Pooh and friends

May and I had one of our late night outings to halfway-around-the-world, and inveriably along the way we engage in the most innane of conversation topics. Actually, we do talk a lot of sense most of the time- like we discuss the ideals of social contribution and what not. But other times, we digress into one of our out-of-the-park discussions where very often I learn new stuff about my old friend that I never before did.

Tonight I learnt two startling facts:
1. May has NEVER been to Zouk.
2. May does not know who the Winnie the Pooh characters are.

Now, while I find the former strange, I remain totally stunned at the latter. So, May, just for you: a Winnie the Pooh crash course.

(From left to right in top photo)
A. The yellow rabbit is called Rabbit.
B. This is not "the pig thing" but Piglet. (He's Pooh's gay lover, that's what I think anyway.)
C. Pooh bear himself. (Him, I think you know...)
D. That's Tigger. Not the "Tiger-Tiger person".
E. The donkey is Eeyore. (You're right he's a tad depressed all the time.)
F. The joey is called Roo
G. That's "Kanga" of the Kangaroo pair. She's the mom.

(In second photo)
H. The big owl looking thing is Owl. (Name's not very inventive, I know.)
I. The boy's Christopher Robin. He's the only human in the show.
J. And, I don't know who the mole is. Mr Mole maybe?

you win

You win. You win. You win. You win. You win. You win. You win. You win. You win. You win. You win. You win. You win. You win. You win. You win. You win. You win. You win. You win. You win. You win. You win. You win. You win. You win. You win. You win. You win. You win. You win. You win. You win. You win. You win. You win. You win. You win. You win. You win. You win. You win. You win. You win. You win. You win. You win. You win. You win.

I give up. I give up. I give up. I give up. I give up. I give up. I give up. I give up. I give up. I give up. I give up. I give up. I give up. I give up. I give up. I give up. I give up. I give up. I give up. I give up. I give up. I give up. I give up. I give up. I give up. I give up. I give up. I give up. I give up. I give up. I give up. I give up. I give up. I give up. I give up. I give up. I give up. I give up. I give up. I give up. I give up.

Happy now?

nemo

Isn't it funny how we can never find what we're looking for?

all falls apart

"She was like the water that freezes inside a rock and breaks it apart.
It was no more her fault than it is the fault of the water when the rock shatters. "
- One Stab, Legends of the falls

no sweat please

I don't have a problem with sweaty men- that's my second sister who champions with a vehemence that would surprise the staunchest freedom fighter the anti-men-sweat movement. For some reason sweaty men reall turns her off. That's rather strange given our dad does tend to sweat quite a bit especially whilst eating curry or chillied food; I alway thought that's a normal bodily mechanism at work and no one should reallly be faulted for it but she has always run by her own rules anyway.

Again, I say, I don't have an issue with sweaty men. Until today.

You see, generally I don't attend classes at my gym but I did today (body combat class), just for the heck of it. And I had the utter misfortune to stand next to this guy (looks like an army boy type) who decidedly sweat ALOT. Now, I understand that it is inevitable to sweat quite a fair bit in a high cardio class like Body Combat but, hello!!!?? that's what towels are for! This idiot not only had bad body odour that got progressively worse as the class wore on but refused to clean up his sweat and ended up flinging flickers of sweat on me and the girls around me. I mean, look, that's why there are these 30sec breather windows in between sets: its for you to water up and mop up.

So, please, all you gym rats.... do consider having a tad more gym etiquette. Cleaning up after yourself, mopping up sweat is not rocket science. Really.

stupid people

This post speaks for itself.

useless stuff

Some of us are horders, we like to collect and keep things like old birthday cards, souvenirs and too-small-clothing that we swear we'd work towards by signing up for the gym and stuff. Like magpies. I know some friends who horde their old university notes and essays, others that store mounds upon mounds of photographs in little shoe boxes- forever swearing to sort through them. Then there are others who have stacks and stacks of CDs (some even, alphabeticised) and the list continues.

Over the last few years, I've pretty much trained myself to not get sentimental about these things: I've cleaned my mountain of old mail/cards/letters, my old clothes (its all very streamlined now) and even all the knick knacks that I've gathered over the years. But its been hard of getting a grip on "useless friends." You know the types: the kind that you can never count on to get your back, to be there, to at critical junctures put you first. There's always the fervent promises, the guarantees and the apologies; there's always the swearing that they'd make an effort and that they understand. And there's always that oh-so-faint glimmer of hope that they'd clean up and make good on their pretty words... but they'd be weighed and they'd be measured and they are always found wanting.

And then, once we cannot find anymore good reason, once the proverbial straw breaks the camel's back, its a bit too late to make amends. After all, all they can offer are facnciful thoughts and pretty words. Those are just no longer enough.

Because your heart is tired. From wanting to believe and from always being disappointed.

down under

Celi and I recently went down under- Perth- to stay with Baby El and his totally-adorable Pixie Piglet over the Chinese New Year. Its been a madhouse of a past year for me and my schdule does not look like its bating. It was a much needed respite from the grind of demands and deadlines. So, on a whimp and fancy we booked tickets from that Zuji place (I look back and wondered why I didn't think of exchanging my dad's frequent flyer points given I chalked up alot when I billed my five-figure wedding to his frequent flyer card so that I may one day use the fly points).

In any case, we had a riot of a time. We booked out own little car and drove about armed with a handful of Perth tourist brochures and a street directory. Its Perth so we didn't really need a plan though Baby El and Pixie Piglet were kind enough to point us in directions that they thought would interest us. We did the usual touristy stuff like carry Koalas (actually Celi did, not I) and visit (over 2 days) the Fremental prison where we went for their tunnel tour (we had to row our own boat and stuff) and venture to their gorgeous beaches.

People like to assume that my little sorjourn overseas did me loads of good to my psyche and health- it did, somewhat. At least whilst I was there, it was good not to have to worry about training, consults and the mountain of stuff I'm needed for. But, I'd be lying if I said it wasn't filled with magic moments: the home-made roasted lamb dinner, the giggly times of four-men crossword puzzles, the lazy days of feral beers and vineyards, the long drives to nowhere and the mindless hunt for mazes, strawberry farms and Archer the dog. Then, there are the mornings of battling the cryptic lock and branch at the cafe, then there are the nights of guitar and soulful barritone singing, simple sighs of friendship.

pants on fire anyone?

If you do not tell the truth about yourself you cannot tell it about other people.
- Virginia Woolfe