It’s not really my business

I found myself listening to a rather passionate conversation between several friends of mine today. To make a long story short, one of them was pissed at a girlfriend of theirs for breaking up with a guy whom my friend deems as the sweetest guy ever. And because said girl wouldn’t cough up a (reasonable) explanation for her actions, my friend including several others of theirs have decided to stop talking to the girl.

It’s none of my business but you should know that every second that that conversation lasted, I really wanted to put my two cents in.

Where do you draw the line at being there to be supportive of your friend (a.k.a the guy) from being judgemental towards them (a.k.a the girl)? How do you stay supportive and not dip your feet into meddling with the affairs of another’s heart(s)?

A relationship between two people is deeply personal and to speak frankly, lives or dies based on the decisions of the two people involved. Am I the only one who thought that the attack was also a product of friends poking their noses into business not concerning them in the least bit? By ignoring/guilt-tripping the bejeezus out of the girl, do they expect a reconciliation?

Imagine a relationship (re)forged based on the wants of exterior parties. That’s going to go down well. Why do people feel the need to force their opinions upon others in serious matters as such? A relationship filled with negative feelings is bound to fail eventually no matter how right others may think it is. It-just-doesn’t-concern-them-at-all.

I wish my friends would have just chosen to advice the pair but leave it as it is; advice. Advice is unlike an order; you give them, you don’t expect them to follow it but merely to take into consideration in their paths of reaching a decision. If people are so fond of instructing others what to do and then getting all huffy when it’s not followed, we all might as well become drill sergeants.

In all honesty, I do hope that girl who chose to leave the sweeeeetest guy on the planet, with whatever decision she makes, makes her own decisions based on what she wants and not what others want. I suppose that is like saying I hope not for a reconciliation, but I do earnestly hope she doesn’t succumb to peer pressure because at the end of the day, it’s her life. Not theirs.

I. love. food.

I love food. I love taking pictures. I love talking. I love blogging. I love watching tv. That being said, I love taking pictures of, talking and blogging about and watching tv shows about food.

Even Facebooking about food.

I’m toying around with the idea of starting a food blog. Nothing fancy schmancy like some really good ones out there like this one. Frankly speaking, I haven’t got the dough (yes dearies, pun totally and absolutely intended) nor the svelte belleh for endless gastronomic adventures. FROWN.

Still, I think it would be a delicious–I mean, nice idea. I’d get to slap all the food pictures I want and blab nothing about food without having to wonder if people might get tired of the stuff. Hmm, liking the idea of a food blog very much now.

Maybe I ought to jump start my collection of *recent* food photos first before manning a new food blog. If there’s anything worse, it’s an empty fridge. Plus, I think my picture-taking skills need brushing up.

Stir-fried tuna and kidney bean pasta dinner for tomorrow

Nice or not? You know what they say; a person who owns a Nikon DSLR isn’t necessarily a photographer.

On another note, have you met Timmy? Enjoy!

I drive like I own a McLaren

What do you do when your daily commute to and from work consists of three stages of rather long and straight expressways?

You speed.

And that’s exactly what I have been doing every day. I’ve noticed myself gradually becoming impatient on the road where overtaking, jumping lanes and flooring the pedal seem to be daily activities now. Suddenly driving at 60kph feels turtle-like and altogether boring. With all that space still in front of me as I drive along each day, there’s a subtle spark of excitement in me that takes a thrill in zooming down these pothole-free roads.

Also, now that I work much further away from home, I’d like to get home within half an hour’s commute and preferably before the sun dips away into the horizon. I hate that feeling of darkness that just makes me feel most of my day is gone.

Yet, despite this new penchant for speeding, I am afraid of turning into those I constantly moan and bitch about. I feel that I’m on the right track (heh, pun intended?) to becoming yet another impatient Malaysian driver. Still, all that road and all that distance to go, I can’t help but want to get where I want to be quickly. It’s like being on a diet and have to face that mountain of freshly baked cupcakes on display on the dining table. Oh wait, that’s already there.

Of course, driving on roads where speed laws aren’t are barely enforced doesn’t help a shrimp’s poo whatsoever either.

Perhaps it’s a good thing that I drive a simple, local car that doesn’t beg you to look at it with its puny 1.3HP engine. I can just imagine hitting the speed of light should I drive a sports car instead. I’d be hydroplaning minus the water. Whee!

 

I am a big softie

Today I learned from my mother–who, while reminiscing our childhood–that I rarely cried as a kid.

In fact, as a kid I rarely spoke. So much so that my parents became worried and I swiftly became the first child in the whole clan to visit a child psychologist–but, my dear friends, that is another subject for another time.

Anyway, I digress. As my mother told these previously unheard stories of myself, she reminisced at how, as a kid, I adored horror movies (thanks to the seriously huge doses of Chucky and Stephen King movies my cousins fed me when I was babysat). Yet, as intrigued as I was while watching these spine-chilling movies, I never once shed a tear of fear.

This carried on even when we visited theme parks with ultra scary rides and attractions. As a kid, I’ve ridden on some scary roller coasters and atmospheric swinging pirate ship rides and those were definitely scary, but no tears came. Even when I walked through many house of horrors (including one filled with mummies) with my mother, apparently I was scared shitless and had a death grip on my mother’s poor hand but instead of shedding tears like any other kid, I had grinned from ear to ear.

The only time I did cry on an outing–or so my mother has claimed–was during a movie outing. We were watching The Land Before Time and (SPOILERS!!) there was a scene where the little dinosaur’s mother was dying after an attack by the T-Rex.

Apparently I cried so loud that I had to be taken out of the cinema. To be honest, I remember that incident to this day.

So it was during this trip back to the past that it occurred to us that I have always been a softie, even when young. These days as a grown up, this trait seems to be present still as even the tiniest hint of sadness in whatsoever movie, tears will come. Heck, I’m typing this post up no more than an hour after I got home from watching Astro Boy and I cried even to that.

I do suppose it carries on in real life as well. I feel for people easily and want to make things better for them but it’s just something about the movies that makes me a leaking tap.

I havf cooked ze poulet!!

I havf done zit! I havf cooked! I havf cooked a chiken all by myself!

Zut alors! But I havf forgotteen to take a pictuaiirre…!

I went out tonaight, I boughtz ze chiken breasts weef de wittle fat and I came haome.

I rubbedzt de herbs and ze salt and ze black peppair on to de chiken. I rubbedzt and rubbedzt until dey all goez in. Then, I turn on ze stovf and put ze fry pan onz it. I wait for zit to get haot and den I puts the chiken in it.

I hear ze sizzle. Je’taime ze sizzle! Zzzzztt!!

I wait-uh for zit tuh brown den I turns it again. I do thizuh many times. I smell ze wonderful aroma and I wait-uh for my chiken to be cooked. When mon chiken iz done, I put itton sum papair towehl tuh soak up ze oil–cuz I don’t wantuh be fat since I amz on ze diet.

Finally, I takeh my knaife and cut ze chiken breast into slices and place it intuh mon tupperwaire for mon lunch at work tomorrow.

I shall takes ze piktuaire tomorrow if I remember!