I was inspired by DeeCee, who was inspired by Gutterflower, who is quite inspired to begin with.
It's supposed to stimulate my creativity. Lets see how it goes:
I remember everything that hurt in my childhood.
I don't understand humans sometimes.
I want to know what I want.
I hate being told who to be.
I wonder if I'll ever be truly happy.
I have this weird ability to KNOW what you're really like inside.
I know this world and our lives are just a smidgen in the greater scheme of things.
And because I'd like to stimulate my creativity even further:
I wish human beings would open their eyes
I love animals
I won't ever let anyone change me again.
I think I'm capable of far more in every way.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Friday, July 25, 2008
R.I.P. Conscience
Today started out awful. The fact that I didn't get any sleep last night didn't help to control my reactions to the morning's happenings either.
So there I was, yawning and dilly-dallying on my office PC whilst trying to look busy and important when commotion struck. The entire department started shrieking and running around like hell had suddenly opened up at their feet. I craned my neck over my short cubicle wall to see what the Kraeken looked like (because that's what they sounded like they'd just seen) when I realized through snatched bits of scream that they were running from none other than a rat. "Eeeyah! Meeyek! Meeyek!" they cacophonied, in keys that would make any 1st soprano green with envy.
'Oh jeez', I thought. Typical uneducated, pathetic response towards something that ideally should be running away from THEM. I began to roll my eyes in amusement, but stopped halfway when I saw one of my colleagues carrying a waste paper basket that was setting everyone else off. I swear if people could have jumped out of the window to get away from that basket, they would have. I understood that this basket did indeed house that ungodly creature that was making people act like a bomb had gone off. I wanted to reach in and congratulate it for this unbelievable power it had - to strike that much fear into mortal human souls by just a twitch of its whisker.
But then, as I was getting closer for a look, I heard something else that stopped my heart cold.
'Yuck... it's half dead. Eeyah look at it trying to move."
At that point, my nostrils flared and I saw red. For weeks I'd been debating and opinionating with colleagues on the injustice of having rat poison strewn around office. There was this box of poison that I tried many a time to destroy, simply because I am of the view that of all the ways to kill a rat (if you must), poison is by far the cruellest and vilest way to do it. Why? Because what those cute little pink and blue pellets do are act as blood thinners that make the little creatures bleed internally till they burst. Their organs will deteriorate bit by painful bit while they still remain alive to feel every milisecond of that agony, and the poison will also parch them. With time and water drunk out of thirst, they die. In the most horrible, painful way. It is a far more humane thing to kill them with a severe blow to the head or let a trap sever their neck, or even knock them out with cyanide than to give them this stuff. And that has been my argument point for along time now.... not that anyone cared for it.
With smoke coming out of my ears I peeked into the basket, and then nearly screamed myself. Not out of fear, but pure indignation at what I saw. This wasn't the large, viscious, ugly pestilence that everyone was shouting about. It was a beautiful baby mouse, a palm-sized ball of soft brown fur and enormous eyes with a pastel pink nose, delicate ears and tiny paws, suffering and dying.
As I stared at it, it stared back at me, immobilized out of both fear and pain. I swear I saw tears in its eyes.
There was a moment where time stopped and I ceased to hear anything around me. The baby mouse and I held each others' gazes and I could almost hear its dying gasps and failing hearbeat in my mind. Then reality swept in and I saw my colleague swinging the basket towards the window, from where he intended to drop the dying animal down two floors.
I don't know how it happened, but that basket ended up in my hands almost instantly, and I heard myself shouting obscenities at the shrieking harpies around me. I could see some of them itching to laugh out loud at my anguish, but I didn't care. They were too dumb to fathom that rat or no rat, diseased or not, this was a life. Like any other life. It was a living, breathing, feeling soul that was now writhing in an agony that only I seemed to empathize with at that point. "Drown it!" they kept shrieking. "Make it drink water and it'll die quicker" yet others adviced, softening a bit at the sight of my purple face. I rushed the mouse, basket and all, out of the office to a large canal-like drain outside.
Once outside, I stepped into the drain, reached into the basket and took the little baby into my hands. It could hardly move, and I could see its little chest palpitating in an effort to breath. I stroked it's pretty baby head to calm it down and let it know it was in hands that cared, and not those that hated. It kept looking at me trustingly, willing me to ease its pain. I didn't know what to do, except start bawling and crying like a newborn in the middle of that damned drain. That must have been some sight for the passers by. In the midst of the sobbing, I offered it some water but it refused. So I found a shady, cool patch under some growing weeds on the side of the drain, and laid it down to die in as much peace as I could offer it. But when I tried to take my hands away, one perfect pink paw reached out and held on to my pinky, not wanting me to go. You wouldn't believe it unless you'd been there. Cue more uncontrollable sobbing, that had by now collected a sizeable audience of curious trishaw drivers and amused workmen from across the street. Not wanting to watch its suffering anymore and not knowing what else I could do, I left it there and went back upstairs, to spend some time in the office bathroom using up an entire tissue box on my snot and tears. Soon after, two colleagues who thought me strange but were concerned for my mental state nevertheless, made me sit in the kitchen with them for about an hour and talk my sorrows out to them. We discussed the value of life - any life-, and how cruel humans can be. After about an hour, when I had composed myself enough to not look like a batty woman crying over a rodent, I went down with one sympathetic friend to find my (yes... I had claimed ownership by then) baby mouse dead. The water in the drain had risen upto his nose, and in his immobile state, he had drowned in it's mud. I took it's broken and stiff little body back into my hands and buried it in the office carpark. Then I went back to my seat and cried some more.
But why should you care about this entire spiel, you ask. It's a damned rat. That's what you do to rats, you argue. They carry disease, you explain.
All true... but do you go around killing humans who are infectious too? Shall we poison the next case of leprosy we see? Have all those millions of Indians who feed and worship rats in their temples died of rat disease? Did this baby mouse even HAVE disease in him? And what gives us the right to use a device like poison and kill so inhumanely anyway?
Don't be a hypocrite, you say. You eat meat, don't you Dramaqueen? Aren't you endorsing murder then?
I wish I knew why I can't convert to vegetarianism, I answer. I will, one day. But killing for food is not quite the same as killing for sport or for hate. Or were you going to eat the baby mouse?
Which book of rules sorts out lives into the categories of valuable and disposable? Why are animals less deserving of the right to live, or quality of life, than humans? Why must we respect one death and not the other?
You can call me a raving loony, but you know... as much as you don't understand me right now, I don't understand you. I wish I could open your eyes and make you see yourself the way I see you.
You'd be disgusted too.
My only solace is that someday, every soul that has caused unjust suffering, be it towards a rat or a person, will suffer equally if not more. I have that much trust in God and the universe.
And right now, in my ridiculous state of mind, I am willing that baby mouse to reincarnate into the next generation's animal rights activist.
So there I was, yawning and dilly-dallying on my office PC whilst trying to look busy and important when commotion struck. The entire department started shrieking and running around like hell had suddenly opened up at their feet. I craned my neck over my short cubicle wall to see what the Kraeken looked like (because that's what they sounded like they'd just seen) when I realized through snatched bits of scream that they were running from none other than a rat. "Eeeyah! Meeyek! Meeyek!" they cacophonied, in keys that would make any 1st soprano green with envy.
'Oh jeez', I thought. Typical uneducated, pathetic response towards something that ideally should be running away from THEM. I began to roll my eyes in amusement, but stopped halfway when I saw one of my colleagues carrying a waste paper basket that was setting everyone else off. I swear if people could have jumped out of the window to get away from that basket, they would have. I understood that this basket did indeed house that ungodly creature that was making people act like a bomb had gone off. I wanted to reach in and congratulate it for this unbelievable power it had - to strike that much fear into mortal human souls by just a twitch of its whisker.
But then, as I was getting closer for a look, I heard something else that stopped my heart cold.
'Yuck... it's half dead. Eeyah look at it trying to move."
At that point, my nostrils flared and I saw red. For weeks I'd been debating and opinionating with colleagues on the injustice of having rat poison strewn around office. There was this box of poison that I tried many a time to destroy, simply because I am of the view that of all the ways to kill a rat (if you must), poison is by far the cruellest and vilest way to do it. Why? Because what those cute little pink and blue pellets do are act as blood thinners that make the little creatures bleed internally till they burst. Their organs will deteriorate bit by painful bit while they still remain alive to feel every milisecond of that agony, and the poison will also parch them. With time and water drunk out of thirst, they die. In the most horrible, painful way. It is a far more humane thing to kill them with a severe blow to the head or let a trap sever their neck, or even knock them out with cyanide than to give them this stuff. And that has been my argument point for along time now.... not that anyone cared for it.
With smoke coming out of my ears I peeked into the basket, and then nearly screamed myself. Not out of fear, but pure indignation at what I saw. This wasn't the large, viscious, ugly pestilence that everyone was shouting about. It was a beautiful baby mouse, a palm-sized ball of soft brown fur and enormous eyes with a pastel pink nose, delicate ears and tiny paws, suffering and dying.
As I stared at it, it stared back at me, immobilized out of both fear and pain. I swear I saw tears in its eyes.
There was a moment where time stopped and I ceased to hear anything around me. The baby mouse and I held each others' gazes and I could almost hear its dying gasps and failing hearbeat in my mind. Then reality swept in and I saw my colleague swinging the basket towards the window, from where he intended to drop the dying animal down two floors.
I don't know how it happened, but that basket ended up in my hands almost instantly, and I heard myself shouting obscenities at the shrieking harpies around me. I could see some of them itching to laugh out loud at my anguish, but I didn't care. They were too dumb to fathom that rat or no rat, diseased or not, this was a life. Like any other life. It was a living, breathing, feeling soul that was now writhing in an agony that only I seemed to empathize with at that point. "Drown it!" they kept shrieking. "Make it drink water and it'll die quicker" yet others adviced, softening a bit at the sight of my purple face. I rushed the mouse, basket and all, out of the office to a large canal-like drain outside.
Once outside, I stepped into the drain, reached into the basket and took the little baby into my hands. It could hardly move, and I could see its little chest palpitating in an effort to breath. I stroked it's pretty baby head to calm it down and let it know it was in hands that cared, and not those that hated. It kept looking at me trustingly, willing me to ease its pain. I didn't know what to do, except start bawling and crying like a newborn in the middle of that damned drain. That must have been some sight for the passers by. In the midst of the sobbing, I offered it some water but it refused. So I found a shady, cool patch under some growing weeds on the side of the drain, and laid it down to die in as much peace as I could offer it. But when I tried to take my hands away, one perfect pink paw reached out and held on to my pinky, not wanting me to go. You wouldn't believe it unless you'd been there. Cue more uncontrollable sobbing, that had by now collected a sizeable audience of curious trishaw drivers and amused workmen from across the street. Not wanting to watch its suffering anymore and not knowing what else I could do, I left it there and went back upstairs, to spend some time in the office bathroom using up an entire tissue box on my snot and tears. Soon after, two colleagues who thought me strange but were concerned for my mental state nevertheless, made me sit in the kitchen with them for about an hour and talk my sorrows out to them. We discussed the value of life - any life-, and how cruel humans can be. After about an hour, when I had composed myself enough to not look like a batty woman crying over a rodent, I went down with one sympathetic friend to find my (yes... I had claimed ownership by then) baby mouse dead. The water in the drain had risen upto his nose, and in his immobile state, he had drowned in it's mud. I took it's broken and stiff little body back into my hands and buried it in the office carpark. Then I went back to my seat and cried some more.
But why should you care about this entire spiel, you ask. It's a damned rat. That's what you do to rats, you argue. They carry disease, you explain.
All true... but do you go around killing humans who are infectious too? Shall we poison the next case of leprosy we see? Have all those millions of Indians who feed and worship rats in their temples died of rat disease? Did this baby mouse even HAVE disease in him? And what gives us the right to use a device like poison and kill so inhumanely anyway?
Don't be a hypocrite, you say. You eat meat, don't you Dramaqueen? Aren't you endorsing murder then?
I wish I knew why I can't convert to vegetarianism, I answer. I will, one day. But killing for food is not quite the same as killing for sport or for hate. Or were you going to eat the baby mouse?
Which book of rules sorts out lives into the categories of valuable and disposable? Why are animals less deserving of the right to live, or quality of life, than humans? Why must we respect one death and not the other?
You can call me a raving loony, but you know... as much as you don't understand me right now, I don't understand you. I wish I could open your eyes and make you see yourself the way I see you.
You'd be disgusted too.
My only solace is that someday, every soul that has caused unjust suffering, be it towards a rat or a person, will suffer equally if not more. I have that much trust in God and the universe.
And right now, in my ridiculous state of mind, I am willing that baby mouse to reincarnate into the next generation's animal rights activist.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Go Po!!
Panda powerrrr!!!! I'm still chuckling.
The boyhalf and I have this thing we've developed, for attending every movie premiere that hits town. That's not alot, seeing as how we have only three viable cinemas screening non-sexual English content, but nevertheless it's become a cool date thing to do.
I'd been waiting since Jan for KungFu Panda to come to SL, so it was no wonder that I was e-ticket's very first customer on the day they finally put them tix up for sale online. We both like the 'I' row.... 13 and 14 - best seats in the room. I ruined anyone else's chances of booking those hallowed bum-rests almost two weeks before the show was scheduled to start.
Aney it was awesome and beyond cute men. I'm SO glad I listened to my lust for all things animated , rather than the dunderheads who kept trying to discourage me from seeing the movie. "It's not that hot', they said. "It disappoints", they pontificated.
Pandashit. It rocked. Despite the anti-climatic ending.
I absolutely loved all the little moments laden with subtle jokes - the witty references to Chinese customs; like using pigs, ducks and rabbits as the townsfolk in the movie, the 'Peking Duck' for a noodle-shop dad (did anyone get that? I laughed my head of when I saw him), the 1000 year old tortoise, the acupuncture....
And what about those few touches that added that much more magic to the who animation? The slight geriatric shivering of the old tortoise, the expressions brought out through the characters' eyes, etc. Very sweetly done.
Watching the movie took me back to my days as a bumbling newbie at my Tae-Kwon-Do class. No one thought the skinny white girl could last as long as she did - which wasn't that long, but it was longer than expected for sure. I went through pretty much the same self-realization process as Po did, painfully hobbling out of that class, more adept at punching people and managing more that five push ups, whilst understanding what my purpose in the universe was; that of someone who wasn't meant to learn Karate.
I do hope the take-off from this movie is that actual Panda conservation efforts benefit that much more, and the creature's value goes up amongst the international community. This is an ideal opportunity for the Chinese govenrment to showcase as well as understand the importance of its dwindling Panda population.
So good on ya, Dreamworks! Keep it up. I can't wait to watch the next venture....
The boyhalf and I have this thing we've developed, for attending every movie premiere that hits town. That's not alot, seeing as how we have only three viable cinemas screening non-sexual English content, but nevertheless it's become a cool date thing to do.
I'd been waiting since Jan for KungFu Panda to come to SL, so it was no wonder that I was e-ticket's very first customer on the day they finally put them tix up for sale online. We both like the 'I' row.... 13 and 14 - best seats in the room. I ruined anyone else's chances of booking those hallowed bum-rests almost two weeks before the show was scheduled to start.
Aney it was awesome and beyond cute men. I'm SO glad I listened to my lust for all things animated , rather than the dunderheads who kept trying to discourage me from seeing the movie. "It's not that hot', they said. "It disappoints", they pontificated.
Pandashit. It rocked. Despite the anti-climatic ending.
I absolutely loved all the little moments laden with subtle jokes - the witty references to Chinese customs; like using pigs, ducks and rabbits as the townsfolk in the movie, the 'Peking Duck' for a noodle-shop dad (did anyone get that? I laughed my head of when I saw him), the 1000 year old tortoise, the acupuncture....
And what about those few touches that added that much more magic to the who animation? The slight geriatric shivering of the old tortoise, the expressions brought out through the characters' eyes, etc. Very sweetly done.
Watching the movie took me back to my days as a bumbling newbie at my Tae-Kwon-Do class. No one thought the skinny white girl could last as long as she did - which wasn't that long, but it was longer than expected for sure. I went through pretty much the same self-realization process as Po did, painfully hobbling out of that class, more adept at punching people and managing more that five push ups, whilst understanding what my purpose in the universe was; that of someone who wasn't meant to learn Karate.
I do hope the take-off from this movie is that actual Panda conservation efforts benefit that much more, and the creature's value goes up amongst the international community. This is an ideal opportunity for the Chinese govenrment to showcase as well as understand the importance of its dwindling Panda population.
So good on ya, Dreamworks! Keep it up. I can't wait to watch the next venture....
Monday, July 14, 2008
Have You Seen Her?
Lost :
Missing spirit. Wild and carefree, full of smiles and sincere laughter. Last seen wearing a laid-back attitude to life and an enviable sense of self-satisfaction. Known to be the life of the party and the most understanding nature around. Oozing with the appeal of a confident, independent woman with no qualms about fighting for what she wants in life. Rarely cries. Never confused. Easily thrilled by excitement, glamour and surprise. Can dance away any care with ease and is a joy to be with. Enjoys every second of existence to the fullest.
Answers to none, except my name.
Finders will be rewarded handsomely with a lifetime of gratitude and a month's supply of some smashing chocolate brownies.
Missing spirit. Wild and carefree, full of smiles and sincere laughter. Last seen wearing a laid-back attitude to life and an enviable sense of self-satisfaction. Known to be the life of the party and the most understanding nature around. Oozing with the appeal of a confident, independent woman with no qualms about fighting for what she wants in life. Rarely cries. Never confused. Easily thrilled by excitement, glamour and surprise. Can dance away any care with ease and is a joy to be with. Enjoys every second of existence to the fullest.
Answers to none, except my name.
Finders will be rewarded handsomely with a lifetime of gratitude and a month's supply of some smashing chocolate brownies.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Your Methods vs . My Methods
Watch me as I now proceed to become very unpopular with this righteous broom allegedly stuck up my nether region.
This post goes out to all the boozers, smokers, weedheads and druggies out there. Why do you do what you do? That's more of a question borne out of sheer curiosity than a snobbish remark. Is it an escape mechanism? A social necessity? An addiction?
I've been watching my world very closely for some time. The more I grow up, the more people I know who drink, smoke and do drugs. Hell, I've even been guilty of some of it myself, not so long ago. I used to be a heavy boozer by my own standards, so much so that at one point of life it was difficult to go by for a day without getting high. Not many know about that side of my life... and those who do, laugh in disbelief or mockery, not really convinced that my standards are as extensive as theirs. The fact of the matter remains that, from drinking socially while out with friends, I ended up having more than a few sips on a daily basis and ultimately hiding things from my loved ones whilst knowingly boozing when I shouldn't. Because as much as I hated the bitter taste of the stuff, I loved being high. My cares went away. I was an 'adult', doing adult things. I was witty... I was raunchy... I was friendly... I was free.
In retrospect, I was also pretty stupid.
I don't think I came to the point of an addiction (thankfully), because one fine day I told myself that getting high was just overrated and I managed to stop cold. This resulted in a few months of absolute inner hell that I am proud to have expertly covered up from the rest of the world, lest the gravity of my problem put the people I cared for off me. I suffered quite a number of withdrawal symptoms - mood swings, irritability, fevers, high levels of depression, etc. But eventually I kicked the want for liquor in my system. Sometimes I miss being high, and still desperately want to take that one sip that will satisfy me... but I don't allow myself to go that far, because I'm afraid of going back to being ashamed of myself and my lack of willpower.
What I went through is nothing compared to the thousands of recovering serious alcoholics... my drinking didn't even border on addiction, so I can just imagine how much harder it is for those who've gone further than I have to get back to soberdom.
What's really funny is that even the most addicted soul knows that what he/she is doing is bad. Much like we know that murder is bad, or rape is bad. Addiction is bad. The effects of tobacco, marijuana, alcohol or whatever else we use is bad- for our bodies, for our mind and for our lives in the long run. Even though we may not be heavily addicted to the stuff, we know we love it and couldn't possibly live without it. We know this, but we still go ahead and do it. Why? Why do we continuously lust after that delirous feeling of getting high, when we know it's not good for us? Honestly, tell me... can you really put your hand up and defend the stuff? Can you actually tell me that drugs, ciggies and drinks are the only ways to be happy or cool?
I don't know why the thought of people smoking up affects me as much as it does. I'm almost ashamed and embarrassed to confess that I'm not as cool a girl as I thought, to be so discombobulated over the fact that people smoke weed. What's so wrong with it, I ask myself a million times. I know so many others who do, and I never had this prude attitude about it before. Everyone and their grannies do it nowadays... and weed is not a hard drug... in fact, it's even medicinal! So why the devil doesn't it sit well with me? And why should I be such a fusspot about it... Do I really need to be such a case about it?
Why the gajeebers can't I let it go and chill? It's not my business, right?
Perhaps because I know that, of all forms of escape that a person can use, these are the worst? That alcohol, tobacco and weed have become adult society's mandatory and necessary evils, much like war? That as much pleasure it gives us now, it is slowly but surely fucking up our minds, lungs, kidneys, livers and hearts bit by gooey bit?
But who cares. We live for the day, right? And nothing comes close to the sensations of being well and truly high.
Doubtless this post will spark off quite a number of heated comments. Don't worry... these are only my personal thoughts, and I am not trying to shove them down your throats. I don't want to convert you into the boring lifeless sod that I am. I envy your fuck-all carefree attitude on this matter. It's a lot more fun than singing a song to relieve your mind. Everyone's entitled to their own choices in life.
But really... why do we do it? And again... that's curiosity speaking and inviting discussion.
Monday, July 7, 2008
Feet, Sand and Sleep
Mondays suck. They should outlaw Mondays.
Especially after rather nice weekends.
Saturday was a 'me day', with the BF out of town and no work commitments to stress over. It's been some time since I took a whole day to myself... 'twas bliss to say the least.
I started the day with an appointment for plucking. By this I mean that all-important monthly ritual women masochistically undergo to look and feel nice... that awful word that sends shivers down the spines of men who think they're all that but are really not- waxing. Yeah, baby. Legs and arms, that's the way to go. The one hour's experience of having your body hair ripped out unceremoniously after having doused hot wax over it first is an excruciating exercise that's totally worth the effort and gritting of teeth, in my books. There's a sense of accomplishment that I get every time I walk out of that salon with my skin feeling sexy and as smooth as a baby's bottom. "I survived waxing", I silently claim to the world as I sashay like a drunken cat to my car, nearly tripping over a grate on the way.
Please. Give me my little moments of heroism, ok?
So after de-furring myself I happily (and somewhat painfully) chugged off to 'Foot Comfort' at the Crescat Mall to enjoy a much-awaited-for foot massage. The boyfwend was a darling to have gifted me a voucher for the place, knowing full well how I adore every chance to get my toes pummelled. To all those who yearn a good foot massage but are not able to afford the likes of a posh spa that costs your (or your husband's) annual salary for a single session, I fully recommend 'Foot Comfort'. Granted, they are not cheap per say, with a 20-minute foot therapy session costing 850 bucks, but your feet will tell you afterwards that it's money well spent.
I love that place. Especially their large, ultra-comfy reclining leather bedseats, into which I gratefully sank and dozed off in while a soldier-like woman rubbed, kneaded and squeezed my feet to a peaceful trance. I hate the feeling of having a foot rub come to an end and having to walk away after it. The whole exercise of sending yourself into a massaged utopia just becomes redundant at that point.
But walk I did, feet looking clean and smelling like peppermint, because there's a limit to the hospitality that even Foot Comfort will shower you with once your session is over.
A lazy browse through the bookshop (I do love to park myself inside bookshops... don't you?) and a plate of sushi later, I went back home. This mostly because there really isn't a single place for a single female in SL to go to and just be, besides her bedroom. It's a sad state of affairs, and gave me the brainwave to someday open up a cosy little cafe just for women, with private meditative booths for girls who want to get away from it all for a couple of hours and read books or contemplate on girly things. I even thought of calling the place PMS.
Anyway, given that no current alternative was available ( I really WISH we had an inexpensive place to just go chill out in alone, away from people or noise.), I toddled off home and locked myself in my bedroom and settled down for a good read. Even the cat was not welcome.
It was lovely... within seconds of opening my new book I'd dozed off only to wake up that evening, hungry for dinner.
The alone time I gave myself put me in a good mood, so I magnanimously offered to take Mum and Slimy Sibling out to dinner. Decided to try out 'Loon Tao' on the Mount Lavinia beach, because I'd heard good things about the place.
To give you a quick personal review of Loon Tao :
Pros
And thus ended my Saturday. I was very pleased with myself and day... I must remember to give myself some time off more often.
Now... if only there weren't any Mondays that follow....
Especially after rather nice weekends.
Saturday was a 'me day', with the BF out of town and no work commitments to stress over. It's been some time since I took a whole day to myself... 'twas bliss to say the least.
I started the day with an appointment for plucking. By this I mean that all-important monthly ritual women masochistically undergo to look and feel nice... that awful word that sends shivers down the spines of men who think they're all that but are really not- waxing. Yeah, baby. Legs and arms, that's the way to go. The one hour's experience of having your body hair ripped out unceremoniously after having doused hot wax over it first is an excruciating exercise that's totally worth the effort and gritting of teeth, in my books. There's a sense of accomplishment that I get every time I walk out of that salon with my skin feeling sexy and as smooth as a baby's bottom. "I survived waxing", I silently claim to the world as I sashay like a drunken cat to my car, nearly tripping over a grate on the way.
Please. Give me my little moments of heroism, ok?
So after de-furring myself I happily (and somewhat painfully) chugged off to 'Foot Comfort' at the Crescat Mall to enjoy a much-awaited-for foot massage. The boyfwend was a darling to have gifted me a voucher for the place, knowing full well how I adore every chance to get my toes pummelled. To all those who yearn a good foot massage but are not able to afford the likes of a posh spa that costs your (or your husband's) annual salary for a single session, I fully recommend 'Foot Comfort'. Granted, they are not cheap per say, with a 20-minute foot therapy session costing 850 bucks, but your feet will tell you afterwards that it's money well spent.
I love that place. Especially their large, ultra-comfy reclining leather bedseats, into which I gratefully sank and dozed off in while a soldier-like woman rubbed, kneaded and squeezed my feet to a peaceful trance. I hate the feeling of having a foot rub come to an end and having to walk away after it. The whole exercise of sending yourself into a massaged utopia just becomes redundant at that point.
But walk I did, feet looking clean and smelling like peppermint, because there's a limit to the hospitality that even Foot Comfort will shower you with once your session is over.
A lazy browse through the bookshop (I do love to park myself inside bookshops... don't you?) and a plate of sushi later, I went back home. This mostly because there really isn't a single place for a single female in SL to go to and just be, besides her bedroom. It's a sad state of affairs, and gave me the brainwave to someday open up a cosy little cafe just for women, with private meditative booths for girls who want to get away from it all for a couple of hours and read books or contemplate on girly things. I even thought of calling the place PMS.
Anyway, given that no current alternative was available ( I really WISH we had an inexpensive place to just go chill out in alone, away from people or noise.), I toddled off home and locked myself in my bedroom and settled down for a good read. Even the cat was not welcome.
It was lovely... within seconds of opening my new book I'd dozed off only to wake up that evening, hungry for dinner.
The alone time I gave myself put me in a good mood, so I magnanimously offered to take Mum and Slimy Sibling out to dinner. Decided to try out 'Loon Tao' on the Mount Lavinia beach, because I'd heard good things about the place.
To give you a quick personal review of Loon Tao :
Pros
- The food is excellent (yummy, tasty, well presented, delicious, etc., etc.)
- The food is very reasonably priced
- The ambience is really nice
- The waiters are friendly
- The walk between the parking area and the restaurant is a bit of an exercise. (but that's alright, coz you obviously can't be expected to drive and park on the beach)
- The security guard at the official carpark is an incompetent, rude, obnoxious arse who doesn't really give a damn about you or your vehicle's safety. (Yes... I had a run-in with the man)
- The food takes a LOOOOONG time to come to you, once ordered. But that could have been circumstances on the night I went there.
- If you choose a table on the sand, you will sink when your ass meets that chair.
And thus ended my Saturday. I was very pleased with myself and day... I must remember to give myself some time off more often.
Now... if only there weren't any Mondays that follow....
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