We do brave and exciting things everyday, but maybe not enough. Because sometimes it’s scary. And scary things terrify us. Or sometimes we’re just worried about what others may think. So what if you’re a geek who goes on holiday and checks out telephone museums? Oh wait, that’s me. Maybe we don’t do something we’ve always wanted to because we don’t think we can. We forget that oftentimes our only limitations are the ones we’ve set ourselves. But wejust haveto go for it! So what if you want to be a Michelin-star chef but risk burning down the kitchen everytime you pick up a spatula? Oh wait, that’s me again.
Why am I saying all this? Because a lot of us take life for granted. Me included. We get caught up in all the busy-ness and hectic-ness of life that we forget to take pleasure in the things that makes us excited to live. We forget that we wanted to learn Portuguese or maybe even dress up as Lady Gaga and bungee jump off the Eiffel tower. Life is too short not enjoy it to the fullest. Why wait until our last days to do all the things we want to do? Like the men from the movie, The Bucket List.
So that’s why I’ve written a Life List, because I always forget the exciting things I say I want to do. Obviously the list is going to change. I thought it would be fun to jump out a flying plane with a parachute (television is such a bad influence on me), then realized I will never ever for one second in my life ever want to do that. Ever. It’s your list, your game, your rules. You’re bound to change your mind every now and again. The whole point is to collect rich experiences for yourself and enjoy every single moment of it. And when you look back on it all, you’ll have the most fantastic stories to tell your great-great-great-grandkids. Yes, I plan to live that long.
I went to a random park, which looked beautiful because no one had been there yet. So it was covered entirely in the most perfect blanket of snow. I love untouched snow. And Christmas trees.
Then I did something I’m really not proud of.
I gleefully kicked about and bounced around all over that perfect snow. It was so much fun! To put my signature on this “work of art”, I even used my footprints to write my name in the snow. But it completely ruined how beautiful it all was. And any photographers who came later would not be pleased (I stamped out my snow-name so they can’t track me down).
But I paid the price.
I ended up with fur-with-clumpy-snow boots (which completely ruins them) and snow went into my boots. And there is nothing worse than wet socks!
Then I lost my balance and fell backwards, landing right smack on my bum. My jeans were completely soaked and my bum felt frozen. I would put up a photo to show you but I don’t think parading a picture of my butt on the Internet is something you’d want to see. I might scar you for life.
Wet feet, wet jeans. Two very awful things. I’m telling you, the invisible snow police are real.
But I’d do it all over again (with proper snowboots and waterproofs).
We’ve had many days of endless snow and it doesn’t appear to be stopping anytime soon. In fact, the temperature dropped to -16°C last night and icicles formed under the car. No, seriously. Icicles.
For us non-four-wheel-drivers, driving is like a catastrophe waiting to happen. Skidding, sliding, twirling, skating a figure 8, a pirouette – the car has a mind of its own! Then of course, my car got stuck in the road. Idiots like me who have never been stuck in the snow before don’t realize that no matter how long you floor the accelerator, the car is not going to move. Soon I smelled burning rubber. Oh boy.
I got out the car. And stepped into this. Is it no wonder the car got stuck?
Let us take a moment to gaze in admiration at my favourite brown furry boots that I have owned for a million years but still love just as much and would never get rid of.
Ok, moment over.
I decided I could try pushing the car. After all, I’ve seen that work in movies. Apart from the fact that I am not Popeye and this was a really dumb idea to begin with, the car rolled backwards. Luckily, a kind gentleman – who saw me blundering about and walking circles around the car – stopped by to help me. He asked if the car was a front-wheel or rear-wheel drive. *blank look* Could be front, back, left, right for all I know. A stuck car plus pop quiz all in one day, what else is going to happen? In any case, he helped to push the car and I was finally unstuck. I thanked him as I waved goodbye and drove home.
And thanks to Google the Great, I found out my car was a front-wheel drive.
All girls talk a lot. It’s an inherent talent we are born with. So no surprise that we spend hours and hours and even more hours on the telephone. And work up a super high phone bill every month. It’s almost as if we need to use up a certain quota of words everyday or we might explode.
When I was on holiday recently, I came across a mini museum of telephones. I had to take a look. I mean come on, half my life is spent with the phone stuck to my ear. It’s practically a permanent attachment. And all because Alexander Graham Bell, the great inventor of the telephone, decided to take paper-cups-connected-with-string to a whole new level. I knew that without even having to look it up – am I a nerd or what? Honestly, what person puts “telephone museum” on their holiday itinerary.
Pretty cool huh? Or maybe not.
To make up for this boring display of phones through the ages, here’s a funny video.
It’s not a myth, it really is true. Girls are born talkative. Is she cute or what?
When we were younger, my sister and I (and mom too) desperately wanted a pet dog. My dad doesn’t like pets, so all the begging and pleading in the world was futile. But getting a dog was our solitary ambition, and we eventually wore him down after endless discussions and presentations detailing reasons we should own a dog. We were after all, perfect little “angels”.
We had no room to be picky about the breed of the dog (we would’ve asked for a Great Dane and probably try to ride it), and we brought back a little brown mix-breed puppy from my cousins house. Oh the joys! But we were now tasked with a very important decision: picking a name. Being a cute little brown furrball, I was adamant the puppy should be called Brownie. My little sister insisted on calling him Willy (after the Free Willy movie that she absolutely loved at the time). How ridiculous. Willy was a WHALE! A typical sibling bickery ensued. Thirty-four fights, fifty-two battles and a world war later, we were made to sign a peace treaty by my mom: we’ll use half of both names.
Wilnie, Winie, Browly or Brolly. Our poor first puppy. This was surely animal abuse. Neither of us would back down or give in. Finally, Brolly it was, and Brolly it stayed. And we loved him. He had a long and happy life full of mindless attention from two little girls smothering him with doggy treats and ball play.
Then we moved to the UK, and we wondered why everyone kept telling us to take a ‘brolly’ when it was raining. Turns out, ‘brolly’ was slang for ‘umbrella’. We had called our first ever dog “Umbrella” for the entirety of his lifetime.