Try THIS

I was trying to find the fat/calorie content of Japanese gyozas because I ate an entire package in one sitting and I stumbled upon this website!

It's free! Woohoo!

Suggestion For This Ad...

I was randomly flicking through some blogs and I came across this picture.

You will notice that the bottom of the ad says "Get your head out of the toilet and onto a shirt".

My knee-jerk reaction is, of course, to "get your head out of your ass and onto a shirt".

Oh, come on. You're all thinking it.

The Rules of Pedestrian Traffic in Hong Kong

Clearly, there aren't any. In fact, the rules are that there are no rules. Any logic that you may have been taught by parents, teachers, or general example should be thrown out the door.

Example 1: If you are accustomed to walking on the right hand side, the locals are prone to run into you by walking on the left hand side in the opposing direction. This results in glares, an awkward manoeuvre to get around each other and under-the-breath slurs by both parties.

Example 2: If you are walking very close to a wall, fence, building, etc., by way of leaving 2 feet, 2 yards or 2 acres of space on the opposing side, there will be a majority of locals who try to overtake you from the inside where there may be one to two inches of space MAXIMUM. This results in glares, an awkward manoeuvre to get around each other and under-the-breath slurs by both parties.

Example 3: Reverse directions as discussed in Example 1. This results in glares, an awkward manoeuvre to get around the other and under-the-breath slurs by both parties. Also,great confusion will occur on part of foreigner because they thought they were doing so well by walking on the opposing side so as to not upset the locals.

A Rose By Any Other Name...Is a Bowl of Rice?

Okay.

I have been thinking about the fact that I have been a) living in Hong Kong for three years and b) working with Koreans for one year and c) the fact that I can neither speak Cantonese nor Korean. At. All.

So, I decided to ask my Mandarin (Phutonghua) speaking friend what my name was in her language and what it meant. She told me that the translation meant "lucky rice" in English. In the words of Andy Pipkin, "I don't like it".

So then, I approached my Korean friend. I asked her what my name meant in Korean. She said that the translation meant "wall teacher". Great. So now I am a teacher of walls. She also told me that my first name meant "most fun" in Korean. That's true.
I am the most fun. Always.

My name in English means "God is good". But in French it means "I like".

Does that mean that Borat is adressing me personally when he says, "I like"?

Postcards From the Edge of The World: Grant Miller Media Investigates The Far, Far Side

Well, the shit has finally hit the fan. Grant Miller of the infamous Grant Miller Media has dug deep and got some answers from The Far, Far Side. Read on to learn why we empathize with The Company Bitch, why we are located in The Big Smog and who we would like to spank!




GMM: You're from Canada but you live in Hong Kong. Explain.

TFFS: The Great Maritime Diaspora is phenomenon whereby Atlantic Canadians flee in pursuit of excitement. I, however, have moved to Hong Kong because I am highly motivated by money and wanted to get myself on the NOBU waiting list purely out of snobbery. But know this, Mr. Miller, you can take the girl out of the maritmes, but you can't take the maritimes out of the girl!



GMM: You recently reported on The War between The Company Bitch and Grant Miller Media and chose her side. What is wrong with you?

TFFS: There’s no argument that I am maniacally insane. You can ask my mom and she will concur. Re: The Company Bitch, I don’t feel that I took her side so much as just commented on the fact that “Bitch can write”. And for the record, I did call her a bitch.



GMM: Kill, Fuck or Marry: Jim Halpert, Tim Canterbury or Louis Temblay.

TFFS: Phwoar! Very bad Grant Miller, this is hard! I am notoriously indecisive. I performed a mini e-stalk on Louis Tremblay. He's cute, but neither do I parle le francais tres bien nor have I seen La Job. Kill him. Jim Halpert looks like the guy I carpool with. I wouldn’t fornicate with carpool guy but I would fornicate with Jim Halpert. Tim Canterbury is the nice one you bring home to your mother…though I would never bring anyone home to meet my family because the poor bastard would head for the hills after meeting them.



GMM:Which do you prefer and why: Lai Cha or Yuanyang?

TFFS:Lai cha is okay, but I prefer (珍珠珍奶) zhēnzhū naichá only because I like saying it's name. Say it with me, zhen zhu nai cha. Nice, innit?

GMM:Why should people read your blog?

TFFS:Because reading about the haphazard life of an overweight spinster gwai-poh has to make anyone feel better about themselves, right?

It's Good To Be Bad...At Least In Canada!

Canada’s Worst Citizen is Here!

To hell with heroism and good will! Canadian publication The Beaver wants your opinion on the most deviant,despicable and unremarkable member of our nation! And you get to vote multiple times!

Why would anybody accuse a Canadian of being anything other than nice, you ask? Well, since it’s infancy, Canada has been synonymous with peace, virtue and all-round good manners. Rightly so. I personally am all those things, and more. But the point is that although these are all valid reasons to look at the true greatness of any Canuck, Canadians are tired of the squeaky clean and demure persona for which they are known in the global community…for the most part.

And to that, I say, “I know, eh!”

I quizzed my co-workers on the matter and this is the list of crap Canadians we came up with and why we think they are noteworthy of their crappiness:

5. Alan Thicke This is not because of his career on Growing Pains or because he is yet another American sellout or because his son Robin Thicke is a Michael Buble rip off…it’s because, as children, we were forced to watch the Alan Thicke show with our grandmothers (as it’s time slot was right before Another World came on at 3 p.m.) This was before the ingenious invention of cable TV .

4. From cheers to jeers, the Mulroney years! I’ll say nothing more.

3. Celine Dion Oh God. Where does one start? As a coworker put it, “her megalomaniacal ways are the antithesis of what Canadians are about”. Touche, mon ami. Celine is definitely the one Canadian that we all love to hate. I think it’s her voice and the way she strikes on her chest when she sings.


2. & 1. These places have been reserved for none other than serial killers Robert Pickton and Paul Bernardo. We couldn’t decide who was worse: a man who kills and chops up pretty young girls or a man who kills and chops up prostitutes…tough one, I know.

We want to know your opinion! Who do you think deserves to make this list?

How Much?

I'm a big fan of sex. So, whenever it is offered to me, I don't hesitate to at least consider the possibility of doin' it with the offerer -- you know, it plays in my head much the same way scenarios play in the head of J.D. on a Scrubs episode.

"But that would make you a raging slut", most of you are thinking.

Yes, in fact, it would make me a raging slut. But let's face it -- if someone says they want to screw you, you at least consider the possibility. And, lest we forget that I reside in The City That Sex Forgot, so my opportunities for getting a proper lay are few and far between. In fact, Hong Kong's lack of libido has been the point of discussion for ages. Durex even has to concoct(no pun intended)some ingenious new condoms just to entice HKers to bonk more. Hell, the Seven Eleven even places rubbers right under the counter where the bubble gum should be! They are presented in an array of delectable colors, flavours, designs...strangely enough though, a variety of sizes is not deemed as necessary. Do you know how many times I grabbed a box of three flavors thinking it was Dentyne Ice?


However, there was one time that I did not consider taking a guy up on the offer. I was out innocently dancing with my friends and this strange smelling little man approached with the inquiry of "how much".


"You think I am a PROSTITUTE?" I screamed incredulously. Then I pointed out the nearest exit and with an even tone I said, "Go! Go. Get away from me!" With that, he shot out of the bar.

I was gob smacked. I mean, just because I was wearing a ten dollar tube top from Giant Tiger and was hanging out in the Wan Chai red light district at 4 a.m. doesn’t give him the right to assume…right?

Shoulda told him $20,000 HKD. He probably would have ran a LOT faster.

Update to Former Post "Possible Responses To A Party Invitation"

Regarding the email I sent to my friend re: her incredibly hot brother, here is the response that was promptly sent to me:

I think you are a dead woman....

he he he

She's right. She could tear me in two, so the invitation is moot.

When ("cullinary") Worlds Collide

For some reason or another, I can't get my shit together long enough to do a regular shop and I am now having to choose between 1. beans on toast and 2. macaroni and tomato soup for dinner. Beans on toast is an old UK "fave" -- and by "fave" I mean necessity as it's cheap and filling and frees up a sizable portion of your income for other, more important things such as booze-fuelled vacations in Ibiza, and such. Macaroni and tomato soup was a dish that was doled out weekly by my over-worked mother. Of course, it wasn't as bad as all that...bacon was flung into the pot to make it more exotic. Mmm, mesquite goodness.

I hate both of them, so I think I will choose option 3, which is starvation.

Possible Responses to a Party Invitation

My friend has an incredibly hot brother who is coming to visit her this weekend and to commemmorate the event, she wants to throw a party. Here is the invite below:

Happy Hump Day!

Hope you are all having a great week. My brother will be in Hong Kong this weekend, so my roomies and I are hosting a party at our place on Saturday night. Just bring your drinks and yourselves any time after 8. He lives in a remote area in Japan, so he is really looking forward to it. All are welcome, so spread the word. Hope to see you there!

To which I responded:

Oh, darling. There is no need to go to such bother as having a party and inconveniencing your roommates. Just send the little fella over to mine and I will see to it that he is well entertained...let me know what you think:)

Watch this space for the response.

Em-BARE-ASSED...

Last night after work, I decided to visit the super sketchy "beauty" parlour in my old neighbourhood for a cheap massage.

I walked in and my favourite beautician greeted me with a hug and repeated attempts to give me water, all the while calling me "Jane".

As it turned out, the woman who was literally three steps ahead of me through the door booked my usual beautician, so I had to settle for a new member of staff to massage me. I thought, "Why the hell not? I am desperate and I can't bear anymore charlie horse episodes this month".

So the massage proceeded as normal, you know, the kind where you don a paper thong and are spoken to in broken English about...well, nothing really, and have the knots beaten out of your twisted and stressed shoulders.

But then, it got weird.

The little beautician finished my back and then covered me up to move on to, not my legs like I expected, but my ass. And though not entirely abnormal to have a full on ass massage, she yanked down my towel and then straddled me as she proceeded to dig her thumbs into my very generous ass cheeks. For five minutes. Straight. I was mortified, and it hurt like hell.

Then, as quickly as she climbed up there, the little woman nimbly hopped down, and continued to work on my legs. She became annoyed because she had to keep telling me to "rerax". Um, gee...could you maybe understand why I might be more tense now than when I came in?

Today, I can barely move and the skin on my shoulders hurts to the touch...but my lower back and ass feel fabulous...

Oh, For the Love of God. WHAT Have I Done?

Right.

Today I broke up with my current place of employment. I marched right into my boss’ office and told him that at the end of my current contract I will not be returning and that he should start searching for a suitable replacement as I have been appointed to a fabulous new job with better pay, more perks and is suited to my field. Finding a replacement ought to be easy enough because, again, I still am unclear as to what it is that I am meant to do here.

Then I got chatting to a coworker. I told him that I dropped the proverbial bomb, as it were. He congratulated me. A discussion of my next post ensured. He began to outline what my year should look like at my new company, as he too is familiar with its employers and inner-workings. As he droned on about how things were going to be "different" for me at the new company, I increasingly became more nauseated and started to see spots.

“Oh, and don’t even get me started about the whole obligation to go to parties thing”, he said.

“What? Why? What’s that supposed to mean?” I stammered as I choked back the little bit of vomit that emerged from the pit of my stomach.

“Well, it’s just that whole, ‘she went to my party, so I am obliged to go to hers and I went to dinner at a WESTERN restaurant with this person, so I guess I should invite them to a meal at this OTHER Western restaurant…’ Oh, you know what that means as well as I do.” …
*insert evil laugh here*

With that, my eye twitch resurfaced and I can't say for sure, but think an old ulcer began to bleed. The impending feeling of dread and sudden loss of identity enveloped me as my coworker kept carrying on with the facts of the situation. Visions of endless administrivia, the inability to catch a few vital zzz's and a fire walled computer began to dance in my head --and don't mention the closed-toe shoe policy. Eight hours a day without checking Facebook and the inability to sport my latest pedi seemed, to me, a punishment worse than death itself. The fact that I am notoriously five minutes late for work everyday is my M.O. I can't change that shit over night!

And so I am sitting here now, questioning my motives and already lamenting for the days where I was the only Westerner in my office who was overpaid, barely worked and could polish off the latest in chick lit in one week.

In other words, I’m screwed.