Cheryl Goh the inconsistent blogger

It’s That Time Of The Year To Make Stupid Resolutions You’ll Break 12 Months On

“A new year brings new hope that things can change for the better”.

For some cosmic reason, the year end sets loose a plague which inexplicably turns just about everyone into deep-thinking reflective Zen beings. Rave parties, Dota, and yum cha session are suddenly time wasting activities, and people across the globe start planning to exercise and chuck away Big Macs in favor of Portabella Mushroom Salads. 

Everyone strives to pen down resolutions for a more fulfilling and meaningful life – stop smoking, being kind to the environment, saving more money, etc, etc. 

12 months down the road, most people are back to square one-recycling this year’s resolution for the next year.

 

Last year I made several new year’s resolutions, like:

2006 Resolution: I will become a more organized person.

“I will organize my work, in nice color-coded folders, and clear the rubbish on my desk at the end of every week”

Fast Forward December 2006

- My extremely “organized” work station -

It’s not as bad as it looks.

Sure, my documents are not color coded but hey, if I threw my blue pen drive into the orange mug, there’ll be just enough room for me to move my mouse without knocking into stray objects.

Conclusion: I’m still a disorganized klutz.

 

2006 Resolution: I will take better care of my health.

“I will gym at least 3 times a week and cut down on fried and fatty food. I WILL NOT DRINK ALCOHOL or eat fast food”

Fast Forward December 2006

 

- I swear I was just posing with the food and alcohol. None of it actually went into my tummy. -

God, I swear I tried…but yeah, this is one area I’ve been really inconsistent with.

Conclusion: I am no where closer to being slim, fit and healthy.

Oh well, if at first you don’t succeed, set the bar lower.

 

Here are my 2007 resolutions, inspired by the stars:

I want sound better at Karaoke:

I want to love myself more:

If and when I do decide to exercise, I will splurge on unwire support to prevent permanent breast sag

I’d like to look good in a bikini.

 Happy New Year Everyone!

 

 

 

I’m Balding, Awkward, and Short. And I Can Bed Any Girl I Want On the Planet.

Sounds too good to be true?

Well according to Neil Strauss, author of The Game: Penetrating the Secret Society of Pickup Artists (a book that’s fast becoming the bible for sexually frustrated men everywhere), the key to unlocking a women’s heart and legs, lie in executing a detailed set of rules which can be easily applied by anyone.

Did you say ANYONE?

Yup according to Strauss, ANYONE can end involuntary celibacy, and that includes obsess World of WarCraft folks, by understanding and manipulating the opposite sex.

The book details Strauss’s induction into the community and his rise from “average frustrated chump” to becoming a “master pick-up artist” under his pseudonym, Style.

 The underlying premise is that it doesn’t matter if you are short and balding and still live with your parents. If you’ve got a good line and exude confidence and know how to manipulate people, the babes will swoon.

Some of the escapades of the author and other PUAs – pick-up artist – mentioned in the book borders on the unbelievable (he makes threesomes and picking up platinum blonde models sound like child’s play), so much so that the author finds it essential to clearly point out that the book is NOT a work of fiction.

If you’ve ever struggled with opening lines, maintaining your target’s interest, exuding confidence and getting a hot chick’s number without seeming too needy, this is a fascinating and often hilarious read.

It also has a dark side which adds depth and character to the book -

Strauss describes how he loses interest in everything EXCEPT picking up women and in fact feels compelled to hit on them almost constantly. He holds seminars on seduction. He posts to message boards about seduction. He lives in a house full of guys whose sole interest is seduction — some who spend thousands of dollars attending seminars around the country.

For every obsession, there is a community to support and suck you in deeper. I thoroughly enjoyed reading how what lies in between a women’s legs, can morph needy men into larger than life figures.

Watch Neil Strauss’s amazing transformation On ABC Primetime

Impressions I won’t forget from Puck-get

I spent Christmas in Phuket, and returned with an uneven tan and a tubbier midriff courtesy of too many servings of green curry and Pad Thai. 

Instead of staying along the more popular Patong Beach, notoriously famous for it’s nightlife and shopping, we stayed at secluded Cape Panwa, possibly famous for being secluded and having heaps of dead and sharp corals to step on.

During our first night in Phuket, we decided to sample a coconut and banana pancake from a street pedlar outside the hotel.

 

The end product looked suspiciously like a roti pisang…but bigger on price (RM4) and even bigger on taste…mmmmm

 

 

The next day, we made our way to the Phi Phi Islands and ended up on the sandy shores of the famed Maya Bay, made popular by The Beach staring Leonardo DiCaprio. Despite the finest white sands and a breathtaking backdrop of limestone hills, tourism and perhaps the tsunami seem to have destroyed the island’s coral reefs and tour operators regularly throw bread into the sea in an attempt to lure more fish to entertain snorkeling tourist. Frankly I think Phi Phi Island is overrated, even more so as I did not find a huge field of marijuana and AK47 wielding farmers.

 

 

Speaking of tsunami – Tsunami: Wave of Destruction is ranked number 1 in the Thai Pirated DVD charts for two years running, beating international blockbusters such as Casino Royale and Happy Feet. The Thais really know how to turn tragedy into money.

 

 

I was pretty keen on watching a cabaret show but the men in our group did not want to find out the reason she’s got her legs crossed so tightly.

 

Instead we spent our last night in Phuket walking around Patong, sometimes forgetting that we’re in an Asian country – there seemed to be more white tourist then locals. I wonder if the locals love Phuket as much as her visitors. I can’t wait to get into the sea again. I love smelling like the beach.

 

Let’s play a game: Spot another (other than me la!) Asian in the picture above.

 

Best Christmas Presents For Those You Hate

It’s just one of those days. I feel so frustrated it’s frustrating. I hate whining. It’s a vicious circle, the more you whine, the worse you feel, which makes you whine ever more, which makes you feel even worse. Which is why I am channeling all this negative, angsty energy into something semi-positive:

A list of things to give to people you hate.

It is after all Christmas and there are bound to be people you are oblige to give presents to, even though you completely hate their guts, e.g. your boss, your in-laws, your boyfriend’s sister, etc etc.  :D. Oh, by the way, there’s a special place in HELL for people who make appointments which cause you cancel or delay plans, only to subsequently not turn up without an explanation… Now, on with the list

1. For the virginal, God-fearing, pious girl from your church who does not smoke or drink whom your parents totally adore and pray to God every night that you’ll follow her exemplementary way of life: A t-shirt she can wear to Sunday School.



2. For the gushing new parents that keep going on and on and on about how wonderfully fulfilling it is to have a child, and can’t stop asking, when is your turn, it’s about time you aren’t getting any younger, completely ignoring the fact that you are neither married nor engaged: It’s a tie between non-washable, permanent crayon/markers (I’d pick this if the mum is a compulsive cleaner**evil grin) and the loudest most repetitive toy you can possibly find. Preferably a toy which makes a noise after the kid has stopped playing with it for a while, like a fire engine which rings it’s siren after one minute of non-activity to coax the kid to play with it more.



3. For the bitter, unmarried, accountant in her late forties who runs through every detail in your monthly claims and ask questions like, “Why is your mileage claim 5.87 bucks higher than the month before?” and insists on going through each and every minute detail on your itemized cellphone bill, and who’s sole purpose in life is to share her misery: A Magic Eight Ball: The Spinster’s Edition. Answers should include the standard: Outlook not so good, Don’t count on it, Better not tell you now, to the more anal, Maybe, if you weren’t so ugly, In your next lifetime and The ship has sailed.



4. For a relative or friend you dislike from overseas: A pair of free weights for them to carry back to their home country. P.S. The heavier the better! 
   

So tell me, what would you give to someone you hate?

 

 

Let me bond with the bed

 

Today was a productive day spent primarily bonding with a bed I’ve been neglecting. It could not have been done without the support of my red stable table, purchased from Ikea during working hours, after devouring a dozen Swedish meatballs which Jason firmly believes derives it’s primary ingredients from bull testicles, dipped in some red sauce which is definitely not cranberry sauce.  

 

So  I’ve decided to give my red stable table a name.  Seems fair to name the furniture which permits me to save unprecedented amount of calories, by allowing me to surf the Internet from the comforts of my bed while sipping chilled, sweeten, processed, preserved Yeo’s soya bean served by the boyfriend because the fridge was closer to him than it was to me.

 

“Baby, can I have a refill?”

 

I think I am rambling. Do you think I am rambling? It must be because my brain’s been infused with insanely super human amounts of alcohol and R&B in the past few days, coupled with a lack of sleep and too much carbohydrates consumed during supper at various locations across KL due to the midnight munchies brought on by consuming insanely super human amounts of alcohol and too much R&B.

 

I shall name my red stable table Siren.

The Similarities Between Binge Drinking And Regular Exercise

It’s Tuesday afternoon and I’m having lunch with a friend at Novotel KL. Three days earlier, in between the dying hours of Saturday and the wee hours of Sunday, both of us, plus another 4 friends polished off 3 FULL bottles of hard liquor.

“You look really tired,” my friend notes as I slowly chewed on my garden salad. “What were you up to last night?”

“Nothing”. I reply. “I came home at 8.00pm after work and slept till 8.00am this morning! I am still recovering from Saturday’s night out”.

 

I faintly recall crawling into bed at 5.30am after sending everyone home.

 

“Gosh, it’s been three days! What time did you wake up on Sunday?”, my friend enquires.

“At four in the evening. I only managed one meal on Sunday and some wine before fading into unconsciousness”.

 

My friend mockingly chuckles as he messily cracks open a crab’s claw.

 

“I woke up at 8.00am on Sunday,” he gloats.

“Wow, like how did you manage to wake up, after getting royally drunk, with only 4 hours of sleep?”

“Ahhhh, it is quite simple really,” my friend replies with sudden authority in his voice. “Imagine going to the gym after a long break and forcing yourself through a strenuous workout”.

“Uh-huh”.

“What would your body feel like the next day?”

“Bloody sore”. I reply, remembering days when I had to walk side ways like a blundering crab, down flights of steps after a session in a gym following a long break.

“Now imagine if you are a regular gym goer,” he continues. “Exercising becomes a lot earlier because your body is accustomed to it. The same applies for excessive-binge-drinking; the more often you do it, the better you get at it. Your body become accustomed to the alcohol overload”

I stare at my friend in awe. I have been enlighten! I’ll get a chance to test his theory tomorrow.

Tomorrow will be another marathon-ish night at The Loft @Heritage Row. Which means that I would have spent 3 of the last 5 nights getting high. The body should be conditioned by now, eh? But to be on the safe side, I’ve taken Thursday off.

Pak Lah in Berjaya Time Square

Yesterday, Jason, Steve and Halida decided to have lunch in Berjaya Time Square. As they were approaching the entrance they noticed a bevy of photographers trying to edge closer to the red carpet. They soon found out that Pak Lah was there to launch a batik event.

 

Steve managed to shake Pak Lah’s hand and spent the whole day gloating about it.

“I am not gonna wash my hand for days!” quipped my awe-struck colleague.

 

If Datuk Michelle Yeoh shares the same sentiments as Steve, she won’t be washing her shoulder any time soon too. 

 

What’s Worst Than Hanging Your Dirty Linen In Public?

Inspired by a flat dweller who got owned

The Christmas season is soon approaching,

Your valet’s limits it’s fast encroaching,

You try to be thrifty, cut spending by fifty,

In preparation for this loathsome day.

 

Start taking public transport you must,

Otherwise your presents wont be as robust,

You imagine the tremor of your wife’s displeasure,

And have Maggi -in-a-cup over lunch at a cafe.

 

You save by conserving water and electricity,

And terminate your postpaid line with Digi,

You stop drinking and smoking to boost your savings,

Colleagues and friends start calling you a weirdo.

 

Your savings soon touch the sky,

That Tiffany & Co diamond ring you can buy,

It all looks well, until your neighbor tells,

Of the recycled condoms air-drying from your window

Sorry, saya tak Rela (buka pintu).

When I was 17, my (then) boyfriend drove me to a quiet spot by the sea to talk under a bed of stars. The area was peaceful and secluded from the hustle and bustle of the city…no lights, no cars, no other moonlighting couples… We had the whole place to ourselves. We sat in his car listening to our favorite songs, starring out at the moon enjoying the moment.

Suddenly a ray of light pierced the darkness and a loud rapping on the door ruptured the calmness of the night. Three Malay men wearing yellow berets and uniforms crept up from behind the vehicle and were now shinning their torchlight at us, demanding we open the car door. We were in the middle of no where and I refused as we did not recognize their uniforms. When I asked for their ID, one of them pointed to his badge and shouted “Kamu tak kena Rela?!! Buka pintu sekarang!!!”

When I relented, they then aggressively demanded for our IC’s which we gave through a tiny slit in the window. A fourth guy without uniform soon joined the pack. This fourth guy told us that unless we opened the door, we were not going to get our IC back. At this point I became adamant on not giving in to these people. I told them to keep our IC’s and we could all drive to the closest police station. I made it clear that there was no way in hell we were getting out of the car in a dark secluded place. They eventually gave us back our IC and told us to be on our way.

If there’s one thing I learnt about living in Malaysia, it is never to trust a uniformed person. Especially if it’s harder to buy a pack of cigarettes then it is to buy a Rela uniform.