Don’t get me started on love
Once I start talking about love, nothing much can stop me in terms of waxing lyrical or just bringing in the shoe shiners–I can still string something useless but romantic just by looking at the reflection off the shone shoes. Love glimmers and startles every new lover; young or old; unsullied or wearied.
When one is elevated by love, everything comes alive; even the ants seem to greet you (Hi!) as they labour past your kitchen sink. It is that electrifying. Love has it’s mercies and sympathies but these are not yet necessary until a daunting situation arises: a wedge of lemon comes between two lovers’ spinning sweetness.
The lemony taste which would produce a pucker and squinty eyes are never intended for the kind of love you have in mind. Only heart-races and latent desire so deprived it can turn the hardest heart digestible. All these will expire in less than a year, generally speaking. Or, they may be saved and encapsulated as hard candies contained in a jar for retroactive purposes: when things get comfortable and the magic wanes. Everyone should save a jar for days when you feel like experiencing yet another dose of dizzying love, ephemeral but surely real.
An afterthought to MJ’s catchy, elusive track on love.
I love birthdays. I love having the cake ritual complete with candles gingerly nailed into the cake bed, without causing pain to the symbolic pastry. Sometimes the pain is very apparent on the birthday person’s face: Ugh, I’m x years old this year.
For me, I love having a forest of candlesticks smudging the cake face. It’s OK, you can count the number of sticks standing on the cake—I will not remember, for the fact that you would try to decipher my age and then perhaps look at me and wonder if I look like my actual age. It’s silly.
But by the time you are almost done with counting the candlesticks—removed and lying in a creamy pile–I would have pushed a piece of cake in your face.
What I really want to say to my readers is that my thirty two years on this planet has reached another milestone I never would have expected: starting my own business.
It’s like walking on a tightrope on tensioned wire in a stuffy circus tent. But I enjoy the fun of balancing a pole in my hands, willing myself to still my fears, and just focusing on getting to the other point. And I know my spectators are watching me, some nervously, mostly wishing for a successful arrival to the other end of the rope.
PS I’m always game for cakes and candles.
22 August, Monday – I know this isn’t the forest-of-candlesticks that I’d mentioned in the note. BUT, it still has its charms: tall, proud and bright.
Depeche Mode’s famous behind (Hello Dave)
Every time, after watching a Depeche Mode video on the ‘tube, I would have something to say ( well, a lot actually) about Dave Gahan. Before openly revealing my carnal appetite like some freshly gutted innards on display at the wet market, I must say that Mister Gahan’s vocal chords, one with a dramatic baritone so rich, dark and smooth… is like premium chocolate (anyone wants me to write something about some luxe cocoa product, here I am!) Or, for lack of a better word, chocolate is quite apt to use for now.
Coming back to my original intent on Mister Gahan, he is, according to a friend, and I quote: still the only man who looks good in white jeans (I concur, S****. I hope this isn’t a secret you are trying desperately to keep from the husband). Besides the white jeans phenomenon, I think he is, in my opinion, a few men (only famous personalities, please) who looks right, half-naked. Right isn’t a term that quite cut it with some of you (I can hear some of you asking what did she mean?) Imagine this with me for a few seconds, or may I assist you with a video illustrating my point. Click here.
Before I continue with Gahan’s half-nakedness, can we focus first, his meticulously tailored pants? I say meticulous for the simple visual evidence: his famous behind almost never seem to deviate from perfect angles (like a set of orbs exclusively designed for the man) that always delights impromptu admirers like myself for example. I’m not usually into a man’s rear view; only on special occasions where too much independent swaying of hips comes from a man performing to an enormous crowd. We all get carried away sometimes. I wish I could have them, too, magically without having to work it. But they’re not very important once you cover it up with dark colours and inner garment complete with reliable support–only if you wear those things. You have to be careful not to get too attached with those wonderful bluff-tools which are also found in Photoshop. The difference is, the wearer walks around with the physically Photoshopp-ed effect–real time. Now I don’t mean that rudely to get on anyone’s nerve. I believe that people who know me well do have that dollop of confidence in me that I haven’t gone spying on their behinds, just because. Dave Gahan, he’s still the man with the phenomenal behind, absolutely pleasing from various (adventurous) angles, thanks to YouTube.
PS I’m still a Martin Gore girl, his masculinity, so aligned with eyeliners and nail polish.
Milk got legs
I was the butt of harmless jokes in the office when everybody first realised that I actually brought condensed milk for my tea. It’s contained in a little canister that is pasted with a piece of yellow Post-It carved in black ink that reads: Jael – Let me know if you need some. Weeks went by and the kind of milk that I brought for tea no longer amused anybody and that marked the end of the dairy episode.
The latest occupant – my modest canister of condensed milk – sits on the first rack of a double decked structure in the minimalist fridge that people hardly pay attention to. And, the interior of the fridge is void of commonly perceived fridge contents: unpronounceable yoghurt brands sealed in chic foil, superior grade fruit juices, radiant looking fruits, fancy preserves, standard salads made from home or from cafe places.
The other occupants sit in the deep space of the door storage; a plus-sized sturdy vessel of fresh milk and an unremarkable bottle of fruit juice, which is highly suspicious of having passed its consumption date.
A little above the mini fridge, occupying the largest surface of the pantry counter sits the important bottom of a popular and powerful coffee machine, a supreme breed of its kind bearing an influential family name, decked in shiny parts – almost like royalty.
Every morning, I like to prim the teabag inside the centre of a cup, almost precisely under the nozzle of the water dispenser. With the pull of the lever, the first thrust of water running in perfect heat will send the hapless teabag to slowly rise. Thereafter, it’s the reach for the milk that hasn’t had the affections from others except from me.
As it appears on a particular morning, the contents of my condensed milk reflected a discernible difference. It proved a newfound popularity with someone else. That someone else has definitely been charitable to him or herself with each licentious helping.
Thus, a sort of check was executed via electronic mail, in hope of deterring the mysterious menace, or the cheapskate, depending on how one would look at it:
The little canister of condensed milk in the mini fridge that belongs to Jael has been running low – neither too fast nor too slow but just noticeably well-paced to safely assume that there has been more than one user besides herself. It’d be very nice to receive a word of notice if you need to scoop some from hers for your daily brew or whatever.
Good manners are never passe.
Cheapness and mystery do not go hand-in-hand. Milk thief still at large.
An anecdote that was to become a legend at my previous company: there really was a milk thief. My double agents who have remained steadfast in their investigation have yet to provide further clues to nab the guilty party.