Disturbing search term of the week

Horse penis

Yes, I talk about eating horse penis, so it is not odd that that search term pulls up my blog.

But why are you SEARCHING for horse penis?

old freaking lady

we went out last night for dinner and bar-ing. the plan was to go to penguin cafe, a place in malate that everyone that i knew who had been there loved. so we decided to go out to eat and then to the penguin and then see where the night took us. we were young! it was a 3-day weekend! glory was to be ours!

we head to cafe havana, a place with live salsa bands, theoretically authentic cuban food, and a laid-back atmosphere. i’ve been here before and have generally liked it.

before, i didn’t have mojito or cuban sandwiches.

the mojito tasted more of sub-par lemon-lime pop than the minty, rummy, sweet refreshing goodness of a mojito. perhaps in cuba they make mojitoes with generic lemon-lime pop? i’ve not been so i have no way of knowing for sure… but if so, cuba’s going to have to readjust their recipe, because that crap was not nice.

strike one against cuba.

the cuban pork sandwich. i’ve had these in mongolia at a restaurant owned by an ethiopian woman and a cuban chef. i thought their sandwiches of delectible roll, chucks of marinated pork, and sauce were authentic. but it appears that there is also a school of cuban sandwich that is made on a george foreman grill–with the plate that makes all sandwiches into sealed greasy triangles. it was okay for a ham and cheese sandwich your mom make you when it is cold outside and she doesn’t want to dirty up lots of pans, but for a cuban sandwich? no. the pumpkin soup was pretty good, though i’m always partial to pumpkin soup and extremely partial to almost anything that has crispy bacon in it. the sweet potato fries were unsalted which at first perturbed me, but then i realized i probably eat enough salt in general and this let the flavor of the actual potato come through.

strike two against cuba.

the music was loud and became painful when the band drifted on stage. we left shortly after because 1) my friend detests salsa as much as i detest reggae and 2) we did actually want to chat with each other as there was no dancing as yet happening.

we headed over to the penguin cafe, with the lads in the group being swarmed by sticky children thrusting bundles of roses in their faces for them to purchase for the pretty ladies. the children completely avoided all of the women, knowing that the men were the easier prey. or at least thinking so. one guy, who has only been here for about a week, had such a look of disgust on his face and said, i hate children. they are all dirty and smelly and disgusting. all over the world.

he didn’t buy any roses.

penguin cafe was legitimatly hyped up. if i lived in that neighborhood, i would be there every day and become best friends with the pretty waiters and sample every single thing on the menu and go to all of their live shows. there is a windowed porch and then the interior of the restaurant and an upstairs. we sat on the windowed porch, which was all traditional-style couches and chairs that are low to the ground so my friend mike who is very tall and lanky had to fold himself grasshopper style in order to sit down. they had tvs being used as objects of art and in general the feeling was comfortable and cool and friendly. we were there for a while and then various people started yawning. the electric reggae band hadn’t quite gotten started and we all tend to get up very early during the week for work, so none of us were fully prepared. i’d even taken a nap during the day (no judgement! i get up at 5am every day, even on my days off because i can’t sleep in !) but still couldn’t keep in the yawns. so we left in order to walk around a bit and wake up.

we wandered around the neighborhood for a while, squeezing ourself through the crowds of people who had decided to spend this most romantic of holidays trying to either score a bar girl for themselves, get their date drunk enough to finally agree to a threesome, or both. we ended up at mike’s apartment in a beautiful old building in the neighborhood and ate pretzels and crunch bars and talked about our wiis.

i’m such a teenage boy. it is ridiculous. maybe not teenage, since i don’t have scantily clad girls plastered to my walls, but i may be a twelve year old boy. alongside being a 33 year old woman. which means that i love syrah AND the movie DeathRace. i can speak intelligently about development while worrying that i can’t beat Slash on my guitar hero. i still regret never having learned to skateboard or breakdance. i’m already planning on being a fucking crazy-ass old lady who pinches young men’s bums and wears absurd hats with her jeans. but for now i’m rather conservative and concerned about being age-appropriate. am i old enough to go full-on balls to the wall crazy old lady? not cat-smelling crazy old lady. nor jane seymour’s cougar crazy old lady. (and i really am curious as to the age limits on being a cougar. at what age are you one? how much younger than you does the object of your desires have to be? and what do you call the crazy old men who date younger ladies? panthers? bull elephants? macaques? blue-footed boobies?) but crazy old lady who like scales walls and goes and talks to hobos in parks in japan and climbs the great wall for a month.

apparently, i also think all crazy old ladies are rich.

which means i can’t be a crazy old lady yet, as i’m clearly not rich.

time for me to go practice the ukulele now.

Really?

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/29170772/?GT1=43001

Woman with the world’s longest fingernails. I just want to know how she does basic everyday things–dress, clean herself, eat.

And why did she stop cutting them?

Random

latest search term to get to my sweet words: go naked

i’m assuming this has to do with the bottled smoothie.

i went to the doctor to talk about some health issues–my breakouts and my moles. it is annoying to have wrinkles and breakouts. seriously, it seems unfair. so the derma and i chatted about my skin and she took my history and order approximately five hundred million blood tests for me to rule out everything before she makes an official diagnosis. though she thinks i have something called ’sweat acne’ caused by all of my tremendous workouts.

hmmm.

yes, i work out, but i feel as though if my breakouts can be attributed to that, shouldn’t i be working out more? shouldn’t the workouts be worthy of such a side effect? shouldn’t i ACTUALLY be training for a triathalon rather than just telling people i am as i secretly plan to eat a soft serve ice cream cone (soft serve is my favorite. i love soft serve so much that when i was flipping channels the other day and saw a place in jersey that specializes in freshly made soft serve i considered going there. then realized it 1) is in jersey 2) is rather far to go for soft serve and 3) kind of means i have an eating disorder if i would plan a vacation based on soft serve.)? then she wrote down a list of different things i had to buy to make my skin combat the whole effects of my rigorous workout regime. when i got directions to where to go (i thought i’d be going to the pharmacy), it turned out i was going to her store! where she sells her line of cosmetics!

i was tricked! she’s a trickster!

so i rolled over like a chihuahua and bought the list of what she recommended. except for the tinted moisturizer because it only came in pink-based shades. when i wear those, i look bizarre because i have noticeably yellow tints to my skin. i’m super yellow, even though i have red in my hair and am fair. i’m a yellow yellow lady. even my eyes have yellow in them even though they are blue. so her stuff just won’t work.

fascinating.

but the part that i found very interesting was i mentioned to her that i have moles i’m concerned about. we’re a very fair family, what with the scandinavian blood and all so moles/skin cancer are always a concern. i’ve had full body checks a few times but they are always something i put off because i hate doctors. since i was at the derma, i figured i’d show her one or two then make an appointment for a full check, as that is how it always goes at home.

not here.

i pull up my sleeve to show her and she’s all, oh just take off your shirt. then she turns back to her computer and starts typing on my chart and i take off my shirt. she has me turn slowly around and then says, okay, take off your pants. so she sits there watching while i take off my pants and feel rather awkward and the need to make lame jokes like, oh usually there’s music on when i do this. i felt like the least talented private dancer ever. in the states, you never undress in front of doctors. you go into the little room, are directed to the paper robe and told whether or not to keep on your underwear and then the assistant leaves you to your privacy. then after five minutes and when you are engrossed in the family circle article on frosting sugar cookies for all holidays, there’s a soft knock on the door and your name said in a questioning tone of voice. you give the all clear signal and the doctor enters.

your modesty remains in tact. even when you’re flat on your back, feet in the air, there’s this understanding that you don’t actually have a naked body. it is magically always clothed. you don’t even have underwear. if you have to have a breast exam or other parts of you examined, only that part is revealed, while all else is carefully covered. your body is reduced to squares and triangles and patches.

so this, hey go ahead and take off your clothes, i’ll just sit here five inches away felt a little weird.

but she said i’m fine, just a few places to watch but no big deal, and i could buy 60 spf sunscreen from her for only $35.

Naked Singapore Couple Mystery Solved…but this doesn’t help with the waitress naked korea one

So I typed in the phrases to see what came up… An naked singapore couple! I found you! People weren’t looking for swingers! They were looking for an actual couple that was in Singapore, went to an area where folks were eating, doffed their clothes, and had a bit of a walk around to see what was doing.

So I don’t only get perverts to this blog. Yay!

Items folks have searched for and found my blog instead

Before I had a blog, I didn’t realize that the terms you type in to search for things will be listed for the moderator of the site that you clicked on. This is probably to help them (us?) figure out what are the key terms that get traffic to the site.

As the title of the blog has the word ‘naked’ in it, it shouldn’t surprise me some of the things that people type in. It doesn’t. But it DOES surprise me that they click on the blog. I’ve tried out the whole search thing on it to see what comes up about the blog. At least from my perspective, it doesn’t seem a likely place to find: porn, willing ladies, masseuses, or orgies. But I could be wrong. 

These are some of the search items people have typed in and found their way to me:

naked Adam Sandler (really? someone is searching for naked Adam Sandler?)

singapore naked (this seems so vague. what kind of naked are you looking for in singapore???)

waitress naked korea (fetish for being waited on by naked koreans? is there a restaurant in seoul that I’m unaware of?)

thai massage “body to body contact” (okay, pretty specific. but how do you go from that search to clicking on this site? just in case???)

naked singapore couple (again, kind of vague. do you just want to LOOK at a naked singapore couple? are you looking for swingers?)

Exercise

Exercise is one of my new year’s resolutions. In an attempt to develop my physical prowess and not become a bent-over old woman shuffling up stairs with heaving breaths every two steps, I have vowed to run or do pilates or both five days a week. Pilates wasn’t part of my initial resolution to be honest. that came later, when, after walking through caves and having to stoop a fair portion, I recognized that if i didn’t soften up my tight lower back soon, i wouldn’t be able to do anything fun in a relatively short period of time.

The weight lifting and running wasn’t going to do anything about that. Yoga classes didn’t seem possible as 1) there aren’t any that are for beginners right near me 2) the closest studio to me is a bikram yoga studio which means stifling heat for 90 minutes whilst trying to bend and stretch and float on my head while really i’m just going to be nauseous and want to throw up. And even if your first time there you feel sick they don’t want you to leave. no. 3) everytime i’ve gone, they have guided meditation. i’m very rarely in the mood to hear someone speak to me in a soothing voice and tell me to imagine a shaded glen.

However, a friend who just arrived into town told me about a pilates studio near my apartment. So we went over to check it out and after inquiring after group classes (cheaper than individual lessons) and realizing that I don’t really know how to do pilates and that the breathing alone may take far more concentration than I normally give any activity, I opted for privates. That way someone else was responsible for making sure I breathed appropriately.

There is a lot of thinking involved in pilates. A lot. I don’t think I’ve ever been so aware of my body. I tend to live in my head. The majority of activities that I am involved in the body is secondary. I like reading, taking photos, knitting, walking, etc. In none of these things am I totally focused on my body and solely my body. But for this one hour in my day, I cannot think of anything else. If I start to think about work or music or typing or a book I read or a movie I saw or someone who has made me angry or sad or happy, I lose my form and focus and forget what is going on and begin to slump and hold my breath.

The voice of my teacher repeats in my ears over and over–tuck in, soften your ribs, firm up your core, flatten your back, straighten your spine, don’t forget to breathe, inhale, exhale, blow out, straight arms, point your toes, lengthen your legs, long arms, clip your wings, open your chest. All of these over and over (though less often now, as time goes on).

I carry my tension in my shoulders.  They tend to creep up toward my ears and shorten my neck.

I am told to relax every session. Every time. My teacher believes I have too much stress that I carry with me all the time.  The last time I got a massage, the masseuse kept repeating the same thing–relax relax. Let go. Why are you so stressed?

I wonder if the stress is so much a part of me I can’t feel it anymore, because they say these things to me on days when I’m not conscious of the stress. Is it stress and the knots in my muscles that are holding my joints and bones together?

Sometimes I shake when holding a pose because my muscles in some areas are so weak. This makes my teacher laugh because … I don’t know why. It makes me wonder if she hasn’t seen her other students do the same. I am not the only one who shakes when the weakness leaves her body.

After we are done doing certain series of exercises, my teacher stretches me out. Sometimes I lay on my back and she pushes my folded knees to my chest. Other times I sit on my feet, bend forward and draw out my arms in front of me, as though spent from a serious bout of weeping. She places one hand on my left shoulder and the other on my right hip, pushing them away from each other. Then the other sides. As though I am bread dough. The last is always me planting my feet at the base of a pole, holding both hands overhead on the same pole, and my teacher pulling at my middle until I form a single parenthese. First one side, then the other.

This hour, twice a week, lengthens my spine and I swear I grow two inches. My arms are more graceful, my legs more limber and my mind is finally quiet and clear as I walk home in the polluted evening.

Hong Kong

Hong Kong is a very comfortable sort of place. The city is not pretty. The architecture is not wowser amazing and I didn’t go into any of the famed parklands and explore the trails. I was there for less than 48 hours, the main purpose in going was to meet up with friends from Korea that I’d not seen in ages.  I arrived Friday night and they were to arrive Saturday afternoon. Then I was to leave Sunday afternoon.

Not nearly enough time, but some was better than none.

I got into HK at 10pm. When I’d booked my ticket, I hadn’t read the fine print as, really, I never do. This was an unfortunate mistake as I was then unprepared to learn that I would be sitting in the very last row and not given anything to eat other than peanuts. It was only a two hour flight so the eating part didn’t bother me. But having to sit in the very last row, in a plane filled with people who simultaneously seem to firmly believe that if they don’t get off the plane RIGHT AWAY that it will take off again VERY SOON and they will be stuck flying somewhere else while also believing that they must take their own sweet time in collecting the million and one plastic bags full of…something… that they have brought on as carryon luggage. Due to knowing these habits, my desire to be seated as far forward as possible claws in my throat from the minute I enter the airport and check in. It is a common refrain for me when I check in, “Please seat me as far forward as possible”. Typically I’m at least in the first half. This time, because my flight was ‘no frills cheap!’, I was forced to the back. Even though the plane wasn’t full and I was willing to forfeit the meal. No. The guy at the check-in counter DID however tell me I was as beautiful as Kirsten Dunst. That’s almost as good as seated quick exit style.

The women seated next to me in loser row were in worse shape than I was. They were on their way to an evening out and so wanted to have a bit of a drink on the plane. Unfortunately, no frills also means no alcoholic beverages, which are typically free on an international flight. The flight attendant wouldn’t even let them buy a little drink. They then found the duty free catalog and in an inspired moment, decided to buy a bottle of jack and crack it open. Sadly they were thwarted when the flight attendant informed them that they would not be allowed to drink from the bottle, and in fact, not buy any bottles.

Landing in HK, I quickly went through immigration and tried to find the airport bus that would take me to Kowloon and my hostel. The instructions from the hostel told me which bus to get on and even which stop it would be. Stop 14. I’d also brought the address. The bus delightfully had a light board that surprisingly announced the first stop in both English and Chinese. Comforted by this that I would actually be able to find my stop, I ceased worrying (it was late, I’ve never been to HK and I like things as easy as possible when I first arrive to a place) and gazed out the window at the passing lights.

Of course, things are never that simple. When I glanced back at the lightboard to see what stop we were at, I noticed that the stops had ceased being announced and that the board in fact looked as though it had been turned off. I then realized that the pinging sound I had heard was that of the call for the bus to stop. Luckily I had grabbed a tourist street map at the airport and remembered to bring the address of the hostel. On an educated whim, I pushed the button to stop the bus and got off. Getting off, a man said Hello to me in heavily accented English. Hating to talk to strangers and so on, I tried to sidestep him. He then said my name and said he was from the hostel I had booked a room at and he had come to pick me up from the bus stop since I was getting in so late.

I was startled and more than pleasantly surprised. Especially as I realized that I would never have found the hostel on my own amid all of the flashing lights and people roaming around. It was tucked away in plain sight.

I had booked a single room. It had two beds, its own bathroom (complete with toilet shower), and cable tv. Very clean and neat and spartan. Perfect.

Waking up the next morning, I stepped out in search of breakfast. I love breakfast. Hot coffee with a bit of milk. Eggs. Toast. Fruit. Yum. I honestly had small hopes of finding good breakfast. Finding food in an unknown city can be more challenging than anticipated and especially american breakfast in Asia. However, in my wandering around, I located a Delifrance and had thick toast and egg with a strong cup of coffee. Replenished, I went in search of a park, the jade market, the flower market, and the bird market. I figured this would keep me occupied until my friends arrived.

Walking around unknown cities has to be one of my favorite things to do in the world. Everything is interesting because nothing is usual.  You can see how people live, if they get out and enjoy their city and hang out in the parks or if everything is moving moving moving scurrying from one building to the other.

HK was all people all the time. The park was wonderful. Not pretty or picturesque, but full of people running and walking and swaying their arms in languid yet purposeful circles, listening to the mad beats burst from their boom boxes. Kowloon park reminded me of being in a habitrail.

The different markets–flower, bird, and goldfish–seemed to be actual markets where people actually shop for their own purposes.  People were sauntering through the thick soup of humanity clutching large bouquets of chrysanthemums and pussy willows. The pussy willows were larger than any I’d seen and I wanted to rub their furry buds against my cheeks.  The chrysanthemums were so large and waxy they seemed fake, and some of them had been dyed garish shades and green, blue and orange.

I kept stopping for coffee and hence had to keep stopping to find restrooms. Luckily for me, HK knows from providing relief to everyone because public toilets were never far away. I almost wonder if I didn’t keep stopping simply because I could.

Even with hours of walking and wandering, I still had some time before my friends were going to arrive.  Right near the hotel that we were going to stay at as the HK Art Museum. They had beautiful exhibitions of traditional chinese paintings done by a modern artist with modern sensibilities. Puffy grey chicks peeping across the snowy paper, heading toward frogs with gaping mouths and googly eyes staring at a fish in the pond. In a different exhibition, an artist was being honored who had died ten years before. The retrospective included photos of his art hanging in people’s homes and in corporate waiting areas. The art in context of everyday life gave an entirely new perspective on the static pieces in front of you.

There was also an installation piece–an artist had set up an art studio within the museum and invited patrons to enter into the space with her, to learn about the artist process and to be part of the creation of the work. Her studio faced a wall of windows that looked onto the bay.  Breathtaking.

I headed to the hotel to check in and wait for my friends. I’d just finished showering and drying my hair when they walked in. There are few things as lovely as hugging dear friends and catching up on the everyday details of life that get left out in emails and phone calls. We chatted and got ready to head out. We decided to head to Soho, where there are escalators climbing the mountain with stops at streets filled with shops and restaurants. After climbing the escalators the entire way up (and stopping briefly for me to buy a few leather boxes to hold my crap at home), we started walking down and stopped at a tapas restaurant for dinner. My god that food was amazing. We shared a tortilla, mushrooms, pork, scallops wrapped in bacon (for real, wrapped in bacon. awesome) and jalapenos stuffed with cheese. Also they brought fresh baked bread and a bowl of butter. My friend Jen was so impressed with the sight of so much butter she promptly tried to dip her bread in the butter rather than the more mundane scooping it up with a knife to spread. We feasted on the food and Jen and I split a jug of sangria and talked and ate and drank and made comparisons involving words like vulva.

We left with a recommendation as to a place to go for dessert. On our way to dessert, somehow the conversation took a turn toward how Allison can fit her fist in her mouth. She then proved it in a startling display of class and restraint. Jen proclaimed then proved that she could not. Intrigued I tried and found that I could! Proud evening for us, and I dare say a proud evening for HK as well.

After eating lovely cheesecake and chocolate cake and cappuccino and two glasses of shiraz, we made our way to the glorious clean and wonderful metro and on to the hotel. We stayed up a fair part of the evening and then drifted to sleep with full happy bellies and a bright eyed plan for the morning.

We started with a ridiculously large buffet breakfast at the hotel and then went to catch the ferry across the bay to HK Island. Our goal was to go to Victoria Peak. Ferry, bus, peak. Beautiful. Unfortunately it was rather fogged in, so you more had to imagine the view than actually appreciate it. But the tram ride up was quite fun and the ride back even more so as we were the only people in our car on the way back down. We then went super tourist cheesy time and rode on top of the open air bus on the way to the ferry. On our way out, we had passed a store with an adorable tea set with oxen painted on it to celebrate the new year. On the way back, we darted in there and I picked up a tea set and Allison and I both bought gorgeous stainless steel chopsticks. Time running short, we went to eat lunch then ice cream before I had to catch my plane.

That morning, Allison had told us a story about her grandma and her salty mouth. Her gran is reputedly charming yet likes to say rather inappropriate things to Allison. Allison had been getting ready to go out with her friends and dressed up super cute. She went to say goodbye to her gran who, on seeing Allison’s outfit, asked if she was going to go out like that. On hearing yes she said, you look disgusting. What will your friends say?

So we’re waiting for Allison to get her ice cream as Jen and I had already ordered and received our magical creamy icy delightful treats.  Allison mentions how she is boring and always gets the same thing–cookie dough ice cream.  Jen says, that’s so disgusting how boring you are. To which I add, you know what else is disgusting? Your outfit. How can you go out like that? Why don’t you think about what we think?

At which point the British girl who was quietly waiting in line glanced back at me clearly appalled.

We all busted out in peals of laughter and walked off with our cones. On the way to the hotel we agreed that next time, we’d try sincerely not to laugh when doing such appalling things again. Has a much better effect.

Naked Hong Kong

procrastination = shoddy post

I meant to update my blog with long, drawn-out posts about my madcap adventures in australia. Things like:

I looked over the edge of a cliff! and lived to tell the tale!

I spent Christmas Eve with Kiwi Atheists! and lived to tell the tale!

I watched the movie ‘Australia’! And barely escaped with my life!

I had pancit, casava cake, and adobo for Christmas dinner! And enjoyed it!

I walked through a cave with three and five year olds who were unnecessarily dragged into the cave by their parents who mistakenly believed that this would be a good learning experience for their crying doves! And didn’t harm the adults!

I bought a hideously expensive woodblock print! And didn’t cry myself to sleep after!

I ate meat pies and tried to cuddle penguins! Not in that order!

I faced down a charging koala bear! And didn’t pee myself!

I found cute shoes for reasonable prices in my very (apparently gargantuan) foot size! And only peed myself a little!

However, these adventures may have to go untold in detail, as I have ANOTHER trip coming up that will ALSO entail an entry. As well as missing out on providing scintillating details of my life and times in this here country.

Procrastination is bad.

If it goes unwritten in a blog, did it really happen in the first place?