This no-blogging policy at my new job is starting to bug me. When I'm spending half my time in the office, there's really not much else to think about but work. Not that I have anything substantial to say just yet (it's only been two weeks), but just knowing that I can't channel whatever I'd want to say through my blog feels like, well, constipation.
Went to Frites for the second time last night and had a slightly less enjoyable meal than from my first experience there. The house mussels are still nice but this time there were at least four dead ones in our pot that didn't open. Since their mussels are priced by weight (either one or a half kilo per order) and I figured we only ate half a kilo minus four mussels, and I was sure if it had been scallops or a crab or any other seafood they would've made sure only fresh ones were served, I asked our server if he could ask the kitchen to replace those four. The problem is, none of the servers at Frites really speaks good English. We were really looking forward to finishing the meal and going home when the manager came over with a fresh new pot of house mussels, all half a kilo of them with the side fries and rye bread. The kitchen must've thought I was either the biggest bitch or the biggest cheapskate to send back four dead mussels and request a whole new pot. The manager's explanation was that the kitchen can't cook just four mussels; they have to make the whole pot... I may be the biggest bitch but that just wasn't something I could've accepted without feeling incredibly guilty. So we kindly declined their nice gesture as well as their offer for free dessert, and ended up leaving a big tip.
So why couldn't they cook just four mussels? Practically every table in the restaurant had an order of mussels. The kitchen could've easily dumped four extra ones in the next order they prepared and scooped them out for us.
This reminded me of the Corona incident, which happened about two weeks ago over happy hour with a bunch of bananas: Brit’s and Aussi’s drinks arrived shortly after I sat down ― two Coronas. Brit looked at the bill and quickly realized they’d been overcharged. The waiter, at first not realizing that Corona was listed for $55 on the menu, went to check why the total for two had come to $124. He came back looking all proud with a revised bill in his hands, and explained that their computer was showing the wrong price for Corona and to correct this they had put a 10% discount on the bill. “Uh, but this is clearly still more than what we should be paying,” Brit had to explain.
I was too busy getting happy to follow-up with how they ended up resolving the bill. But by the time Yank showed up and wanted to order a Corona, the waiter “reminded” him that there were other beers available and went on to recite a list of alternatives. “He wants a Corona,” C said. There was a pause just long enough for all of us to exchange confused looks with everyone else at the table. Then the waiter finally said something about their computer having the wrong price for Corona. And that’s apparently enough reason to forbid customers from ordering it.
Showing posts with label My HK experience. Show all posts
Showing posts with label My HK experience. Show all posts
Friday, November 6, 2009
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Defeating the Purpose
About two months ago I paid a visit to McDonald's in Cityplaza, where they’d adopted a single-queue system. I thought to myself “it’s about time” and stood in line behind a man while pondering the awesomeness of all the single queues I’ve ever come across: banks, airport check-in counters, Citysuper...
Standing at the head of the queue was a McDonald's staff, whose job was to direct customers in the queue to move up to the next available counter. The only problem was, she was asking people to move up to what she reckoned to be the next available counter before the counter even became available. So customers were sent from the single queue to stand in front of the individual counters in what were essentially separate mini queues. I couldn’t grasp the grounds on which this staff determined which counter would free up next, but she was dead wrong; because I ended up being served before the man who stood in front of me in the single queue, and after the couple that stood behind me.
It’s one thing to walk into a place with multiple queues and have to use my own best judgment to assess which line is likely to move the fastest ― the trick is to avoid lines with foreigners at fast-food restaurants, lines with people with bills in their hands at ATMs, lines with see-lai’s at automated customs channels, and lines with kids at manual customs counters. It’s quite another to be forced to comply with the best judgment of a high-school dropout who’s clearly pulling guesses out of her ass, witness a multinational chain completely defeating the purpose of such a simple system and wasting their underpaid manpower along the way.
Went back to the same McDonald's yesterday. To my surprise, not only is the traffic-directing staff still directing customers to move up before a counter is ready, but now there are two queues instead of one. Go figure.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Moving Backward
I've never enjoyed crowds; I wouldn't be caught dead in Mong Kok if Jesus himself promised to make an appearance. But when they raised the reward for identifying the acid thrower to HK$900,000, I thought: Now there's a reason to start hanging out in MK more often.
The area so essential to Hong Kong's identity has long been a death trap, with sketchy small shops somehow profiting off of the latest cell phones at irresistible discounts, food stalls right next to double-decker bus stops selling mouth-watering battered organs deep fried in thousand-year-old animal fat, reckless drivers and even more reckless pedestrians roaming the streets, Hello Kitty-tattooed "landlords" cruising and cursing entertainment venues with their gangs, and menopausal women slicing passersby with flyers promoting $88 "massage" services. Not to mention druggies, pickpockets, con artists, young men carrying unsightly women's purses (sometimes for their girlfriends) and girls dragging along really, really tiny miniature toy poodles.
With my luck, had I really been hanging around MK I would’ve escaped the plummeting loudspeaker just so I’d be back a couple nights later to get run over by the minibus. With my ear-raping noise cancellation earphones pumping phat tunes on my eardrums, I probably wouldn’t even have seen it coming. And with my luck, the odds of my in-case-of-emergency person being able to fork out over HK$20,000 for the doctors at QEH to start administering Novo Seven on me before I bled to death would be pretty slim.
I used to think there were only two places that would allow public hospitals to put money before someone’s life: China (they’ll need a deposit before you could even be admitted) and the US (“Sicko” stirred up more sympathy from me for Americans than did the re-election of George W. Bush).
How the hospital authority in Hong Kong could’ve allowed the existence of such a lethal gray area in something as fundamental as the protocol on administering necessary drugs in life-or-death situations is beyond me. Was it not one of the first (hundred) things to consider before playing doctor? Makes one wonder what would’ve happened if the victim had no family, or the family couldn’t afford the meds.
The area so essential to Hong Kong's identity has long been a death trap, with sketchy small shops somehow profiting off of the latest cell phones at irresistible discounts, food stalls right next to double-decker bus stops selling mouth-watering battered organs deep fried in thousand-year-old animal fat, reckless drivers and even more reckless pedestrians roaming the streets, Hello Kitty-tattooed "landlords" cruising and cursing entertainment venues with their gangs, and menopausal women slicing passersby with flyers promoting $88 "massage" services. Not to mention druggies, pickpockets, con artists, young men carrying unsightly women's purses (sometimes for their girlfriends) and girls dragging along really, really tiny miniature toy poodles.
With my luck, had I really been hanging around MK I would’ve escaped the plummeting loudspeaker just so I’d be back a couple nights later to get run over by the minibus. With my ear-raping noise cancellation earphones pumping phat tunes on my eardrums, I probably wouldn’t even have seen it coming. And with my luck, the odds of my in-case-of-emergency person being able to fork out over HK$20,000 for the doctors at QEH to start administering Novo Seven on me before I bled to death would be pretty slim.
I used to think there were only two places that would allow public hospitals to put money before someone’s life: China (they’ll need a deposit before you could even be admitted) and the US (“Sicko” stirred up more sympathy from me for Americans than did the re-election of George W. Bush).
How the hospital authority in Hong Kong could’ve allowed the existence of such a lethal gray area in something as fundamental as the protocol on administering necessary drugs in life-or-death situations is beyond me. Was it not one of the first (hundred) things to consider before playing doctor? Makes one wonder what would’ve happened if the victim had no family, or the family couldn’t afford the meds.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Simma Down Na
So someone decided to go medieval on my doorbell yesterday at 8:53 in the morning. Big mistake. But with the time it took me to fight to keep both eyes open long enough to not drift back into my sweet dreams, peel myself out of bed and prepare for the reciprocation of medievalness in the event that there wasn't a fire in the building, of course nobody was there when I got to the peephole.
Turns out it was our downstairs neighbor complaining about our supposedly dripping AC. After harassing my doorbell to no avail, he/she complained to the security guard.
I'm sure our landlord will find someone to come check out our AC soon enough and fix whatever dripping there may be. Until then, the fan will have to do. It's no biggie, really. But the only thing I could think of when I learned that someone was bitching about our AC was how we've put up with the dripping of someone else's AC from upstairs night-after-night since temperatures started flirting with the 30°C mark, and how it has never even occurred to me to complain.
I thought long and hard about the process of attaining this level of serenity as not to be bothered by the minor things that could drive some people crazy. Minor things like the rhythm created by falling droplets of dirty water hitting the AC that’s mounted on the window against which your bed is placed ― a rhythm that’s just slightly faster than your pulse and starts making you nervous once the lights are out because it resonates like the beat of the background music in the first kill scene of a horror movie, and throughout the course of the night bullies your heart rate into syncing with it.
The thing is, with a “Fortress” brand AC that’s at times as noisy as my washer on its 900-spin cycle, my upstairs neighbors’ ACs could’ve been popping out gobstoppers for all I know. It’s only when it occasionally quiets down that I manage to hear the soccer fans' uproar from the cha-chaan-teng across the street in the middle of the night.
Ironically, one of the first things I’d had trouble adjusting to when we first moved to Toronto was the deafening silence at night. The ticking of the clock in our living room would echo through the house and that would be the only sound we hear until the birds start chirping at dawn.
We have birds here in North Point too. One in particular has a distinctive call that sounds like a defective noise-maker and starts at precisely 4:07 every morning, as if to warn nocturnal creatures like me of the impending sunrise. We also have dogs, one of which must be the victim of serious neglect as it’s heard either whimpering or barking at any given time. Unfortunately, the surrounding buildings create such an echo in the area that I can’t make out where the cries are coming from.
I’m surprised that the familiar clacking of mahjong isn’t heard more often here, considering how local the residents are. More often I just hear my next-door neighbors conversing in Hokkien, and their toddler running around the apartment in her squeaky shoes (they like to leave their front door open to let air circulate). Then there's 1305 banging their metal gate close and sending shudders down everyone’s spine; 1304 coming home and giving verbal commands through the door to his wife inside to let him in instead of using keys or the doorbell; and occasionally, 1303 blasting Alan Tam’s hits from the 80’s on his stereo that sounds like it could be from the same era.
Turns out it was our downstairs neighbor complaining about our supposedly dripping AC. After harassing my doorbell to no avail, he/she complained to the security guard.
I'm sure our landlord will find someone to come check out our AC soon enough and fix whatever dripping there may be. Until then, the fan will have to do. It's no biggie, really. But the only thing I could think of when I learned that someone was bitching about our AC was how we've put up with the dripping of someone else's AC from upstairs night-after-night since temperatures started flirting with the 30°C mark, and how it has never even occurred to me to complain.
I thought long and hard about the process of attaining this level of serenity as not to be bothered by the minor things that could drive some people crazy. Minor things like the rhythm created by falling droplets of dirty water hitting the AC that’s mounted on the window against which your bed is placed ― a rhythm that’s just slightly faster than your pulse and starts making you nervous once the lights are out because it resonates like the beat of the background music in the first kill scene of a horror movie, and throughout the course of the night bullies your heart rate into syncing with it.
The thing is, with a “Fortress” brand AC that’s at times as noisy as my washer on its 900-spin cycle, my upstairs neighbors’ ACs could’ve been popping out gobstoppers for all I know. It’s only when it occasionally quiets down that I manage to hear the soccer fans' uproar from the cha-chaan-teng across the street in the middle of the night.
Ironically, one of the first things I’d had trouble adjusting to when we first moved to Toronto was the deafening silence at night. The ticking of the clock in our living room would echo through the house and that would be the only sound we hear until the birds start chirping at dawn.
We have birds here in North Point too. One in particular has a distinctive call that sounds like a defective noise-maker and starts at precisely 4:07 every morning, as if to warn nocturnal creatures like me of the impending sunrise. We also have dogs, one of which must be the victim of serious neglect as it’s heard either whimpering or barking at any given time. Unfortunately, the surrounding buildings create such an echo in the area that I can’t make out where the cries are coming from.
I’m surprised that the familiar clacking of mahjong isn’t heard more often here, considering how local the residents are. More often I just hear my next-door neighbors conversing in Hokkien, and their toddler running around the apartment in her squeaky shoes (they like to leave their front door open to let air circulate). Then there's 1305 banging their metal gate close and sending shudders down everyone’s spine; 1304 coming home and giving verbal commands through the door to his wife inside to let him in instead of using keys or the doorbell; and occasionally, 1303 blasting Alan Tam’s hits from the 80’s on his stereo that sounds like it could be from the same era.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Truth be told...
...I remember very little about living through SARS in Hong Kong. Like every other sane person, I wore a surgical mask on my way to and from work everyday. And since I was working as a teacher, I had to keep the mask on during most of my workdays as well. Updates on confirmed cases and death toll then read like news on the Hang Seng Index last September. And with the exception of maybe a few bars in Lan Kwai Fong, a giant black cloud hovered over the city.
What I do remember is how I lost my job. I had handed in my resignation in December 2002 when I realized I wasn't going to make a career out of my first full-time job. But because another teacher had given her notice around the same time, and the owner is a friend’s friend, I offered to stay on till they found replacements. I was subsequently given some administrative duties that were supposed to give me hands-on experience outside of teaching and get me interested in staying longer. April came and schools faced mandatory closure for a month in an effort to contain SARS. However, all of three teachers including myself, along with the receptionist, were told to continue going in full-time even though there was no class to teach. With the endless amount of time we had every day, we prepped for classes through to the end of the decade, we played Scrabble, we exchanged life stories. No class, no income, someone had to go. And since my resignation letter was already conveniently in the owner’s hands, they didn’t even have to compensate me. My extended notice period was repaid with an order for immediate departure. The only thing more ridiculous than that was the owner calling me up a few months later asking me to go back to work for her. I had to suture my lips shut just so I wouldn’t tell her to put hers on my buttocks.
I was never one to stock up on canned goods when the typhoons hit, or rice before the price hikes, but for the past two days I went on a hunt for surgical masks. Mannings was out of stock. A staff at Park n’ Shop told me though they don’t normally carry surgical masks they just might start selling them in a few days. The local pharmacy downstairs my place had a waiting list for individually packaged masks selling at $100 for 60. I was lucky enough to get my hands on the last box of 30 adult-size surgical masks at Japan Home, which I’m ready to resell to good friends in need ― for a small profit, of course.
My travel plans have been put on hold since the announcement of confirmed swine flu cases in Canada. But since it's only a matter of time before there'd be confirmed cases in Hong Kong too and this is going to be a global pandemic, does it really matter where I spend my summer?
What I do remember is how I lost my job. I had handed in my resignation in December 2002 when I realized I wasn't going to make a career out of my first full-time job. But because another teacher had given her notice around the same time, and the owner is a friend’s friend, I offered to stay on till they found replacements. I was subsequently given some administrative duties that were supposed to give me hands-on experience outside of teaching and get me interested in staying longer. April came and schools faced mandatory closure for a month in an effort to contain SARS. However, all of three teachers including myself, along with the receptionist, were told to continue going in full-time even though there was no class to teach. With the endless amount of time we had every day, we prepped for classes through to the end of the decade, we played Scrabble, we exchanged life stories. No class, no income, someone had to go. And since my resignation letter was already conveniently in the owner’s hands, they didn’t even have to compensate me. My extended notice period was repaid with an order for immediate departure. The only thing more ridiculous than that was the owner calling me up a few months later asking me to go back to work for her. I had to suture my lips shut just so I wouldn’t tell her to put hers on my buttocks.
I was never one to stock up on canned goods when the typhoons hit, or rice before the price hikes, but for the past two days I went on a hunt for surgical masks. Mannings was out of stock. A staff at Park n’ Shop told me though they don’t normally carry surgical masks they just might start selling them in a few days. The local pharmacy downstairs my place had a waiting list for individually packaged masks selling at $100 for 60. I was lucky enough to get my hands on the last box of 30 adult-size surgical masks at Japan Home, which I’m ready to resell to good friends in need ― for a small profit, of course.
My travel plans have been put on hold since the announcement of confirmed swine flu cases in Canada. But since it's only a matter of time before there'd be confirmed cases in Hong Kong too and this is going to be a global pandemic, does it really matter where I spend my summer?
Thursday, April 23, 2009
1301
I got a letter in the mail a couple months ago. It wasn't addressed to anyone, but my full address was handwritten on the envelope, along with an actual HK$1.40 stamp. Inside was an A4-size photocopy of a handwritten note, with reference to a Mr Lui in unit 1301 owing some people some money.
Naturally I went to check out 1301. I hadn’t even figured out what I’d be looking for when I noticed an envelope right by their doorstep. Apparently, at least every flat on the 13th floor had received the same letter in the mail that day, and 1305 was naïve enough to think that the sender had simply written down the wrong unit number on the envelope.
Thinking it could be presented as evidence in court someday, I made sure the letter was safely kept ― on my refrigerator under layers of bills and multiple industrial-strength magnets. And there it stayed, forgotten, until today.
There’s something about the interior of our building that creates the biggest echoes in the corridors. Any talking, knocking or doorbell would be amplified and resonate through each of our flimsy front doors. So I’m pretty sure any of my neighbors who was home around 2:30 this afternoon would’ve heard the banging on the steel gate and the yelling in front of 1301. It only went on for a minute or so and I couldn’t even make out what they were yelling, but it was enough to make me contemplate putting on some pants just in case my safety was seriously threatened and I had to make a split-second decision to leave my apartment. Through my peephole I watched as two big guys came within three feet of my home to go into the stairwell. My guess is that they didn’t want their faces recorded on the surveillance cameras in the elevator.
I live in 1308, which despite being all the way on the other end of the corridor is actually physically right next to 1301. There’s but a single wall between my bedroom and theirs. I don't know if I should be more worried about the debt collectors upping their game with more drastic measures which I’m certain is bound to happen unless Mr Lui magically comes up with however many dollars it is real soon, or about Mr Lui being pushed beyond his breaking point and pulling drastic, tragic measures of his own.
I’m going to have a chat with the security guard tomorrow to try to get more info. But what more can one do in a situation like this?
Naturally I went to check out 1301. I hadn’t even figured out what I’d be looking for when I noticed an envelope right by their doorstep. Apparently, at least every flat on the 13th floor had received the same letter in the mail that day, and 1305 was naïve enough to think that the sender had simply written down the wrong unit number on the envelope.
Thinking it could be presented as evidence in court someday, I made sure the letter was safely kept ― on my refrigerator under layers of bills and multiple industrial-strength magnets. And there it stayed, forgotten, until today.
There’s something about the interior of our building that creates the biggest echoes in the corridors. Any talking, knocking or doorbell would be amplified and resonate through each of our flimsy front doors. So I’m pretty sure any of my neighbors who was home around 2:30 this afternoon would’ve heard the banging on the steel gate and the yelling in front of 1301. It only went on for a minute or so and I couldn’t even make out what they were yelling, but it was enough to make me contemplate putting on some pants just in case my safety was seriously threatened and I had to make a split-second decision to leave my apartment. Through my peephole I watched as two big guys came within three feet of my home to go into the stairwell. My guess is that they didn’t want their faces recorded on the surveillance cameras in the elevator.
I live in 1308, which despite being all the way on the other end of the corridor is actually physically right next to 1301. There’s but a single wall between my bedroom and theirs. I don't know if I should be more worried about the debt collectors upping their game with more drastic measures which I’m certain is bound to happen unless Mr Lui magically comes up with however many dollars it is real soon, or about Mr Lui being pushed beyond his breaking point and pulling drastic, tragic measures of his own.
I’m going to have a chat with the security guard tomorrow to try to get more info. But what more can one do in a situation like this?
Sunday, October 26, 2008
There's No Place Like Home
I’m absolutely thrilled to hear that C and T have decided to tie the knot next year. But I gotta admit I’m even more excited at this perfect excuse to set foot in Toronto again for the first time in seven years. I’m going to take as many days off as work would allow, and spend as much time as I can roaming around Toronto, New York, and wherever else I can afford to travel.
Seven years is a long time to be in Hong Kong. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t done with this land of imbalance ― imbalance between the population and space availability, work hours and leisure time, workload and salary, rent and square-footage, days with pleasant weather and days of unbearable heat/humidity.
It was a good thing my mom’d been so eager to kick me out. If I wasn’t forced to pack up all my belongings from her apartment, I would’ve still thought I’d lost my Canadian passport, citizenship card and driver’s license. Now I just gotta renew my documents and my exit strategy would be half ready.
Seven years is a long time to be in Hong Kong. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t done with this land of imbalance ― imbalance between the population and space availability, work hours and leisure time, workload and salary, rent and square-footage, days with pleasant weather and days of unbearable heat/humidity.
It was a good thing my mom’d been so eager to kick me out. If I wasn’t forced to pack up all my belongings from her apartment, I would’ve still thought I’d lost my Canadian passport, citizenship card and driver’s license. Now I just gotta renew my documents and my exit strategy would be half ready.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Reporting from North Point
The bed and closet are scheduled to arrive sometime between 10am and 2pm this Saturday. Then I'm just a mattress, a shoe cabinet, some curtains and lamps and a DSL line away from being settled into the new flat.
I like the new flat. It's a newly renovated unit in a 26-year-old estate. It's better than new. And it's walking distance to work, for the time being anyway.
***
Other than the few dollars a month I put in funds which I have no plan to touch anytime soon, I have no investment. So the biggest impact the "financial tsunami" has had on me so far is the headache from having to disperse standard communication emails reassuring the security of AIA insurance policies to clients whose email addresses we don't have.
I don't know if it's the undying headache, the wind that blew me off the sidewalk last night, or my recent indulgence of various chocolates from J and his sisters which may or may not contain milk content from China, but I'm pretty sure I'm coming down with something.
I like the new flat. It's a newly renovated unit in a 26-year-old estate. It's better than new. And it's walking distance to work, for the time being anyway.
***
Other than the few dollars a month I put in funds which I have no plan to touch anytime soon, I have no investment. So the biggest impact the "financial tsunami" has had on me so far is the headache from having to disperse standard communication emails reassuring the security of AIA insurance policies to clients whose email addresses we don't have.
I don't know if it's the undying headache, the wind that blew me off the sidewalk last night, or my recent indulgence of various chocolates from J and his sisters which may or may not contain milk content from China, but I'm pretty sure I'm coming down with something.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Time to Move, Again
Our lease ends in a little over two months’ time. Thank God. I can’t remember the reasons I said yes to this place last year. Probably because I was too busy thinking about my Europe trip and was running out of options.
MHV has nice trees and water fountains in the podium area, friendly security guards I haven’t seen anywhere else in Hong Kong; I’ll give them that. But for me, the problems with this place list far longer than the fact that the nice podium has turned out to be a public area.
1. Other than the Circle K and a doctor’s clinic, the “mall” downstairs just doesn’t bring any convenience. There’s a Wellcome designated for selling other branches’ leftover produce; there’s a Chinese restaurant serving food so crappy it’s only still in business because of its monopoly; there’s a cha-chaan-teng with a $40 minimum to deliver food right upstairs; there’s a tailor that handily closes at 6:30pm; while the rest of the mall doesn’t open till noon.
2. Minibus no. 12B runs a well-designed route between MHV, the MK MTR station and MK train station, but the queue for what must be the most infrequent minibus running in Hong Kong is at least 50-person long in the morning. The Olympic station is a good 10-minute walk away, through a narrow street lined with auto shops, hardware stores, dry cleaners, more auto shops, and one of those places that gathers paper and metal scraps from garbage for reselling. The walk leaves me drenched in sweat every morning before I even reach the station. Not to mention one can never feel the AC on the platform of the Olympic station, except for the blast that leaks out the doorway whenever the control room staff comes out of his glass house.
3. I don’t need to study fengshui to know that it’s a bad idea to live next to a funeral home. Mind you I already work next to one. I’ve been too squeamish to go through the details, but one can easily find online lists of “haunted flats” in MHV where residents/visitors have committed suicides.
4. The flat’s most definitely infested; I just can’t determine whether it’s with mold or dust bunnies. I haven’t seen this much mold since my friend’s science project in grade six. And for the amount of dust on my floor, it may as well be the cover of an antique book of witches’ brew recipes hidden in some geeky kid’s attic. I’ve given up hope of ever getting the place clean again, and can’t bear using the apartment for much more than sleeping and showering in. The situation is so hopeless I think I’m starting to grasp the reasons behind the high suicide rate here.
5. J’s skanky ex-coworker lives in Tower 3. Not that I’m threatened by an unattractive divorcee, but to this day I just can’t think of one good reason for her to have called up J at midnight to borrow a hammer. I’m as tired of trying to figure out what her problem is as I know she is tired of having to force phony smiles at me in front of J. This point was proven on Saturday when I bumped into her in the lift lobby and caught her looking away as if she didn’t see me after we made eye contact. It might not even have been her bitchiness, but just the fact that she came out of the elevator with a married man I’m acquainted with.
All this and the big rent hike that’s sure to come our way. The landlady’s taking her good old time coming up with a lucky number percentage to raise our rent by. But I’m not going to wait for her decision. I’ve already made mine.
Now if only I knew of a good place to move to.
MHV has nice trees and water fountains in the podium area, friendly security guards I haven’t seen anywhere else in Hong Kong; I’ll give them that. But for me, the problems with this place list far longer than the fact that the nice podium has turned out to be a public area.
1. Other than the Circle K and a doctor’s clinic, the “mall” downstairs just doesn’t bring any convenience. There’s a Wellcome designated for selling other branches’ leftover produce; there’s a Chinese restaurant serving food so crappy it’s only still in business because of its monopoly; there’s a cha-chaan-teng with a $40 minimum to deliver food right upstairs; there’s a tailor that handily closes at 6:30pm; while the rest of the mall doesn’t open till noon.
2. Minibus no. 12B runs a well-designed route between MHV, the MK MTR station and MK train station, but the queue for what must be the most infrequent minibus running in Hong Kong is at least 50-person long in the morning. The Olympic station is a good 10-minute walk away, through a narrow street lined with auto shops, hardware stores, dry cleaners, more auto shops, and one of those places that gathers paper and metal scraps from garbage for reselling. The walk leaves me drenched in sweat every morning before I even reach the station. Not to mention one can never feel the AC on the platform of the Olympic station, except for the blast that leaks out the doorway whenever the control room staff comes out of his glass house.
3. I don’t need to study fengshui to know that it’s a bad idea to live next to a funeral home. Mind you I already work next to one. I’ve been too squeamish to go through the details, but one can easily find online lists of “haunted flats” in MHV where residents/visitors have committed suicides.
4. The flat’s most definitely infested; I just can’t determine whether it’s with mold or dust bunnies. I haven’t seen this much mold since my friend’s science project in grade six. And for the amount of dust on my floor, it may as well be the cover of an antique book of witches’ brew recipes hidden in some geeky kid’s attic. I’ve given up hope of ever getting the place clean again, and can’t bear using the apartment for much more than sleeping and showering in. The situation is so hopeless I think I’m starting to grasp the reasons behind the high suicide rate here.
5. J’s skanky ex-coworker lives in Tower 3. Not that I’m threatened by an unattractive divorcee, but to this day I just can’t think of one good reason for her to have called up J at midnight to borrow a hammer. I’m as tired of trying to figure out what her problem is as I know she is tired of having to force phony smiles at me in front of J. This point was proven on Saturday when I bumped into her in the lift lobby and caught her looking away as if she didn’t see me after we made eye contact. It might not even have been her bitchiness, but just the fact that she came out of the elevator with a married man I’m acquainted with.
All this and the big rent hike that’s sure to come our way. The landlady’s taking her good old time coming up with a lucky number percentage to raise our rent by. But I’m not going to wait for her decision. I’ve already made mine.
Now if only I knew of a good place to move to.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Updates
On the last day of my three-year warranty, I finally took my Toshiba Portégé to the repair center in Kowloon Bay. And on the last day of the Year of the Pig, it was returned to me, with a brand new keyboard and hard disk. It's a bitch having to reinstall everything, but at least it no longer takes half an hour to boot up my computer.
***
After too many days of suffering from the icy toes syndrome despite constantly hiding under the weight of multiple layers of insulation, J and I decided to get two pairs of fuzzy slippers to keep our feet warm at home. We walked around all day today between Women's Street in Mong Kok and Temple Street in Yo Mama Tei looking for the shoe-shaped kind that wrapped around the heals as well, but had no luck finding ones big enough to fit J's fat feet. I finally settled for a pair of Totoro slippers and J a pair of Yoshi (which was still too small) just before dinner time, at $50 each. Of course, it's only natural that winter ended at the precise moment the $100 left J's hands.
***
If I were still working at MPL, tomorrow would be a day of red-packet collecting, gambling, company-paid dim sum lunch, and leaving early for more gambling at the boss' home. This is the first time since I quit that I miss my old job.
***
It's amazing how little time it takes for someone who despises tabloids as I do to turn into a complete sucker for everything Edison Chen.
Summer of 2000, I spotted a cute guy at Pacific Place one day and made a casual comment about him to my then boyfriend. I had been out of touch with Hong Kong's entertainment industry for too long and was only told later ― when I no longer remembered the incident ― that the cute guy was Edison Chen, a then new singer/whatever. Despite his mediocre work, I’ve always thought he was at least pretty to look at. Just hadn’t thought I'd get to see so much of him one day.
Coincidentally, my then boyfriend thought Cecilia Cheung was a goddess. I can't imagine how happy he is now.
***
After too many days of suffering from the icy toes syndrome despite constantly hiding under the weight of multiple layers of insulation, J and I decided to get two pairs of fuzzy slippers to keep our feet warm at home. We walked around all day today between Women's Street in Mong Kok and Temple Street in Yo Mama Tei looking for the shoe-shaped kind that wrapped around the heals as well, but had no luck finding ones big enough to fit J's fat feet. I finally settled for a pair of Totoro slippers and J a pair of Yoshi (which was still too small) just before dinner time, at $50 each. Of course, it's only natural that winter ended at the precise moment the $100 left J's hands.
***
If I were still working at MPL, tomorrow would be a day of red-packet collecting, gambling, company-paid dim sum lunch, and leaving early for more gambling at the boss' home. This is the first time since I quit that I miss my old job.
***
It's amazing how little time it takes for someone who despises tabloids as I do to turn into a complete sucker for everything Edison Chen.
Summer of 2000, I spotted a cute guy at Pacific Place one day and made a casual comment about him to my then boyfriend. I had been out of touch with Hong Kong's entertainment industry for too long and was only told later ― when I no longer remembered the incident ― that the cute guy was Edison Chen, a then new singer/whatever. Despite his mediocre work, I’ve always thought he was at least pretty to look at. Just hadn’t thought I'd get to see so much of him one day.
Coincidentally, my then boyfriend thought Cecilia Cheung was a goddess. I can't imagine how happy he is now.
Friday, November 16, 2007
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Fear Factor
Just received a New York Life 2008 desk calendar from my insurance agent. I'm sure she meant to use the calendar as an excuse to see me, just to get a chance to re-ignite my interest in saving a million dollars in five years' time. She had worked out the math for me five months ago, but because I decided to ditch my job and spend a month in France and Italy, the million dollars had to wait. I could almost hear her jaw dropping over the phone two days ago when I told her that I had quit my new job and was—again—in no position to invest.Usually by this time of the year, I'd be giddy in anticipation of my favorite holiday season. But having spent all my savings over the past three months and with no real job prospect in sight, I'm feeling less and less prepared for even another day.
Definitely not ready for the New Year.
I've noticed that my insurance agent is almost too eager to talk about illnesses and death every time we meet. She'd start with harmless info sharing like where she just purchased a wok for $99; property prices around the area; her mother-in-law's habit of collecting cans from garbage bins… but then she'd always find a way to bring up her health problems, her husband's health problems, her friend's health problems, and her friend's friend's health problems.
This time, it was lupus.
I don't think it was a coincidence that the girl she talked about died from the disease at around my age. There must be a module in Insurance 101 called "How to keep your clients scared shitless".
I've been contributing a good amount to my insurance policy every month for over three years now, and (knock on wood) the calendar is about the most I've gotten out of it. What I need now is insurance against unemployment, unsuitable employment, underpaid employment and the like—insurance that will save my ass comes January when I need to feed the government with money I don't have.
I've been contributing a good amount to my insurance policy every month for over three years now, and (knock on wood) the calendar is about the most I've gotten out of it. What I need now is insurance against unemployment, unsuitable employment, underpaid employment and the like—insurance that will save my ass comes January when I need to feed the government with money I don't have.
Friday, September 28, 2007
LV vs CX
Read from Apple Daily that Cathay Pacific is considering revising its in-flight safety policy about carry-on baggage, to accomodate its semi-influential tai tai passengers so as to safeguard the significant portion of business the airline has with their husbands' companies. It all started with "a high profile incident when a lady passenger got very upset when asked to place her designer handbag in overhead storage", i.e. when Mrs Kwok—wife of SHK's vice-chairman—refused to have her beloved LV bag so much as come within two feet of other passengers' cheap non-designer carry-on luggage.
What I'd like to know is how the revised policy would be enforced. Could all passengers choose to hold on to their hand baggage during take-off and landing, or would it be a waiver applicable only to Marco Polo Club members and an exclusive list of European designer labels?
Either way, Cathay Pacific can say goodbye to in-flight safety. The whole having to stow away your hand baggage during take-off and landing thing has been as strictly executed by flight attendents as it's been greatly appreciated by even momentarily annoyed passengers. God forbids, in the case of an evacuation, the last thing I'd want is loose items flying around and blocking my way to the nearest exit. But it's pretty clear that in the case of an evacuation, prestigious passengers like Mrs Kwok are the exact same people who would insist on first retrieving their beloved LVs and Fendi's even if they had been stowed away in the overhead compartment.
I think this opens up exciting new business opportunities. Cathay Pacific could look into baggage fares for designer bags—for an additional fee, passengers can make use of a velvet-lined slot next to the passenger seat that provides a cushioned fit for most designer bags. Whereas LV, Fendi and the like could look into new lines of in-flight protective bag storage for the S/S '08 collection—clamshell cases specially engineered to protect their designer bags against bumps and scratches inside overhead compartments.
NB:
1. I like Cathay Pacific. Getting bumped up to business class on my Hong Kong-to-Rome flight was a highlight of my Europe trip.
2. I like Louis Vuitton. Before I even saw the Eiffel Tower I went and spent a small fortune at their shop in Lafayette.
What I'd like to know is how the revised policy would be enforced. Could all passengers choose to hold on to their hand baggage during take-off and landing, or would it be a waiver applicable only to Marco Polo Club members and an exclusive list of European designer labels?
Either way, Cathay Pacific can say goodbye to in-flight safety. The whole having to stow away your hand baggage during take-off and landing thing has been as strictly executed by flight attendents as it's been greatly appreciated by even momentarily annoyed passengers. God forbids, in the case of an evacuation, the last thing I'd want is loose items flying around and blocking my way to the nearest exit. But it's pretty clear that in the case of an evacuation, prestigious passengers like Mrs Kwok are the exact same people who would insist on first retrieving their beloved LVs and Fendi's even if they had been stowed away in the overhead compartment.
I think this opens up exciting new business opportunities. Cathay Pacific could look into baggage fares for designer bags—for an additional fee, passengers can make use of a velvet-lined slot next to the passenger seat that provides a cushioned fit for most designer bags. Whereas LV, Fendi and the like could look into new lines of in-flight protective bag storage for the S/S '08 collection—clamshell cases specially engineered to protect their designer bags against bumps and scratches inside overhead compartments.
NB:
1. I like Cathay Pacific. Getting bumped up to business class on my Hong Kong-to-Rome flight was a highlight of my Europe trip.
2. I like Louis Vuitton. Before I even saw the Eiffel Tower I went and spent a small fortune at their shop in Lafayette.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Losers Weepers
Reader's Digest should've saved some time and money running their honesty test in Hong Kong. Without even knowing that only four out of 10 people would return lost cell phones to their owners, 10 out of 10 could've told you that Hong Kong is the single most dishonest city outside of Mainland China.
Again, Toronto ranked among the top of the honesty chart, with 28 out of 30 "lost" cell phones returned. I'm really starting to think I made the wrong move leaving Toronto, not to mention choosing to settle in Hong Kong of all places.
It should be noted that used cell phones are worthless in most North American and European cities. If it's not worth anything, there's naturally no urge to keep it, right? I'm not trying to justify Hong Kong's deficiency of good Samaritans with our happening second-hand electronics market. I'm just saying.
The more interesting find is that most people who see an unattended cell phone would simply walk away, no matter in which city. Apparently honesty can be nourished by the cultural setting we're in, but lack of concern for others is innate in humanity.
Anyone who's ever lost a cell phone would understand the agony of having to retrieve all the contacts, semi-important messages, photos, and what not nowadays with the unstoppable boom of the almighty digital device. I think anyone who's been blessed enough to have a lost cell phone returned to them would know better than to keep someone else's lost phone, because they would understand that a cell phone's value is not in its going rate on the second-hand market, but the content that's stored inside.
Pay it forward, anyone?
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Would Love Some Suggestions...
I've only seen five places so far, but apartment hunting is already wearing me out. While I'm not ready to give up the convenience provided by a serviced apartment/hotel, the rent seems to be getting a little too high to call affordable.
"Serviced apartment" seems to be the buzzword of the year. Two of my friends fresh off the boat from Toronto are staying in the new Royal View Hotel in Tsuen Wan. They both live by themselves and hence can feel comfortable in 4XX sq ft studio flats. The rent is reasonable because they signed up a few months back, but has already gone up considerably since.
Another friend not as fresh off the boat but also from Toronto is sick of her snobby roommate and is now looking for a serviced apartment to move into. She will also live by herself, but after seeing The Lodge in Jordan last night, realizes that she will have a difficult time feeling comfortable in anything smaller than 600 sq ft. Good luck to her.
Both Harbourview Horizon and Harbourfront Horizon in Hung Hom are nice. But their self-claimed occupancy is so very high, making their advertised rate is as big a lie as their billboard outside the Hung Hom train station.
The bigger problem is that regular apartments aren't really any cheaper, considering all the rates and deposits. Not to mention all the extra purchases of furniture and upholstery.
This weather hasn't helped the apartment hunting experience one bit. When it's not pouring it's simply too damn hot. With less than two months to go before my current lease term ends, the pressing need for a decision is eating me up.
"Serviced apartment" seems to be the buzzword of the year. Two of my friends fresh off the boat from Toronto are staying in the new Royal View Hotel in Tsuen Wan. They both live by themselves and hence can feel comfortable in 4XX sq ft studio flats. The rent is reasonable because they signed up a few months back, but has already gone up considerably since.
Another friend not as fresh off the boat but also from Toronto is sick of her snobby roommate and is now looking for a serviced apartment to move into. She will also live by herself, but after seeing The Lodge in Jordan last night, realizes that she will have a difficult time feeling comfortable in anything smaller than 600 sq ft. Good luck to her.
Both Harbourview Horizon and Harbourfront Horizon in Hung Hom are nice. But their self-claimed occupancy is so very high, making their advertised rate is as big a lie as their billboard outside the Hung Hom train station.
The bigger problem is that regular apartments aren't really any cheaper, considering all the rates and deposits. Not to mention all the extra purchases of furniture and upholstery.
This weather hasn't helped the apartment hunting experience one bit. When it's not pouring it's simply too damn hot. With less than two months to go before my current lease term ends, the pressing need for a decision is eating me up.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
So Maid
Growing up in a traditional mid-income household, I’d never had a domestic helper. Mom, being a full-time housewife, took care of all the cooking, cleaning and laundry until I was old enough (i.e. the age of six, according to the rule book in this traditional mid-income household) to share some of the chores while my dad and brother focused on maintaining those ass prints on the couch.
I don’t mind cooking the occasional meal provided that there’s enough room in a well-equipped kitchen for me to move around in. But other than that, I never really enjoyed housework. Once in a blue moon I’d go in a trance and clean Monica style, but then my stamina never lasts long enough for me to clean anything more than one room. So I knew that the only way for the dust to not accumulate at my new home is to hire a cleaning lady.
Thanks to K, I was introduced to Ms So. She’s one mysterious lady who kind of looks like Melinda Doolittle (who sadly just got booted). All I know about her is her last name and phone number. Yet for some reason, I don’t feel as insecure about leaving her my key as I do about her making an attempt to clean up my really messy desk. I hated it enough when my mom “cleaned up” my mess, which always resulted in lost items and disputes. I really don’t need a cleaning lady who reminds me of my mom.
K had warned me that Ms So was somewhat weird; she doesn’t just accept any job that comes her way but had to interview every potential employer and inspect their place before she’d make a decision. I was so afraid she wouldn’t want to work for me that I actually cleaned my place before she came over for the inspection. Unfortunately, after two weekly cleaning sessions, I just don’t think Ms So is as clean as K said she was. I don’t like to clean but that doesn’t mean I’m not picky about cleanliness. I honestly expected whoever I paid to do my cleaning to do it Monica style. But is it rude to show a veteran how to do better in her own terrain?
What might eventually make me go psycho bitch on her though is her inability to just follow instructions. I just need someone who’d put things back to their original places, someone who doesn’t stack heavy ceramic bowls on top of thin glasses, and someone who wouldn’t repeatedly question why I want my bed sheets and towels washed every week, why I don’t wash them at home, and why I can’t take them down to the laundry room myself. Is that too much to ask?
I don’t mind cooking the occasional meal provided that there’s enough room in a well-equipped kitchen for me to move around in. But other than that, I never really enjoyed housework. Once in a blue moon I’d go in a trance and clean Monica style, but then my stamina never lasts long enough for me to clean anything more than one room. So I knew that the only way for the dust to not accumulate at my new home is to hire a cleaning lady.
Thanks to K, I was introduced to Ms So. She’s one mysterious lady who kind of looks like Melinda Doolittle (who sadly just got booted). All I know about her is her last name and phone number. Yet for some reason, I don’t feel as insecure about leaving her my key as I do about her making an attempt to clean up my really messy desk. I hated it enough when my mom “cleaned up” my mess, which always resulted in lost items and disputes. I really don’t need a cleaning lady who reminds me of my mom.
K had warned me that Ms So was somewhat weird; she doesn’t just accept any job that comes her way but had to interview every potential employer and inspect their place before she’d make a decision. I was so afraid she wouldn’t want to work for me that I actually cleaned my place before she came over for the inspection. Unfortunately, after two weekly cleaning sessions, I just don’t think Ms So is as clean as K said she was. I don’t like to clean but that doesn’t mean I’m not picky about cleanliness. I honestly expected whoever I paid to do my cleaning to do it Monica style. But is it rude to show a veteran how to do better in her own terrain?
What might eventually make me go psycho bitch on her though is her inability to just follow instructions. I just need someone who’d put things back to their original places, someone who doesn’t stack heavy ceramic bowls on top of thin glasses, and someone who wouldn’t repeatedly question why I want my bed sheets and towels washed every week, why I don’t wash them at home, and why I can’t take them down to the laundry room myself. Is that too much to ask?
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Open Season
A new level of hell known as H&M hit Hong Kong like a storm last weekend. I knew better than to set foot anywhere near the store within the first three months of its debut. But with a friend in desperate need for new work clothes, I sucked it in and ventured into Hell&More last night.
Hong Kongers are suckers for queues. The longer the queue, the stronger the desire to be in it. It doesn't matter what they get in the end, the mentality being that it must be something good if so many people are already lining up for it. While I stood at the end of the line just a few steps away from the escalator that leads up to Soho, I couldn't help but wonder how those old ladies feel every time they line up for those ironically named "fortune rice".
Much like the bouncers at Volar, the crew of security guards outside of H&M had too much authority. There were at least seven guards along the queue, and so many more inside the store. No idling was allowed in the queue, so I was practically pushed into the store even though my friend hadn't yet arrived. No idling was allowed anywhere near the entrance of the store either, so I was stuck peeking at the doorway from afar behind racks of Madonna's designs. And of course, when my friend finally arrived, I couldn't just bring her in. "Your names aren't on the guest list," the guards might as well have said. Their excuse was that their supervisor was watching and they couldn't just let people in. After a lot of reasoning on my side and not listening on theirs, they finally turned their heads away and my friend arrived safely in Hell&More.
Like a mass burial site for poor-quality clothing, the mediocre work of various designers lied around tables, racks and the floor. Shoppers in autopilot mode dug through the piles like maggots in a lettuce. The ruins were too grave for the staff to recover in time; I'd imagine them working through to midnight every night trying to put everything back where they belong after the store closes. Some of the racks were placed so close together that with the crowds in there create giant lab mazes. We're the lab mice, of course. I found myself feeling claustrophobic trying to get out of the white shirts corner. All but one staff refused to offer any help to shoppers, who are told to find their own sizes, with hints on which corner of the store the item was originally placed. It was like a very challenging treasure hunt, only without a treasure map or a treasure.
What I witnessed last night was a phenomenon, one much more remarkable than the clothes that are currently being hunted by half of Hong Kong. There were basic tank tops I could've gotten for mixing and matching purposes; I could've even picked out a few accessories if I wanted. But there was nothing I wanted more than to get the hell out of there. My friend made the wise decision to try on the clothes right there in front of the first mirror she saw, instead of waiting for a fitting room. But there was no avoiding the 30min queue to ring up her kill.
Hong Kongers are suckers for queues. The longer the queue, the stronger the desire to be in it. It doesn't matter what they get in the end, the mentality being that it must be something good if so many people are already lining up for it. While I stood at the end of the line just a few steps away from the escalator that leads up to Soho, I couldn't help but wonder how those old ladies feel every time they line up for those ironically named "fortune rice".
Much like the bouncers at Volar, the crew of security guards outside of H&M had too much authority. There were at least seven guards along the queue, and so many more inside the store. No idling was allowed in the queue, so I was practically pushed into the store even though my friend hadn't yet arrived. No idling was allowed anywhere near the entrance of the store either, so I was stuck peeking at the doorway from afar behind racks of Madonna's designs. And of course, when my friend finally arrived, I couldn't just bring her in. "Your names aren't on the guest list," the guards might as well have said. Their excuse was that their supervisor was watching and they couldn't just let people in. After a lot of reasoning on my side and not listening on theirs, they finally turned their heads away and my friend arrived safely in Hell&More.
Like a mass burial site for poor-quality clothing, the mediocre work of various designers lied around tables, racks and the floor. Shoppers in autopilot mode dug through the piles like maggots in a lettuce. The ruins were too grave for the staff to recover in time; I'd imagine them working through to midnight every night trying to put everything back where they belong after the store closes. Some of the racks were placed so close together that with the crowds in there create giant lab mazes. We're the lab mice, of course. I found myself feeling claustrophobic trying to get out of the white shirts corner. All but one staff refused to offer any help to shoppers, who are told to find their own sizes, with hints on which corner of the store the item was originally placed. It was like a very challenging treasure hunt, only without a treasure map or a treasure.
What I witnessed last night was a phenomenon, one much more remarkable than the clothes that are currently being hunted by half of Hong Kong. There were basic tank tops I could've gotten for mixing and matching purposes; I could've even picked out a few accessories if I wanted. But there was nothing I wanted more than to get the hell out of there. My friend made the wise decision to try on the clothes right there in front of the first mirror she saw, instead of waiting for a fitting room. But there was no avoiding the 30min queue to ring up her kill.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Puke
Ran into the eating-disorder woman for the second time today. I still don't know who she is. All I know is that she's from the social welfares department next to our office. She seems to only appear when I'm busy taking care of my own business and cannot come out of the bathroom stall in time to get a glimpse of her. Both times I was greeted with belching noises followed by the sound of her lunch moving in reverse into the toilet bowl, accompanied by the lingering odor of her stomach acid.
I can still remember bawling uncontrollably as a kid every time I vomited from a stomach virus. I cried because I felt sorry for myself, because I knew I didn't deserve to feel as nasty as it did to have acidic content gush upward in the esophagus. As a grownup, I don't get stomach virus as often as I get drunk. It's the same unpleasant feeling of having to regurgitate a meal that makes everyone say "I'm never drinking again", though most of everyone easily caves the next time around.I was the star of a memorable puking episode that took place in a drinking buddy's basement. I knew I had to puke but I could never get to the bathroom in time. Took me well over half the night to maneuver my drunken body over what seemed like 15km from the living room to the bathroom. Nobody was willing to pause their drinking long enough to offer any help, but the owner of the house did eventually provide me with a plastic bag, a roll of paper towels and a bottle of carpet cleaner. I ended up leaving three giant orange stains on her beige carpet anyway. What can I say, I was too drunk to aim for the inside of the bag, and red wine stains are a bitch to clean even for a sober person. The stains were really orange though, because of the Cheetos I'd been snacking on with the drinks, and the odor of its half-digested form made everyone swear off cheese forever. I'm not proud of this story (except when I take into account that the little bitch stole my boyfriend a couple months later).
What I don’t get is why anyone past the age of 23 would put themselves through this kind of agony when they have the option not to. And it’s not even like she gets to enjoy the high from the alcohol. Sure she gets the high from tasting the food, but for me, satisfaction from eating includes keeping it down. From what I hear, this woman is middle aged and average looking. She works for the social welfares department, which is about the furthest thing to modeling. There isn't any obvious reason for her to be 90lbs. Recalling the first time I’d heard a colleague’s complaint about the smell of puke in the bathroom, this woman must’ve been belching like this for at least two years. Either she's down to her skeleton by now or she's been doing it wrong all this time. I feel sorry for her. I wanted to talk to her, mostly because I believe she'd have an interesting story to tell. I feel like she and I would have some kind of a connection, since I’m having a similar problem with my eating habits, just to the opposite extreme.
I can still remember bawling uncontrollably as a kid every time I vomited from a stomach virus. I cried because I felt sorry for myself, because I knew I didn't deserve to feel as nasty as it did to have acidic content gush upward in the esophagus. As a grownup, I don't get stomach virus as often as I get drunk. It's the same unpleasant feeling of having to regurgitate a meal that makes everyone say "I'm never drinking again", though most of everyone easily caves the next time around.I was the star of a memorable puking episode that took place in a drinking buddy's basement. I knew I had to puke but I could never get to the bathroom in time. Took me well over half the night to maneuver my drunken body over what seemed like 15km from the living room to the bathroom. Nobody was willing to pause their drinking long enough to offer any help, but the owner of the house did eventually provide me with a plastic bag, a roll of paper towels and a bottle of carpet cleaner. I ended up leaving three giant orange stains on her beige carpet anyway. What can I say, I was too drunk to aim for the inside of the bag, and red wine stains are a bitch to clean even for a sober person. The stains were really orange though, because of the Cheetos I'd been snacking on with the drinks, and the odor of its half-digested form made everyone swear off cheese forever. I'm not proud of this story (except when I take into account that the little bitch stole my boyfriend a couple months later).
What I don’t get is why anyone past the age of 23 would put themselves through this kind of agony when they have the option not to. And it’s not even like she gets to enjoy the high from the alcohol. Sure she gets the high from tasting the food, but for me, satisfaction from eating includes keeping it down. From what I hear, this woman is middle aged and average looking. She works for the social welfares department, which is about the furthest thing to modeling. There isn't any obvious reason for her to be 90lbs. Recalling the first time I’d heard a colleague’s complaint about the smell of puke in the bathroom, this woman must’ve been belching like this for at least two years. Either she's down to her skeleton by now or she's been doing it wrong all this time. I feel sorry for her. I wanted to talk to her, mostly because I believe she'd have an interesting story to tell. I feel like she and I would have some kind of a connection, since I’m having a similar problem with my eating habits, just to the opposite extreme.
Monday, February 19, 2007
It's Hot Hot Hot
Though most people would describe today's weather as "pleasant", a highest temperature of 25.3°C in the middle of February--the highest ever recorded for a Chinese New Year's Day--is hella scary. I can't imagine what summer's going to be like in the Year of the Pig.
While we continue to ignore the pressing need to save our planet, I couldn't help but notice the final sale going on around town. One of the perks global warming brings is the earlier and bigger sale of fall/winter fashion. If we could just get a couple more days below 20, I wouldn't have to wait a year to show off my new coat.
It's official that we've passed the point of no return. My plan is to make the most out of as many more of the premature fall/winter season-end sales as possible before I get the hell outta Hong Kong and migrate somewhere where winters are still cold and residents at least aren't as shortsighted as to keep the air conditioner at 16°C everyday, all year round. I'll also make sure I don't have any offspring, because unless we can afford to move to Mars, my grandchildren won't be able to live past adolescence.
While we continue to ignore the pressing need to save our planet, I couldn't help but notice the final sale going on around town. One of the perks global warming brings is the earlier and bigger sale of fall/winter fashion. If we could just get a couple more days below 20, I wouldn't have to wait a year to show off my new coat.
It's official that we've passed the point of no return. My plan is to make the most out of as many more of the premature fall/winter season-end sales as possible before I get the hell outta Hong Kong and migrate somewhere where winters are still cold and residents at least aren't as shortsighted as to keep the air conditioner at 16°C everyday, all year round. I'll also make sure I don't have any offspring, because unless we can afford to move to Mars, my grandchildren won't be able to live past adolescence.
Tuesday, January 2, 2007
Save Our Night Scenery
Walked out the door this morning to my fresh start for the new year, only to be greeted by air that was anything but. As if a crew of burglars had swept the streets in the middle of the night and robbed the New Territories of its signature fresh air, my entire 10-minute walk to the bus stop smelled like Marlboros, although not a single smoker was in sight. Did I just get a taste of the new smoke-free Hong Kong? Is this what it's going to be like now that smokers are banned from huffing and puffing indoors?
Was lucky enough to countdown to the new year while looking at Hong Kong's beautiful night scenery under very clear skies. How long do we have till this famous sight gets completely eaten away by our city's infamous coat of smog? This is the equivalent of a terminal illness for any old hood, let alone "Asia's world city", and we're in the final stage.
Last picture taken in 2006
Was lucky enough to countdown to the new year while looking at Hong Kong's beautiful night scenery under very clear skies. How long do we have till this famous sight gets completely eaten away by our city's infamous coat of smog? This is the equivalent of a terminal illness for any old hood, let alone "Asia's world city", and we're in the final stage.
Last picture taken in 2006
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
