by Sophia Goh
Me: Happy anniversary!
Hubby: [Panicked look] Huh? What’s the date today?
Me: It’s the 2nd July because it’s past midnight.
Hubby: [Checks the clock] Oh ya, happy anniversary!
[We hug.]
Hubby: Four years and counting.
Me: Uh huh.
[We go back to watching Wimbledon.]
1 hour 18 minutes. That’s how long it took me to run 10km. But I ran all the way, which I’ve never done before. And I even had enough left in me to sprint the last 200m, even though the effort nearly killed me. It’s a good thing I didn’t collapse in an embarrassing heap at the finish line, and considering my “training” consisted of 20-minute jogs twice a week, I’m actually pretty pleased.
I went there wanting to accomplish three things: 1) run all the way and finish strong; 2) consciously push myself to do 1); 3) better my last year’s 10km run/walk time. I did all three. Never mind that some people ran 21km faster than I did my 10km, now that I’ve shown myself it can be done, there’ll be plenty of time to work on clocking a more respectable finish in the future. I think I’m starting to enjoy this road-running business. If that’s even what you call it.
The first song I heard after learning about Michael Jackson’s death was ‘You Are Not Alone’. It made me sad. In the past, I’d watch footage of girls going hysterical, sobbing and fainting while the King of Pop performed and wonder what would happen when he died. I guess now I’ll find out. Except, this wasn’t quite how I imagined he would go. Not on the eve of his comeback series of concerts, not when for the first time in years, he seemed like he might be getting it back together again.
Talent trumps controversy. That was my first thought as I sat in my car. Granted the man has had his faults, his eccentricities, his many, many controversies, but he was also one of the most talented people the world has ever seen. He was the greatest in what he did, and although there will inevitably be imitations of him, I don’t think there will ever be another combination of songwriting, singing and dancing like Michael Jackson. Oh the dancing, especially the dancing. And that is what people are going to remember.
My second thought was, now I’ll never get to see him live. I should have gone the one chance I had, that one time he performed in KL. It’s a constant regret of Y’s, one that he brings up from time to time whenever we talk about concerts and live performances. Guess it’s too late now. I think if I had seen him, his death would feel even more surreal. I think it’s a sign that I’m getting older when celebrities I’ve actually heard of and listened to and watched start dying. Until this morning, I’d forgotten that Michael Jackson was already 50 years old. He would have turned 51 in August.
When his London concerts were announced, someone in the office asked if he was healthy enough to perform. I guess so, I said. He seemed pretty alright from what we saw of the press conference. And then someone (and none of us could remember which of us it was) said, what if he dies during the concerts? As it turned out, he never even got to start. Rest in peace, Michael. I know you’ve got some pretty nasty stuff to your name but you deserve to be remembered for your music. That’s your real legacy and I hope we don’t screw that up.
Already running late for work, I got into my car yesterday morning and was hit by the most awful smell. Y had taken my car to a basketball game last night and he’d forgotten his extremely sweaty jersey and socks when he got back. The stinky things had been congealing on the floor of my passenger seat for hours when I finally opened the door – and almost fainted.
In that split second, my lightheaded state from not having enough oxygen in my brain from not wanting to breathe because of the stench was the only thing that prevented me from marching straight back upstairs to our master bedroom to give my still-sleeping hubby a piece of my mind.
That and I was running late and the bedroom was a good two flights of stairs up.
So instead, I made one flight of stairs to deposit the offending items into the washing machine and headed for work. Then I sent hubby an SMS to tell him what he’d done and, because I’m a softie and by then I was no longer as annoyed (or the continued lack of oxygen was really starting to take effect), I started my text with “Hi darling.”
Hubby apologised. Twice. The second time much more profusely than the first. And in the middle of his second apology I decided, not for the first time, that love is truly blind because I cannot explain why I adore this man who drives me so completely insane sometimes.
He may be the guy behind one of Asian showbiz’s biggest scandals, but going by the ear-splitting enthusiasm of the crowd that had gathered for a glimpse of him, Edison Chen is well and truly forgiven. If he was even in trouble with his teenage fans at all in the first place.
High school girls, one of them still in uniform, several of whom had been waiting hours in the ridiculous heat and humidity so they could get choice viewing positions when Edison emerged, went berserk when the star finally stepped outside. Screams of “Edison, Edison!” rang out as fans vied for his attention. But that, of course, is to be expected.
A little more unexpected for me was the sight of young boys, one of them in dreadlocks even, shrieking “Edison, Edison!” as loudly as any female counterpart. Perhaps, given the actor’s now-notorious exploits, he has since earned himself a lot more male fans. Or perhaps they simply think he’s good looking.
Oh my god he is so hot, said a colleague who I shall not name. To each her own; I personally thought he looked a little bratty but that, I suppose, is all part of his (boyish) appeal. Which I totally understand.
There is much to learn from Edison’s scandal, not the least of which is this: Don’t take sexually explicit photographs if you’re planning to be a major star – unless you’re Paris Hilton – but if you must, make sure you’re cute so people will forgive you.
Good looking people generally have it a little easier – it’s a widely-known if exceedingly unfair fact of life. And Edison, whether he pushes your buttons or not, is considered good looking, even by my aunties and mother-in-law. Therefore, he is forgiven. Not by everybody, I’m sure, but by the people that will continue to make him famous – his fans. And in showbiz, I guess that’s all that matters.
My first car launch – the new BMW Z4. I may have not a hope when it comes to reciting engine horsepower stats and the like, but I know a beautiful car when I see one. My journalistic contribution? Getting into it and pressing the button to put the retractable hardtop back on. Easy kicks.
A group of us went to Damansara Uptown for lunch yesterday, a new colleague in tow. Boss had suggested we bring her along and she’d offered to drive. She parked along the Maybank row, up near the petrol station end.
When we got back, her car had been broken into. They’d stolen her stereo, her Touch n’ Go card and her office briefcase (no laptop though). They’d left the cash, around RM10, but they’d destroyed her air-conditioning in the process of removing the stereo.
We later found out they’d pried open her bonnet, snipped her car alarm wiring and opened her car door and boot. They even locked the doors after they were done. It was her first day at work. We felt awful.
I commented on how neat the job had been – no smashed windows, everything looked fine from the outside… Then MA pointed out the number of car workshops in the vicinity. Would a worker really do something like this? Is this common in Damansara Uptown?
Without meaning to, I’ve been establishing a new morning routine. I have a habit of drinking warm water first thing every day – it doesn’t matter if my day starts at 8am or 12pm, I cannot put anything in my stomach until I’ve downed at least a glass of warm water, preferably two or three.
When I’m rushing for work, I put it off until I get in to the office, but the last couple of weeks, I’ve been getting up early enough (most days) that I have 15 or so minutes to spare before I have to get ready. With Y still asleep, I drink my water and check my emails in the solitude of my bathed-in-morning-sun living room. It eases me into the day and gives me a headstart on my daily online to-dos so by the time I get in to work I’m more settled and ready to dive straight in. I’m really enjoying it while it lasts.
What’s your morning routine?
Despite the incessant gloom’s best efforts, we finally got one up on the rain and squeezed in a couple hours of tennis after work on Tuesday. Ace!
With the Turkish Formula 1 GP underway and the French Open final at 9pm, sporting fever is high in our household. While hubby and I are big F1 fans, it’s the showdown between Roger Federer and Robin Soderling, of course, that’s got us all jittery. As a self-proclaimed Federer die-hard fan – and indeed it is impossible to have a reasonable and unbiased conversation about Roger Federer with him – hubby has threatened melodramatics if the Swiss ace doesn’t lift the trophy tonight.
Me, I’m torn between wanting one of the biggest upsets in French Open history and seeing Federer cement his place as one of the sport’s greatest of all time. But I don’t want to see hubby sad (aren’t I the softie?) and to be honest, Federer deserves this. He’s been so close too many times and despite all my reservations about the guy, he truly is one of the greatest, most talented and most graceful of all time.
He deserves it. And so I’ll be rooting for him tonight. Even though I once walked right up to him and asked him for an autograph and he conveniently turned away though I was the only person there. Even though I’ve seen him disappoint local fans by deliberately avoiding them after a match though it was the exhibition match between him and Pete Sampras in KL two years ago and if you didn’t accept the invitation to please the fans (and pocket the money) then really, why did you bother? Even though he was far more obliging to the foreign fans and managed just the bare minimum when it came to the locals and the thought did cross my mind that he’s a snob.
So yes, despite all that, I will feel sorry for Roger Federer if he doesn’t win the French Open tonight. Even though that will make him greater than my all-time favourite tennis player Andre Agassi. Just don’t tell me he’s the nicest guy on court. He’s polite, he does interviews in three languages, he can be witty when he likes and I totally get why the press is so in love with him. But no. Nice is Rafael Nadal comforting Federer when the former took the Australian Open early this year. That’s nice. I’m not exactly a die-hard Rafa fan either, but I can’t help wondering if maybe he isn’t as popular with the media because he doesn’t speak the best English. He also doesn’t make excuses when he loses and (so far) hasn’t come across arrogant despite his success. And that’s really nice.
Gosh, I so hope Agassi is nice.
