29 October 2010
28 October 2010
Precious
My radar is back on full alert for controversial and ridiculous signs at the moment, and Hong Kong seems to be on top form!
Today's magic: the Precious Blood Kindergarden.
Really? That's where I should send my kid?!
Today's magic: the Precious Blood Kindergarden.
Really? That's where I should send my kid?!
27 October 2010
Screwing magic!
I was going to let the picture speak for itself, but the resolution might make you miss the marketing genius of this flyer that came through our door. Behold the beauty of:
"Screwing Magic - mix and match your ring endlessly... Masterpiece by king fook"
Priceless.
"Screwing Magic - mix and match your ring endlessly... Masterpiece by king fook"
Priceless.
25 October 2010
La tomatina
Super Typhoon Megi was billed in Hong Kong as the storm of the century. The newspapers were comparing its predicted strength to Hurricane Katrina, and officials were debating whether to evacuate the seafront or not. As for the rest of Hong Kong, we crossed our fingers for Megi to continue on her path, as it would probably mean at least a Typhoon signal no 8, which would mean that people could stay at home instead of going to the office.
Typhoon watching is a national sport for office workers in Hong Kong. As soon as the slightest whiff of a storm in felt, everyone's logged on to the Observatory's website, tracking the progress of what could be their "stay-at-home free" card. We all turn in to armchair meteorologists, with a "no, it's too late in the season for a typhoon" here and a "it's rather sunny for a typhoon signal 3, must mean that it's going to hit hard" there. In the case of Megi, we were all fooled. But no-one could say that Krusty and I were not ready...
Krusty, ever since I met him, has had a weird need to have a stash of provisions in the house, "just in case of catastrophe" - if the world is to come to an end, Krusty wants to make sure we have enough cans of soup and packets of hula hoops to see us through the dark times.
So of course, when we heard that Hong Kong was about to be attacked by the biggest typhoon it had seen in 20 years, Krusty asked me to stock up. I obliged, marvelling at how easy online shopping had made my life with bub. I could fill the shelter's shelves without lifting much more than a few fingers.
But then the shopping arrived. Krusty was excitedly unpacking, anxious to see what I had ordered.
From the first box, he extracted three boxes of dishwasher tablets. Even in times of crisis, I am not washing those dishes myself. He dipped his hand in again, coming out this time with three boxes of washing powder, and some washing up liquid. "Were you scared that dirt would be our biggest problem?" he asked. Hey, you can't neglect hygiene just because civilisation has come to an end.
He opened the second box, excited to hear the clanking of conserves. He pulled out three cans of diced tomatoes and three cans of tomato soup. "We're going to be OK for tomatoes then!" he joked, laughing as he found another tin of tomato paste to go with the shopping so far.
And in the third box, he discovered why online shopping is only efficient if you are not trying to entertain a small child while you do it - in there Krusty found, for some reason, 18 bell peppers and... SIX packets of tomatoes.
And that was it. That was the entirety of my crisis shelter shop.
I'll concentrate next time. Although the chilli-tomato jam that has come of this typhoon weekend has been more than a little successful. In fact I've finished the tomatoes. Maybe I need to order some more...
Typhoon watching is a national sport for office workers in Hong Kong. As soon as the slightest whiff of a storm in felt, everyone's logged on to the Observatory's website, tracking the progress of what could be their "stay-at-home free" card. We all turn in to armchair meteorologists, with a "no, it's too late in the season for a typhoon" here and a "it's rather sunny for a typhoon signal 3, must mean that it's going to hit hard" there. In the case of Megi, we were all fooled. But no-one could say that Krusty and I were not ready...
Krusty, ever since I met him, has had a weird need to have a stash of provisions in the house, "just in case of catastrophe" - if the world is to come to an end, Krusty wants to make sure we have enough cans of soup and packets of hula hoops to see us through the dark times.
So of course, when we heard that Hong Kong was about to be attacked by the biggest typhoon it had seen in 20 years, Krusty asked me to stock up. I obliged, marvelling at how easy online shopping had made my life with bub. I could fill the shelter's shelves without lifting much more than a few fingers.
But then the shopping arrived. Krusty was excitedly unpacking, anxious to see what I had ordered.
From the first box, he extracted three boxes of dishwasher tablets. Even in times of crisis, I am not washing those dishes myself. He dipped his hand in again, coming out this time with three boxes of washing powder, and some washing up liquid. "Were you scared that dirt would be our biggest problem?" he asked. Hey, you can't neglect hygiene just because civilisation has come to an end.
He opened the second box, excited to hear the clanking of conserves. He pulled out three cans of diced tomatoes and three cans of tomato soup. "We're going to be OK for tomatoes then!" he joked, laughing as he found another tin of tomato paste to go with the shopping so far.
And in the third box, he discovered why online shopping is only efficient if you are not trying to entertain a small child while you do it - in there Krusty found, for some reason, 18 bell peppers and... SIX packets of tomatoes.
And that was it. That was the entirety of my crisis shelter shop.
I'll concentrate next time. Although the chilli-tomato jam that has come of this typhoon weekend has been more than a little successful. In fact I've finished the tomatoes. Maybe I need to order some more...
24 October 2010
Medical meltdown no 3
Today's lunch gave us another huge dose of pre-requisite Intense Parental Emotion, but it will unfortunately be filed in the "bad mother" category forever...
We had taken Krusty's colleague out for lunch at Peking Garden, so that he could get a taste of yummy Chinese food. All was going well, for some reason the super typhoon we had been promised for the weekend had brought beautiful sunshine instead, and we happily chatted about said colleagues own children as Oscar sat quietly on my lap, chewing away on my necklace and proving why he is the world's cutest baby. I was on my best wifey behaviour, trying desperately to show that Krusty had good judgment and good taste, since he had chosen me. This fragile house of cards that I was building was soon to come tumbling down.
Mr colleague explained why, as he has a four-year-old and a fifteen-month old child, he has to be extra vigilant about which toys the youngest picks up. I went on to pretentiously boast about my own vigilance with Oscar while the food arrived, until karma had had enough of hearing me extolling my own virtues and decided to bite back. It went something like this:
Colleague - "Wow, this soup is really hot"
Me - "Yeah, sharp corners, bla bla bla, hand gel, bla bla bla"
Oscar - "Shrrriiiieeeeeeeeekkkkkkkkk"
In the millisecond that I had turned to pick up Oscar's toy from where he had thrown it, he had stuck his hand straight into the steaming hot chicken and sweetcorn soup, flipping the bowl over and spraying his face at the same time.
Nothing could calm him down. I was covered from shoulder to knee in scalding soup as I rushed my screaming baby through the restaurant with a hundred pairs of eyes on me, and soon I was running cool water all over his hand and patting his forehead.
Of course, one stranger in the bathroom couldn't help but give me the exact same helpful advice that everyone seems to want to give me these days: "Can't you see? He's hungry!"
Anyway, once the restaurant staff had run down to the pharmacy to get some burn cream, Oscar was covered in a fluorescent yellow paste, cooing and giggling again, while I panted and shivered and thanked karma for just giving me a tiny lesson and not the full disfigurement that this could have been.
I am almost positive that Krusty is waiting for the appropriate time to have passed before he plays the "at least I didn't burn our son" card...
We had taken Krusty's colleague out for lunch at Peking Garden, so that he could get a taste of yummy Chinese food. All was going well, for some reason the super typhoon we had been promised for the weekend had brought beautiful sunshine instead, and we happily chatted about said colleagues own children as Oscar sat quietly on my lap, chewing away on my necklace and proving why he is the world's cutest baby. I was on my best wifey behaviour, trying desperately to show that Krusty had good judgment and good taste, since he had chosen me. This fragile house of cards that I was building was soon to come tumbling down.
Mr colleague explained why, as he has a four-year-old and a fifteen-month old child, he has to be extra vigilant about which toys the youngest picks up. I went on to pretentiously boast about my own vigilance with Oscar while the food arrived, until karma had had enough of hearing me extolling my own virtues and decided to bite back. It went something like this:
Colleague - "Wow, this soup is really hot"
Me - "Yeah, sharp corners, bla bla bla, hand gel, bla bla bla"
Oscar - "Shrrriiiieeeeeeeeekkkkkkkkk"
In the millisecond that I had turned to pick up Oscar's toy from where he had thrown it, he had stuck his hand straight into the steaming hot chicken and sweetcorn soup, flipping the bowl over and spraying his face at the same time.
Nothing could calm him down. I was covered from shoulder to knee in scalding soup as I rushed my screaming baby through the restaurant with a hundred pairs of eyes on me, and soon I was running cool water all over his hand and patting his forehead.
Of course, one stranger in the bathroom couldn't help but give me the exact same helpful advice that everyone seems to want to give me these days: "Can't you see? He's hungry!"
Anyway, once the restaurant staff had run down to the pharmacy to get some burn cream, Oscar was covered in a fluorescent yellow paste, cooing and giggling again, while I panted and shivered and thanked karma for just giving me a tiny lesson and not the full disfigurement that this could have been.
I am almost positive that Krusty is waiting for the appropriate time to have passed before he plays the "at least I didn't burn our son" card...
20 October 2010
My hovercraft is full of eels
Although often frustrating (not to mention embarrassing), there is something quite pleasant about living in a country where the native language isn't your own.
I am appalled to say that after years of living in Hong Kong, I can still only speak taxi Cantonese, but that means that I can often get away with saying things without people understanding me – in French usually, since to say that English is widespoken here would be like saying that foie gras is only slightly calorific.
However, there is the odd occasion where the inverse happens – a Cantonese person will spot my linguistic shortcomings and take full advantage of them. I probably miss 99% of these "tests", but occasionally I'll hear a familiar word, usually slang, and notice that I am being taken for a ride.
This limited knowledge of Cantonese insults led to me slapping a man across the face in a cinema once – after asking him to be quiet when his phone rang loudly during the film and he proceeded to answer it in an even louder voice, he turned around and muttered something under his breath. I of course showed my displeasure, and he then told me with scorn to do things to my mother which can not be repeated here. Thankfully I had learned how to say them... My hand just reacted for me...
Anyway, this morning, another such incident occurred. As a man delivered our shopping to our home, he said something that sounded like it contained the word "beautiful" to me. Flattered that he liked our home – but why was he looking at my cleavage so much? – I thanked him and he left.
After a quick search online, turns out he was telling me, repeatedly "nice tits, lady".
Cantonese 101 starts now.
I am appalled to say that after years of living in Hong Kong, I can still only speak taxi Cantonese, but that means that I can often get away with saying things without people understanding me – in French usually, since to say that English is widespoken here would be like saying that foie gras is only slightly calorific.
However, there is the odd occasion where the inverse happens – a Cantonese person will spot my linguistic shortcomings and take full advantage of them. I probably miss 99% of these "tests", but occasionally I'll hear a familiar word, usually slang, and notice that I am being taken for a ride.
This limited knowledge of Cantonese insults led to me slapping a man across the face in a cinema once – after asking him to be quiet when his phone rang loudly during the film and he proceeded to answer it in an even louder voice, he turned around and muttered something under his breath. I of course showed my displeasure, and he then told me with scorn to do things to my mother which can not be repeated here. Thankfully I had learned how to say them... My hand just reacted for me...
Anyway, this morning, another such incident occurred. As a man delivered our shopping to our home, he said something that sounded like it contained the word "beautiful" to me. Flattered that he liked our home – but why was he looking at my cleavage so much? – I thanked him and he left.
After a quick search online, turns out he was telling me, repeatedly "nice tits, lady".
Cantonese 101 starts now.
18 October 2010
Hokey Pokey
Krusty and I are addicted to honeycomb, and as we have found it impossible to buy in Hong Kong, we set out to make our own, based on a recipe provided by Krusty's Dad.
Our first attempt was too gloopy, our second made our teeth feel like they had been cemented together, but the third batch was just right. Well just right but taste of burnt.
The fourth attempt was sticky again. On the fifth try, I did my best to keep the spirit up. "I'm feeling good about this one," I ventured. Krusty, shaving the excess off a spoon of white power (bi-carbonate) added, "I just feel like a junky to be honest."
And the result, a hot, humid mess that would have anyone concerned with dental hygiene reeling...
We will crack this. Hong Kong's humidity will not have the best of our need for crunchy goodness!
Our first attempt was too gloopy, our second made our teeth feel like they had been cemented together, but the third batch was just right. Well just right but taste of burnt.
The fourth attempt was sticky again. On the fifth try, I did my best to keep the spirit up. "I'm feeling good about this one," I ventured. Krusty, shaving the excess off a spoon of white power (bi-carbonate) added, "I just feel like a junky to be honest."
And the result, a hot, humid mess that would have anyone concerned with dental hygiene reeling...
We will crack this. Hong Kong's humidity will not have the best of our need for crunchy goodness!
16 October 2010
The infant paradox
I spend most of Oscar's waking hours hoping he'll go to sleep soon so that I can get things done, and then once he is, I find myself hoping he'll wake up soon so that we can play and hug and giggle together again...
14 October 2010
13 October 2010
Krusty the clown strikes again
I cooked dinner tonight while Krusty made some strange noises in the background. As I turned around, I found THIS on the table...
Is there no end to his talents?! I had a go myself by the way...
Is there no end to his talents?! I had a go myself by the way...
09 October 2010
Huggy bear
Today Oscar lay his head on my shoulder, put his arm around my neck and nuzzled his face there while cooing.
His first hug... Five months is officially the best age so far.
His first hug... Five months is officially the best age so far.
06 October 2010
Homegrown
As you know from my whining about how lovely the markets in France are, one of my main complaints about living in Hong Kong is the lack of quality, saliva-producing produce, and in fact the omnipresence of lacklustre, tasteless fruit and vegetables.
And so, in an effort to give my home a second chance, I am foregoing the supermarket for a while (where the tomatoes are hard, orange and taste of water) and am getting my veg delivered to my home.
Homegrown Hong Kong is, as the name suggests, a service that grows fruit, veg and herbs organically somewhere in the farmland near the border (yes, there is farmland in Hong Kong) and then delivers it straight to the door of lazy urbanites like myself.
My first box arrived yesterday, and already I'm loving it. The box, lined with a giant banana leaf, was full of intriguing ingredients such as yams and dragonfruit, and lots of green leaves that I have no clue what to do with. So not only will I eat fresh, but I'll be forced to cook different dishes, too.
I don't care that the home that this food is growing in is overcrowded and polluted, it's still home. And receiving a box full of amaranth (?!) makes it feel that much cosier.
And so, in an effort to give my home a second chance, I am foregoing the supermarket for a while (where the tomatoes are hard, orange and taste of water) and am getting my veg delivered to my home.
Homegrown Hong Kong is, as the name suggests, a service that grows fruit, veg and herbs organically somewhere in the farmland near the border (yes, there is farmland in Hong Kong) and then delivers it straight to the door of lazy urbanites like myself.
My first box arrived yesterday, and already I'm loving it. The box, lined with a giant banana leaf, was full of intriguing ingredients such as yams and dragonfruit, and lots of green leaves that I have no clue what to do with. So not only will I eat fresh, but I'll be forced to cook different dishes, too.
I don't care that the home that this food is growing in is overcrowded and polluted, it's still home. And receiving a box full of amaranth (?!) makes it feel that much cosier.
04 October 2010
Stats
OK, I have just found a section of my blog admin that tracks page views, traffic and so on.
Apparently, one of the most popular keyword searches that have led readers to me is: "my rat escaped and wound up in my bed."
Er... What?!
Apparently, one of the most popular keyword searches that have led readers to me is: "my rat escaped and wound up in my bed."
Er... What?!
Breaking the baby
Today I tried the "cry-to-sleep" method for the first time.
So far Oscar has been a star baby, doing everything we have asked him to and more. Buuuuttt he can't fall asleep on his own. Cut to us rocking him around the bedroom every night, all night since we got back from Europe.
And as if on cue, after a particularly bad night last night, this morning I got a helpful parenting newsletter explaining how to install a sleep routine, including leaving your baby to cry for longer and longer intervals until he learns to soothe himself to sleep.
Soothing had NOTHING to do with what I went through, though.
It took Oscar a whole TWO HOURS to finally settle, and in between I had to witness him squeal, scream, sweat and generally DEMAND to know why this was being inflicted on him. Every time I went in to reassure him that all would be well, he was drenched in sweat and tears and looked at me with such grief in his eyes, it was all I could do not to pick him up and kiss him better.
And then, like a tap turning off, on the second hour almost exactly he went from super squeal one second to fast asleep the next. As if nothing had happened. I ran in, thinking he had choked on his own tears, but no, there he was, snoring away like the cherub that he is.
So I survived, and hopefully he survived, and he won't be scarred for life. They say that it's harder on the parents and that he won't remember any of this anyway. But what if he is grumpy tomorrow, and forever after that? What if I have broken my lovely, smiley, happy baby?!
So far Oscar has been a star baby, doing everything we have asked him to and more. Buuuuttt he can't fall asleep on his own. Cut to us rocking him around the bedroom every night, all night since we got back from Europe.
And as if on cue, after a particularly bad night last night, this morning I got a helpful parenting newsletter explaining how to install a sleep routine, including leaving your baby to cry for longer and longer intervals until he learns to soothe himself to sleep.
Soothing had NOTHING to do with what I went through, though.
It took Oscar a whole TWO HOURS to finally settle, and in between I had to witness him squeal, scream, sweat and generally DEMAND to know why this was being inflicted on him. Every time I went in to reassure him that all would be well, he was drenched in sweat and tears and looked at me with such grief in his eyes, it was all I could do not to pick him up and kiss him better.
And then, like a tap turning off, on the second hour almost exactly he went from super squeal one second to fast asleep the next. As if nothing had happened. I ran in, thinking he had choked on his own tears, but no, there he was, snoring away like the cherub that he is.
So I survived, and hopefully he survived, and he won't be scarred for life. They say that it's harder on the parents and that he won't remember any of this anyway. But what if he is grumpy tomorrow, and forever after that? What if I have broken my lovely, smiley, happy baby?!
What Krusty found
Fine, it's not exactly a vision of Jesus weeping on a rock, but look what appeared on Krusty's plate at lunchtime...
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