I have been away. And no, not many of you knew I would be going because Y did just about everything in his power to muzzle he-who-knew-from-the-beginning.

So it was on Thursday night that the three of us walked out of Tullamarine International Airport into the cold, cold Melbourne air. And it was on Saturday morning that everyone else sans the Chans gaped, shrieked and shed tears at the sight of two familiar young men and one young lady clad in what looked suspiciously like a towel but wasn’t because it was sooooo cold!

Just to see the looks on all your faces was worth every penny we spent. But to think that we actually got to share in the beyond-beautiful wedding was just priceless. We’re overjoyed that we went. And it was The Best six days (or five days six nights, whichever way you want to look at it)…

I shall be greedy and not go into specifics because I want to horde every memory and every detail, but really because there’s too, too much to write about. Instead, I shall share pics, courtesy of Winnie because I took them off her blog. Thanks Winnie!

Absolutely sinful hot chocolates. And I mean, ab-so-lute-ly.

I blame the hair on the wind, and that wrap on the cold. It’s not as warm as it looks… really!

The reason for it all… (Oops, no pic of the groom.)

To all of you I didn’t manage to catch this time round, my apologies. Hopefully there’ll be a next time. To all of you we did manage to catch… it was brilliant, eh?

I met this man yesterday, who asked me where I graduated from (Melbourne University), what I graduated in (Media and Communications) and whether or not I was working now.

I said yes.

He said where are you working.

I said hot magazine.

He literally scoffed at me and said hmph, graduate from Melbourne Uni and you’re working in hot magazine. Why aren’t you doing PR in some MNC (multi-national company) firm like Shell or something?

I have never met anyone so offending about my career choice in my entire life. My mother is occasionally aggravating/condescending, but this man takes the cake for just being plain rude.

I’m rather peeved that I attempted to tell him more about hot, and explain that I preferred mags to public relations. I should have told him oh yes Shell offered me a third round interview but I turned them down, some people are just too narrow-minded to see that there is more to life than slogging away in an MNC firm doing a job they don’t like.

Bah humbug!

It’s so exciting when people we know get married. I foresee a wonderfully busy weekend with wedding ceremony, wedding dinner, and plenty of catchups and laughs in between.

I cannot wait to see Charlene walk down the aisle on the arm of her father. And I really cannot wait to see Mr. and Mrs. Marcus Tan take their virgin stroll as husband and wife.

Wedded weekend here I come!

p/s: It’s the lack of sleep, I swear it is…

What do you know, my blog is legible again. It just decided to work suddenly, unless someone fixed it because I actually submitted a trouble ticket. Well, if so… thanks! I was actually starting to get a tad worried about losing my cybernook for all my updates and gripes. Not that my life depends on it now or anything… but you never know when it’ll come in therapeutic.

I’m having a really, really restless day. We’re blaming it on the weather because the feeling is going round the office. The fact that tomorrow is a public holiday doesn’t help matters one bit. So in an effort not to stare blindly into sunshine and space, I shall blog.

Do you ever wonder why you are you and not someone else? And what it would be like if you were someone else? I used to when I was in primary school. I’d wonder why I was born me, and what it would be like to live someone else’s life. But then I’d think: if I were someone else, then I wouldn’t be me and I wouldn’t know what it was like to live someone else’s life because I would be that someone else and not me.

Anyway, my colleague has just posed an interesting question which has dragged everyone out of their sleepy lull - what would you not eat/drink roti canai with?

My answer was watermelon. I am definitely not eating watermelon with roti canai, and though I could very well drink watermelon juice while eating, I have decided that when it comes to one of my all-time favourite breakfast foods, it’s just going to have to be Milo ais. Thosais are for suppers; apoms are for teas (or supper since I hardly get apom for tea)…

Oh and I finally got my first taste of Ben and Jerry’s yesterday! I know I know… I can’t believe I’ve never ever tried it either. Thanks to Jon, my virgin experience of Ben and Jerry’s was Chunky Monkey. Yummmmmmm! Now for that other chocolate one that Greg speaks so terribly highly of… some chocolatey thing.

Here’s an interesting fact about Y and I - We have an open marriage. I check out girls with him; he shares my excitement when I see a cute guy. Since everyone knows there are generally more hot chicks than cute guys, he usually has more fun than I do.

There’s also a standing arrangement that he can sleep with Jennifer Aniston… provided I get my date with Johnny Depp or George Clooney or Hugh Jackman. The chances of any of that happening are… oh I don’t know, smaller than the chances of us getting on The Amazing Race and winning it, striking the lottery for one million dollars, or traveling the world for a year. But you can’t blame a man (or woman) for dreaming…

Is it just my computer or have all my posts turned into an incomprehensible series of squiggly lines, boxes and symbols?

No other blog seems to displaying the same sense of incorrigiblity so it better not be someone screwing around with my blog.

Then again, if all my posts turn into a mish-mash of gooblefunk it’s not like anyone can read what I’m writing now.

Uh-oh.

It appears talking in one’s sleep isn’t something that only I do (see this post ). While I lapse into dreamland conversation with vague regularity these days, the following conversation took place two nights ago…

Y: (mumbles a name) is cock-eyed.

S: What did you say?

Y: (mumble mumble) is cock-eyed.

S: Who’s cock-eyed?

Y: (mumble mumble). The one Greg is selling his Taylor guitar to.

S: Greg’s not selling any Taylor guitar.

Y: Yes, he is. He’s selling his Taylor guitar.

S: Are you talking rubbish?

Y: No, I know what I’m talking about.

S: No, you don’t. Greg doesn’t have a Taylor.

Y: He has.

S: You’re talking rubbish.

Y: No, I’m not… (falls back asleep)

FYI, Greg does not have a Taylor guitar. And note how even when he’s half-asleep, Y insists on being right. I rest my case. *grin*

If you remember, I was toying with the idea of taking up Jazzercise instructor certification. It was something I saw myself doing part-time, plus it was a brilliant way of ensuring I would exercise. It was fun - the fact that I’ve lasted this long at my weekly classes is testament to that - and I could totally learn the moves.

Well, my opportunity finally came last week. A bunch of us who were deemed fairly well-coordinated and capable of distinguishing right from left were invited to audition for the instructor course. And…

I didn’t go.

I’ve decided to put those visions of me jumping up and down yelling instructions to music to rest. Five hundred US dollars was a little too much for me to be spending on a course that I don’t see myself teaching more than a couple of times a week. In other words, it would take me positively ages to recoup my ‘investment’, let alone start making a profit out of all this. I was no couch potato (well, most of the time anyway), but I certainly wouldn’t qualify as a fitness fanatic either.

So that was it, I guess. My one attempt to head down a path I’ve never even dreamed of - let alone contemplated - until just months ago. If I want exercise, I’m either going to have to run on the treadmill, get someone to play tennis with me (I’ve pretty much given up on finding anyone to play basketball with since most girls I know don’t play basketball and we’d need at least 6 people to make it a marginally good game), or pay for my classes. Or there’s always badminton, table tennis and… cycling? Except I don’t have a bike. Which might prove to be a slight problem. I’m even up for a game of futsal - just ONE game, mind you - and only because I’ve never tried it before. And only if I can play in regular sports sneakers.

Okay. I’m a fussy one. But hey, if you think I’m bad, you should meet my husband… (Oopsie, too much info).