Every now and then, my kid sister comes up with things that make me laugh. And I know that I did the right thing by not shoving her in front of a speeding car when she was 4.

We found this on my parents' bedroom door.

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I can hardly write this entry for the regret and sorrow choking me up. I have failed you. For I have returned home...without stripper pics.

Worse, I only have myself to blame. There I was armed with camera and moral intentions, all ready for some gawking (indignantly, of course) at muscles in thongs. But then I thought about the three whole weeks I still had left. And the looooooooooong walk to the train station in the blazing hot sun while fighting off clouds of summer flies seeking shelter up my nostrils and in my ears. So like I always do when confronted with a choice between "now" and "later", I chose "too late". When I finally got around to locating the club, I was informed that only Saturdays are male strip nights. "It's the Aussie way, luv." Bloody slackers more like.

I was crushed. Devastated. Cuz by that time, the only Saturday Strip Night I had left was Christmas Eve. Which I was to spend wearing a silly paper hat and drinking champagne with family members wearing equally silly hats and those cracker plastic rings that always land in the cranberrry sauce. And I had a feeling that it wouldn't be proper Xmas spirit to back out with a "Sorry, Uncle D. I'd rather ogle (indignantly) at men wearing only Santa hats."

Naturally, depression set in. In an effort to cheer me up, the 'tives dumped me in a car and dragged me interstate to trudge up and down walking trails and to look at countless views of sunlight glinting off palm-sized lakes. Very thoughtful of them, but the only lights I wanted to look (indignantly) at were stagelights glinting off waxed chests.

Sob sob. Now there's a reason to put "Stop procrastinating" on my New Year resolution list. Which I will. Later.

Happy morally-sound New Year you lot. Except you, Paul *nudge nudge*.

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So it's time once again for the obligatory visit to the runaway relatives.

My room's in even more of a mess than usual. Hangars strewn all over the floor, clothes piled everywhere except in the suitcase...my dog refused to enter my room for fear of being buried alive. But I'm absurdly pleased with myself. For once, I'm packing my bag way ahead of schedule. The flight's this evening and I'm almost done deciding exactly what to pack (already!). Yes, I'd probably finish faster if I got off the computer, but I thought I'd take some time out to pat myself on the back.

*Pat*

Oh what the hell, I deserve another.

*Pat*

Mmm...I actually kinda miss Adelaide. Lamb yiros(es?), Boost juices, Vietnamese beef noodles by the grocery store, the bestest yoghurt ever in the market corner...

Err, and the family there.

On the other hand, I am not, repeat not, looking forward at all to Freddy's promise to bring me to a male strip club. In fact, I'll take pictures documenting exactly how much I won't enjoy it.

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Whenever someone tells me that (s)he's going away on vacation, I like to ask to be smuggled along in a suitcase (unless it's to Hong Kong). But it's always only been a half-serious request, since I naturally assumed that to fit in a suitcase, some breaking of bones would be required, and I balk at anything more than three toes or fingers.

Well, not anymore.

For this afternoon, wanting a break from the stress of our ongoing final exams, Jason suggested that I climb into his brand spanking new suitcase. Just for kicks. And by climbing in, he meant curling up in it while he zipped it up. You'd think that after being locked into a car boot, and only let out in the middle of a crowded Bangsar street after multiple bruises and speed humps, this would be a definite no-brainer. Yet strangely enough (probably due to exam stress), I gamely squished myself, fetus-like, into the 30" case. Sort of like how you'd expect to find a corpse hidden in a trunk...only giggling more. And strangely enough (also probably due to exam stress) he unzipped me again (the suitcase, you deviants!) right after. So apart from learning that Jason isn't as diabolical as once thought, I also discovered that I can actually fit intactly, and somewhat comfortably, in a suitcase!

I really don't see how people can refuse to take me along on vacation now. Apart from having an excuse to bring an extra suitcase over to carry holiday shopping home (alright, I'll hitch a ride in someone else's luggage for the return trip), there are so many benefits to adding me to your suitcase:

Worried that that dinky padlock won't stop a dastardly drug smuggler from sneaking illegal substances into your attractive-looking suitcase? No need to when you've got me waiting with a boltcutter to lop off mischevious fingers!

Don't want to be caught with the drugs you're smuggling? You won't! Not when I've got easy access to everyone else's bags in the hold. I'll even mark the "dirty" bag for easy retrieval after customs.

Afraid that hijackers may take control of your plane and force you to land in Hong Kong? Well, they won't be able to fight off the unexpected rebellion led by the surprise passenger whom they were unaware of!

Pissed off cuz your travelmate overpacked your shared suitcase and now there's no space for holiday shopping (every little bit counts!)? I'll repack it more sensibly (i.e. all his/her stuff in the cobwebbed corners of the hold), leaving more than enough space for that lovely new pair of shoes that won't fit even in the previously-James-containing-but-newly-stuffed-with-holiday-spoils suitcase.

Really, I could go on and on cuz there's no end to how useful I could be in your suitcase. So won't you take me along on your next trip abroad?*

* Priority given to New Zealand-bound suitcases.

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This is a short one because I've just watched Layer Cake. Excellent shit. It was released last year so go download/buy/steal it. Now.



And damn, what Daniel Craig lacks in face, he makes up in body and sheer, fucking cool.

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haaAACKgurglegurgleHACKKKK!

My dog has just hacked up on my rug. Not only will it stink up my room and leave a stain, it is also the sixth puddle of brown mess I have had to clean up. In the space of half an hour.

I am annoyed. Because she puked on my rug, instead of hers. Because I've never had to approach a pool of vomit with newspapers in hand before tonight. And because I am also starting to worry. If I'd wanted to worry over puke puddles, I would have got myself pregnant instead. When I paid for the yipping, hyperactive runt seven years ago, I definitely didn't sign up for this. Dogs are for cuddling in bed (incidentally, so are guys...one of the few things they're good for, haha) and for eating unwanted veggies.

And speaking of veggies, I suddenly remember that I had sneaked Pukeyface my celery sticks at dinner. Could it be the celery (which can certainly be puke-inducing)? Surely not, cuz that would mean that I’m to blame for the mess on my rug. And dammit, blame’s meant to be placed on other people/life-forms.

Still, unless I want to sleep in a dirty bed tonight, perhaps it’s time for a visit to the vet. So I bundle Pukeyface into the car along with plastic bags, newspapers and a bucket.

As I drive around looking for a vet, I realise that my dog might be really sick. I tell her, “Shit, I hope you’re not gonna puke in the car die.”

But the clinics are all closed! WHAT A BUNCH OF ‘CKING SLACKERS! Then it occurs to me that it’s now past ten pm. And this means that:
a. All vets (except one) are probably home in bed, cuddling up to their non-pukey dogs. But still, SLACKERS!
b. The only vet not in bed is a good 45 minutes’ drive away.
c. My dog has lousy timing.

Three wrong turns and five false alarms later, we finally pull up in front of the animal hospital. It’s in one of the dodgier areas and there’s a massive grill blocking the entrance. I ring the bell and wait.

And wait.

No one buzzes me in. I’m starting to feel a little nervous. If someone mugs me right now, there’s no one else (apart from other muggers) around. And with Pukeyface in her current state, the worst she can do is to give the mugger soggy shoes.

Bzzz!

Thank god. We scurry inside. In the bright lights of the reception area, I notice something else. Pukeyface now has a swollen rear end and has broken out in smaller, but equally swollen spots everywhere else. OHMYGOD! I just had her in my arms and what if she’s contagious and I break out in spots and is it bird flu and did she give it to me?!!!

And just then, my phone rings. It’s my dad. “We just found a bee near Pukeyface’s rug. She probably got stung.”

Is that it? The vet agrees. Definitely a bee sting. Not stings, mind you. Sting. I roll my eyes at Pukeyface. What an attention-seeker.

Three jabs later and it’s all over. The bloody dog doesn’t even stay awake to keep me company on the drive home.

But yeah yeah, I have to confess that I’m very relieved that she’s gonna be fine.

But she’s definitely not sleeping in my bed tonight.

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There is a technique to riding the lift at Uber Bitch Jason’s apartment:

I press the button.

And stand well away, putting as much space as possible between myself and the window and the lift.

The lift dings and the doors slide open.

I lean sideways to peek into it and hesitate, giving anyone or anything in it time to make its presence known.

I duck in.

And immediately jab frantically at the button to shut the doors, hoping fervently that a hand won’t shoot in between them at the last minute.

The lift makes strange noises. It always does. Perhaps it’s saying hullo to the other lift on its way up to the 15th floor. Or perhaps it’s the cables protesting the cable cutters someone up there is wielding.

I tense (because tensing up is a great help when a lift free falls twelve floors).

The lift dings again.

I hide in the blind space behind the control panel. In an ambush, the slightest moment of surprise can be the key to survival.

There is no one there.

I run to my car.

It’s only Jason’s lift. It’s partly the way the lift doors refuse to move till I’ve given up hope, and then suddenly shoot open, making me wet my pants. Partly also the horror stories reported by Jason, for instance when the doors repeatedly opened 3 inches before clanging shut, clang clang clang, forcing him to climb up the stairwell in pitch darkness. Mainly though, it’s the lovely view of the huge, moonlit cemetery right next door from the lift lobby window.

I try not to look. But it’s like being witness to something truly horrifying, like Will Ferrell’s naked ass in Old School. I can’t help peeking.

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Apparently where I live, the mornings are beautiful. I'm out in the suburbs, where it's cooler out and no one's keeled over from choking on exhaust fumes (yet). On weekends, everyone laces up their sneakers for a morning walk with the dog. Old people gather for taichi, housewives catch up on the latest who's-shagging-who, and little tykes zoom around on their trikes, running over unsuspecting toes.

At the lake (just a saunter away), fish and terrapins chase bread bits, parents chase their children, children chase their dogs, and dogs chase panicked joggers. Sometimes when a lovely breeze comes along, an eagle might even be sighted wheeling in the air or being harrassed by a remote-controlled plane.

Since the sun's shining just right, you can toddle on down to the club for a swim and a game of tennis, or if you're a lazy bugger, a bit of golf. And to cap it all off, a pancake breakfast at a nearby café.

It's really too bad that I don't wake up till noon.

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