Things that make me go mmm....
Lately I've been questioning what makes Spidey and I click. Theoretically, there are a lot of reasons why we shouldn't.
He's a Scorpio and I'm a Sagittarius. According to the laws of astronomy, this partnership is about as compatible as cauliflower on toast.
We don't know which date we officially started "going out". It's somewhere between the 27th April to 15th May 2005. And yes, it matters.
We have completely different taste in music. I once saw a Casey Chambers CD in his collection and had to convince myself it was left there by an ex-girlfriend who clearly had spent too much time out in the sun on the Nullabor Plain.
We don't have a song. This irks me.
He doesn't like going to the movies. This means I spend a lot of time watching new releases on DVD by myself.
He doesn't read. Unless you count Motor, Vintage Cars, and the Trading Post literary works of art.
He would rather undergo a kidney transplant without the general anestetic than spend a night out at the theatre, a musical or a concert.
He's not Chinese. He'll never understand my mother tongue, he'll never get used to tofu, and he'll always balk at how tightarse we can be.
But we fit. Somehow we fit.
His idea of a good Friday night in is a fridge stocked with Coopers Green, a roomful of his mates, a random cricket/rugby/motorsport show on the box and a delivery order with the local pizza shop. My idea is a night out on the town with my peeps, dinner at a random Japanese restaurant, engaging in wicked banter followed by a taxi ride back to his. And we're always so ecstatic to see each other.
We know we met on 17 April 2005. We've agreed this was an extraordinary day. I knew, he knew, from the very moment we saw each other and without yet having spoken a word, we would be seeing each other again.
We love to cook. Our best conversations often occur in the kitchen. He looks damn sexy with a pair of tongs in his hands.
We love the outdoors, the travelling, the sun, the markets, the lazy Sunday afternoon picnics sprawled on a blanket.
He makes me laugh till my sides split. This is actually an accomplished feat when you consider my standards of comical genius.
He's mood barometer never falls below neutral. Mine is volatile and flamboyant. But he puts up with it, or at least ignores it, even when my shit has hit the fan and he's innocently at the receiving end. Other times he'll even ask me to "pull my head in".
His random gifts are always so thoughtful. A pilates mat. A guitar tuner. Gingerbread men from Jones the Grocer.
We trust each other. He could be surrounded by, and chatting to a harem of barenaked ladies and I wouldn't bat an eyelid. In my younger insufferable days I would have bitch-slapped the ho and then slaughtered the sausage.
He's an 'ideas' man and he's earned every bit of his success. I like the fact that I can look up to him.
We converse in "relationship" language riddled with private jokes, codes and colourful accents. His seeth africaan is my favourite.
In Yoda-speak - connect, we do. Fun, we have. Boring, it is not.
But ask me again in 6 months. Things could change. But for the moment, I'm pretty happy.
Eddie McExclusives
I know I said I wouldn't go there. You know, the love stuff and all that dry retching baloney. But before ya'll jump all over me like LAPD on Rodney King, I just want to point out that sometimes you just need to throw a red herring out there, just to make life that little bit more interesting. The fact is, I can be a sentimental sonofabiatch at times.
Anyways.
It goes without saying that last night's interview with Terri Irwin brought on a severe case of waterworks for me. I had to employ a meticulous dabbing technique with the tissues in order to prevent the inevitable onset of puffiness around the eyes. Naturally, it did not work. To my dismay, I'm no Mona Lisa this morning.
Nevertheless.
How bloody beautiful is Terri Irwin.
She has such an incredible soul and I really felt for her and the little guppies. The whole time I was thinking about how I would cope if, God forbid, something happened to Spidey, or anyone else that I truly loved and cared about. Could I survive? Terri said she didn't have a choice. She had to, and she would, but it would take one day at a time. She would continue to keep Steve's dreams alive and she was grateful for the last decade she had with him. She still felt his presence around her and felt most peaceful in the evenings, where he spent cooking for the family. There was absolute conviction in her love and passion for Steve and their story rekindled my faith in soulmates. I have yet to firsthand witness a love and bond still so strong and resilient after 14 years of marriage but what's even more amazing is that this seemed to only multiply when Bindi and "Bob Bob" came along. Am I just being cynical? Isn't this what love and committment is really all about? Fraid not. I've seen too many couples and marriages fall apart because the connection was no longer there. A communication breakdown. An affair. Words like 'separation', 'divorce', 'custody' too often spoken.
So as drippy as this might sound, the Irwins make me want to cherish and appreciate what I have with Spidey. They make me want to tell my parents and my sister "I love you" more often. And I will - I'll do it starting today.
Wassup
Ya'll know I'm going to be to glued to the TV set tonight.
8.30pm.
Channel 9.
Don't blow it Ray Ray.
I learnt a new word today - "ballyhoo"
"Spinksgate" was fun. But now that the hoo hah has died down and I am back to my normal two person fan base, I can say that I'm feeling rather uninspired.
On that note, my dad has returned to KL and I have returned to the humdrum of city life.
In other news:
1. I have no more books to read. This is an SOS call. To you. Lau x 2.
2. Over the past week I have received two complaints about regarding my manner of driving. Apparently, I am incapable of slow and smooth acceleration and sitting in my car is akin to watching an Imax film, without the goggles.
3. Today is my one year anniversary at work. I love my boss. He congratulated me, and he sincerely meant it.
4. Eva is getting a schnauzer cut this morning at the salubrious "Secret Dog's Business". The gay furdresser is a nuisance to deal and can make a hullabaloo out of the tiniest fur ball not being combed out enough but he's been touted the best in the area so that leaves us at his mercy. Photos DEFINITELY to come.
5. This post is getting so ridiculously boring I'm going to have to stop.
LATERS!!!!
To borrow an expression from Rove.....WHAT THE!!?
I was always taught to treat 'em mean, keep 'em keen, but crikey, this has gone beyond the sphere of normality for me.Dear Bradley,
I'm taken aback by your bold and public displays of affection but feel the burning need to address by way of bullet point, some areas of concern arising out of your most recent correspondence:
- You and I do not know each other. The chances of us ever meeting are about as remote as me winning the next Fields Medal for excellence in algebraic combinatorics and analytical number theory. Therefore, I suggest you dismiss any wistful delusions of a fairytale ending as I have already found my Prince Charming. I will however again encourage you to divert your attention to Lau Lau, or even perhaps Teeko the dingo. Trust me, he is lovely and will not maim you.
- Um, as for all the Irwin-related posts. I. WAS. BEING. SARCASTIC. This is an art form. Quickly enrol in a class.
- I do not know anyone famous. I never have and I never will. This is just one of those unfortunate things in my life, like never having won a door prize from a raffle ticket draw, or scratching enough arrows to win $250,000 on the Lord of The Rings scratchie. On that note, it is safe to assume that because you and I will never meet, you will never win more than a dollar in your life.
- Although I appreciate your offer, I don't think I could handle seeing your photo (even though Spidey has kindly requested same). This could cause me to have severe heart palpitations and result in me effectively selling my house, quitting my job and having your babies. THIS. IS. A. JOKE.
Once again I thank you for your patronage to I'm Not Korean.
yours sui'tly,
Lokes
To Bradley Spinks
Greetings Blogging Universe.As it turns out, I apparently have more than one fan afterall.Hi Bradley,
I'm really new to the whole blogging bandwagon so forgive me if, at certain moments in my response, I sound a little curt. It's not deliberate, it's just in my DNA.
Firstly, if this is some lame ass prank, I will personally hunt you down and burn your eyelids off with a laser beam powerful enough to destroy whole countries.
If this is not and you are able to produce a valid passport bearing your full name, nationality, residence and birth date, then I say this: I'm flattered but why not try RSVP.com?
Secondly, it is clear my literary brilliance has been wasted on a random stranger, albeit one with exceptional taste!!! Nevertheless, I have no choice but to lambast you Spinkster. Has it not occurred to you (from my blog) that:
1. Lau Lau and I are NOT lovers. One inter-racial relationship is enough for me, let alone one same sex inter-racial relationship. Though I might add that she is single, smart and sexy and perhaps you could focus your courting energies on her?
2. Spidey is my other half, my boo, my homeboy, the father of my unborn children.
3. I'm not related to the Irwins. Unless Steve's ancestral line was headed by the Ming dynasty. Though it begs the 64 million dollar question, where on earth did you get the idea that I was?
It's raw fish, not brain surgery
Today Spidey said that I seem to be a very angry person. Am I really? I actually think I'm just a normal human being with standard levels of tolerance and forbearance, but with absolutely no tact whatsoever. Anyway. Where is all this going? I'll let Lau Lau, celebrity guest blogger elucidate:
"The David Jones Food Hall is usually a treasure. They have mouth watering chocolate covered strawberries and aisles of 'snacky cakes' as far as the eye can see. They also have sushi. Rather good sushi. This was my and Sui's destination for lunch.
It began innocently enough. We were served by a (in hindsight probably Korean) girl who took our order for 2 spider rolls with soft shell crab and avocado, and then informed us it would be a 20 minute wait. No problem.
We bought a strawberry each and drooled over caviar and olives. We priced foreign tea and searched for sugar free chocolate (don't ask). We airily discussed the benefits of deli shopping in Europe, as opposed to Coles, flaunting our style. We returned just within 20 minutes and claimed our seats.
Insert caramel suited uber bitch who moved her bag from the empty seat beside her in the world weary manner of a worn out hooker. Insert three 'buy a suit from cue and cinch it at the waist with a belt from sportsgirl' power lunchers, discussing topics ranging form how skinny they imagine they will be after giving birth, to why they weren't allowed in the gym the night before. And so we waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Eventually Sui, her Kyoto nose severely out of joint, went to complain while I sat meekly out of ear shot contenting myself with some venomous tut tutting. The solution? Sorry madam but we are making them now. So she returns. And we wait.
And wait some more.
All up, 50 minutes lapsed between when the order was placed and when we were served. Let me remind you we were in a FOOD HALL not Jamie's latest rescue mission cum 5 star restaurant. Eventually our sushi arrived. 4 tiny pieces with ginger, wasabi and splashes of soy.
It was divine.
It was not however, enough to calm the raging storms of injustice and fury welling in our hearts. 'Thankyou for the wait' said our waitress. You should be thanking us for not punching you in the face we muttered as we descended upon our lunch like ravenous wolves."
Something beginning with D and ending in RHEA
In chronological order, I present to you my life for the past 4 days:
1. Saturday morning. My dad arrived from KL bearing durian cakes, traditional biscuits, Darlie toothpaste, a thick Malaysian accent and an extra 10kgs around his waist. I immediately told him he needed to lost weight because its unhealthy but also because it makes him look older and I cannot bear the thought of my dad ageing even though it is a natural fact of life.
While dad spent some time with his brother on Saturday, I spent some time with twenty kids at Waratah Park. I was on GF duties at Spidey's niece and nephew's joint birthday bonanza and I was in fact looking forward to this. Not the part about the kids, but because Waratah Park, in case you did not know, was the location where they filmed the iconic (read: naff) television series of Skippy. Incidentally, its website also boasts that it remains today as a home and sanctuary for many of the areas native inhabitants, ergo, I was expecting to see a whole lotta wildlife out there but in truth there's a whole lotta nuttin. Unless you count a bunch of wallabies and a lone koala "wildlife". Suffice to say, it did not the slightest bit phase me. I was in my element. I patted a wallaby and cooked snags. Bindi would've been proud.
Then.
Warren.
Only Lionel Shriver fans can relate. If you thought "Kevin" was the embodiment of Beelzebub, I present to you Wazza, a 10 year old mini Bee.
I know I'm missing a maternal chromosome or something, but I promise you I'm not embellishing. This kid enraged me so much Spidey was a phone call away from calling the cops. On me. Meanwhile, I was a phone call away from calling backup. This kid needed to be hauled over the coals and I was right and ready to deliver a smackdown. What's the fuss you ask? Let me tell you what's the fuss! This kid made fun of a kangaroo's BALLS. According to Wazza, it's balls were so whopping big that the only way he was capable of illustrating this to the rest of the party was to gather 6 other boys, make them join hands and form a circle, then shout at the top of his big fat trap that this was how big its balls were!!
Mind you, this is only one example. I know he's "just a kid" but seriously, by the end of it I didn't know who to murder - him or his parents, or both.
Also, I was at a birthday party with kids who's FIRST names were Madison, Saxon, Cale and Mackenzie. Am I missing something here? Although I better stamp a disclaimer here and say that Mad and Sax are Spidey's neice and nephew and they are gorgeous.
3. Sunday. I woke up with the most excruciating pain around my abdomen. I had it for one whole day and was in total agony but still managed to spend the day with dad visiting relos and going to the beach with my beloved mut.
4. Monday. Took the day off sick as pain in abdomen turned into 'rhea and riding the crimson wave. Yeah, you can't find a better combo at Hungry Jacks I assure you.
5. Tuesday. Work. Still riding the waves, less rough though. Forecast for the next 4 days looking good.
There are some people who are and there are some people who aren't....
I don't have an ambitious go-getter sort of personality and I'll readily admit that in a nanosecond.
Here's an unintelligent analogy for you folks out there: I'm happy not being at the top of the tree, just as long as I'm not the monkey on the ground picking up the shit.
BUT.
WHAT.
ANNOYS.
ME.
IS
THIS.
People who outrightly and unashamedly pilfer work from others in order to make themselves look important and busy. This is my grievance.
Case in point: Next to me sits a gentleman in his mid 50s. For privacy reasons I cannot disclose his name however if you possess a TAFE Certificate IV in Pig Latin you are at liberty to solve it for yourself. Arry-Hay Arris-Hay. That is his name I kid you not.
Anyway. Subject offender's roman empire ancestry may explain his overbearing and despotic attitude towards colleagues but his trojan horse antics don't fool me. Obviously I cannot go into detail about this but it's become so annoying lately that I think he can actually sense my total dislike of him. So much so that he's now not talking to me. How else can I tell? Well, the 'lolly jar' containing Skittles that used to sit on top of the filing cabinet between his space and mine is no longer there. It was supposed to be a special treat to share in the afternoon when three-thirtyitis hit us. Mind you, he was the one who brought it to work but now it sits in his drawer locked up and occasionally I will hear him take it out and very slowly and carefully remove a skittle at a time so that I won't hear or know what he's doing!!
BOLLOCKS!!!!!
Do not blame this for the infant mortality rate...
Since I've been known for my altruistic ways, I have allowed this one rant from Lau Lau, dingo lover extraordinaire....
"Here is teeko aka adopted son doing his best snoopy impersonation and then stealing what's left of your heart with a wide eyed 'who me - the possum was already drawn and quartered' expression."
Kanine Weekly
This is what I wake up to every morning.....
Domestics
I took a page out of Martha Stewart's book yesterday and did a spot of ironing. Ironing is actually quite therapeutic, although it is safe to say that I am terrible at it.
I start to have an open, good natured discussion about marriage with my boyfriend - whom from now on shall be referred to as Spidey. The reason for this pseudonym is because during the first few weeks of dating, he sent me a boxful of treats at work containing perfume, a tin of lollies and a sweet handwritten note.
And a big black plastic spider that had all the hallmarks of being purchased from the bargain bin of a two dollar shop.
The spider, as he later informed me, was supposed to make me jolt and send me halfway across the room in fright. Instead it made me think he was a 6 year old living in a 34 year old body. Still, the sentiment was there and since then he has spun a web of beautiful memories in my corner of the world.
EWWWW!!! SPEW!!!!!! THOU SHALT NOT SPEAKETH ABOUT LOVE!!!!
So.......we are having this discussion about marriage, like two seasoned examiners of the topic, when I open my mouth and the words "Don't you want to marry me?" come out. He looks at me as if I've just said "Don't you want to die of arsenic poisoning?". This makes me think I have to do something quick like shout "HAHA FOOLED YOU" and then have the crew of Candid Camera launch out from under the ironing board.
The rest of the conversation didn't actually turn out so bad. It will not be repeated here because I don't want to foil our surprise plans to get hitched in the Bahamas next week. Cash gifts only please.
What's in a name?
Aside from dropping the kids off at the pool, one of the first things I do upon arriving at work is to have a gander at online SMH.
Keeping with the theme of the past week, I immediately clicked onto an article about the Croc Hunter.
At this point some would argue that I am just a pathetic loser, but to hell with that because my whole fascination with Steve can now be totally justified.
It turns out that back in 1991, Steve owned a Staffordshire bull terrier cross called
Sui.
What the, I hear you say?
Crikey it's farking true!!!!
Here are some other facts that might astonish you:
1. Irwin's first child was Bindi
Sui.
2. He named her after his favourite crocs Bindi and
Sui.
3. His son Bob was born
1 December 2003.
HELLO!!!!!!
Okay...so Irwin's
"Sui" was probably pronounced the way Aussies would order mongolian lamb and chop soooooeeeey, but somehow I'm connected. For crying out loud, there are no other Sui's in this world but me and little ol' Bindi. Maybe I'll end up running the Zoo with her one day and young Bob and I will celebrate our birthdays together in Bindi and Sui's croc enclosure.
Crikey, I'm devastated.
For the last six days, my life has been occupied by Steve Irwin's death.
For the past two days, it has been occupied by his life.
The Animal Planet channel on Fox has been featuring a 24 hour weekend marathon of all of Steve's documentaries. And bloody oath I've been glued to it.
I can't explain why I've been so affected by his death, only to say that I found myself instinctively doing all of the following, in no particular order:
- Refreshing the SMH website every 2 hours for reports or updates on the incident;
- Tuning into all the corny media tributes and then spending the whole time crying as if Rob Thomas had just announced he was gay;
- Making it loud and clear that anyone who utters a bad word against him would be slain like a pig on market day;
- Crying whilst watching a re-run of his interview with Denton;
- Crying whilst watching a re-run of his appearances on The Footy Show;
- Crying whilst watching a re-run of his appearances on Jay Leno.
As you can see, there's a pattern here. I watch way too much bad TV.
Anyway, I don't care what anyone says. I was there when the Croc Hunter debut his docos and it was love at first sight....with the reptilians. But I was passionate about Steve too.
The real deal, the genuine article. If only I had that much passion for life, or even knew anyone remotely like him.
I don't care if....
your heart is made of steel.
Tell me you don't want to just eat this up.
While my boyfriend is watching the 43rd minute....
of the Knights and Sea Eagles game, I thought I'd dabble in a bit of blogging.
Now it's the 48th minute and I've just realised it's taken me five whole minutes to write one sentence.
I could say that it's because I'm so thoroughly engrossed in the game and that I can't take my eyes off Joey John's buns, but the reality is I'd rather choke on my own putrid vomit. I'm also perplexed by my boyfriend's interest in the game, only because it was he who declared I would damage my reputation if I continued to announce my predilection to the Tigers. .....approximately one year ago.....Me: "I like the Tigers because Balmain is kinda near Marsfield...." (Actually Parramatta is probably closer but the moment I think of this suburb I think of its partiality to crack addicts and a string of bad pizza joints.)BF: "But they're now the Wests Tigers biatch, get with da program." (Ok, so he doesn't really talk like that but I thought I'd give him a rougher P-Diddy like edge. Me: "You got me. It's coz of Scott Prince. And his buns." (It's fair to say at this point that buns are my "thang". Like how alcohol is to Robert Downey Jnr and crime is to Chopper Reed.)So the conversation goes on about how league players are thugs and how the real rugby is the one where you have 345 rules and the players actually have real jobs. He tells me with so much gusto that I can actually see the veins on his temples flare up. He despises league like a tumour on your tongue. I tune out of course as buns are on my mind. But this time I'm thinking about whether to have it with the all beef pattie or the fillet-o-fish with extra mayo.
