The Definitive Guide to Faking ‘Domestic Goddess’ Status

alatAl goes on…

I love cleaning house. Well not so much cleaning as the feeling of satisfaction after I’m done. That’s the kick. I could go on for hours until somebody forcibly yanks me away from my duster and holds me down until the withdrawal symptoms pass. My nearest and dearest think I’m a tad OCPD inflicted. I tell them they’re just being silly as I wipe them down with my special home-made lint roller made from an empty kitchen towel roll and masking tape.

Not to say that my house is always clean: Aside from being a clean freak, I’m also an authentic expert procrastinator. Which means that I go through binges and purges of mess then order. Then mess again. More often, like most normal people (I hope), it’s mess…Until my (somewhat sometimes excessively) social husband’s impromptu ‘hey yeah, we’re home, come on over’ type phone calls, which results in the classic scenario where I either:

a) Do nothing and risk exposing myself as the slob that I really am, and I’m sure you can relate. (If you tell me you can’t, I’m pretty sure you’re lying)

b) Get into a mad frenzy of flash freakish housekeeping… and live up to my artificial ‘domestic goddess’ standing amongst my friends

I inevitably opt for b), and have devised a formula that I will share with you here. PS. No point in asking the husband for help, he’ll think “it’s all fine anyway!”

Scenario 1: They haven’t seen you in ages and want to catch up – they’ll be over in half an hour

Dilemma: Living room’s a mess
- This is the first impression and the memory of it will burn itself into your guests minds
- Get this right and the rest doesn’t matter much

Solution: Zap clutter and work on ambience
- De-clutter: Arm yourself with large garbage bag, and throw in some or all the following items strewn across your living room.
o Remote controls, keys, Magazines, CDs, and laptops
o Shoes, socks, miscellaneous items of clothing
o Throw bag into back of bedroom closet
o This way you’ll know where to look when you can’t find something
- Play music: Norah Jones’ ‘Come away with me’ can turn even a house with mental asylum ambience into ‘welcome to my lovely home’
- Scent Sense: Betty Crocker does a lovely mix for homemade brownies where you just add water and oil. Plop into a baking pan, and turn off the exhaust so the smell of fresh baking wafts through your halls.

Answer door with flourish in freshly starched apron (that you wear after you fake bake), and revel in the complements about your warm, clean home as they relish your freshly baked brownies.

Got a few extra seconds?
- Get yourself some awesome electrostatic duster cloths (try Vileda) that save you the trouble of sweeping and collecting all the dirt in a dust pan, they’re like magic!

Can’t make it.. it’s too late?
- Turn off lights and work on ambience with vanilla scented candles so dirt is not visible, and pray they’re not hungry

Scenario 2: They’re fifteen minutes away and want to pop in just to say hello!

Dilemma: Bathroom hasn’t been cleaned in ages

Solution:
- Wipe down all surfaces with awesome Clorox Wipes: they do the same work as a good scrub down with detergent and a sponge, but they’re quicker and neater and don’t leave everything wet
- Don’t neglect the taps and mirrors and wipe down all traces of water marks
- Wipe everything off with a dry kitchen towel to give it that hotel type shine
- Pour Harpic in toilet bowl and let it do its work while you do yours

You’ll have a loo that’s sparkly clean and smells pine fresh too!

If you have time:
- Add that extra fresh scent by sprinkling baby cologne on your towels. It’s clean, safe, and not overpowering

Aak! They’re already at the door and you haven’t even started?
- Don’t serve drinks so hopefully they won’t have to pee

Scenario 3: They’re in the elevator and on their way up… surprise!

Dilemma: Kitchen’s a pig sty

Solution:
- Pile all dishes neatly, in order of size to minimize space usage
- Bung into the oven and seal shut
- Wipe everything down with above mentioned Clorox wipes (fresh ones, please!)

At least your sink will be empty…

Got a few extra seconds?
- Pour Carpet Fresh in your garbage can… preferably before you put a new bag in, but even if it’s full. If you don’t have time to take out the trash, the scented powder works really well!

Nope! It’s not happening, there’s no hope, you can hear their footsteps outside?
- Feign Flu, turn out lights and don’t answer when the door bell rings
- Find new friends

Spa? Getaway!

One more mindless, meandering musing by alatAl

My husband ‘Tags’ and I are planning a short getaway next week: he’s instructed the tour operator that we’ll be wanting lots of beach, relaxation, and luxury spa treatments for me as part of our vacation retreat. He proudly shows me the tailor-made itinerary he’s lovingly put together for us, and it all sounds absolutely fabulous until I get to the spa part.

I’m all for scented candles and music that sounds like delicate wind chimes that clink clink clink together to make wonderful restful melodies. Dim lights, the sound of waves gently lapping across soft sandy shores as the scent of vanilla and lavender wafts through the air… it’s all good.

Until it comes to the part where you have to erm… disrobe for the masseuse. I’m a prude if there ever was one. Yes I KNOW it’s their job and they’re professional and one bare body is just like the hundreds of others they work on every day. But I have issues: Or maybe I’ve had just one bad experience that’s seared itself into my mind like an overdone steak on a sizzler pan.

Our Spa: Tucked away next to our hotel on a little hill in Kandy, Sri Lanka

Take me to a spa and my mind whisks me away to that one fateful afternoon in Sri Lanka many years ago. It’ll be fun, my friend ‘Pal’ chirped, as our husbands sat sipping Bloody Marys on the beach. I reluctantly agreed, not wanting to leave the country without living the ‘complete’ experience. We walked in, Pal grinning from ear to ear, as we inspected our surroundings. It can’t be that bad, I thought, she’s done this a million times. We get taken to our tiny little holes in the wall and the experience is about to begin.
The kind Sri Lankan masseuse doesn’t even bat an eyelid as she mechanically instructs me with the inevitable: yep, down to the VERY basics please. NOOOOOOOO! “I was told I wouldn’t have to!” I retort and she smiles and says that there’s no way I can get a massage if I’m fully clothed in corduroy jeans, socks, and a full sleeved polo neck jumper.

FINE. Let’s just get this over with. “Do I at least get a towel?” I ask, and she rolls her eyes, smiles, and hands me a withered towel about the size of a paper napkin. F*ck. You MUST be kidding.

LIVE THE EXPERIENCE I tell myself as I hoist myself up on the table. NO. It was not relaxing. I was tense and uncomfortable the whole time wishing that DAMN chiming would stop. The smells of oils and candles had mingled into a cloying stench that made me ill and I just wanted out. With my eyes glued shut, I survived the trauma and was ready for phase two. Relaxing my ass.

Follow me, she says sweetly as she starts to unlock the door…”WHAAAAA???? LIKE THIS?” I ask, dripping in oil with barely a towel maintain my modesty. She rolls her eyes (again, I might add), and hands me 2 more towels. Same size. “Now Come”.

It’s too late, I need to get out, but can’t put my clothes back on cuz I’m a living oil slick, so might as well. I do the best I can (pretty well, too!) with the little I have, slip into my flip flops and flip flop my way to the door. Peep out to ensure there’s no one around, then make a mad dash to the other side of the hall. BAAAAAD MOVE. My feet are so slippery, there’s no traction on the rubber slippers…. And screeeeech, greased frightening! I teeter and swerve, holding on to my cotton serviettes for dear life, as my feet slip out of the flips and I’m flopped on the floor. Sprawled on the stone tiles, a sorry bundle of terry toweling and grease.

THANKFULLY there was no one around, and I manage to heave myself back up before the Sweet Sri Lankan walks in and instructs me to get into a wooden torture device. Or that’s what it looks like… like one of those magic boxes where your head sticks out: on the inside, they turn up the heat and your skin is supposed to infuse with herbs and other ‘goodness’ as the steam opens up your pores… Not too painful, I’m fully covered up and can enjoy this… as long as I don’t think about the hundreds of other people who have sweat in the same wooden box: bacteria must be having a field day in all that humidity. *Shudder*

Twenty minutes in and I’m informed it’s time for my herbal bath: I traipse my way into another room (adjoining this time), blissfully, on my own. It’s a tiny tub filled to the brim with thousands of leafy floating bits, and I’m supposed to FIT INTO THAT!? Yes. Apparently all the clientele are contortionists in their free time. Whatever. I just want out and the only way is to get in.

It’s finally over and dab myself dry with the Kleenex that is my towel. I emerge, hot and bothered but very, very grateful it was over.

Pal emerges fresh, glowing and man, she looks so rested! “How was it?” She beams. “Great, great!” I feign enthusiastically, and repeat the same sentiment to Tags when he asks how much fun I had. “Fantastic! Don’t know why I don’t do it more often!”

It was that very remark that has gotten me into the predicament that I’m currently in now. A spa getaway. Yes I know honesty is often the best way to go, but I don’t have the heart to break his. Who knows, maybe this time it’ll even be fun. But one thing’s for sure. I’m taking my own towels.

The phenomenon that is the Bun Kebab

a post by alatAl

It’s like nothing you’ll have ever eaten before: And unless you’ve ever eaten food from the streets of Karachi, Pakistan, you probably don’t even know what I’m going on about.

The Bun Kebab is a gastronomic delight, an ingenious yet simple culmination of ingredients that mingle together in your mouth to create the most amazing sensations from the very first bite. Here’s how to create your very own:

Ingredients:
- A big, soft luscious bun
- Slivers of dodgy onion slices (probably not even washed, for that added zing)
- Thinly sliced tomato, old enough that edges are just beginning to curl over
- Fiery hot tamarind chutney
- Yoghurt chutney, also really, really hot
- Minced beef and a variety of special, secret spices

Method:
- Take minced beef and mix with a marvelous marinade of yoghurt and a myriad spices, and leave overnight to ensure a full complete flavor
- Use bare hands (no need to wash first), to make into neat patties, dunk into beaten egg to coat, then toss onto a heated skillet and pan fry until a gorgeous golden hue
- Set aside

Next:
- Take big soft, luscious bun, cut in half with a blunt knife ensuring the edges of bread are jagged and crumbly
- Warm and ‘flatten’ on a hot, buttered pan
- Assemble into ‘sandwich’ form, with dodgy onion and wilting tomato
- Sloppily slather on really, really hot chutneys, being sure to let them drip off the edges of the bread
- Add freshly fried Kebab, and close sandwich
- Press sandwich on buttered pan to ensure a slightly ‘squashed’ consistency

Serving suggestion:
- Serve wrapped in greasy, crinkly non absorbent sheet of tracing paper, with soggy ‘masala fries’ on the side
- For the full experience, serve with a recycled bottle of *Pakola Ice cream Soda, complete with paper straw

*Pakola: The national fizzy drink of Pakistan, with its radioactive green hue, it’s undeniably the best soda in the region
**Note of caution: your mouth will already be on fire, and gulping down large quantities Pakola will not help quench your thirst at this stage. Nothing will. But man, is it worth it!

If you’ve never eaten from the streets of Karachi, then you’ll probably never know the upset stomach that inevitably follows, shortly after. But did I mention it was worth it?!

It’s just that our systems aren’t used to anything that hasn’t been clinically sanitized to the point that it leaves us COMPLETELY susceptible to even a whiff of anything outside the bubbles that we live in.

“You gotta abuse your stomach until it stops giving you attitude,” my cousin once wisely said, doubled over in pain from a particularly bad bout of the tummy bug. And she was right. You need to live life, even if it means stepping away from your comfort zone of all that is clean and sterile.

Experience your experiences! It’s become my motto ever since.

That and ‘pass the Imodium please’.

Chinese Food to go… Very, very far away

a post by alatAl

I’ve never been much of a seafood fan. As in, I’d never eaten it before and didn’t have any inclination to try.

Things changed when I travelled to Guangzhou a couple years ago, when my aversion to seafood turned rapidly into revulsion. Alas. My search for a kosher friendly meal in a city where spoken English was rare, seafood was all I had to save myself from stark raving hunger. (You can toy with the idea of weight loss through starvation for only so long).

My hosts were kind and gracious: Tiny little ladies they were, making me even more conscious of my height and erm.. broad bones. My attempts to joke about our height difference was greeted with little chuckles as they covered their lips with their tiny fingers. It was then that I decided I’d better stop as they were probably laughing at me, not with me.

We walked into one of the nicer restaurants on Yanjiang Road, where aquariums with all kinds of fish greeted me: Odd, I thought, as I gazed into a tubelit glass tank, surely they’d have more presentable aquariums on display.

We walked to our table, all set for something they called ‘hot pot’: A pungent clear broth on a stove in the centre of our table. Harmless enough I thought, as I sat down to venture into my first ever taste of seafood. Sun, the charming lady with her unshaven armpits proudly on display, (there’s some cultural reference to untamed locks under the arms being attractive in the Far East. Or Something. I’d really rather not know) quickly proceeded to the ‘salad bar’ to pick up ingredients for the soup.

Cool concept I thought as I made myself comfortable in my red plastic chair. The waiter pours me a thimble of Chinese green tea and hands me a travel pack of tissues. (Something else I was to get used to later, along with sickly sweet Coke!) The green tea is not to be drunk straight away, for those of you unaware of Cantonese Tradition: you swirl the hot drink around in your cup, throw it out and only drink from the next pour.

I’m so engrossed in swirling without spilling that I ALMOST don’t notice that the very fish that greeted me from the unearthly blue glowing tanks are actually part of our meal. THAT’S the ‘salad bar’ she went to!

Don’t panic, I tell myself, focusing even more on the yellowing liquid in my cup. It can’t be that bad!

Sun comes back, grinning from ear to ear with a plate overflowing with writhing vegetables and meats I’d never seen in my life. (I’m not much of a vegetable fan either, with the exception of French fries, there’s very little else I consume from the veggie family).

With her chopsticks she deftly empties the contents into the boiling broth with the reassurance that it was all only seafood and vegetables. I resign myself to ‘trying anything once’ as I gingerly approach the pot with my chopsticks held like a 2 year old holds a pencil. “Wait!” Sun quietly says, as she raises her chopstick wielding fingers (with mighty long fingernails too I might add). “You need this to add flavor,” she grins as she plonks a fish head into my meal that was ALMOST just palatable. Until now.

I watch in dismay as the gills sink into my soup first, and slowly, the glazed eyes go under, leaving only the open mouth to regurgitate the very fare that I was to consume.

Needless to say, I spent the rest of the meal, and the rest of my stay, sipping green tea very slowly, and dipping lotus slices in my sesame sauce!

Screw it

alatAl rants on…

I love Do It Yourself projects, and I’m not shy about it: My perfectly organized and completely kitted out toolbox is the envy of all my friends, and I can put most qualified carpenters and plumbers to shame with my finely honed DIY skills. (Not very modest, am I?) I probably get it from my dad and my mom’s dad: a double dose of DIY if you will… my sisters and I grew up never having to call a handyman for anything…if it’s broke, you fix it yourself!

I found myself in need of a new B&D cordless screwdriver, so a trip to my favorite hardware store was called for…I love when that happens!

As I entered, I made a beeline for the power tools aisle to find a group of attendants hovering over the very section that I was headed for: Damn it! I was looking forward to checking out the new range in my own time.

I make a cursory nod of acknowledgment then go about my own business examining Black and Decker’s latest offerings. Of course, being male, the attendants feel it their moral obligation to help me out with an introduction to power tools 101.

Attendant 1: ‘Hello ma’am! This is a screw driver.”

Me: (In a tone dripping, I hope, with sarcasm), “Why thank you very much, I had NO idea!” (I don’t do sarcasm very well. When it comes to razor sharp retorts, my response time is about a week later).

Apparently I didn’t drip enough. Not to be dissuaded by my blatant disregard of his presence, he takes it upon himself to educate me.

Attendant 1: “This is the brand new model ma’am, (he gives the clutch a whizz whizz for added effect), comes with this nice carry bag.”

Me: “Uh, Huh…” (I take his tool and examine the pivot capabilities… nope, the soft grip just doesn’t do it for me)…. “No thanks.” (Reading that back, that sounded pretty sordid… moving on!)

Nowwww where’s that XTC60K? By now, the second attendant misconstrues my continued search as confusion, and ‘helpfully’ pipes in:

Attendant 2: “These can ONLY be used as screwdrivers, not for drilling holes”. It was clear he was dumbing down his explanation for my benefit.

Attendant 1: “Oh yes, this is NOT a drilling machine, PLEASE only use this for screws. Not for walls, okay?”

Enter Attendant 3, nodding somberly.

My jaw drops open, I’m incredulous at how painfully patronizing they are. How DARE they assume that I don’t know my way around power tools… I could jigsaw rings around them RIGHT NOW if I wanted to. Just because I’m female doesn’t mean I don’t know how to work a screwdriver.

Me: “I’m completely aware of that!!” I manage to indignantly ask about the NiMH Battery, voltage, max torque and charge time, in the hope that my knowledge of the specification sheet would put them to shame.

No luck. Turns out they were denser than the wood I was buying the screwdriver for in the first place.

I made my purchase and stormed out of the store, angry at them, but angrier at myself for not scalding them with strong words to put them in their place. I realize now I should’ve just told them what I just wrote, (what did I say earlier about my delayed response time?), but too little too late I’m afraid. Aargh!

I would’ve gladly run one of them over with my big black 4WD, but they’d probably just write it off to women not being able to drive.

Bittersweet Reminisce

Another post by alatAl

“Michael Jackson: The end of an era.”

Yes, we’ve all heard so many clichés about his death last week, that it’s easy to get a little desensitized. I heard the news then promptly proceeded to paying my personal tribute to the man: Played BEAT IT on Guitar Hero World Tour as a feeling of reverence hung over me.

I then promptly proceeded to playing Eye of the Tiger, (my favorite guilty secret), and the reverence went out the window.

But nothing changes the fact that we’ll never forget Michael Jackson’s music.

There’s something about old music that takes you bang! Right back to that point in your life when that’s all you heard on the radio: All the fond, (and often enough, not so fond), memories come flooding back and sweep you straight into total recall.

I’m a sucker for nostalgia. For me, the synthesized, repetitive, electronic beats of the 80s trigger a myriad memories of growing up: I am not ashamed to say it, (well maybe I am, a little), I LOVE my 80s music. So it’s no wonder that Mister Jackson featured strongly in my associations of everything from 80s past.

Thriller: Skating lessons. My class did a show to that very song wearing white satin pants and shirts, and the high-tech ensemble tie together-er: disco hats with tiny blinking lights. Gnarly. I was the only dweeb who couldn’t skate to save her life, so they had to choreograph AROUND me: everyone else was doing little twirls and zig-zags and ALL I was asked to do was, like, skate in a straight line, making sure not to fall.

“Cause this is thriller,” (One… two… gliiide), “thriller night.” (One … two…gliiide, just make it to the other siiiide….). “Thrillerrrr” *splat.* Do you have ANY idea how HARD it is to get up off an ice rink floor with skates on? The frikkin’ satin pants didn’t help any either. “Oww!” (MJ style!)

I just went home after and drowned my sorrows in a bucket of Colonel Sander’s Deep frieds and watched Mork & Mindy for the rest of the afternoon. Did my classmates ever forgive me for the hellacious non-performance? Nanu way.

The way you make me feel: My days of tap dance lessons. When any semblance of fashion sense (even for the 80s when, really, there wasn’t much to speak of anyway), was out the window. Electric blue footless tights with white terry toweling boxer shorts that looked like really, really big underpants. A baggy printed shirt, neatly tucked into my shorts and tap shoes with polka dotted pink socks as I “knocked me offa my feet, naw baby, (my lonely days are gone, Hee Hee)”. Charming.

Black or white: The days of Home Alone and the Adolescent Mutant Ninja Reptiles. We’ll all remember his music video: With the miracles of modern technology, he magically made a surfer dude grow a silky black ponytail, and a blonde sprout a head of curly brown curls. Another miracle of modern technology, he turned himself from black to quite white as well, didn’t he?
Is all good.

You are not alone: F.R.I.E.N.D.S had taken our lives by storm. Being in college at the time, (I’ve SO given away how old I am, could I BE any more Chandler?), I was too preoccupied with getting the right shade of flannel to match my waistcoat: peer pressure for plaid was enormous, and you just had to be cool in college, aiight?

I guess, on some level, when icons of your ‘time’ pass on, it brings a realization that you too are getting older: There’s that funny bittersweet, (more a 100% cocoa chocolate type bitter), feeling in the pit of your stomach as you reminisce, (or remi-wince, as the case may be), about all the experiences you had ‘back then’. I guess the point of this particular rant, is that I’m thankful for the music.

I could end with a mournful, ‘his music will live on in our hearts forever, and we’ll never forget the legend that was Michael Jackson’.

But I won’t, ‘cuz it’s too cheesy.

Peace out.

Disclaimer:
The gross overuse of 80s/90s slang in this post is a tribute to the memories most readers would associate with the aforementioned jargon. This blog is in no way an indication of the writing skills, or lack thereof, of the blogger, and may not be used as a reference to her ability, (or inability), to post without resorting to mindless vernacular.

Word?

Thirtytwo of Everything

A post by alatAl

So I went to the gym the other day.

Read: peeled myself off the couch, fumbled my way into the still new sneakers that I HAD to have, shuffled to car and drove two blocks to the gym. Took three rounds and twenty minutes trying to find a parking spot closest to the entrance, (yes, it would’ve been easier to walk), and finally stumbled in to an aerobics class already in progress. Late. Again.

I usually like to get in nice and early, to secure myself a spot at the far back corner: you know, the one tucked away behind the changing rooms, with least exposure to the floor to ceiling mirrors that can be incredibly unforgiving under those florescent lights.

No luck this time. I have to duck and dodge my way past extended arms and legs in the jumping jacks warm-up session to the only available spot, way up in front, next to the skinny teachers pets.

And there she is.

Tanned toned & taut long limbs, with bouncy… hair that springs up and down with each jack she effortlessly jumps. In her short shorts and cute ADIDAS top, it all seems so effortless as she smiles her way through the squat session to the Pussycat Dolls’ Don ‘cha.

And there I am: the grim flip side, grunting with the effort of barely jumping an inch off the floor before falling back down with a thud, my hair matted down with the product of my exertion… T-shirt down to the knee, and pants just baggy enough not to give away any bulges but skinny enough that they fail at just that. Yuk.

Next up:  The pair up. This is the part of the class where everyone’s paired off, and we ‘help’ each other perform sit ups and push downs. Repeats in sets of eight, sixteen or (if you’re up to it), thirty two! Everyone else pairs off and I’m left with….No, no no noooo!

“You can go first”, she sweetly volunteers, and I’m too out of breath to insist otherwise. Brill. On we go. The music volume goes up: *my humps, my humps, my lovely lady..* Who the hell picks out this music, seriously?!

Seven Pushups: just barely
Sixteen Leg lifts: where my baggy T rolls over itself exposing rolls of a different variety
Twenty sit ups: well, actually they probably don’t qualify as ‘sit’ ups really, I just basically lie on my back and nod

Her turn.

Thirty-freakin-two of everything and she bounces back up after the last one. Cow.

I manage through the rest of the class, somehow, until finally we’re done. Trudge to the changing rooms, where she’s stripped down to, well, nothing, and drying herself off with a gym branded towel. God I hate her. I walk to the last cubicle and change in the toilet, no way I’m shimmying down to my unmentionables in the presence of other human beings, let alone gym goddesses.

Despite everything though, I felt pretty good about myself… Nothing like a good gym sesh to get those endorphins going, right? I GO GIRL! Oh I SO GO! I don’t know why I don’t do this more often!

And I SWEAR my jeans feel a little bit looser. There’s a certain degree of self delusion that accompanies the gym rush, but who cares!

Suddenly I can do anything! Gym first thing every morning sounds like a plan. And healthy lunches. And salads for dinner. And yoga on the weekends…. Next thing you know I’ll be one of those girls subsisting on sugar free gum and carrot sticks! Why oh WHY don’t I do this more often?!

I’ll start tonight!

No. Wait. Can’t tonight.. maybe tomorrow…

…aah no, I’ve got that thing…next week…

Maybe. maybe.

Never mind.

Dangle your shoe

A post by alatAl about the things women THINK women will do to find themselves a catch! Check out this article:

Attract Hot Guys Like Crazy

“Dangle your shoe on your toes” The following picture comes to mind:

So there I am, coyly dangling my shoe on my toes, trying to nab my next unsuspecting victim, completely uncomfortable on those damn bar stools because:

a. they’re too high to get on to gracefully,

b. the seats are too small for most normal sized asses, and

c. because you can’t rest your feet anywhere, your thigh fat splays out below your hips so your waist actually looks tiny by comparison.

Note to all the ladies who don’t find themselves in the above bar stool predicament: SHOW OFF!

So yeah, back to the dangling… the shoe falls off. And because of the neat swivel function on most chairs of the above mentioned variety, by the time I’ve disembarked the stool, I find I’m hobbling around trying to locate the said shoe because the chair has turned a few times already.

Never mind, we’re adamant, and will not be swayed, (no pun intended) by the swivel stool. Find the shoe, jump back on, throw my hair back, and back to being coy. Check.

Now trying to cross my legs and uncross, all the while holding on to the table to save myself from being knocked off the bar stool: I’ve perched myself in the main thoroughfare of the dining area, and I’m quite annoyed that people keep brushing past me with a grunt, possibly due to the inconvenience I’m causing, but I’m on a mission here, dammit!

I’m being very careful NOT to drop shoe again. Spill orange juice instead. Shrug my BARE, pale, flabby shoulders, while just slightly raising eyebrows to register recognition with a member of the opposite sex. All the while I’m subconsciously aware that the ‘raised eyebrow maneuver is making me look a tad constipated. Hopefully he won’t notice because my shoe’s fallen off again!