What I Do With My Saturdays

In this case, it's Spend A Million Dollars On My Tyres.

I'm at IanK's place, changing all four tyres. I have it on his assurance that it is purely for health reasons, as my health would face certain deterioration (i.e. death via automobile accident) should I continue to drive on bald tyres.

So here I am, paying a bazilllion ringgit on BF Goodrich tyres (which everyone assures me are excellent), when my girlfriend buzzes me on GoogleTalk.

Me: Hey, guess what?
GF: What?
Me: I'm changing all 4 tyres! They're BF Goodrich, and they cost me a million bucks!
GF: Are you nuts? Mine are Michelin, and I paid RM 86.80 a piece.
Me: /faints

Aaaanyway.

I'm a mere girl, and completely devoid of any intelligence when it comes to car tyres - although I'm learning. So I surrender to my menfriends (this time) and simply write the cheque when they ask me to.



What to do?


Mood: Bleh about the hole in my bank account, but ecstatic about my new tyres

LOLCat Spinoff - the LOLDog!

All together now ...
...
...

AWWWWWWWWWWWWW .......

Taken from the I Has a Hotdog Website


Mood: ZOOOOO HUGGABLY KEWTE my head's gonna explode.

Why I Love David Cook (WARNING - Video-intensive)

It's the middle of the night, and I'm indulging in my American Idol insanity - more specifically, David Cook. He is SO my boyfriend. :D

One of my favourites, David singing C Cornell's version of Billie Jean:




From tonight's show, with Mariah Carey's Always Be My Baby. Am gobsmacked. He made this song so MANLY.

GAWD the smile. /faints


AND he's in tears at the end of it! I'm gonna faint again.

/faints

Mood: EEEEEeeeEEEEEeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!! !!!! !!!!

It's nearly midnight. I've got this meeting minutes I need to do for a meeting tomorrow (go figure). It is a meeting I will most probably get scolded at (although it is well-deserved, but who likes a scolding anyways), and I have only one more day to get everything done.

And yet.

I had a nice dinner and coffee with DavidT, came home to Tim. He bought me dinner, the kind soul, waited up for me, and interrogated me when I came home late. And then promptly went to bed.

The gerbils (or germans, as DavidC likes to call them) are doing well, and my most favourite place in the world tonight is on the carpet at Tim's apartment. The fish is looking at me as if he's been starved for days (the oinker), and there is a warm glow of light all around me.

I am suddenly feeling very happy. Things are right with the world today. Let the problems come tomorrow, but today, life is all good.


Mood: Unapologetically Happy

Having Standards in Genting Highlands

You can't.

You absolutely can't.

Or maybe it's simply because, against all better judgement, I booked a room in the First World Hotel. Ok, it was a last-ditched effort, as there were no rooms available anywhere else, and I was gagging to go to the Genting International Jazz Festival, and didn't really want to navigate my cold and drunken(one if its sponsors is Heineken, naturally) patootie down the winding and fog-enveloped road in the middle of the night.

Aaanyway.

Checking in was the first of my nightmares. I should've taken it as an omen(cue scary music) and just run screaming out of there. But of course, hindsight is 20/20, as they say.

Shock # 1: You need to take a number to check in. Actually, there's more. You need to take a number, wait for an hour, miss your number because there are a bazillion people all around talking loudly and blocking the queue signs, queue up for another 15 minutes at another line while the guy at the counter flirts with a guest and her daughter for 10 minutes, and then check in.

Shock # 2: The place is a rabbit warren. Literally. Giant ground-burrowing gerbils would find themselves quite at home among the maze of corridors that make up Tower 1 of the First World Hotel. In fact, they would probably also get lost if not for the signs posted up, e.g. : 701 - 789: Straight ahead, 770 - 779: Left. We were in 767- as you can imagine, we were in a bit of a quandary about direction.

We finally managed to find the room (after seriously contemplating setting up camp next to a water cooler near the lift lobby and vowing to buy a GPS unit and a Survival Kit if we ever got out of here alive) and didn't have much time to notice its charms before we charged out again - with much trepidation. After all, what if we couldn't find our room again the next time? We could have left a trail of M&Ms but feared some of the guests would pick them up and eat them.

Thank goodness the First World Plaza has lots and lots (and lots and lots) to do, so our trauma was lessened somewhat. Managed to catch an excellent movie - Three Kingdoms, tried to ignore the play-by-play commentary going on right behind us, and charged straight to the Jazz festival afterwards and got great seats.

After an excellent show (Didn't drink much, as prices were- as to be expected- through the roof), went back to the room and dropped unconscious on the bed. But not before I noticed a few things. First disappointment: the room is tiny. The ceiling is high, but really, since one can't fly or float around much three feet over one's head, added height, in this case, is quite superfluous.

Disappointment #2: All the lights are bright, white fluorescent. Even the one over the bed. If there is one thing I CANNOT stand, it's bright white lights in the bedroom. I am not going to perform a triple heart bypass, I simply want a nice, relaxing atmosphere in which to, you know, sleep.

But the view is nice, though. Sort of. We were on the 20th floor, so we had a great bird's eye view of the outdoor theme park. At odd times, the screams of the poor unfortunates (or fortunates, as the case may be) would come wafting up through the open windows.

Woke up at 830 in the morning, to the blissful lack of screams. We dressed, made our leisurely way down to the cafe for breakfast, and were confronted with a horrific sight. The First World Cafe, at 9.15 in the morning, is a seething mass of hungry, aimlessly wandering people in search of empty tables. If you've ever watched the movie Night of the Living Dead, just picture the zombies with plates of food in their hands, shuffling around- the First World Cafe is just like that.

Call me naive (or as my mother puts it, 'snobbish'), but the first meal of the day should NOT include queuing up just to get in and then scrambling for a table. I nearly had words with this Chinese guy who so nonchalantly put his plate of food on the table I was already sitting at and then motioned his family to sit there. I might be short, but I've got a mean right elbow.

And the highlight of this meal: Queuing for eggs. Am I the only one who thinks that omelettes shouldn't be made wholesale? I chuckle at my own naivete. After waiting in line for 8 minutes, I actually thought I could ask the chef to make me a simple cheese omelette! What a simpleton I was! While standing there in front of the stove, deftly dodging flying bits of hot fat and cooked ham, I meekly resigned myself and became, in my own eyes, one of the hungry, desperate zombies. I held out my plate for a mass-produced sunny-side-up, and a roll(yes, a roll - they made the omelette like a swiss roll) of ham and cheese, and slowly shuffled to my table.

In an attempt to reclaim whatever humanity I have left, I've decided to have a nice cup of coffee (latte - skinny, wet , triple grande) and reconnect with the real world(insofar as the real world consists of Gmail, Facebook and LOLCats). So here I am, sitting at Starbucks, enjoying the chill late morning air and TimeZone's impressive download speeds. The fog's nearly gone, and I expect a nice drive back down to reality. All in all, it has been an enjoyable weekend, and at least I've got something to blog about.

Peace, all.


Mood: Chillin' Out

Bwaaa ha ha ha ha

Some dude just said "Grand Pricks" on live radio.

Could he, by any chance, have meant "Grahn Preee"?

Mood: Heh heh heh

Why I Love My Mother

My parents arrived from Butterworth yesterday, bringing the dog and 2 crates of oranges (if you knew my family, this is nothing unusual)

I got home after work at around 830, suffering from a hideous case of sore throat. Which is also not surprising, considering I had fried cod, fried calamari, and fried whitebait for lunch (binge, much?).

Aaaanyway. This is the conversation that went on:

Me: Mom, I'm not having dinner tonite. I've got a sore throat.
Mom: Are you sure?
Me: Yes, I've got a sore throat.
Mom: I've just heated up the mutton curry - are you sure you don't want dinner?
Me: Yep, I've got a sore throat.
Mom: How about some fried banana chips?

It would've been hilarious had it not felt like I was constantly trying to swallow a chainsaw.

It's funny now, though. Although I'm still feeling like I'm swallowing chainsaws, and now I have this hippo sitting on my head.

I think I'm coming down with something.


Mood: Bleh

I Learned Something New

I'm going to start my life right by (1) being grateful for all the little things in my life, and (2) learning something new each day.

However, being the depressed, psychotic and immensely bipolar bitch that I am, (1) is probably not, in all likelihood, going to happen in the near future. So I'm starting with (2).

I like learning things. And I like sharing (oh, how I like sharing - just ask Tim). So I present to you, dear readers, the very first installment of DarkThalia's I Learned Something New - a new word!


Pele's Hair

(PAY-layz hair)

noun - Thin strands of volcanic glass, formed when lava is thrown into the air by the explosion of a volcano. Named after Pele, the Hawaiian goddess of fire and volcanoes (and not the football star, you fools)

(taken from Wordsmith.org)


Mood: Say WHAT?

My Passion

I don't know.

Somewhere along the way, I lost it.

While I was surviving Life, I lost its savour.

Got too caught up in the Doing that I forgot to Be. Gotta meet my quota, gotta pay the bills, gotta get a boyfriend, gotta get married, gotta have kids. Why do I do all these things that enable me to live, when I have so lost the desire for Life itself?

It was so easy when I was a kid. All I wanted was to travel. To visit Paris, climb Notre Dame, fall in love in Sacre' Coeur. The want was so strong I could taste it. Even now, 20 years on, I can still feel the ghost of that old desire rippling through my heart.

I've done all that, and more. And have slowly grown complacent, fat and contented in the knowledge that I've achieved my childhood fantasies. And ignored the fact that while childhood fantasies are all well and good, there are grown-up fantasies that have yet to be fulfilled.

And therein lies the problem.

I have absolutely no idea what my grown-up fantasies are, or even what they should be. The vagaries of life have worn me down, putting up walls between me and my goals even before I know what my goals are. There's never enough time, enough money, enough opportunity to do the things I want to do (although at this point I have no clue what I want to do. The very suggestion that I can't do what I want is enough to put me off any idea completely) And so I amble on, not unhappy but having a sense of disquiet, that something just doesn't fit.

This post isn't to announce that I have had an epiphany and will tell you (at the end of this rant) that I have suddenly gained clarity and would like to ride an elephant across the Pyrenees, or live among the Yanomami in the rainforests of South America. So sorry to disappoint.

I will probably live a clueless, desire-less life for a little while longer.But even without a goal, there is something I can do in the meantime.

Follow my passion.

The thing that has been a shining thread of joy running through the warp and weft of my life. The one unchanging thing that I turn to, again and again, when the highs and lows are simply too much to bear.

Which is, ironically, what I'm doing at this very moment.


Mood: Contemplative

Warning: Massive Introspection To Follow

This post is to inform you that I will be conducting some serious soul-searching for the next few days/weeks/months.

So please expect a lot of mindless rambling.

I wish I had peyote. Those American Indians had it right.

Well, failing that, the best I can do in this country is a lot of meditation and yoga. And talking to God. And possibly eating lots of sugar. Although that'll probably just make me giggle lots (which is actually what eating pot made me do) - but a girl has to try.

My soul hurts.

Mood: Confused and Unhappy

My Myers-Briggs Personality Type

ENFP - "Journalist". Uncanny sense of the motivations of others. Life is an exciting drama. 8.1% of total population.

Free Jung Personality Test (similar to Myers-Briggs/MBTI)

I've had this argument with DavidC - he says I'm more of a ENFJ (or ESFP) than an ENFP.

But 3 different online tests can't be wrong, can they?

I will have to have Philippe administer my test for me. Definitely worth a couple of mojitos!

Mood: Feeling like an ENFP

Of Frenchmen and Puppet Parodies

Well.

Have just returned from a lovely holiday in Singapore. Bunked with DavidC and Philippe, spent a wonderful 4 days there.

How to explain?

Singapore is a gorgeous country. A bit too nanny-like for my tastes, but when I'm just barely keeping my chin up out of the heaving chaos that is rush-hour KL, potholed roads and motorbikes with faulty brakes but working horns, stepping into Singapore, with her pristine streets and well-oiled MRT system is like slipping quietly into a deep pool. Noises fall away which I never knew were there.

But maybe it was all due to timing. After all, I did arrive during the CNY holidays, which means that 95% of Singaporeans were not in Singapore. So it was all empty streets and easy taxis and unclogged nightclubs.

And being with D & P was such a joy - it seemed that all my cares just melted away for those 4 days. My soul had never been lighter.

It's one of those memories to cherish.



Mood: Blissfully Refreshed

I met up with Philippe tonight on his stopover to Vientiane. The last time I saw him was more than a year ago, but it was like time never passed. We were chatting with no end in sight. He introduced me to The Attic (well, David C. did, actually) and it was the perfect place I had been looking for nearly all my adult life. Listening to the music, with lively conversation and good wine, I realised this was the closest thing to bliss I have ever felt. And spending it with Philippe was such a joy.
Good friends are so hard to come by. Another precious moment to cherish. I am learning to recognise them as they arrive, and not as they pass by. May all such moments come fast and plenty, and with the same sharp clarity.

My boyfriend has the organisational skills of a jelly doughnut.

It's 2am on a Tuesday morning. I need to be awake and going to the office in 5 hours.
It's raining and the smell of the earth and the grass is wafting in through the open windows. The rush of the rain reminds me of cool, lazy afternoons as a child, lulling me into a sense of comfort and nostalgia. House is playing (last episode of Season 1 - I'm doing a House marathon) and I'm stretched out under a comfy blanket.
It's one of those warm, happy moments that pass all too few and fleetingly. I must remember this.

She-Ra's been dubbed into Tamil. Now I've seen everything.

It doesn't sound half-bad, though. But that's probably because I don't really know the language.

It's 10pm. There are madly chirping baby birds outside my hotel room window. This afternoon, after a request for a jug of water and a jug of ice, Room Service shows up with a jug of ice water, and ice in a black plastic bag. The water was promptly poured into the water kettle, and the jug taken away. Possibly to address some urgent jug deficit happening elsewhere. We are left with slowly melting ice cubes in a black plastic bag, because the 40-year-old minibar fridge doesn't work.

Welcome to Bintulu.

My mum's in ICL - when I know what it means I'll tell you - at IJN (this one I know - Institut Jantung Negara). She's gone in for an angiogram, which is pretty straightforward. But what isn't straightforward is the angioplasty the doctors say is highly likely. And a chance of a bypass if the angioplasty doesn't take. All this doesn't sound too reassuring but what can a daughter do? I'd take her place if I could, but I'm damned chickenshit when it comes to pain(God help me if I'm ever in labour).
So here we are, Dad, Bro and I, waiting outside the ICL(still don't know), being all macho (the men, at least) and ignoring the fact that all this scares us to death. That underneath Mum's tough-nut exterior, she's still heartbreakingly fragile, and there's nothing we can do about it. If it was her liver, or kidney, we'd be in there donating whatever we could. But the heart is a tricky little bugger even in the best situations.
So here we sit, in our bubble of familial silence amidst the everday clatter and hiss of the IJN cardiology wing, and my head is whipping around at every sound of opening doors. People are laughing, making jokes, acting as if it is any other ordinary day. They have loved ones too in there, so what do I have to worry about? Trust that it will all turn out right, that I'll have Mum back in a couple of hours, poring over her sudoku and/or complaining that the crosswords in the womens' mags are just too easy.

Hope and Peace, all.

Update: 2.35pm

Mum's out. Amazingly, her arteries are good and the stents are holding. Dad is more devout than ever and I am seriously beginning to believe the power of prayer. I'm keeping Mum company until we can both go home at 8 tonight.

Life is suddenly very, very good.

Meeeooowwwrrrr

Am at Cat's Whiskers in Damansara Perdana. Waiting to try on stuff, I'm painfully aware of how dowdy I am in my grey collared T and jeans, surrounded by so many would-be fashionistas in their up-to-the-minute babydoll tops and kitschy tights.
And then I spy this lady coming out with a see-thru, clingy white skirt (she's wearing brown granny undies) and suddenly, I don't feel so bad anymore.

In Desperation For Bubbles

Here I am, sitting outside the Cheras Pool in my car, 10 minutes early. Just for an opportunity to jump in a pool with my scuba gear.

How desperate can a girl get?