c*devotchka

having my Cake, eating it – and not counting every last calorie

how shall i punish thee, lemme count the ways March 31, 2007

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Singaporeans gathered to hold a Singapore Bazaar in aid of Manzil (Centre for Challenged Individuals) yesterday and the Consul-General was generous enough to offer his villa as the venue for people to get together, chat, shop, eat – and all for a good cause.

i was looking forward to pigging out on laksa and Hainanese chicken rice. it’s so much easier to spend AED10 instead of spending 2 hours slaving over the stove.

“Ravi, wake up, we gotta go to the Singapore Bazaar.”

“uuumph… (unintelligible string of animal-like grunts and sighs)”

sayaaaaaaang, they’re selling nasi ayam and satay. wake up, ah.”

“uuumph… (unintelligible string of animal-like grunts and sighs)”

sayaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaang?”

“i am sick,” then he pretend-sniffed. once.

i felt his forehead, then chided, “don’t bluuuuff, you’re not sick.”

“(whines) i am sick,” and pretend-sniffed again. once.

“eh, i used to ponteng sekolah (skip school), okay, so donch bruff. wake up.”

“i am siiiiiiiick,” he protested and adopted a sick puppy look.

avoiding a situation where i might be reported to the Global Tribunal to Monitor Cruel Wives, i then laid beside him, plotting my revenge.

1. secretly purchase many, many, many expensive things on his credit card.

the delectable akiko glassware by kenzo.

Akiko Glassware by Kenzo

that sexy KitchenAid standmixer i’ve wanted forever.

KitchenAid Artisan Standmixer - Empire Red

buy all the books on my list, and then ship a 20′ container more of books to last me a lifetime.

and a DSLR to replace my Canon A80 (R.I.P., little shiny one). or two.

2. secretly adopt a cat from Feline Friends. aren’t they darlings?

3. throw away those ugly sweaters he bought when i wasn’t around.

4. force him into the kitchen with me next week when i cook Hainanese chicken rice – he hates wielding a ladle.

true to form, my husband, the Method Actor, sniffed one last time when he finally roused from sleep. however, being a novice to the art, he forgot to sniff the rest of the evening and proceeded to snack on fried peanuts. very smooth.

today, i’ve realised how unprepared we are for unexpected events/catastrophes when suddenly, we didn’t have running water. i’ve been procrastinating with regards to getting an emergency backpack ready, something we can grab and run with should a cataclysmic earthquake or raging fire hit. one with important docs, water, dry crackers, torchlight, matches, first aid kit, windbreakers, stuff like that.

the water issue was resolved quickly (a blockage, apparently). tomorrow, i’ll get an emergency backpack ready.

 

Mini Bolognese Meatloaves March 28, 2007

Filed under: Uncategorized — c*devotchka @ 8:58 pm
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Mini Bolognese Meatloaves 1

(i really need to replace my dead Canon A80 soon, the Nokia N73 just ain’t cutting it)

ingredients

  • 2 tbsps canola oil
  • 1 1/4 cups finely chopped onion
  • 4 garlic cloves, minced
  • 1/2 cup finely chopped carrots
  • 1/4 cup chopped fresh mushrooms
  • 1 tsp dried oregano
  • 1 kg minced beef
  • 1 1/2 cups finely crushed Carr’s Table Water Crackers
  • 2 tsps Worcestershire sauce
  • 1/2 cup tomato puree/sauce
  • 3 tsps tomato paste
  • 1/2 tsp ground black pepper
  • 1 1/2 tsp salt
  • 1 tsp sugar
  • 2 large eggs
  • 12 tsps ketchup

tools: regular 12-muffins tin, cooking spray

method:

  1. heat oil in pan, add onions + garlic. add carrots + mushrooms and sauté. stir in oregano. set aside, cool.
  2. preheat oven to 180°C.
  3. in a large bowl, mix onion mixture, crackers, Worcestershire, tomato puree, tomato paste, black pepper, salt, sugar and minced beef. add eggs and mix well.
  4. drop mixture into muffin tin, glaze the top with ketchup.
  5. bake for 30 mins, remove and leave meatloaves in the tin for 5 minutes before serving.

adapted from here.

mini bolognese meatloaves + baked potato wedges + peas, and a good slice of pandan chiffon cake to wash it all down with. this is what i call A Good Day.

Mini Bolognese Meatloaves dinner

 

how Brahmin psychos track you down March 26, 2007

Filed under: Uncategorized — c*devotchka @ 9:24 pm
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5 years ago, my friend Alyx and i decided to go on a short trip to India. she left the entire planning process to me (why she had left her life in the hands of a 20 year old girl she’d known for only half a year, i still do not know – we are still friends today).

we decided to head to the state of Rajasthan and visited magical places like Jaisalmer, Udaipur and Agra, where the Taj is. Jaipur, or the Pink City as it’s known, was a disappointment and where many local uncouth men had a field day feeling me up (and sparing Alyx, the lucky Chinese bitch) and i felt that Jodhpur, the Blue City was a tad overrated.

when i own a scanner one day, i’ll post the pics up. it’s one of my favourite holidays ever. i’d visit Jaisalmer and Udaipur again, for sure. after i’ve visited all 4,637 places on my Places to See Before I Die list.

it was exhausting, we spent 1 – 3 days in any particular city and spent nights alternating between either a boutique hotel (palace/fort converted into family run hotel) or the cold bunker of a train to our next stop.

i discovered i absolutely abhorred many parts of New Delhi.

i adored some of the locals we came across, especially the ones we met on train rides and those who had no financial agenda. the first was an Indian businessman who spoke impeccable English. we chatted, drank chai and i even felt a little sad when he had to alight at his stop while we had many hours to Jaisalmer still ahead of us. we made friends with the train worker who successfully kept the train clean and tended to the (used and possibly re-used) blankets. he spoke no English and we spoke no Hindi except for the quintessential “meh tumseh pyar karti hun” (i love you) which is as useful as knowing how to say “i like purple” when you need to find a toilet.

on the train ride to Jaisalmer, we slept on foldaway train bunks, there were 6 blue bunks to every section. it was on this night that i noticed the guy sleeping opposite me got reception on his mobile while i was getting so frustrated with mine that i wanted to throw it down on the floor and stomp on it before pissing on it. i asked which network he was using and that was how it started.

instead of getting much needed sleep, we ended up chatting the entire night while the other four people in our section were happily snoozing away, including Alyx. oh for the f*ck of it, let’s just give him a totally random name, saaaay Peter. of course we all know no self-respecting Brahmin Hindu would ever call himself (or his penis) Peter but i don’t care because Peter turned out to be a psycho.

Peter was infinitely charming, unabashedly humorous and not entirely ugly. he was definitely above average, especially since all of India and a little chug-chug-chugging Jaisalmer-bound train was in total darkness at 0200am and yours truly had removed her contact lenses.

my problem was/is, i make friends. or acquaintances, whichever sticks.

Alyx also complained that my friendly demeanour was a come-hither magnet to all would-be rapists. on the other hand, her abrasive ways were an invitation to all murderers of India. as such, we kept the pair of us in balance, so potential rapists and murderers would get confused and we’d return to Singapore alive.

Peter asked where we were heading to and i said, “oh, Jaisalmer, Jodhpur, Udaipur … “, and he got excited and suggested to bring Alyx and i out for dinner when we arrived in Jodhpur. coincidentally, his army barracks was located beside our hotel in Jodhpur.

that night, Alyx was pooped and didn’t wanna go out for dinner – she also didn’t like Peter very much. generally Alyx was/is cautious of all Indian men – and in this way, she’s less naive and open than i.

Peter picked me up on a scooter that was low on gas.

minus 1.

why would you bring the scooter instead of the jeep like you said you would? must be nice to feel my boobs on yer back, buster.

why the hell would you pick up a girl on a scooter low on gas? i forced him to fill the tank up at the petrol station down the road from the hotel because i did not want to be stuck in the middle of nowhere with a guy i barely knew all alone.

minus 2.

then he suggested a restaurant 10 minutes away. i protested and made him bring me to a restaurant that was within eyeshot of the hotel. i’d like to be able to run back screaming if he dropped his pants.

i was exhausted, so i didn’t eat. he insisted i order a whisky or some other alcoholic beverage. do i look like a blistering idiot? i ordered chai and watched him eat palak paneer, curry and god knows what.

the conversation was bizarre, if not a strong indication of what was to follow.

at first it was platonic, we broached general subjects and made jokes.

then it was clear he had other intentions.

he started talking about his family’s astrologer, that his astrologer foresaw that he’d marry a non-Indian. i quickly added that strong Indian blood flowed through my veins, “haven’t you seen my nose?” he was quick to suggest that the astrologer meant citizenship.

right, like the stars in the sky are specific about nationalities and blood-types.

when he asked about my basic belief in God, it became clear he was scoping me out as a potential wife and i was horrified. he’d ordered very strict vegetarian dishes and i assumed he was a Brahmin, a caste of a higher order. i’d dated a Brahmin Nepalese guy 2 years before and knew just how to turn him off, “i’m Muslim, oh by the way, my mom cooks fantastically, i love her beef curry.”

to publicly announce my love for beef, i might as well have spat in his face.

and boy did i think i was such a clever little girl. because now, since he could no longer marry me, he decided he could score instead! no commitment! just one night! perhaps! a night to remember forever! we could make love in the field next to the cow he so reveres and i so love to eat!

i remained polite the entire night while dropping hints as heavy as a medicine ball dropping on your fractured foot. apparently his head was as dense as a medicine ball.

he started coming on so strongly (despite telling him of how much i adored my then petit-ami, now hubby Ravi), i wanted to run back to the hotel, flailing my arms wildly in the air. i also sensed an edge about him that worried me, i knew i couldn’t be rude.

back at the hotel, we continued chatting way past the hotel’s curfew of 2300pm. apparently many hotels closed their gates at 2300pm after a tourist was murdered by a psychopathic local.

huuuuuuuuum.

he spoke with the hotel manager and won himself extra time with me. lucky bastard! i was just suicidal at this point. (next morning, i found out how he won these extra hours – by promising 500Rs to the hotel manager.)

he suggested dark corners to sit in, i suggested the open lobby, the stairs, and the brightly lit garden. he sat too close and insisted we chatted more although i was explaining how exhausted i was, that i had a 0715 train to catch.

on the stairs, my pants got caught on the rough cement and tore right below my ass. he must have been praying real hard to his voodoo astrologer.

“you tore your pants? oooh? let me see.”

huuuuuum, right. by now, i was planning all kinds of escape routes including Streetfighter inspired cartwheels through the air and into my room.

if we were staying at the Marriott, i could have easily asked the hotel manager to escort Peter out but we were at a small, family-run boutique hotel where the doors and windows were as secure as a hamster cage.

we moved to the garden where it was a lot brighter and the stairs to my room was in plain sight. while he chatted happily for another painful hour, i was looking up at my room window wishing i could teleport myself into the bed where Alyx was drooling to dreams of hunky Chinese surferboys. and finally, i got my break. he had to go to the toilet or something and i told him explicitly i had to go too cos it was so late.

i ran up to the room so fast, i might have teleported myself up. 5 minutes later, he called my room, angry that i had left.

chill out, mister, have a chicken wing.

he burst into such a ballistic rage, i knew i was right in being polite the entire night. i explained, “i told ya i had to go, i’m so exhausted and my train’s leaving in 4 hours and i have a long day ahead of me. thanks for chai, goodnight and ride back safely.”

the next morning, when i first found out about the 500Rs deal, i also found out that he was so mad, he didn’t pay the hotel manager the promised bribe and told him that i would be making that payment. nice going, Casanova. i didn’t pay, i gave the hotel manager Peter’s number and told him to get that money from him.

how could i be so right about other people we met on that trip, and so wrong about this guy?

that experience absolutely freaked me out, and i know that if something was different in any way at all that night or if the stars weren’t watching out for me, that i wouldn’t have made it safely back to the comfort of Alyx and our humble room.

over the next few years, i’d tell this story to friends whenever we exchanged stories about psychos and freaks. coincidentally, i’d just retold this story to two of my friends a month ago, telling them about “this cuckoo guy” to which Iram replied “he was cuckoo, because he wanted to fuck-oo”. yeah, it’s funny now, but it wasn’t funny then when you could hear a pin drop that night in Jodhpur.

imagine my surprise then when last week, i received an email from a complete stranger looking for me – if you could see the number of random email addresses he’d sent that email to with all kinds of combinations to my name, you’d know he was really determined. i’d completely forgotten his name, his face, everything but the story.

it was him, after five entire years, and he was quick to add me to his MSN Messenger. i deliberated blocking him, but i thought, “let’s see what he’s got to say.”

Ravi thinks my faith in 2nd chances will prove fatal one day.

but who knows, he might be dying and wanted to say sorry – i wouldn’t have cared for it either anyhoo, because if he really was dying and wanted to apologise, he’d be doing it to feel good about himself which fits perfectly with the kind of person i understood him to be by the end of that night in Jodhpur.

when he dropped me the first IM, i communicated to my gf that i’d give him 72 hours to exhibit signs of a freak, then i’ll block him. 15 minutes later, i reduced that 2nd chance to 48 hours. 15 minutes later, after seeing pics of his wife and daughter and how he was reminiscing romantically about me without acknowledging how psychotic he was, i reduced that 2nd chance to 24 hours. he apologised for that night, that he “should have behaved better”, but that i “should have said so directly” that i was not interested.

how do you tell a psychotic asshole in denial he’s an asshole? he’d never believe it. and my, was he quick to forget how mad he was when i left. and how about my adoring accolades of Ravi while he was stuffing his face with palak paneer?

after glorifying the way i look and how i have not changed a bit, he went on to say Ravi looks older.

okay, yes, my husband is older, 12 years older, but he doesn’t look his age by a large chunk. and he’s such a daaaaaarling.

and then he dared to compare his sorry ass to the love of my life, “you could have had me if you didn’t leave. i think i am better than him.”

happily, i blocked him.

if he does not understand today that i do not want him now, how could he have understood that i didn’t want him, his nose booger or his Peter back then either? “should have said so directly”, my juicy ass.

i haven’t lost faith in 2nd chances. as long as MSN keeps the “Block Contact” option.

think i’ll give our future daughters absolutely common names so psychopathic self-serving freaks can’t track ’em on the Internet.

 

of Leos, Tiger beer and toygers March 24, 2007

i ain’t no quitter. but when your husband comes back with enough KFC buckets to feed 557 tyrannosaurus rexes and their mothers, you’d be so ashamed, you’d wanna stop telling the entire world the daily contents of your stomach especially when they lack the recommended daily 2 servings of vegetables and fruits each.

since i am so results-oriented regardless of the methods employed to get to the actual goal, i’m gonna post a half-naked pic of myself one fine day, one fine year, when i am finally back to 58kg. and stop the daily meal publishing – didn’t i say it wasn’t gonna last?

so i don’t have to spend time in absolute agony trying to remember everything i ate – and can spend more time telling you about the dream in which Leonardo DiCaprio kidnapped me (yes, kidnapped me), then proceeded to stick his tongue down my throat and slide his hands down the crack of my juicy ass.

for someone who does not think Leo’s cute (although he’s infinitely talented), someone who has a thing for manly (not macho) men and not boyish men, and is still waiting for that dream where Kiefer Sutherland clubs me on my head with the femur of a rhino, then drags me back to his cave – this dream registered a big giant “huh?” when i woke up.

you know how you sometimes go back to sleep to resume the dream and it almost never works? what a bitch.

i wanted to be able to say, “yeah, i’ve done Leo.”

but that privilege remains within the superdupertroopermodel circle, not to be rationed out to those who eat KFC chicken pieces out of a bucket. although like many superdupertroopermodels, i too wanted to retch after eating 4 pieces of chicken.

it was easier to just spread myself eagle on the sofa and groan.

many Singaporeans of Dubai gathered at the JW Marriott Deira last night for Malam Singapura 2007 (“Singapore Night” in Malay). Lynda told us it was semi-formal, and luckily i jumped on Ravi to put on something better than his black linen shirt and grey sneakers because almost every man at that dinner and dance had a jacket on. some even had bow-ties, they must have thought they were meeting a Sultan and his harem of luscious, young subjects.

and i’ve observed that some older women tend to gravitate towards extremely shiny dresses, perhaps to reflect light back onto creases on their faces so the deep trenches appear shallower. a few wore heavily sequined dresses specifically made to hypnotise the lay observer, distracting him purposefully away from waddles. within this group, there was an even smaller group who might need to pay a visit to their optician to get new eyeglasses – blue eyeshadow and vermillion lipstick would attract many a “how much?” offer or scare little children.

90% of the older ladies present were so elegant, poised and articulate, i quietly wished to myself that i too would age gracefully and not give in to the Call of the Sequins when i reach 55. if people who feast on KFC ever reach 55.

when the doors to the buffet line were opened, the waft of familiar Singaporean food smells assaulted my nostrils in the same pleasurable way i’d like Leo to abruptly capture and molest me again.

starters:

  • tempura seafood + aubergines
  • sushi
  • smoked salmon
  • stir fried beef, chicken + noodles
  • arabic bread + dips + salads
  • toast (?!) + bread/buns
  • oxtail soup
  • french onion soup

mains:

  • steamed white jasmine rice
  • Chinese rendang (have never heard of Chinese rendang before, only Malay/Indonesian rendang, but it wasn’t too bad)
  • sambal sotong
  • roast chicken with brown sauce
  • chicken satay with peanut sauce
  • chicken dumplings (tasted more like fibreglass dumplings)

dessert:

  • kueh dadah
  • ais-kacang
  • naga sari
  • a double-layered brown/white kueh that looks like putri salat
  • apple crumble with vanilla sauce
  • “assortment of french pastries” said the placard

for a hotel thousands of miles from South-East Asia, the food wasn’t too far from what real good rendang or sambal would taste like. the chicken dumplings and the ais-kacang were the biggest disappointments.

the emcee was hilarious, it’s great hearing Singlish jokes across four languages and that familiar Singaporean lilt. and jokes on familiar everyday Singapore scenes like line dancing and tai chi.

we made new friends and met old ones.

some had Tiger beer.

what i found strange was the number of non-Singaporeans (who aren’t married to Singaporeans/Residents) who were present at the event. but in a way, that was nice too, that we do not close ourselves off.

we had a great time, although once again, i won nothing during the lucky draw. i was hoping to win a scanner.

look at this cool cat. look at those paws. that chin! those eyes! the stripes. the colour.

NG - Toyger

i’m all for stray cats and kucing kuraps (if you only knew how many cats i had when i lived with my parents) – you can’t, just can’t love a stray cat less than a pedigree – but Toyger‘s a dream come true for those who’ve drooled over tiger/lion cubs clumsily falling all over themselves on Animal Planet or NG. apparently, proceeds from the USD3K price tag go into conservation efforts of the endangered Sumatran Tigers whose numbers are frighteningly low at 250.

hail, hail, i say.

 

random bursts of synapse activity March 21, 2007

Filed under: Uncategorized — c*devotchka @ 5:41 pm
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>> thanks to May, i am now addicted to the song “Take It Easy, My Brother Charles” by Jorge Ben and have it on permanent repeat loop. it makes me wanna dance and laugh flirtatiously to nobody in particular <<

the past few days has melted into the oblivion of forgotten gulleys by my hippocampus somewhere. some kind of switch was flicked on, or off, rather, and i was floating from one dimension of sleep and dreams (oh, leo! more later) to another of awake sleep and open-eyed thoughts.

i love my Fatboys though they’re now a tad faded from days of sliding butts and chafing t-shirts. if these recycled beanbags made from used car materials are more “reasonably” priced (but ah, they must be limited), i might scramble to replace our Fatboys with Waste bags and pass the Boys on to my parents so their cats can lounge all day in musky butt aromas.

Waste beanbags

doesn’t it look like a turd of comfort?

if i thought youtube was a godsend, VideoJug‘s a godgodsend. now i can fold t-shirts in 2 seconds, giving me 8 seconds more to do other more important things like eating chocolate spread from the bottle. for the clueless out there, you can also learn how to undo a bra with just two fingers! imagine that, two fingers instead of two entire hands and eyeballs rolled to the back of her head in dismay! The couple on the video are such good sports, i want them to undo all my bras.

but i’d still rather waste half my life on youtube than learning how to apply mascara on VideoJug.

found out that Malaysians are the happiest Asians – i have a few friends who’d beg to differ especially with the myriad of whiners and wankers in their midst – from the World Map of Happiness an Analytic Social Psychologist has created. we oughta send our Russian friends some heaters and comic books. the mysterious disappearance of Singapore (and other microscopic nations) reminds me of an 18th century map i once saw of Malaya that was missing the entire island of Temasek at its southern tip because the captain of the ship was missing an entire eye.

World Map of Happiness

got my eye on this painting, but Le Hubby’s not having any of it from the wife who has dedicated a corner to unframed (still packaged) prints, posters, 1 painting and photos. i can’t help it if i have trust issues with the picture framers of Dubai and have asked to enrol in a framing course at the Art House here.

just because, you know. because i am anal.

Mintd - Nina painting

Nina. i like her and her unkempt hair. and her droopy eyes and lively tongue. though her brows scare me. hardly like Nabokov’s Lolita, but i like her (this is usually where Ravi would slip into Tourette’s and call me lesbo 20x without inhaling in between, then demanding for something completely unrelated like chocolate ice-cream with maraschino cherries and vanilla whipped cream).

i love National Geographic, especially when i find out that my ancestors might have been cheating on each other with gorillas. but of course you must take everything i say seriously, so please read that article before telling people that “gorillas and humans slept with each other and i think that’s where we got HIV from” and etc just because you might be a blistering moron who takes everything literally.

and just to leave you with even more randomness, here’s a video (with sources i cannot and am too lazy to confirm) – but is interesting, nevertheless. the music disturbs me though, like WATCH OUT O HUMAN, THOU ART NADA, ZILCH, ZERO. or like some of my nice Singaporean Chinese primary school friends used to say, JILO.

 

holding on to an almost lost cause

Filed under: Uncategorized — c*devotchka @ 4:35 pm
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day 18

weetabix minis choc + whole milk, 2 chicken mortadella + lettuce + labneh  wholemeal sandwiches

day 19

(lousy, overpriced) chicken pie + chips + (warm, WARM!) pineapple juice, 1 chicken mortadella + fried egg + lettuce wholemeal sandwich, ice-cream + organic soya milk

day 20

pad thai with chicken + stir fried kang kong, foul medammas + makaneh + lots of arabic bread  + tuna dip  + sundried tomatoes dip + organic soya milk

day 21

Fisherman’s Platter at TGIF (which is like eating so you can hibernate the next 5 days) + chocolate cake + ice-cream + a side of diabetes and heart attack + organic soya milk

day 22

world’s best cereal in whole milk, steamed jasmine rice + lemongrass chicken + stir fried french beans, egg-coated tofu squares and carrots with makaneh + cream sago and cherries

day 23

Whole Earth’s Cocoa Crunch with whole milk, organic spaghetti (the ones with a hole in the middle) in bolognese with wholesome organic tomatoes + cream sago

today

arabic bread + foul medammas + 1 lemon white chocolate cookie, mint green tea, hopefully lasagne using last night’s bolognese sauce + steamed carrots + peas

i haven’t been to the gym for 3 weeks, i knew this was going to happen. and to think i dare ponder if i’d like to go to the Singapore Food Festival going on this week in Dubai!

 

i am a top rack wife March 15, 2007

Filed under: Uncategorized — c*devotchka @ 3:30 pm
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on top of being a woman who likes being fat, i am also a top rack wife with white, large, endowed _____ which is hung _____.

(fill in the blanks to your desire)

Top rack wife