NP's One Store

In my old years, I've gotten lazy. I've gotten tired of:

1 - the Going Out And Clubbing With My Girlfriends In A Circle scene,

2 - the Get Drunk And Drunk Dial Everyone To Tell Them I Love Them scene (oh wait... I still do that),

and most importantly,

3 - the Scour The City For The Offbeat And Cool Clothes Scene.

I can't bounce around from store to store anymore, searching for cool deals. I rarely go to the Salvation Army anymore to try to buy a "find"- that rare piece that is so NP and nobody else has. I guess I'm just not that attention-seeking as I was as a teenager. No more trying to forge my identity through what I wear. Either that, or I'm just plain lazy... or I realize that I am lucky to have clothes at all so why care so much? Anyway, sometimes, it's hard for me to even bargain-hunt! Yes, I've gotten lazy. Nowadays, I like to go into one store and buy everything I need in one go.

I guess it would impress my friends if I said the store is Saks. Or Barney's, the veritable NY stamp of style. Or a hip boutique, like Purdy Gurl in the village. But my cheap, practical (and possibly Indian) side wins out. My store of choice is H&M.

That's right. I'm a fan. Of the sweaters that don't quite fit, the trendy linen skirts, the $3.50 sunglasses. Today, for example, everything that I am wearing (with the exception of my underwear and shoes) is from H&M!

It's just so convenient to have one store with everything, especially for my lazy, tired ass=)

I wonder if, in the name of frugality, I'll ever convert to Bwoy's way of thinking- all of his own clothes come from Costco's. Hmmm…. naaah.

Mofito

Mofito was on vacation this week.

Who is Mofito? My Only Friend in The Office.

Don't hate on the acronym. It was between Mofito and Mofaw (My Only Friend At Work). Disclaimer: She's not my only friend at work; I'd like to think I'm not that pathetic... I just needed a vowel between the M and F! Really. Anyway, Mofito or Mofaw? The decision was simple. Mofito reminds me of Mojito, one of my favorite drinks, which in turn makes me happy. And Mofito actually loves to drink as much as I can, and claims to be able to pack it in as much as I can (which I seriously doubt). So yeah. Mofito. F for Friends, don't get it twisted, y'all.

When she was about to leave, I felt a twinge of regret. What was I going to do without her? She alone knew my true nature behind my sunshine smile, and how I like to think wicked thoughts as I am saying happy things to people, like, "Oh! Your hair looks different today!" Translation, Oh my lord, did you fry your hair in a large vat of oil? [Deeper translation: Get out of my face. I'm in a cranky mood.] Plus, we liked to stroll around the Farmer's Market during lunchtime, looking at the heirloom tomatoes and buying kimchee of the streets of New York.

Turns out it wasn't so bad after all. I missed Mofito, but then I actually got some work done this time so it was all good.

I wish I were a racehorse.

Or more specifically, a racehorse like Barbaro, winner of this year's Kentucky Derby who sadly broke down in the Preakness (two of the only horse races that most Americans tune into).

Maybe in my next life:


I'll be born to world-class sprinters, soon to be running before even being potty-trained. I'll have a team of trainers and sponsors who will have me practice running around the track on my little baby legs and feed me protein and scream, "Run, NP, RUN!" and such so that I grow into a strong, lean running machine. Soon enough, I will be running like the devil is after me and breaking records. I'll be running every freaking day, whether I like it or not. People will place bets on me, and I'll make them proud. (And rich). Hype will build up around me like snow.

At the tender age of 15, I'll enter the Olympics. I'll fly away from my competitors early in the race, but then 50 yards or so in, I'll fracture my leg horrifically. Although I'll heroically try running on my broken leg, my leg will eventually fail and and I will collapse, exhausted, in the middle of the track.

OH NO!

My trainers and sponsers will immediately run to my side, huddle, and briefly ponder whether it's worth keeping me alive (perhaps they should just inject me with some poison right there on the track??). Fortunately, my pretty face, speed, and the fact that I can potentially pass my hot looks along for LOTS of money will win them over. Oh, and did I mention that I still look damned sexy even with this broken leg?

Immediately, I'll be whisked off to a world-class hospital for an eight-hour operation to save my leg. Not enough to ever run again, mind you, but to at least be able to perform... um, extracirricular activities. Strangers from all over the country will pray for me, write songs about me, and even CRY over me. After my operation, newspapers will report (over politics and poverty, of course):
"NP's surgery was cautiously successful, but the good news is she's shown interest in a group of boys who were brought over to do little stripteases for her! She's still got moxie! Hallelujah!! "

I'll retire to Malibu Beach at the age of 16. I'll eat green apples all day, bask in the sunshine, have my pick of boyfriends, and pop out adorable mini-NPs. My trainers will grow fat and happy on the money that will come flowing in with each new boyfriend. My many children will frolick around me, and soon enough they too will be saddled up as pre-teens to run in races in front of screaming women in large hats and waving handkerchiefs. At my rate, I'll be going into labor at least twice a year, but I suppose the pain will be eased by the fact that I'll be treated to bubble baths every day, receive massive amounts of money, cared for by world-class doctors who will ensure that I live until to at least 100 years old, and- most importantly- have LOTS and LOTS of great se....... uh, secretaries. ;)



Disclaimer: I actually do love horses. They are beautiful, powerful animals. Like many little girls, I bought a calendar of unicorns, and even made my parents take me on a 1-hour horseriding trip for my 13th birthday. I just don't love horseracing.

How I avoid my boss...

by transforming myself into a bat. Seriously. I'll attune my ears to the noisy heels of the Big Wig strutting down the hall from the corner office, the impending sound of doom ready to deliver a fresh batch of criticism. The criticism often sounds like. "What are you DOING, NP? This design makes absolutely no sense!!" Dude, saying something has no logic is like the harshest insult you can give to an engineer.

Usually when I hear the *clickety-click* of the heels, I'll shuffle my papers around like I'm really busy and concerned about something, while Big Boss passes.

Sometimes, if I'm REALLY desperate, I'll pick up the phone and call someone at the EXACT moment the Big Wig walks by my cubicle to avoid conversing with her! My convo would go like this:

NP picks up phone and dials Bwoy.

*ring, ring*

B (usually sleepily): Hello?

NP (whispering): Hello? Hello?

B: NP?

NP: Hi! Long time no speak, buddy! How've you been?!

[Big Wig walks by in...three...]

B: Didn't we talk last---

NP: Yeah? Well, I'll keep it quick! Just wanted to let you know that I got your client memo, so I'm going to add it in. Nice work.

[.... two...]

B: Huh?

NP: Hahahaha!!!! Niiiiiiice!

[...one....]

B: Huh??

NP: Sounds good! Alrighty then, talk to you later!

B: But wai--

NP: Okay, bye-bye!!

*click*

NP hangs up, breathes a sigh of relief, and continues in her little cubicle world.

NP (wiping the beads of sweat): Hehe.

The nutty princess with a new name

I changed my blogname. Part of the reason is because I don't really listen to THAT much indie music. So I felt like a poser. Another reason is because Bwoy told his roommate and then I felt my nuttiness was exposed, and such exposure only chained me. So now this is it. Nutty Princess, Naughty Princess, Nice Princess, Nerdy Princess, those are the choices.

To all my (zer0) fans, welcome back the nonsense.

Mother's day gift ungifted.

Conversation between Mother and Nutty Princess.

M: .... And then your Sister and me, we went to see this movie, and then your Sister wanted to go out and eat, so we went to a nice restaurant for dinner. Your father came too, it was beryy good food. What it was? Ah Chinese, good food. Hard workers... and then all three of us rented the new movie with Sharukh and we watched it at home. It was so good--

NP: That reminds me, Ma, I am going to a dance concert. Come with me. You'll like it; I'll buy you a ticket for Mother's day. I've been wanting to go for such a long time. I'm so excited!

M: Aray, beti, how much is this ticket? Where it is?

NP: Don't worry, I've got it. Just tell me- will you come?

M: No, tell me. HOw much it is?

NP: Noooooo, just say you'll come.

M: Say how much it is.

NP: Maa! I'm paying for it!

M: Ohhhh beti, why you hiding secrets from me now? I'm your mother, my beti. You tell me how much, na? I just want to know.

NP: *Sigh* $35--

M: Ohhhh.... my..... Goooooddd!

NP: It's a good deal, Maaaa!

M: Ohhh... my...

NP: Maaaa!!!! I'm paying for it! Would you stop it?

M: Why you spend your money like this? You keep this money, don't waste it like this.

NP: It's my money, I'll do what I want with it. Why can't you let me buy you this gift?

M: Aray, what I am going to do at concert? What will your father do? He will be home all alone.

NP: Bring him. I'll pay for him too,

M: Hmph. Chi, he will not like it.

NP: C'mon Ma, I've been wanting to go to this for so long, and this is my gift to you.

M: Beeetttiiiii, do I have to go? What will happen if I don't go?

NP: Well, I can't go by myself.

M: Haha, that is true. Okay.

NP: *Sigh*

M: Okay. What time it is this concert?

NP: It's at 8pm in Manhattan.

M: ARAY! No way, no. NO NONO NONO. I cannot go so late. NONO NO NO--

NP: Oh my God, Ma--

M: ...NONONONO--

NP: Why not?! That's when normal pple go to concerts.

M: CHI! I cannot go so late like this and on train like that! No no no no, beti. I appreciate. I will not forget. But I cannot go, I am too tired.

NP: I have to go.

*Click*
.
.
.
.

Hmmm. Typical conversation between infuriating Mother and NP. Needless to say, Nutty Princess is going to the goddamn concert by herself. And she will enjoy herself mightily.

One of those days...

...where you think, "Hmmm. When was the last time I took a vacation?"


Today I got back from work early and was thrilled.

It was one of those days, you know? One of those weeks where you start to think, "Woahhhhh, when was the last time I took a vacation?" I don't mean a go-to-Peru-and-run-around-taking-digital-photos-for-your-slideshow. Slideshow that you will inevitable show in a "Welcome Back!" party when you return to the States in front of friends who stare glassy eyed at the 1,006th photo of you beaming broadly in front of Machhu Pichu.

I mean watching the Tyra Banks Show and reruns of Oprah.
I mean puttering around the apt in pjs ALL DAY.
I mean deciding to walk to the 24-hour grocery store in the middle of the night because you feel like Godiva's Chocolate Ice Cream, and hell, you want some.
I mean mixing said ice cream with some rum and slurping it down while in bed.
I mean stripping off the pjs in an act of passionate liberation, and promptly taking five freakin naps cos... you have the time!
(Of course, if I had a boy with me, napping would be even more fun. In that case, I should say "napping.")

Tomorrow is a new day back to the old grind. But I feel more in order, more centered. Sometimes pple need to clean their room, do laundry, put their house in order to go on. Some pple need to go run. Some pple need to putter around in pjs. Everyone has their way to get refreshed, and ready to rumble... again. We all need it.

The Office & Dilbert

It's funny how I am starting to develop this smug smile whenever I read office-related humor. Especially since Bwoy is not and has never been in the corporate world at all.

He's always like, "What?? What are you smiling about? What's so funny?"
I flash him my smug smile.
It's one of the few things I actually "get" and he doesn't. Makes me feel smart and privy to a whole new world of petty politics, tight skirts, synergy, and kissing of well toned asses.
Okay, I lied. He gets it too.
Damn.

Anyway, I used to wonder why everybody thought Dilbert was funny. One of my coworkers has a Dilbert calendar on her desk and everytime she tears off a comic to read to me, we crack up.

Like when Asok asks Wally to teach him to "work smarter, not harder."

Haha. I tried that a couple of times. Problem is I am the most junior person on staff so it looks pretty silly when I actually look serious and angry about a document. When that happens, Little Boss usually says, "Oh my God, are you okay??"
I pause, look dramatically up at her with a furrowed brow, "I'm sorry, did you say something?"
She says, "It's just you look so stressed out--Oh! There's my memo! (as she takes the paper from my clenched hand) Thanks! Yeah, um, drink some tea... you look so..."
Little Boss drifts off, forgetting about my sickness, reading her precious memo in hand.
I drift back to my cubicle, empty-handed, feeling quite unloved.


Today on the TV show "The Office" was was an episode about filing complaints. I wish I could file complaints. Here's MY list of complaints:

- 0900. People gathering around my cubicle to talk in an unrelated convo, interruping my morning reverie.

-0915. Over the mp3s I am now blasting into my ears to drown out their voices, I can still hear Miss Prissy's gasping laughs (which, I swear, sounds like she's choking and dying rather than chuckling), and screaming, "Naughty, Naughty!!" to clients. Who SAYS that to clients???

-1100. Desperate for peace of mind, I retreat to the kitchen to salvage yesterday's leftover tiramisu cake. Open fridge door. Where the hell is all the food??

-1105. Uh oh. Looks like Big Boss got tired of rotting food in the fridge and decided to clean out the fridge, only to throw MY non-rotting food away.

-1200. At staff meeting, people WASTING precious billable hours trying to figure out what shade of taupe the bathroom walls should be. I think to myself, *splatter them with a shade of urine.*


Yes, I'd love to file all my complaints. In fact, I was prepared to say some of my complaints at my annual review. Unfortunately, my review was very positive. Seeing Big Boss and Little Boss's happy faces beaming back at me made me feel guilty and I just COULDN'T muster up the courage to say something petty like, "I hate it when people forgets to put the coffeepot under the breakfast rack!"


Trust me, normally I am not that anal. Or evil. I think.

*sigh*

My new spring perfume

The other day I went with a friend to Sephora's, one of my favorite stores. Not that I wear makeup; I just like looking at all the sparkly things around me (I'm a simple gal). Anyway, I've never really worn perfume- deoderant usually does the trick for me, and weren't perfumes orignally designed for the same purpose deoderants were designed (except that Secret wasn't available back in the century)?

But my friend told me that I just HAD to get a spring scent. Spring scent? (i said). "Why doesn't just any scent work?"
"O my God," she said with the typical roll of the eyes pple give me when I say something ignorant, "there are scents for every season. DUH."
" What kind of scent are you going for?" she asked, "Citrus, sugar, floral, or natural?"
"Um," I said. Um.

So then we spent an hour looking (or smelling) for scents. We would have spent a longer time had not a young, attractive, gay male clerk helped us out. He gave me some samples, and we narrowed it down. Sephora stores have a can of coffee beans for you to dip your nose into after you smell like a hundred perfumes and your nose gets confused as to what is what. I was all about dipping my nose. After smelling five hundred brightly packages scents, and relieving my nose with some coffee beans, I found the flavor.

Apparently, I like smelling like FOOD.
Or more specifically, DESSERT.

Haha, it figures. Anyway my friend was chatting up the clerk, asking about the latest Chanels and Gucci perfumes out this season, and I guess the clerk was so impressed by her rather extensive knnowledge on what titillates those olfactory nerves, that he gave us free samples!

Today I put some on my wrists at work and the entire day I kept surreptitiously smelling my wrist.
*sniff*
I smell like a freaking BAKERY. And I LOVE it. If I were a guy, I would totally turn myself on. Too bad Bwoy has no ability to smell me, since his nose and sinuses are getting freaky with allergies. But then again, I love to smell myself..... (*sniff*)

So here's the scent.

Hanae Mori Butterfly.

Ladies, start shopping around. With spring comes hormones, and smelling good hormones never hurt. That makes no sense at all, but having a scent for every season makes no sense either. And if you smell like candy, more power to you.