lizard.

Suddenly, and more now. A barbecue. And huskies too!

Now if only it goes on for another week just like that...

un nouvel an

So much happened in so many minutes and moments, it's pointless recounting them all at one go, so from now on, one trivial excerpt/anecdote at a time (to hell with the importance of being blog earnest).

An eventful night over at Gene and Wee's place, practically spoilt me to bits with their wonderfully and deliciously thoughtful gifts. Just adore the couple, whom I care for most and who are in turn. Witnessing everything that they're through and feeling like an Aimee Mann number, the Judge in Trois Couleurs: Rouge, hands tied, watching a disintergration...

Then, next day at noon, off to the GNC sale. Fucking disappointment - filled with (v)alleys of dolls catered to Macho Marys, felt like walking into a candy shop peopled with narcissistic bodies of bulging insecurity and relentless vanity. A least I grabbed a large bottle of Triflex and Gingko for the road. Out in a giffy.

And then a stroke of genius. "Oi, I'm around the Kallang area so wanna have late lunch-early dinner at that ultra delish place you been yapping about since the mammoths died?" But the damn rain from Spain came and we got trapped near Jackson's Food Market, so we whiled the minutes away sliming those poor bastards at those stupid count-downs and other bitching tidbits.

Quite a cool evening - Lock brought us to that Old Airport Road Hawker Centre, the largest in the land. And the place is HUGE man, so many mindboggling stalls to choose from.

First, rojak. Scandalously expensive and sickeningly sweet. Blurgh.

Next, wanton mee. Not too bad. Stall very stylo, even got electronic counter display - so cheesy.

Last, le plat de resistance: his aunt's pengkang fish (OI, DUN even think of anything scandalous from that description ok). We jibed whether stingray is even a fish at all or something else. But who cares? The barbecued swimming-thing happily dead and tender and lying under a blanket of toxic chilli is the best I've tried. Even the chinchaloh is tasty. Mmmmm...

And then one talk leading to another and it was the "curry rice" that hit the note. Felt wrong to tell Gene and Wee about it as they've got enough bees in their bonnets, but I got my audience on New Year's Eve. I think he was really surprised, and last night being the 10th anniversary occasion too, yeah it's been a while, quite appropriate really, a ghost of that song ringing once in while...

And on leaving, bumped into John Clang with Eline and his parents. Lock sharp as a hawk trapped him first. I didn't even notice him, usual blind bat me. Lost much weight, him, and me, lost much interest about him so I beat us a hasty retreat.

A short walk to Geylang - lots of birds and bird-catchers out to play - and voila, that Taiwanese fried fritters and soya bean place. Lock was there in utmost discomfort and chagrin cos he simply ABHORS anything Taiwanese and contains soya bean but I'm eating so take it or leave it!

Got a table quickly cos the usual crowd busy getting stupidly drenched at Sentosa but served by the most PMS-in-his-blood shitface of a coolie from Malaysia which made Lock even more prejudiced against the place but whose annoyance promptly backfired in his face so serves the moron right.

A nice round-off there and headed home by 10, the earliest NYE so far.

Usual token SMSes jamming up phone, quick shower and nice tuck into The Rule of Four (NOT 'as good or even better than Da Vinci' as the blurbs holler about), usual TV fanfare (yawnnnn), and was undecided about The Lover or Sideways and thought something funny would be nice.

So bloody languid, Sideways, like a drowsy pinot noir on celluloid. Didn't finish so let my sis to do the job and drop to bed.

Yawnnn, bloody new year's only means one thing - more bloody work.