Around Christmas last year, I did a flight to London. This year, history repeats itself. I won't be back on Christmas; I'd be flying somewhere between London and Singapore. But at least I'll be back on Boxing Day. And I get my days off after that. A little belated, but hey, at least I'll sort of be around.
I just wrapped my presents. That's not an easy task for me. Unless the thing comes in a box, and even then, I manage to screw up the wrapping somehow or another. I try to pretend that the wrapper comes off soon enough anyway. I also try to pretend that it gives it character. I try to pretend it's not butt ugly. But hey, you try wrapping a pair of fuzzy socks. They just keep flopping around like passive aggressive rabbits.
I haven't bought the one for my parents yet. I know what I'm getting for them, and it's not the sort of thing you can hide, so I'm delaying it till later, when I can just give it to them then go off to London.
I got Elton a present already, but it feels inadequate. Mainly cause it's quite inexpensive. And small. But he'll like it. I think. Honestly, I don't really know what else to get him. Since he started his current job, he's not exactly been depriving himself of the things he likes. His phone, camera, MP3 player, PSP and PDA are all new stuff (granted, I got him the MP3 player and the PDA), so the gadget department is quite tapped out. He's got shelves of books he hasn't read yet, so yet another book is kinda pointless. On the entertainment side, he's working on Hellgate, and there aren't exactly any new releases for games. Even if there is, there's the chance he might just pick it up for himself before I can give it to him. In fact, he seems so squeezed for time lately, any sort of time consuming thing stands the chance of just being put on the waitlist. It leaves the rather generic options of clothes and accessories, which I know he isn't that into; it's the sort of neutral present that you can't hate if it fits your general taste, but you won't get that ecstatic over either.
Argh.
It does limit options. Greatly. I guess I could get him something nifty, but nifty is just a shade away from being useless junk that seem cool, but end up cluttering space once the novelty is over.
Ah, the joy of Christmas.
One of the biggest downsides of constantly flying is that it wreaks havoc on your health. The changes in temperature, humidity and the long hours in the germ chamber that is the aircraft can get you sick in a lot of ways. Your skin is usually the first to go.
I came back from Los Angeles with the worst break out I've ever had, as well as rashes and dry flaking skin on my face. It was shocking how red and blotchy it was. I turned to Proactive, the skin treatment they have that infomercial on TV for. It helped with the zits; they reduced in size drastically within three days. It didn't help with the other things though.
So I went to see a dermatologist. It was quite expensive, but at least now, the redness has gone away, though it still itches when I sweat. I discovered that Avene skincare is apparently good for sensitive skin, so much so that derms prescribe it. I was given this extremely gentle cleanser that you can just wipe off with tissue, because sometimes people can have skin that's sensitive even towards water. Best part is, it even removes mascara. I have a sneaking suspicion I'll be using it even after my skin reverts to normal.
I often feel as though I missed a class in EQ. As though I'm a semblance of what normal humans should be, able to mimic the surface appearances, but unable to really immerse myself in the role. I still find it hard to understand the machinations of people. Women, especially. They confound me. Which is probably why I get along better with the men.
On this trip, we have bonded rather well over the fact that there is a common villain who has managed to make our lives hell, within and without the plane. Even a pseudo-person like me can see what is so very wrong with him, but he seems entirely oblivious. Until perhaps yesterday, he probably had absolutely no idea how very much everyone hates him. After deciding that we would meet at 815pm for dinner, we decided to make it 830pm instead, but didn't tell everybody about it.
But before I could get too gleeful about that, a similar thing happened to me today. Except that the plans were cancelled entirely, and no one told me about it. I'm not sure if it's less of a snub, but regardless, it did hurt.
Which is why I often question exactly how well I'm blending in with the hoi polloi. I'll be lulled into thinking that I'm doing a good enough job, then all of a sudden, something like that happens. I know well enough that often claims of an innocent misunderstanding are simply that, claims, and behind your ignorant back, people laugh into their cups, delighting in their ability to trick you. It's childish, but when you're in on the conspiracy, it can be such fun, and that's why people do it. It's social punishment for those who don't understand the rules, because they have been unable to learn through observation and innuendo, hence they deserve to be punished with the same methods.
And that's the thing. I find it hard to understand why we don't just correct the offenders by talking to them. Telling them what they did wrong. Granted, in the case of the unfortunate soul on this flight, it's a bit hard to correct someone of a higher rank and with a highly over-inflated opinion of himself.
Which leads me to think that perhaps it may be possible that we just avoid that method because we enjoy making others suffer. Jerks.
Those be the words of House Stark. If you don't know what I'm talking about, clearly you're either a friend not from my gamer/geek circles or you're not a friend at all. It's from the series A Song Of Ice And Fire by George RR Martin, the best fantasy series I've ever read. In any case, those bleak words are coming true. Winter is coming. In some places, already here.
I'm writing this from Narita, having missed the shuttle bus to the mall, and in need of something to do. I was sleeping off the by-product of winter, a persistent and multi-faceted cold (it has decided to be a cough recently), and managed to sleep half the day away. It's a good thing I'm coming back again on Friday.
After a year of flying and having only gone to the States once, I was starting to feel a little frustrated. So it was welcome news when I found out I'll be going to LA. Honestly, I'd have preferred San Francisco again. Not because the place is more picturesque or more friendly. No. It is strictly because the shopping malls are right outside the hotel. With the dollar at an all time low, what else did you think I'd do there? Go to Disneyland? Actually, yes, I will. But shopping is very high on the agenda. Christmas is coming too.
Once upon a time, there was a little girl who had a father with two strong arms and rather bell-bottomed pants, and a mom with Farrah Fawcett hair. She thought she was the prettiest princess in the world, even after her father lost the strength in one of her arms and her mother stopped smiling as much. She loved books, and her dream was to write not just one, but many many books of her own, for other pretty princesses to read. She practiced, by writing stories of a particularly clever and dexterous little cat who had brownish-black fur, just like her hair. (It was an Abyssinian, not a calico, unlike what a silly cousin of hers thought. But more on that cousin later.)
But, this not being fairy tale land, that pretty princess soon began to realize that she was just a little girl. Not a particularly attractive one at that. Her forehead was too high. Her hair was too limp. And her ears, oh my, her ears. If she ran too fast on a windy day, she might just take off on them. No prince, she soon realized, was about to ride in and rescue her on his white horse. In fact, even the regular boys ran away from her, since she was quite prone to throwing tantrums and hitting them.
Then she realized that the stories she was so fond of writing were, in fact, painfully childish and full of infantile, made-up words like "mousing". (Which is not true, she read that first in an Enid Blyton book.) Oh cousin, how deep that wound was. She never showed her work to another person again. Though she did write, in secret, they were never seen by another's eyes. She took to writing diaries, for perhaps fiction wasn't her strongest suite, then telling her life's story can't possibly go wrong. After all, no one was supposed to read them.
By this time, she was old enough that all the girls around her were starting to pair off with boys and go out on dates, but she remained alone, shy, awkward, a pumpkin still waiting for a fairy godmother to transform her into something special and beautiful. She'd been tricked by the wicked school rules into cutting off her long beautiful hair, and now had a head that resembled a mushroom. Oh, cried the princess, can no one see that I am truly beautiful underneath?
Alas, teenagers were superficial, and the princess was cast to the outskirts of society, included as a fool for the other princesses to entertain themselves with. The princes scorned her, made fun of her, and spread ugly rumours about her, which she thankfully never knew until the time had passed and they were to leave school.
But it was a painful time for the princess. Instead of the joy and positivity of her childhood, she was now filled with doubts about herself and felt horrid, for she could no longer remember what it felt like to be loved. She even experimented with lesbianism, for she looked so much like a boy, but it didn't seem very princessy, so she stopped.
Time passed, then the exams came, and for months, the princess forgot all about her problems and worked hard to pass. She no longer subjected herself to the cruel scissors of Bob the evil 80s hairdresser, and her hair grew back.
The spell had been broken! The other princes and princesses finally saw her for the beauty that she was, and welcomed her back, but she did not know that the Curse of the Mushroom Head had been lifted. Still shy, awkward and socially challenged, the princess slowly returned to them, but she still could not believe that she was no longer the dreadful boy-like creature she had once been.
And then the princess discovered makeup. By now, she was old enough to put it on, and so she did. And she rejoiced, for finally, in the mirror, was the girl she always knew she was. Now, everyone could see her too, and love her for who she truly was.
Still, it took years for the princess to slowly become at ease with herself again, and she was forever conscious of how she looked, for fear of the curse returning again.
The end.
Well, ok, not quite. Elton and I went to watch Enchanted, and I was reminded of my childhood days, when The Little Mermaid was my favourite cartoon bar none, and all the Disney princesses were constantly making their rounds on my TV screen. We went to my place after that and I went through some of my old photos. There are those of me as a baby, then a little girl, then as a dark and ugly teenager who didn't know what to do with her limbs. It was prom night at the end of my JC days where I finally had pretty pictures of myself.
It has remained a struggle. Uni days had been tough too; I vacillated between babedom and tomboy-ness. Living in a hostel with $9 a day didn't make for great sartorial leaps. I comforted myself with the knowledge that at least my face looked ok, now that I could put on makeup and go to school.
But now that I can afford clothes, my hair is short again, and my front teeth are more crooked than ever, and I'm heavier than I've ever been in my entire life, so my cheeks are threatening to swallow the rest of my face. The irony, I swear.
I know it sounds superficial, but we judge people based on how they look. What did the fairy tale princesses have going for them but looks? In those books, the ugly were either spiteful, stupid or evil. Quasimodo was probably the only one who broke the mould, and that alone was the basis for the story, not whatever else he did aside from that. Outside of the fairy tales, I still rib Elton mercilessly on the dismissive once-over he gave me the first time we met. My hair was tied up, exposing my big fat face, I wasn't dressed very well, though those were the best clothes I had at the time. I looked terrible, and I saw it in that look.
I won't say that I look great now, because I don't think I'm at my best yet, but there's definitely a marked improvement. Of the sort that would make the people from my past gawk in stunned astonishment that yes, even I can look good. I'm still aware of some of the insecurities from the past that have resurfaced because of work and the constant newness of meeting strange people on each flight. I'm still physically awkward, and I have a feeling that may not change much.
On the bright side, it does prove Helena Rubenstein's famous quote, "There are no ugly women, only lazy ones."
I'm not in a good mood lately. Partly because I'm teething. Toothing, rather. My lower wisdom tooth is trying to make its presence felt and succeeding at the task. I'm planning to get it out this Friday so I can skip a whole bunch of flights and spend more days with Elton. Now, I'm starting to question whether it's truly for my own good or just the insanity talking. At the very least, I know I'm going to get it out before I quit the company; it's expensive, getting the tooth out. We're talking at the very minimum a $700 job if I plan to be unconscious to the world when it happens. If not, well, it can be done for free, thanks to my dental plan. What really scares me is the fact that it's going to be surgery, and with a minimum of a five-day MC after that, it's probably going to hurt like hell.
Still, the appointment is made, and the very least I can do is just go for it and see what the verdict is.
At the same time, I also made an appointment to get a consult about my ears for the following week.
I don't know what brought on the sudden self-improvement kick, not sure if I can be bothered to explain it to myself or to anyone else either. I've hated my ears for decades, so it's not a surprise that now I can fix them, I'm going to. As for the tooth, well, frankly, I'm trying to avoid it. So long it doesn't hurt me too much, I don't mind just leaving it in there. The only reason I'm accelerating the process is so I can have more days in Singapore, and the next few flights aren't really that fantastic either.
Do I hate work that much? Yeah.
I'm starting to realize that people just don't get me, even my nearest and dearest. I'm sort of disappointed. Mostly jaded. It figures. Humans are naturally selfish, after all, and empathy doesn't come easy. I just want to go away somewhere where I can be safe and secure. Where I can't be hurt by other people. Maybe work isn't such a bad idea after all. At the very least I can disappear into my hotel room.
It took three shots of novocaine before I could get through the extraction without screaming. Too loudly, anyway. The nurse held my head, then my hand as well to keep me from flailing too much. And that was me trying to be cooperative.
Getting your wisdom tooth extracted is one of those momentous events that, like other first times, involves pain, blood and entry into the club of people who have Gone Through It. You can't begin to imagine what it is like until you go through it. Usually in the days leading up to a traumatic event like this, I do a lot of research work, quizzing people to no end about what it was like for them. This time, I just went for it. I had the brief walk from the waiting room to the dentist's chair to panic momentarily, then it was the point of no return.
She started off with an X-ray, then cleaned my teeth and shot me with the first jab of novocaine. This stung, but it was bearable. Having had a shot before a major tooth excavation some time back, frankly, it's the much lesser evil. She then started to polish my teeth to give the meds some time to work. And then it happened.
She started by wiggling the tooth loose, which is basically where she puts a metal stick on my tooth and tries to pry it loose. "Raise your hand if there's a sharp pain," she advised. My hand shot up twice in the next few minutes, and each time she reached for the syringe again.
But suddenly, she seemed possessed by Captain Ahab and was obsessed with getting the great white whale out of my mouth. I whimpered and flailed as unobtrusively as I could despite the discomfort. It felt as though she was trying to yank my cheekbone out with the tooth. The pain was completely negated by the drug, but I could still feel the pressure. And hear the discomfiting cracking sound of the enamel giving way to the forceps. The nurse gripped my head to keep me still, then sensing that I wasn't about to make any sudden movements, decided to hold my hand and give me some support instead. She patted my arm comfortingly, though oddly enough, she never made a sound. I'd expected maybe some meaningless soothing noises, but apparently, she belonged to the strong and silent school.
Not that I judge people based on their appearance, but I had a moment of doubt when I met my dentist, a slight young lady, maybe slightly older than me, but smaller in scale. She managed to get the tooth out, but, I confess, I found myself wishing for a stouter tooth extractor about five minutes into the ordeal. It took a lot of work, and it wasn't really her fault.
Once we got the monster out, we gathered for a moment of disgusted awe. The thing was huge. Fucking massive. It is (I kept it as a souvenir) 2cm long, 1.2cm of which is the root of the tooth, 1.2cm wide. Most wisdom teeth, said my exhausted dentist, were usually half the size. Not only was it obscenely healthy, it was also very firmly wedged in, with three roots, all of which were diabolically curved at the end to provide better grip. "Here you go," mumbled my dentist from behind her surgical mask, handing me the still grisly tooth in a small ziplock bag, "That can be the start of your body part collection. Just soak it in bleach to clean it first."
I left with grateful smiles and a wedge of gauze clamped between my jaws where the wound was. She warned me that I'll most likely need to take out my other wisdom tooth, the one that was below the now ziplocked one. I'm opting for the general anesthesia method; after the drama of this one, I can only imagine how scarred for life I'd be if I tried to get that one out with nothing more than an injection. That one is going to take surgery. And it's going to knock me out for five days.
While the pain wasn't too bad, I felt a bit woozy from the sudden loss of my tooth. I dropped by my dad's work place to show off my tooth to him, earning the same shocked exclamation over the size of the thing. Then I bought some food to last me for the next day (in case I couldn't even get out of the house) and treated myself to a cab ride home.
The bleeding took forever to stop. Almost four hours, to be exact. Or at least, the last gauze was still bloody when I took it out, and I was changing it almost every hour or less. I gave up waiting for a white gauze to leave my mouth by about 8pm, when my stomach complained that it hadn't had food the whole day and the bleeding gum was just going to have to suck it up.
Eating didn't prove to be too big of a problem, though I took care to eat only semi-solid stuff. And chew on one side only.
Things I've learned from this:
1) Upper wisdom teeth extractions take a much shorter recovery time.
2) It's not a bad idea to get your tooth out sooner, before it starts to grow a mind of its own.
3) Eat first before you go for the extraction.
4) Go home and rest. Walking around makes the blood flow more. And fainting in public is quite embarrassing.
5) If you can't take any level of pain, general anesthesia is probably a good idea.
6) Go with someone who'll hold your hand. Or bring a teddy bear. It won't seem like such a bad idea when you're in the chair.
7) Stock up on instant porridge and soup. In case you don't feel like leaving your house, at least you won't starve.
8) Bleach really does clean teeth up. Just soak it in undiluted bleach for a few minutes, and you'll see the blood, residual gum and food just float away. It turns really white too.
9) You can become unhealthily fascinated with your tooth.
10) So it's good to keep a small container to keep it in.
It's almost as if I need to worry about things in order to live. Life is not exactly stressful, but I still manage to find things to frown about.
1) The rates for the unit trust I've invested in are dropping. From 1.5113 to 1.43 something. Not good, not good.
2) Working in business class. I was so freaked out that I was randomly assigned there on the way back from a recent flight, I literally went into shock.
3) My burgeoning wisdom tooth pushing my front tooth out of alignment.
4) When to get my wisdom tooth plucked out so I don't screw up my schedule.
5) My weight. Or rather, my increasingly soft, wobbly and cuddly figure.
6) Not being able to find a well-paying job that I like after quitting.
7) The fact that I have to go through the safety training next year that involves jumping into the pool.
8) Whether my luggage has TSA approved locks on it, since I'll be going to Los Angeles (for work, of course) soon.
9) Whether my relationship with my parents is going to the crapper.
10) Whether my relationship with Elton is in sleep mode.
11) Whether I am in sleep mode.
12) Whether I should buy a new computer, since I can't even run Hellgate on this one.
13) Whether I should spend that money, since I just splurged on my LV bag and I'm going to Tokyo and Los Angeles. Where much shopping should ensue.
14) Which form of otoplasty (ear plastic surgery) I should go for.
15) When I should go for said surgery.
16) If I should Botox my cheeks to shrink them at the same time.
And that's just off the top of my head. Argh.
On one of my favourite Taiwanese variety shows, they were interviewing this chubby lady whose most prodigious act that I knew of was her taking a 300-day holiday. Apparently she's some sort of famous person, though I have no idea for what. But in any case, she could afford 300 days of, according to her, breakfast, golf, high tea and shopping. At the end of it all, she went back to work without complaint, and was willing to put in extra hours, because she realized exactly why she was working; so she could have a life of such blissful leisure.
I have not had more than six months of nothingness since the fateful day I started to go to school in primary one. Kindergarten doesn't count; I actually had fun then. At six years old, I stopped having time to myself. It was school then, living my life according to the routines mapped out by some unknown administrative pencil pusher from the Ministry.
Then recently, it became work. And never before have I felt more like a particularly light and easily manipulated dandelion seed, blown from one country to another at odd times and without much choice in the matter. Sure I could always happen to fall sick, but the consequences usually outweigh the benefits.
It's funny. I was a good kid. But there were days when I didn't feel like going to school, and I'd just go off to Suntec City in the morning, walking the mall, enjoying the silence, sleeping on the bus. I never did get caught. The freedom was amazing, and I mourn the end of those times. It wasn't just not skipping class; it was realizing the fact that I had a choice.
I guess I still do. Except it's not as easy to exercise my choices. No one's forcing me to go to work on the pain of death. I could, if I wanted, tell them to go fuck themselves and clean up their own shit. It's just not very...professional.
So I guess what I could do is pray that I'll be able to get to the stage whereby a 300 day holiday is actually within reach. Honestly, it's not that far away. I could do so when I quit next year. It'll most likely deplete my funds, but not completely. The only fear I have is not being able to find another job after that.
As for now, I'm trying to enjoy the free days I have. It's not easy, and I'm having a pretty hard time trying not to think about the near future. Like having to fly off again soon enough.
Still, life isn't all that bad. Otherwise I'd be posting a hell of a lot more.
When I come back, I want to be an Apache Longbow helicopter. It's not exactly the most aesthetically pleasing of vehicles, but it's a mean looking bitch from hell, complete with Hellfire missiles. And, surprise surprise, Singapore has 20 of them. With each one worth about US$56.25 million.
It's odd, the things you pick up from the Discovery channel. I suddenly developed a great deal of love for the most aggressive assault helicopter on the planet. It's the sort of machine that you want to keep around just in case you want to take out a small country. The thing destroys tanks, can see in the dark, and can sneak around more stealthily than a ghost. What's so cool about it is that piloting it is almost like a computer game, with this eye piece that gives you a heads up display so whatever you see in real time has these targets and things you can select them with. The Apache can let you select up to 16 things to blast and choose which one dies first. How cool is that?
But before you think the Apache is nothing more than a nuclear bomb on wings, a pilot commented that very often, when they fly, their guys on the ground don't die, because when you have one of these demons on your side, the other side tends to give up rather than fight a pointless battle. You just can't win when some gamer in the cockpit has already set his sights on you (literally, that's all he does to aim; look at you) and put you as #12 on his to die list.
I guess this proves that beauty can come in many forms. And for me, one of them is sweet sweet machines like the Apache. I have more mundane loves too, like clothes and make-up, but going crazy over helicopters is probably the thing that makes me quite a weirdo.
But since I can't quite become an Apache pilot overnight and rain Hellfire on the people who've made my life miserable, I used less destructive means to boost my mood while I was in Melbourne recently. I went shopping.
I love Australian flights. Because I get to go to my favourite store, Valleygirl. Despite the unfortunate name, the store has single-handedly made me fashionable. The clothes are affordable, of good quality, and fit me well. I've not paid more than $50 for a single item, and usually it's more around $20 to $30 per item. I've bought three pairs of pants from them that cost only A$19.95 each, and these aren't the shiny stretchy crap that you usually get at that sort of price point; you know, the sort that Ah Lians love to wear. These are office worthy pants that I can confidently wear for an interview and be sure that my interviewer will be checking out my ass as I walk out the door, but not think that I'm some cheap tart who's playing sexy secretary.
So. Maybe Apache pilot isn't quite in the cards for me, however much love I have for the machine. But maybe entrepreneur who brings fashion to the masses might. If nothing else, the staff discount is sure to be phenomenal.
