It's funny, when I started this, I felt a bit stuck and became anxious that I wouldn't be able to finish something that I had started. However, once I started this list, the ideas have been rolling in and I am now concerned that I will have to revise this to "218 Things to Do before I leave this Earthly World".
Here are the next ten:
11. Jungle safari to see the Mountain Gorillas in Uganda;
12. (OK, blatantly copying my brilliant bud Steph but the truth is, I really, really, really want this) Own Vespa Scooter and have it pimped out with customised paint job;
13. Have Ami James (of Miami Ink fame) cover my current tattoo with something more mature, artistic and symbolic;
14. Give a person or a group a life changing gift;
15. Design, build and live in an eco-friendly house with a view of the sea;
16. See the sun rise over the dunes of the Sahara;
17. Design and have made a platinum ring set with my birthstone (Aquamarine);
18. Own a pony;
19. Have family sit for formal painted portrait; and
20. Order dessert for dinner.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
THE MASTER LIST
I am a denialist. This means that if I don't think about things that upset me, they don't exist. This is how I avoid being heavily medicated and/or paying obscenely large therapy bills.
Aside from being a denialist, I am also a lover of lists. I do love, lurve, loooove lists, right up there with fine chocolate, beautiful linens and the smell of lavender and...well...I like lists, not because I am particularly organised but because I like the symmetry and beauty of everything being so prettily summarised on a page and of course, one needs innumerable and delightful books in which to write lists, so it's really like the whole , "coming full circle" thing.
So, when I saw that Mighty Girl had completed a list of the 100 things to do before, errrm, leaving the earthly world, it combined something I want to deny - mortality, with something that I love - lists. Who was I to refuse to participate in something that would simultaneously terrify and delight me.
My list is at once realistic and fantastical; I make no apologies. Here are the first ten:
1. Shoot skeet - preferably in Barbour jacket, dark green wellies and a tweed cap;
2. Complete a keepsake family tree complete with calligraphy and bound in leather. Pass it on to my daughter and hope that successive generations of women continue to add to it;
3. Drink a Bellini at Harry's Bar in Venice;
4. Kiss a Pope's ring;
5. Play baccarat at the Monte Carlo Casino dressed in a floor length lipstick red couture gown;
6. Walk on the Moors;
7. Watch my daughter be the third generation to marry at the church where I was married and where my mother was married;
8. Live in an ashram in India for a month and take a vow of silence for the full month;
9. Master the fabulous Bollywood dance by Madhuri Dixit in the film Aaja Nachle; and
10. Have a "last" completed by John Lobb shoemakers in London - get a pair of knee high, bespoke leather boots made.
Aside from being a denialist, I am also a lover of lists. I do love, lurve, loooove lists, right up there with fine chocolate, beautiful linens and the smell of lavender and...well...I like lists, not because I am particularly organised but because I like the symmetry and beauty of everything being so prettily summarised on a page and of course, one needs innumerable and delightful books in which to write lists, so it's really like the whole , "coming full circle" thing.
So, when I saw that Mighty Girl had completed a list of the 100 things to do before, errrm, leaving the earthly world, it combined something I want to deny - mortality, with something that I love - lists. Who was I to refuse to participate in something that would simultaneously terrify and delight me.
My list is at once realistic and fantastical; I make no apologies. Here are the first ten:
1. Shoot skeet - preferably in Barbour jacket, dark green wellies and a tweed cap;
2. Complete a keepsake family tree complete with calligraphy and bound in leather. Pass it on to my daughter and hope that successive generations of women continue to add to it;
3. Drink a Bellini at Harry's Bar in Venice;
4. Kiss a Pope's ring;
5. Play baccarat at the Monte Carlo Casino dressed in a floor length lipstick red couture gown;
6. Walk on the Moors;
7. Watch my daughter be the third generation to marry at the church where I was married and where my mother was married;
8. Live in an ashram in India for a month and take a vow of silence for the full month;
9. Master the fabulous Bollywood dance by Madhuri Dixit in the film Aaja Nachle; and
10. Have a "last" completed by John Lobb shoemakers in London - get a pair of knee high, bespoke leather boots made.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
losing it...in translation
I've had a case of the Mondays since, well, Monday. But then the Mondays turned into Tuesdays which just doesn't have the same ring to it, so, I decided that the only thing for it was a trip to the spa. That's right, when I'm not half in the bag on Morning Margaritas, eating caramel chews out of huge red foil heart shaped chocolate boxes and doing a tipsy Fandango in my baby pink negligee with matching heeled slippers trimmed with pink feathers, I am at the spa. So, having been tipped off by a very "about town" friend, that a nearby spa was having a special offer on massages and facials. And of course, one can't turn down a spa special offer because we all know that when things are on special offer, we are actually SAVING money by purchasing them. So, off to save money I went, feeling positively philanthropic.
Now, there are a few quirks one has to get used to at a spa in China. First off, they are big on getting you to shower which I feel is kinda gross (hate putting my bare feet on anything that I think other, strange feet have touched) and a pain in the ass. But, in the interest of not appearing to be a filthy beast from the west, I acquiesce and besides, trying to communicate my aversion to naked feet and annoyance at getting wet midday to a woman who kept calling me "maki" just seemed exhaustingly pointless.
As if the whole shower obsession wasn't enough, when they aren't trying to get you to shower, they are insisting that you remove your perfectly good underpants and replace them with their awkward, pokey, papery, hospital-looking pants. This brings me to odd aversion number two: taking off my underpants midday. If I have a pair of pants on, fine, but if I take them off and then put the same underpants back on again, it's like I'm wearing dirty laundry, which is GROSS. I think you will agree the logic on this is irrefutable.
Anyhow, I'm digressing because my whole point here isn't that I am oddly phobic but that when I get a massage anywhere in China, I can't fully relax because I keep thinking that all the masseuse is thinking is, "I can't believe that I am massaging a human Manatee". OK, so the point clearly is that I am phobic, but let's put that aside for a moment. And before you think that I am imagining the whole thing, believe me that I speak from experience as I have had numerous massages where the masseuse spends the first few minutes of the massage palpating me like I was a hog being readied for slaughter, murmuring in a bemused manner as they pinch my haunches and poke my backside and in some particularly humiliating instances, they call over their masseuse friends to see the whale that washed up on their table.
Today at the spa, I knew that my, erm, shapeliness was going to be more of an issue than usual when I was provided with a robe, slippers and, of course, paper underpants. The robe barely closed so as I tried to lounge nonchalantly in the "holding pen" prior to my massage, I looked more like a porn star waiting to be called on set than a stay at home mom waiting to get a facial. The slippers barely fit with my toes spilling out the front and my heels dragging on the ground as I flapped around. However, the paper pants were the most humiliating part of the ensemble by far.
I was alone in the change room, so I thought that I would give them a go. I put my feet in and went to pull them up but realised that it wasn't going to work when they came to a screeching halt somewhere south of my knee caps. Of course, this was the moment that my designated "spa hostess" chose to come in to check on me only to find me in a most compromising position. I tried to push the offending pants down with one hand whilst the other hand was used to clutch the straining sides of my robe together in an effort to corral "the girls" and cover up at least the most offending parts of my nudity. The result was less than dignified and I am sure that the hostess is, as we speak, regaling her pint-sized, whippet-thin family with stories of the western behemoth, with unruly breasts and a bottom the size of the family car. Needless to say, I gave up on the pants.
Now, there are a few quirks one has to get used to at a spa in China. First off, they are big on getting you to shower which I feel is kinda gross (hate putting my bare feet on anything that I think other, strange feet have touched) and a pain in the ass. But, in the interest of not appearing to be a filthy beast from the west, I acquiesce and besides, trying to communicate my aversion to naked feet and annoyance at getting wet midday to a woman who kept calling me "maki" just seemed exhaustingly pointless.
As if the whole shower obsession wasn't enough, when they aren't trying to get you to shower, they are insisting that you remove your perfectly good underpants and replace them with their awkward, pokey, papery, hospital-looking pants. This brings me to odd aversion number two: taking off my underpants midday. If I have a pair of pants on, fine, but if I take them off and then put the same underpants back on again, it's like I'm wearing dirty laundry, which is GROSS. I think you will agree the logic on this is irrefutable.
Anyhow, I'm digressing because my whole point here isn't that I am oddly phobic but that when I get a massage anywhere in China, I can't fully relax because I keep thinking that all the masseuse is thinking is, "I can't believe that I am massaging a human Manatee". OK, so the point clearly is that I am phobic, but let's put that aside for a moment. And before you think that I am imagining the whole thing, believe me that I speak from experience as I have had numerous massages where the masseuse spends the first few minutes of the massage palpating me like I was a hog being readied for slaughter, murmuring in a bemused manner as they pinch my haunches and poke my backside and in some particularly humiliating instances, they call over their masseuse friends to see the whale that washed up on their table.
Today at the spa, I knew that my, erm, shapeliness was going to be more of an issue than usual when I was provided with a robe, slippers and, of course, paper underpants. The robe barely closed so as I tried to lounge nonchalantly in the "holding pen" prior to my massage, I looked more like a porn star waiting to be called on set than a stay at home mom waiting to get a facial. The slippers barely fit with my toes spilling out the front and my heels dragging on the ground as I flapped around. However, the paper pants were the most humiliating part of the ensemble by far.
I was alone in the change room, so I thought that I would give them a go. I put my feet in and went to pull them up but realised that it wasn't going to work when they came to a screeching halt somewhere south of my knee caps. Of course, this was the moment that my designated "spa hostess" chose to come in to check on me only to find me in a most compromising position. I tried to push the offending pants down with one hand whilst the other hand was used to clutch the straining sides of my robe together in an effort to corral "the girls" and cover up at least the most offending parts of my nudity. The result was less than dignified and I am sure that the hostess is, as we speak, regaling her pint-sized, whippet-thin family with stories of the western behemoth, with unruly breasts and a bottom the size of the family car. Needless to say, I gave up on the pants.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
just another sunday afternoon...
Here is the scenario:
We are sitting quite quaintly, perhaps even pastorally; a family spending a lazy Sunday afternoon around the coffee table. Baby Girl absent mindedly pops something into her mouth, which in and of itself is a miracle as all food must be carefully considered and pass a ritualistic test prior to gaining Baby Girl's stamp of approval (for those who are interested, it goes something like this...dainty touch to the lips to test for consistency and obvious unpleasant odour or taste, touch quickly to tip of the tongue to allow a more thorough taste-test, tentative nibble and finally, if all is well, a full bite. Note that whilst this happens I sit there like a nervous nelly fretting that the offered food won't pass the test but outwardly pretending to be nonchalant, even footloose and fancy free). Quickly realising that she had made a hasty and ill-informed decision to pop said morsel, Baby Girl made a face like she'd sucked on a lemon and went to spit out the food. Without missing a beat, mid-sentence and with the reflexes of well seasoned professionals, Mr. Lemony Lemonade and I sprang into action. I quickly cupped my hand beneath Baby Girl's mouth and caught the offending morsel and a goodly amount of spittle whilst Mr. Lemony Lemonade, in one swift motion, reminiscent of a gunslinger in a spaghetti western, liberated a wet wipe from a nearby package and wiped Baby Girl's mouth clean. The whole thing took less than two seconds. Mr. Lemony Lemonade and I, disaster averted, leaned back in our chairs and exhaled. Baby Girl clapped her hands in delight, looked at both of us with the pride of a parent, threw her hands in the air and exclaimed, "TEAMWORK!"
We are sitting quite quaintly, perhaps even pastorally; a family spending a lazy Sunday afternoon around the coffee table. Baby Girl absent mindedly pops something into her mouth, which in and of itself is a miracle as all food must be carefully considered and pass a ritualistic test prior to gaining Baby Girl's stamp of approval (for those who are interested, it goes something like this...dainty touch to the lips to test for consistency and obvious unpleasant odour or taste, touch quickly to tip of the tongue to allow a more thorough taste-test, tentative nibble and finally, if all is well, a full bite. Note that whilst this happens I sit there like a nervous nelly fretting that the offered food won't pass the test but outwardly pretending to be nonchalant, even footloose and fancy free). Quickly realising that she had made a hasty and ill-informed decision to pop said morsel, Baby Girl made a face like she'd sucked on a lemon and went to spit out the food. Without missing a beat, mid-sentence and with the reflexes of well seasoned professionals, Mr. Lemony Lemonade and I sprang into action. I quickly cupped my hand beneath Baby Girl's mouth and caught the offending morsel and a goodly amount of spittle whilst Mr. Lemony Lemonade, in one swift motion, reminiscent of a gunslinger in a spaghetti western, liberated a wet wipe from a nearby package and wiped Baby Girl's mouth clean. The whole thing took less than two seconds. Mr. Lemony Lemonade and I, disaster averted, leaned back in our chairs and exhaled. Baby Girl clapped her hands in delight, looked at both of us with the pride of a parent, threw her hands in the air and exclaimed, "TEAMWORK!"
Monday, June 9, 2008
it's raining nipples...doh!
There are any number of things that I could talk about in this post, however, my life this weekend has quite uninterestingly been dominated by weather and to a lesser but more interesting extent by nipples.
Typically, weather is something one talks about when one is stuck like chuck for interesting conversation. The sort of thing you muse about in a lift or whilst waiting in a doctor's office, not the stuff of a scintillating blog posting. Nevertheless, I cannot post in good conscience without mentioning the weather as I have been on a veritable weather rollercoaster since moving to Hong Kong. When I am not being drowned in rain of biblical proportions, I am being heated and humidified to an extent that is cruel and unusual. The weather here is so diabolical that it is described by a complex rating system that would make my father beam with pride. I won't bore you to death with the details but suffice it to say that we don't just get everyday, ho hum rain; oh no, there is amber, red and black rain - let me point out that I was quite disappointed to learn there was no "purple rain" but I can live with "black rain", as it seems suitably sassy and potentially very ominous indeedy. As if that weren't enough to frighten the pants off you with coloured rain, there are monsoon and landslip warnings and the piece de resistance; a tropical cyclone signal system. Not that I would even know a tropical cyclone if it hit me in the face, I am quite certain that there are all sorts of precautionary measures one is meant to take based on the various warnings but let's be frank here; in the event of black rain or a cyclone signally-thingy, I plan to scream like a little girl, use my body as a human shield for my most precious shoes whilst making all sorts of absurd promises to any deity that will listen. The best bit however, is that as I bleat plaintively about the weather, more seasoned expats are more than happy to advise that I ain't seen nothing yet and that it only gets hotter, wetter and more humid which only adds to my already fever-pitched weather hysteria.
As long as we are talking about weather...today we quite innocently decided to go to Stanley to watch the annual Dragon Boat races. Apparently, traveling 12 kilometres away from home was tantamount to entering another weather zone because the overcast, barely tolerable temperatures at our flat were quickly replaced by scorching sun and temperatures easily 10 degrees hotter. It was the sort of heat that makes you want to tear off your clothes as if on fire and run into the nearest body of water. We managed to eke out thirty minutes of race observation before declaring defeat and returning to the miraculous micro-climate surrounding our flat.
Before you think that all I am going to do in this post is get all pissy and vineagary about weather, I will also tell you that today was filled with all sorts of hilarious three-year-old moments. The first of which being that I was forced to face Baby Girl's growing nipple obsession square on. Up until now, I was quite happy to pretend that there was no such obsession; much like the time she started dropping the "f-bomb". I ignored it and she quickly forgot the naughty word. Now, however, Baby Girl has quite inconveniently gone and developed something akin to a long term memory so ignoring things doesn't work anymore because she REMEMBERS STUFF. So, the nipples. Mostly, she just admires nipples in the most naive of ways, like, "hey, nice nipples" but more recently, she has been keen to come in for a closer look necessitating my reluctant parental intervention. This is the point where I have an out of body experience and I see myself having a ridiculously serious conversation about something that is not really very serious at all because I don't know about you but nipples are pretty damned funny; even the word "nipple" is bloody hysterical. Nevertheless, we discussed the fact that indeed, one's nipples are private affairs and yes, that means we are appropriately respectful of nipples all around us and that means that touching, staring at or generally commenting on said nipples is from now on forbodden. Unfortunately, this means that Baby Girl now has to go around to anyone who will listen and give them a lowdown on the whole 'nipple situation'; gravely telling them that nipples are private and we aren't meant to touch them in a tone of voice normally reserved for sharing a particularly serious bit of information like a neighbour's infidelity or a co-workers new hair plugs.
Shortly after the nipple fiasco, Baby Girl quickly moved on to riding her bicycle around our flat, which is no mean feat given the minute dimensions of said flat. However, today, said bicycle riding occurred in my prized purple suede wedge heels.
If someone had told me four years ago that I would be spending my Sundays discussing the privacy aspects of nipples and chasing a pint sized bicycling maniac wearing purple suede heels around my flat I would have laughed quite heartily and said, "not me my good man" because my children are going to be earthly incarnations of ruddy faced cherubs, all goodness and light, wearing perfect, stain-free clothing, displaying impeccable manners and above all RESPECTING MY AUTHORITY. If I could meet the pre-child me now I would just like to gather her up in my arms and say "there, there you delusional little thing..." but I wouldn't tell her that one day, her precious little daughter would develop a nipple obsession or ruin her prized purple suede shoes because who would want to ruin that fun little surprise?
Typically, weather is something one talks about when one is stuck like chuck for interesting conversation. The sort of thing you muse about in a lift or whilst waiting in a doctor's office, not the stuff of a scintillating blog posting. Nevertheless, I cannot post in good conscience without mentioning the weather as I have been on a veritable weather rollercoaster since moving to Hong Kong. When I am not being drowned in rain of biblical proportions, I am being heated and humidified to an extent that is cruel and unusual. The weather here is so diabolical that it is described by a complex rating system that would make my father beam with pride. I won't bore you to death with the details but suffice it to say that we don't just get everyday, ho hum rain; oh no, there is amber, red and black rain - let me point out that I was quite disappointed to learn there was no "purple rain" but I can live with "black rain", as it seems suitably sassy and potentially very ominous indeedy. As if that weren't enough to frighten the pants off you with coloured rain, there are monsoon and landslip warnings and the piece de resistance; a tropical cyclone signal system. Not that I would even know a tropical cyclone if it hit me in the face, I am quite certain that there are all sorts of precautionary measures one is meant to take based on the various warnings but let's be frank here; in the event of black rain or a cyclone signally-thingy, I plan to scream like a little girl, use my body as a human shield for my most precious shoes whilst making all sorts of absurd promises to any deity that will listen. The best bit however, is that as I bleat plaintively about the weather, more seasoned expats are more than happy to advise that I ain't seen nothing yet and that it only gets hotter, wetter and more humid which only adds to my already fever-pitched weather hysteria.
As long as we are talking about weather...today we quite innocently decided to go to Stanley to watch the annual Dragon Boat races. Apparently, traveling 12 kilometres away from home was tantamount to entering another weather zone because the overcast, barely tolerable temperatures at our flat were quickly replaced by scorching sun and temperatures easily 10 degrees hotter. It was the sort of heat that makes you want to tear off your clothes as if on fire and run into the nearest body of water. We managed to eke out thirty minutes of race observation before declaring defeat and returning to the miraculous micro-climate surrounding our flat.
Before you think that all I am going to do in this post is get all pissy and vineagary about weather, I will also tell you that today was filled with all sorts of hilarious three-year-old moments. The first of which being that I was forced to face Baby Girl's growing nipple obsession square on. Up until now, I was quite happy to pretend that there was no such obsession; much like the time she started dropping the "f-bomb". I ignored it and she quickly forgot the naughty word. Now, however, Baby Girl has quite inconveniently gone and developed something akin to a long term memory so ignoring things doesn't work anymore because she REMEMBERS STUFF. So, the nipples. Mostly, she just admires nipples in the most naive of ways, like, "hey, nice nipples" but more recently, she has been keen to come in for a closer look necessitating my reluctant parental intervention. This is the point where I have an out of body experience and I see myself having a ridiculously serious conversation about something that is not really very serious at all because I don't know about you but nipples are pretty damned funny; even the word "nipple" is bloody hysterical. Nevertheless, we discussed the fact that indeed, one's nipples are private affairs and yes, that means we are appropriately respectful of nipples all around us and that means that touching, staring at or generally commenting on said nipples is from now on forbodden. Unfortunately, this means that Baby Girl now has to go around to anyone who will listen and give them a lowdown on the whole 'nipple situation'; gravely telling them that nipples are private and we aren't meant to touch them in a tone of voice normally reserved for sharing a particularly serious bit of information like a neighbour's infidelity or a co-workers new hair plugs.
Shortly after the nipple fiasco, Baby Girl quickly moved on to riding her bicycle around our flat, which is no mean feat given the minute dimensions of said flat. However, today, said bicycle riding occurred in my prized purple suede wedge heels.
If someone had told me four years ago that I would be spending my Sundays discussing the privacy aspects of nipples and chasing a pint sized bicycling maniac wearing purple suede heels around my flat I would have laughed quite heartily and said, "not me my good man" because my children are going to be earthly incarnations of ruddy faced cherubs, all goodness and light, wearing perfect, stain-free clothing, displaying impeccable manners and above all RESPECTING MY AUTHORITY. If I could meet the pre-child me now I would just like to gather her up in my arms and say "there, there you delusional little thing..." but I wouldn't tell her that one day, her precious little daughter would develop a nipple obsession or ruin her prized purple suede shoes because who would want to ruin that fun little surprise?
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