The Sister

You are The Moon:

Hope, expectation, bright promises.

The Moon is a card of magic and mystery - when prominent you know that nothing is as it seems, particularly when it concerns relationships. All logic is thrown out the window. The Moon is all about visions and illusions, madness, genius and poetry. This is a card that has to do with sleep, and so with both dreams and nightmares. It is a scary card in that it warns that there might be hidden enemies, tricks and falsehoods. But it should also be remembered that this is a card of great creativity, of powerful magic, primal feelings and intuition. You may be going through a time of emotional and mental trial; if you have any past mental problems, you must be vigilant in taking your medication but avoid drugs or alcohol, as abuse of either will cause them irreparable damage. This time however, can also result in great creativity, psychic powers, visions and insight. You can and should trust your intuition.

What Tarot Card are You?

Sister Half-Moon

"i really need to get laid soon ... how ah"

The Sister's Gay Boyfriend has been bragging regaling me with his 1001 encounters/liaisons/conquests on MSN every other night. Not only was I beginning to feel overwhelmed by my needy new "girlfriend", I was also becoming increasingly frustrated with just about everything. (And oh yah, goddamn PMS!!!)

So I thought maybe that little confession would shut him up distract him from himself for just a while. Considering that there was no reply - he went offline - I guess it must have worked, yes?

"Are you leaving your job???" The Sister asks over my shoulder.

"Read it again."

"Are you getting retrenched???" The Sister repeats.

. . . . . .

My sister's moon not too bright, ya?


"Why you no put up my tarot card type? Now everyone has one except me.... WAAAAAAAH...."

Yes, Goddess Your Highness.

Purple or Black?

37 - That's TWICE.

Hours passed in continued silence. Miles of verdant New England forest passed beneath their wheels, until a narrow creek crossed the road. The creek was shallow and fairly quiet, but the horse again rebelled at proceeding. Again the young man dismounted, took the reins and persuaded the reluctant horse to cross the stream. This being done, he remounted the cart and spoke only these words in a sullen mutter:

"That's twice!"

and proceeded ...


You are The Tower:

Ambition, fighting, war, courage.

Destruction, danger, fall, ruin.

The Tower represents war, destruction, but also spiritual renewal. Plans are disrupted. Your views and ideas will change as a result. The Tower is a card about war, a war between the structures of lies and the lightning flash of truth. The Tower stands for "false concepts and institutions that we take for real". You have been shaken up; blinded by a shocking revelation. It sometimes takes that to see a truth that one refuses to see. Or to bring down beliefs that are so well constructed. What's most important to remember is that the tearing down of this structure, however painful, makes room for something new to be built.

What Tarot Card are You?

Arrrgh Choooo!

Flu and a temperature even before half the day was done. One more day to go. Sigh.

Note to self: Avoid the Malaysian Buayas (when they cannot find my receptionist to buaya) and when the Thai's 'grandfatherly' pat on the back starts to migrate south, STEP AWAY.

Can a weekend feel less like this one?

The Burning of a Weekend

Friday 0930 - 2300 h

Saturday 0700 - 2300 h

Sunday 0700 - 1400 h

I shall be needing to get high, very high, after the weekend is done.

41 - That's Once.

Once upon a time, somewhere in the last century, a decent and proper young New England man decided it was time to marry. He courted and eventually won the affection of a perfect young lady. She was well versed in the ways of marriage, was strong, able, and fair of appearance besides. So, having done what was customary to do in such a situation, they were married.

Well, sir, this man was a New Englander; proper, God-fearing, and laconic. Words were not to waste, said he; and surely he wasted them not, expressing what had to be expressed in the simplest, briefest manner. His young wife, being of the same turn, replied little and there ensued but the most meager of conversations between them.

Following the wedding, then, was the travel to their home, which lay some distance, by horse-drawn cart, away. The road, though most beautifully decorated by Nature's hand this time of year, was ill-kept and difficult to travel. The trip ensued in silent appreciation of God's green earth, until the horse, faced with a small tree blocking the road, refused to progress. The tree was small enough to be driven over, but the horse was nevertheless frightened. So the man dismounted the cart, took the reins, and with much effort and persuation, induced the horse to cross the felled tree and take the cart over it. When he had succeeded, the man remounted the cart, and spoke only these words in a sullen mutter:

"That's once!"

and proceeded ...

Females in Heat I

For a newly wed whose first anniversary is just around the corner, you would think she would have less of an urge to flirt like a single woman giggle like a schoolgirl everytime she came into contact with testosterone, or purse her lips in prissy disapproval when he-who-oozes-testosterone decides the not-so-young-but-single-and-kinda-sweet-and-younger-thing, who also stopped giggling like a schoolgirl when she left school 10 years ago, in the next cubicle was more, shall we say, intriguing?

Maybe 44-year-old women have mid-life crisis too.

But this one's a man-eater alright.

Females in Heat II

The class had barely come out of the first pose for the evening when I noticed that the girl two mats away in the front row, had gone down and was curled up in a foetal position - sobbing softly. While the class continued, one of the teachers checked on her and then left her to compose herself; she stayed curled up and managed to quiet down after some time, and the teacher helped her out of the room. She was gone by the time class finished.

Don't know what that was all about. Will probably ask tomorrow.

Females in Heat III

And I've been this close to shoving the proverbial towel down a couple of throats these past few days. I'll'd like to think it's the PMS emoting and I just need to slow down and catch up on sleep before I self-implode. And maybe everyone else just decided to wake up on the wrong side of bed.

Oh well, there's always December to look forward to - as is everyone else.

And oh yes, goddamn PMS.

Hallo Hanoi

The tickets are booked (albeit waitlisted on SQ) - I shall be spending my second New Year away from home.

My gracious host has agreed to let me bunk over in her apartment, thus sparing me from more encounters with demonstrative hotel porters. In gratitude, I have promised to bring a bottle or two from my recent purchase. (Not the one for licking off though.)

On the itinerary thus far is some lazing around, a short trip to Halong Bay to see The Kissing Cocks (heh heh heh), walking down the Old Quarter, lazing around, getting sloshed, eating at Sofitel Metropole's Le Beaulieu, pillon-riding in Hanoi's infamous traffic, getting sloshed and more lazing around.

As usual, all suggestions are welcome.

Passing Passes

"See you."


I half-turned just as I was stepping out and nodded enthusiastically to his question - to his amusement.


Maybe I will, afterall.

Driving Miss D _ _ _ y

Most people (maybe it is just Singaporeans) do not understand why I have no desire to get a driving licence, nevermind own a car.

"Do you drive?"



"Can't afford a car and I've no sense of direction ... (etc etc) ... "

"But all these things, you can learn. Don't you ASPIRE to own a car?"


"No," I grunted, not caring to say more about my lack of 'aspirations' for the umpteenth time to the umpteenth person with aspirations of the four-wheeled kind.

As I settled back in my seat to enjoy whatever was left of the ride before it would be my turn to 'work', a little light bulb flickered to life and the driver mused barely aloud, "So you prefer to be driven around lah."


Correction - I ASPIRE to be driven around, thank you very much.

Dirty Old Men

Catching a brief moment during the tiresome presentations to let my mind wander, I looked up and found one of the old-enough-to-be-my-father types giving me one of those I-know-you-know-I-am-checking-you-out smiles.

I decided that the presentations were not so tiresome afterall and for the rest of the meeting, I gave my absolute attention to our neighbouring countries' efforts at fine-tuning their respective systems of continuing paedophiliac, I mean professional development.

Later, as we were returning to our rooms to freshen up before the evening's activities, I noticed that Pops had stopped at the door next to mine.

"We are neighbours," he smiles smugly and looks at me meaningfully.

"Eh, yah," I noted as meaninglessly as I could and disappeared into my room.

ADD to that:

[1] are-you-married-thanks-but-no-thanks-over-my-dead-body (and stop staring at me);


[2] oh-look-your-skirt-has-dropped-ha-ha-you-are-sooo-NOT-funny (as I was trying to secure the loose skirting to the table; and excuse me, my face is up here);

that makes three DOMs all within three days.

What can I say, I'm definitely on a roll here.


Dirty Soon-to-be-Old Men

"Ya gor nam yan yao leong gor lou por ... " a male caller to the local Cantonese radio station began. (Translated: "One man has two wives ... ")

"Bastard," I pronounced.

"So extreme!" The Master gasped at my reaction.

"Ya gor nam yan yao leong gor lou por ... " the caller repeated.

Therefore, so did I. "Bastard."

"So extreme! You don't have to be so extreme! It is possible to love more than one woman at the same time."

The Master was not letting this go and pointed out that Muslims, for example, were allowed up to four wives. This was in the Quran and there was a basis to the number.

"The man just has to treat all his wives equally."

That's right. A man can love and treat all his wives equally - equally lesser.

Ergo, All Men Are Bastards


This Little Piggy Went To The Airport

On Friday alone, our group cleaned up two lunches and two dinners - the obligatory official meals that we could not siam were always made up for with unofficial but authentic and gooood Malaysian food at nearby Gohtong Jaya. Heh.

We had turtle stew (once for Thursday lunch and then twice on Friday), wild boar in curry, bacon (decadent slices of thick and very crunchy bacon fried in a sweet sauce), freshwater catfish and soon hock steamed teochew style, frog porridge, yong tau foo and fresh vegetables.

On the last day, we drove into KL for lunch, starting with fatty char siew, steamed chicken and a big plate of very crunchy - so I was assured - bean sprouts (urrrggghhh - I passed that, obviously), and moving on down the street to another roadside stall for mee tai mak and beef ball/stomach/tendon soup.

While we were waiting, the sweetest, sweetest mongrel puppy came up to me smiling. I tried to take a photo of her, but dropped the camera on her head and she ran away with a little yelp. Sniff.

(Aside from Circe: "If a stranger dropped a camera on your head, wouldn't you run away too?" Eh?!!)

Our final food stop was at the trendy Bangsar for dessert, and then directions to the airport.

By the way, the char siew was so good that I ordered some for takeaway. I managed to breeze past Customs with it in my carry-on. Snksnksnk. And the family and dogs made quick work of it the next morning. Heh.

Banana Republic

Ahhh. Sun City. Where the sun always shines. Where the skies are a pretty azure. Where the trees are evergreen. Where the birds are everywhere. And you can get hit by bird crap anytime. And sometimes, bananas too.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The Filipinos almost missed their flight home.

The airport transfer had left after waiting in vain at the Welcome Centre - instead of picking up everyone from our respective hotels, which would have been the sensible thing to do, yes? When we realised the mix-up, we had to trudge to the Welcome Centre with our luggage for another indefinite "yes-sir/mam-the-transfer-is-on-its-way" wait for our replacement transport.

I tipped the young hotel porter who I had asked to help with my luggage. Then we sat down to wait for the transfer, and made some occasional small talk.

Is this your first trip to South Africa . . . are you married . . . is English your first language here . . . do you have to travel far to get to work in the resort . . . will you be coming back to South Africa . . . do you have children . . . are you married . . . is the airport transfer always so late . . .

When several minutes passed and the transfer was still nowhere in sight - because "yes-sir/mam-the-transfer-is-on-its-way" - I assured Porter that I would be fine waiting by myself and surely, he was needed back at the hotel?

"Don't worry. I said I would take care of your luggage and you." (Eh, okayyy.)

In between more small talk and awkward silences, Porter wondered if we could exchange numbers. I handed him my name card. Like, because I didn't know how to say no and tell him I'll rather be hit by bird crap a hundred times over I had been giving out my name cards the whole time I was there anyway???

And then he gave me his number and name.


"Oh. Do people here often name their children after fruits?" I asked Piesang the Porter. (Piesang, like the fruit, only spelled with an 'E'.)

Apparently they did. In fact, one of his colleagues was named Juice.

And then Banana proceeded to look me in the eye and express his hope that, since I was not married because I had not found the right person, I would therefore consider him as a possibility.

! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !

It was one of those not-if-you-were-the-last-man-on-earth and don't-even-bother-passing-the-banana situations. But seeing as to how the rolling picturesque Pilanesburg hills in the not-so-near distance were too far for me to run screaming into, I attempted to send Banana scampering back to the hotel instead.

"How old are you?"

He was coy at first, and insisted age was just a number.

"How OLD are you?"

I was not far off my estimate - he was 22. Or so he claimed; he could be younger. Christ. I was old enough to be his mother. (Except I would not have named my child after a fruit.) Well, there ARE many documented cases of 12-year-old mothers.

He repeated that age was just a number after being told I was several years older - though I caught a quick flicker in his eyes at my number. Still, he stood his ground and did not move.

It turned out that Banana had just dumped his girlfriend because she was sleeping with someone else.

AND he found out about it because (why oh why did I have to ask???) when they were having sex just LAST NIGHT, he could feel that she "wasn't all there".

AND he could smell the other man on her.

AND he thought she felt "loose".

AND to illustrate his prick, I mean point, because he took my speechlessness for ignorance, he proceeded to make a circle with his left thumb and index finger and thrust his other finger through repeatedly and most nonchalantly - as if he did this to every other female guest he met. (Oh wait a minute, maybe he actually does!)

! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !

The information overload sent me into a momentary out-of-body experience and I pretended that I was somewhere else. The boy sure has a way of making a girl wish she "wasn't all there".

I can't remember how the rest of the encounter went - OBE and all. Fortunately, the transfer arrived shortly. After a quick hug (because he asked for one and I don't know how to say no to hugs either), I leaped into the safety of the van.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I did not expect that Piesang the Porter Who Doesn't Know When to (Full)Stop would write. And because the postcard was mailed to my office, the Receptionist and a few of those she blabbed to have been giving me strange looks.

Anyway, I never really liked bananas. They taste . . . funny.

Finding My Feet

The evening flight home was a pleasant lull - albeit for only 50 minutes - after the past few days of hard running, during which I was mostly in auto-pilot mode. (It gets easier each time - experience and whatnot - and increasingly pointless.)

The plane was half full and many of us had the row to ourselves. I upped from the aisle and retreated to the window seat. As the bright lights of another cityscape grew smaller and softer, the quiet night carried us away into her confidence, and I turned away, lost in my own thoughts.

And oh yes, I left my Oral B toothbrush in the hotel this time. Sigh.

I Must Have Been A Hamster In My Past Life

So, I'm still busy with work. And then after work and during the weekends, it's play and such, determined that I'll still "have a life". But I've been so busy being "busy" that I'm missing out on living. And all I really want to do now is stop. And do nothing - absolutely nothing.

But I just can't stop running.

Anyway, I'll be gone for another few days from tomorrow. So, I guess The Naked Truth and Banana Republic will just have to wait a while more before they see print.


It appears that Crazy is so far gone that she is making gigantic leaps of logic - into outer space. See, this spot here is where everyone is standing??? And that black hole over there??? Just beyond the fat red line??? That's where you really, really, don't want to go. Really.

Yeppp. It's definitely going to take more than a leap of faith for this one to return to Earth.

Weekend High

Managed to wean my cable modem off the network card and got the USB connection working - but I'm still crashing in 40-men raids at Molten Core. Sigh. So, the problem is not the network card. Which leaves me like, 20 other things to troubleshoot next? :-(((

Otherwise, it has been a rather fun weekend.

Met up with J for breakfast at Dome and was given the lowdown on his bout of food poisoning and how his body was so determined to expel whatever it was he had consumed AND everything else he tried to consume to replace lost nutrients and liquids, that he was "pissing from my ass" for a couple of days. (Yes, I have very articulate friends.)

Dropped by CirCe's lair in the afternoon and dozed off on her cushy couch, lulled by the pleasant sound of dripping while she literally sweat-mopped her house. Heh.

Then we made our way to Wine for Asia to get high, I mean sample fine wines - all for just $10. Heh. I had some delightful tastings: a sinful chocolate grappa (so good I'll gladly lick it off anything) and an interesting lemon digestive that Ricciotti carries;

Roadside Rose - a delicious Australian fruit wine from blood plums; Boeri Moscato d'Asti; Klaus Riesling Kabinett; Kaffe Noir - better than Kahlua.

Some of the wines were already sold out in the morning while other exhibitors had only sampling bottles and were looking for importers. But I managed to pick up a Riesling Ice Wine (Seifried) and Tosti Moscato d'Asti.

(The photo of the Seifried family is for the benefit of CirCe who was quite taken with the Seifried boy who was at the exhibition. Heh. You can't tell that he has "a nice body" from the photo - nor that he "shoots birds". What can I say, I was too preoccupied trying to figure out if he was talking to me to check out his body.)

Dinner was at the LTN Eating House at Siglap for their famous popiah. Yums. Definitely worth some revisits.

HRM 203 - Flogging the Frogs

Dad used to keep an Arowana. To supplement its staple diet of mealworms and shrimps, Dad would sometimes bring home a bag of the Arowana's favourite food - frogs. I was fascinated by these dainty green creatures with their beady little black eyes - though I thought they were a tad jumpy (ha ha).

I remember how Dad would nonchalantly empty the plastic bag of green goodies into the fish tank. The Arowana would make a few detours to check out the fresh meat, even as all the little frogs would start scampering towards the furthest corners of the tank with their frantic little legs, searching for a foothold - filter, tubes, fellow frogs - to "higher ground".

Whenever the tight cluster of shoulder-to-shoulder and foot-on-head frogs was disturbed for whatever reason, another mad scamper would start afresh with every frog trying NOT to be the one at the bottom with his legs doing the come-eat-me signal at the water edge.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Ultimately, everyone's a survivor.

So, to deal with plummeting productivity driven by a collective, start with the lowest common denominator - get rid of the most useless person.

And you will find everyone else scampering to move higher up the food chain.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~


Said arowana became part of the food chain a long time ago. Dad got bored and the family had it for dinner one night.

Our pet Arowana was, and still is, the most tender, and delicate meat I have ever had. Yum.

The Naked Truth

So I was musing about long-time friends and nudity on the way to work today, which was followed by a brief email exchange with The Best Friend who had absolutely NO recollection (snk snk snk) of a particular incident almost two years ago.

But I'm busy lusting after half-naked gay men in open-air showers with The Sister's Gay Boyfriend on MSN now something else more interesting came up. So this will have to wait just a little longer.