I have a sweet tooth for all things Japanese and finally, yippie yippie yay, I get to explore my number one country in the world beyond its Narita airport (twice have I had to failingly satisfy myself with shopping through their transit areas)!
And today, about two hours ago, I discovered that the hotel we’ve booked for our stay in Tokyo is the queerest of them all, located in the gay district of Shunjuku! Just all that I needed right now – living in a hotel where the husband will be sexually in danger!
Hmmpfh!
I’m now back at work on the overnight shifts whilst ery’s on office hours so it’s gonna be one of those weeks with sucky clashy schedules! My mornings are his nights, my bedtimes are his mornings… well I guess we’d have to suffer just a bit more before scooting off for our second honeymoon in July.
Before I get to talking about the Big Trip – I thought I should at least blog about the past weekend when we celebrated our first wedding anniversary. Yes, ONE year and we are no longer what the elders would term “pengantin baru” and surprisingly we haven’t been bugged by them to start reproducing little erys and miras. I strongly suspect it’s because they think we wouldn’t make good parents (at this point of time judging by how we’d rather spend money on clubbing rather than a tin of Nan or diapers or yucky smashed pumpkin food) and especially so when we already have a rather mischievous fur ball of our own to take care of.
Sadly, we had to leave the kitten at home during the weekend which was great and full of surprises! I couldn’t have planned it better. Kudos to you, my one-year-old husband! Click on picture for more snaps.
It started off at 2.30 am.
2.30 am
Made love.
3.30 or 4 am
Made love again.
And then wake up late for lunch.
2.00 pm
Got ready, put on new dress and kissed the pussycat goodbye.
2.30 pm
Arrived at Tyersall Avenue for surprise lunch at Halia restaurant, shaded amidst the lushness of the botanical garden. It was where we tied the knot a year ago and few steps away from the actual venue where we had our rites.
I really honestly couldn’t have picked a more perfect place and I knew in that moment, as I chomped down on my grilled Haloumi cheese and waited in anticipation for the brandied pulot hitam and coconut ice cream dessert, that this anniversary celebration had set a bar for the years to come.
It became emotionally and visually clear to me why he had picked the restaurant. Why he wanted us to eat there. Why he wanted us to celebrate it there. It is a place abundant with memories of us – how we were first beckoned into the new world of him as the husband and me as the wife -shackled into one hell of a HDB flat that we have grown to love. The entire place, still, to this day reverberates with the laughter of our family and friends, and just one walk down lanes brings to mind so much vivid snapshots of their faces – smiling and congratulating us on our blessed union.
It’s the place I’d think of if someone were to tell me, “Go to your happy place.”
4.oo pm
Checked out Villa Halia and contemplated if we should throw a party there for Vanshe. A post-neuter party for him. It could fit about 300 humans so that makes about 900 neighbourhood cats that we can invite (more than enough, our cat’s not that popular).
Took silly pictures by a man-made waterfall.
4.10 pm
Made our way into the Orchid Gardens despite the fact that we knew Burkill Hall was closed due to renovation.
4.15 pm
Saw so many things/flowered archs/pretty colourful bushes we wished we had been photographed at. To make up for it, we had our own mini shoot with the help of autofocus and self timer functions. Two things cam whores cannot live without.
4.16 pm
Took off my high heels and went barefoot. Began sweating, only needed a human bone stuck into my hairbun to pass off as cavewoman.
5.30 pm
Headed out to the bigger lawns, rolled out our mat and opened up a bottle. Cheers! Yamseng! Whippie! Still can’t believe that a year has passed by.
Reminisced.
A big red ant eyed my juicy legs.
5.31 pm
Bye bye big red ant.
5.25 pm
Photographed our legs in love so that I could upload it as my Facebook profile picture.
6.00 pm
Thunder. Kiss kiss goodbyed to the wonderful gardens and headed back home.
6.30 pm
Got caught in the rain after buying a few knick knacks from the supermarket. Got really really wet.
8 pm
Made love.
Made more love.
And that’s the way everyday with him should be.
A Washington post byline was the result of …
… a day at the zoo!
There’s this show with a real whacked up guy driving in a toaster-shaped caravan that’s aired at ridiculous o’ clocks, 4 .m. I believe. We almost always manage to catch it somehow but I’ve never been inspired by his tacky recipes till he made this rolled up omelette a few nights ago. Think its light but fulfilling enough for lunch, and very easy to make and pretty when assembled on a huge white plate (presentation always matters!). You should try it sometime, it’s really a recipe which you cannot fuck up.
- Whisk up a couple of eggs, a small slab of butter and milk in a bowl.
- Fry the egg on one side, leave the other side slightly runny. Season with salt and pepper.
- Remove the omelette and place it on a cutting board.
- Spread over some cream cheese with a knife.
- Sprinkle with fresh dill and layer on top some salmon and boiled asparagus
- Gently roll it like a popiah, sealing it with a bit of cream cheese at its ends.
- Place it on top of a bed of rocket, anda slice of salmon or two.
- Ta-da!
- In the meantime, get your in-house grapefruit squeezer (read: husband) to whip up some juice. Sieve out the seeds and blend. Add sugar and honey to sweeeten it and lotsa ice especially on warm afternoons we’ve been having these days.
Oh yeah, and you will realise this only I suspect if you have your own kitchen and husband/wife, that the kitchen is a lovely place where you can bond with your spouse – laugh over failed cooking attempts, catch up on each other’s days while washing and wiping dishes, and for me, there’s something too about chopping up carrots or cabbages in a rhythmically fashion that calms me down. Kinda like how some people doodle or do taichi, it’s my way of de-stressing and at the same be able to do it with my spouse.
So there you go either you think now married life has turned me into some domesticated auntie instead of the friday-and-saturday-night-must-club kinda chick… or….
48 hours of rollercoasting from home to the courts to the police station to home to gramps to bail centre to courts to home has left me low, drained and to the point where I can’t remember how to carry out the simpliest of things.
I think I’ve mentioned here before the importance of hug therapy when combating familial conflicts but there’s just this one other therapeutic intervention which precedes warm hugs in bed, that is, therapeutic sex. Of course me being so tired, my libido must have been affected till this conversation reminded me of it.
Scene – At the kitchen counter, hugging and complaining about the unfair justice system.
Me: It’s sooo unfair, and I can’t help because it’s just all too much. Too stressful.
Him: Well, let’s make out* tonight. To destress.
Me: Ok, but considering my stress level, how many times should we do it?
Which left me wondering how much stress can one session of good sex help?
Are there any scientific studies out there which can detail it out statistically in hours and minutes how much of one’s stress level is reduced after one orgasm? Two orgasms? A fake orgasm?
And those studies which supposedly proved the wonders of sex, how did they measure its healing powers?
Zero stress at time of picture taken. Posed picture obviously cause we’re clad in those lush robes.
*In our personal dictionaries, making out is equivalent to making love and the probable reason for us using the former term is because the usage of such a term makes it sound juvenile enough for us to feel as if we’re still 15 (or whatever age kids start making out in this day and time).
1. Here, then, is a short list of the things we can never go without because if, say without our monthly Bodyshop sprees, we’d smell differently.
And after trying almost all their flavours, we finally picked up its Olive collection and surprisingly found it fresh. Very much unlike their saccharine flowery gels.
To me too, Bodyshop is the Ikea of toiletries – nice and affordable enough for the bourgeois in us which is why we always stock up our bathrooms well with their gels, scrubs, oils and salts.
And they smell good, they make you smell good and it’s important to smell good. Smell good, people.
ONe more good thing is that they regualrly have new stuff, so you can change how you smell easily too.
2. Apart from our need to smell good, the coffee addicts that we are, forces us to ritually browse the stores at the mall for different coffee beans.
We always always buy coffee, we cannot live without our daily intakes.
Usually supermarkets have some real good coffee beans (eg: Davidoff cafe, Moconna, Lavazza), but our tastebuds lean towards Starbucks. More so because, it’s the only decent cafe around the neighbourhood since we’re not blessed with TCC. I miss their hazelnut lattes!
Also cheaper alternatives would be getting the hardcore ‘nyonya’ coffee. The ones you get at wet markets that are weighed and sold by the kilos. Even Ya Kun/Wang cafe sell their own beans instores.
3. Thirdly, but certainly not the last domestic neccesity, are fresh flowers. Despite the fact that the cat has been chomping down on the flowers, our tables and rooms are still filled with orchids, roses, violets and lilies just cause they instantly brighten up a room. It’s just the idea of having living things that makes the house unstoic and cosy, especially so when we don’t have any gardens or porches where we can go for fresh air.
For all these three must buys, the best thing about them, is walking down to the mall with the husband, even when the day’s scorchy hot or raining whales, to buy them. It’s probably the most domestic marital activity, apart from washing his underwear and clipping his toenails (not! well, until I con him into buying me a shoe per toenail/per underwear that is. Non-negotiable terms and conditions) but it is the one take-a-walk-session that I look forward to.
And then of course, there’s the part where we get high on all the strong blends, grab a shower together overslathering one another with new smells and then retreating to the bed (well, sometimes) and crumpling the rose-strewn bedsheets and then…
TGIF sounds like Latin to me, a phrase the husband and I neither recognize nor find familiar. I guess this is what happens when BOTH of us are shift workers, with him on stand-by 24/7 and me on a three-shift rotation.
But what can I say, there are certainly perks to being shift workers. I have long off days (sometimes four days in a row without having to apply for leave). I can wake up late, have dusk to dawn movie marathons on a weekday, get drunk without the worry of being hangovered at work, and get to make loud happy noises in bed as the white collars, blue collars, schoolkids, aunties get stuck in a cyclic morning rush. Isn’t that a great?
And on weekdays, when it is in the norm to feel workday blues, I get to plan our days with leisure activities or just run errands without having to queue (at post offices, sam machines, banks), shop without any shoving and dine without crowdy or even, rowdy, people. It gives me breathing space, and time to do things at a nice pace.
Last Monday, we decided to head to the museum. And to our surprise, we almost had the whole museum to ourselves. In fact, we rarely had to share a gallery with anyone, which allowed us to own mischief – taking photographs, joking around and just, really, enjoying each other’s company whilst learning all these great historical facts we never knew about our country, culture, food, people and traditions.
It was a good weekday for us! So, cheers to many many more weekdays to come. 
More pics here.
We bought our tickets to Japan already!
My favourite shot by him.
My boyfriend husband and I are responsible yoghurt citizens.
We know first up what’s audaciously great about Frolicky yoghurt.
We can have it at anytime of the day (up to 1 a.m. on weekends and 11 p.m. on weekdays) and we can have it topless or with as many toppings as our pocket change can afford.
Strawberries and crushed vanilla capped biscuits bowl us over all the time. We sometimes do flips too, so happy are we with what we think are the most explicit toppings known to man. The oreo cookies and granola in 3rd and 4th place respectively. Please applaud.
Seconds very necessary too even if our teeth’s aching or in the circumstance of a brain freeze. Thirds are possible for those who dare.
They don’t even have proper tables for us to lick our yoghurts. Only benches are provided, and even then, sitting on the uncushioned hard benches a pain in the butt we can live with as long as we have our yog fix.
They stay hard longer too – whether its peach or mango yog.
We also love the buttoned deco, giving the shop a rawking ambience as we people watch holland villagers breezing past us, laughing, rushing to places.
Yoghurt on Saturday nights. Make that a national pastime.
I ask you – what is most indulgent predicament one can have on a lazy Sunday afternoon?
When you can’t make up your mind which 6 flavours you want for your B&J’s Merlionster!
Note to self: Do not take pictures in this angle because it dwarfs you.
The weather’s been crazy, scorchy hot one moment and raining buckets in the randomest of hours – a nice long stretch of coolness which wrapped us last night as we drove back from Holland Village, a coolness that even made the lil one curl up into a piece of cute-ass furball.
I can’t imagine that there was a time when I hated cats.
These past few days, though, he’s been experimenting with different diets of the human kind.
Just a few minutes ago, ery called me into the kitchen sniggering, “Dear, I think he just had a piece of the Vietnamese spring roll you made.” and I entered and was greeted by the sight of a springroll on the floor, its ends gone, my floor awkwardly oily.
I think if I look close enough, there could still be vermicelli bits hanging out on the kitty’s whiskers.
And not too long ago, a plate of half eaten spaghetti bolognaise left on the dining room table was wiped clean when I returned to it.
When I saw the empty plate, and called out Vanshe! you shoulda seen the hundred miles per hour sprint it made to the “unreachable” part of the house.
Lemon chickens left in the oven weren’t spared either, which I still to this day, can’t figure out how he could have opened the oven, grabbed a wing with his mouth and all without the conventional help of human hands. He must have efficient paws.
Adding to his diet list, the naughty little thing has even been caught red-handed eating dirty socks, unwashed feet, my nose, orchids, lilies and even drinking out of my bowl of water which was used for burning floating candles – as if it was his own scented water bowl.
Cat people, is this normal??!!
