when called up by a girlfriend

When called up by girlfriend because she has relationship problems, the wise thing to do is to is always listen and repeat what she talks and then occasionally throw in something like “I can’t believe he did that!”; “I am so sorry to hear that!”; “he will finally grow up one day” “really, oh my god!”…

That was exactly what I did, when this girlfriend told me about her boyfriend cheating on her and thinking about breaking up. This was a typical perfect couple, the girl is Chinese, guy French, used to live together in Paris. Six months ago, they decided to move to China for a new adventure and get married over there. They both found jobs, but one ended up in Beijing and the other in Shanghai, the two places don’t seem to be so far away seeing from here, it is after all 1h 30 flight a part. Numerous fights during the 6 months and she caught him cheating couple of times, now seems everything is too late. I ended the conversation with her not giving much real advice other than some politically correct BS. A couple of hours later, it bothered me so much, I called her back:

Ana: I thought about it more, I think if you still love him, you should forgive him
GF: how? Even if I forgive him, how can I trust him?
Ana: Then try trusting him
…

Maybe it is only easily said, would I be able to forgive just like that? What if she never found out that he cheated on her, wouldn’t it have been easier? Am I just lucky to have dated honest guys in the past? Or were they just better liars? Or because I never tried to find out the truth? So is my girlfriend just suffering because she made too much effort to find out about the truth?

I suppose I only want someone who is sincere about his feelings, but I don’t need all the truth, I am not interested in knowing all of it if it is going to upset me.

A few boring words on “the secret life of words”…

Tuesday nights are not the best nights for movies, as in Paris, the new releases come out every Wednesday. Despite the low ratings from critics, I went to see the new movie from Isabel Coixet – “The secret life of words”.

This is my first movie of the Young Spanish Director, it would be difficult for me to make any comparison with her earlier works. Story is set on an oil rig in the middle of no where, Josef (played by Tom Robbins) suffers from severe burn injury from an accident and also temporarily lost his eye sight. Hanna (played by Sarah Polly) a former nurse was brought to take care of him. The bedside conversations revealed stories and past in both characters and in the end led to a strong emotional tie between the two. Hanna being a war refugee from ex-Yugoslavia now Croatia, lives an isolated and simple life in Copenhagen working on an assembly line of a plastic factory to forget her past. The encounter with Josef and the rest of the crew on the oil rig was accidental, yet it revealed much more about people who want to be left alone from the society to live a very particular life on an oil rig.

I quiet enjoyed the movie, as both Sarah Polly and Tom Robbins were excellent in their roles and the characters were very interesting. I am personally very intrigued by the this type of encounters. Overall, conversations rather witty and followed a rhythm of the ocean waves. The soundtrack is amazingly good, I am going to download it illegally soon. However, there are many things which bothered me:

- As Josef (Tim Robbins) walked out of the hospital after his recovery, he looked just a bit too healthy and sexy with a pair of too expensive jeans; must have been Armani or Dolce & Gabbana. Sorry for noticing these details, but it was just not credible.

- The scene of the Josef meeting Hanna’s consular was too forced and a bit awkward. The director was accused of making the same movie by the press (I imagine she already used this subject in a previous film), which did not bother me; yet an open talk about the pain and suffering from Armenians, Jews and ex-Yugoslavians was a bit too much.

- The relationship between Josef and Hanna is intimate in a psychological and emotional way, it goes beyond a simple love affaire. When Josef finally found Hanna, a French kiss is just strange to express their emotions, not to mention the huge difference in height (between Tim Robbins and Sarah Polly) which made this kiss even more difficult.

- Happy ending of the two getting married and having two kids were so un-necessary that I almost wanted to defend the director by saying “it probably is the idea of the producer or the marketing team”. Who knows.

These are my words, I probably focused a bit more on critiquing than appreciating. It is still worth seeing if you haven’t; if you have, what are some of your thoughts then?

rocker the rollers

I spent all my teenage years dreaming of becoming a rock star, yet I never became one and I don’t even listen to rock ‘n roll that much these days, is it because of my new bobo life style or the slow aging effect? Last night, however, I relived my teenage years at a rock concert, screaming, dancing and falling all over the place…

A normal Thursday night, people are ready to go out and are looking for reasons to go out. I was invited by a friend to this pop rock concert, because her boyfriend is playing. Small club in the Marais, unknown group. I decided to stop by, because it was 5 minutes walking distance and like anybody else, I was looking for a reason to go out.

About 11 o’clock at night, the basement of this little club was packed, group went on stage, it consisted, a singer, two guitarist, one base player, on drummer. Here comes the inevitable question again, if I want to become a rock star which position should I play?

For the longest time, I thought the best position was base, because I could wear my hair in a curly puffy explosion, smoke cigarettes and play base in the back. Somehow, this was tightly associated with the idea of living in Austin, Texas, where I would have gigs every night with different groups and never get bored of the same music. Then, after, I thought the drummer was really cool. Because I could cut my hair really shot, dye it orange, and be the kick ass female drummer of the century. In that case, I would live in Charlotte, North Carolina. Or should I just be the key board player, highly high tech with head set and sunglasses all the time; there, I would live in New York City. The idea of playing guitar and singing once crossed my mind, but I could only imagine me playing rather slow and sad songs, and I would end up living in Louisville, Kentucky which would make it even sadder.

Here I was sipping on a virgin mojito, and almost falling in love with the singer who does not even play one single musical instrument, I finally realise that the best position is always the lead singer.

As I was walking home at 2 am, I hear myself singing an old song by Pavement, rather amazed how I managed to actually remember the words…

Darlin’ don’t you go and cut your hair
Do you think it’s gonna make him change?
I’m just a boy with a new haircut
And that’s a pretty nice haircut
Charge it like a puzzle, hit me wearin’ muzzles
Hesitate to die, look around, around, the second drummer’s drowned
His telephone is found

Music scene is crazy,
bands start up each and every day
I saw another one just the other day
A special new band
I remember lyingI don’t remember lies
I don’t remember what
But I don’t care, I care, I really don’t care
Did you see the drummer’s hair?

don't eat bread!

I believe Jews and Chinese are naturally friends. I love the jews, because every Sunday the entire Paris is closed, I can always go to the jewish neigbourhood and continue my shoe shopping spree. Many jewish friends in America go to Chinese restuarants during Christmas time, because those are the only ones open.

Yesterday however, late at night, I went on a website of a store in NYC to order a piece of camera equipment, the entire website was closed. It is in fact closed all week. I know for fact that it is run by orthodox jews in Manhattan, so I called a Jewish friend who confirmed to me that it is indeed a big jewish holiday. So I suppose jewish people are just so thorough in their religious celebrations, they even shut down their internet sites, not like they need shop keepers for their websites.

I am really very impressed, and so for that, dear friends, don't eat bread!!! Whatever you do, just don't eat bread!!! Although I am not entirely sure why they don't eat bread for this holiday, to pay jewish people some respect, let's not eat bread.

(*we chinese just eat rice :)), that's why jews and chinese are friends by nature*)

aMbitious gardeneR

Ambitious is definitely a positive word in American English, so I tend to think that ambitious is indeed a good thing.

In the small 40 something square meter apartment, I have a virtual garden which expands to almost 50 acres of open land. Here are some previous, current and future attempts to cultivate this land:

- Basil leaves: I bought these small envelopes each of which were filled with at least a thousand basil seeds. I was thinking if I plant those seeds in various pots, they will grow, and I will have lots of basil leaves to cook with: basil chicken, pasta sauce, omelets, salads, etc. Since I have many pots, I will pick from one pot to cook one dish one day, and another pot to cook another dish another day; and as I keep picking, they would keep growing. Wouldn’t that be cool? Sadly, I only saw some green stuff coming out of the mud, they never turned into actual basil leaves. My land must not be rich enough.

Narcisse are these beautiful white flowers often used to decorate the house in winter time as I was growing up. Despite the objection of the florist (he said I should plant them in a pot), I insisted to put the bulb in the water thinking as long as I put enough nutrition, they will just grow fine. Result: it took 5 months for the leaves to come out, but now they are almost a meter high due to daily nutrition supplements. They certainly don’t look like innocent and feminine narcisse anymore; I believe they are ready for the NBA recruitment season.

Cactus: to ensure desert climate, I put them on the indoor heater during the winter season to create a micro-climate within my apartment, and they became like this….

Orchids: I love orchids and I keep buying them, they have a very low metabolism I believe. Not that they will not die on me, it just takes soooo much longer before they actually die… it at least gives the ambitious gardener some hope in the long dark and desperate winter.

Should I tell you more?

It is Spring time again and the perfect season to plant ….something… I am thinking:

· I love olives, if I get an olive tree, maybe I can eat olives in the Fall and pickle them, and put them in jars and give them to my friends as Christmas gifts.
· Tomatos: they are so good when picked fresh. I would like to have a few different kinds, those pink ones, the cherry one, and those green ones, they are so good. But maybe I don’t have enough light in the apartment; hum...I am sure I can find those high tech lamps that will provide all the necessary lighting.
· Should I get cactus again, it is really pretty easy, I will just leave it alone this time, no more heaters.
· Bamboos, they make the apartment look so Zen, and I can even organize tea tasting parties and people will come in there hats as if they are invited by the Queen to the buckingham palace.

Dear friends, what do you think?

Rice Cookers and those who made them…

“How aaa yiu, am flom Jaaaapaan…”, “I am from shanghai, do you know how to eat with chopsticks”, “I am Vietnamese.” “ I grew up in Soeul, haaav ui eard off Soeul, it is a big city ….”, “ I am from Taiwan, not China”… I am not sure since when, Saturday evening at night clubs, you see these Asian women everywhere, London, New York, Paris, Berlin, Rome… wherever you go, these skinny, flat faces and small breasts dressed in sexy outfits are moving their bodies to the rhythm of 21st century invading the entire planet. They think they are goddesses and western men love them.

Hahahaha, stop laughing, yes, I am one of them, I have to confess. No matter how often I bleach my hair and how many steak tartars I eat each day, I amstill Chinese. To be more precise, made in China, re-assembled in America and exported to France. I speak English with a Chinese accent, French with an English accent and Italian with a French accent, all this just to add more charm to my rather plain physical appearance.

Rice Cooker, is a term loosely defined as occidental men who appreciate Asian women, maybe in a rather excessive way. Asian meaning: Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Thai, Vietnamese, Malaysian and etc but excluding Indians (they eat rice, but without chopsticks, so, sorry out!).

• Rice Cooker Model I: occasional Rice Cookers, men who date Asian women but also interested in other women.
• Rice Cooker model II: dedicated Rice Cookers whose only mission in life is to cook rice, no vegetables, no meat or anything else.

Occasionally, Model I can slowly become Model II through genetic mutation.

Did Rice Cookers came into being before Asian Goddesses ? or did Goddesses make the Rice Cookers? It is such an profound question which have been troubling many modern day sociologists, and is a topic which deserves some in-depth discussion.

As a Chinese myself, I would like to think that we women created men, so we converted normal, intelligent and sensible men into Rice Cookers. Me, myself is a research and development centre of this particular type of cooking utensils. I successfully turned all my ex-boyfriends into Rice Cookers; as they go on with their lives to cook other rice other than Chinese rice, I hope they remember to pay me royalties in the future.

Yet the dilemma being that, I don’t like Rice Cookers, I am scared of them. I tried to hide my identity so that my blog spot does not attract Rice Cookers, especially Model II. They often mistaken in the following ways:

- As long as I am rice, I want to be cooked
- As long as they are western, they have the right to cook rice
- All Rices are the same, Koreans, Japanese, Chinese, Philippines, all the same
- I am submissive Asian woman with smooth skin and no dazzling personality

Many Asian women share these feelings, yet we continue to convert men into Rice Cookers every day, faster than the rate we actually give birth and raise our own children.

What should we do to save the world from Rice Cookers and those who made them?

masculine & feminine

One of the great things about living in France is that I feel my memory chip just got upgraded to handle those additional grammatical requirements in the French language. The most fun part is masculine and feminine of each noun.

To help myself get into the French mood, I start the day bright early (not in literary terms). After a nice hot shower to wake me up, I start running between the kitchen and my bedroom trying to get dressed and having breakfast at the same time.

I speak aloud to help myself remember: So, here is my bra, I put it on, it is masculine. I suppose French people just would like to think that everything that hold a woman’s breasts should be masculine. Then the string, it is masculine as well; but be careful if it is a panty, it is actually feminine, I suppose they have decided panties are not sexy enough to make a males worth while. Skirt, feminine of course.

Here I am in the kitchen, a bowl, masculine; spoon, feminine; cereal, not sure, I guess if the object is from modern day American culture, it is not worth defining its gender from French people’s view. I pour some milk, masculine; after a few spoon-full of cereal, I run back to the bedroom.

I find myself a nice silk shirt; alors, women’s shirts are masculine and men’s shirts are feminine, it is only logical this way.

I go back to the kitchen, finish the bowl of cereal and make myself a tea, masculine, even the honey I put in there is masculine. Honey can only and should always be masculine, of course!

I then go back to the bedroom… I will not bore you with more details, but this process obviously takes a bit longer than if I were to speak English.

Here I finished my breakfast and all dressed, all these nifty masculine and feminine objects on me, and I am ready to go out and confront the world full of other problems other than gender issues.

Yet I still spend my day wonder:

• Why would an orange be feminine and an orange juice be masculine?
• So when a Frenchman brings you flowers they are feminine and when a Italian brings you flowers they are masculine ?
• You sail at French coast, the sea is feminine, once you arrive in Italy, it is masculine? Not sure what will happen again as you approach Spain or Portugal. Some one, enlighten me please!
• Some words actually change sex when they go from singular forms to plural forms. (example in French: délice, orgue; in Italian, way too many) How does that take place? It is as if a boy, born as a boy and when he is older, he wants to be a woman. No, not that. A boy is a boy but when there are several, they all become women? What?! Whatever…
• Are there equal number of masculine and feminine objects in each Latin language to make sure each can find their loved ones? Did they take into account some might be homosexuals? And others might decide to marry other nationalities like Japanese and English of which gender does not exist?

looking for my twin

Many years ago, an early Spring evening, it was cold and crisp like today, I met one of my twins, we were born the same year, same month and same date. His name was Reid.

I walked into a neighbourhood café in Chicago, ordered myself a bottomless coffee and an Indonesian vegetarian plate. I was a chain smoker, heavy coffee drinker and vegetarian back then, perfect combination right? Like any other nights, the café was packed, some local musicians were playing. I opened my notebook and a folded San Francisco Weekly, as I was in the midst of moving to San Francisco, this was the night to circle out the potential future apartments. Chicago is a great city but up until then it just gave me such a uncanny feeling of coldness, probably a bit too dark for my taste. My stay in the city was way too short to allow me to really feel anything.

Musicians were not bad, they played mostly folk and country stuff, several of them went up and down the little corner stage of the café. I was still concentrating on my own affaires until I heard this voice, rather original, low and strong, accompanied by an acoustic guitar, the songs were kind of like Palace Brothers meet Elliot Smith. Pop yet folky, or I should say a bit sadcore. He kept on playing and people just cheered on; apparently he was also a waiter in the café. Friends and fans packed half of the café.

I don’t remember if it was because of his songs or simply I had lots of work to do, I stayed until closing and actually got to talk to him for a few minutes as he was cleaning up.
“I loved your songs,” big smile, me.
“Thanks, do you play the guitar as well?”
“hum, I wish I could…” I really wish I could, any instrument really, “ I don’t think I have talent for music …”

Conversation went on, somehow we realised we were both Pisces and born on the same day, February 20th. Wow, so he was my twin from the other continent, I finally met him. Reid, meaning red haired, however, that did not describe him at all physically; he was more dark haired slightly barding and always had a coffee mug in his hand.

He said he would teach me guitar, I couldn’t be happier and was curious to find out about my new “twin brother”.

2 weeks, 3 guitar lessons and four cords after, I had to pack up for San Francisco. I was memorized by how similar we were and did not know what to think. At the last lesson, Reid played a new song he just wrote, called “San Francisco”, and then he gave me home work to do: “write a song with 3 cords!” He said that if I weren’t to write songs, there was no point learning how to play the guitar. What a harsh professor! He also said that the best songs ever written only used 3 cords, I had 4 to choose from.

Months later, I was in San Francisco, I wrote a song about a waitress in mini skirt working in a sushi bar falling in love with a clown who made balloons for kids at the union square. The 3 cords were: A minor, E minor and C major, probably extremely romantic yet horrible to listen to. Reid wrote me a postcard saying that I needed to stock my fridge with beers and my drawers with gummy bears because he was coming to visit me soon.

Few years later, I moved again, he never came, and I never wrote another song…

Maybe I left San Francisco too soon, or maybe he never made it there. If he is reading this blog, his twin sister is now in Paris now, he better write a new song for Paris…

I think about this encounter from time to time, it is so hazy and dreamy that I am not sure if Reid really existed. Sometimes I wonder how many twin brothers and twin sisters I have on this planet and how many of them I will actually have the chance to meet in this life time. Am I allowed to see them again if I lose sight of them completely?

... where is this going?

many talks on the cyber world and the real world

I remember an old egyptien saying - "an image is like a thousand words". So here you go, my thousand words... and this where we are going...

successful match maker going on the black list

Aside from washing hair for bartenders, I actually have a day job – professional match maker for my single friends. Due to some mere luck, I keep a very high success rate in this profession regardless of the season, traffic conditions in the city, nationalities of my clients and my own personal status (single or couple format). What I have learned in this profession over the years is that one need to take real joy in the joy of his/her clients to be really successful. One other thing I have learned is that people can be re-formatted relatively easily from “single” to “couple”, or from “couple” to “single”, as if you are formatting those diskettes from apple format to PC format. To ensure continuous flow of clients, I never ask any questions when one wish to change his/her format, I service them like a professional. The business is not that profitable, I would have to say, taking into account a few free Perriers on the initial “set-up” drinks and occasional thank you dinners from real sensible clients. I can almost safely say that I run a “non-for-profit” organisation. Hopefully the authority will soon recognise me as a warm hearted foreigner and make my salary 100% tax deductible.

Occasionally I also lose money, that happens when single friends actually cross out my name from their little black book (address book, I just learned this term). Why? Guys are worried that I keep bringing young eligible men to their new girl friends to create natural competition for them. Girls are worried that I take their men to sleazy places like Hustler’s Club on Wednesday nights (school nights are more discrete as I once educated my clients) and corrupt their souls. Result: I am the only single person left on earth. No one to hang out with, I am officially on the BLACK LIST.

Am I suffering from the demon of my own success?!

My next marketing slogan should read: “ Forget about the black list, you might be a returning client one day”!!!

Dangerous Game

of bathroom items...

I am so naturally beautiful that

I use WATER!!!

Interested?

I order cocktails and then drink water. I listen to people and ask a lot of questions. I brush my teeth before going to bed. I am not French, not English, not Cuban, but I can be blonde if you wish. I read. I sleep on the right side of the bed and only the right side. I am converted communist, baptised catholic but a want to be Buddhist. I don’t drink coffee. I don’t vote. I lost my driver’s licence and quit public transportation. I walk. I wear skirts…sometimes...with pants underneath. I do makeup within 5 minutes. I cook. Often. I don’t eat pizza. I am comfortable with my weight. I eat steaks, medium rare please! I forgive. I am not always happy with my wardrobe it is too full and too empty. I buy and I bargain. I am international, logical, rational, sentimental and emotional. I am on time. I screen my calls. I smoke sometimes. Between parties, movies, museums, concerts, sports, restaurants, parents, friends and lovers, I choose… all of them!!! I don’t do dishes. I don’t iron. I don’t do drugs. I don’t date, I just seduce…not always. I am against strikes, potato chips and spam mails. I dream, night and day. I am a woman - with lots of potentials and those potentials stay potentials… with me, I , I am me.

midnight riding

For early April, skirts might not be the best choice, especially on a speedy bike. Yet the bright sunshine came through my bedroom window in the morning called for it, so here I was riding across town after midnight in my mini-skirt. It must have been –1 degrees, I could see my breath, almost, freezing my guts out. The only solution to that is peddling as fast I could, ignoring all one way streets signs and “do not enter” signs. The next thing I knew, I was surrounded by fences, no way out. Unfortunately, the street lamps lit up me and my little skirt. Two fully armed policemen walked towards me, I suddenly realised that I was at the side door of Elysée looking like I was trying to enter the garden and attack the President of the Republic. Oh no, just let me go through, Mr. Policemen! I will never do it again. Otherwise, I have to back up 2 kilometres (actually more like 500 meters).

Those two kindest policemen showed me what “non-negotiable” meant, finally, found my way out of the blocked fences, the temperature dropped at least another 5 degrees. As I peddled away like lightening through the sidewalk in front of Hotel de Crillon, I almost hit a door man…

This morning I feel like I gained 3 kilos of muscles in my legs. Yet well protected by some safe jeans.

Arsenal vs. Juventus

Despite the smoke and beer drinking crowds, I actually enjoy football games, I believe it is one of the rare sports which is worth watching even from TV. Tonight is the second game of Arsenal vs. Juventus. If I am writing an episode of Sex and City, this looks like a tactic for urban ladies to meet guys in a highly male concentrated area – sports bars. Main character would put on some sexy dress and some beautiful Prada shoes, after crossing the bridge (ponts des arts) in the spring rain, she enters this crowded bar called Metz at Odeon, wetted hair. She made eye contacts with …..There, at least 100 Italian men, supporters for Juventus, to choose from, and another 100 – 150, English, French and other mixed nationalities. By the end of the game, she should find the love of her life.

Well, my story isn’t quiet the same. I was invited for the first game last week by a close friend from Torrino, my football buddy, they lost to Arsenal 0 : 2. As an impartial football appreciator, I really thought it was a good game, for Arsenal, yet I could not quiet cheer for them as my friend was sipping on a huge cup of beer looking all sad. Arsenal will win again tonight, so I might end up eating pizza again? (I secretly don’t like Pizza) Yet for Italians pizzas are really cures for all problems in life. Should I make up some lame excuses: dentist appointment? yoga class? Birthday party (the one I did not go to yesterday)? And then watch the game in a different place? Or hoping that Juventus wins and we get to eat sushi instead?

stRike ‘n steak tarTare

Two things I love most about Paris are strikes and steak tartares. They are both unique to France and so bloody and juicy in their own way.

I love strikes as they remind me constantly that I live in a socialist country and that we do not only value money like those Americans. When the entire public transportation system goes paralysed, I feel the blood of revolutionary French pumping in and out of Palais de Justice, across île de St. Louis and beyond boulevard exteriors, places I can not really say that I know. Today is national strike day, it gives me enough reason not to be at work on time, although my office is only 20 minutes walk and 10 minutes on my bike from home. It also gave me reason to refuse to go to an acquaintance’s birthday party which is in the 11th. Due to pure snobbism I oftentimes end up entertaining myself in one-digit arrondissements, strike day is perfect for a steak tartare - a plate of raw meat mixed with ten different sauces and a raw egg.

As a specialist, I can probably rate all the bistros in Paris according to their steak tartars, well maybe only the ones in one-digit arrondissements. A classic tartare mixes lean ground beef with Dijon mustard, ground cumin, pepper, salt, chopped spring onions, lemon juice and a raw egg. Of course there is also Olive oil. Some places also give you steak sauce, tobasco sauce, ketchup and etc. Although raw egg is optional, I believe it to be essential, it adds consistency to the meat and softens the taste. It probably isn’t the most healthy thing you can eat in the world, but this is place where you can drink and smoke whenever you want. “liberty, equality and fraternity” all expressed in this one single little plate. What I hate however is when they give you the self-service version : a pile of raw meat and a big basket of sauces. I usually use too much creativity and end up with a post modern version of steak tartare. What I really love, a little embarrassed to say, is a tarare “aller-retour” meaning slightly cooked on both sides. For most bistros, this is entirely unacceptable and the chef will just scream. Despite the screaming and chaos it might bring, I think it is always worth trying, you might just get lucky that day.

Tonight, I met up with a friend in a bistro next to Beaubourg, we both ordered steak tarare with salad and no French fries (a rather conscience low carbon hydrates diet ;)). And strike day is a lucky day for me, so I got mine “aller – retour” ed. As I was enjoying the last bit of my plate, I saw my friend eating bread with ketch up … “haha, what don’t you just get some French fries?”

It was a good day.

winter lady

Trav'ling lady,
stay awhile until the night is over.
I'm just a station on your way,
I know I'm not your lover.
Well I lived with a child of snow
when I was a soldier,
and I fought every man for her
until the nights grew colder.

She used to wear her hair like you
except when she was sleeping,
and then she'd weave it on a loom
of smoke and gold and breathing.

And why are you so quiet now
standing there in the doorway?
You chose your journey long before
you came upon this highway.

Trav'ling lady
stay awhile until the night is over.
I'm just a station on your way,
I know I'm not your lover.

teSt dRive

Italian boyfriends are like convertible cars, you just need to have one, at least once in your life time. But you realise soon enough that the beautiful convertible is not practical: when it is raining, it is no use; when it is cold, it is no use; and they make those loud noises on the high way. So you think you might trade it in for another car - a van this time! big and stable, you never get a speeding ticket in this one, and you can even sleep in it... What sort of men would be considered "van"? You still haven't found an answer for this one, you say, "well, vans are good for the winter season, now it is spring time, isn't it the perfect season fora convertible again?"

Saturday evening, house warming party thrown by an English Journalist, invited is a big international crowd. I arrived late with an slippery entrance almost dropped the champagne bottle in hand yet managed to draw attention to a good number of guests. My close friend came up to me wanting to know my view of the male presence at the party. I pointed out this very good looking guy way behind the bar. According to my friend, he was an Italian Architect, a friend of a friend of a friend of the host. Measuring the distance from my nice spot on the sofa to the bar, I decided to take on my usual strategy "passive agressive" strategy in other words-"no action". Music got louder and people started dancing, the next thing I knew I was dancing with this unknown architect who spoke french with a thick accent and very interesting grammatical errors.

In the arms of this charming Italian seducer, I suddenly realised that I was having my first test drive of the season. What sort of model is this convertible? yet to be discovered ...

Flossing and Squash

Do you ever floss your teeth before a dentist appointment ? Well, I do. And today I ate carbon hydrates from morning until evening because I had a match of squash at 21h00.

Friday night, when most girls are on their hot dates and others (less lucky ones) are home watching a cosy movie eating unhealthy pizza with their loved ones; I , played SQUASH for one hour and LOST. Yes, I lost!!! To some blond skinny looking English barrister, how could that be possible?

1. Barristers are good with words, but not supposed to be strong physically, and he did not seem to be, I have to re-evaluate these potential correlations of one’s profession and physical condition .

2. He showed up with a tee-shirt says “Foot Ball”, that just really confused me. What kind of guy would go to a squash match wearing a t-shirt saying “foot ball”? Blame on his nationality.

3. In the middle of the game, we started a debate on whether or nor people should kiss on their first date. I guess I was hoping to at least win that one, but he was ruthless.

4. Squash is perfect for those who are not so good at Tennis and want to impress people by playing such a violent game. I never thought it would bring such grief and sorrow. Maybe I should try chess instead.

Okay, the next game is Wednesday, what should I do until then? Eating carbon hydrates and flossing my teeth?