Hell Loses the King to the Heavens

'Oly Moly, it's been almost a century since I last repacked this suitcase! Can't say I've been busy - only 2 semi-non-emergencies since I plunked my behind on the blue chair in my "office". Even dear Savante - who's been shipped off to some Sea-horse land of a population of 30 - has been constantly nagging me to update the suitcase. But then again he's also harassing Iraqi Irma to showoff her suitcase to the world as well since she was deported to the war-zone.

I used to think I could write. But that was in school where our imaginations would run wild with ideas for essays of no less than 10 exercise book pages. Nowadays, I start a not while I'm at work (I'm not so much working as I am AT work), but get interrupted, hence never end up finishing it. So lets see where this one takes me. I'll publish this regardless of whether I write anything informative or not.

Everyone knows about the legend who went to rock the heavens last week. Definitely news that shocked the socks off my grandmother (if she was wearing any at the time she heard the news). I was woken up by the news. Literally. It was 7:45am local time.

Iphone: ting tong ting tong ting tong ting tong

Me (1/4 awake): heeee.......lll..(yawn)..ll.oooo

Lisa: OMG Michael Jackson's dead.

Me: nah.. what? nah.

Lisa: I just saw it on CNN. OMG

Me: Nah.. it's prolly fake. Like Elvis' death

Lisa: no.. it's real.. Anyways I thought I'd

just tell you

Me: Ok. hmmm... *yawn*

Lisa: bye

I was informed of the same news by Father Dearest when I went downstairs for breakfast an hour later. Yes I heard. But it didn't really sink in until I watched the live reporting on CNN when I was at work (what did I say about me working?) - A picture of the king, intubated. It just looked so wrong. It was then I realized my childhood idol-hero was HiStory. The King was dead. And the whole world was mourning him in the most untraditional way - singing and dancing to the music once created by the legendary King. Its amazing how this man made headlines until the end of his life! Heck he even broke the internet! Suddenly news of the turbulent middle east were just mere subtitles at the bottom of the TV screen as they focused on the helicopter that was transporting the music's royal body. have

I was certainly a Michael Jackson fan... maybe not a super-duperfan.. but superfan enough to sit in and dance at his concert a day before my exams.. with textbooks in hand! :) Superfan enough to dispute the odd rumours that surrounded him. The man had some eccentricities, but even I have a thing against chives that I deem an allergy to. No one publicized that! Never really understood why no one could leave him alone. But then I guesstimate that's what makes him Mi

chael Jackson.

Then there's the music, which was phenomenal. From a tender age of 5, or maybe earlier, I remember grooving to his music and staying up to catch his awesome music videos on American Top 40! My high school friends and I even did a rendition of Thriller for our annual school concert - costumes and make-up, and our own MJ included! We stole the show from Lady Precious Stream! (the main school play) We were the coolest in those days! Even in the last year of high school, we had another sports even where my sports house did a dance to The Don't Really Care About Us. MJ helped us win the trohphy for 1st place in "Gimrama!" He didn't make much press through his music in my college and working years, but I still tread the mill with the likes of Billie Jean and Dirty Diana.

He was certainly an influence in my life.

He defined and era. He defined my era.

In some ways, I'm glad he's pushing up daisies and gone to rock with the heavens. Despite the achievements, life wasn't exactly kind for him here in this Hell. So to HRH King of Pop. God Bless you, and rock on!

HRH King of Pop

Flirt!

He watches as she slowly crunches her abdomen sideways. He pays little attention to the subject he is paid to train - A slightly overweight, elderly lady. He continues staring at the younger crunching one every now and then.

From the corner of her eye, she can see the semi-cute gym trainer checking her out. "Just 15 more" she concentrates hard on her pushups, conscious of the on-and-off eyes on her. She feels good.

The elderly-ish trainee of his walks away for a drink. Tis' his chance to strike up a conversation with the young hottish one.

"Where do you get your workouts from?" he asks her, although obvious to him she can't hear him through her white earphones plugged into The Pussycatdolls' Jai-Ho on the ipod.

She pulls off the earphone, and smiles at the semi-cutie who had said something to her. "Sorry?"

He repeats his question.

"Oh I learn them on my own"

"You read a lot?"

"yup... and I download some stuff off the net too" she answers geekilly.

"Well your workout's awsome, but the intensity.... hmmm"

"I've been slacking off a bit lately"

The conversation continues until the elderly-ish trainee of his returns for more torture.

Was that flirting?

It's a classic illustration of the flirtatious trainers - young and semi-hot, who has probably been working (out) at that gym for say... a year maybe. And she used to frequent that same gym over 2 years ago, and prior to that, few other gyms. Making her a gym-junkie before he even master the push-up.

The flirting game. Played by many through centuries. Many claim it to be innocent. But why do catfights and heartbreaks crop up from this benign sport?

Lately, some little bird has screamed into my ears, some news of flirtatious husbands and fluttering butterflies. The flirty-tirty husband being a surgeon I once respected, and the fluttering butterfly - some wrinkleless Meredith Grey I've seen at work a couple of times (come to think of it now, always in the company of McFlirty-tirty). Story is , McFlirty-tirty has been seen with this fluttering butterfly in the operating theatre despite her term at the hospital as an intern has ended yonks ago. Also spotted: McFlirty-tirty and butterfly fluttering away in his car on a weekend morning after he's done his rounds.

I knew McFlirty as a surgeon, and the friendly husband of my close colleague/friend. They couple at work I thought were a picture perfect couple with a couple of charming juniors to complete the portratiture of a perfect family. Both doctors, and in the speciality that would go hand-in-hand in the medical field. I always thought the two were the cutest pair in the hospital. Both were friendly and admired by our colleague never had anyone mutter a foul-word in the same sentence with their names. They'd go for lunch breaks if possible, and often check in on each other during work or after hours if the other is on-call. Doesn't that just spell s-c-h-w-e-e-t ? Heck he even buys dinner for her friends when he is buying hers!

But she was transferred to a different hospital as part of her apprenticeship. And so the hanky-panks began. First were her innocent giggles by the bedside (patient's that is), then it was the midnight rendezvous as he the held that little catterpillar with his forceps and sutured fluttering wings on. This is when gossip girl spots the butterfly fluttering around him outside hospital premises.

Maybe it is just trifle flirting. But doesn't all affaire de couer start with flirting? Doesn't it take two to tango? A friend commented that it might probably be just that innocent flirting, and that it means nothing to McFlirty-tirty. He is just too nice to say no to a an enthusiastic caterpillar who's eager to fly with him. But how does one explain the weekends, and when she's not on call, let alone a legal intern at the hospital? Dubious...

Flirting is benign, as long as its played by 2 single parties. Two single people, being friendly, with or without hopes of getting into the other's pants. If it ends in the bedroom/ bathroom in da club, well done. If anyone is to be affected by the results of this game, it's just either one.(unless we're talking about uncalled for pregnancies) But when it involves the players' faithful other half, things get ugly. They who did no wrong, are persecuted for honouring their cheating partners. Particularly in a relationship where vows were taken to stay TRUE to each other, in sickness and in health. Vows taken traditionally upon divinity. But it seems no one takes this seriously anymore.

I have another colleague, a young girl who is currently dating a widower cop over 10 years her senior. According to her, he started picking her ponytails when she was still in high school, while his then wife was patronizing the hospital for chemotherapy, which she finally succumbed to. In sickness and in health they say.

Why do some men find it so hard to stay faithful to their partners? Some perhaps enjoy the chase, some, just feels the itch. Perhaps there are those who really are dissatisfied with what their partners. But if such is the case, why not end the current relationship before starting a new one? Solve all complexities and start a happy new romance. Or are they too balless to end the present, in fear of the fling not working for the better? Such averice.

跪妻男 Gui 7 Nan @ Dataran Petaling Jaya, Opposite AmCorp Mall, 7th March 2008 - The most popular videos are a click away

After the encounter at the gym, today, a nurse of mine handed me a business card of a patient I was seeing earlier. He was so obviously flirting through his gold wedding band throughout the entire consultation. Simple information explained was replied with a "wow, you're smart.." Like duh. You don't have to be a genius to figure out that pain occurs when you had a fall! He probably went in an arm-sling and flattered. Someone fetch me the pukebucket please. Makes me wonder if the business card would have made its way to me had his wife accompanied him to the hospital.

What can I say.... Doctor, patient, cops alike, when the cat's away, the rats will stray.

Hands off!

My friend Savante recently blogged about hand-holding on the first date after I raised a stink about the named issue. 

Traditionally holding hands has always been a gesture  of romance and intimacy for me. I love holding hands of the guys I'm going out with i.e. whom I like very 

much and hopefully want to have their babies someday. Ok I was kidding about the last part.

I remember the first time a boy held my hand. We have already gone on a couple of dates, and already pretty much established that we liked each other very much. We were strolling in a mall, after dinner, and I felt his hand lightly brush against mine. It was signal enough to grasp his brushing hand. From then, whenever a (potential) beau plays the hand-brushing trick, it never fails to send a frenzy fuzzy warm feeling in my stomach.

But what about the boys you don't particularly take a fancy upon? During the first few dates, we either start developing fondness towards them, or decide to let them go (either with a dump or as gently as possible). What's the big deal when you've made out with strangers at clubs (but that usually involved some degree of ethanol intoxication)? 

Holding hands is such a pure and simple act that in it's simplicity, it speaks so much more than the tongue reaching hard for the tonsils. The unlocking hands hold the messages of I like you, I respect you and You are safe here with me,  while the locked hands would reply I like you too, I want to need you, I know I'm safe with you. It symbolizes a beginning of a commitment. Meanwhile, tongue actions  only speak the carnal language of you, me - floor/little bathroom stall/changing room - NOW!  which I find less intimidating than the former.

So when eager beaux reached for my hand on the first date,  I was much more offended than the gentleman at the club who stuck his tongue down my oesophagus. Taken by surprise and being the non-offensive character that I like to be, I quietly let the ardent  hand do what it wanted to my limp hand. Alas, no hint was taken to my unilateral paralytic hand. Instead, they take it as a motivation to help themselves to my paws throughout the rest of the night. If I made a fuss, I would irk the boy's ego majorly. So my I have a stroke on the other side of my brain. 

No doubt I agreed to go on a date with them, but I did not sign up for a ticket to matrimony or anywhere near that state on the first date. If guys are commitmophobes in an existing relationship, I chose to be one on the first date itself. I like to have the traditional dizzy feeling creep up on me as it did when the ex performed his hand-brushing trick on the fourth date - when I could roughly predict what drink he would order at dinner and how he can't dance to save his own life - to substantiate the what can be called beginning of a relationship. 

While I am more relaxed with tongue-tugging games on the first meeting, it doesn't mean I foster the behaviour.  It's easier for Tipsy-Tina to close one eye at Snogging-Sam under the influence and, as the environment and circumstances prevail. But with fully Sober-Sarah, Hand-holding-Hayden just needs to keep thy paws to thyself until further notice. You might think it's an honest gesture, but really, it doesn't score you much brownie points.

Note: (Fortunately), that relationship with the hand-brusher didn't last long.

Life Post Shanghai

A month's quickly passed and due to ridiculously cold weather for a tropical girl, I've decided to return to the warm motherland. It's been 2 weeks since my homecoming, I am already experiencing the following withdrawal symptoms:

• Not-so-super-poking -  Since my grand return, the only people I get to poke are my dear and loyal patients i.e. my parents. Every night I'm summoned to give them each an "old mother chicken" (read: acupuncture point near the knee that has the nourishing properties of the old mother chicken!)

• Hypo-shop-adaemia - Shanghai's a bargain hunter's paradise (after all, everything in the world is made in China) Unfortunately I only discovered this fact very late in the last trip. (i.e. 2 days prior to my departure!) Shame on me! Which calls for another trip there really soon. If only I was there at the beginning of my trip, at least I could have played dress-up more, in winter clothes that they had for a quarter of the retail price!

• missHelen-ism - My classmate/tourguide (vice-versa), interpreter, bargain and hot-soup co-hunter, "mummy" and best friend in the huge metropolis. She's managed to infect me with her charm and her lovely kids! 

• Short/non-quiet walks - No chance of doing what I enjoyed most in Shanghai (after No. 1 & 2)in the streets of KL where catcalls are abundant and the sun's too hot... or it might just pour! It's almost safe to say safety is not so much an issue over there that I can afford to take long quiet walks in the streets with a hot cuppa java to keep semi-warm. At the same time people watch and shop-hop along the way. Back in motherland, it's back to my faithful cityrider where walking outdoors is minimized to dashing from car-building and building-car under 5 minutes, for weather and safety reasons.

• Un-Tantalizing theatres - I'm not saying Malaysians have lousy talents. I'm all for local talents. Put it this way, I was spoilt with 2 different international acts (the Russian ballet and Irish Tap) in a week (both sold out shows even). That is more than I do in 6 months back home. Its any theatre-lover's buffet!

• Monstrous Metros - so I don't take the metro (LRT) in KL. But it was my main mode of trasportation in the big (ginormous) city. Despite not reading much of the language to save my own life, I still managed not to get lost once on the Shanghai Metro. And one cannot help comparing the 2 rail systems of Shanghai and KL. Or is that too pitiful to mention?

• Chinese dysarthria  -  Since boarding the plane back, I scarcely managed  to use 10 words of the 362 Chinese words which I re-acquired in the Shanghai-tang way.  But I'm making it up by attempting to teach myself 5-10 words every 2 days or so! And the counting goes on....

After reviewing the symptoms and consulting my knowledgeable head of Western and Chinese medicine, I have now come to realize that I suffer from the Shanghai reverie syndrome.  

Treatment:

I heart Shanghai. Enough said.

Girl's gone superpokin'

Her hands felt cold as she inched nearer and nearer to his body. Today will be the day she fluorishes. She gently traced the outline his strong back muscles until she heard a light groan coming from him. 

"Oh yes, that's it," he softly moans. 

She reaches for her tool, and swiftly prods at his tenderness. Mini-cun by mini-cun,  she rotates and thrusts her tool deeper and deeper. 

"有了" ("Got it") He mumbles in a heavy French accent, and indicates, giving her his thumbs up. 

He has received the Qi. So did she, as she beams to herself, excited and fulfilled. Finally, she was no longer an acupuncture virgin. 

It may look painful, but acupuncture is not about pain. Most people hardly feel the needle as they are being superpoking. Mr French Fella here admits he did not feel the needle going in, but felt the princely arrival of the famous Qi. Or rather  a sensation described usually as warmth or sometimes a tingling sensation which cues the "arrival of Qi". 

From day 1 at the acupuncture clinic, I have yet to hear a patient complain about the incompetency of this ancient medical craft. Call them jingoistic, but Chinese people are staunch to their cultures.  Young and old, scholarly and not-so -literate, they believe in their ancestors' way of medicine that has been practised for thousands of years. Despite being stuck and stabbed eyes to arse, they come back for more, sometimes with compadres hand in hand.

Needles in hand, my journey through these meridians (and the streets of Shanghai) continues. Unlike western medicine my ancestors have lain down the meridians for me to the hidden spleen. By super-jabbing and listening for gentle moans hopefully this will lead me to the mysterious hiding place of the organ(s).