Bang! I think I should write about “The Frou’s BANGkok Birthday Bazaar” since a lot of friends have been asking me how that went.Last weekend, Frou’s merry men (Phillip, Toi and Silly French Man) brought her to BANGkok to celebrate her “no longer a spring chicken” day with a BANG.“BANG” is a indeed a very apt word to describe the trip –it was very short and very loud. ‘Short’ because we only had the weekend and ‘loud’ because my merry men and I certainly don’t come quietly (all pun intended). All throughout the trip, we were squealing, laughing, pinching, shouting, pushing, hugging, poking and showing a myriad of public affection for one another. I’m not sure if we were a source of annoyance or entertainment to the general public. I remember we made a train station warden laugh out loud when we danced around the train station and making “fun” of the ass of a cheetah on a billboard by poking it with a bottle of wine. (Don’t even ask why we were running around with wine at a train station!) On the other hand, we also had people avoid us on the BTS or moved tables in the restaurants away from us. Well, I guess it is all balanced out…So, what wonderful birthday treats did I get from my merry men?Glorious food….My merry men fed me well and often (i.e. every 3 hours.) We had duck noodles by the roadside, a fancy Thai dinner at a bungalow restaurant called Spring Summer, lunch at Jim Thompson, a high society English High-Tea and lots of local fanfares in between such as tom yum kong, pad thai, minced basil chicken, mango sticky rice, papaya salad, green curry, chicken joints, sundried beef, yogurt ice cream…..*burp* Everything was washed down with Singha (I learnt the “a” is silent) beer or wine. I also had two birthday cakes – one called the BTS (“Better than Sex”) from my merry men and another alibaba cake that Peter manage to dig up for me at 12 midnight at a local pub that comes with the local band performing for me a birthday song and dance.(A belly satisfied Frou!)Let’s relax…..The merry men also paid for my half day “make beauty” session at a spa called “Let’s Relax”. Never mind its cheesy name, the parlour was actually really nice - the type that have crickets and birds chirping in the background, heated massage beds, private rooms with shower and Jacuzzi and gentle masseurs who rub you to oblivion for 3 hours. I had an hour body scrub (of which they scrubbed me raw, wrap me like a poh-piah and left me steaming for 20mins), an hour long lemongrass body massage and lastly, an hour long foot massage. After all that pampering, my brains couldn’t function very well after that.(An all chilled-out Frou!)Underwear retail therapy…This is a must-do on all my Bangkok trips. My merry men graciously granted me one uninterrupted hour at Wacoal. I bought a year supply.(A happy Shopper Frou!)Salute at the movie…The merry men also brought me to watch a movie (Wall E!) at a really old retro Thai cinema. I am talking about the type where they have majestic red curtains that needs to be drawn back from the screen and cinema attendants in yellow suit to guide us to our creaky velvet seats. It was a great experience. It reminded me of the times when Phillip and I frequent this really rundown pawagam in KL when we were poor students and we have to sit with our legs up because rats and cockroaches were running amok on the floor. This retro Thai cinema, however, is very clean and the most interesting part is, we were required to “pay homage to the King” before the movie starts by standing to attention as the screen flashes pictures of King Bhumibol in his younger days.(Phillip: Why we standing up? Who dat on the screen?)Of c**ks and such…..As the only girl (ok, fag hag) in the group, I was given many impromptu education on the ways of male bonding (and anatomy) during the trip. One of the questions my merry men asked me was whether I have ever seen “live” c**ks on Viagra. I had to admit that I have not. That night, they showed me many, many, many of them. In a row. Numbered!They brought me to a famous street in Silom known for sex trading. What was amazing about this street is that they have every type to suit every need. We passed by an area that is especially for heterosexual Japanese men. All the sex workers on that street speaks Japanese and was calling out to my merry men (who looks Japanese). It was a sick pleasure for me to walk through that street arm-in-arm with my merry men because I look like a hooker who has scored! Haha!We arrived just in time for the “Big C**ks Show” at one of the gay clubs. It started rather innocently with a couple of topless men dancing lackadaisically in dramatic costumes around a drag queen lip synching to Madonna newest hits (Toe! It’s not Whitney Housten’s “I will always love you”!) After 2-3 such dances, I got really bored and mouthed to my merry men, “You bluff me. Where got action one?”The second segment is slightly more raunchy as the men took off their pants and prances around in their underwear. But then again, I get to see the same routine at beaches and pools (and even in my bedroom) so it was really nothing new or exciting. Zzz..In the third segment, the undies came off but their private bits were cleverly hidden behind bath towels or strategically placed props. One of the dance involve the men holding whipped cream cans at their crotch and “spritzing” cream on themselves at the “climax” of the song. Me and Phillip had to bite our tongues and hold hands to stop from laughing out loud.Everything came off in the fourth segment and the Viagra c**ks came up and out. The funny thing is, instead of getting wildly excited and bleeding from the nose, I was actually fighting back the yawns. It wasn’t because this was a gay club (I was told the dancers are mostly straight anyway) but I suspect it is because it was done in such an non-erotic manner. For example, in the ‘shower performance’ where two completely naked men were soaping and rubbing each other up, every move was rehearsed and their lips never even touched! In fact, the more I watch, the sorrier I felt for them. Judging from their unconvincing acts, it seems that they are obviously doing this just for a living. :(The show ended with the men parading one by one on stage with numbers on their waistband. The bouncer came round asking patrons to pick a number. I was told that it costs about THB2000 (RM200) to bring a boy out of the club and you may do whatever you wish and tip him afterwards. When it came my turn, the bouncer said to me, “Choose a number? Girl also can do.” The problem is, I wouldn’t know what to “do” with them. My merry men nudged me to pick a number. Of course I objected very violently.(A chaste Frou! Or rather, a very scared Frou :S )SMS from Dailytoe: “You don’t anyhow pick number ok? But if you have to bring a gay boy home, ask him to teach you tricks instead. Like rimming.” (Guess which of my merry men immediately offered to be test subject?)******************* I truly heart BANGkok with all its sheBANGs! But I heart my merry men even more for making my burfday so ultra fun and entertaining! Now I can transition to 30 next year with full knowledge what a c**k on Viagra looks like. Zzz… Chikin Scratching The scanner at work today is under repair.I have a document which needs to be scanned and attached to my email to our Vietnamese lawyers. After staggering around (I am in 3-inch heels today) the office looking for an alternative scanner, I gave up and decided to use the old fashion FACSIMILE machine instead.Before I can do so, I am required to fill out a "Facsimile Transmittal Sheet" which forms the cover page for my document. I also need to reproduce therein the content of my email to the lawyers - by hand!A pen poised in my hand, I suddenly find myself creepily nervous about writing a long "formal" message by hand. Which is very silly for I had written everything by hand for the past 10 years in school. Heck, the amount of lecture notes and essays I wrote back then can fill out an entire volume of a law journal! Also, I have kept personal diaries, fill out lengthly application forms, written long snail mails.... all before the advent of laptop and emails.And therein lies my problem. "Before the advent of laptop and emails" is what, 6-7 years ago? That is how long I have not picked up a pen to write more than 3 sentences! Do I even remember what my handwriting looks like?I started with "Dear Sirs". (Not bad, looks decent.)Next, I wrote the introduction. "I write with reference to the above subject matter wherein... " and I can see the letters going uphill. Scratch, scratch, scratch. How do I curl the tails of my "g"s and "y"s?After sweating out 3 paragraphs, I look up at the words I have written and cried. My handwriting suck! My letter "v" looks like "r", the head of every "s" were chopped off and the rest simply look as if a chicken has escaped from Food Junction downstairs, found its way to my office, ran across an ink pad and is now stomping all my "Facsimile Transmittal Sheet" with a vengeance. Stomp, stomp, stomp.Thinking back, I have always hated my handwriting. I am one of those people who does not have one consistent style. My lecture notes looks like it had been written by 10 different persons - I am a writing schizophrenic! I am also a handwriting pirate as in if I see a style I like, I will copy it. I have tried the cursive 'doctor' style (fail), the round oblong style with circular balls for dots (way too much work), the spaced-out lettering (*Zzz*) etc. I can be persistent in my imitation for a maximum of one page before inadvertently reverting back to my chicken-gone-wild handwriting.The other odd thing is, I find that my handwriting is only intelligible with certain pens. Yes, it's true! The pen I use plays a huge role in determining what my handwriting looks like - I mean, would Serena Williams play a good game without using her own swanky pink-flowered Wilson ncode7 hur, hur? For example, I can't do any 'broad' tip pens because my words will look stomps of a clumsy fat rooster. Nor can I do those fancy uniball ink stufs because I'll end up with blots on the paper and ink stains on my palms and all the way up my arm to the elbow. My weapon of choice is still an old-fashion alibaba Papermate ballpoint pen - with blue ink. I rarely screw up too badly with those.Thank God we are no longer in the handwriting era. Nowadays, we all have our trusty laptop, palm pilot, berries and whatever thingamajid digital devices to type on. What I like best is, I can even choose the font style. I can NEVER have bad "handwriting" digitally. Tap, tap, tap.All I need to do now is to learn how to type with BOTH hands and I am sorted.But right now, I still need to complete this stupid "Facsimile Transmittal Sheet" by hand.Urgh. We finally got TV reception! With the purchase of our new ali baba TV antennae, I am now able to watch regular TV channels! To be specific, “channel” without the “s”.Erm.. make that “one grainy and fuzzy Channel 5 with occasional audio disruption.”Still, that is a huge improvement from not being able to watch anything at all. I have been living without a working TV for the past 6 months since I moved to The Shit Hole. Gone are the halcyon days where the first thing I do when I wake up or get home from work is to switch on the TV and become one with the couch.Instead, these days when I get home from work, I entertain myself by watching laundry dry or reading. I’ve never read so much in any period of my life. I manage to devour a dozen books in the past 4 months without distraction from the idiot box. The downside is, my brain has a tendency to shutdown at night if I have to do a lot of serious reading at work during the day (which is very often these days) so my choice of night time reading is recently reduced to really trite stuffs. (Hint: Go ahead and ask me the full name of every one of Bradgelina’s kids. I can tell you which country they come from too!)Not being able to watch TV at home also mean that every time I pass by a TV outside, I get wildly excited. At hawker centres, I’ll choose the table closest to the TV so that I can watch Channel 8 dramas during dinner. At the elevators, I watch ads on “TV Mobile” until my eyes are glazed over. In fact, whenever I walk pass Best Denki TV section, I have to hold myself back from joining the little kids on the floor watching re-runs of Disney animated movies.Luckily, I have a gym membership and in times of desperation, I’ll head there to watch TV. My gym recently (Thank God!) installed mini TVs on their cardio machines so half an hour jog on the treadmill now gets me fully updated on South East Asia News or if I can get there before 6pm, I can pack in an episode of Oprah or The Tyra Banks Show. It makes going to the gym so much more worthwhile. It also feels good telling people “I’m going to the gym” rather than “I’m going home to watch Oprah” when it’s all the same difference!So if not being able to watch TV at home keeps me well-read and gym fit, why bother getting a TV antennae now?Well, firstly, there is the Olympic Games. I don’t want to be left out (or as the Malay saying goes, “a toad under the coconut shell”) when the rest of the world is celebrating the “spirit of the sports”. I have been glued to the Channel 5 Olympic Games highlights every night. (Sorry but Jade Seah in her stuffy suit really cannot make it as a sports newscaster. Badly delivered jokes and unconvincing enthusiasm *cringe*) I heart watching the athletes from the PRC do their ‘thang’. (Beijing Boleh!) Take that 58kg weight lifting Chinese girl, Chen Yanqing, for example. She broke the Olympic record by lifting 158kg yet makes it look like an everyday walk in the market for her! And what about those Chinese synchronize divers, Lin Yue and Huo Liang? Are they manufactured from the same factory?? (Speaking of Beijing Boleh, is it just me who finds it somewhat amusing that Singapore is rooting for PRC athletes “from Singapore”?)Secondly, I need TV for uninterrupted access to Channel News Asia in the morning so that I can catch up on foreign news, especially reports on the Malaysia political crisis - which is getting even more dramatic than Winter Sonata! Also, it is rather nice to hear the chirpy voices of Steven Chia and Suzanne Jong on Prime Time Morning when I wake up and listening to what’s been happening in the world while I get ready for work. It saves me from reading the papers during the day.Lastly, there are those “kok” Channel 8 dramas that Dailytoe have been raving about and insist that I watch. Something about beach volleyballs girls and Fann Wong going cuckoo in the head. But since I am not able to retrieve any other channels except for Channel 5 with my alibaba TV antennae, I guess I’ll just have to rely on Dailytoe’s updates (she promised to do a re-enactment of Fann Wong for me) or continue to watch these “kok” dramas at the hawker centres.Nonetheless, the Frou is happy with one working channel!I must say, however, that I am slightly distressed about the sensitivity of my ali baba TV antennae. Any slight interference (e.g. flying bugs or change in wind direction) will cause an audio disruption so the sound gets cut off at random. By way of trial and error, I learnt that the best way to retrieve the signal back is by lifting one leg up in the air and waving it in a certain motion for a few seconds. It is a picture of ugliness (The Boy: ‘What are you doing??! Put down your leg!”) but hey… anything for Channel 5. Woot! Hands caught in the honey pot Singapore celebrated its 43rd year of independence last Saturday.Everywhere around town, people are going crazy shopping and eating because most retail outlets are having “Special National Day Sales” and restaurants are serving up “Special National Day Set Lunches/Dinners”.Avoiding the crowd, we decided to go climbing instead. To our pleasant surprise, the patriotic spirit is strong within the local climbing community as well. On the registration counter at the climb gym stood a big honey pot-like jar with a sign that reads: “In celebration of our nation’s birthday, any climber dressed in red today is entitled to a lucky dip in this pot. Exciting prizes to be won!”The Toe and I weren’t in red that day. We didn’t know. Nobody told us. We stood at the counter, staring at the honey pot…The Toe: Eh, what prizes do you think are in there?Frou: I don’t know. But we are not in red. What color are your undies?The Toe: Blue. Yours?Frou: (Quick check) Some ali baba colour.The Toe: Let’s dip anyway.So she lift the top of the honey pot and I stuck a grubby hand inside. There were many folded pieces of paper. I took one out, unfold it and read out the prize. (“One free water bottle.”) Not particularly impressed, I replace the paper and reach for another one. Before long, the Toe and I started taking turns dipping, reading out prospective prizes and squealing in mock delight.When the Toe drew a “one day free pass”, she whoop in delight and announced that that takes care of her registration fee that day. From somewhere under the reception table, someone (finally) commented, “ Got so lucky or not?”We look at each other and meekly peer over the counter. We then replace the honey pot lid and murmur something to the effect of “Don’t mind us, just curious” and slowly slink away from the counter…Hands caught in the honey pot! Literally....Later that night (after two bottles of wine), The Toe started singing “community” songs down at the restaurant we were dining in. Something along the lines of “there was a time when people say that Singapore won’t make it*dramatic pause* but we did!”In vino veritas – she could hardly contain her love for her country. The waiter came over shortly and ask perhaps she might like to go down to the National Day Parade to sing instead....Happy *Burp* Day, Singapore! Don't ali baba me! Usually at the mention of “Ali baba”, most people will think of the fictional Arab woodcutter who outwitted 40 thieves. The more savvy of us would think of the online trading marketplace. Some might even think of Turkish kebabs and shishas - for no other reasons other than because the word sounds middle eastern!The very same clever friend who taught me how to “Zzz” also taught me many new and wonderful usage of the word “Ali baba”. I feel obliged to promote these newfangled definitions here so that I can henceforth use this phrase freely in my blog without confused readers wondering why I keep referring to some Arab man.Short of giving verbose explanations, here are some concise examples on how to use “ali baba” in conversations:1. “She got me an ali baba no-brand wallet as birthday present! Grr!”Means, “crappy”2. “You don’t know how to climb this route? Just ali baba it lar!”Means, “anyhow do”.3. “He didn’t even turn up for our date! He ali baba-ed me!”Means, “play you over”4. “You don’t know how to spell hippopotamus? Why you so ali baba?”Means, “dumb”.5. “My cut wound has dried up. Now it looks ali baba”Means, “gross”.6. “My hairdresser is in a bad mood today. Now my hair looks ali baba”Means, “ugliness personified”.7. Eeks! Ali baba!Means, a general exclaim of shock and disgust.Kapish? Easy to use? Hehe…The intermediate use of “ali-baba” involves doing a special “Open Sesame” song and dance (in Mandarin) simultaneously but I’ll save that for a later post…. Blown away My birthday is coming up *ahem* and being the Leo that I am, I have dictated to my friends and loved ones what I wanted for presents. (No, I am not shy.)But before you think I went around asking for LV bags and Feragammo shoes, I must explain how low maintenance I am…Frou: I went shopping with the Boy for my birthday present last night!The Queen: Ohh so sweet. Where to? Tifanny’s?Frou: Err.. no.The Queen: Poh Kong?Frou: Erm… *shifts uncomfortably in seat*.The Queen: SK Jewellery??Frou: Best Denki.The Queen: ……Anyway, we went to Best Denki on my request because I wanted a new fancy-schmancy turbo hairdryer to maximize my “make beauty” time. I am thinking something along the lines of what Mr. Vidal Sassoon himself will use at home.So we went to the hair accessories section and stare gormlessly at the display of hairdryers and styling props. A fat Best Denki salesman came by and asked us whether we need any help. I accepted Fatty’s help by picking out two hairdryers (one Phillips and the other, Panasonic) of similar price and I asked him to recommend which one to get.Fatty frowned slightly but quickly respond that the Panasonic is better because it has “ionic-ity”. It is my turn to frown because clearly written on the side of the Phillips hairdryer is the word “IONIC”. I pointed this out to Fatty who replied, “Oh yah hor!”-_____-“So we decide to abandon Fatty and conduct our own self-review. After going through all the selection, we took a break, check out other household ware in the store, came back to the hair section, pulled on hair, fidget about, read a couple of descriptions – and we decided (phew) to go for the Phillips hairdryer only because the box reads: “The brand which top hair stylist will use at home.”As we are bringing the box to the cashier for payment, we were intercepted by another Best Denki salesman – a skinny one with his hair fringe covering his eyes, like Jay Chou. “Miss, you want to test first?”Seeing no harm, I followed him to the testing corner. As he plugged in my hairdryer, he casually asked, “Miss, do you know about Phillips hairdryer?” I told him as a matter of fact, I do because my old one is a Phillips. He then ask me whether I detect a burning smell whenever I use my old Phillips hairdryer and I have to admit that I do!Apparently, Mr. Jay Chou here (unlike Fatty) is very knowledgeable on hair drying equipments and he gave me the lowdown on why I should not pick the hairdryer that I just did. (I shall not discredit the brand so I will not describe the reasons here.) Anyhow he recommended me to get the Braun hairdryer instead – the same one The Boy earlier commented that we probably shouldn’t get because “Braun only makes good toothbrushes”. Yikes!Mr. Jay Chou showed me two Braun hairdryesr and described to me their functions. Apparently, unlike most others, Braun hairdryers have inbuilt ionic emission which means it gives out negative ions together with the air flow. Negative ions are important because it prevents your hair from drying out and becoming frizzy. Further, it has a “satin protect” feature whereby the heat can be controlled below 70 degrees.The Boy and I stared at the two Braun hairdryer. One is shaped like a mini steel spaceship with neon lights (2100 watts) and the other is a white boat-like apparatus (1900 watts). The price difference is $40. Which one will Mr. Vidal Sassoon choose?I asked Mr. Jay Chou which is the best hairdryer in that shop and he pointed to the spaceship and said, “Miss, I am telling you, there is no more BEST than this one.”With a statement like that, how to not buy??!!I love my new turbo spaceship hairdryer. It is so powerful I have to be careful not to be blown away. Now I have satin-smooth hair *flicks mane* and The Boy is happy too because his hair dries in 10 seconds flat with it.Thanks BB! :) It's a pain in the.... I am going to write a very rude post. So kids and faint-hearted damsels, cover your eyes! Ok fine, I will censor offensive words by using a lot of “***’.Some time ago, my very crass friend bought a new climbing harness. If you have no idea what that looks like, here’s an example.Looks painful? You bet!When she first showed it to us, she was rather hao lian about it. It is baby blue in colour and matches her chalk bag perfectly. However she didn't stay pleased that long....Miss Crass: You know that day when I was belaying auntie (our not-so-skinny climbing friend), she suddenly cried out that she can’t hang on anymore.Frou: And then…?MC: And then I said ‘Don’t worry, you can fall. I will catch you’ and she really fell!Frou: And then..?MC: N** B**, she damn heavy. My new harness kiap my c*b** when I pulled back!Frou: HAHHHAHHAHAHAH!!MC: Not only that, I had to grin and bear with it even though it was painful like f**k. I had to shout out words of encouragement somemore: “I’ve got you! Don’t worry!”Frou: HAHHAHAHAHAHHAH!!MC: Don’t laugh. Very painful you know.Frou: (stifling laughter) I’m laughing at your choice of words. Can you please don’t say “kiap c*b**”? It’s very rude!!MC: Then say what?Frou: Er….“genitalia”? How about “It affected my genitalia”?MC: Affect my genitalia? You think what? Kena STD ar? Kiap c*b** si kiap c*b**” lar!(I heart Miss Crass, I really do. She brings so much joy and hokkein in my life.)The weirdest thing is, just last week when we were climbing at our usual joint, we heard a very similar conversation on the wall next to us….Girl: Help! I cannot hold on anymore!!!Boy: Just lean back on your harness and rest!Girl: I don’t want to!Boy: Why not?Girl: My harness will kiap my pi pi!!!! Oh. My. Gawd!!!! What can I say? No matter how you term it, this is definitely a climbing phenomena!By the way, regular readers of this blog: we all know who Miss Crass is, don’t we? *winks* True Yoga? True Crap. True Yoga Girl: Hello Miss, I just want to confirm that you are coming to collect your free pass at….Frou: 7 pm tonight. Pardon me but you are the 6th person calling me. I have already confirmed last Friday, Sunday and this morning. Can you guys please coordinate my YES answer amongst yourselves and stop calling me at work?True Yoga Girl: Ok dear…Firstly the “dear” did not help. I only liked to be called “dear” by extremely good looking men or extremely old grandmothers - not a minah ah lian. Secondly, do you know how irritating it is to have 6 different people from one organization calling you about the same thing? They obviously don’t have a system of internal collaboration. And what’s up with the hard sell?I should have taken these things as a sign but I gave them the benefit of the doubt. So I got Ah Toi to come along with me for a “free yoga class courtesy of True Yoga” last night.The minute I arrive at their centre on Level 5 of Pacific Plaza, I feel like turning back immediately. Right in front of me is a huge poster of Wong Li Lin and her Fear Factor husband doing yoga poses. I don’t quite know to explain this …. I am not a big fan of sloped-shouldered Wong Li Lin, worse still, I am going the “Wong Li Lin Yoga Gym”. Same concept as someone going to “Vincent Ng Martial Arts School” or “Zoe Tay Pregnancy Exercise Class”. Local celebrity-endorsed fitness centre - SALAH!Whilst I was gawking at the poster, an auntie in sweat shirt push past me. I mean, like literally ram into me. I turn around expecting an apology but she just quickly walk on without even looking at me. Clients of True Yoga – the same people I will be breathing in stuffy air with…Still undeterred, we went to the Reception to sign up. When I told them we are collecting our “free pass”, the first thing they ask is “Who called you?” As if I will remember all the 6 different minahs who did!! I asked, wouldn’t you be able to check by my name but they insist on the name of the “inviter” in the reminder sms they sent me. (By the way, I forgot to mention the 4 reminder sms-es they sent, besides the 6 calls.)Finally they directed us to a bubbly, big-sized fellow who attended to us. Albeit slow, he was at least friendly and let us test out a class first before conducting the lengthy registration process. Whilst waiting for him to get us locker keys, I wondered aloud to Ah Toi where to get changed and what is the class procedures etc. The ‘not-so-friendly’ reception staff who was standing right in front of my face obviously heard my comments but shifted her eyes immediately. Fair enough – I didn’t direct my questions at her and she doesn’t need to answer but since she have heard, wouldn’t a customer service staff in her position have offered some assistance? Obviously that's too much to expect...Once we got changed, Mr. Bubbly waited for us outside the class and passed us big orange stickers that will identify us as “guests”. Inside, the class is slightly warm (which is good) and have pre-placed mats on the floor. I usually like to use my own mat but it feels rude if I place mine over those so I made do with their gritty mats. By the time we are ready, the instructor has already begun the sun salutation warm-up so we quickly jumped in.The fundamental of astanga yoga practice is synchronized deep breathing with movement. In my regular Astanga class back at Planet Fitness, my instructor always spend a good 5 minutes to ensure that we calm our mind and engage our ujjayi breathing before we start. A good instructor will also constantly remind his students on the breathing sequence throughout the class because in Astanga, breathing is more important than the actual poses. ThisTrue Yoga instructor (incoherent as he is in his thick Indian accent) however, did not instruct on breathing at all. He just announces the poses he’d like us to perform methodologically. I thought perhaps this is the “intermediate” class hence presumably every yogi in here is expected to can do the breathing on their own - which I find a rather unusual class practice but to each his own.Immediately after the sun salutation warm up, the instructor announces that we are going for an inversion (upside down) pose i.e. headstand. My regular Vinyasa Astanga class usually have all the inversion poses in the last few ending sequence so I felt uncomfortable trying this pose so early in the class and opted not do it. I sat on my mat instead and watch Ah Toi execute the headstand. Even the dude in front of me couldn’t get his legs up like Ah Toi.Suddenly I heard someone barking, “Who asked you to come into my class?”The instructor was suddenly standing in front of my mat and speaking into his microphone for all the class to hear.“My class is for intermediate. You two don’t belong here. "I couldn’t believe what I just heard!Did he just tell us we don't belong because of.... headstands?Firstly, yoga is all about self-practice and doing what feels right for you. It's my body and I am not bending it upside down just because you ask me to.Secondly, when has yoga become a competitive sport where those who can do one pose better than others "belongs"?Thirdly, not everyone in the class are can do headstands! Like I say, Ah Toi did it but the dude in front of me couldn't bring his legs up. But he is "intermediate" because....?Fourthly, even if we are indeed in the wrong class (by some True Yoga categorisation that we are not aware of), can’t he tell by the bloody orange stickers that we are first timers and was ushered in by Mr. Bubbly? How about some decorum and common decency, supposed “zen” guru?It took every fibre of my being to stay calm and not disrupt the class by speaking back. In a parallel universe, Scary Frou would have wrapped him up in those gritty mats and rolled him from one end of the room to another like a pohpiah."But since you are here already, you might as well just sit and watch us”Sit and watch what?? Watch the dude in front of me flop about? Watch the girls at the front compete with one another? Watch how you conduct this yoga boot camp and go around bending people into poses while the rest of the class sit around and chit chat? (yes, the class literally came to a standstill at such intervals)To make things worse, he turned his back on us and ordered the class to do the next pose in the sequence which is to bring your legs back after executing the head stand. Ah Toi, indignant, at being accused of not being fit for the class, tried the posture only to have someone from the other end of the class actually walked over to him and said, “You did it all wrong!!”Oh my gawd! Did we knock our heads during downward dog and got transported back to bitchy HIGH SCHOOL!! Needless to say, we left the class immediately and made it known at the Reception (loudly) exactly why we will never step foot there again. Mr Bubbly had the gall to ask, "Excuse me, can you describe the tone of the instructor's voice when he said all that?" (Must be the SOP in the complaints form...)I am still dazed at what we encountered at True Yoga who have completely misrepresented themselves. Its people defied every traditional principles of yoga practice. A money-hungry centre who commercialized the practice and mis-educate the public about the true spirit of yoga – why would any celebrity lend their face to represent such an organization?To “reset”, as The Boy recommend, I went for my regular astanga class in Planet Fitness during lunch today. My Indian instructor (bless his zen soul!) told us that there should never be pain in yoga, only happiness - and then later announce that if we don’t feel any pain while holding the poses, he will take it into his own hands to ensure we feel some pain.I love yoga, still. Really. Breathe, baby, breathe….. And / Or I have just received an invite to a housewarming party with a very disturbing sign-off: "Feel free to bring your significant other, and/or Dailytoe, or other friends if you like."What a covert line! Is he implying that:1. "Significant other" and/or "Dailytoe" or "other friends" - are 3 distinct groups of people, ranked in ascending order of importance in my life?2. The "and" portion of "and/or" means if I bring a "significant other", I can still technically bring Dailytoe along - provided the two actually get along.3. The "or" portion of "and/or" means if I do bring a "significant other", I wouldn't bring Dailytoe along because they obviously won't get along *tsk tsk* (stop fighting over me folks!)4. And the more implicit meaning of the "or" portion is - Dailytoe IS THE "significant other" !!!!!*Faints*By the way, does "significant other" mean the second "other" thing I deem most "significant" in this world besides myself? Like chastity? world peace? money? Er... alcohol?Think I'll probably bring a bottle of champagne....... and Dailytoe will surely follow (the bottle, not me.) Dollars & no sense I was taking the lift to go downstairs for lunch when a Chinese Ah Beng executive (ill-fitting collared shirt and all) and an auntie-looking woman (ill-fitting outdated ‘blouse’ and all) entered the lift from the 13th floor.They were chatting in Mandarin about some lunch gathering they attended yesterday. Auntie suddenly remembered and remarked that Ah Beng have not fully paid up his share of the bill. The grand outstanding sum: fifty centsAuntie: Oi. You still owe me 50 cents from that lunch.Ah Beng: Oh ya hor. But remember the other day at the hawker centre you borrowed 60 cents from me at the drinks stall?Auntie: Ok you keep the fifty cents and I return you another ten cents.They started dipping into their purses and counting coins. Thank God the lift stopped for more passengers that moment otherwise they would have seen my horror-struck face in the mirrored lift door.Fifty cents??! Returning ten cents? I’d understand if they are still in school or if we are in impoverished country where 50 cents buys you a cow to feed the family – but the last time I checked, we are in a first world country (the Queen will have something to say about this..) and these two are working class adults in their late 30s who certainly don’t look like they are living from hand to mouth. Heck, she is carrying a branded (albeit ugly) handbag and he is holding the latest model blackberry phone. So what gives?When I told my sister about this incident, she said such behavior is very common amongst the “economical” working-class folks. Don’t judge them by their fancy cars and LV bags – when it comes to everyday monetary affairs, they will count to the very cent. I can almost hear Auntie saying, “I can use this 50 cents to pay for the increased ERP charges you know!” (Then don’t drive to work lah)Sis told me about how whenever she dines with her group of “economical working class” friends, it is always crunch time when the bill arrives. Firstly, nobody will offer to pay the full amount by credit card and collect cash from everyone else. This is because there is always the possibility that someone do not have exact change hence may pay less. Secondly, they will not split the bill equally but calculate who ordered what and worse still, in what proportion the food was shared. For example if everyone ordered a $16.80 main course and yours is only $14.80, you should rightfully pay $2 less. Also, if everyone shared a common dish but you feel you didn’t eat as much as Fatty over there, you should rightfully pay less. (Otherwise where got fair?)My friend forwarded me an email which she received from one of her dining campanions who actually did pay for the entire meal first with her credit card and is asking for everyone to pay her back. It reads: "Can everyone please pay me back your share by this Thursday otherwise my credit card company will charge me interest for late payment which I will pass on to whoever who pays me late." And trust me, she wasn't joking!Please don’t misunderstand that I am bitching about folks who are not well-off and need to be frugal about their spending. I’m only talking about those who clearly can (or appear to be able to) afford luxuries in life yet will fight to the end of the world over a few stray dollars owed to them.An ex-colleague of mine told me a story about how she was at Starbucks and the man standing in front of her was arguing over a prospective 10% discount off his coffee. The barista was apologizing profusely that they are unable to swipe his credit card (which entitles him to the discount) because the machine is offline. Over RM0.55, this well-dressed yuppy executive fell into a rage, screamed at the poor barista and held up the entire lunchtime queue. My (chilli padi) ex-colleague finally tapped him on his shoulders and told him he can get “cheap coffee” over at the mamak opposite the road instead.I must say the most scary “economical working class” story I have heard so far is a story told to me by a friend who took a ride from her friend’s car to Malaysia. Her friend kept a small 555 notebook and recorded down each and every expense arising out of the trip – petrol, highway toll charges, snacks, toilet entry etc. – and divided it down the middle. On top of that, her friend calculated the “depreciation” value of the car with respect to the mileage clocked up during the road-trip and factored that into the final costs.Wah lao eh! Next time take bus…. The Young & Swinging Rebel My company practices “democracy” hence for every decision that impacts employees such as benefits, HR will hold a discussion forum to gather our views.Participating employees are randomly selected. Usually, they like to choose one person who represent the diverse “groupings” - for example the “family-man”, the “single parent”, the “aunties” and so on.Not surprisingly, I am always chosen because HR has this impression that I am the poster child for the “Young & Swinging Single” group. Technically, I fit the bill but I suspect I am really only included so that these forums can be perceived as representing the whole spectrum of the employee population. In reality, they only care about the old folks who makes up the 90% majority.An example:Discussion topic: Shall we increase child-care allowance for employees?New Mother: Yes! In fact, you should let me go home earlier too because I need to nurse my newborn child.Family-Man: Yes! Because prices have gone up. Milk powder, diapers, tuition fees. All gone up!Old & Single: I don’t have kids but I have an aging parent who stays with me. How about extending childcare to parent-care?Young & Swinging Single (i.e. the Frou): Huh? What has their child done for the company? I sit in my cubicle and slog away all day, I am the real “child” of this organization! How about some “child”-caring by giving us free gym membership instead?Young Mother/Family Man/Old & Single: Gym? But we don’t exercise!And the next thing I know, they terminated the existing corporate gym membership program (because everyone voted they do not have time to exercise) and converted one of the photocopy room into a nursing room.Where is the democracy??!!I have been trying to get myself un-invited from such forums and decided that being an obnoxious fire starter (which coincidentally is my forte) would probably the best way to go about it.During the last forum, HR introduces an instant messaging facility for employees to “chat” with one another. Everyone was ooh-ooh-aah-ing about how great it is for work eficacy and fostering of working relationships bla bla bla. This is the right time to drop a bomb:Frou: (puts up hand) Excuse me, where will our chat dialogues be kept?Facilitator: They will be kept in the central server in our HQ.Frou: Will our chats be read by someone in HQ?[Startled silence]Facilitator: Well, er….technically HQ has access to it.Frou: Ya but will they read it?[Ears perked]Facilitator: Erm. Yes.[Mutterings & whispering]Frou: How often will they read our chats?Facilitator: (Nervously) As and when required....Frou: Meaning our chat records will be used against us “as and when required” too?Facilitator: ……..Mwahahaha. I am so on my way to getting expelled from these forums…..! Who let the fat chick out?? Once upon a time, in a kingdom far, far away, there lived a girl with very long hair.Her name is Rapunzel, so-named after the flower which ultimately caused her imprisonment in a high tower by a witch. You see, when Rapunzel was still a fetus, her mother saw a bunch of beautiful purple rapunzel blossom in the witch’s garden and in her irrational pregnancy mood-swing, ordered her husband to go steal it for her. When Mr. Obedient got caught (as we all expect him to be), the deal with the witch is, if he gives up his newborn, he may live. He is as much Mr Kiasi (i.e. Mr. Scared To Die) as he is Mr. Obedient so he agreed.In order to preserve her maidenly sensibilities, the witch deem it best for Rapunzel to grow up in a high tower, away from the lecherous eyes of the kingdom’s male subjects. To facilitate her visits, the witch had Rapunzel grow her hair very long so that it can function as a ladder for her to climb up and down the tower. Whenever the witch comes round, she will shout. “Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair” and Rapunzel will throw her golden braid out of the only window in the tower and the witch will ascend and descend on it accordingly. Many years of this same routine has resulted in Rapunzel having very strong hair and a very numbed scalp. Kids don’t try this at home.What is life like locked in a tower? “Boring” is a huge understatement. Rapunzel’s only comfort is in food, which she unreservedly indulges in without reproach. Oh, did I forget to mention that our dear Rapunzel is not as….err… slim as you think most lead fairytale girls are? How else do you think she can anchor herself down when the witch pulls on her hair?!So little fat Rapunzel grow up into a young fat lady. Luckily she has a pretty decent face so when she peeks out of the only window in her tower, she still gives the illusion of a pretty girl stuck in a tower. And that is how the horny prince, who rode by one beautiful moonlit night, was deceived.He circled the tower a couple days and after watching how the witch gets into the tower, he too shouted one day, “Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair” and the bimbo that she is, obeyed.Have you ever gotten so drunk that you wake up the next day screaming at the person next to you and in that moment, realized that that human beings, as a general, looks so much better far away and in the moonlight? Well, that is the same epiphany that hit our prince when he reached the top of the tower and saw what she looks like below the neck. The word “regret” cannot begin to describe the way he felt.Rapunzel, on the other hand, is ecstatic to find a handsome prince instead of a winkled old hag as usual. All these years of “containing her maidenly sensibilities” has reached its apex, and at that moment, it ruptured. The poor boy. She dragged him, kicking and screaming, into her hood and kept him prisoner and playmate…. (oh, I can’t go on describing more.)On his third day of imprisonment, the broken and wretched prince realized that our dear Rapunzel is as dense as she is fat, so he hatched a brilliant plan.Prince: How about we elope from this tower lor?Rapunzel: Also can! But how? My hair only allows one person to be let off at any one time?Prince: Why don’t we cut it off and I will hold it while your abseil down the tower. After that, I will tie it around this chair and abseil down myself. Sounds good?Rapunzel: Oh! So clever!So the prince chop off Rapunzel’s lovely golden braid and he held it out of the window for Rapunzel. At an opportune time when fat Rapunzel is climbing down on it, the prince release his grip and …….………… this is my answer to Ah Toi’s query on who is the fat chick who fell off whilst climbing Rapunzel’s hair i.e. the Ipoh version of the story. The boy with two devils on his left shoulder Phillip: So are we going out for wild partying this weekend? Wooooot!Frou: No! I promised to be goodPhillip: Who did u promise?Frou: The angel on my right shoulderPhillip: I'm gonna kidnap her when I see youFrou: WHY!?Phillip: So that I can threaten to squeeze her self-righteous guts out if she doesn't advise you otherwise. Grrrrrrrrr!Frou: *GASP*Phillip: Then I will demonstrate by squeezing a packet of mcdonalds chilli sauce until the sauce burst outFrou: NOOoooo!!Phillip: See whether your right angel scared or notFrou: OH MY! MY ANGEL SO POOR THING!Phillip: She is not a poor thing. She's a party pooper.Frou: I am assuming the angel on your right shoulder had, a long time ago, jumped ship to your left shoulder, eh?Phillip: Yeap. As we speak, 'he' is massaging my left devil's shoulders... Gibberish Gobbledygook! An 18th century English philosopher, Jeremy Bentham, once criticized the language of lawyers as "an excrementitious matter" and "literary garbage."If you don’t know what “excrementitious” means, think “excrement” or as Dailytoe would have (unreservedly) explain, “like sai”I recently receive similar complaints about my writing.Frou: What do you think of the memo I drafted?Boss: Good advice but terrible language.Frou: How so?Boss: You think the Business is going to understand ‘Be that as it may but without prejudice to the foregoing…’ or “No matter howsoever occurring…”?Seriously, I really had it with people who complain that lawyer-speak is gobbledygook. How else do you expect us to write after 4 years of reading ancient Latin translated judgments and statues in law school?The Americans started the ‘Plain English Movement’ to encourage lawyers and law academics to write in layman lingo so as to “make the legal language less convoluted and more accessible to average citizens.” Although modern legalese are now a lot ‘plainer’, the “average citizens” are still complaining about lawyers on another dimension: we are too verbose.I will have you know *getting on high horse ~ neigh* that there are valid and cogent reasons for our alleged long-windedness.I found an apt example online. Have a look at the two closing statements to a letter below:1st statement (Lawyer Language):“If there exist any points therein which you require explanation or further explication, we shall be glad to furnish such additional details, as may be required, via telephone."2nd statement (Plain English):"If you have any questions, please call us."Does the two statements above mean the same thing? Sounds like it right? Of course not!If you examine the 1st statement carefully, you will note the following judicious choice of words:- Use of “therein” suggest that you can only call to talk about points which are already discussed in the letter. If you raise new points, additional legal charge may apply- Any explanation or further explication provided to you shall be considered “additional details” and again, “additional details” = additional charge. - “As may be required” is inserted to prevent clients from asking for irrelevant information. It implies that it is up to the lawyer’s discretion to decide whether such additional information is actually ‘required’ so you may or may not get it when you call.So don’t be deceived, it is not verbosity because verbosity is the usage of redundant words which is clearly not true as demonstrated above. Every single word from ‘em white wigs’ mouth always has a hidden meaning of some sort! Sneaky bastards!! *Gets down and dances around high horse* No one is too big to be courteous, but some are too little It takes a certain type of person to be able to drive in and out of Singapore on a regular basis.I am not talking about the ability to maneuver a machine with tires and a steering wheel. I am referring to the qualities a person must possess to be able the withstand the aggression of crossing the borders. That’s right, aggression….antagonism….hostility – whatever you like to call it, bottom line: it is absolutely vile!Last Saturday, it took me 2 ½ hours to get from Tuas Checkpoint to JB City which is approximately 40 km. To put it in perspective, let’s say if someone was traveling at 80km/hr, he/she would have covered that distance in ½ hour (inclusive of customs processing). It took 5 times longer.Most Singaporeans would have read the headlines in the Straits Times last week regarding the imposition of fines on cars who cut queue leading up to the Customs. Sadly, Malaysians do not appear to knowledge of this. Or even if they had, it is in their nature to be “resilient” to such regulations.Which explains the extra time I spent at Tuas. I was literally fighting off other drivers (mostly my “resilient” fellow countrymen) who were trying to cut into my lane after I have spent hours queuing like a law-abiding goondu. I also have to fend off motorists who swerve around me precariously, blocking the designated car lanes. In that entire 2 hours, I had my steering wheel on grip-lock, body perched forward and eyes darting like eagles.My first antagonist was this FAT man in a white Proton MyV with a Johor number plate. I was merely two inches away from the car in front of me but he still swerve in between us violently, forcing me to jam brake. We fought for the next 5 minutes, with me inching forward as close as I could to close the gap. However, he was relentless; I imagine with the same tenacity as the way he eats judging by how FAT he is. I started honking my horns repeatedly which startled him. He looked at me through his side mirror, his PIG face red with annoyance, and he wound down his windows. If that is the cue that he wants to take it outside, I am all game for it. I raised to my full height in my seat (lucky I was behind the wheels so he couldn’t tell how stumpy I actually am, eeks!) and started gesticulating and letting off a slew of Hokkein words I learnt from Dailytoe. His passenger who is this bland and boring looking woman, presumably his mousey wife, turned around, saw that I was no little miss sunshine, quickly nudge him to wind up the window and move on. Miss Mousey then proceeds to use a piece of blanket to cover the windows to BLOCK out any views I could have of them! OH! If only I had another a passenger in my car who could take over the wheel, I would have got down my car and…..SMS from Dailytoe: “Can you please don’t fight at the causeway. I don’t want to see you on the headlines of The New Paper tomorrow!”My second antagonist is a middle age uncle driving another JB car. He tried the same trick as Fatty but this time, I gave him looks that would have killed lesser beings i.e. beings who don’t know the meaning of waiting in lines. He quickly steer his car away from my path with a nervous wave and smile.And so it goes on, one antagonist after another. I manage to fend off a few,but there are some drivers whom I clearly am no match for:Ah Bengs with straw-coloured hair and arms dangling out of their cars holding a cigaretteScary looking Indian men, especially if they are in pairs.Weathered looking uncles with beat-up cars (who are not afraid of getting their cars even more beat up)Any supped up sports car that is vibrating to feng tao music.SCARED!! -__-“I am a little apolegetic for my lousy display of graciousness but seriously, I just couldn’t stomach it. The injustice is boiling and stewing in my blood. Why can’t everyone just get in line and wait in an orderly queue like decent human beings? My time is just as precious as yours –I have waited an hour in line to get there, and you just cut into my lane to save an hour of your own time? Where is your moral integrity? Human courtesy? Mutual respect? Civic-mindedness? ARGHH... I am using terms Singa the Courtesy Lion would use!!! Happy cohabitating! The Boss and I were reviewing proposals on economical short-term housing arrangements for employees who are sent abroad.Frou: It says here they want to put them all in one single service apartment.The Boss: (makes tsk tsk sounds) So risky.Frou: Where got risk? It’s not illegal.The Boss: Not from a legal standpoint. Imagine the kind of mischief or allegations that could take place.Frou: OHH! You mean if they make male and female employees live together?The Boss: At this time and age, I would be more worried if they put two happy males or females together.Frou: If they are happy, what is the problem?The Boss: (twiddle thumbs)Frou: Ohh… Public ass display I was extremely curious when I read the following excerpt in the SG Straits Times reporting on the rally against inflation held in Kelana Jaya last Sunday:“A minor scuffle broke out when the lead singer of a rock band performing on stage exposed his bottom in a political gesture – enraging the conservative crowd.”Unfortunately, that was all that was reported on that incident. A burning question: how does one moon in a “political gesture”?Initially I thought he had a picture of the bendera / hibiscus flower / a politician's face / ”Malaysia Tak Boleh” or some other form of seditious insignia on his ass. Or perhaps he was ‘displaying’ his sentiments towards the current state of political affairs by mirroring it to that part of his anatomy.I was illuminated today when I read an article in KLue magazine - from the Malaysian perspective. It explained that the crowd was NOT amused with the mooning gesture because it made a mockery out of the recent sodomy allegation against the same opposition leader who was addressing the rally that day.Alamak... 5 things to do in the Pearl of the Orient…. You know how we tend to have different friends for different activities? I am very lucky that I have ONE friend in this world, who joins me in my 5 most favorite consecutive things to do, namely, (1) sleep, (2) eat, (3) drink, (4) climb and (5) get massaged to death. Yes, in that order.A typical weekend for my partner-in-crime (“Secretary Pig”) and I goes like this: Get off work, go home for a disco nap, have dinner, go clubbing and get drunk, go back to her place, sleep all day, beg her mother to feed us, go climb some rocks, go get massaged by fat Indonesian aunties….and then repeat.FYI, “disco nap” = A short siesta before clubbing to help up the energy level.Secretary Pig moved to Hong Kong subsequently which means I have to fly there once a year to continue our hare-brained activities. Which pretty much accounts for why all my HK trips revolves around the same 5 elements. My trip last weekend, was no different.SLEEPSomehow I always get the best sleep in Hong Kong. I have the view of South China Sea from Secretary Pig’s bedroom so every morning, I wake up to the scene of boats journeying across wide open waters. The current weather is still suffering from the aftermath of the typhoon so the sky is constantly gloomy; just perfect for lying in. Coupled with the fact that she has the most comfy winter duvet in the world, a giant TV at the foot of the bed with a dozen DVDs from Shanghai (with subtitles in Russian!), I really HATE getting out of bed in Hong Kong.EATHong Kong is a pork paradise, which I am more than fine with except I usually end up leaving the country with an oink overdose. I’ll have pork chops for breakfast, porky dim sum for lunch and roast pork & suckling pig for dinner. And my favorite pack lunch for our outdoor climbs? Fried gong zhai mien with luncheon meat! I hardly noticed that the HK Government has culled all live chicken on the island this month because of suspected bird flu. Poultry? Bah!DRINKAll I can say is, the alcohol in Hong Kong is TOXIC. I cannot think of any other reason that can explain why I always contract amnesia, hangovers and a series of unfortunate events after drinking sessions there. Partying in Hong Kong is plain crazy. The streets of Soho, Lan Kwai Fong and Wan Chai are never empty no matter what time it is. I was supposed to meet The Queen last Friday but I wasn’t able to get hold of her. I (much later) found out the reason for her disappearance is because she was stuck on the podium until Saturday morning at Vola, one of the most happening clubs in LKF where I myself have been “lost” before. This trip round, I contracted a bad case of alcohol rash after drinking just 2.5 glasses of Hong Kong vodka at Vola. I sent a worried sms to Dailytoe regarding my suspected alcohol intolerance – she replied saying she is praying very hard for me and helping me look for another liver since alcohol is our only vice these days. Such good friends I have.CLIMBI absolutely heart climbing in Hong Kong. There are so many outdoor cliffs, peaks and mountains around the island to scale. In all my HK trips, I have been fortunate enough to have the chance to mix with the local climbing community, which in comparison with many other places, is extremely friendly and welcoming. While language can be a bit of a barrier (especially when they start shouting climb moves to you in Cantonese), it doesn’t stop them from hanging out with or talking to us foreign climbers or newbies.Due to the bad weather this trip, we weren’t able to climb outdoors as planned so Secretary Pig brought me to an indoor bouldering gym located at the top storey of a warehouse somewhere in Kowloon. When I was riding up the lift where you have to manually open/close the lift doors, I told Secretary Pig this place looks like a scene in Chinese movies where young girls are promised modeling shots but instead tricked into doing pornographic films.The scene inside the gym however, is a lot friendlier. It’s a very local gym, meaning there are no fancy facilities and it is literally, a hole in the wall. Secretary Pig and I spent 2 hours in that hole sweating like a pig trying to climb colorful plastic holes and testing out limb bending techniques with the local boys. One of the them took out a red light pointer and started directing us where to climb. Another one sat down and, in very concise textbook English, taught me the different “pulleys” I have in my fingers and proceeded to wrap up my middle finger with white tape. “It is good for you. Helps you climb better,” he says.Strangely, I still haven’t been able to bend that finger till today. I must have misheard an instruction (in Canto) somewhere and wrongly abused my mummified finger that day…MASSAGEDuring my last trip, Secretary Pig dragged (a very wretched) me all the way to Shenzhen, China for a evening in a rather fancy schmancy “beauty parlor”. The journey there was atrocious. We have to ride for hours on many different buses and trains and then cross customs, queue, apply for VISA etc.; all that while nursing the mother of all hangovers from toxic HK alcohol the night before. But this zhong guo “beauty parlor” is truly an eye-opener. It’s in a huge building where once you enter, they make you wear identical robes and wear a tag on your wrist. You are then allowed to roam about freely and enjoy the different “services” they provide, such as all types of massages, foot reflexology, ear candling, dead skin scraping, eating, sleeping (in capsules), mah jong etc. They even have a huge monitor where you can select which “masseur” you want (yes, their vital statistics were clearly stated on the monitor!) At the completion of each “service”, they put the charge on your wrist tag – and you only see the damage to your wallet when they scan your tag at the end of the day.Secretary Pig discovered a similar set-up in Wan Chai but their “services” is only restricted to massages only. This place opens until 7am in the morning and the norm is, you go clubbing, get thrashed, go there for a massage, get fed, take a shower, then go home. “All the TVB actresses go there!” she squealed excitedly.So at 12 midnight last Sunday, Secretary Pig actually drag me out of bed, put me in cab, and brought me to Wan Chai for a two hour long massage by a very strong Chinese lady who climbed on top of me, and stepped all over my back and legs. I can hear a dying PIC next to me, grunting and heaving for air when her masseur dug her toes into her flesh.Frou: Why are we paying people to do this to us? WHYYY?Secretary Pig: Help! I can’t breathe!!Frou: I’m in pain!!(Together): But it’s very shiok!Before we start our massage, Secretary Pig and I agreed that we will NOT talk to the masseurs so that we don’t have to do small talks. But our masseurs were (as usual) chatty and key-poh and kept asking us why our muscles are so tight and why we have such broad shoulders. As per agreed, we didn’t reply which led them to start speculating and talking among themselves. (In Cantonese) ‘These kind of muscle tightness cannot be by accident. Must be specially trained or a occupational hazard. Are you two divers? No? Oh! We know! You two must be dance instructors!”I had to bite my tongue to stop myself from laughing out loud. Dance instructors??! Can also! :pOn my last day, I got a taste of what it is like to live rich in Hong Kong when a tai-tai friend of ours who recently moved there, picked The Queen and I up in her two-seater convertible BMW (where I squashed one of The Queen’s boobies) and brought us for dim sum lunch and foot spa. Later, we had the top of her car down (and hair in our faces) as we drove through the hilly roads of Repulse Bay to her beach front house in Stanley. I commented that I recognize these roads as the locations where most murder scenes are shot in the TVB dramas; where the “victims” are usually unceremoniously thrown over the cliffs. “Oh, it happens real life too. But only to the rich tycoons lar!” she added.:S So that concludes my very fast and furious Hong Kong weekend. Hopefully next time, I’ll get to see the pandas at Ocean Park. Or the Big Buddha. Gheez, I really need to find some time to do the actual tourist things in HK…… Welcome, Your Majesty! The Queen called me when she landed in Singapore earlier this afternoon to ask me what’s up with the plastic smiles at the airport.“What is it with all the welcomes? When we landed, they announce “Wecome to Singapore. To all Singaporeans and residents, welcome home.” When I was getting off the plane, there are people lined-up and chirping repeatedly “Welcome to Singapore. Welcome to Singapore…” But when they stamp my Malaysian passport, the fuck face comes out.”Later, on her way to her sister’s place, the taxi driver asked her whether to take TPE or Hougang Road. When she said she doesn’t know, the taxi driver scolded her, “You live there, why you don’t know?” When she said that she doesn’t live ‘there’, (besides the fact that she was picked up from the airport) he retorts, “Then? You live where?”The icing on the cake is when they arrived at her sister’s place, he goes, “Wah. Your sister’s house very nice hor. She do what wan?”The Queen: Shall I show him a copy of her CPF statement also?Frou: Welcome to Singapore. "Zhe si ni de he tong....." I had dinner with an old colleague of mine who reminded me that I had the best Mandarin in the entire law firm and that I was the one who taught all of them Chinese legal terms. The Boy choked on his carrot juice.That’s right, ladies & gentlemen. The Frou, who has never taken a single classroom lesson in Chinese and whose finite knowledge of the language comes entirely from watching Channel 8 drama series, have explained contracts entirely in Mandarin and even taught my colleagues how to.The fact that I have completely forgotten about this episode of my life could only mean that I am not very proud of it.This whole thing came about because our firm acts for a large housing developer. Whenever our client launches new housing properties, the purchasers who buys those properties will need to come to us to sign their sale & purchase contracts and we, as the developer’s lawyers, have to explain the contract terms to them.The problem is, our local friendly purchasers are not all your savvy-went-to-school-and-speaks-English type. It is one thing for a lawyer to explain a contract in layman’s term, it is an entirely different matter if he need to explain it in layman’s terms of another language. I’m talking about Malay, Tamil and the various Chinese dialects (Mandarin, Cantonese, Hokkein etc.)There are about ten young aspiring lawyers in the firm, me inclusive, and being “young” anything in a law firm hierarchy automatically means you do all the shit jobs and explaining contracts in Chinese/Malay/Tamil falls squarely within the definition of “shit jobs”.The drill is, whenever a Purchaser arrive, our Receptionist will do a quick check on his/her language ability and call the Librarian to check which of the ten young aspiring lawyers (henceforth known as “Minions”), who are cowering under bookshelves trying to catch a nap, has the right language skill. The Librarian will then unreservedly wake the appropriate sleeping Minion and said Minion will have to put on his/her public face and go attend to the contract signing.Except NONE of the Minions can speak Mandarin and because I apparently studied in the Lion City where people order chicken rice in Mandarin, I was automatically deemed a Mandarin expert. All Purchasers who can only speak Mandarin are sent to me. Did I protest? Everyday. Did it work? No.I shall not go into the mechanics of how I bullshit my way through (in Mandarin) but let’s just say that I did a job well enough to get the contracts signed by slightly baffled Purchasers who left wondering what hit them. And when you have done it once, the next few times becomes easier. At some point, I even manage to learn Chinese legal terms such as “contract”.Frou: Zhe ge si ni de…..(holds up the contract) er....Purchaser: He tong?Frou: Yes, yes. He tong.There was one instance when our client launch a new condominium in a Chinese populated estate. Naturally, all its Purchasers are Chinese folks who are so Chinese that they don’t speak anything but Mandarin.You can imagine the field day I had. When I was done explaining the same contract to different CLANS of the Lee/Tan/Lim/Wong families who brought their mother, father, kids, grandmother and great grandpa who actually requested for refreshments during the signing and complained that the room is too cold, I had enough.So I told the other Minions that I cannot take on the whole estate and that they have got to take on some of the signing themselves. I preached that it is not about your ability to speak the language, it is all the “perception” that they can. I taught them the key Chinese legal terms they need (like “He Tong”) and bade them well.S, my friend whom I had dinner with last night, told me that she was unlucky enough to be one of the Minions that got sent to a Mandarin-speaking Purchaser after I threw in the reign. Fair enough she did okay with the Chinese legal terms I taught them, but she said I have omitted to teach them the BASIC Chinese words.Frou: Like what?S: Like “pets” for example!!!!So, apparently there was a clause in one of the sale contracts that says that tenants are not allowed to rear pets in the condominium, and S was trying to explain that clause in Mandarin. She ended up saying, “Bu ke yi you “woof-woof” & “meow meow”.The Minions subsequently came up with a brilliant idea. They did a separation exercise and gathered all the Mandarin-speaking Purchasers and put them all in a conference room. The Librarian woke me up that fateful afternoon and sent me to that conference room.Till today, I am scarred by the impromptu mass lecture I was forced to conduct in Mandarin. I can still see all their doleful “i-have-no-fucking-idea-what-she-is-talking-about-what-kind-of-law-firm-is-this-and-where-are-our-refreshments” looks in my sleep…… _____ out of nothing at all The German has to take an English proficiency test, and she showed us a sample of the past year’s paper during lunch.In one of the sections, there are several sentences with a blank where you have to fill in the appropriate verb using the word “make”.Example 1, “He doesn’t have a pen so he has to _________ a pencil.”Answer: “Make do with”Example 2: “He is rather short so he ________ by wearing clogs.”Answer: “Makes up for it”Example 3: “Even though the sofa is large, he refuse to _________ me.”Frou: Make love to.[Stunned silence]Frou: Make out with??Dailytoe: It’s “make room for” you slut!My answers can also what….. The Frou is down I am sitting alone at home on a bright and sunny Friday afternoon, feeling a tad sorry for myself.Earlier this morning, I manage to drag myself out of bed (after a 16 hours slumber) and drove my sorry body to work. I did some research, attend a conference call, draft a few emails.... all by 11am when my Boss walk past and politely ask how I am feeling.I turn around and that got him jumping a few meters back. Holding his arms over his head, he ask whether whatever plaguing me is catching.I must have looked quite a sight. It could be the red patches around my face, disheveled hair, slumped-over body and an array of different painkillers spread over my desk. Apparently, and I quote him, I “look like shit”.I describe to him the virus that is attacking my joints and the aches that is making me feel like a hundred years old. Still trying to (uselessly) shield his body from the supposed germs from my diseased self, he instruct me to go home pronto.After he left, I stared at my PC. The screen has gone all woozy, or was it just my head? Ok, I will finish this email first, I thought.Fifteen minutes later, he walked by again. “Why are you still here?”This time, I slump over my chair and groan. This is difficult. I dread going home because I have slept the whole of yesterday and couldn’t stomach anymore motionless lying around. On the other hand, sitting in a hard chair at work is making my bones disintegrate. Not forgetting that disobeying a germs-phobic boss so near my mid-year review is a career limiting move.“And bring that Japanese contract back with you. Read it in bed!” he barked.So here I am in bed. I just threw up my lunch and I am at wits end what this virus allows me to eat. Dinner last night was no success either. After hearing that I cannot stomach food, Dailytoe has kindly volunteered to take over my virus. “So that we can be thin together!” she exclaim happily.With friends like these…. Not-so-okay Pocky I am eating strawberry flavored Pocky sticks that Dailytoe gave me after our yoga class.They’re really good – yums! I am surprised at how good they taste. I think this is the first time I am having strawberry Pocky. In fact, this is the first few times I am eating strawberry flavored anything.At first I couldn’t figure out why but the answer came to me when I was chatting with my 2nd Sis online. I told her that I had strawberry Pocky and she said she only eats the chocolate ones.It suddenly struck me that I don’t eat the chocolate ones either. And since Pocky only comes in chocolate or strawberry back then, I hardly ate any when I was young.And then I realized my sisters were to be blamed for that!My sisters and I were 2 years apart, meaning when my 1st Sis was 10 yrs old, my 2nd Sis was 8 and I, 6. Growing up with two older sisters has been, well, rather interesting but horribly tedious. It must have been the “female thing” that caused us to be extremely jealous of one another. We fight a lot to be the centre of attention in the family and to be the trendier or cooler one amongst us three. And because the older sibling gets exposure to the world (i.e. school) faster, the younger ones tend to copy her. Naturally, me being the youngest, was the worst copycat.To put us in our place, 1st Sis established a hierarchical ranking amongst us. She decreed that for everything that the three of us do, she gets first pick. 2nd Sis gets to go next, and I’ll take whatever is left. The rule is, you must not like or indulge in whatever that your older sibling has chosen.And why do we follow her rule? Because she is (then) the biggest in size among us and will beat us up to pulp otherwise.And such bureaucracy extends to hobby, interest, likes, dislikes…everything. Even when choosing a movie star to idolize, like all young girls like to do, 1st Sis gets to pick first. So with respect to the 4 famous Heavenly Kings, she chose Leon Lai and my 2nd Sis chose Andy Lau – I was pretty much stuck with Aaron Kwok or Jacky Cheung.Similarly with flavors…….Now can you understand why I never ate strawberry or chocolate Pocky? And trust me, I don’t even like vanilla all that much.Frou: My goodness! Now I know why I am so screwed up at 29. It was the bureaucratic environment I grew up in with you two!!2nd Sis: So sour. Get OVER it!(Ok fine, I chose Aaron Kwok. Floppy fringe was cool) Who helped who? I just screamed at someone on the phone.And now I am feeling slightly bad - not because the person I screamed at has probably ran to the nearest toilet to cry her little heart out, but because I think the whole office has heard me over these not-so-high cubicle walls and thinks that I am a bitch.Actually no, she wouldn't be crying. She works for the Consumer Helpline of a bank, and presumably received training on how to deal with customers like me hence our little "debacle" earlier should be everyday work for her. They are probably taught to create other outlets for releasing stress - like having pictures of their customers pinned up on a board and shooting darts at the ones they hate. If so, I probably have like 5 thumb tacks on my face by now.So she told me that the additional charge of $15 on my credit card statement is because I transferred money to a third party savings account and such transaction is considered a "cash advancement." I informed her that the transfer was in respect of payment for an official invoice and should therefore be considered a Bill Payment instead. Furthermore, I have already called up a colleague of hers from Consumer Helpline straight after the transaction to confirm whether any charges for the transfer will be levied and was given the assurance that there will be none."Sorry Miss. You shouldn't have called us. You should have called the third party bank instead."What the...? Which planet is she from??! Now can you understand why I was screaming?The short of the long matter is, as a result of my screaming and throwing around big words for the next ten minutes, I manage to convince her (and myself) that I am not responsible for the $15 they so erroneously imposed on me."Ok Miss, we can help waive the charge but you must make sure that the money is transferred from the third party account back to your credit card, ok?"Excuse me, did I hear right? Didn't I just explain to her that the transfer is in respect of an invoice for services already rendered? She is asking me to ask the receiving party, a reputable association as that, to execute a refund of the money for no other reasons than because my stoooooopid bank is trying to document a justification for a waival of $15 which is wrongfully charged to me in the first place!"Sorry Miss *quiver* If the money is not transferred back, we cannot waive the charge."So I told her an alternative I can think of (OUT OF MY OWN INFINITE FOUNTAIN OF WISDOM) is to mimic a so-called "transfer back" by debiting $15 out of my own pocket into my own credit card account and for the bank to deduct this amount from my next month's statement instead - is that well and acceptable to you, dweebs?'Yes, that would be fine, Miss."Helpline, my backside. As an austerity measure... Our office announcement this morning ended with this parting statement:“As an austerity measure, we won’t be serving lunch at the staff meeting as we usually do.”I looked up the word “austerity” in the dictionary and found:austerity(Noun) The trait of great self-denial (especially refraining from worldly pleasures)Hold on a minute. Did I wake up to a new planet this morning? A planet where eating lunch is considered a worldly pleasure?Or are they trying to say that indulging in a free meal, one that we presumably don’t deserve, is a worldly pleasure which we should refrain from hence by not feeding us, they are actually, well, saving our souls?Or are they just using big words to cover up the fact that they have decided to go CHEAP on us?You know what my idea of a real refrain from worldly pleasure is? It is the new decree that my climbing buddies passed two days ago.As an “austerity” measure, the following restrictions have been imposed on our post-climbing diet:No alcohol No deep fried food No sweetsNo more than 200g of carbohydrates per day And the purpose of such “austerity”? To attain abs of steel and a rock solid core.snigger (or “snicker”)(Noun) To laugh with audible catches of voice, as when persons attempt to suppress loud laughter A desperate migrant who cycles....as migrants so often do. Yesterday, I march into Boss’s room and ask for a day off because “I-need-to-go-to-immigration-to-apply-to-be-a-pr-of-this-wonderful-country-so-that-the-gahmen-will-let-me-buy-a-hdb-flat.”He thought about it. “Don’t they only let 35 yr old single people buy flats? You are what, 16 still, right? Or are you *gulp* thinking of traipsing down the aisle next week??”I assured him (in my best lawyerly tone) that I have no such intention in case he starts thinking I’m planning to get preggy next and go on 3 months maternity leaving him to do all the work himself. Convinced that I will commit no such heinous acts, he gave me the day off.So today, I woke up at 7 so that I could be at Immigration by 8, which is their opening time. Figuring I would be the first few, I took my time waltzing towards the building from the carpark … except I ended up having to waltz 270 degree around the building to get to the end of the queue to get INTO the building. That’s right, at frigging 7.55am, there are at least 200 people waiting in queue outside. How can I forget what my Bro told me the other day – that one of his friends went there at 6am and found 30 people ahead of him in the queue already.Desperate migrants, and I am one of them.Once I got my queue number inside, it wasn’t so bad. The aircon and computerized queue system are working (bless them!) and there were ample seats for us DMs (Desperate Migrants). This time I came fully prepared with a Tom Holt book, another chick lit book as backup, a blackberry with full bar battery, a working mobile phone and most importantly, a determination of steel to conquer this waiting game.Two hours later, my number flashed across the digital board. I scurried to my designated counter, all prepared to make my case heard. The case being that I am a desired candidate for this country.The Immigration lady looked a bit shocked when I greeted her with a beaming smile and hello, how are you (I figure I must be one of the first DMs to do so) I proceeded to submit all the requisite documents, in the correct number of photocopies, as stated in the “Explanatory Notes to Form 4A: Guidelines for PR Application" extracted from the Immigration’s website. When she asked to see the originals, I promptly produce them from a clear folder where everything is systematically filed. In fact, I saw her nod (every so slightly) in approval as she tore off the yellow post-it notes where I have marked each document’s name, date and number of copies.The point I am trying to prove is, I can wait in queue and I can follow guidelines. Isn’t that the real test here? Hehe!Immigration Lady said that they will notify me by post if I qualify. I manage to squeeze a smile from her frosty face when I expressed my sincere thanks for the short but pleasant 5 minutes session we had. This is a trick I learnt from Dailytoe – kill them with kindness.The time reads 10.15am and I have the rest of the day to myself – WOOT!What do I always want to do on a free (not a public holiday) weekday? Three things:1. Sit and stone in Starbucks2. Get some sun (with no screaming kids around)3. See some animals (real ones, not those in the office)So I went to Starbucks and had a croissant, which is my holiday food. Next I drove to East Coast Park and cycled from one end to the other, then back to the other end for 2 hours- without sunblock.So now at 3.45pm, I am sitting at home nursing a sun burnt back, blogging and talking to The German on MSN at the same time.Frou: I am too hot to go to the zoo now!The German: See, our office skin is useless in the midday sun. Why don’t you go anyway and try those nice new park things - you know bridges where you can sit down and have ice cream.Frou: Go to the zoo and sit on a bridge???!! The monkeys will laugh at me! I can’t even walk straight. I think my butt has split. How do cyclists do this? How did Lance Armstrong finish Tour De France in one piece?The German: Well, I guess he don't feel anything anymore. Everything dead around there.And I end this post with that depressing thought….. FY(U)I It is funny how I am expected to dispense sensible, accurate and sound advice at work but outside of the office, I am a vault of useless information.The other day, us three girls were lounging by the pool. The German was sharing with us from her favorite section of The Economist i.e. the obituary of famous people and their contribution to society. Dailytoe was feeding us tips on fashion dos and don’ts from a glossy mag. And me? I was telling them what Lindsay Lohan wore to the last MTV Music Award, who was spotted looking like a blimp in a bikini at the beach and why Kate/Tom is hiding Suri from the public - information courtesy of Hot! Magazine.(For your useless information, Suri was taken ill with a cold hence had to be kept house-bound.)Today during lunch, fresh out of the office after a whole morning of answering difficult questions on how to save our ship, I once again proffered absolutely useless (and subjectively, incorrect) information to Dailytoe when she ask me why the contestants from The Contender have to do a ritual dance prior to their Muay Thai matches.Frou: It is a prayer of safety to the God of Muay Thai. So that they won’t incur fatal injuries during the match.Toe: And the feathers they wore on the head are from….?Frou: Cocks.Toe: Because….?Frou: The God of Muay Thai likes to eat chicken.By the way, one of the contestant from The Contender “impregnated” a pseudo famous blogger from Singapore. Again, for your useless information. Frou grows old I found out, through a conversation with a friend last week, that I am not turning 30 this year.That's right. I actually thought that I will be changing the numeral in front of my age in a couple months time until my friend said, "I am the one turning 30 this year; aren't you younger than me?" I re-counted my age and damn it, she is right. I will still be in my twentys this year.*Frou dances around a tree*I told the Boy about my revelation. He said, "Really meh? I thought you are turning 30 this year too."Now what is that supposed to mean???? I feel old AND I look old to others? Or is it because I am hanging around too many OLD folks (you know who you are…) so much so that I am perceived as "old" by association?Age is such a funny thing. It matters so much to some, mean absolutely nothing to others and confuses those in between. I have paranoid girlfriends who are so concern about turning 30 that they look for significant milestones to mark their "coming to old age" - mostly by getting married. On the other end of the spectrum, I have happily single girlfriends living it up past 40s as rich, successful, well-traveled, sophisticated women who are wildly desired by (younger) men. I also have friends who are not quite sure what to do about being in their 30s (the same folks mentioned in Line 8 above) so they pretend they are still in their 20s.As frightening as it may be, I suspect I will fall squarely into the third category when I get there. I may acquire an ailing body, fucked up metabolism, mortgages, housing loans, higher insurance coverage and (as Dailytoe would add) a desperate need for collagen, but surely my Peter Pan "age will never catch up with me" mentality will pull me through, no?Age is just a number.You are as old as you feel.Age is an issue of mind over matter. If you don't mind, it doesn't matter.Age is not of concern unless you are cheese. Or fortified wine.You don't stop dancing from growing old, you grow old from stopping to dance.The best tunes are played on the oldest fiddle.What other clichés?? Sex in every city Last weekend, I received a call from a rather distressed friend from Hong Kong.She rang me to discuss an invite she received from the head honcho of a girly group to go watch Sex & the City ("SATC)" Movie. Maybe I should mention that this particular girly group is a bunch of “atas” female professionals who are into yachts parties and Ferragamo bags. They would adorn themselves in branded apparel and mingle with gwai-lo expats over champagne on big useless boats that go nowhere on weekends.The invite specify that each girl must get into "character" so they have to draw lots to decide which of the four SATC characters they must go dress as. After the movie, the pack will all head down to SoHo for "cosmopolitan cocktails" and "to meet hunks." Presumably à la' Sex & the Hong Kong City style.I was rolling on the floor laughing for ages! This is just too hilarious! I insist that my poor distressed friend attend this party only so that she can tell me all about it afterwards. I secretly pray that she has to dress up as Samantha.Just yesterday, another friend of mine in Singapore told me that one of her girlfriends booked an entire cinema to hold an exclusive movie screening of SATC for 30 girls who all went *ahem* dressed up as SATC characters as well! To top it off, they all similarly went for cosmopolitans at some fancy bar afterwards. That's right, à la' Sex & the Singapore City style!I am stoked!!!What is going on? Is this normal? Did I do it wrong? Because my own own SATC movie experience had been rather unglamourous. I went with The German and Dailytoe in our ugly office clothes and was drunk on $6 happy hour vodka before the movie even started. Dailytoe bursts into tears throughout the show (scenes where people get left at the altar or had to spend new year eve alone makes her cry!) and the German & I have to console her while stiffling our giggles (we are heartless bitches!) The movie is 5 times longer than a regular episode and towards the end, I was gagging for my bed instead of a cosmopolitan. It’s “No Sex in The City" for us. Sigh.Coincidentally, Carrie mentioned in one of the ending scenes that she and the girls have stopped drinking cosmopolitans because everyone else picked it up since they started. So there you go… Small men are exempted I read that the Malaysia Government is proposing a ban on foreign-registered cars from buying subsidized petrol within 50km from the borders of northern Malaysian states starting today.This means Singapore cars are no longer allowed to buy cheap petrol from across the Causeway in Johor Bahru, unless they go further away from the border to Desaru and beyond.After this proposed ban was first published, there was a flurry of updates containing a series of twists and turns to the proposal. The latest I heard today is that the ban will be postponed for a week – which probably means there will be MASSIVE jams to JB up to June 9th by kiasu Singaporeans trying to stock up as much as they can. There are also plans to extend this prohibition nationwide. Meaning a foreign registered car will not be able to buy subsidized petrol ANYWHERE in Malaysia, not just the borders.Ah, but check this out. The Today newspaper reported today that it was announced that foreign registered motorcycles are specifically exempted from this ban.Why?According to the Domestic Trade & Consumer Affairs Minister, “It is because we are in favour of the “small man”. And this includes the small man in our neighboring countries as well.”We are indeed a gracious nation! Malaysia Boleh!