If there is something that I haven’t felt in a long long time is security… Security that you get from deep within your soul. Security that surpasses the boundaries of time.. Security that will make you love yourself everyday…
And today I have found it.
Alice: I need to renew my gym membership. Like, yesterday.
Frenchie: I need to renew my will power. Can I pay for that? I would… a lot
Alice: I think they accept your soul as payment
I meet with my new trainer this week. He is Scottish and sounds very intimidating on the phone. The first trainer I had was from Newfoundland and laughed at pretty much everything I did. And not in the “gee you sure are funny!” way. No, more of a “haven’t you EVER stood on one leg on a teetering Bosu Balance Trainer while throwing a ten pound medicine ball rythmically against the floor and simultaneously doing leg presses with ankle weights on? No? Ha ha – wow you newb!” sort of laughing at me way.
I’m always nervous meeting a trainer. I actually asked for a girl trainer the first time but was paired up with the Newfie. I’m sort of glad I had a guy because although I wasn’t attracted to him, I wanted to work harder to impress him. Or something like that. With a girl I’d just try to gossip with her to distract her from the fact that I wasn’t really working out. At all. Ever.
The thing with the trainer though is that if they’re too good looking you’re embarrased to work hard. Sweat pouring down your face, arms quivering with the strain of that ten pound weight (kidding – I lift at least 12.5), real or imaginary flab jiggling everywhere as you jog in place. I need to not be thinking about what my trainer would look like naked and instead be concentrating on how many more times I can lunge before I collapse on the floor like a puddle of out-of-shape Jell-O.
Another thing? All the trainers seem to have photographic memories. “Alice! We haven’t seen you in three weeks, two days and six hours! Have you been away? No? Well, you can sure tell” *wink* Do they take that as a class in preparation to become a trainer? Memorize all members’ schedules. When you see a member, mark it in the little book. Always check this book the next time they are in to ensure you can embarass them with the knowledge that it’s been 24 days since they were last in.
Also, what’s with the hip thrust maneuver? In case you are unfamiliar, it’s where you lay on your back, put your feet on a slightly raised area – like a step, bend your knees and rhythmically raise your hips up and down. Yes, just like when you’re having sex – well, if you were having relatively boring sex. Somehow when I do them it always seems to be perfectly timed to the worst song. I just start with the hip thrust – and up, and down – when inevitably “This is Why I’m Hot” starts playing. Way to call attention to yourself and look like a huge narcissistic asshole at the same time.
This is my blog and my picture and so I shall make myself damn skinny as I want!
A long-distance phone conversation with a friend who had recently returned from some boisterous finishing school in Switzerland:
Alice: Yo Ray! Wat’s up? It been ages man… how are you?
Ray: I am fine. Thank you. How are you?
Alice: Man, I have been fabulous and frosty in Sydney. So howz life treating you?
Ray: I am fine. Thank you. How are you?
Alice: Nothing much. Just waiting for the summer to start coz the chill is killing me (grins). So how were you in Switzerland?
Ray: I was fine. Thank you. How are you?
Alice: F#$% OFF coz you have nothing else to say!
Ray: But that’s what I have been taught at my finishing school! To speak less and to speak only when spoken or asked to
Alice: So what the hell was I doing till now if not speaking to you or asking about you?
Ray: (silence)
Alice hung up!
*ppfftt*
Now that’s what I call a ‘finished’ call 
The feeling I got when I saw the bill was the same as the feeling I get when I’m doing the best, most fun server duty of all: gum scraping. You know the nastiness is coming but it still hits you hard (TWSS). See, some people still think putting their wad of chewed up, disgusting, spit-encrusted gum under the table is socially acceptable.
I say “still” as if it were ever socially acceptable. I mean, how does an adult decide that the best place for their nasty gum is under the table where strangers have to sit and eat? Really though, you can learn a lot by observing the patterns of the gum.
For instance, there are obviously groups of people who come to the conclusion that asking for a napkin is really far too difficult and under these tables you will find four matching blobs, one at each place. Group consensus: random gum attack!
On that same note, I actually watched a 40-ish year old woman take her gum out and put it under the table yesterday. I was sitting a few tables over waiting for some friends to be done work and had notice this woman earlier because she was wearing a very, incredibly tight shirt that was too short and a tiny frilly skirt that looked borrowed from her 14 year old daughter.
I’m all for showing off your body and being proud of what your mama gave you but if you can’t feel your ass cheeks as two separate entities that is probably a good indication that your bottoms are too tight.
It’s also probably good to consider a wardrobe change if you find you look as though you have four boobs instead of two (fondly referred to as “quadra-boob” in some circles, also known as “you need to go get fitted for a new bra”); or when you show up to your kids friend’s party and your outfit more closely resembles the pre-pubescent kids outfits then it does the other parents.
Her worse crime however wasn’t one of fashion (though seriously? Really? Tough call here), it was one of basic human etiquette. Because we all know there is nothing worse then settling in at a restaurant for a night of drunken debauchery and getting surprise gum attacked.
The first flight out of home wasn’t easy as it sound
The jitters were all mysterious but I did feel unbound
Up I went away from the city’s glittery sight
Hoping that someday I will be back with all my might
Little did I realise that the plane would be roaring
And unexpectedly my shoddy soul went up soaring
Saw the mighty hues of sun overtake the glittery night
While I wrapped my flimsy blanket over my eyes’ light
At last a few cold glasses of Vodka did the trick
And before I knew I was bumping on the landing strip
The first thing that knocked me, was the ambushed tropical smell
And my heart groaned in disdain and said: ‘Oh, what the hell!’
The dark shimmering streets were garbled with ambition and hope
That’s when I realised that my heart was suddenly walking on a tight rope
As I zoomed through the city which was deep in its menacing screams
I asked my fluttery heart that was I ready to call it the city of my dreams?
Days had passed but my impossible quest had never ended
For that one pure light that would simply be unblended
Tried seeing the end of the incessant granite structures
But all my eyes felt were harsh sunny fractures
The dark alleys reeked with perfumed stilettos and nimble lies
And somewhere not very far I did hear the helpless cries
One day, while reminiscing at the Town Hall I gaped at what I saw
The sights and sounds shook my bones till they went weak with awe
A cacophony of Spanish guitar strings came running real slow
And all my heart could do was leap towards the flow
There I saw an old blind man all torn and tattered
But he played his broken guitar as if nothing mattered
He sang of yesteryears and purple violet fields
Of heroes with broken noses and spidery shields
Blood oozed from his old fingers onto the rusted strings
But the melody gave my soul the pearly white wings
I stared at him stupefied amid the jostle of the city
And saw a view that shook away all my pity
The first kiss of the celebrated sunset came upon the Harbour Bridge
And all of a sudden the city was engulfed till its ridge
I felt that if old men and the sun could ascend, glow and play everyday
What crime have I committed to be the destiny’s prey?
The mere thought gave me a hope to change my dreary tomorrow
And not wither away in a powerless sorrow
I picked up the fragments of hatred that I had sprinkled over the city
And added the broken pieces of my spirit to my new borne kitty
So tomorrow with the sun I shall be standing tall on my own
With a pocketful of dreams in a city that will be my throne
With all the trials and tribulations that I have gone through,
Sydney has taught me a beautiful lesson of life…
That is to laugh at oneself.
And to laugh really hard.
Life does feel simple after a good laugh.
I moved to Sydney a couple of months ago and life has never been the same every since. It’s not that I don’t miss India or its myriad colours of life but somewhere I have got used to the tropical shades of Australia too. Hey, I am no one to be choosy… neither am I Paris Hilton nor am I Obama and somewhere I don’t wish to be. The day I hopped on that Singapore Airlines flight, I thought I was leaving behind all those morbid memories of chaos and bedlam behind me and starting a new life but anarchy and disorder have innate ways of finding my soul. I was torn, wrecked and above all I just wanted to go back to my save haven that is in India because I didn’t have the heart to embrace the unknown. As hours and days trickled by, I realised that life has other (and probably better!) plans for me in store. Little did I know that the funky and fancy George Street or the glorious sunsets on the Harbour Bridge or the mad seas enveloping La Perouse will steal my heart someday. Little did I know that the windy silence of Sydney, the occasional knowing look in a stranger’s eye, the cobbled streets at The Rocks, and the razzmatazz at King’s Cross will elevate my soul someday. Little did I know that I will fall in love with a city all over again.
I do miss India a lot but that doesn’t mean I hate Sydney. I miss mum’s food but I love the Thai food too. I miss my friends but I am making new ones too. I miss the weather but I am enjoying the extreme weather that Sydney has to offer. Maybe I have given up or maybe I have simply opened up. I don’t know and somehow I don’t want to know. In the entire process of waiting and watching till now, I realised that I am missing out on living this thing called Life. So from today, with an open heart and a washed soul, I will learn how to live once again. I will learn how to love once again. Then maybe… just maybe if I try hard enough, I shall start breathing this new life once again.
I have a tendency to put my foot in my mouth.
A lot.
I also say completely inappropriate things at totally inappropriate times.
For example, at a hauty- toity wine tasting at the Club here the other day, the wine rep at one of the fancy wine booths said “this one will hit you hard…” and before he even finished I repeated his words to no one in particular while pointing at his ‘thing’ and then I yelped (louder than intended): “that’s what he said!”
As the rep finished:”…with jammy raspberry and plum”
And everyone looked at me awkwardly while I swallowed a huge gulp of wine.
Mmm jammy.
The end.
that how can you float when you don’t know how to swim in this vicious whirlpool of life?
As we wake up, we want that perfect mug of chocolate, that perfect news in the paper and those perfect rays of the sun to kiss our eyes. But in the entire process of wanting perfection in our daily lives, how perfect are we?
Yeah, I have rechristened myself to Agent Small Feet.
Wanna know why?
According to the giant sportswear brand called Reebok that is a producer of world-class athletic footwear, apparel and accessories claims that my shoe size is 4! And according to an American shoe company called Converse that has been making sexy footwear since the early 20th Century claims that my shoe size is 3!
Yeah, you read it absolutely right…
What is a 27 year old lady supposed to do in such a situation especially when she is suffering from retail-o-mania?
She can’t hide behind the aisles in a fancy mall and go in the kiddie shoes section when no one’s watching and she can never ever choose her footwear from there, right? I mean I don’t like baby footwear except on the feet of kids and I remotely don’t look like a mother of a five-freaking-year old!
Gosh!
That leaves me with just one option…
To blame my folks for imbibing – the lotus shoes – no hope for reclamation – DNA in me!
Sigh!
Once upon a time there lived a whacked out princess called Alice who used to believe that this world is her fictional empire that she fondly calls her Neverland for it was here where she was cherished and loathed by one and all. Although, she does confess today that she did (and she hopes she still does!) have a little skewed version on everything that life has to offer and would’ve been sour many a times in the past. She does confess that she was always a riot and a total mess out here.
Although, even in that mindless chaos and clutter that she tenderly recollects as life, she used to worship this space. For it was this space that she used to call her own. During some demented moments of her existence, it was her haven and her refuge; a place where she simply could be. During other moments of tumult, she used it as her punching bag and vented all her frustration on it. On some other days, the fabric of this space would be vividly intertwined with her morbid yet insatiable fantasies which were sometimes so true and sometimes utterly ludicrous to the point of being obnoxious. But it was here where she came home to, it was here where she hid from the crazy world and it was here where she melted and became one with the higher forces that reign Life. She knows that it might sound clichéd but she used to love this space. Love is such a precarious word, isn’t it? In spite of all the fallacies that the word has to offer, she loved this space so much that she took it for granted and left it out in the sun to die. It withered. It screeched for attention. It created bedlam and anarchy. But Alice ignored.
What made Alice do so? Is it the unswerving devotion towards this space that made her go for the kill? At the moment, Alice muses that is the human mind capable of strangling something it covets the most? Is the human subconscious capable of drowning its angelic twin? Is the human heart capable of garrotting its own flesh and blood?
Should Alice let bygones be bygones and give this bond a new start? Should she let the flowers bloom once again? Should she let her baby breathe once more? Or should she bury the soul of her lover and lament its agony for times to come?
…and so Alice waits and ponders over life’s acrid twist of fate.
I dont know if many of you know it, but BMW had come up with the BMW film series called The Hire specially made for the internet. To read more, click here.
and the one below happens to my favourite film of all of them
Yes I killed it… every bit of it…. slowly and viciously like the poison of a scorpio… I killed my blog… but someday I shall come back with the hope of a better tomorrow… till then I shall wait for my redemption
The silver purple shores awaken my wanderlust,
Like the hazel queen fairy sprinkling her stardust.
Amidst the stars the milky moonlight shines,
Giving away the secret that shall always be mine.
The streets chant the mangled bohemian rhapsody of love,
Tugging my manic soul as the voodoo song from above.
The language so alluring that makes my heart leap,
The twilight in his eyes simply sweeps me off my feet.
At last I pray for a promise of a beautiful tomorrow,
That shall breathe love for a lifetime and bury my sorrow.
Timeless!
What good is trust
if it blinds you…
That’s the difference between me and the rest of the world! Happiness isn’t good enough for me! I demand euphoria!
Scream like you never have before,
Scream!
Scream till you cant scream anymore,
Scream !
Scream like your throat is bleeding,
Scream!
Scream till your heart stops beating,
SCREAM FOR ME!
