days of my life

I spend my time reading...


And more reading...


Knitting...


Sewing...


And of course, admiring my feet.

hidden treasures

"It's not really safe to love other people, is it?"
"I guess not."
"They never really tell you that."
"No. That part you get to find out on your own."
~ Martin Sloane, by Michael Redhill

Finally read a book which I'd grabbed to make up the number at a sale ages ago. Not only did I discover a gem of a book -- about memories and letting go -- but also the work of Joseph Cornell, an artist which I'd never heard of before.

what comes naturally

For those who like the boooooooooort sounds.

mc queen

One more month. Nuff said.

love hurts

The best show on local telly -- Love Airways on Channel U, Wednesday, 11:30pm

Chanced upon it last week. Simultaneously, two fellow addicts sent me text messages to turn on my TV. Last night, I made sure I alerted my other friends to this gem. It is pure [unintended] comedy.

Everything was cringe-worthy.

-- The self-proclaimed Dr Love [watch out for the trailer in which he sits on a swivel chair with his legs open, exhibiting a significant bulge there] asks supposedly-kinky questions in excruciating Mandarin. Surely there are better ways to ask, "So does this leopard-print nightie drive you wild?" You don't have to be leering lecherously at the same time.

-- Sister Love, his able assistant, is an ang moh woman dressed as a nurse, who speaks Mandarin so slowly, it's as if she's speaking to a retard.

-- Queen Amrita, a dominatrix from Japan, carries a whip and goes around Wine Bar carrying out a pointless sex survey. She is truly scary, especially when I see her flabs spilling out from the sides of her rubber suit.

-- The two [thankfully anonymous] persons in body suits, one blue and one red, go through various Karma Sutra-like moves, but often without any contact. I don't understand how that leads to copulation.

-- The insane music is beyond description. You need to hear it for yourself.

i heart gee wee

How could I have forgotten to give Gee Wee publicity?!?

Check out her gorgeous vintage finds at Gee Wee Goes To New York.

walking wounded

My wound was healing up nicely, or so I thought.

Sure, there was some pulpy yellow stuff in the crater, but everytime I questioned my doctors [I've got two specialists now!], they assured me that it was fine. It wasn't pus and it wasn't infected. But I was asked to go see the wound nurse anyway.

I kept having nightmares of the nurse using tweezers to pluck my exposed tendon or a razor blade to scrape the flesh.

Turns out that the reality isn't far from that.

The moment I sat down, the extremely efficient nurse ripped off my dressing and started prodding with a pair of small sharp scissors. When I yelped, she told me brisquely that there is a lot of dead tissue, ie. the "yellow stuff", which has to be removed before the new cells can grow.

She then proceeded to excavate my crater with ruthless efficiency for a good 10 minutes while I continued whimpering and yelping. At the end of it, wound was all bloodied and as deep as a month ago.

I limped out of the treatment room and collasped against the wall, face totally ashen and legs all weak. And I have to come back for this torture every other week.

christmas come early

It felt just like the office gift exchange -- except that all the presents were for me me me.

The surprise care package arrived in the evening, filled with goodies:
- M&Ms, Kit Kat and Godiva
- cookies, muffins, honey, haw flakes
- miniature Loewe bag [certified genuine], cute Blythe pouch, Jewel In The Palace coin purse
- knitted scarf thingy [very inspired to make my own now, supposed to be easy]
- soft toys in the shape of various animals
- very thoughtful Wallpaper and Glamour magazines and book on tai chi
- potpourri, aromatherapy, massage oils
- Mayday album [I'd been dying to get it, but obviously was too bedridden to go buy it]

I feel so lurved. But still in no hurry to return to the office.

i want i want i want

Sure sign of recovery -- food cravings!

- Chawanmushi [it kinda looks like my wound though, muahahahahhaa!]
- Any kind of pasta [even though I just had the most heavenly lobster pasta by Chef Chan last Saturday]
- Japanese-style fried chicken with lots of Kewpie mayo
- Jello that wobbles
- Big fat juicy steak
- Laksa with extra hum [so harmful, hardy har har]
- Lor mee from the stall with long queue at Bukit Purmei
- Prawn noodles [must be the black black soup type]
- Smoked salmon pizza from Pizza Bar
- Mee rebus from canteen [I've gone mad from being away from the office for too long]
- Raspberries
- Japanese-style pasta with fish roe [it's a perversion of Italian cooking but oh so yummy!]
- Krispy Kreme donuts [I'll take a dozen, original glazed, butofcos!]
- cold tofu with oyster sauce
- Chicken In A Biscuit [the ultimate MSG fix]
- BBQ chilli sotong on banana leaf [my fave food in the whole wide world]

first second third

Me: [With constipated look] I can't move my fourth toe.
Doc: [Blithely unconcerned] Yes. I think your tendon has either torn or ruptured.
Me: [Voice rising in alarm] But it will heal, right? Or I can't move it forever?
Doc: [Reassuringly] Yes, forever. But don't worry, you don't need your fourth toe to walk or balance.

love me tendon

Doc just gave me another three weeks of medical leave, not entirely unexpected cos the giant crater on my foot is still not fully healed. Worse still, the exposed tendon seems to have affected my fourth toe, which now can't move!

I spend a lot of time staring at my limp toe and wriggling the other toes, but it doesn't respond much. Have been referred to orthopedics to sort it out.

On the bright side, the meds are working like magic and there is little pain. I can even reduce the dosage so, hopefully, the pukey feeling I'm constantly fighting will subside.

I've also mastered the fine at of balancing on my left foot, which has almost entirely recovered. I can even shower standing on one foot.

In fact, I'm just like a pink flamingo, which, incidentally, is my current object of desire.

how many months?

The super steroids my doc gave me made me super hungry all the time. So I ate and ate and ate the whole day and put on 2kg.

But suddenly, the other medicine has kicked in. It's some sort of cancer drug and it makes me feel like throwing up, especially after meals. The waves of nausea are getting so bad and even though I try to eat salty or sour things, nothing seems to quell the nausea.

It's like I'm preggers or something.

back from the palace

After six days of marathon TV viewing, my sis, my mom and I have completed watching 70 episodes of Jewel In The Palace. Those VCDs are really time-sucking devices.

On the average, we were slumped in front of the idiot box for 10 hours from morning till midnight. Even during meals, we would be watching from the dining table. The only breaks were for peeing and bathing, although towards the finale, I'm ashamed to say we even gave up showering. My mom neglected all housework and my sis didn't do anything to improve her unemployed status.

Lucky I got MC.

sleep, perchance to dream

For the first time in weeks, I managed to dream while sleeping. That means I finally achieved REM, which means the pain must be abating! Hooray for super steroids!

Not very exciting dreams, just snippets, but such small pleasures nonetheless.

A particularly strange one involved about a scruffy Englishman named Boddington, who looked like Paddington bear, but wore a Martin Margiela suit instead of a red pea coat.

Another one was easier to analyse. I was in an old old milinery shop which was closing down and managed to grab lots of vintage jewellery. But before I could negotiate to buy over the glass counter tops and mirrors, I woke up. They would have been lovely in the Swirl shop.

you're fired

Even though my boss reassures me that she will not utter Trump's famous last words, I doubt my annual appraisal -- taking place this month -- will be very ideal, seeing that I've been given yet another two weeks of medical leave.

The doc says it is not my bone moving about in the wound, it's a tendon. Same difference, if you ask me.

In preparation for staying at home, I stocked on munchies and made my sis buy for me Jewel In The Palace VCDs. Now is as good a time as any to indulge in K-drama like a housewife.

left, right, centre

So, in a bid to look on the bright side, here's some good news.

The crater seems to be not as deep and the bone not as visible.

I'm getting quite adept at changing the dressing. The trick is really to pretend that you're a nurse and it is not your own foot.

The super steroids which I've been taking are kicking in, yet the dreaded side effect of monstrous weight gain has not. Considering how much I'm eating -- the dem steroids make me hungry all the time! -- and how I'm plastered on the sofa in front of the TV the entire day, it's a miracle.

on the other foot

Forgot to add that I can actually see one of the bones of my foot because the wound is more like a crater now. And when I twitch my toes, I can see the bone move. It is fascinating in a most morbid way. I have to mentally detach my brain from my foot whenever I look at it, otherwise I think I may just totally freak out.

Now I'm wondering what kind of scab and what kind of scar will form.

[Apologies to anyone who feels sick reading all this, but this and the pain kinda occupies all my thoughts these days.]

my right foot

Click to see larger pix only if you (a) are not squeamish, (b) have not had a full meal, (c) are not about to enjoy a meal, and (d) like looking at gruesome photos from medical books.

So my giant wound got infected and filled with pus. Ack! Had to go back to specialist to get it drained and an entire layer of dead skin removed in a minor operation. Being the sort who gets a kick from watching nurses draw blood, I was fascinated while the doc was prepping his instruments, swabbing the area and prodding with sharp tools, until he made me lie down.

"No point looking at such unpleasant things," he said. I think he was worried I'd faint.

Now I have to clean this gaping hole twice a day without the nurse's help. Everytime I take off the dressing, I feel my knees going weak.

livedoid vasculitis

Since many many have asked about it, the exact precise medical term for my mystery baikar illness is actually livedoid vasculitis.

It is related somwhat to lupus, which more people have heard of, and is similarly an attack of the immune system, which leads to the breaking down of blood vessels and circulation. It is not a skin problem, does not itch, and is not contagious.

It can be life threatening if it affects the liver and major organs, but don't worry, the docs have run all the tests and all my insides are fine and healthy. But it is also frustrating, cos my entire body is ok, except for the limbs, and they don't know the cause. So they can only treat the symptoms.

Saw yet another specialist today, hopefully the last one ever in this lifetime, at the National Skin Centre. [Yes, even though it is not a skin disease, I go to the NSC because "the problem manifests itself on the skin".]

The doc, supposed to be one of three who specialise in this in Singapore and has done research on it, basically didn't tell me anything new or prescribe any super new fancy cure-all drug.

Complete rest, no walking around, minimise risk of infection, etc. And then without even blinking, he gave me another two weeks of medical leave. So I came back to work for a day today and did pretty much nothing, except talk to my very sympathetic boss and make arrangements to take leave for the duration [seeing how I've finally run out of medical leave].

So, come visit me if you're in the neighbourhood. I'm gonna be housebound and very bored.

swirling around

Been real busy swirling around, but here it is at last. Swirl is open for business.

Must support support!

girl, uninterrrupted

I haul myself from the pit of self-pity and despair to inform everyone that I'm feeling better, both physically and mentally.

My lurve brought me to her specialist, and although he didn't tell me anything new -- take steroids to control the pain, options include cancer and anti-malarial drugs, alternative therapies may or may not work, try at your own risk, don't mix your Western and Chinese medicine, this is a chronic illness -- the excruciating pain has made up my mind for me.

Even though there are nasty side effects from steroids and stuff, I'm going to abandon TCM -- more than a year of taking those smelly powdered brews which produced little/unreliable results -- and go for ang mohh meds.

Just started on the course of medicine and it knocked me out after lunch. Only just woke up after 10 hours of blissful uninterrupted sleep to realise it is now my real bed time.

And what do I do? Pour myself a giant bowl of cornflakes and dried cranberries -- Breakfast!

pain pain go away

I have been awake for the past 23 hours. I have also been working almost non-stop for that entire time, mainly to distract myself from the pain in my feet. Everytime I try to lie down and nap, the pain is so intense that I have to get up and do some elf work.

Even the most super duper painkillers are not working this time. Even though I've been having this affliction for a couple of years now, this is the worst attack ever. I usually still can catch a couple of hours of sleep before the painkillers wear off, but this is so bad that I'm still up at 4am, even though I'm physically exhausted.

Counting down the hours to morning, so I can go to the doctor. Have popped Panaco and Synflex at 8pm, Codeine at midnight and again at 1am, and two Panadol Extra as a last resort at 3am, but the stabbing pains seem to be getting worse instead of better.

On the up side, I've managed to do a lot in my waking hours:
-- unpack all my boxes
-- rearrange my dressing table
-- sort through my jewellery
-- clean the balcony furniture
-- tie ribbons to 120 tags
-- make breakfast, lunch, dinner and supper
-- draw pattern for dress
-- empty all the trash cans in the house
-- read lots of TWOP
-- watch lots of crap TV

I just want the pain to go away so I can sleep.

barely barley

My mom gave me an 20-year-old never-been-used crockpot. My evil twin enthusiastically shared with me that I could make barley drink in it. Just pop in the barley, sugar and water at night, and presto! Wake up to freshly-made barley drink.

The first time I tried it, the barley was barely cooked after 12 hours on LOW and 6 hours on HIGH. Because I was in a rush, I didn't empty the pot [which was also too hot to touch]. When I returned home two days later, it had fermented into this foamy thingy which smelt horribly rotten.

Being a determined barley drinker, I tried again one week later. After 12 hours on HIGH, I managed to squeeze on some juice.

So I thought the crockpot had decided to stop being temperamental and tried to make oyster sauce chicken. After more than eight hours on HIGH, the chicken was cooked, but strangely, not the carrots or potato. I gave up and returned the crockpot to my mum.

She then decided to give me a mini crockpot, very cute, but basically useless cos could only cook three cups of barley drink. She tested it before giving it to me.

So happy, today, I decided to make barley drink, cos very heaty from too many Ikea chicken wings.

After 12 hours, the drink tasted fine, although a little thick. I drank one cup and poured the rest into two cups and placed them in the fridge.

Three hours later, mysteriously, it had solidified even without the aid of gelatin. I could even pop it out from the mug with a juicy PLOP!

I don't know how I did it, but I had produced barley pudding.

[They were quite yummy, totally barley tasting, just a little too mushy. But no fear, I will perfect the recipe the next time.]

last but not least

For final Fashion Diary entry: Smocked dress with ribbons, the latest design from Swirl

anywhere but here

For a I-can't-believe-I'm-at-work Sunday, followed by a send-off at the airport for my sissy: Knit top from BYS1, brooch from Chinatown, jeans from Giordano

elf attire

No Fashion Diary updates today, cos I was in grotty shorts the whole day at home doing elf work, such as sewing more than 20m of Shantung silk and lace to make curtains.

unknown origins

Forgot to shoot after 12 hours at work, hence resorting to using mirror: brown top and circular striped skirt, both so old I've forgotten where they're from, vintage bag from Barcelona

in the red

For work: red tank and flare skirt from TopShop, vintage polka dot bag from dustbunnyvintage.com

the office

For the office: "Fattish" black top from Hong Kong, tweed city shorts from m)phosis

cone-vulsed with laughter

Thanks, Alfie, for the fashion tip. I will definitely take it into cone-sideration.

week after week

For horrible Tuesday at work: Floral top from Isetan, favourite culottes from Urban Outfitters, string of beads from Chinatown

wet wet wet

For running errands in Chinatown and Arab Street on a rainy day, followed by birthday dinner for dad: Pinstriped jacket from Old Navy, hand-made fabric brooch from small shop in Holland V, new pink tee and new stretchy jeans from Giordano, blue rubber thongs from Muji, giant brown bag from Country Road donkey years ago, orange traffic cone from carpark in West Coast

fashion diary

Remember my food diary? Here comes the fashion diary, inspired by this piece of fluff in Vogue in which women were asked to snap pix of what they wore for two weeks, to analyse their dress sense.


For dinner at Chef Chan's kitchen: Camisole from Giordano, skirt from Chelsea flea market, pink tulle underskirt [not seen] designed by Swirl, belt from the 80s courtesy of my mom, blue beads on wrist from Salvation Army in Williamsburg, charm bracelet borrowed and never returned from Lisa one drunken night, earrings from H&M

i heart london

When London won the bid to host the 2012 Olympics, I didn't give a heck about it.

In fact, I kept mocking the decision, "Did they factor in the weather? They won't be able to play any games cos it's gonna be raining all the time!"

Then the Tube blasts struck. Edgware Road, Russell Square, Liverpool Street. These were all places I was familiar with, and while not quite as near my heart as Bukit Merah or say Holland Village, still I felt a horrible rage and terrible sadness.

lights... camera...

my daily cuppa

I'm no Martin Parr, but since I can't find that pix, here's my own version, taken at 10.34am this morning, when I should have been rushing to work.

ideal room

If only my room could look so orderly. I finally moved in but there's so much more unpacking to do. I wish some elves are working on it now while I'm at work.


And I need a nice vase. But more than that, I need a pretty dustbin.

perfect posture

What I've learnt from purchasing two cheongsams and wearing them both within the space of three days is that it is physically demanding.

You cannot hunch or you'd rip the sleeves.

You have to sit ramrod straight or there'd be unbecoming creases down the front.

You constantly suck in your tummy so as not to ruin its tailored lines.

Sudden movements will cause a button to pop or a seam to rip. So your arms have to move gracefully, languidly. You don't run, you don't walk hurriedly, you don't stride. You have to glide.

Being all lady-like does take a toll. I was exhausted when I finally took the cheongsam off.

algebra

Cindy is 10 years younger than her teacher. Her teacher is four years younger than her sister. Her sister is twice Cindy's age. How old is Cindy?

Does this bring back nightmares of PSLE problem sums?

Went out with my sis and her student last night. The generation gap is staggering.

While having dinner, her student made sure that there was no vegetables in her meal, because her surname is Cai. I, on the other hand, was having a healthy salad.

While shopping at Tangs later, her student looked on in bored amusement as I excitedly compared bedsheets and threadcounts, and exclaimed over $248 dustbins. And rolled her eyes when I tried on a cheongsam that was on sale.

While driving home, she was utterly aghast that we were listening to Class 95 and proclaimed that she would never ever do that even when she is old. Give her another 10 years, I say, and she'll be humming along to "golden oldies" with us.

barbie girl

Almost all the painting is done at my new place. Almost all of it is pink. No wonder my neighbour has dubbed it "Barbie's doll house".

I can't wait for the bed to finally be there so I can sleep over. And then we can start having housewarming parties.

Come on, Barbie, let's go party...oh oh oh yeah...

remembrance of things past

I'd all but forgotten about these images which I'd seen and loved, until I stumbled across this postcard which triggered a slideshow in my head.


Andreas Gursky, 99 Cent


William Eggleston, Untitled (Boy In Red Cardigan)


Martin Parr, Common Sense

Also stumbled across Parr's Love Cubes game, circa 1972, but still fascinating to play mix and match.

Still trawling the Net for the image of a cuppa on a table cloth. Sudden nostalgia for good ol' England.

firestarter

Was happily setting up my appliances -- microwave oven, hot water flask, toaster, mini crockpot, and very crucial for this tale, electric stove -- without noticing that certain switches were by default turned on.

In fact, the stove hobs were dialled all the way to maximum. And I went upstairs and did my own thing for at least a couple of hours without realising that.

Luckily, M felt the waves of heat emanating from the counter and turned the stove off.

Even before I moved in, I'd almost burned down my new place. I'm a fire hazard. Help!

loving thyself

This was edited out of a column on Mr And Mrs Smith:

I could make a lot of dirty jokes about that here, but I'd probably end up in a lonely cell where I'd have to use my own hand for a long time.

So was this item from a list of holiday programmes for primary school kids:

They will also learn about themselves through a self-exploratory exercise linking to their fantasy future. Finally, they will also find out what it would take to reach their golden goals.

amused muse

Jean Michel Basquiat did a Self-portrait With Suzanne, while Leonard Cohen tried to woo Suzanne with music.

Somebody, Dance Me To The End Of Love.

more waiting

Attraction is over-rated.

Always be polite, even when you are goddem pissed off.

I should start practising my smile in front of the mirror.

I dislike fickle people. Even though I can be pretty fickle myself too.

Every day at work makes me wonder how I'm going to hang on till bonus time.

I have honed procrastination to a fine art.

Having your ears cleaned by someone you love is the warmest, fuzziest feeling in the world.

After painting my room green, I've realised that my favourite colour is still blue.

There are more shades of white paint than all the other colours combined.

I lurve it when people -- well, it's only one very prolific person -- leave blog comments.

while waiting

It is possible to be mesmerised by a sparkling chandelier.

Some people just rub me the wrong way and some the right way.

It is sad to have nothing but one carton of Coke in your spanking new fridge.

Ikea has the best chicken wings in the world.

Char Siew is a good name for a dog.

I will have no more life after Swirl launches next month, let alone any chance of a love life.

Two days of work wipes out two weeks of vacation. Photos help to alleviate the pain only slightly.

I have a water heater but no shower gel. I have a stove but no pots. I have a bedroom but no bed.

How did I ever live without broadband?

I have only taken half of my allocated 28 days of medical leave for the year.

I'm due to write Girl Talk. Again. I can hardly believe it. Any suggestions of topics?

I'm haunted by a new New Order song which I don't know the title of.

Isn't it a marvellous idea to motivate students by promising to flash them if they get a good grade?

Does anyone remember Herman's Head?

I have given up trying to catch up on my reading.

Why isn't blardee Gmail working so I can reply email instead of typing out these random thoughts?

pixel pixie

Now that the "essential" New York tourist pix have been posted and shared, here are a couple of non-crucial shots.


Let them eat cupcake!


Kaleidoscope souvenir which I now regret giving away.

Ok, now that I've finally overcome jetlag, I will stop talking about New York too. But that doesn't stop me from wishing I was back there.

happiness is...

...reliving your holiday through photos. Work can wait.


All the NYTCs at a picnic in Central Park.


NYTC and me at the Guggenheim, where we were heard plotting our own version of Daniel Buren's stripes, but in polka dots.


I screamed. And screamed. And screamed. Poor Alfie's ear drums. Then I laughed. And laughed. And laughed. Even the Zipper ride operator was laughing [prolly because he gave us an extra terok ride, but not that I'm complaining].

Note: I dunno why my pix are having the pixelated porno effect again. I think Photo Bucket is screwing with me.

Once again, I am suddenly wide awake at 3am, even though I made sure I tanked up on super duper painkillers to knock me out till morning.

Perhaps it's the stress of all the things we need to do before we can move into Chip Bee. Just off the top of my head -- I have a more comprehensive written list somewhere in my trusty notebook -- these are what we need to do these two weeks:

-- wiring of power points
-- buy and make chandeliers
-- installation of lights
-- installation of aircon
-- painting the entire place
-- installation of SCV
-- settle rental payment stuff
-- print name cards
-- hassle website design guy
-- write press release
-- fix sizing on clothes samples
-- buy fridge, stove, microwave oven, etc for kitchen
-- buy toilet cabinets, racks, etc
-- look for second-hand washing machine
-- transport furniture from a couple of different locations
-- repaint some old tables and bed
-- set up stock-taking, inventory and receipt system

Hyperventilating now.

new york state of mind

Just when I so smugly thought I wasn't jet lagged at all -- I wasn't when I arrived in New York -- I found myself wide awake at 3am.

After fiddling with my holiday snaps and listening to Billy Joel for the past hour, I'm more wide eyed than ever and still mourning the end of my vacation.

i heart ny

I love New York. But I’m never going back.

Have decided that unless there is a miraculous cure for my baikar, I’m never going to fly ever again. It’s just too much torture.

Imagine feet swelling to the size of trotters and not being able to do anything to prevent or relieve them. Leg room of 30cm that barely allows for any movement or stretching. Hot needles of pain constantly being jabbed directly into the veins. For the longest 24 hours of my life.

But sandwiched between the two worst flights I’ve ever taken in my life are two fabulous weeks in a city I almost wish I lived in.

i heart ny x 2

I love New York.

I expected it to be a combination of my favourite cities -- the never-go-to-sleep attitude of Barcelona, the never-say-die vibe of Hong Kong, the culture-vulture scene of London, the everything-available-at-a-price market place of Bangkok -- and it was.

But something was missing -- I don’t know what -- and the city just didn’t reach out and grab me. Or perhaps I was hobbling too slowly and wasn't able to get into the pace of the place.

I will still tell people that I love New York. But I must admit that I expected to love it more.

i heart ny x 3

I love New York because of:

-- picnic in Central Park and playing our Favourite game. Who’s your favourite character actor? Favourite author? Favourite holiday companion? [The last is a trick question, heh heh...]

-- Krispy Kreme donuts fresh off the conveyor belt. And I got the T-shirt to prove it! Also have the “I heart New York” T-shirt, just like a true blue tourist.

-- Chelsea Papaya’s BLT, which was specially made for me the non-beef-eater. I swear it was nonetheless contaminated with beef juices from the grill, hence so delish.

-- the Met’s Temple of Dendur. I stood within it in a daze, unable to comprehend that this was the actual temple from Egypt, brought over and recreated stone by stone.

-- Williamsburg and its quaint little shops.

-- Greenwich and Magnolia Bakery’s diabetic-inducing cupcakes.

-- Coney Island [which is not an island and we still haven’t found out why it is thus named] and its rickety wooden roller coaster and laugh-until-stomachache ride called The Zipper. Just found out that the roller coaster, known as the Cyclone, was built in 1927 and, according to the website, Emilio Franco, a mute since birth, regained his voice on the Cyclone, uttering his first words ever -- "I feel sick"!

-- Cocktail at subterranean Russian bar Pravda. We made the one delish drink last the entire evening and bonded over Most Embarrassing Moments, a variation of our Favourite game.

-- TV dinners on compartmentalised plastic plates.

-- TV. Endless episodes of Gilmore Girls and Law & Order on Tivo. Season finales of shows which haven’t even started on Singapore TV. Circumsized Cinema. And of course, Channel 35.

-- Tiny Doll House, with its, ahem, tiny doll houses filled with tiny chairs, tiny beds, tiny chandeliers which actually work, tiny fake food [Krispy Kreme!], tiny mannequins with tiny dresses in progress. Tiny, tiny, tiny!

-- flea markets. Don’t be jealous of my Little House on the Prairie dress, beaten up red leather bag, floral circle skirt, vintage pony brooch, fake amethyst earrings...I can’t get enough of old stuff.

-- Urban Outfitters, Crate & Barrel, Old Navy and of course, old favourite H&M. Oh the many happy hours we spent there.

-- MOMA gift shop. Call me shallow, but even though I couldn’t squeeze time out for the actual museum, I managed to go to its gift shop three times.

-- the weather when the sun was out. But for one abnormal week, it was the coldest spring since 1967. Going around in flip flops when it is 50 deg F (10 deg C) and raining makes you learn how to walk with wet and frozen feet without slipping and truly appreciate sunshine when it appears.

-- Ginnie and Alfie.

i heart ny x 4

I love New York. And I have the photos to prove it.


Pretending to be a seagull at Coney Island.


NYTC and me.


The Zipper made us come undone after the ride.


NYTC and Ginnie at Central Park.


Worshipping the Krispy Kreme conveyor belt and its waterfall of icing.


Photographer and model at work. Fashion shoot in New York, how glam is that? Big hug and thanks to Alfie and Serena.


Saw Lady Liberty from afar. And somebody's ass up close.

`
Empire State Building from my cousin's rooftop.


The only monument I climbed.


Ginnie and me again at the Cast Iron Building, which was being renovated.


Because I failed to consult the guide book, we ended up at the New York Public Library on a day that it was closed. When we returned the following day, I petitioned Mayor Bloomberg to extend opening hours. They had a letter-writing counter set up for that.


I lurved the cup noodles at Times Square because it had real steam coming out. What am I saying? I lurve cup noodles. Period.


Not quite double exposure, but a photo of a photo of Times Square. An image of me reflected onto the image of the woman.

new york, new york

I have to leave for the airport in four hours' time and I'm still in the office.

I have not even started packing and I still need to go to M's place to pick up some stuff.

I am so screwed.

eight days to go

NYTC leaves for New York tomorrow morning. Another eight more days to go for me before checking into Casa Del GA.

anybody home?

Some time last year, this old classmate of mine called me up at work out of the blue and from a payphone, no less.

Him: Hello, do you know a Chee Tiong* from ACJC?
Me: Erm, yes?
Him: I am Chee Tiong.
Me: Erm, hello.
Him: Have you heard any news about me?
Me: Erm, what? [I thought I heard wrongly, as it was noisy.]
Him: Have you heard anyone talking about me?
Me: Erm, no. Who's talking about you?
Him: Reporters have been calling me and calling me.
Me: Erm, about what? [I was thinking at this point that he was insane.]
Him: [Hemming and hawing] About me. And my business.
Me: Erm, why would they want to know about your business?
Him: They want to know.

The conversation went on in this vein for a while, until he hung up, still with disbelief in his voice that no one was enquiring about him or his activities.

Last week, he called my home and asked my Mum for my mobile number. She didn't give it to him, of course, and took down his number on his insistence. When she passed it to me, I shuddered and said: "Psycho!" And then I threw the scrap of paper away.

Two days later, he called my office. For some unknown reason, I picked up. [I usually don't pick up unknown numbers, to avoid long-winded PR girls and their brainless spiels.]

Him: Hello, do you remember Chee Tiong?
Me: [Heart sinking] Erm, yes?
Him: I am Chee Tiong.
Me: Erm, hi.
Him: I tried to call you at home.
Me: [Brightly] Is it?
Him: Have you heard any news about me from Audrina*?
Me: Er, no, I don't really keep in touch with our classmates.
Him: Have you heard any news about me from your colleagues?
Me: [Clutching my phone in disbelief that this is happening again] Erm, no.
Him: They have been following me.
Me: Erm, why?
Him: They want to find out more about me.
Me: [Rather loudly and impatiently] Erm, why?
Him: Can you let me know if anyone asks about me? This is my handphone number.
Me: Erm, ok.
Him: Can I get your handphone number too in case?
Me: [Lying through my teeth] I don't have one.

He finally gets the idea and hangs up.

* Names have been changed so that he won't be able to google and find out that people have, indeed, been talking about him.

online booking

Thank you for booking your stay with us at Casa del Ginnie & Alfie (aka
Casa del GA)!
Here in reputedly one of Manhattan's smallest studio, we go by the
motto, "There's hardly any room but cheapos shouldn't complain!"
Casa del GA (rhymes with Agar Agar) is a cosy studio located in
downtown NYC (2 blocks south of WTC site) that offers fine
starving-artists sleep-on-mattresses-on-the-floor style quarters with
practically no privacy and endless hours of Law & Order, Gilmore Girls
reruns, VH1 music videos from the 80s, fresh episodes of reality Tv and
the occasional Cooking Network programs. We provide free internet
access but we dont promise any meals. Pajamas are not provided but
city tours are available on request at the kitchen counter (For
Art/Museum/Book/CD tour contact A. Lee, for Shopping/Food/Supermarket
tour contact G. Teo. Please reserve in advance).
Casa del GA is a smoke free but not (entirely) snore free zone.
For our Singaporean guests, Casa del GA is roughly equivalent to the
size of a 3 room HDB flat minus the 2 bedrooms, or for those unfamiliar
with government subsidised (or so they say) housing, it can roughly
accommodate 2 Mercedes S class wiper to wiper, with 1 driver stationed
in the kitchen alcove and the other in the bath.
For those with no sense of smell and an iron stomach Casa del GA also
provides a subway transfer service from JFK and La Guardia.

We at Casa del Ga hope that you'll enjoy your stay with us and look
forward to seeing you!
Cheers
Alfie & Ginnie
Casa del GA
"Where there's hardly any room but cheapos shouldn't complain!"

six days seven nights

I've always hated packing for trips. I fear forgetting to bring my passport or more importantly, my underwear [which has happened before].

I've always loved springcleaning the junk that I hoard -- photos, Christmas cards, costume jewellery, cute little bottles, magazines, Dirty Dancing cassette tapes, Doraemon figurines -- because of the memories they invoke.

With the Big Move scheduled tomorrow for fengshui reasons, I have been ordered to pack at least enough clothes and toiletries for a week. The family will be going on a six day seven night holiday to our new place in West Coast. [I'm moving too because my current place is going to be rented out and I will only get the keys to my very own place in Chip Bee in June. And also to appease my mother.]

Packing for the Big Move has been pretty trauma-free, so far. Dumped all my clothes into suitcases without even taking out the hangers, just like how people in movies pack when they skip town in a hurry. There was no anxiety about accidentally forgetting to pack anything, cos I can always just come back for it.

While sorting through some boxes at the back of my cupboard, I unearthed a stash of crisp $50 "bird print" notes and a well-fed piggy bank. I think it was my angpow money from 20 years ago. Just like that, I'm $300 richer.

In other news, I went for a BBQ at Chip Bee last night, the farewell do for a couple who are moving out. They were so nice to invite us to introduce us to the neighbours. Once again, I was told that I look like Ah Girl.

As I sat under the fairy lights, nibbling a chicken drumstick and playing with the neighbour's fluffy poodle, I found it hard to grasp the reality that this could possibly be my life very soon.

spelling bee

The Washington Post's Style Invitational once again asked readers to take
any word from the dictionary, alter it by adding, subtracting, or changing
one letter, and supply a new definition.

Here are this year's winners:

1. Bozone (n.): The substance surrounding stupid people that stops bright
ideas from penetrating. The bozone layer, unfortunately, shows little sign
of breaking down in the near future.

2. Foreploy (v): Any misrepresentation about yourself for the purpose of
getting laid.

3. Cashtration (n.): The act of buying a house, which renders the subject
financially impotent for an indefinite period.

4. Giraffiti (n): Vandalism spray-painted very, very high.

5. Sarchasm (n): The gulf between the author of sarcastic wit and the
person who doesn't get it.

6. Inoculatte (v): To take coffee intravenously when you are running late.

7. Hipatitis (n): Terminal coolness.

8. Osteopornosis (n): A degenerate disease. (This one got extra credit.)

9. Karmageddon (n): It's like, when everybody is sending off all these
really bad vibes, right? And then, like, the Earth explodes and it's like,
a serious bummer.

10. Decafalon (n.): The grueling event of getting through the day consuming
only things that are good for you.

11. Glibido (v): All talk and no action.

12. Dopeler effect (n): The tendency of stupid ideas to seem smarter when
they come at you rapidly.

13. Arachnoleptic fit (n.): The frantic dance performed just after you've
accidentally walked through a spider web.

14. Beelzebug (n.): Satan in the form of a mosquito that gets into your
bedroom at three in the morning and cannot be cast out.

15. Caterpallor (n.): The color you turn after finding half a grub in the
fruit you're eating.

And the pick of the literature:

16. Ignoranus (n): A person who's both stupid and an a-hole.

tupperware party

I have today acquired two cardboard boxes filled with retro Tupperware, which is roughly half of my mom’s stash from her days as a Tupperware party hostess.

Most of those air-tight containers -- water bottles, jelly molds, salad bowls, cups and more in deep brown, vivid yellow, olive green, carrot orange -- have never even been used.

Even though I’m delighted to inherit these brand-new 20-year-old heirlooms, I’m even more delighted that my mom has come round to the idea that I am, indeed, moving out.

damsel in distress

Part I

A moth fluttered into my room just as my sis and I were about to turn in last night.

It wasn't one of those menacing black ones which fasten themselves to the wall and stay immobile while sending evils vibes. Instead, it was the (equally evil) type with erratic flight patterns that careen about wildly while threatening to land on your face.

So there I was, screeching away like a banshee and diving under my blankets. My brave but ineffectual sis tried to swat it out with a broom, but the evil creature taunted her by fluttering around before suddenly vanishing.

We couldn't find it, and we needed to sleep, so we gave up the search. But it was a restless sleep, as I was haunted by thoughts of being smothered to death by powdery black wings while slumbering.

Part II

It was one minute past offstone and I was the only one in the office.

Then the phone rang. There's a problem with the cover. A major, urgent problem that I couldn't solve without the help of someone from Art Dept, but none of them were in yet, and would not be for another two hours.

So I had to call one of the artists who lived across the road and haul him back to work. He sounded none too pleased about it over the phone -- who can blame him? -- but 15 minutes later, he was at his desk with sleep in his eyes, bed hair concealed under a cap and a day's worth of stubble on his face.

As he took over the cover, I stood helplessly behind him, wringing my hands, sending out stress vibes and generally being 100% useless.

And then the most wildly inappropriate thought hit me: "Wow, he's really hot. Like one of those grizzly Survivor men. How come I never noticed it before?"

I sent a message to my evil twin to tell her about my revelation, and she replied: "Haha you are just turned on cos he was the knight who rescued the damsel in you."

still life, fast moving

Apparently, if you see the above images moving, it means you're stressed. The faster, the more stressed you are. Or it might just be an optical illusion.

material girl

What my heart desires: Crystal chandelier
What I'd make do with: Crystal earrings

What my heart desires: My very own tropical island
What I'd make do with: A week-long holiday in Phuket

What my heart desires: Complete set of Tintin comics
What I'd make do with: Buying one comic everytime I feel down

What my heart desires: DVD recorder
What I'd make do with: VCR and DVD player

What my heart desires: Prada gown
What I'd make do with: Home-made copy

What my heart desires: iPod mini in blue
What I'd make do with: digital camera which can store 12 measly songs

What my heart desires: Nigella Lawson's cookbooks
What I'd make do with: Watching her on TV

What my heart desires: Walk-in wardrobe
What I'd make do with: Big cupboard and lots of shelves

What my heart desires: Fresh flowers everyday
What I'd make do with: Plastic daisies

What my heart desires: Rollerblades
What I'd make do with: Birkenstock

What my heart desires: Black Labrador
What I'd make do with: Animal Planet

What my heart desires: Baby blue Volkswagen Beetle
What I'd make do with: Comfort cab

Insomnia drives me to think about things I can't have...

seeking oblivion

I made my lurves join me in getting drunk -- to the brink of happiness but not the point of puking, we all agreed beforhand -- but we were all still lucid at the end of the night.

Did not even come close to the Worst Time I Ever Saw You Drunk moments we had been through together, which include:

-- Brushing your teeth naked and having a boy and his girlfriend walk in on you.
-- Accidentally making out with a friend you have no business kissing at the end of a bar.
-- Lunging at your man at a traffic junction and being spotted by your friends in the next car.
-- Sitting on the sidewalk, cradling a tilam on your knees to rest your throbbing head.
-- Too many to catalogue during our infamous Slut Party.

I might have been tipsy, wobbly and giggly last night, but no matter how much I drank and how much I wanted it, oblivion just did not sink in.

I still remember everything I wanted to forget.

one two three four five

SIX WEEKS PART I

My hairdresser has refused to cut my hair.

"I've already planned your next hair cut and your hair needs to be longer," he explained with a pained expression on his face.

"But my fringe is very annoying and keeps poking into my eyes," I protested with an equally pained expression.

"If it is really very irritating, I can cut it..." his voice trailed off and his expression became even more pained. "But if you can keep it for a few more weeks, it will be very nice."

"How long more?"

"You come back in six weeks, ok? I'll cut for you."

"SIX WEEKS???" I wailed.

I suppose I should be glad that my hairdresser cares enough to plan my next hair cut. But I can't believe he is now dictating when and how I should cut my hair.

SIX WEEKS PART II

"When are you going to climb your mountain again?"

"Next week," he replied gleefully, filling me on his plans to white-water raft, take photos of holy men who never bathe and spend time with his Nepalese mistress and his brood of illegitimate kids.

"When will you be back? I need you to help me shoot some photos of my clothes leh."

"I'm going for six weeks."

"SIX WEEKS???" I wailed.

SIX WEEKS PART III

The lease has been signed and we're officially in business.

By the end of April, we should be able to go into our newly rented place at Chip Bee Gardens and survey the terrace house that will be our showroom-cum-sweatshop as well as my new bachelor-girl pad.

By the end of May, we should be decorating in earnest. Already, we're picking out colour schemes, thinking of where to hang chandeliers, scavenging for second-hand furniture and appliances.

How to wait another SIX WEEKS???

SIX WEEKS PART IV

The countdown to New York, as of today, is precisely SIX WEEKS.