Over the Moon and Back

ONE.

i am sick of finding things that were cheap and looked so good on me. have i ever mentioned that i am a style icon that even coco chanel will be awed if she is still alive?

yesterday i found myself another pair of heels. the sexiest, the sleekest, the shiniest pair of strappy gold stilettos that will ever be allowed in a ballroom.

last week, the lady mighty higher up was again commenting on my dress sense for the hundredth times. i was walking past her during lunch and her eyes shot me up and down and lingered longingly at my pleated peach skirt for the longest time. if she is a man, i'll sue her for outrage of modesty.

later in the afternoon, as expected, she chatted me up intentionally at my desk. exclaiming in her loudest and most enthusiastic voice that i have ever heard in the boardroom, marveling over my skirt. i stared at her incredulously. i being the most junior analyst in the midst of rectifying a time critical problem now, and you the higher of many higher up is talking to me about my skirt?

shoot me in the head please.

so the rumors are all true. my company is a money bin. is this what they have been paid to work everyday?

give me another shot please.

of course, being a personally responsible worker, i pulled all my muscles and put on the brightest smile one will ever see in a beauty pagent. at the end of the knowledge transfer session, half the department would have known where i did all my shopping. privacy intruded.

that night, a gal friend was also complimenting on the same skirt. two days later, a korean lady approached me in the cafe on the fuchia retro dress i was wearing that day. and another woman asked me about the cardigan i was wearing another day.

is this a conspiracy?

the truth was that, i had them at such a good bargain that you would not even noticed that slightest dent in my pocket.

yahoo.

TWO.

the evening smelled of fresh cigar and spices. beautiful, enamored men and women sauntering inside balaclava for a good night out, locking seductive stares once in a while, enjoying the break from a hard day of battles.

i was with a close gal friend and her gorgeous friends, reeling from the evening intoxication of liquor and smoke the whole night. one of the girls was puffing away throughout the evening. a true blue walking chimney of the millenium.

another guy was busily pouring bottles of lambrini into our glasses to the point that i was wondering if he is a bartender in his previous profession, or suffering from some disorders, deriving pleasures from pouring intoxicant into a woman's glass.

it was my fault. i have been managing a lovely smile all night long even though my eyes were shooting darts at my brimful glass for the entire night.

10:30pm. "why aren't you drinking at all?" because every sip i took, you filled a billabong.

10:32pm. "your glass is still so full." didn't i just answer your question?

10: 35pm. "your glass is still so full." are you trying to get me into your bed tonight?

10: 40pm. "your glass is still so full. drink abit more." you are testing my patience, you miscreant man of a misbegot. bark off.

10: 45pm. "your glass is still so full. drink abit more...eh?..eh?..eh?"

tragedy.

10: 50pm. "your glass is still very full. drink half of it. com'on." have you ever watched 'The Great Escapee'? you will see one very soon. me.

at that moment, my girlfriend wanted to move all the girls into the bar. whoopse! i packed my bag in a flash of lightning and ran like i have never run before in my entire life inside the bar. for once, i broke that record.

THREE.

two beautiful women, seating face to face on a red upholstery inside a cafe, connecting across time and space. the void between them closed up like a whirlpool sucking in all the torrential tides into it. the surroundings around them blurred into a kaleidoscope of technicolors. soft jazzy music playing at the background that will put even the most impish infant to his peaceful slumber. the cup of hot coco malt left forgotten on the table, traversing back in time with us.

the cafe seemed especially quiet.

i pressed my face into the pristine soft material of the sofa, and hugged my knees to my bossoms. my mauve ballet flats dangling lazily from my arched tiny feet at the edge of the seat, my pleated skirt covering the rest of my legs.

we talked. about love. lives. career. family.

her gaze was my solace. her voice a balm that soothed the aching heart.

FOUR.

love. i hate love. i hate the sound of it on my lips. bittersweet. a forbidden four letter curse that will bring even the most gallant knight to its knees. i will stamp on it a thousand times using my highest pair of stilettos tonight.

if i should ever see that reprobate boy in his nappies, with a bow and arrows, i will stone him down with my catapult.

FIVE.

nothing is forever. not love. not diamonds. not youth. not you or me.

but there will always be chocolate fordue and blogs.

take heed paris hilton. blog is not a misspelling of log.