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Meet your Special Someone™
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 | Not for Hindus ... just kidding. Random thoughts, comments on anything that takes my fancy. Strictly a my opinion only & if you do not like, don't read, agree to disagree & go away happy. No flames, (flamers OK), request for photo/green card/webcam action etc please. |
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| Korean Engrish |
Jun 23, 2008 12:27 pm
Mood: Amused, 312 Views |  | Buying T-shirts in Asia can be rather entertaining. You see a nice one that is well-constructed and tailored (read: makes you look hot) and then you read the words in the front. Or back, sometimes.
Walk feild. See drims. Happy together.
Here we go loop de joop.
Cat happy. Miuow.
Say what? Er, pass ...
I suppose it's similar to seeing some white dude with a huge tattoo on his arm. It's a Chinese character and you can tell he thinks it's bitchin'. Except the words says Happy. If it was read in reverse image. It's the wrong way round, mate.
So it was with some amusement that I received an email of the new promotional poster of a rather famous singer (sic) in Korea, with the unfortunate name of Li Hyori, who has launched her latest album.
It is even more ironic as the warbler has a rather risque image (well, for Koreans anyway) and everyone who can speak English in Korea is sniggering at it.
I rid poster. Laugh small big. Now and just now. |
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8 Comments | |
| Letter to S |
Jun 18, 2008 2:09 pm
Mood: Tired, 350 Views | I apologise for the rambling. Please ignore if you are short of patience or time.
Dear S
I miss you. I missed you today. I missed you tonight. And I will miss you tomorrow.
I am going to nag you now. As I nagged you the last time I saw you. As usual you did not listen to me. I am rather annoyed with you for that.
I told you you were not fully recovered. I rolled my eyes at you in affectionate exasperation when you insisted on that last cigarette despite your violent pneumatic hacking. I praised you for eating a salad instead of your usual heavy meats and potatoes. Then you ordered some chicken sandwiches and sausages to take home.
Why did you not listen to me?
Because you thought you had time.
We all thought you had time.
Did I tell you that I was happy for you? About your new wife and newly-acquired step-daughter? Finally, you had a family you could call your own. Now you did not have to envy your cousins. I will always be grateful to them for this.
I know you wondered why so many of us were reticent about your marriage and new family. Some were uncomfortable and unsure if it would work out. They chose to wait and see before committing themselves to making a statement.
Don't be upset. It is just the way the family is. We shy from and take time to warm up to such personal subjects. You were one of the few exceptions where nothing was sacred or hidden. Your open nature was what everyone loved about you.
I sat in our cafe today. We closed it for you. Never has the street been so silent and dark in mourning. I sat there remembering. In the shadowed stillness. At first I kept looking around for you. Your corner was screaming out the gaping vacancy of your larger-than-life presence.
You were always the constant. The rest of us came and went but you were always there. In your corner. Loud. Big. Smiling. Happy. Looking for the next victim to regale with your life story.
In my daze, I momentarily felt confused. I kept waiting for you to materialise in your seat. I forgot I just saw you last in the mosque. And then from afar as the men formed a protective circle as they laid you to rest.
I almost did not make it. J and I ran under a rudely swaying umbrella, uncaring of the drizzle. Perhaps the slick of prickly wetness on skin covered the deluge of tears inside.
We came just in time. Through the lattice, I spied you. We knew you immediately even though you were completely shrouded. You'd be glad to know you looked small for once. Except your stomach was sticking up. You body shape is recognisable anywhere.
I am so sorry so few of us were there. It was so sudden. Everyone was out of town and only a few of us managed to make it back before sunset. But everyone kept calling and texting even past midnight. Each beep triggered a fresh wave of sorrow.
Getting to the mosque was the easy part. You know how the lot of us have almost zero sense of direction. We got lost looking for the cemetery. Only we can manage to miss a large plot of land filled with tombstones. Every traffic light seemed to be against us. And we lost sight of the van and none of us know the roads well.
But we came just in time. I could not be near you but as I stood under the trees watching you, did you hear me hum your favourite song?
Sunset finally took you from us. The wistful setting of sun echoed the mournful lowering of our breaking hearts into the water-soaked earth.
You once asked me to read your fortune. You bugged me till I did. Remember how pleased you were when I told you you would find a woman from across the seas? A woman with lighter hair and you would have a family?
You told me that was your most ardent wish. To have your own family before you died. You did not want to die alone. You hated being alone. It was your worst dread.
No one guessed, through your perpetually hearty laughter and bright smiles, how lonely you were. I teared when you told me how you cried yourself to sleep feeling the keenness of your loneliness. How you physically shook and your skin hurt from the piercing echoes of your cries. How you ached for the warmth of a woman's touch. Not in a sexual way even. Just to feel the caring and love of someone. You prayed to have your own family hold you into the eternal night.
S, can you feel my heart break? A thousand kanouns sliced through it.
Your wish came true. You finally have a family. But your greatest fear also came true.
You died alone.
Waiting.
The fates are cruel. They cut your thread when your wife and daughter happened to be away in a faraway land. Your brother to arrive too late to fetch you for breakfast.
On the way to you, I whispered a litany of prayers. Please, please do not let him have been alone. I prayed that someone was with you. I hoped your wife had returned home. I knew it was unlikely, but child-like, I prayed for a miracle.
Please God, please do not have let him be alone. I know he would be so frightened. Please don't let him be alone.
My heart almost crumpled in sorrow like yours did in loneliness when I found out you were found alone on the quiet pavement underneath your house.
You should have waited. Didn't I promised you I would come back so you could take some studio photos of me? You wanted to show off your new camera, lights and backdrop. Why did you not wait for me?
A butterfly just flew into my room. It is a big, fat, brown one. Is that you? Have you come to visit me? Are you trying to tell me not to cry? If I try to sleep now, will you land on my cheek to keep watch over my dreams? Will you guide them so I can remember all our moments together?
I have the CD of the last batch of photos you took of me. It has been in my bag since I last saw you. Hundreds of them. But none of you in it. How could there be? You were always behind the camera.
You spent so much time recording beautiful memories of us, we never realised there were none of you. I have been sifting through all of them for the last few hours. Not one had you in it.
We took you for granted. I took you for granted.
I do not want to end this letter to you, S. You are still there. Perched on my ghalabeeya, watching me. If I end these words, would you fly away?
If you are frightened and lonely, take some photos to record your dark journey. So you can show them to me when I see you next. And this time, try to be in some of them.
The butterfly has left. It circled me a few times. I suppose you are tired and have to go. I will not be selfish.
Go well. Walk well. Rest well. I shall be here if you are lonely.
Ena lil allah wa allieh ragaoun. | |
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5 Comments | |
| Can't See For Tears |
Jun 18, 2008 12:11 am
458 Views | It is with a hollow, bitter laugh that I bow my head to the fates.
Someone once mentioned they do not believe in fate, destiny or coincidences Neither did I. But I have noticed a recurring coincidence.
Death comes in threes in my sphere.
If someone close to me passes away, usually at least two others would follow within a year.
But seldom has it comes so quickly in succession, except once.
This time I did not walk the long, cold corridor. My heart walked the cold, dark sojourn of sorrow back to our little oasis. To a big, smiling, noisy man who was always loud and eager to please. Tall and much fatter than was obviously good for him, he was usually with a camera in hand.
He loved taking photos. Especially when I was dancing. His walls had hundreds and hundreds of photos of me throughout all the years in every performance he could attend.
He was one of my most fervent fans.
I am waiting in another cold corridor to fly back to you. Uncle of my heart, friend of my choice. Wait for us, old friend. We are all flying back now to watch you take your final steps. We shall be with you shortly. | |
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22 Comments | |
| Ryan |
Jun 16, 2008 10:05 pm
411 Views | It's a lonely walk down the long corridor
The walls radiate back the ice
Caked around a fearful heart
Helpless hands hugs the arms closer
Imitating the need to clutch onto life slowly seeping further
Each step is harder to take than the next
Unsure if the next walk back whence you came
Would find an empty shell
Embers of lingering life finally extinguished
The walk before was fast but just as long
Now each step slows even more as the entrance looms
You try not to cry
You blame yourself for leaving
Heart left with loved ones
Those alive and praying
Those asleep and deciding
Hastily wiped tears
People try not to stare
Embarrassed and sympathetic eyes quickly averted
They know it can only mean one of two things
In a place like this
Either someone is dying
Or someone has just passed
Is there not a more horrifying sight
The open mouth much like a muted Scream?
Where rudely intrudes the passage of enforced life
To tie the fleeing spirit to beeping machines
The dark cavern of emptiness
A foreshadowing of what is to follow
Look not into the mouth
For you cannot follow where they go
Aching arms hug the grieving mother
Large girth cannot protect against the chill of loss
Seldom has she seemed so fragile
As breakable as the broken doll
Lying gasping for his mother's voice
Lips whisper to the child
Of plans and expectations
Eyes a constant blur of tears
Unstaunched by a mountain of weighted tissues
Life should have been beginning
Youth and vigour lined his oyster
Words said
Words left unsaid
Regrets and recriminations
A mother's scream of pain
I wish my arms could heal
And keep her sane
Before the middle of my journey
Much death and sadness have I seen
Too many lives lost
Too many tragedies
Each survival should strengthen
And instill a greater appreciation of the passing of time
Why then does each one still hurt
So badly?
The cold arms of death are constant companions it seems
They never stray too far from these straining shoulders
When my turn comes
I do not want anyone to walk these long corridors
Battered heart crushed with each footstep away from hope | |
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6 Comments | |
| Cinderella Syndrome |
Jun 15, 2008 12:17 pm
Mood: Pissed Off!, 472 Views |  | I have an unprecedented problem. I can't find shoes my size.
You would think living in Asia that they would have shoes small enough to fit me. But I went shoe shopping today and came back empty handed.
What is the world coming to when even Asian women have bigger feet than you! Where is the justice? Seriously.
I used to have to go to junior miss or petite departments to get shoes my size in Europe and the US. Finding shoes that did not make me look like a Disney World character was bloody hard, I'll tell you.
In Asia, I happily thought I could finally find a galore of adult-looking shoes. And so it was for years. But recently, I noticed a dastardly conspiracy.
They are hiding shoes my size from me.
That must be the reason.
And in the land of small people (OK, smaller than what I am used to back home), they do not even have junior miss or petite departments! Which means I am up the creek without clogs.
Miss, can you find a pair in my size please?
What size are you?
4 or 35.
Frantic searching for hours.
I'm sorry, miss but we do not stock such small sizes.
Bugger.
And it was like that in every store I went to!
Look, I like being barefooted but people do tend to stare when you walk all over town looking like a hobo. No offense to hobos.
My despondency was further heightened when I met the rudest woman I have encountered in a long time.
I was watching some friends at a street dancing contest and decided to get a better view from a floor up, over the open airwell. There was an older woman standing next to me and she seemed perfectly sane at first.
My mistake was letting my hair down and when I swiveled my head to look at something, apparently, my hair swiped her bare arm.
She yelled at me and told me that my hair had assaulted her.
Startled, I apologised and continued watching the performances.
Someone called out to me so I turned my head. And apparently my unbridled hair molested her arm again.
She pushed me and started shrieking that I had done it on purpose. Whereupon I lost my temper ad told her she was psychotic and my hair had better things to do than molest a dried up witch like her.
Things were coming to a head where I was getting ready to let loose with more than my hair when my friends intervened and told her to piss off. They guided me to the judges area so I could get a better view and seat, placating me all the while and casting worried looks in the mad cow's direction.
She continued yelling and screaming like a banshee. And had to be chucked out of the place by security.
Nice.
I have not lost my temper that quickly or aggressively in a long time and it took me a rather long time to calm down. Just last weekend I met some of the nicest strangers and this weekend the fates had obviously decided to even things up.
Lucky for her I had not brought Hakim.
Thankfully, Spain played a good game and won or the night would have been a real bust. Portugal better not piss me off too by losing.
And I still need shoes.
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10 Comments | |
| Expectations & Footy Camaraderie |
Jun 13, 2008 4:47 pm
Mood: Pleased, 448 Views | It's a city I am not as familiar with. Perhaps that suited me as I find myself strangely reluctant to be in company recently. The demands of people on my time and attention irk me and it is with a slight petulance that I hoard the precious hours I have to myself.
I was, therefore, rather ambivalent about a social obligation in an establishment I did not know. I did not see my evening panning out well.
Still, I put on my best social demeanour and met a couple for snacks, a couple of beers and my ubiquitous shisha, as we watched the two games on Euro 2008. Yes, I bring my own. I usually check that the place I am going to will allow me to bring my shisha if I am going to be spending any length of time there.
The first game was slightly boring but I ended up being on the phone most of the time anyway as an old friend insisted that we caught up on the phone.
I knew the Holland vs France game would be a kicker when the former scored a goal within the first 10 minutes. The male member of the couple and I were settling in for an evening of gloating over the predominantly French supporters ... when the usual problem with going out with your girlfriend happened.
She got bored. She wanted to go home.
So off they went. Leaving me in a strange pub alone. Not that I minded as the owners had very sweetly given me the best sofa right in front of the giant screen with my shisha and alkie by my side. And a giant platter of chips. I was a happy camper. I finally got some time to myself.
However, a single woman alone in a pub watching footy is usually a concept that yields to harsh reality.
Blokes started encroaching upon my oasis.
"Can we join you?"
"No."
Finally, a Chinese bloke very politely asked if he could just sit adjacent to my haven as there were no seats left. Out of pity (yes, I do possess some modicum of that), I said yes.
He turned out to be a bookie. We talked about odds and ended up sharing a pitcher of beer and some snacks. He was a nice guy. His English was a bit hard to follow at times but he was from Italy so I understood when he said "funkulo" (sp?) every time the French goalkeeper fell asleep on the post.
It's a pity we were supporting opposite teams.
I tried to be gracious but I admit to loud cheering, fist pumping in the air and obnoxious gloating every time Holland scored a goal.
The place got so packed with people that I even allowed Two french blokes to share my space. They were silent most of the time so they were tolerable.
At the end, the pub owners gave me some beers on the house as they were the other lone Holland supporters besides me. Happy WHF indeed.
When the game threw a surprise of a final goal of humiliation in the last 3 minutes, my cheering was so loud that my French tablemates had to grin and offered to buy me more drinks, despite their despondency. Brilliant. I like gracious losers.
They all offered to drive me back to my hotel. But I do not go off anywhere with strange men and told them my shisha would protect me on my way back to the hotel. It's true. Shisha bags can be lethal. I have walloped quite a few people with mine in my time. Usually without meaning to.
In the taxi, my taxi driver immediately cottoned onto the fact I had just returned from watching the match. We got into conversation about the games thus far. He was so happy to see a foreigner talk about footy, and a female one at that, that the ride was on the house. I shared my mints with him and he gave a choccie bar.
It turned out to be a pretty cool evening despite my earlier misgivings. I got free booze, which is always a good thing. People were super nice to me. Even better. I got a nice and generous taxi driver. Which is an anomaly.
And best of all, I got choccie!
I am a happy camper.
P/S. I am not a footy fan but I like any game that is well played and with passion. | |
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6 Comments | |
| Guaranteed to Upset MM |
Jun 12, 2008 9:07 pm
Mood: Amused, 577 Views |  | This woman, aka Maxi Mounds, just entered the Guinness World Records. No guesses what for.
Her measurements are 36MMM and weigh 9 kg on each side. The rest of her details are mounted on her comp card. |
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27 Comments | |
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| Blinkers |
Jun 12, 2008 3:26 am
Mood: Confused, 532 Views | Reading someone's (read Bribook) post about jealousy set me thinking.
Yes, scary thought.
I am a rather insensitive person, I reckon. It's not that I do not care about other people's feelings ... it's just that I think a lot of things are ridiculously trivial.
My girlfriends tell me I am too bloke-like in the way I think and sometimes behave. It is not a good thing apparently. Especially when you look a certain way. I have been told I have a social responsibility to at least be aware of how I look and therefore behave accordingly.
OK, in my head, I see myself as a rather tomboyish goofball who would rather hang out with friends over some pints or shishas. Extremely direct and with a sarky sense of humour. Totally uninterested in anything romantic with anyone and extremely choosy about the company she keeps.
In reality, according to abovementioned girlfriends, I am a girly girl who likes wearing little outfits, with long hair, that make men think I am up for it and women dislike me because they think the same.
Yes, the two do not mesh.
So, picture my surprise every time someone gets romantically jealous of me. Yes, jaw-dropping.
Sure, I tend to get along well with blokes because somehow we can talk about the same things without much of the pretense of demureness or girlish shock. Me? Demure? Girlish? I am about to keel over. Someone give me a beer.
Anyway, there I was, watching a friend's performance. Her husband, J, was there to chaperon and we decided that we would pop over to a nearby venue to watch another show, with her blessings.
We returned and sat down to a couple of beers as she performed. And then I saw some friends, who joined us at our table. One of them brought her two daughters.
As usual, when J and I were together, we talked about dance and footy. The European connection, although my lot did not even get to play, entailed us going on and on about who we supported and their chances. We also talked about the perils of Taiwanese girlfriends (that's another story).
In the midst of our conversation, my other friend's daughter piped in, "Aunt WHF, your boyfriend and you have great chemistry!"
Say what????
I almost choked on my beer as I hurried to assure her he was not my boyfriend and was, in fact, the dancer's husband. Bless the child as she just went "oh" with a look of dumbfounded confusion.
It was a rather awkward and embarrassed lapse of silence that followed.
After that, I made it a point to be more inhibited and less open in my interaction with J. I certainly did not want his wife getting the wrong idea as she is a fairly good friend.
It also made me think. I tend to be like that with a lot of my male mates. We get caught up in conversation. It is fast and furious. We rib each other terribly. (Wait, actually I am like that with most female friends too but girls can get touchy about some stuff while guys would just roll with the punches.)
There is absolutely zero romantic interest on either side.
But does it look different to people on the outside, looking in?
Is that why I sometimes see women giving me the glacial glares of hate? Especially when I am off jabbering bollocks with my male mates?
I swear sometimes I am tempted to put up a large sign saying, "I am not with him! We're just friends! You can have him!" just to save myself from looks that kill.
Is that why some of my married girlfriends suddenly develop a strange reluctance to have me around their husbands? Which I used to wonder about since I am known to have an extreme personal disdain of the Paris-London eyes.
You know. One eye on Paris. One eye on London. Aka cheaters.
Anyway, it made me think. I am not sure how well I can curtail my usual platonic friendliness with males I consider mates, but I am certainly going to try to be much more inhibited around the married ones.
It worries me a child thought I was attached to one.
Aside from wanting to avoid any potential fail-out from my married girlfriends ... What if a cute bloke I rather fancied thought the same? There goes my chances!
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12 Comments | |
| Flowers of Doom |
Jun 12, 2008 1:35 am
Mood: Relieved, 471 Views |  | I guess I am luckier than some girls. I get flowers fairly often ... relative to most women.
It's part of the perks, if you call it that, of my job. People give you bouquets after a performance. Students and fans give you flowers as a mark of respect and appreciation.
Without sounding ungrateful or complacent, I usually do not keep them. They stay in the room until I leave, and unless they are an exceptionally beautiful bouquet of my favourite flowers, I sometimes do not even keep them more than the night. I give them to others.
Still, I am touched when I see a particularly thoughtful bouquet. A small posy of daisies handpicked by one of my students and clumsily tied with a polka-dotted bow. So unlike me and contrary to my taste but I can see the minutes of frustrated, all-thumbs agony she went through to put it together. That stayed.
A large bouquet of deep red roses with the ubiquitous babies' breathe from some admirer. The card was sufficiently cheesy to complement the unoriginal presentation. No, sir, I am not common. No, sir, I do know red roses signify passion. Yes, sir, I understand your meaning. I consigned that to the concierge to get rid of as they saw fit.
A wild flurry of yellow tiger lilies with red roses. Sigh. Why does almost everyone give red roses? But the tiger lilies ... interesting. Out of curiosity, I opened the card. Ah, from some students. Lovely.
A pretty little bouquet of white roses with forget-me-nots. Someone knew me. A look at the card confirmed it was a friend.
I distributed the red roses to some of the other dancers and girls. Every girl should have a flower when they perform. It is only good form.
I kept a couple of the tiger lilies to place in a water bottle in front of the mirror.
I did not think about the white roses till I finished and read the card properly.
It was from a male friend. Someone I occasionally caught up with when I was in town. I was planning to meet up with him and some others this time around.
I looked at the card again. His was the only name on it. Hmmmm ....
He's never sent me flowers before. This was rather out of character. Ours was not the kind of friendship where we sent each other flowers. In fact, this was downright odd.
He was obviously in the audience but I did not have the time to go out and mingle due to prior engagements.
Why the flowers?
What was going on?
I admit I am rather strange. I have no problems with strange men giving me flowers as part of the job. But when a male friend, i.e. platonic mate, sends me flowers, I get a cold chill. I actually feel my heart cringing in an odd sort of fear. I get all cold and feel as if I am receding into a vacuum.
Please, please, please ... no.
No, no, no, no, no.
I do not want to lose another male friend. I have no idea why or how or when they might get it into their heads that some kind of romantic interest may ensue. But all it does to me is give me a sick feeling in my stomach.
And I was having such a good day too.
I cautiously sent a message to him thanking him for the flowers and 'flippantly' asking what the occasion was.
My heart sank even further when I received the answer.
No real occasion. Just glad 2 c u again n wishing u luck at show. Looking 4wd 2 cing u soon.
At least there was no smiley face at the end of that.
Still uneasy but not willing to be a coward, I persevered.
Oh kewl. Ta mate. Just surprised at flowers. Never sent me flowers before. Not your style & got me worried.
Worried? Y? Can't I send u flowers?
Er, sure but just kinda strange. Oh, might not be free to meet up this time around, btw.
OK, so I am a coward. Happy?
Really? Shit. Got dumped by date so came 4 show alone. Flowers were 4 her ... she said white was bad luck & threw bk at me. Knew u wldun mind. U like white right?
Oh! Phew! Jaysus, suddenly I felt twenty times lighter, years younger and incredibly relieved. Mind? Are you mad? I am over the bloody moon!
I have no problems getting another woman's leftover flowers. If she did not appreciate them and he wanted to get rid of them ... no problem! Happy to, mate!
Just as long as they do not have any weird arse significance.
Suddenly I was free to meet up again.
Silly woman to turn down white roses just because her superstition told her white was unlucky. I never understood that. I love white flowers.
When I was young, my grandmother used to scream at me and punish me for picking and wearing the white frangipanis in the gardens. They are the flowers of death and bring bad spirits with you. Oh really? They smell nice. Can I have more to put in my room?
Thwap. Ouch.
When some students, who knew me well, gave me white lilies, an older dancer yelled at them for wishing me ill. I had to employ all my powers of diplomacy to smooth things over.
It's a pity white flowers get such a bad rep.
I would rather have a white rose any day than a giant bouquet of blood red ones. There is a language of flowers which apparently conveys intent.
But I think the language of sincerity is much more important. |
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6 Comments | |
| To link to this blog (Whatsherface) use [blog Whatsherface] in your messages. |
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