1. Canon DSLR camera
2. Sony Ericsson handphone
3. Annick Goutal perfume
4. In The Mood For Love soundtrack (can't seem to find this in all the music shops!)
5. One of those old-fashioned espresso machines
6. Rock & Republic jeans
7. Bose SoundDock iPod speakers
8. Everlast punching bag (I'm not kidding! I already know whose picture I want to pin on it...grr.)
9. Andy Warhol - "Giant Size" (this 2-kilo book costs a whopping RM600)
10. A lot of money to buy Items No.1-9
I think this whole craze over the Anya Hindmarch "I Am Not A Plastic Bag" canvas tote is laughable.
Not only are they going as fast as bubur lambuk at a Ramadan bazaar, but imitations are fetching prices even higher than that of the original.
But really, what pisses me off the most is the fact that the environmental message behind the concept of the bag is lost on some.
The other day in Cold Storage, I saw a well-dressed, haughty-looking woman with this It bag slung over her shoulder and carrying her groceries in enough plastic bags to choke an entire population of baby seals.
What could be more daft.
Celebrities blathering on in interviews and on TV about global warming and saving our doomed planet have helped make environmental consciousness trendy. But really, why wear it on your sleeve (or in this case, slung over your shoulder) when you don't feel the slightest affiliation to the cause at all? It would be like Adolf Hitler supporting a campaign for human rights.
The last thing this planet needs from mankind is hypocritical intentions.
Last weekend, I was attempting to give my dog a haircut on my own, as it was coming to the end of the month and I was too monetarily challenged (in other words, too pokai) to take my shaggy little cocker spaniel to the professional groomer I usually bring her to.
So after struggling to keep Cookie still for 10 minutes, as she made it clear she would rather lick me and gnaw on my knuckles, I finally gave up.
I decided to go shopping instead. What better time to go shopping than when you're broke and covered with dog drool and fur?
So off I traipsed to the two latest malls in town, bringing along my plastic money (credit cards, not board game tokens) just in case. Which turned out to be the worst mistake I have made in my life thus far, next to the time I mistook the bottle of citric cleaning solution my father kept in the kitchen for fruit juice.
Okay, so how do The Gardens and Pavilion stack up against each other?
1) Pavilion looks very swanky but they don't have any goddamn chairs or benches around for tired shoppers to give their tootsies a rest and for bored husbands/boyfriends to sit while contemplating life's important questions, like why women need more than 5 pairs of shoes to function in life. Thus, shoppers are forced to rest on the steps leading down to the concourse level, which reminds one of the mat rempit-filled steps just outside Sogo. Not classy at all if you're a Mak Datin in a Pucci dress and Jimmy Choos.
The Gardens, on the other hand, has lots of big, cozy-looking armchairs scattered around. But peculiarly enough, foliage is hardly anywhere to be seen. I wasn't expecting a rainforest or anything (1 Utama covered that one already) but for a place that is deceptively called The Gardens, you would at least expect to see more greenery apart from the sad, puny baby trees they have randomly placed around the mall.
WINNER: None. Both are too pretentiously posh, sterile and plant-less for my liking.
2) Pavilion boasts of Parksons and Tangs while The Gardens lays claim to Robinsons and Isetan.
Tangs carries One Teaspoon, one of my favourite labels from Australia. Go check it out - you can get some pretty, chic tops and flirty little dresses going for less than RM150 a pop. Tangs also stocks quite an impressive range of intimates including Morrissey, another personal favourite. I also saw heavily sequinned corsets, pink feather boas and French maid uniforms...So you know where to look now, particularly if you work as a cabaret dancer or as a, er, French maid.
Robinsons has a killer shoe department that also stocks Jessica Simpson's and J.Lo's footwear lines.And I must say that the second I stepped foot into Robinsons, sales staff greeted me with a "Good afternoon, how are you, madam?" (Madam! I felt so high-class and Datin-like and...old.) Also, despite being rather crowded, the sales staff were attentive and eager to please. When they didn't have my size, they *gasp* actually checked the inventory and apologized profusely instead of saying the typical "No stock". Then the sales guy actually gave me his mobile number and asked me to call him whenever I wanted to check arrival of new stocks. And no, he was not hitting on me. And yes, I'm certain because he was a she.
WINNER: The Gardens, thanks to Robinsons. Where customer service is a reality, not a myth.
3) Pavilion's much-hyped marketplace known as Mercato has only marginally more variety than Cold Storage, which has just opened in The Gardens. I want to see chocolate fountains! And friendly, matronly-looking women dipping apples into toffee! And sausage links hanging above the meats!
WINNER: None. Might as well just go to your neighbourhood Giant.
In conclusion, do we really need yet another soulless shopping complex with no character and no points of distinction? We want style and architecture. We want it to reflect the identity of our city and culture. We want corporations who are not just hungry to convert every cubic inch of space into retail space, but to really invest in a thoughtfully designed, well-planned communal public space for people to shop, play, think and interact.
And we want some fucking plants in there too.
Anyone who knows me will know that I am in my own world when I write.
Earthquakes, tornadoes and brawling baristas would not disrupt my flow of concentration.
That's right. Brawling baristas.
In Starbucks the other night, I was typing out the first chapter of my Great Debut Novel (probably destined to be never completed, like so many of my other doomed manuscripts) in a fast and furious fit of inspiration. I was the only customer in the shop, apart from a couple in the corner making lovey dovey eyes at each other over their frappucinos.
Suddenly, a guy started shouting. I looked up and saw a barista yelling at another, his face almost purple and contorted in rage. Without warning, the other barista lunged at him (I could have nearly sworn he was almost flying through the air, like how they do in those kung fu flicks) and started throwing punches. They were a pile on the floor, grunting, kicking and punching all at once, though I couldn't tell who was doing what to who at any given time.
The couple got up in shock and started towards the entrance, except that the tangled baristas were kind of blocking the doorway. They looked back at me like, What are we going to do now?
I shrugged and went back to typing.
Then a coffee mug landed near my feet, shattering into pieces.
I looked down at it. Then continued typing.
Another mug whizzed past me and hit the table behind.
The couple, or maybe just the girl, made a small yelp.
"I think we should get out of here," the girl cried out. I looked up again and she was staring back at me.
I hemmed. I hawed.
The baristas, still kicking and punching (but apparently not hurting each other) like little girls, crashed into a table and some chairs near the entrance. This is what happens when men wear aprons.
I sighed and decided to start packing up my laptop.
A third employee finally came between the two feuding baristas. Then everyone started talking at once, I still wasn't sure at this point what the fight was about. It could have been over whether paper or styrofoam cups are better, for all I know. But they were still blocking the entrance, and all three of us innocent bystanders didn't think it wise to risk getting caught in the crossfire.
"How are we going to get out of here?" the girl whispered to her boyfriend.
"Where the fishsticks are the bloody security guards to sort these hooligans out?" I said to them, perhaps a little too loudly because suddenly, I noticed the baristas turned to me. For a brief second, I thought they were going to start pummeling me with bags of arabica. And then I realized they were looking at something behind me. Security guards had swooped in (okay, I exaggerate, more like they strolled very casually in) from the other entrance after seeing the commotion through the glass windows.
Thus, I never got to finish writing the first chapter and will not sleep tonight until I finish crafting the last few paragraphs of The Great Debut Novel.
God, I need a cup of coffee.
I've never liked going to the gym. The overpowering waft of sweat that hits you in the face when you walk in at peak hours, the loud, grunting noises the weight-lifting guys make, the disturbingly out-of proportion bodies some of these guys have (overmuscled upper torsos precariously balanced on two toothpicks for legs) or the fact that I always find myself on the fitness bike next to some guy who likes to headbang to his iPod, unwittingly spraying his droplets of sweats over me like a lawn sprinkler.
And also, I'm a lazyass.
Sure, I like sports and the outdoors. I've been white water rafting, wakeboarding, surfing and kayaking. I love skating, swimming and going for runs with my dog to see who starts panting first. But those are not conscious decisions to work out. It’s almost like I need to be tricked into exercise.
I fail to understand how someone can run on a treadmill (which I've always likened to a hamster running in a wheel) when you can run in a nice, green park with fresh air. I fail to understand why people go for spinning when they can cycle down the streets of KL (while avoiding getting creamed by Malaysian motorists, which is an adventure in itself). I always saw the gym as a torture chamber, with all its various instruments to inflict pain and agony upon its users.
And now (shock, horror) I am a member of one.
Of course, the last time I decided to work out and eat right (one of those phases I go through where I’m obsessed with something, like my yoga phase and my I-don’t-see-why-I-should-wear-a-bra phase), I lost so much weight that everyone kept asking me if I was suffering from an eating disorder.
But right now, my current obsession is improving my stamina and endurance levels so I can keep up with my boyfriend when we go for skating or 10km runs together. One minute, he’s right next to me. The next, he’s a speck in the far distance. The guy’s like the Roadrunner on steroids. I have assured him that it will be him eating my dust someday.
They always say the hardest part about joining a gym is just getting there. Not true. Mine was signing up.
So I walked into Gym X one day and a Chinaman with a bad slouch and a tag on his shirt with the words Fitness Consultant greeted me and said, "You've come at the perfect time! We're having a special, one-day promotion."
"My my, aren't I lucky.”
So he gave me a tour of the gym, insisting I try some fitness machines even though I was wearing a dress and high heels.
Then a trainer gave me a fitness test, which is not really so much a test. They just make you stand on this thingy that resembles a weighing scale except with grips containing electrodes on the pads that measure your body fat, muscle mass, etc.
I found out I have 19% body fat and my left leg is stronger than my right leg for some reason, even though I am right-handed. So does that make me left-legged?
Finally, the fitness consultant sat me down together with another guy whose name tag revealed he was a Club Sales Manager. They kept poking random numbers into a calculator, telling me I could save X number of dollars if I went with Package A or get X number of months free with Package B, so on and so forth.
I said I'd go home and think about it.
The next few days, they kept calling me. They called me before work. They called me after work. They called me during dinner. They called me bright and early on a Saturday morning, when I was still crusty-eyed and so hoarse-voiced that all I could manage was a croak when I answered the phone.
The guy was worse than an insurance salesman.
"But I've missed the 'special, one-day-only promo' ," I said to him dryly when he called me for the fifty-fifth time.
"Oh, but we extend promo - just for you!" he said enthusiastically over the phone.
So anyway, I finally went back and declared I wasn't going to sign up for the monthly fee they quoted me because I heard my friend had joined for RM40 less (I eventually found out I was mistaken about this, she had actually signed up for RM30 less but they don’t need to know this).
They insisted I provide my friend's name and number for reference purposes.
I said no, it was private and confidential. And if they didn't want to give me the same rate, I was walking out, I told them adamantly.
So after a "word with the management", they signed me up for the fee I insisted on. Which just goes to show that if you bulldoze your way through enough of the time, you get what you want. The world is your fish market, it's just up to you to bargain.
After I made payment by credit card, the fitness consultant shoved some form in my face and told me to provide the contact details of 10 of my friends so they could enjoy a free, trial one-week membership! I tried to think of some people I really disliked so I could put their names down (no doubt my overzealous housefly of a fitness consultant would be constantly buzzing these people at all hours of the day to convince them that joining a gym would be the best decision they would ever make in their adult lives, oh god where's a flyswatter when you need one.)
But I couldn't think of anyone I hated that much. So I tucked the form into my handbag and sweetly said, "I'll give it back to you next time."
"Well, you get a free water bottle upon joining,” he said. “But I’ll pass the bottle to you when you give me back your form. It’s a really nice water bottle…it’s aluminium.”
I stared back at the determined little housefly, wondering if the world had suddenly come to some drastic shortage of aluminium I didn’t know about, thus rendering it a very rare and precious material.
“So since you have signed up, would you like to work out right now?” he asked.
“Uh…no.”
“Well, then, would you like to take a shower?”
“Excuse me?”
“Well, maybe you like to try our nice shower facilities.” The guy was like a monkey in a circus.
“That sounds tempting but think I’ll take a raincheck on that.”
So they were then supposed to assign me a personal trainer who would call me within the next 2 days, or so they said.
I didn’t hear anything from them for a week. They were calling me a million times a day before I signed up and after the deal had been sealed, they went cold on me.
Obviously, I was pissed.
I called them up to ask about their lack of follow ups. But they never returned my calls.
Finally, when I got one of the senior managers on the line, I lost my cool. “You should change your name to Fucked Up Fitness. Because that’s what you guys are. Fucked up!” I bellowed over the phone.
After I hung up in a huff, a trainer called me in 10 minutes.
Fortunately, my trainer Raj is pretty good, which compensates (well, sort of) for the negative experience I had with Gym X in the beginning. I like Raj because he kicks my butt. I told him so and he told me to bend over.
After my first training session with him, I rewarded myself by lounging next to Gym X’s outdoor pool with a book and a soda. You cannot believe the number of gay men in this gym. There were six or seven of them frolicking (don’t you love the word) at the pool, all with the same lean, toned body and deep, even tan. But possessing a nice, bronzed body doesn’t make a man gay, heck no.
However, if you’re wearing colourful, skimpy Speedos in hues unknown to nature and rubbing sunblock into another man’s back, then your sexual orientation is no longer a question mark. It’s a bloody exclamation mark complete with blinking neon lights.
I was wearing my big Jackie O sunglasses and reading a book (or well, pretending to) but I actually kept peering over my paperback to observe these bronzed hunks applying tanning oil on each other.
This is what I call an incentive to go to the gym.
Now excuse me while I go down a protein shake. My boyfriend’s made me promise to drink this icky stuff after workouts to “replenish my body" despite my protests.
If I end up looking like the squat version of Conan the Barbarian, you know who to blame. .
A lot has happened in the last 6 months since I last blogged.
I had my first pedicure (nice!).
I went to Singapore for some job interviews and decided that it's not a half bad place to live if you can get 5-dollar margaritas during happy hour.
My mother in London was not heard from for a month, setting off a wave of panic among family and friends. I was just about to file a missing person report when she happily resurfaced with a glowing tan from a seaside holiday.
I split up with my boyfriend whom everyone thought I would marry.
I dated several guys and realized that no matter how smart, funny, nice or good-looking a person is, chemistry is important and inexplicable.
I spent lots of time on my own.
I was convinced that I would end up old and alone, with a house full of dogs (and liquor) to keep me company.
George W. Bush made some public gaffes.
I got a 50% salary raise which I promptly celebrated by ordering knickers online from Victoria's Secret.
The Victoria's Secret knickers I ordered were nicked, either by a postman with a fetish or a customs officer who thought they were too lewd.
I ventured into the brave new world of Chinese stir-frying.
I got a tennis coach.
George W. Bush made more public gaffes.
I joined Facebook. Thought it was juvenile at first. Then I realized how much fun poking and throwing sheep can be.
I started swimming again and realized just how free, how calm, how at peace I feel in the water.
My cousin, a 27-year-old doctor and non-smoker, died from lung cancer.
My childhood friend, a 24-year-old physicist, gave birth to a healthy baby boy.
Somehow in my fog of cynicism, I found him and fell in love.
Of course, these things I just told you seem like random, unrelated facts given in jest. But the truth is, it's a snapshot of the major highs and lows I was going through.
And so the full cycle of life's emotions repeats itself because it's destined to. Seek sweet refuge even in the depths of your desolation because you know it's better than feeling than nothing.
To me, contentment is dangerous. It makes you feel comfortable with your station in life. It lures you into sticking to the same predictable routine. It fools you into thinking that you never need to do more than you're required to.
Could I be one of those women, I always question myself. Those women whose only concern is how many BodyJam classes they can squeeze into their schedule, who meet their girlfriends in Bangsar every weekend to discuss their next holiday destinations over brunch, who spend their Saturday nights in Velvet holding their cocktail glass with one hand and fingering their salon-styled hair with the other, who regularly blow their paychecks on Anya Hindmarch bags and Marc Jacobs shoes.
Of course, I don't have anything against this kind of lifestyle and in fact, would buy Marc Jacobs shoes if I could only afford them. But I'm just troubled over whether I could embrace such hedonism with zeal. Yes, I enjoy the finer things in life but surely, there must be some sort of higher purpose? Or else would it not just become a solely self-serving existence?
After all, life is not worth living if you were living only for yourself. It would be like stumbling in the dark because you're afraid that the harsh daylight would reveal the ugliness around you.
But I want to truly live with my eyes wide open.
My friends dragged me to Laundry the other night to see some Japanese rock bands. I think the real reason they went was because the e-flyer stated that Japanese girls in cosplay will be storming the place. On the other hand, I was enticed by the e-flyer's promise that the performing bands were bigger than sushi and hipper than Hello Kitty.
So off we trotted like the three little pigs to the market.
When we got there, the place was packed with people but there was hardly a Japanese-looking face among them, much less a Japanese chick in costume. Meanwhile, the band onstage looked and sounded disappointingly, well, normal. I had been expecting Glay-type music from an avant garde band all decked out in eye-popping threads. But this band was certainly not the best export since sushi because they sounded like a mediocre Soundgarden tribute band...dressed up as Good Charlotte.
So the three of us stood there, eyes a little glazed after the first three songs. After another two songs, my friends looked like they were positively near hara kiri.
"Maybe more beer will make them sound better," my friend said, gulping down his Heineken.
"I came here to see Japanese chicks in schoolgirl uniforms and all I get is a fat bassist," my other friend grumbled.
I cheerfully pointed out, "But the singer's kind of cute."
My friends volunteered half-heartedly, "Yes, he is a cute little bastard, isn't he."
"Where are the Japanese women?" one of them suddenly demanded, scouting the crowd. "After a long, hard day of work, all a man wants to see is some Japanese girls in costumes. Is that too much to ask for? That's what the flyer promised, after all."
"I think that's what you call false advertising," I said.
"Now that's just cruel. Why would they do that??"
"Well, it got you here, didn't it?"
"Hmpff. Let's get a table and drown our sorrows in draft beer."
Five minutes after we sat down, the event host came over to our table and she happened to be a Japanese college student my friends had met a couple times before. So she brought over some of her cute Japanese friends to introduce to us. Which kind of made the guys' night.
Whereas the highlight of my night was when the waiter brought over my Corona with a slice of lemon typically wedged in the bottle mouth, except in this case the lemon was too damn big. I kept pushing and jabbing at it but the lemon refused to go down without a fight. So my friend gallantly attempted to push it down for me but ended up getting his thumb stuck in the bottle.
But the main issue was when I refused to drink the beer after he had his thumb in it all because of a confession he once made that he doesn't wash his hands after taking a leak. So he went on to argue that his thumb was probably cleaner than my face, because I have a tendency to hold cushions in bars and lounges to my face which he said people had probably puked on. "I could probably get cholera and the bubonic plague from licking your cheek," he insisted. I laughed so hard my beer almost went down the wrong windpipe.
Bad night. Bad music. Bad lemon. But all you really need is good company. Kampai to that!
Sometimes you don't see what's right in front of you in your eager search to find something else. Or maybe you refuse to see it because you're afraid to.
I know you're more than meets the eye. I understand all the words you say and do not say. I understand why you do the things you do. I understand all your looks and all your actions, and all the feelings you don't express. Beyond the cool, passive facade and the quiet confidence, I see the man beneath.
I admire you not just for who you are, but for the man you strive to be. I admire you for your aspirations, for the things you try to make right, for trying to bring happiness to all around you at your own expense. You comforted me in my hour of darkness, you give in a time of need, and you never even know it.
I'm not saying we should be together. My sense and rationality dictate over me. But in the vast, undefined expanse between love and friendship is an inexplicable connection of two souls who could not be more different, but share the same fundamental values.
To put it most simply, you 'get' me.
You're going to be a big star someday, I know it because I can see your light, like a million comets trailblazing through the sky. Though my heart belongs to another and so does yours, know that I love you and I always have.
The best movies I've watched are the ones that really disturb you long after the credits have rolled. A good film provides you an escape from reality for an hour or two, a great one makes you think and ponder just how much it reflects reality.
The Constant Gardener is the latter kind.
I watched it a second time on Astro recently and I strongly urge you to see it if you haven't already. It might be a wee bit slow for some - like my friend who claims to have slept through all of Ralph Fiennes' movies. ("Can't he just go and make some slapstick comedies," she moans.)
But then again, I'm partial to Fernando Meirelles because of City of God which is just about one of the most fucking brilliant movies ever. Meirelles has a gift for depicting both beauty and brutality on screen while retaining a gritty sense of realism that only makes the story all the more disturbing.
How disturbing?
Well, after watching City of God, the president of Brazil told Meirelles that it changed his policies of public security.
And that's the power of film.
On the other hand, The Constant Gardener conjures a conspiracy theory and makes some rather grandiose accusations against the pharmaceutical industry that seem a little too far-fetched for us to believe that kind of thing really does happen in the real world.
In the film, the wife of a British diplomat investigates the unethical practices of a Western drugs company by trying to expose its botched experimental trials on sick, unsuspecting Africans. Would a company whose products are supposed to save lives really engage in practices that would potentially kill people?
Well. Maybe it's not so far-fetched after all, if you look at case history.
I can't really remember the facts of the case but basically, several years ago, drugs giant Merck was sued by the family of some guy who died of a heart attack after taking the painkiller Vioxx.
Apparently, it emerged during the trial that internal e-mails showed that Merck was aware that its drug caused a higher rate of heart complications in patients but they chose to ignore the risks against the advice of their researchers. And continued selling Vioxx despite knowing the risks associated with the drug. "Oh, let me see, yes we forgot to mention one of the side effects: you drop dead."
Or what about Novo which tested its drugs on people in India without first completing the clinical studies on animals. They had to stop their human trials when it came out that tumours were growing on their animal test subjects.
Big Pharma is about making money at the end of the day. The drugs industry is a multi-billion dollar industry and you know who runs these companies? Not caring doctors in white lab coats, but businessmen. Let's not fret until people die and their families hit us with a civil lawsuit, then we'll just deny we were ever aware of the risks.
Because they're all about saving people. Right.
If that's so, why are we stil not getting universal access to affordable AIDS drugs? It's unspeakable, with all the so-called advances in medical technology, that many in developing nations are still dying from AIDS because of high prices or complete inavailability of new drugs (because these companies choose not to market their drugs in such countries).
When share prices are more important than human life and ethics is just a section on the corporate website, that's when you know that humanity has lost its conscience.
But they say that's how the world turns.
People keep asking me what I did on Valentine's Day.
And I cheerfully tell them all the same thing: "Oh, I was playing video games at home."
I'm such a dork.
But I have to say that tossing bolts of electricity at minotaurs can be just as fun as a romantic candlelight dinner with a significant other. Christ, I'm sounding like such a lost cause now, haha...
I like being single but if there's anything I miss about being in a relationship, it's definitely the companionship. Suddenly, you realize that you have a lot more free time on your hands than you know what to do with.
And so I start taking up new hobbies and classes. Read all the books I never got around to reading. Watch all the DVDs I never got around to watching. Play more online poker. I've become such a well-rounded individual.
And then there's the social life.
If I'm not drunk on liquor every other night, I'm hyperventilating from an overdose of coffee.
Since most of the girls I know are happily ensconced in domestic bliss, I'm usually with the boys. Because boys just never grow up. I swear, they could be respectable lawyers or engineers or whatever, but the stuff they get up to...One of my best friends looks like the consummate professional at work with his pinstriped Raoul shirts and natty cufflinks but on weekends, you could hardly recognize the guy. Out come the scuffed Converse kicks and the leisure threads I term his "drug dealer uniform": threadbare t-shirt that looks older than my floormat (it's vintage, he argues) and jeans he hasn't washed since mullets were in fashion.
But I'm just emphasizing the dressing because it shows that you can never really tell what a man is like on the surface, or at least during working hours.
It's the nocturnal activities you should be concerned with, especially under the influence of alcohol and/or other substances.
I've seen some of my friends swapping spit with girls they've known for five minutes. Taking strange girls home. Telling their girlfriends on the phone how much they miss them, only to be groping the cocktail waitress forty minutes later.
Next you may ask, "Geez, Steph, what kind of guys do you hang out with?"
That question doesn't even matter. Because it happens to the best of them. It could be a harmless flirtation that doesn't necessarily result in a one-night-stand. But the conclusion is, if the temptation is there, then it doesn't take very much for a man to succumb. Say, if the girl happens to be a real skank - and I have to say there are a lot of them around. Call me conservative but I'm always surprised at how easy it is for one of my friends to take girls he barely knows back to his place. I mean, hello, woman! What if my friend is actually a depraved psycho with a torture chamber under his bedroom? "But he can't be a psycho because he's got a great tan and a six-pack! *giggle* "
So in conclusion, I don't totally blame the men. Hell, if I were a guy and there was a hot chick with a handkerchief for a dress throwing herself at me...
But at the end of the day, what goes around comes around. Infidelity will always come back to bite you in the ass. So watch the revolving door on your way out, folks.
And I'll end with parting words from Jamie Foxx: "Don't hate the player, hate the game."
