I've got sunshine...

why I might be the biggest loser....

2008-10-30T23:22:00.005+08:00

I have a long list of annoyances in my life and my current one is this - I have had a personal trainer for seven weeks now and have gained 2 lbs. Bless her, she's everything a trainer is supposed to be, aggravatingly fit, perky, loves exercise, barks at me like a drill sergeant so whadup? And to add insult to injury, I have always been one of those bitter types who says things like, "oh yeah, it's easy to lose pregnancy weight when you are famous, have nothing better to do than obsess over eating and exercise and have a chef and a personal trainer". But now I have a personal trainer and pretty much my own chef and I am actually GETTING FATTER which can only mean one thing: celebrities may just be better than me...that's right, they may actually just have more self-discipline, be harder working and all round more committed. I think that may just be the worst news I have had in a long time.

the horror...

2008-10-20T00:39:00.004+08:00

We hosted a birthday party today for the Precious Princess, which loosely translated means we attempted the parental equivalent of a Normandy Beach landing. First off, there was a bouncy castle involved so I should have known right away that my lawyerly tendency toward seeing the potential for traumatic and life threatening injuries would cause me untold amounts of anxiety demonstrating that not only was I in denial I was also in some crazed party planning state that made me think the impossible was possible. Clearly I have been in some sort of self-loathing, bananas head space from start to finish because I allowed the Precious Princess to turn the planning for her own four year old party into this huge, overwhelming, pressure-laden thing where the possibility for failure was very real and that is never a good thing when dealing with a three foot tall person who's tolerance for disappointment is like, well, let's just say it's not very good.

And before you think that I am some sort of post-toddler party planner extraordinare, I did what any self-respecting working mother would do and outsourced the whole thing, hired a space (they catered and provided the death-trap bouncy castle) had cake and balloons ordered and delivered, had amah do loot bags; in fact, it's a miracle I didn't just hire a look-a-like for the actual party (mental note, see if possible to get look-a-like to attend five year old party, October 2009).

It's over now, I did it, more or less, I think it was more a success than a failure and I hope that the other parents don't judge me too harshly for the uber-dramatic Precious Princess breakdowns; errrmmm, in no particular order, they were: failing to win a prize at pass the parcel....screaming, jumping up and down like a lunatic....balloon dog was lost...repeat screaming and jumping.....some jostling during the cake.....repeat screaming and carrying on....ok, enough, I need a valium and a drink STAT.

bad blogger, bad, bad, blogger

2008-09-06T02:08:00.004+08:00

Well, I am chagrined to see that I haven't posted since 15 July - OMG! So much has happened, the Olympics have come and gone, I have returned to the homeland and then returned to Hong Kong and I am about to be the happiest girl in the world as I am mere hours away from being the proud new owner of a little something I like to call heaven, (or what the rest of the world calls a slingbox).

Before we get to all that excitement, let's talk about all the stuff that has pissed me off over these past few weeks.

First, I am prepared to suffer the wrath of the world for what I am about to say; I am over Michael Phelps, I have no interest in Michael Phelps and even more controversially, I don't really think that he is the greatest Olympian EVER. Put that in your pipe and smoke it MP. So big deal, he got seven gold medals, oh la la fancy pantsy. It's only because of the idiosyncracies of swimming, ie, you can swim in any of like 350 different versions of the same event, that someone like MP even has a shot at all seven medals. Don't you think that the amazing Kenyan runners are capable of winning seven medal? Of course, it's just that they aren't offered the option of running seven marathons. Let's just say, if I had to see MP strip his little aquaman suit down to pornographic effect one more time, I was going to lose my lunch. I gave up after medallion numero tres when he did the 50 metre freestyle or the 50 metre fly or the 4 metre dipsy doodle, who knows.

Moving on. Normally, I can't really abide watching the U.S. coverage of the Olympics due to all the patriotism, self-congratulation and the fact that you are forced to watch all the sports in which the U.S. dominate which means endless hours of beach volleyball and errrm, swimming. In fairness, I also can't abide watching Canadian coverage of the Olympics as it's just too depressing to listen to the one person in the entire country who managed to win a gold medal back when there was still an iron curtain and people boycotted resulting in mediocre athletes winning golden medals. If I had to hear one more person whinge about how we don't invest enough in sport to be competitive, I was going to have to take matters into my own hands. To be fair, the Chinese coverage was beyond partiotic and meant endless hours of watching sports I didn't even know were Olympic-worthy or at least, wasn't sure of like fencing, tae kwon do and ping pong.

Finally, the slingbox. If you don't know what this marvelous little invention is, well, your bad. All you need to know is that I have suffered the lowest television humiliation at the hands of Hong Kong cable tv. Never have I had to endure the indignity of watching such crapacious television, but I have done so for the past nine months because otherwise, I might have had to read a book, get some exercise or speak to my family. Just when I thought I didn't have the strength to watch another minute I found myself watching yet another commercial for some shiteous sci-fi show that I have never heard of (for good reason) because they don't really advertise here, they just advertise about all the other shiteous television you will be forced to watch in the future; it's like, "in case you haven't already been lobotomised by watching six year old episodes of "Raymond," we'll be offering more of the same lame, intelligence sucking programming over the coming days and weeks." Gracias. So, middle brother's fiancee, realising our plight, has taken it upon herself to save us from these dire circumstances and is getting a slingbox so that she can send us beautiful and perfect little tv rays that are full of beautiful and perfect television shows that will make me happy and not make me want to gouge out my own eyes with rusty forks.

And just in case you didn't think that Hong Kong was all that; whilst we were away in T.O. we saw a lovely little human interest story about a man in Hong Kong who attempted to have sexual relations with a park bench but became hopelessly stuck when his....ermmm....instrument became aroused. The good news is that after much catterwalling on the part of mr. mensa member and at least one failed attempt to remove einstein's blood to disengorge said instrument, he was free but not after they had to remove the bench with said brainiac attached and taken him to hospital where, after four hours, they freed the....errrmmm...instrument. Apparently, knobby claimed that his instrument became entangled in the bench whilst doing a sit-up. Nobody had the heart to point out to the professor that he was found face down on the bench making it one odd sit-up...but well, oh well....

I'm sorry...I think

2008-07-15T00:13:00.003+08:00

I have three half finished posts, I am really, really over tired, I should be asleep but I am like a nine year old who's parents have gone out for the night and left them with a negligent babysitter. The truth is, I started working about ten days ago now and I am still dealing with or rather reeling from the shock that I am wearing proper, colour coordinated clothes before noon, showering once a day and eating at regular intervals (because we all know that work is really just an activity that fills the empty hours between mealtimes).

I would love to be all humorous and chirpy and rah rah, work rocks and baby am I stoked about going back to being a working girl who works hard for her money...that the clothes I'm wearing, I'VE GOT IT..the rock I'm rocking, I'VE GOT IT (this Beyonce moment was brought to you by a delirious mother of a three year old who, if she had a brain cell left after years of neglect and downright abuse, would know that sleep is the better option).

Bear with me, I plan to get my mojo back any day now.

Oh, and I have another thing to add to my Master List of shit to do before I bite the biscuit.

21. Commandeer a vehicle.

pottytalk

2008-07-02T23:00:00.005+08:00

I started back to work today and I am feeling less than inspired; in fact, I feel downright uninspired, actually, I feel a bit grumpy. This has nothing to do with work per se, it has everything to do with the crushing realisation that I can't nap whenever I want whilst I am at work. This is a huge shortcoming of working that I hadn't really considered previously but it was brought into stark focus for me today when I found myself wanting to siesta.

All of this being said, I can share an interesting tidbit of toilet information because we all know that toilet information is what makes the world go round. Forget politics, human interest stories, world events and human achievement; when we want to be entertained, we want some good 'ole potty talk. So here goes.

For those of you who have never ventured outside of North America, there is in the rest of world something called a squat toilet. I could delve into the specifics but suffice it to say that it's basically a hole of one variety or another into which you must pee from great heights whilst attempting not to wee on your foot or cover your ankles in urinary backsplash. I am terrified of the squat toilet and I believe that I would prefer to raise my leg on a fire hydrant in broad daylight rather than use a squat I might even prefer to give birth than to use a squat and that's saying a lot. Even more terrifying than me having to use a squat, is having no choice but for Baby Girl to use a squat. I sort of half-heartedly tried it once and was met with stern, verging on hysterical resistance. We used a bush.

Now, before I offend anyone, I am not really suggesting there is anything wrong with the squat toilet. It's just that I wasn't brought up using one so I just don't get the physics of it all. It would be like waking up with a penis. I just wouldn't know the first thing about how one dresses, sits, runs or pees with such an appendage. I think you get my drift.

You may be surprised to learn that I have had a number of conversations about the squat toilets with others unfamiliar in the ways of the squat. Basically, they all boil down to horror stories of having no alternative and well...the ending is never pretty. Mine involves a concrete shack in Mumbai, some goats and a dude with a bucket of water. That's all I will say.

One story in particular that has stayed with me was relayed by a very professional friend. She said that at her rather professional workplace, she had, in the early days, noticed that the toilets were oddly dirty for such a professional environ. Moreover, she noted posted signs that appeared to depict a high heel on a toilet seat with a red slash through it that seemed to say, "hey, high heels and toilet seats are a big NO NO" Hmmmmm, high heels on toilet seats, surely you jest, surely you don't mean that professional women were hiking up their pencil skirts and leaping onto toilet seats with their Manolos to use your garden variety sit down toilet as a squat? The visual was too bizarre, the idea cuckoo n'est pas?

Fast forward to this weekend, we are out in the New Territories getting some fresh air and Baby Girl needs to go potty. Not a problem, into the loo we go and I quickly realise that it's a squat bathroom. In Hong Kong, this doesn't alarm me as there is generally at least one sit down toilet. I head for the one sit down toilet and push open the door and to my horror, I am staring at the exposed butt cheeks of a woman who forgot to lock the toilet door and yes, people, I am staring at her butt because she is standing ON THE TOILET SEAT and peeing from like three feet off the ground. It was like she was the Jackie Chan of urination; I half expected her to reward my bumblefoolery with a round house kick to the head, all accomplished whilst expertly perched on the top of the toilet seat. If I hadn't seen it with my own two eyes, I wouldn't have believed it, notwithstanding the whole story above about Manolos and toilet seats. It's the sort of thing that you have to see to really and truly appreciate. Normally, I would be mollified to find myself in such an embarrassing situation but it was like sighting the Sasquatch or getting BINGO.

It's not often that something happens that is odd and funny and queer and totally inconsequential but it did and it was the best thing that happened to me on Tuesday.

MASTER LIST II

2008-06-19T21:08:00.003+08:00

It's funny, when I started this, I felt a bit stuck and became anxious that I wouldn't be able to finish something that I had started. However, once I started this list, the ideas have been rolling in and I am now concerned that I will have to revise this to "218 Things to Do before I leave this Earthly World".

Here are the next ten:

11. Jungle safari to see the Mountain Gorillas in Uganda;

12. (OK, blatantly copying my brilliant bud Steph but the truth is, I really, really, really want this) Own Vespa Scooter and have it pimped out with customised paint job;

13. Have Ami James (of Miami Ink fame) cover my current tattoo with something more mature, artistic and symbolic;

14. Give a person or a group a life changing gift;

15. Design, build and live in an eco-friendly house with a view of the sea;

16. See the sun rise over the dunes of the Sahara;

17. Design and have made a platinum ring set with my birthstone (Aquamarine);

18. Own a pony;

19. Have family sit for formal painted portrait; and

20. Order dessert for dinner.

THE MASTER LIST

2008-06-18T21:18:00.006+08:00

I am a denialist. This means that if I don't think about things that upset me, they don't exist. This is how I avoid being heavily medicated and/or paying obscenely large therapy bills.

Aside from being a denialist, I am also a lover of lists. I do love, lurve, loooove lists, right up there with fine chocolate, beautiful linens and the smell of lavender and...well...I like lists, not because I am particularly organised but because I like the symmetry and beauty of everything being so prettily summarised on a page and of course, one needs innumerable and delightful books in which to write lists, so it's really like the whole , "coming full circle" thing.

So, when I saw that Mighty Girl had completed a list of the 100 things to do before, errrm, leaving the earthly world, it combined something I want to deny - mortality, with something that I love - lists. Who was I to refuse to participate in something that would simultaneously terrify and delight me.

My list is at once realistic and fantastical; I make no apologies. Here are the first ten:

1. Shoot skeet - preferably in Barbour jacket, dark green wellies and a tweed cap;

2. Complete a keepsake family tree complete with calligraphy and bound in leather. Pass it on to my daughter and hope that successive generations of women continue to add to it;

3. Drink a Bellini at Harry's Bar in Venice;

4. Kiss a Pope's ring;

5. Play baccarat at the Monte Carlo Casino dressed in a floor length lipstick red couture gown;

6. Walk on the Moors;

7. Watch my daughter be the third generation to marry at the church where I was married and where my mother was married;

8. Live in an ashram in India for a month and take a vow of silence for the full month;

9. Master the fabulous Bollywood dance by Madhuri Dixit in the film Aaja Nachle; and

10. Have a "last" completed by John Lobb shoemakers in London - get a pair of knee high, bespoke leather boots made.

losing it...in translation

2008-06-17T20:52:00.006+08:00

I've had a case of the Mondays since, well, Monday. But then the Mondays turned into Tuesdays which just doesn't have the same ring to it, so, I decided that the only thing for it was a trip to the spa. That's right, when I'm not half in the bag on Morning Margaritas, eating caramel chews out of huge red foil heart shaped chocolate boxes and doing a tipsy Fandango in my baby pink negligee with matching heeled slippers trimmed with pink feathers, I am at the spa. So, having been tipped off by a very "about town" friend, that a nearby spa was having a special offer on massages and facials. And of course, one can't turn down a spa special offer because we all know that when things are on special offer, we are actually SAVING money by purchasing them. So, off to save money I went, feeling positively philanthropic.

Now, there are a few quirks one has to get used to at a spa in China. First off, they are big on getting you to shower which I feel is kinda gross (hate putting my bare feet on anything that I think other, strange feet have touched) and a pain in the ass. But, in the interest of not appearing to be a filthy beast from the west, I acquiesce and besides, trying to communicate my aversion to naked feet and annoyance at getting wet midday to a woman who kept calling me "maki" just seemed exhaustingly pointless.

As if the whole shower obsession wasn't enough, when they aren't trying to get you to shower, they are insisting that you remove your perfectly good underpants and replace them with their awkward, pokey, papery, hospital-looking pants. This brings me to odd aversion number two: taking off my underpants midday. If I have a pair of pants on, fine, but if I take them off and then put the same underpants back on again, it's like I'm wearing dirty laundry, which is GROSS. I think you will agree the logic on this is irrefutable.

Anyhow, I'm digressing because my whole point here isn't that I am oddly phobic but that when I get a massage anywhere in China, I can't fully relax because I keep thinking that all the masseuse is thinking is, "I can't believe that I am massaging a human Manatee". OK, so the point clearly is that I am phobic, but let's put that aside for a moment. And before you think that I am imagining the whole thing, believe me that I speak from experience as I have had numerous massages where the masseuse spends the first few minutes of the massage palpating me like I was a hog being readied for slaughter, murmuring in a bemused manner as they pinch my haunches and poke my backside and in some particularly humiliating instances, they call over their masseuse friends to see the whale that washed up on their table.

Today at the spa, I knew that my, erm, shapeliness was going to be more of an issue than usual when I was provided with a robe, slippers and, of course, paper underpants. The robe barely closed so as I tried to lounge nonchalantly in the "holding pen" prior to my massage, I looked more like a porn star waiting to be called on set than a stay at home mom waiting to get a facial. The slippers barely fit with my toes spilling out the front and my heels dragging on the ground as I flapped around. However, the paper pants were the most humiliating part of the ensemble by far.

I was alone in the change room, so I thought that I would give them a go. I put my feet in and went to pull them up but realised that it wasn't going to work when they came to a screeching halt somewhere south of my knee caps. Of course, this was the moment that my designated "spa hostess" chose to come in to check on me only to find me in a most compromising position. I tried to push the offending pants down with one hand whilst the other hand was used to clutch the straining sides of my robe together in an effort to corral "the girls" and cover up at least the most offending parts of my nudity. The result was less than dignified and I am sure that the hostess is, as we speak, regaling her pint-sized, whippet-thin family with stories of the western behemoth, with unruly breasts and a bottom the size of the family car. Needless to say, I gave up on the pants.

just another sunday afternoon...

2008-06-15T23:52:00.005+08:00

Here is the scenario:

We are sitting quite quaintly, perhaps even pastorally; a family spending a lazy Sunday afternoon around the coffee table. Baby Girl absent mindedly pops something into her mouth, which in and of itself is a miracle as all food must be carefully considered and pass a ritualistic test prior to gaining Baby Girl's stamp of approval (for those who are interested, it goes something like this...dainty touch to the lips to test for consistency and obvious unpleasant odour or taste, touch quickly to tip of the tongue to allow a more thorough taste-test, tentative nibble and finally, if all is well, a full bite. Note that whilst this happens I sit there like a nervous nelly fretting that the offered food won't pass the test but outwardly pretending to be nonchalant, even footloose and fancy free). Quickly realising that she had made a hasty and ill-informed decision to pop said morsel, Baby Girl made a face like she'd sucked on a lemon and went to spit out the food. Without missing a beat, mid-sentence and with the reflexes of well seasoned professionals, Mr. Lemony Lemonade and I sprang into action. I quickly cupped my hand beneath Baby Girl's mouth and caught the offending morsel and a goodly amount of spittle whilst Mr. Lemony Lemonade, in one swift motion, reminiscent of a gunslinger in a spaghetti western, liberated a wet wipe from a nearby package and wiped Baby Girl's mouth clean. The whole thing took less than two seconds. Mr. Lemony Lemonade and I, disaster averted, leaned back in our chairs and exhaled. Baby Girl clapped her hands in delight, looked at both of us with the pride of a parent, threw her hands in the air and exclaimed, "TEAMWORK!"

it's raining nipples...doh!

2008-06-09T00:00:00.007+08:00

There are any number of things that I could talk about in this post, however, my life this weekend has quite uninterestingly been dominated by weather and to a lesser but more interesting extent by nipples.

Typically, weather is something one talks about when one is stuck like chuck for interesting conversation. The sort of thing you muse about in a lift or whilst waiting in a doctor's office, not the stuff of a scintillating blog posting. Nevertheless, I cannot post in good conscience without mentioning the weather as I have been on a veritable weather rollercoaster since moving to Hong Kong. When I am not being drowned in rain of biblical proportions, I am being heated and humidified to an extent that is cruel and unusual. The weather here is so diabolical that it is described by a complex rating system that would make my father beam with pride. I won't bore you to death with the details but suffice it to say that we don't just get everyday, ho hum rain; oh no, there is amber, red and black rain - let me point out that I was quite disappointed to learn there was no "purple rain" but I can live with "black rain", as it seems suitably sassy and potentially very ominous indeedy. As if that weren't enough to frighten the pants off you with coloured rain, there are monsoon and landslip warnings and the piece de resistance; a tropical cyclone signal system. Not that I would even know a tropical cyclone if it hit me in the face, I am quite certain that there are all sorts of precautionary measures one is meant to take based on the various warnings but let's be frank here; in the event of black rain or a cyclone signally-thingy, I plan to scream like a little girl, use my body as a human shield for my most precious shoes whilst making all sorts of absurd promises to any deity that will listen. The best bit however, is that as I bleat plaintively about the weather, more seasoned expats are more than happy to advise that I ain't seen nothing yet and that it only gets hotter, wetter and more humid which only adds to my already fever-pitched weather hysteria.

As long as we are talking about weather...today we quite innocently decided to go to Stanley to watch the annual Dragon Boat races. Apparently, traveling 12 kilometres away from home was tantamount to entering another weather zone because the overcast, barely tolerable temperatures at our flat were quickly replaced by scorching sun and temperatures easily 10 degrees hotter. It was the sort of heat that makes you want to tear off your clothes as if on fire and run into the nearest body of water. We managed to eke out thirty minutes of race observation before declaring defeat and returning to the miraculous micro-climate surrounding our flat.

Before you think that all I am going to do in this post is get all pissy and vineagary about weather, I will also tell you that today was filled with all sorts of hilarious three-year-old moments. The first of which being that I was forced to face Baby Girl's growing nipple obsession square on. Up until now, I was quite happy to pretend that there was no such obsession; much like the time she started dropping the "f-bomb". I ignored it and she quickly forgot the naughty word. Now, however, Baby Girl has quite inconveniently gone and developed something akin to a long term memory so ignoring things doesn't work anymore because she REMEMBERS STUFF. So, the nipples. Mostly, she just admires nipples in the most naive of ways, like, "hey, nice nipples" but more recently, she has been keen to come in for a closer look necessitating my reluctant parental intervention. This is the point where I have an out of body experience and I see myself having a ridiculously serious conversation about something that is not really very serious at all because I don't know about you but nipples are pretty damned funny; even the word "nipple" is bloody hysterical. Nevertheless, we discussed the fact that indeed, one's nipples are private affairs and yes, that means we are appropriately respectful of nipples all around us and that means that touching, staring at or generally commenting on said nipples is from now on forbodden. Unfortunately, this means that Baby Girl now has to go around to anyone who will listen and give them a lowdown on the whole 'nipple situation'; gravely telling them that nipples are private and we aren't meant to touch them in a tone of voice normally reserved for sharing a particularly serious bit of information like a neighbour's infidelity or a co-workers new hair plugs.

Shortly after the nipple fiasco, Baby Girl quickly moved on to riding her bicycle around our flat, which is no mean feat given the minute dimensions of said flat. However, today, said bicycle riding occurred in my prized purple suede wedge heels.

If someone had told me four years ago that I would be spending my Sundays discussing the privacy aspects of nipples and chasing a pint sized bicycling maniac wearing purple suede heels around my flat I would have laughed quite heartily and said, "not me my good man" because my children are going to be earthly incarnations of ruddy faced cherubs, all goodness and light, wearing perfect, stain-free clothing, displaying impeccable manners and above all RESPECTING MY AUTHORITY. If I could meet the pre-child me now I would just like to gather her up in my arms and say "there, there you delusional little thing..." but I wouldn't tell her that one day, her precious little daughter would develop a nipple obsession or ruin her prized purple suede shoes because who would want to ruin that fun little surprise?

i think i am married to mr. bean

2008-05-25T23:10:00.007+08:00

Mr. Lemony Lemonade maintains that I laugh the loudest when I am delighting in his "stupidity" or misfortune. The upstart of all of this being that I am a complete mean-o bitch who finds humour in others' adversity.

Let me give you a "for example" It is a well known fact that Mr. Lemony Lemonade is incapable of navigating a room in which something is obstructing his path because he is inexplicably drawn to said obstruction and inevitably (and hilariously) trips over it. You could put something on the floor, outline it in flourescent paint, surround it with warning signs and put a guard dog in front of it and like a moth to a flame, Mr. Lemony Lemonade would wander right on over and trip to amusing effect. This, I maintain, is objectively hilarious, not hilarious to just me and symbolic of my unpleasantness but hilarious to anyone and everyone regardless of race, creed, age or gender. Basically, Mr. Lemony Lemonade thinks I am a jerk-a-face because I find him funny but not because of his brilliant fart jokes but because he is just plain ridic.

(hmmmm, just re-read above and thinking Mr. Lemony Lemonade may have point, perhaps am mean old cow...)

Which brings me to yesterday when something happened that proves for once and for all that Mr. Lemony Lemonade is somewhat feckless and deserving of ridicule.

The back story is this; Mr. Lemony Lemonade bought a pair of black linen trousers but they were too long so, he was going to bring them for hemming yesterday, which we did. Keep in mind that said trousers have a number of distinguishing characteristics such as, they were brand new, they had drawstrings in the cuff and THEY WERE MADE FOR A GUY. Also, Mr. Lemony Lemonade had, in a fit of organisation, put them by the door so that he would remember to have them hemmed. Fast forward to tailor, Mr. Lemony Lemonade tries on trousers and whilst doing so comments that they don't seem too long, in fact, they might be just right. He does a turn, examines and decides on a 1/2 inch hem and then off we go. Later that evening as I am getting ready for our night out, I casually ask where my trousers are, "you know the ones that were drying on the rack..." at which point Mr. Lemony Lemonade blanches and says, "which ones?" to which I reply, "the black linen ones..." at which point Mr. Lemony Lemonade looks ill and says, "errrm, ahhhhh..." at which point it dawns on me that he has just tried on my black linen trousers at the tailor and had them hemmed. One might think, oh well, big deal. However, anyone who knows me knows that I am messy beyond belief but verge on the religious when it comes to the care and catalouging of my clothing. I am the girl who owns six pairs of black trousers in varying lengths so that they go with varying heights of heels. I am also the girl that can scan the closet and can quickly identify all missing items and calm is not restored until everything is back in its place. Some call is obsessive compulsive, I call it attention to detail.

I of course spent the entire night, on into the following day and let's be honest, probably the next six to eight months reminding Mr. Lemony Lemonade just how stupid, ridiculous, innane and incompetent he has to be to have tried on a pair of women's trousers and not known that they weren't his. He has even copped to noticing that they buttoned and zipped on the wrong side and didn't have drawstrings but had dismissed the former as some "euro affectation" and well the latter, perhaps fairies did it? He also failed to notice that HIS black trousers were staring him in the face by our front door. If ever there were proof that a man would never make it as a woman, this is it. Clearly, he would be the type to wear white after Labour Day, brown shoes with a black suit and God forbid, a jean jacket WITH JEANS (the horror).

The point of all this? First off, I am now down a pair of black trousers that are wearable with a one inch heel. Other than that it's pretty self explanatory; I am clearly a pernicious femme with a dark sense of humour and a worrying dedication to clothing whilst he is the Hugh Grant of all bumble-foolery and possibly a cross-dresser. God give me strength...

the times, they are a changin'

2008-05-20T11:36:00.003+08:00

So, many things are afoot in the Lemony Lemonade household and perhaps the most earth shaking is that I am now bona fide employed by a bona fide employer which means that my lazy days of midday martinis, massages and crapacious television are soon to be at an end. Not surprisingly, I feel terribly conflicted about my return to work. On the one hand, these past few months with Baby Girl have been both joyful and exhausting but bottom line, I HAVE BEEN THERE and now, I won't. That being said, I am luckier than most having had the first year of her life off and now, the past six or so months. I am grateful. The guilt mainly comes from actually wanting to go back to work, to being needed not just to wipe dirty faces, chauffeur between playdates, purchase pink, sparkly, princess toys and cut sandwiches into fun shapes.

What makes me the saddest is realising that I am going to miss those beautiful little seemingly insignificant moments like when Baby Girl spontaneously breaks into song and does a big broadway finish complete with closed eyes and upstretched arms, or the funny little observations she makes like yesterday when she said she said she didn't like the sound of glasses clinking on the table because the sound was "too glassy", or the fact that she is obsessed with nipples. Even sadder though is the realisation that I'm not the most interesting and captivating person in her world and that me going back to work may rock my world more than hers. Now, she is far more interested in playing with friends or doing things on her own. Where she used to want my company whilst going potty, she now pushes me out the door and insists that I give her "privacy" and just today as I hugged her, admittedly for the thirtieth time, she told me to "stop squishing" her.

Forty days and counting; I am determined to make them count.

bah humbug...

2008-05-11T22:26:00.003+08:00

I am quite certain that there was a time that I wasn't so very jaded. But my spirit has been broken by large and unhealthy doses of reality, things like student loans, stretch marks, sucky jobs, cheating boyfriends and poisonous friends. I'm not generally this dark but Mother's Day gets me all pissy and vinegary.

There is nothing more infuriating than fabricated holidays. In our quest to be a kinder and gentler society, we now have to have a "day" on which we are collectively required to celebrate and thank someone or something for basically doing what they are supposed to do anyway. It's not enough to have a handful of bona fide holidays like Passover or Christmas, we now have to celebrate Administrative Professional's Day, Nurses Day, Sister's Day, Grandparents Day and so on ad nauseum.

Aside from the completely fabricated nature of the holiday, I feel very uncomfortable with the notion that I am asking my child to annually undertake a grand gesture of gratitude that requires said child to buy me lots of stuff and take me out to an expensive restaurant to ensure that I understand that they are grateful that I endured interminable hours of labour, wiped their ass for the first two and a half years of their life and financially sacrificed so they could have princess dresses, sparkly shoes and go to summer camp. Whilst I like to believe that our mutual respect and gratitude will be expressed as a family in a more informal and ongoing manner, I suspect that Baby Girl is unlikely to give a monkeys about what I have sacrificed for her and would rather that I just commemorate Mother's Day by paying her therapy bills or her rent. So, I am going to spare both of us the indignity of having to celebrate the most contrived holiday ever conceived by the Machivellian retailers and I declare Mother's Day null and void in the Lemony Lemonade house. R.I.P.

hunger strike...day 7

2008-02-26T13:50:00.003+08:00

I have been back from Vietnam for a week and I am still feeling the effects of the 'Nam's parting gift to moi; a nice big fat stomach bug because nothing says lovin' like e-coli. So, while lying prone on my bed begging for the sweet release of death, I spent the interminable tickety-tock minutes of the day tallying just what I had managed to choke down in the past week and it was a sad little list, in fact, I believe it closely approximates the diet of a small vermin. :

1. toast, 2 slices;
2. ginger cookie;
3. slice of pizza and few mouthfuls of salad (during brief honeymoon period where I actually felt "OK" but shortly thereafter paid the price);
4. rice, 3 tablespoons; and
5. cookie, oatmeal, 1/2;

I haven't counted fluids because if I had stopped drinking, well, I would have been dead last Friday.

Since becoming a SAHM (stay-at-home-malingerer), I have dreaded illness; unlike in the working world, there are no chances for days off spent wrapped in a duvet in front of the tv sipping hot soup and catching up on crummy daytime tv (notwithstanding that we all know that every day of a SAHM's week is actually spent this way, except that I generally eat bonbons, rarely get dressed preferring to spend the day in a negligee, have Baby Girl mix up Margaritas and of course, there is Stripper Tuesdays because I am sure that we are all in agreement that Tuesday is a crappy day that needs sassing up). Let's just say that Baby Girl has no time for sickness; she is all like, "oh, you're sick...poor Mama, let's play chase!" Instead of getting to whimper like an injured animal and over medicate oneself into sleeping for 12 straight hours; I get to play hide and seek, Of course the worst of all illnesses is anything stomach related because those are the ones that are the most difficult to work through. It is possible to be a Mom through head colds, lacerations, loss of non-essential limbs, sore throats, various types of infections and any other non-life threatening illness but nausea; that's a tricky one. This delightful stomach bug was kind enough to alternate between intense bouts of dizziness, sharp abdominal pains and tidal-esque waves of nausea. It's been a veritable smorgasboard of symptoms. So basically, I have been weaving around playgrounds like a drunken sailor looking like I am going to lose my lunch at any moment. No doubt, the other mothers think that I am a hopeless lush.

Although I would love to share, I will not gross you out with the gory details; we've all been here or there before; likely after a night of binge drinking. Additionally, I have not decided how long I am going to let this go on before seeking professional medical attention. Mostly, I just don't have the strength to engage in the inevitable discussion about consistencies and frequencies and no doubt, a battery of icky blood tests that require 6 gallons of blood drawn by a sadistic grump (or god forbid other, more intrusive tests). Of course, there is also the fact that the longer the illness lingers the more I convince myself that I have some incurable, tropical disease whose treatment demands any number of medieval torture techniques, like leeches or being "bled" or having 18 inch needles stuck directly into my abdomen. And then there is the delightful weightloss - it's not like I am in danger of fading away; in fact, it's rather insulting that after seven days of not eating I still look like I just got up from an all-you-can-eat-buffet.

Instead of bitching and moaning about feeling like crap, I would love to share the delightful week in Vietnam but I am just not currently able to see past this lovely little "fuck you". Just as soon as I am once again my chipper self, I am sure that I have many wonderful memories that I will share but until then, I have nothing nice to say and as my mother always says; then I just won't say anything at all...

going "in country"

2008-02-12T10:49:00.002+08:00

I have been bad with the posts because I am currently entertaining overly demanding family members..well, really family member who expects me to get out of bed every day, skip the bonbon eating and Oprah and entertain with sights, educational walks and gastronomic adventures, etc. Honestly, going out EVERY DAY!

In an effort to completely deplete what energy I have left, we are about to leave for a week in Vietnam where we will meet up with Middle Brother who has been touring Southeast Asia in an attempt to recover from the exhaustion brought on by working full-time. I come from a long line of individuals who find the stresses of every day life too much to bear - we are also known as BIG FAT BABIES.

In any event, I had assumed that I would be escaping the bone chilling cold of Hong Kong; envisioning palm tree lined beaches and tropical cocktails. So, imagine my dismay when I discovered that Vietnam, or Hanoi anyway, is equally as freezing as Hong Kong (apparently this should have been obvious by their location on the same line of latitude but I basically doodled my way through sixth grade geography, so EXCUUUUSE ME). This of course brings me to my latest gripe being countries that erroneously and falsely put themselves forward as warm and tropical when they are in fact prone to cold snaps; if I could figure it out, I would try to sue someone for false advertising.

That all being well and good, I am pleased to announce that I am about to pay good money to freeze my ass off in another Asian city...will report upon return.

ok Canada, the joke's on me...

2008-01-31T22:58:00.000+08:00

Well, apparently when I named this blog, I didn't know that I would be freezing my ass off in Hong Kong.

Rather unexpectedly I have discovered that Hong Kong has a season that I hadn't anticipated and I shall call it FRICKIN' UNBELIEVABLY SOUL CRUSHINGLY COLD. Some might point out that I come from a city that is in a deep freeze for six months of the year and as such, shouldn't complain of temperatures well above freezing but it is a matter of relativity; I expect Toronto to be colder than a witch's tittie but Hong Kong; it's supposed to be sub-bloody-tropical. There are palm trees everywhere for the love of God, that should be proof positive that every day should be a warm and sun-shiny day. However, I am currently writing this like some sort of Dickensian character with a muffler, candles burning (for warmth?) two sets of socks, three jumpers and mittens with the fingers cut off. I'm one step away from pinching bits of coal off the back of trucks to burn in a coal stove (note to self, must get coal burning stove) just to give myself just a moment's respite from the incessant damp and cold. I also can't get a good night's sleep as I check Baby Girl every hour or so to ensure that she's not hypothermic or god forbid, died from exposure. I saw my breath this morning whilst brushing my teeth which was almost enough to send me packing back to Toronto where they at least have the good sense to insulate and heat homes and wear unattractive but warm clothing. Of course thoughts of Toronto only remind me of preparations for the move further forcing me to recall how I blithely binned all our winter gear and did a little jig when we dropped off our down puffer jackets at the charity shop. Now, I am cursing my haste and wishing that I had those puffer jackets and woolen caps and not a rainbow collection of flip flops.

I have been assured by those in the know that the cold weather only lasts for a few short weeks but we are only about ten days in and I am ready to throw in the towel, break down all our shite IKEA furniture and burn it for warmth. The worst bit is that Hong Kong is not a city built for the cold. We don't have heaters, the floors are all tiles or hard wood and the windows are huge and drafty. Up to this point I have avoided buying a space heater for a variety of practical reasons including the expense of the heating bill and lack of space to store the damned thing in our microscopic flat for the other eleven months of the year during which time we will be sweating our bollocks off.

Very unexpectedly, the worst thing is having to go to the bathroom which is a bona fide butt clenching experience given the icy temperature of the porcelain and the seat. So, when I say that I am freezing my ass off believe me because I am LITERALLY FREEZING MY ASS OFF.

barefoot in the city

2008-01-25T11:11:00.000+08:00

Eccentricity, normally the exclusive domain of the British, is something that I have admired from afar. I have, admittedly infrequently, thought that it would be fab to have some quirk that was strange and conversation worthy like wearing only orange, refusing to go outside on the 11th of the month or wearing an eye patch (my personal favourite). Not being British, I am not sure that eccentricity would suit me. North Americans are far too provincial to affect quirks, instead of appearing endearing and amusing, North Americans with "quirks" are usually serial killers. Besides, one wouldn't have to go far in North American to be considered quirky, it could be as easy as wearing slightly snug trousers or socks with sandals. The truth is, I am concerned that life in North America is so perfectly "white picket" fence, that the ability to develop quirks or eccentricities is extinct and that there is no hope for me - eccentricity has been bred out of me. Which leads me to my recent run-in with a real life eccentric.

Baby Girl and I were in a cell phone shop on Queen's Road Central, the Hong Kong equivalent of Times Square (although humourously, there is a Times Square in Hong Kong). Keeping with tradition, Baby Girl's shopping psychosis persisted and upon entering the store, she promptly set to work at removing the laptops from their display while at least three shop keepers looked on distraught. While Baby Girl attempted to rip the laptops from their moorings, I, by now quite used to this behaviour and thus able to completely ignore it, waited patiently in line to speak to the shop supervisor. Whilst in line a couple entered the shop at first blush, they appeared relatively normal save for the fact that they were both wearing three quarter length leather coats (hers in royal purple) and the fact that the man had very long, but tidily kept, hair and beard. I immediately assumed they were Russian, perhaps because of the matching leather jackets (did I mention that one was in bright purple?) or because the man bore a striking resemblance to Rasputin, either way, that's what I thought. Needless to say, they ended up standing quite close to Baby Girl, so without intending to do so, I further noted that the man was wearing track suit bottoms, again, nothing remarkable, save for poor fashion sense but then I noticed that he was BAREFOOT. This in a large, and while spotlessly clean, intensely urban area. So, they were clearly crazy because NOW they were a strangely dressed, oddly long haired couple with the man wearing NO SHOES...but then I realized that actually, they were Australian (surprise) and they weren't crazy (further surprise) as they were engaged in a perfectly normal discussion about whether they actually needed a wireless internet connection. So, much to my dismay, the man could clearly afford shoes and chose not to wear them. A real life eccentric.

Needing to crack the reason for the barefeet (rare aversion to footwear, desire to "feel the earth" beneathe one's feet, social experimentation, laziness...) I realized that I could finally use Baby Girl's toddler powers for good; I would utilize her penchant for all things slightly out of the ordinary combined with her fog horn-esque voice (MOMMY, WHY IS THAT MAN MISSING TEETH?) to lure the barefoot eccentric into conversation. So, I took Baby Girl aside and showed her the man with no shoes and said something like, "look at that man..." (Insert expectant and quizzical look while jerking head toward shoeless long-haired Australian man). Baby Girl rewarded my efforts by taking a look and promptly going back to tearing the mock cell phones from the wall. So, thinking that she didn't see, I tried again at which point, she just looked at me like I was the crazy one. Apparently, walking around barefoot in the middle of a huge city in broad daylight was not cause for concern for Baby Girl. Not like missing teeth, moles, limps, hair colour or any other distinguishing feature. The one bleeding time that I need her to act irrational and insensitive and she can't do it. Shortly thereafter, the couple, exasperated with the long wait, left. No doubt to tea at the Peninsula. And so, rather anti-climactically, I will never know why the man had long hair, a penchant for leather and an aversion to footwear.

I don't know what's worse, realizing that I can't harness Baby Girl's powers OR not knowing why that man was barefoot.

i heart tommy cruise

2008-01-16T11:14:00.000+08:00

I can't get enough of this video clip of Tommy Cruise. If I ever have a cocktail party, he will for sure be top of my "wish list" for guests because he is just so delicious and fun and quirky and unpredictable. Besides, if any emergency arises, such as burned canapes or a choking guest, he is the first person that I would want "on scene." I can't believe that we aren't related!

jingjing's got a gun

2008-01-15T23:59:00.000+08:00

Recently, Baby Girl has taken to expressing excitement in one of two ways: either jumping up and down furiously like a miniature jackhammer or shouting in an unnaturally loud voice while striking a sort of Crocodile Hunteresque wide legged superhero stance. Either option is equally embarrasing and I have taken to imploring her to "use her indoor voice" or "to settle down." Even more recently, her greatest source of excitement and thus the catalyst for loud shouting or furious hopping is any sort of depiction of the five mascots for the Beijing 2008 Olympics, collectively referred to as "Fuwa". Now the Fuwa are, admittedly, sweet little critters and can be viewed EVERYWHERE, on signs, hanging from flagpoles, stickers, keychains; they are like mice, multiplying exponentially. Even better, the depictions of the Fuwa have them engaged in any one of the myriad Olympic sports; sailing Fuwa, equestrian Fuwa, tennis Fuwa and even golf Fuwa. Baby Girl, not appreciating what the Olympics are or even a mascot, has quite logically decided that the Fuwa are superheroes because clearly any cute little critter that is capable of sailing, judo AND badminton must be a superhero. Also, consider her adult role models; given mine and Mr. Lemony Lemonade's level of activity, it's no wonder that Baby Girl assumes that anyone engaging in activities more strenuous than walking or using a remote control possess athletic prowess tantamount to Batman or Spiderman.

Until today, I didn't object to Baby Girl's obsession with the Fuwa and even went on a maniacal pre-Christmas shopping rampage to locate and ultimately purchase her all five Fuwa; currently occupying pride of place with all her other treasures on her window sill. Today however, when Baby Girl assumed the Crocodile Hunter squat and pointed excitedly at a picture of the panda Fuwa called "Jingjing" screaming "superhero, superhero, superhero..." I was shocked to look up and witness the little black creature holding a handgun, no doubt depicting...ermm...Olympic gangbanging or Olympic armed robbery??? Once I recovered from the shock of seeing such a cute little fellow looking like he was about to hold up a Seven Eleven, I then found myself musing if there was any reason why they chose the black Fuwa, I mean why not the sweet little blue dude or even the yellow guy? I quickly searched the web to see if anyone else had wondered about the gun toting Fuwa but to no avail, apparently I am alone in being somewhat alarmed first by the cute little Fuwa weilding a handgun and second, in wondering if there is something latently racist about the black panda Fuwa being selected as the mascot to wield said gun. No doubt, the choice of Fuwa and its depiction with a gun was done without guile and was in no way meant to be overtly racist and God knows, I am not qualified on any level to engage in any sort of intelligent discussion on the ins and outs of racism and the depiction of gun violence. I'm not an anthropologist, sociologist or any sort of "ist". I saw something and I reacted; bottom line, I don't like it but that reflects my context, my background, my history. Given the choice, I would rather Baby Girl view nudity over guns or violence. I am also left to wonder if I would have been similarly offended had the little red Fuwa been shown holding a bow and arrow; would I have interpreted this as a slur against Native Americans? I mean a little red guy with a fancy headress engaging in archery? Hmmmmm...

Likely as I write this my details are being noted down in some government bureau and being filed under "subversive" or more likely, "lunatic".

Racism, latent or otherwise aside, I am annoyed at having to come up with an explanation as to why one of Baby Girl's most favourite little friends looks like the Terminator about to pop a cap in someone's ass and so, I am now trying to come up with a very plausible explanation as to why the Fuwa has suddenly eschewed his warm and fuzzy sporting activities for a little midday shoot 'em up. The gun thing, OK, I can perhaps spin a yarn about how he is protecting the other Fuwa from a dragon, Baby Girl would buy that, however, the racism thing...perhaps I should be grateful that Baby Girl is currently oblivious to the nuances of race and the scourge of racism as this is a conversation that I would be forced to engage in on the street with a three foot tall person, jumping up and down like a Mexican Jumping Bean and asking questions at a volume generally only achieved with an amplifier; questions to which I have no answer. I am good, but not that good.

I suspect that IKEA IS Dante's Ninth Circle of Hell

2007-12-28T23:36:00.000+08:00

I was never really a huge fan of IKEA but I was also never really a huge hater of IKEA either; not like Mr. Lemony Lemonade. Never before and hopefully never again will there be someone who hates IKEA as viscerally as Mr. Lemony Lemonade. Secretly, or not so secretly, he is convinced that IKEA is really just a thinly veiled Scandinavian conspiracy to drive middle class furniture purchasers into bankruptcy as a result of ill-advised purchases of pseudo-funky, overpriced furniture with names like EKTORP and VERUKA.

Inevitably, any Lemony Lemonade family trip to IKEA involves the following phases:

Step 1: Mr. Lemony Lemonade agrees to go to IKEA to pick up (ahem) much needed piece of modular furniture
Step 2: Enter IKEA after utilising "family friendly" parking spot for families with children
Step 3: Mr. Lemony Lemonade manages to casually browse through two or three fake living space montages
Step 4: Mr. Lemony Lemonade visibly stiffens and begins to mutter about the location of "the bloody shortcuts"
Step 5: Mr. Lemony Lemonade nods to any suggestion made to him and begins walking double quick toward the cash
Step 6: Mr. LL enters the "marketplace" and descends into full-blown IKEA induced hysteria, searching frantically for ways to avoid the bedding section (my favourite)
Step 7: Mr. LL wears visible scowl and starts to use four letter expletives, cursing everything from IKEA's diabolical marketing campaigns (bins of ice cube trays for $2) to IKEA's wafting of cinnamon bun scent throughout the store
Step 8: Mr. LL begins to bleat plaintively in an octave that is only audible to canines and (unfortunately) me
Step 9: Mr. LL waits in epic cash-out line-up developing eye twitch. Visibly tears up when required to pony up hundreds of hard-earned dollars to pay for aforementioned (shite) modular furniture
Step 10: I am forced to assist Mr. LL from the shop as he is rendered catatonic by all things IKEA
Step 11: Mr. LL recovers from IKEA visit and swears off all and any future visits while attempting to assemble enormous wall unit with nothing but an allen key and what remains of his sanity

Much to Mr. Lemony Lemonade's chagrin, since moving to Hong Kong, we have discovered that our North American furniture is, well, obese and as such, just won't fit into our anorexic flat. So upon our arrival, the Herculean task of finding appropriate, functional and reasonably priced furniture began. Oh, and let's keep in mind that Mr. Lemony Lemonade's ulcer from the last round of furniture purchases in 2004/2005 has only recently healed. I thought that being in China, the birthplace of most of the world's cheaply made and mass produced products would mean that we would be able to furnish our flat from top to bottom for about $15. Apparently, however, this is not the case. Additionally, I also believed that being in China and more specifically, Hong Kong would mean that we would be spoilt for choice and that when we couldn't find something, we could have it made for peanuts. Again, not so. Instead, everyone and I mean everyone told me, when asked for recommendations for where to buy furniture, "go to IKEA of course." So, I basically travelled halfway around the world to an incredibly exotic locale only to have my flat outfitted in pre-fab Scandinavian plywood shite furniture that can be found in any country or college dorm throughout the world.

All of this would be fine if I could go to IKEA calmly and without duress and make my selections of said crapacious furniture in peace and quiet. Unfortunately, I have been going to IKEA with Baby Girl ALONE and Baby Girl appears to have inherited the "I GO CRAZY IN IKEA" gene from Mr. Lemony Lemonade. On a normal day, I can usually depend upon 10 to 20 minutes of cooperative behaviour and a further 10 to 20 minutes of uncooperative behaviour coerced or bribed out of Baby Girl with something like the promise of "Old MacDonalds" or cold hard cash. IKEA though, brings out the very best in Baby Girl including screaming at the top of her lungs, throwing things, running into people at top speed, hiding, attempting to kill herself and other fun and exciting toddler undertakings. I know this because I have now spent a ridiculous amount of time in IKEA with a three year old who is clearly suffering from some sort of furniture store mania. Over the past few weeks, I have simultaneously attempted to juggle light fixtures and bath mats while chasing Baby Girl through the sofa maze. All of this is accomplished while Baby Girl is running around as if on fire while wrapped in a gauze net ripped from a princess bed in the children's section, evading store staff frantic to stop her un-Scandinavian like rampage. I can't even see the IKEA catalogue anymore without breaking into a sweat.

Today's trip demonstrated that even armed with two additional adults, Baby Girl's IKEA mania is still unmanageable as she quite handily brought the entire bedroom storage section to a standstill in order to orchestrate a film short shot by Oldest Uncle (a.k.a. Middle Brother) with my cell phone. Poor Oldest Uncle was only attempting to placate the three year old beast in order that I be able to make a single, solitary decision without collapsing into the fetal position and begging for a bottle of Vicadin. I of course was forced, as always, to leave the bleeding store with only a fraction of my shopping list accomplished. Currently, all three adults (myself included) are sitting catatonic in front of a television silently wondering if any amount of alcohol and/or medication will erase the horror of Baby Girl at IKEA.

just in case you thought that hong kong wasn't the coolest place on earth

2007-12-05T17:45:00.000+08:00

I have been meaning to get back to my recap but alas, I have been embroiled in the Dante's inferno that is moving. Currently, I am attempting to select a wall colour for the new flat that doesn't look like complete crap. I have now gone through what I assumed were three varying shades of white only to discover that once on the walls they were violet, blue and peach. Apparently somewhere in the move I have gone completely colour blind. The most tragic part of all of this is that this is just further evidence of my ongoing decline into complete and utter senility. Mr. Lemony Lemonade is convinced now more than ever that my mental faculties are leaving me at an alarming rate and unfortunately I have recently exhibited a worrying inability to make even the most mundane decisions. Therefore, Mr. Lemony Lemonade is left to wonder where his previously decisive wife of at least average intelligence has gone. But that is not why I have felt compelled to post.

In case I was searching for a reason to absolutely love Hong Kong, which I'm not, but if I was, I found it just yesterday. While purchasing Baby Girl's Chicken McNugget Happy Meal at Old MacDonald's yesterday, I discovered (please take a silent pause here to prepare for the astounding news I am about to impart) that MacDonald's in Hong Kong serves breakfast ALL DAY LONG (take another pause to absorb the enormity of this news). And how do you ask did I discover this beyond amazing fact; well, I happened to glance over at the woman next to me who I observed to be tucking into a Sausage McMuffin at approximately 3 p.m. I am ashamed to say that I was so excited that not only did I put the poor woman off her meal by staring at her with a maniacal grin on my face, I then proceeded to look like a complete lunatic as I sort of whopped and punched the air with my fist as if I had just scored a winning touchdown. Having spent numerous Saturday morning hangovers bemoaning the fact that I couldn't get a Sausage McMuffin past 10:30 a.m., which you will all agree is a totally uncivilized time to stop serving breakfast on a weekend, I welcomed this news with a tear in my eye. All the mornings that I ran bleary eyed to a nearby MacDonalds only to find that they had just stopped serving breakfast or had long since stopped serving breakfast flashed before my eyes. I had always thought that it was ridiculous not to serve those tasty morsels of goodness that are the Sausage McMuffin throughout the day. I mean why should insomniacs, truck drivers and senior citizens be the only people to enjoy the bleeding McMuffin while the rest of the world was left in a world bereft of McMuffins? If only I had known this earlier, I would have moved without a second thought in like, 1991...

recap...part un

2007-12-01T11:50:00.000+08:00

So people here it is, my reincarnation, my new virtual home away from home. To borrow a Chinese metaphor, I initially felt upon my move from Toronto to Hong Kong like the proverbial Phoenix rising from the ashes reborn as a glam, jet setting woman, baby at my hip, husband in tow, three and a half inch Christian Louboutin heels clicking impatiently through airport terminals, sipping lychee martinis at achingly hip rooftop bars in far flung locales while exchanging witty banter with my exotic friends. That was until I found myself in glamourous Hong Kong applying for a joint account with Mr. Lemony Lemonade in a stained Old Navy t-shirt (couldn't locate anything else from the potpourri of suitcases that littered our micro-flat that masqueraded as our "temporary accommodation") at the local HSBC.

The first indignity I had to suffer, no let's make that the second, after having to wear a stained t-shirt, was that I was placed as secondary on the joint account. It was made clear to me that as an unemployed woman I was relegated to second class status given that Mr. Lemony Lemonade is now far more important than me given that he is gainfully employed and is male. The indignities did not stop there as I was further emasculated when I was forced to list my occupation as "housewife" despite my protestations and presentation of my law society membership card. The woman signing us up just looked at me as one would look at a petulant and simple-minded child.

Just when I thought that this was an isolated incident, a one-off, a minor set-back, I was similarly shamed upon applying for my Hong Kong I.D. card. The commie-deliciousness of which, (I am just gagging to have some official person demand to see "my papers") was dimished when the miliaryesque-looking immigration officer brusquely scratched out where I had written "lawyer" under occupation and wrote in large caps, "HOUSEWIFE". He didn't even ask me if I was a housewife, he just wrote it in. For all he knew, I was a bloody secret agent. In the interest of fairness, I was wearing the only, and yes, I said only, pair of jeans that I was allowed to pack and they were all stretched out and very UNCUTE; they were, dare I say, matronly and frumpy so, he is forgiven for mistaking me for a housewife but he didn't have to act so short when I suggested that "IT GIRL" was a good compromise.

So, I am now a housewife, a term that rankles mostly because it fails to imply exotic friends, high heel clicking, martini drinking and all things rockstar. Instead it implies bake sales, high waisted trousers, mini-vans and all things boring. Speaking of boring...before I bore you to tears with petty semantics and personal insecurities, I must digress and fill you in on the comings and goings of the Lemony Lemonades over the past month; for now, I will review the mechanics of the actual move day as this post is reaching novella proportions.

We shaped up and shipped out November 2, 2007 after a move that was painful but much less painful thanks to very efficient movers who packed everything and I mean everything; right down to the brass tacks (I literally watched him wrap up tacks). As our bits and pieces were packed aboard a freighter bound for the Far East, we packed our bags and headed for the airport. The best bit of this part of the journey was the actual, physical act of packing; something that never fails to raise veins on Mr. Lemony Lemonade's temples, beads of sweat on his upper lip and makes his right eye twitch very unattractively. He has become such a packing worry wart that he has developed the somewhat useful but clearly compulsive ability to actually assess the over-weightedness of a suitcase without the assistance of a scale. Just by standing there flexing the suitcase in his hand he is able to decree what will pass and what won't. Given the three of us travelling there were six cases, 25 lbs. each and believe me when I say that they were packed within ounces of their respective weight allowance. This in and of itself was enough to give Mr. Lemony Lemonade cold sweats and a facial tick but as we checked in, large numbers of passengers ahead of us in the line were having their cases rejected as too heavy and they were forced to endure the humiliation of having to unpack and repack right before Mr. Lemony Lemonade's terror-stricked eyes. "But for the grace of God", Mr. Lemony Lemonade was no doubt thinking...or more accurately, "sodding, bloody, Lemony Lemonade's goddamned 15 pairs of goddamned shoes..." At this point, he was convinced that in moments he was going to be one of the wretched souls on his knees before the entire world as the contents of our cases spilled out around him. The very thought brought him to the very brink of speechlessness.

Had this, very likely scenario come to pass, I have every reason to believe that this would push poor Mr. Lemony Lemonade right over the edge. He would go completely, stark, raving mad and I have no doubt that he would require sedation and possibly a straitjacket to be kept from beating me senseless with one of my 15 pairs of shoes. Had he been hooked up to a heart monitor at this juncture it would easily have registered an infaction or a stroke.

Needless to say, the bags were brilliantly packed (par moi) and passed with flying colours. In fact, there were a few ounces to spare and I quietly lamented the patent leather ballet flats that I had to leave behind.

For me, the cases were a non-starter though as the real issue wasn't the 15 pairs of shoes and mere ounces and pounds, it was instead the possibility of 15 hours trapped in an aluminium tube with a three year old who had developed a penchant for pointless, out of control screaming. Baby Girl has diabolically discovered that screaming uncontrollably in public makes Mommy and Daddy sweat and promise all sorts of great things like candy and cash. I was already in a bit of a lather having felt the heat of anxiety emanating from my fellow passengers at the boarding gate. It was all for naught, however, as Baby Girl gleefully discovered that air travel is a grand excuse for cramming in unlimited amounts of tv watching. I silently thanked the technology Gods for developing the in-flight personal entertainment device as it was the only thing standing between myself and a lynching by my fellow travellers. Although Baby Girl was a dream and managed to watch more hours of consecutive television than any other toddler ever, we are now deep in the throes of having to wean Baby Girl off the "junk" that is television and it's not pretty. As I write this, I about to negotiate turning off the tv for dinner, something that will no doubt involve chocolate, promises of trips to the Zoo, or God forbid, another trip to Disneyland Asia (more on that later).

I am exhausted, just recalling all of this, so I have to stop there and will recap more later...