Entering a restaurant
Badger: Whoa, this place is surprisingly huge!
Waitress: *Turns to check* I think you might be looking at the mirror.
Excited about the weather on the way to work
Me: We’re driving in a cloud!
Badger: Yes, it’s quite foggy, isn’t it?
Me: Eh?
Badger: Cloud and fog are the same thing – condensation. You know that, right?
Me: Fog sounds so…boring.
Badger: Well, what did you want?! Fuzzy god fur?!
I sign up to walk dogs at the pound.
Not to brag of course, but I have to say that I get on extremely well with dogs. A talent, if you will, for handling our canine friends. So what better way to combine my gift and generosity of spirit than this?
But at the pound, I begin to regret my burst of charity. The day starts out pleasantly enough but by lunchtime, I find the fully grown teeth of a fully grown dog clamped down on my forearm. I can feel my delicate flesh bruising badly as he tugs at me, not so much in invitation but demand, to play. Some of the other volunteers smirk as if to indicate that they would be handling the situation better. I try to look nonchalant, like having my arm mangled is of little consequence to a talented doggie person like myself.
“Come on, you bastard,” I mutter under my breath, trying to jerk my arm back before further damage is done. The dog is delighted. We are playing after all. He excitedly tugs back even harder, intent on winning this painful game of tug-of-war.
“No no no,” the trainer calls out. “You’re rewarding him with your attention. You need to ignore him.”
Righto. I fake sudden fascination with the clouds above and let my arm go limp, hoping that the dog will take the hint. If anything, the vice-like grip tightens and the tugging becomes more violent. Abandoning the game too quickly has evidently displeased my captor.
I turn back to the trainer, agonised expression desperately pleading with him to rescue me. Perhaps he suddenly remembers that I am being dragged around by an animal that weighs as much as I do. Maybe he is worried that the dog will eat me soon, an incident which will undoubtedly result in much paperwork. Whatever the reason, he takes pity on me.
He calls to the dog and holds up a biscuit. Immediately, the dog releases me and bounds away to claim his treat.
I sigh in relief and gingerly examine my forearm. It is slimy with slobber and covered in welts but the skin does not appear to be broken anywhere.
A warning shout alerts me. I look up to see the dog charging back to me. It is a gut-sinking sight. I have time only to squawk in alarm before he pounces on me and seizes my arm again.
The trainer distracts him with another treat. The dog races off, gobbles it up, then runs back to me again (still stupidly standing in the same spot). This time, he watches the trainer as he grabs me. Brilliant. He thinks that he is being rewarded for mauling me.
The trainer agrees with me. He walks over to snap a leash onto the dog and pulls him off me. He looks at me for a moment, hesitating before speaking.
“We’ll start you on an easier dog.”
I crack open a pistachio.
Mmm, a salty-sweet explosion on my tongue. Crunch, crunch, crunch. I love pistachios. Especially stolen ones from Badger’s stash.
He thought that he could hide them from me by storing them on a high shelf. But he forgot that chairs were invented for that very reason.
Badger does not usually hide things away from my sticky fingers but he got annoyed after I polished off his pistachios one too many times. It is not my fault. I am addicted to the little green suckers. My addiction is an illness, for which I cannot be blamed. I saw it on South Park so it must be true.
I gorge on my loot. I get to the end and am left with four stubborn pistachios. They refuse to yield their treasure, resisting my every attempt to pry them out. Do they not realise that they are denying the very reason for their existence? For what use is a pistachio, if not to be consumed?
I will not be beaten by these pistachios. There will be an almighty row when Badger gets home, so I am determined to wring every last drop of satisfaction from my act of thievery. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken quite so many…I wonder if he counts them.
I renew my attack. Fingernails, teeth and knife are all used but to no avail. The only results I have to show for my efforts are a gashed thumb and very sore fingers. I swallow my pride and ask for help.
I google How to open a stubborn pistachio?
And in 0.34 seconds, I have my answer. I demolish the now-defenceless nuts with ease.
Ah Google, you’ve done it again.
Discussing my dad after he did something we disapprove of
Me: How terrible! I hope you told him off!
Mum: I couldn’t! I was so flabbergasted I was lost for words!
Me: Well, you should have dragged him away by the ear to scold him!
Mum: Yes, I should have pulled his ear so hard that one side was longer than the other!
Me: I’ll talk to him later to scold him for you.
Mum: No, no! Tell him a sob story so that it’ll tug at his heartstrings!
Me: That’s for you to do! Since we’ll both be giving him an earful, we need different strategies.
Mum: Good to see results from your psychology degree.
When your father is an accountant, making withdrawals from the Bank of Dad is never easy.
My kid sisters would agree. Observe.
NEW POCKET MONEY AGREEMENT
EFFECTIVE 1 MAY 2009
Duties we hereby willingly agree to in addition to our current duties for our new monthly pocket money:-
LL
- Keep my worktable, bed and bookshelf neat and tidy. EVERYDAY!!
- Dascha to be fed between between 6.30 to 7pm, bathed on Sat (unless raining), ears cleaned after bath and claws clipped.
- Help Mummy when she is ironing clothes
NL
- Keep my Daddy’s worktable and my bookshelf neat and tidy. EVERYDAY!!
- Dascha’s water bowl (upstairs and downstairs) to be constantly filled with fresh water
- Help Mummy when she is washing her car.
New pocket money – LL RM80 and NL RM40.
Deduction if (1.) is not done per nightly inspection –LL RM1.00 and NL RM0.50.
Couple of previous ‘contracts’ signed with the Bank of Dad:
It’s a good job I live in a different country!
I buy a cookbook.
My culinary skills have been steadily developing. Frozen pizza and nuggets no longer jostle each other for space in my freezer. I can now whip up a mean chicken curry from scratch.
Despite this, my repertoire of dishes is sadly limited. The dinner menu is recycled every week. Even Badger has ventured a comment or two about it. A bit rich coming from a man who can just about manage pasta with reheated sauce from a jar, but I can see his point.
What’s needed is a collection of step-by-step instructions to creating a range of quick and easy, yet tasty meals. Enter Donna Hay.
Glossy pages full of vibrant photographs accompanying recipes like Moroccan-spiced Baked Lamb and Spiced Chicken & Chorizo Couscous. The only way this book could be more enticing is if the pictures were scratch-n-sniff. And although the food presentation looks a little advanced (arranging linguine into clover-shaped swirls is pushing it), the recipes themselves look easy enough for a kitchen retard to follow.
Right, I am inspired. To hell with stroganoff, we’re eating one of Donna’s dinners tonight!
I make myself a cup of tea and settle down to choose a recipe for Badger to cook.
I learn kung fu again.
It is only my first month but everything comes flooding back to me. It is clear that I am pretty talented. Kung fu must be in my blood, just like table tennis and dim sum. I am surprised that the instructor does not point me out to the other students but he probably does not want to publicly upstage those who have been training longer than I have.
I attack the punching bag in a flurry of punches and kicks. If this had been a real person, I would have kung fu-ed him deader than dead.
The instructor stops me, “Whoa, whoa! Slow down there! Take it one move at a time. Accuracy over speed, ok?”
I am a little confused, but then he smiles at me. Ah, I understand. He wants me to slow down so the other students can watch and learn from me. I grin conspiratorially back.
We move on to kicking drills. I concentrate on my technique. Lift my knee, aim, and use my hips to channel force into an explosive kick. My foot becomes a weapon of mass destruction. SMACK! The bag cries out in agony.
“Try to put some power into your kick, I want to see that bag move.” The instructor again. He calls out in my general direction but he can’t be talking to me. My bag moved at least 3cm. So the instructor must be addressing the guy beside me. The poor guy is trying really hard but he has the kicking ability of a jellyfish.
Poor Jellyfish Legs. Maybe I should give him a few tips later.
Some signs of a posh party:
- Waiters float silently around the room with trays of delicately constructed finger food.
- The band members all look like they’ve had a shower in the past week.
- Free flow of alcohol consisting of imported beer, champagne and wine, with nary an alcopop in sight.
- Sneakers are prohibited.
As a student, I am not used to poshness in any form. At the last party I attended, drinks were fished out of the bathtub, the sink was filled with puke, and someone was lying comatose under a table. Extravagance was chips with dip. This being my last year of university however, I thought it wise to begin my transition to the grown up world.
So we go to a posh party. So posh that pockets of French conversation can be overheard around the room. Waltzing stiltwalkers twirl on the dancefloor and at least two people are wearing their sweaters looped around their neck.
I feel a little out of my element but the evening is going surprisingly well. Someone complimented me on my shoes earlier and Badger has managed to refrain from pulling out his Saturday Night Fever dance moves. At one point, I find myself trapped in a discussion about French films but luckily, I have just watched a film that was (a) French and (b) good, so I am covered. Before the conversation can turn to more dangerous waters of French literature (does Le Petit Prince in English count?), a waiter arrives in the nick of time with an offering of cheese and crackers.
“Ooooh, gorgonzola!”
Our little conversation group crowds around the waiter. All apart from me, that is. I do not want to be the odd one out but I am not too sure about this gorgonzola. In my limited cheese experience, I have only eaten hard cheeses, safe stuff like cheddar, swiss, and Jarlsberg. But maybe soft cheeses are another step to growing up.
Besides, Badger is stuffing his face with as much cheese as he can so that his hands are free to grab more. With a stamp of approval like that, I am reassured. I pop a healthy chunk of gorgonzola into my mouth.
And immediately regret it.
Creamy urine. I can think of no other way to describe the obscenity befouling my tastebuds. I am eating creamy urine. I try valiantly to force it down but it’s no use. I gag violently and spit my mouthful out into my glass of champagne. The bubbles fizz merrily around the putrid mass as I begin to dry retch. Badger pats me on the back concernedly and offers me his beer. I chug half the bottle down thankfully, trying to wash the offending taste away.
The rest of the group, waiter included, stares at me with jaws agape. “Is she alright?” one lady asks Badger.
Unable to hold back, I give her (and the peanut gallery) a gorgonzola-tinted beer belch in response.
It is hard to say who is more mortified.
Badger: Sweetie, what does ‘emancipated’ mean?
Me: It’s someone who’s super skinny.
Badger: …You’re a dope.
Eating KFC while watching Obama talk about war
Me: I felt quite betrayed when -
Badger: (interrupting) – when Afghanistan was invaded?
Me: No. When I found out that KFC’s mashed potatoes is actually instant potato powder.
