Posts (page 2)

As a beauty writer, I can safely tell you that what ages a person the most is being the Prime Minister of Singapore.

I don't usually follow politics. Except for the Big Three, I wouldn't recognize most of the local politicians even if they shook my hand and kissed my hypothetical baby. But catching a glimpse of Mr Lee in the papers today made me wonder for a while if the art people screwed up and put in his father's picture instead. Until I recognized him amidst the white hair and wrinkles.

And he hasn't been on the job for THAT long. It's been a couple of years, but the 56-year-old looks at least 10 years older. In just four years, his hair, which had been lightly grey at the temples, is now nearly completely white. The wrinkles are more deep set, the skin more crepey. I'm tempted to send him a tub of Biotherm Force Supreme anti-aging face cream except they might mistake it for some kind of attack.

Poor guy. And Mr Goh who was there before him underwent the exact same I-just-got-my-life-sucked-out-of-me process as well, just after a few years in office. The elder Mr Lee was actually a pretty good looking guy during the Merdeka period, pretty forceful and intense looking with much less dramatic eyebags. There's just something about that job.

And it's ironic, because to the common man, they'd probably think the job isn't too much of a hassle, mainly because all we see is the PM going to some event, smiling for the cameras, giving speeches. We don't see the background work, what goes on in their daily lives. Besides, they've got so very many men in white working under them, how stressful could it be?

In a way, it's kinda like my job. Both of them. A trainer once commented that stewardesses are like swans, all graceful and beautiful, but paddling away furiously underwater. People think that journalists, especially those for more frivolous subjects, like politics and crime, must have such easy lives, going for press conferences, getting free stuff, living the glamourous glamourous (oh the flossy flossy) life. I must say, I have a knack for picking them.

What they don't see is the hours opening a vein at our computers, attempting to find the right words, the right tone, the right angle to tell a story. The vicious edits, the copious rewrites, the desperate attempt to get it all in before the deadline. And mind you, we're actually good at stringing a sentence together.

But the thing is, it's not just the writing, it's the sourcing for the information to write on, the hunt for the pictures to use (I swear, I should've just worked on my Indesign skills and gone to be an art person instead), and the random other stuff that I have to do before I can actually write that's time-consuming and demoralizing.

One of the random other stuff is attending press events. I have no problems if you drag my ass out for something that is productive and cannot be communicated over the phone otherwise. You do NOT call me out there, make me wait for an hour before you get the show on the road, then reveal just ONE lousy product, and attempt to beef it up with some tangential sideshows that have absolutely no bearing to the product. We get a transport allowance we hope to keep most of. We don't get paid that much to begin with. Unless you're going to chauffeur us over there, think very carefully, because if I get pissed off, do you honestly think I'd still write a glowing recommendation?

The other thing is that these events are like a series of house parties featuring the same people. The hosts differ, but the core guests are the same bunch of writers from the same bunch of magazines. It's tough starting out because these people have known each other for a long time. And they've established a culture of their own that is completely baffling to outsiders.

For one, they're always late to events. ALWAYS. Coming on time is a sign of n00bness. It's something the PR people anticipate, and I've actually caught them out a few times, still not completely ready yet, when I arrived on the dot. I'm not sure whether it's some power play to remind the PR folk that we are the Gatekeepers of Knowledge or whether it was just bad habit that became institutionalized, but those are the rules. So you can go on time, stand around and look foolish for half an hour or more, or you can just go late, and settle in just as the presentation starts.

For another, they develop a visual filter that prevents them from making eye contact with people they don't know, as though strangers have a tendency to place inconvenient, irrefusable, impolite requests on them as soon as they catch their gaze. I know you're surrounded by the people you know. But how is it possible that you can manage to ignore me when I'm standing less than five feet away, looking straight at you with a smile on my face?

And mind you, I'm not exactly easy to ignore.

I have no qualms going up to random strangers and introducing myself. I have moments of shyness, but I'm an exhibitionist at heart. But it's just frustrating when you have to behave like a pushy credit card salesperson and literally stick your hand in their face just to get them to look at you. Despite their pally demeanour and their wacky photos of themselves in the last page of their magazine, there's one title whose editorial team is quite severely stricken by this odd blindness. Then again, maybe that's why; being so overexposed must result in a lot of people coming up to them and blathering on and on, so maybe it's some kind of defense mechanism they have.

The result is that I feel left out. I wouldn't go so far as to say ostracisized, but definitely left out. I can pretend to be one of the air-kissing gang, but that's just not who I am. I like meeting people, but only if they're open to it. If a gentle tap on your shell doesn't get you to come out, I'm not going to push it - hey, there are people out there who'd love to meet me.

I find it a matter of manners and emotional intelligence; whenever I'm part of a larger group and there's someone new, I introduce myself to them, especially if the person that brought them there is a social retard and doesn't do the introductions first. And I'll talk to them, get them to talk about themselves a bit. It doesn't matter if you don't give a shit, just display some interest. They may sometimes turn out to be interesting. After that person feels like you know them a little, they're more relaxed, they feel like they've built some commonality with the group, they're less likely to feel left out.

And I'm an only child. Where did these people grow up? In isolated mountaintop villages? It's a party, goddamn it. Having private conversations in one corner with your close friends is exactly what these things are about.

I digress, massively.

The third thing about the culture is to constantly function under this overall aura of chaos, flitting from one event to another with a number of goodie bags in tow, endlessly bemoaning and comparing the extent of work and the ridiculous hours you're putting in at the office.

Work is busy. It's supposed to be busy, that's why it's called "work", and not, say, "striking the lottery". And it's hard to understand how it can be so busy when most periodicals are released on a monthly basis and the newspaper journalists have to come up with a paper every day. If you took most magazines, ripped off the ads, we'd have less content than a newspaper.

A large part of it is the multiple meetings that has to be held before a magazine is published. The brainstorm meeting, where your ideas get shot down, the follow up meeting to see whether after investigation any of the surviving ideas passed muster, then smaller meetings to nail down exactly what goes into subsections. Then there is the waiting for the companies to send us their stuff to write about. PR people, please note. The earlier you get them to us, the more likely it'll get in. There's no last minute red-light special. You aren't marketing a world war. We work on issues two months in advance, which means now, even before Christmas, we're talking about Valentine's Day.

To be honest, I'm not certain how to streamline the process any further. And since I can't offer a suggestion, I won't knock the system too much.

I was told a large part of the job is all about time management. What job isn't? It's simply a matter of treating writing as less of a creative process and more as a task you have to quickly finish. That, and managing PR folks and their fervent belief that getting you to their event will result in a definite accolade for their thingy.

But as drawbacks go, my job doesn't have too many of them. As compared to my old job, at least I'm here all the time. After a bad day, I can go find Elton and cuddle with him. I'm able to go for shindigs. I get days off on public holidays. The simple joys of regular work that you white-collared folk can't begin to appreciate until you've done shift work.

I have an unabashed love for gadgets. And no, they don't have to be pink for me to gush all over them, although that helps.

Recently I've been thinking of changing phones. For one thing, my current job uses Lotus Notes on a Mac, which translates into I can't be arsed to even try plugging in my HTC Diamond (running on Windows Mobile 6) to see what happens. That, and I am outraged by how this supposedly high tech phone can do practically everything, EXCEPT let you customize the bloody alarm clock tone. Or the SMS alert tone, but that's not so bad, since I usually have my earphones in and the vibration tips me off.

Let me explain how crucial it is for me to wake up the way I prefer. I hold grudges. Fact. It's not nice, it's not mature, and it's not good for my health. Little things set me off, and it doesn't have to be a personal attack, it just needs to piss me off, then I ride the pissed off wave for a loooong time.

So when I can't wake up to a soothing tune, I spend the rest of the day being pissed off. And there's nothing soothing about the default tones the Diamond has for its alarm. I spent a long time cursing the goddamned Taiwanese company, until I realized its not their fault; Windows Mobile is retarded.

I swear to God, I Googled "windows mobile alarm mp3" and variations thereof till the sun came up (no, literally, then again, I started at like 3am) when I first got the phone. There were a couple of third party softwares out there that promised to allow MP3s as your wakeup call except they insisted I pay, sometimes stupid amounts, or they didn't work. Not much luck, much cursing ensued, and I was suddenly grateful that my job had irregular hours on alternate days, so I didn't have to set my alarm that much.

Most importantly, I didn't have to wake up in the morning. Consistently. Day after day. If you can't tell, I'm not a morning person. Except staying up for the beginnings of it and sleeping straight through the rest.

So now that I've started at this pseudo-office job, waking up everyday is tough enough without having either an inaudible or a banshee-esque alarm tone making it harder. I came thisclose to trading in my phone for a Sony Ericsson slider Walkman phone. And to be honest, the only reason I didn't was because I can't really go back to that level of n00bness anymore. I would get the Xperia X1, but it's a lot chunkier than my current phone and I really don't like slide-out Qwerty keypads. Messaging with one hand is impossible unless you have ridiculously long thumbs.

Figuring I can't just give up without one last fight, I Googled again. And found it.

It being SpoonAlarm v2.0 by the Spoontools. It's a small app, pretty simple, but it works. And it's free. Of course, it would be nice to donate a little something something to the guy via Paypal; if everyone who got the app gave him a dollar, that would still count for something.

And because I'm so damned happy, I'm going to make a donation. Once I verify my Paypal account.

Make sure you get v2.0 though. I downloaded the earlier version before I found v2.0 and it didn't work all that well. For one thing, when selecting your alarm tone, it didn't differentiate between picture files and music files and showed you every single bloody thing you have on your phone. For another, it didn't allow for recurring alarms, so you had to set it every day. The new version fixes all of that. If the first thing that goes off is your Windows Mobile notification sound, go switch it off under sounds and notifications. Of course, this might annoy you if you use reminders. I don't. So I'm happy.

So now my phone is more or less complete.

I did another search and supposedly, you can sync Lotus to a Windows Mobile phone via third party software. But to be honest, it's just too irritating having to use Lotus to begin with (it's really not the prettiest thing around, is it?) for me to attempt to fiddle with it. That, and the fact that it's running on a Mac just brings on a wave of despair. Besides, I use Gmail and Google Calendar (this lovely thing called mail forwarding) and my phone has WIFI and 3G and Opera, so I just get online and browse.

I was going to end off this part of the post with, "And now all that remains is fixing the fact that I can't create contact groups so sending SMSes to multiple people is a bitch", except I did a quick search and fixed it.

Get Group SMS is a freeware that just adds an additional option to the menu bar for you to select a group. The tricky thing is, you need to sort your contacts (or the ones you'll be SMSing en masse all the time) into "categories" first. I find it a lot easier to do this on your PC with Outlook first (just select the people, click Edit, then Category, then select the category. Go to the Master Category List to make up your own), then sync it to your phone. From there, if you're adding new contacts, just edit the category portion to save yourself pain in the future.

This is why, at times, I feel like I'm really a guy.

One of the things about my job is that there are times I'm not in the office at all. PR people constantly cajole us out for press conferences or events to launch something or another, or we need to go out and interview people or review places, things like that. It's not a bad thing, generally, because there's usually free food or goodie bags or some sort of a treat, like champagne at 10am, free flow, mind you. Oh, such a hard life.

But it can be quite a pain when your deadline is a couple of days away, the event is a big hoo hah over one small thing that you're not going to use for the article that's due anyway, and you have enough events that day that it makes no sense to go back to the office, but you've got an hour or two to kill in between them.

Which is why I'm contemplating getting myself a netbook. They're small, they're cheap, they let me go online supposedly anywhere, and they give me word processing power on the go. I know Sitex is on now, but braving the bargain hunting crowd is a little too much for me. (Singaporeans love their IT fairs. And their food fairs. In fact, a fair of any kind usually sees a pretty good turn out, unless there's admission fee.) Besides, they're cheap to begin with; I'd rather keep my dignity and fork out a little more then go squash with hoi polloi on my precious weekend.

The only thing is, I can't quite decide how low to go with my netbook. I'm not willing to spend more than $700, but it's got to have at least 80GBs memory, and be fast enough that I won't start tapping my fingernails on it (which is something I constantly do with the Mac at work, driving people nuts, no doubt. Maybe if I do it enough, they'll mob the IT guys and make them change my computer). I can do without silly things like a built in camera (yes, because I'm going to video call who, exactly?), but I KNOW for a fact that I'll be tempted by little nifty stuff like that.

Why can't I have a cheaper obsession?

One of my cousins is celebrating his first child's first month today, and I'm not there because I'm not exactly feeling too good and it would kinda suck to pass something on to the poor kid.

In case you've no clue what is up with this first month thing, it's a Chinese tradition to sort of tell the whole world they've had a kid and involves eggs dyed red with food colouring and hair snipping and whatnot. To be honest, I'm not entirely certain how the whole thing works, and the ceremony differs from household to household, but the generals remain the same. Though now, people moved away from just red eggs to giving out cakes, which I like, because for some reason, I feel guilty about buying a whole butter cake and scarfing it down.

What? Butter cakes are nice.

The idea of childbirth scares me a little, mainly because we were made to watch this video of it from the gynae's perspective, complete with this sharp scary pair of scissors going in to snip the woman's perineum. Yes. WTFOMGOUCH indeed. We were also told that if the cut wasn't made (I think the term is epistomy), the area might get torn, which may make healing more difficult. To which we exchanged glances and thought, if a pregnant woman managed to get on board and give birth, someone at the ground staff level wasn't doing their job right.

Then again, considering the sheer number of people wandering around, I guess its not such a deal breaker after all.

The idea of having kids scares me a little too. What if they turn out to be a disappointment? Or complete total brats? It's this fear that makes people go around complimenting ugly babies for fear that if they speak their minds, they will get retribution in the form of fucked up offspring. Do you know how to not have ugly babies? Don't fuck ugly people. Don't fuck if you're ugly. Or fuck, but please have mercy and either use protection, or save up for the kid's plastic surgery fund. There you go, problem solved.

Rationally, I know this sort of stupid ass superstition is just that, some lame social construct we come up with to stop people from voicing out not-so-charitable thoughts that may be very well valid. Look, Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie can go around telling people their kids are ugly but they're still going to have a ridiculously good looking kid because the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. And even if they do manage to get the worst mix of their genetics out, I'm sure they can afford to buy the rugrat a new nose.

But as much as I managed to turn out pretty, uh, enlightened despite my parents (I love them, but honestly, sometimes they can be a little cheena. That's the Chinese version of redneck), some of that shit still stuck. So while I'm looking at a kid thinking holy shit, those two should NOT have gotten it on, I have a lingering sense of guilt and fear that because I'm having that thought, I might black out when they present me with my offspring. It doesn't make a lot of sense, but there you go.

I do want kids at some point in time, that point being pretty far off right now. I want there to be people to cry at my funeral. What? And you guys want kids because the government says we need more people. Yeah right. Boil it down, and it's really just that I want to give birth to my own old age care system. It sucks being one of those old people with no family and no kin and no one to miss them if they should just die in their tiny one room flats or in a void deck somewhere, sleeping on cartons. If you have kids, especially if they're not too dumb or selfish, at least there's someone there for you.

It's like the ultimate guilt trip. I will give birth to you, bring you up, be all "unconditional" with my love, and you will wipe my wrinkled ass when I'm old and I can't do it by myself anymore. And everybody will be all judgmental if you don't do it. Woopee.

I mean, if you want love and affection and another living being who needs you, pets are way more low maintenance. But they lack opposing thumbs and don't really live that long, so you're very much on the care taker side of the equation. Only by spawning your own kind can you have the satisfaction of saying, "I am your mother. I can make you, and I can break you." Or rather, "Wah si lim lao bu. Li si leh kiam pah si boh?" That, and they usually go on to work, earn money and take care of you instead.

Of course, there always are those who go against the trend. It's especially true when you have a lot of kids.Three and more equals people pushing the responsibility around, and no one wanting to have the old bag at home. First borns and only children tend to have a greater sense of responsibility, but they also can get resentful when too much pressure is put on them. Especially if there are other children who get away with not doing anything. Why should I have to clean up Mom's pee when my little sister doesn't have to? they ask themselves. That's when the hot potato parent game begins.

The trick is to remain independent. Work out, live healthy, try not to have to be in a position where you have to depend on anybody, but set things up so if you need to there's a safety net to fall on. Plan B. Plan Babies. Doesn't always work out, but at least its there.

As much as possible, I'm trying to be there for my parents. Even though there are times I feel like running head first into a wall.

Like yesterday. I've been working for two weeks now, and one of the perks of being with this company is free newspapers and magazines, since, well, we print them. But like anything starting out, it's nice to hope for a smooth beginning, but it's safer to expect some false starts.

Our newspaper arrived for a total of two days. Then stopped for about five. I didn't really care because I don't have time to read the papers anyway. We never got papers before and I read them once in a blue moon, when the planets are aligned and there's nothing much else to do, so not getting it was not a big deal. My parents didn't exactly read them either. In fact, Dad's a lot more into the Chinese rags.

So I had probably one of the weirdest conversations with my mom yesterday that I've ever had with her. I'd picked up one of the two copies of the papers on the table, thinking the delivery must have arrived and someone went to buy one by mistake. Mom tells me that both she and Dad brought them home, and the delivery was not made.

She then went on to complain about some hypothetical newspaper thief who must be taking our papers sometime between when they arrived and before I left the house at 7.45am. And that I should just call my HR person and tell them to cancel the delivery if it was just going to someone else. She said she'd called the newspaper delivery number on Thursday, the day before, and told them I, new and hardworking member of the company, am entitled to and should get my daily paper on my doorstep, and they said they'd get it to me on Friday. But there were no papers on Friday. The outrage!

And I'm there, on page two of the main section, wondering where the heck did all that angst about not getting the papers come from. Firstly, its free, so it's not costing us anything anyway. Secondly, when the hell did they suddenly get so hard up about reading the news? Such PASSION in ensuring they get their daily dose of what's going on in the world. Thirdly, how the hell did she know what number to call?

In any case, the papers came again this morning. So I guess that'll be the end of that. Unless the delivery guys screw it up again.

I think one problem a lot of parents have resolving in their head is that after the first ten years or so, your kid is no longer an amalgamation of your spunk and her egg. They still go around thinking they're the Almighty Parents, Creators of Life, when the truth is, that kid is a separate being, with an independent thought process, which may come up with ideas such as the people who gave birth to it are pretty flawed. There's no special power you have over your kid that you can go, "Do this, or else..." and expect them to cower like you just held up a lump of Krytonite in a menacing manner. Or else what? You gonna vacuum your kid back into your hoochie and break him down in a bunch of cells?

If you're not a likeable person, better pray you have dumb kids, or make sure you ingrain a nice big dose of guilt, because if you have any common sense, you're not going to stick around if your dad's an asshole who gambles, drinks and beats people and your mom puts you down so hard, you wish your dad used protection. Same for your kids. Just because they were born in a different decade does not mean they'll think that differently.

How many people do you know like visiting their folks, or live near to them? Those who have a choice in the matter, that is? Housing is expensive enough in Singapore that we still stay with our folks till we're in our thirties or forties, not moving out until we get married.

It's quite a big problem, really. People don't talk about it, and there's no study for it, I don't think, but I believe the fact that people are still staying with their folks well into their thirties is infantilizing them. Like seriously, your twenties are meant for wild parties and exercising your libidos. That doesn't work out so well when you have to sneak home in the dead of the night praying no one's still up and having to have sex really quietly, shoving your partner out the door once the fluids have been tissued off.

And when that part of your life gets delayed, you find people in their late thirties still trying to act all young and hip at clubs. I'm not saying just because you're on the other side of 35 that you have to stay home and read with your bifocals on, but by that age, you should be the cool, matured, older person who chills in a corner, watching the desperate twenty-somethings rush around looking for something to hump with an amused look on your face. There's really nothing sadder than some nervous 40-year-old man with no game coming on to a hot young thing with his bald spot and his brand new Toyota Corolla, trying to get her into bed after tiptoeing past his mom's room in the little flat they share. At least have the decency to spring for a room at a hotel. It doesn't even have to be a good hotel. At least there's no worry of being caught by an old woman in her pasar malam nightgown.

That's probably why our society is repressed. A lot of folks here get uncomfortable talking about sex. I'm talking about those bland people who make up a very large part of our society. Those who have problems enunciating properly and adopt this weirdass accent when speaking to someone clearly from the States or other far flung ang moh countries. The women turn to sluts, thinking they can fuck their way out of this depressing life, the men turn to porn and misogyny, because if you can get them, hate them.

A lot of Singaporean men have this Madonna/whore way of viewing women; their girlfriends or wives have to be so pure, they don't even know where their vagina is, but the women they covet are those who really put their sexuality out there, in your face, making their two big points. And there's so much resentment/desire/envy all wrapped up in one scary serial killer combo A meal, it's a good thing we cane the crap out of rapists here, because prison just isn't a good enough deterrent.

Seriously, look at the forums and you'll be shocked at the sort of mentality some of these men have. This girl cried molest while overseas because this guy friend she was staying with in the same room in the same bed touched her inappropriately. Was it a smart thing to have a guy you have no intentions of sleeping with in the same bed with you? No. But naivety and stupidity does not mean she deserves being molested. That girl got shortchanged by the common sense fairy, but the way some guys attacked her on those forums when that news broke was just flat out cruel. They go beyond questioning her intelligence to saying stuff like how she should have been raped so at least she'll have something to complain about and how she's a whore who probably just got upset because she offered herself legs wide open and the guy didn't want to touch her and so on.

It's disgusting, how they play out their little fantasies based on the misfortunes of others, and feel the need to share them with the world. Especially when most of them are probably these grown ass men with adolescent little minds, buying teddy bears wielding big plush hearts for their insipid girl friends with their long hair and their makeup-less faces and their gold anklets and their stupid sissy names like Ting Ting or Ying Ying or some shit like that. Good god, woman, if your name sounds like someone just dropped cutlery, get another name. And WHAT is with the gold anklets? I know they put it on when we're kids for some random reason I have no clue about, but did you have to keep it on? And you can't claim ignorance, because there's no way that's the same one they strapped on you when you were a kid. It's ugly, it's cheena, so please, take it off even if it means sawing your own foot off.

And that's why I think I'll start off with maybe a dog before I really have kids.

Considering the Great Wall of Text that is my blog, it's hard to imagine that I would be at a loss for words. But I am. And it's driving me nuts.

First week of the Dream Job wasn't too bad.After a brief orientation, I was thrown into the deep end. Write. Now. Except I wasn't too sure what I was supposed to write, and in what sort of a tone. And it doesn't help that the qualities I appreciate in material goods, them being Cheap and Good, are not so important here, where the target audience probably owns skin care that could pay for the monthly installment of a small car.

Still, I'm not complaining. Too much. If anything, I'm just frustrated at myself for staring blankly at my computer, writing and rewriting and junking it all away to start afresh. I'm just supposed to come up with four lousy pages and I'm having such difficulty coming up with the words. It's like extracting teeth with no Novocaine. Like taking a shit with no fiber intake. Like plucking your eyebrows for the first time.

(What? I'm working for the beauty section of a magazine now. I can't just keep talking about disgusting bodily functions. I'd go with "Like a Brazillian wax with a trainee beautician" but I've never actually gone for one, so I wouldn't know. I do remember Elton's screams when I plucked one single strand of hair from his eyelid. So scarred was he, his brows remain in manly, unkempt fashion.)

See, I can't write in this pseudo stream of consciousness way for work. There is some editing process here, but not much, really. I write almost exactly the way I talk under normal circumstances. Yes, I talk a lot.

It's not that I can't adapt to a different tone. It takes time. And an actual knowledge of what that tone is. I get comments that I need to cut down on fluff, then I flip to back issues for inspiration and I see stuff like, "Fortunately, bubble gum eye colours kept girls from looking like over-enthusiastic American Idol contestants". Uh huh. 

I don't have a problem with sentences like that, in fact, I think it injects some personality into the writing, makes it something you'd connect with better. It's also strangely easier to come up with, because your brain is in a happy place, making jokes and giggling, if a wrinkly blob of human tissue can giggle. It's when you start second guessing every other word you write, every phrase you come up with that you get stuck. Your brain basically goes, "Fine, fuck it. Fuck YOU." then goes off for a extended smoke break. And you're there, staring at your screen, wondering why you can't even write a page when you churn out shitloads of stuff usually.

Which is why after five days of typing and flipping through press releases and calling PR people to ask what the fuck was it that they wanted to say in their press releases, I'm here, still writing. It's different though. More relaxing. No need to send it on to get it sent back with vague comments about needing to change it. HOW, woman. HOW do you want me to change it. I'm so frustrated with not being able to write with my usual speed and ease that I can't even bring myself to make it a question.

I think a large part of my vexation stems from the fact that I just don't want to screw this up. And because I'm so worried I'll screw this up, my cocksure-ness about my mad skillz with teh English got drastically diminished. That really just does not help. I need to remind myself that my title is "writer". There are people whose titles are "editor". Let them look through and cut down. Just churn first.

The other thing that really got me demoralized is the fact that we use Macs. I am a PC person. I fucking hate Macs. Yes, you heard me, you hippie one button piece of plasticky shit, I fucking hate Macs. This so-called "intuitive" interface is NOT intuitive AT ALL. WHAT, pray tell, is wrong with the control and alternate keys? WHY do you have to add a fucking "Apple" key to the mix? I hate that I have to use the apple key; it makes me contort my hand in an uncomfortable manner. I hate that the mouse the ancient iMac I inherit has no scroll button. I hate that things don't run properly on Macs, like CDs and my thumb drive. I hate that I can't just right click. I hate that things are hidden in weird ass places. Why is it so difficult to see how big a file is? Why isn't there a "properties" option when I right click on it? Why does the keyboard suck so much?

It got me so pissed off, I brought my own mouse on day two after I discovered that the IT guys aren't big on changing the peripherals for you. I'm still stuck with this disgusting keyboard my predecessor managed to jaundice with god knows what by god know how, but I'm thinking I probably can't just stick any old keyboard in, since it wouldn't have an apple key.

But seriously, why Macs? It's not like we're in the art department. We use Microsoft Word most of the time, for crying out loud. Is it because its cheaper? It certainly isn't faster.

Other than that, work is good. The team is small, and they're all decent people. I think I notice a correlation between the busyness and maturity. The less busy work keeps you, the more likely you are to be bitchy, because the politics are the only thing that makes work interesting. It's a good thing our office is so inundated with stuff that people are just desperately trying to stay afloat. We don't have the time to come up with soap opera-esque storylines starring the people you know.

The thing about journalism of any kind that bothers me is the disorganization. One of the main qualities of what makes something news-worthy is timeliness, so you may have planned things out, but some asshole's going to come up with something new and you're going to have to write about that inconsiderate piece of shit, screwing all your timelines and plans. Every beauty magazine will have a section featuring new products or news about products (limited edition, charity whatchamacallit, new packaging, etc.), and writing this section is a pain in the ass, I can tell you that now.

Why? Because it's never ending. You'd think you got it wrapped up, then something else comes along and you have to shove it in. You're all ready to start working on another article, and a new pimple cream gets thrust in your face. Great. Fantastic. JUST what I needed.

And I hate clutter. I HATE clutter. And my work section is as neat as it gets, and I'm still bothered by it. We just get so much stuff and not enough storage place for it all. Walking through my editor's area is like traversing a cosmetic minefield. Everybody tries to be special with different packaging and different bags, and special press releases.

But really, I'd be so much happier if there was a nice fixed format so it's less time-consuming to organize things. Because seriously, we're obliged to go through everything anyway, so if your press release puts the important stuff out there straight up like a nympho on a first date, we're more likely to write about your product with less resentment. There's nothing worse than struggling through some shit release only to find out there's nothing new or exciting about it, like when the clothes come off and you realise it's ABNT (all bra no tits).

Speaking of clothes, the $300 I spent on my new work wardrobe is starting to do a Lehman. On the bright side, the clothes are still there. Everyone dresses quite casually, fashionably so, but jeans are ok. It helps, because now my work wardrobe has expanded dramatically.

It's kind of intimidating though, because the fashion team sits opposite me. The stylist is right next to me. If you think about it, these people are the final say in what is fashionable, for our magazine, at least. I witnessed them critiquing the jacket this girl had on, and I think she went to cry herself to sleep in a corner somewhere.

Although so far, I've hear good things. My cheap leather bag I got from some random push cart, my ten dollar rose-gold square faced watch, my knit cropped turtle-neck poncho all got good comments. I'm waiting for them to gasp in shock at some particularly unfashionable thing I might own.

But for all the stereotypes about fashion people, they're not snobby. There was no cliquish excluding-the-new-girl juvenile crap. And they don't go around dissing what people have on; that girl with the unfortunate jacket was a friend of the fashion editor, and it was more of a friendly joke than an order to take off the offending item and burn it.

Perhaps one of the reasons why I have problems writing for work is because I'm doing it while the sun's still up. I wonder if I can convince them to let me work from home. Hey, if I turn in my stuff by the deadline, that's what's important, right? You don't really give a damn if I do my writing at 3am in the morning.

Gotta go now. Testing this boob cream for work.

Elton took his dad and I to the gun range today. He now knows better than to piss me off ever again.

It's my first time at a gun range. This was in the boondocks of Bukit Timah, where there's enough wilderness that you won't accidentally shoot someone in the flat opposite. The gun range was a small one, and they only did trap shooting there, where this clay target goes flying out away from you and you have to try to hit it with your shotgun.

For most Singaporean guys above the age of 18, guns aren't anything new. They learn to use M16s in the army, after all. But I managed to somehow go to the range with three guys (the Spawn joined us as well) who did not serve in the army. And I think I did better than them. On my first time, mind you.

It sounds impressive, until you realize that we were using 12 gauge shotguns that fired 350 pellets, and all it takes is three to break the target. The pellets fly out in a 30 foot diameter, so all you need to do is to aim in the general direction of the thing and shoot.

Which was probably why I was so good at it. No brain required.

The instructor kept advising the guys to not think, just shoot. I was doing it already. Complete natural. Once the barrel of the gun is somewhere close enough to the target, just fire. You don't have to line up the sights or anything.

I was so nervous I was trembling and giggling like I always do. The shotgun was quite heavy. For me, at least. The guys had no problems. I missed my first shot. Then I hit the second one straight on, disintegrating the damn thing. And then I was hitting quite consistently from then on.

I didn't realize it until the instructor pointed it out, but I was doing what they called ambushing the target. For the sort of trap shooting we did, the target always flies out at a certain trajectory away from you, give or take a few degrees to the left or right. Because the gun was heavy and I had problems moving it, I just aimed roughly where the thing would fly past and took a shot when it did. It's supposedly harder, because your arms have to stay steady, but I'm just built weird.

Cheating, perhaps, but hey, it worked. On the first detail (25 cartridges, one box), I hit maybe about 50 percent. On my second one, I was hitting 70 percent. And the missed 30 was because I tried to do it the "proper" way. The instructors were chuckling away behind me, going, "This one ambush queen, this one." Yes, I'm damn proud of my new title.

It was especially cool because I was the only girl there at the time, so naturally, the guys looked to see if I was any good. When I figured out the trick behind it and started being quite the crack shot, they started paying attention. I felt kinda sorry for this other guy who got there before we did, had his own ear plugs and everything, and kept missing his shots.

So yes, I'm gooood. I'm fucking fantastic. I'm gonna move to the States, buy me a large area of land and purposely put lots of pricey items lying around so I can break out my shotgun and yell, "PULL!" when the burglars come a-visiting.

Thing is, I like being good at things that people generally think girls won't be as good at. Like driving a car, or fixing gadgets (I managed to hook up Elton's dad's DVD player to the TV when their entire family couldn't do it), or shooting things. There's always the initial shock factor, then after that you become one of the boys very easily. They don't give you as much bullshit, and they don't dare to dismiss you. You can hold your own in the conversation, and they know better than to shunt you away so they can do men's talk.

Some women get into the all boys' club by acting like a guy. You know the type, all professional, all uptight, all tranny who forgot her estrogen pills. They're usually extremely aggressive, thinking that the manly way to do business is the only way to do it, and that translates into every other part of their life.

It just looks so unnatural it's wrong. And it makes people, even men, feel uncomfortable.

Then there are some who get in by pretending to like guy activities. Like soccer. I swear, the number of girls who pretend to like soccer is shocking. Look, it's a shit game. It's a shit boring game with wimpy guys who fall down and roll around at a touch that usually ends with a fat load of nothing. Rugby, now that's a sport.

But that's just my opinion, and in some people's opinion, it's a beautiful game. That's fine.

I just can't stand it when some major soccer league rolls around and all these football hos come out of nowhere and start making inane comments about the game, as though they know what they're talking about. Yeah, they support Manchester United. Like they can even tell you the name of one of the mid-fielders. More likely scenario is, they show up, they scan the place for cute guys, then they ingratiate themselves when their target by claiming to be a supporter.

There are some girls who are really into the game. That's fine. But if you're not the sort to stay up to watch matches all by yourself or with friends that do not include a guy you have the hots for, you are not a fan, don't kid yourself.

And look, getting some guy to explain to you the off-side rule does not constitute being in the club. In fact, if you don't understand the off-side rule, you're so not in the club, you're standing in line around the corner of the block.

These girls really piss me off because they tend to ignore you if you're not a guy. Are you really that hard up for a man you can't even take a few minutes to chat with me? And they also tend to hate me, because the guys talk to me, about things that these girls don't understand.

The only thing is, for girls like me, we have our own set of problems. Before I learnt to dress up, I was always one of the guys. And that was it. They just didn't see me as anything more than a brother. After I dressed up, they didn't see me as a brother anymore, and I needed to prove myself by kicking ass and taking names. Then after that, they'd include me, but they'd also be kinda wary of me. Argh. I'm kinda like Bubbles, cute and sweet until I beat 37 kinds of crap out of you. It makes dating tricky.

One of the problems with keeping anything in the bathroom too long is that the mildew gets to it eventually. I've gone to the bathrooms in some people's houses and didn't dare consume any of the food on their table after that. Yes, I judge you by your hygiene. I especially freak out when I see reading material in the toilet. Like, what the fuck, man? How long do you take in the bathroom that you need reading material? Do you, like, not eat enough veggies or something?

So yes. The mold got to my razor. And I felt incredibly repulsed by it and had to get a new one.

Like most women, I fell for their marketing shtick and bought Gillette's Venus when it first came out, this particularly curvy razor that's really just a feminized version of their old Mach 3. If you compare it to the Mach 3, it's kinda like the kiddy version. Have you seen scissors for children? Yeah, same design concept. "If we put enough rounded edges on it, then the little girls won't cut themselves. Too much."

It was cool, because it had this little holder that stuck to the wall that also held the spare blades you might need in case shaving one leg alone blunted the current one. Of course, after I bought the original, I noticed two things. A) the blades for the Mach 3 cost about $6 less, and B) they released a pink version. Assholes.

But I thought, it's ok, it's not like I'm going to carry my razor as an accessory. I can own one thing that is not pink.

(Yes, the massive majority of my stuff are pink. Deal with it.)

My mom never quite understood my need for a razor. I inherited the family trait of hairlessness on BOTH sides. I've seen women with more hirsute legs than my dad. It sounds great, until you realize that you can shave, wax, thread, zap, pluck, blast (ok, maybe not blast) hair off, but there isn't much to put hair on.

And when I say hairless, I mean without makeup, my eyebrows are faint suggestions. They're there, but you can't see them unless you're standing about five feet away. It severely limits my activity choices, because the last thing you want is to emerge from the pool a la Ursula Andress and scare the crap out of little children. On the bright side, I don't really have to do much prep before I head for the pool.

I guess I'm lamenting my lack of hair because I've never had to resort to anything more drastic than a few swipes of my trusty Venus. Things might change if I should ever have to endure someone ripping off hot wax from my hoochie.

And so, with that disturbing thought, let's move on.

Thinking that now I can buy the Venus in pink, I headed for my neighbourhood drugstore to grab one. Except they didn't have it. Apparently it's limited edition or something. So I stroll on by to the men's section, and I spot the Fusion Power Phantom. Mind you, not only does it have five blades to shave you into baby smoothness and a sixth blade to cheer you on, it also sends micro pulses to make your hair stand up, AND it has a fucking stealth mode. At least, I assume that's what the Phantom part of the name is for. How kick ass is that?

Comparing it to the three wimpy blades on the Venus, and the fact that they didn't have the pink one, I decided to go with the Phantom. If nothing else, it has twice as many blades. And the so-called micro pulses makes the thing vibrate. If I still traveled, that multi-functionality comes in quite handy.

SIX BLADES leh. Why the fuck do you need SIX blades to shave your face? And why don't women have a version of that? We have just that much more real estate to use it on. Think about it. How big can your face be? My pits alone pretty much sum up your entire face. AND I still have legs. Not that I need it that much, but there be some girls out there whose calves should never see the light of day without some sort of depilatory treatment beforehand.

My hairlessness means I only need to shave my legs once in a blue moon and when I feel like it. I used to think of it as a bit of a shame, having watched one of my hairy female cousins casually use those wax strips to rip off her leg hair. At that point in time, I wanted to do that, because it seemed so fun. As you can see, the operative word is "used".

But recently, it became a little depressing. I know that with age, your metabolism slows, but your appetite sometimes didn't get the memo. I knew I'd gained weight, but most of my clothes still fit and I'm a master at layering so no one (except for my aunties, perceptive evil women) actually came up to me and pointed it out in that quaint Singaporean way, "Ay, you got fat huh?"

Small digression, Singaporeans tend to be just plain clueless about this. Like the Spawn says, they'll point out to you that you have a zit on your face. Yes, because I got up this morning, brushed my teeth, showered, got dressed and came out and at absolutely no point in time did I look in the mirror and notice that my face has a zit on it. We need YOU to bring it to our attention. Woo. Give the guy a medal. Morons.

So it used to be that about five strokes would cover the front of my thighs (what? For all the bigness of the Venus' head, most of it is just plastic and not blade). Now, it takes an extra one. I used to be so damned skinny, my thighs wouldn't meet at all when I put my legs together.

It's not that the weight gain is a bad thing. I like the fuller ass that comes with it. And so do many appreciative men I walk by, apparently. I like to catch them out occasionally, like suddenly just turn around and watch them get whiplash from snapping their heads in a different direction. It's cool, it's cool. I firmly believe that if I bother dressing up, you should bother checking me out. Have you seen girls who clearly put on their sluttiest outfit and got completely ignored? That's just sad man.

It's just, I really wish the weight gain was not so targeted. It's like I did spot training but with food. Krispy Kremes straight to the muffin top. Lasagne adding mass to my love handles. I can't sit down without my thighs fanning out in these pale fleshy slabs. The outside of my thigh still has that nice line down the middle, some definition. The inside of my thigh is a whole different story.

Which is why I finally got off my new found ass and went for Yogalates at the overpriced yoga centre I signed up with aeons ago. I had been pretty regular once, and managed to get to a point whereby I could touch my toes without too much problems. Now, I'm back to flailing at mid-calf level while the instructor is coaching the rest of the class to rest their foreheads on their knees and grasp their foot with their hands. What's wrong with you, woman? The skull is NOT connected to the knee bone for a good reason.

Yogalates is exactly what you imagine it to be. The bastard child of yoga and pilates. And there's this one instructor at the centre who runs it like the bastard child of yoga and aerobics. It's good, in that one session with her and you walk out feeling like you got into a bar brawl and someone sucker punched you in the gut. It fucking hurts to sneeze after that. It's bad, in that it fucking hurts to sneeze after that.

If you've ever felt the need to get rid of your gut, pilates really is the way to go. A lot of guys sneer at it, because it has no manly stuff like chunks of metal to haul around. But I've seen the few brave guys who come in for class, and their faces will turn blue, then purple as they tough out the exercise, before they flop on the mat looking like someone just released their balls from a vise. It's really tough, and it's really targeted, and it's just damn efficient.

Speaking of men working out, two of my best guy friends used to hit these gyms run by the National Sports Council. They didn't require membership, entrance fee was just a few bucks, but they were very pared down gyms, and some of them were quite old and not too well maintained. Elton asked why they didn't go for the more modern gyms with better equipment instead and they said other than price, those swanky fitness joints just seemed kinda gay. Working out should be more edgy and manly, not all slick and nifty. Like if you don't need to get tetanus shots after using the weights it's not manly enough.

So, Yogalates. The centre I go to has pilates classes, but the problem with them is they're usually filled with these scary women with iron abs. And I always feel like the slacker who collapses after 40 of those pseudo-crunches and the rest of the class is going on to 100.

It also has yoga classes, but they're filled with women who have rubber bands for bones. And the yoga instructors are a perverse bunch as well. They'll get you to (try to) touch your toes, resting your forehead on your knee and, this is the best part, relax. How the FUCK am I supposed to relax? I'm like turning a really unhealthy shade of crimson and sweat is pouring off my forehead like I'm this new fixture from Grohë and I'm no where even NEAR my toes and you want me to RELAX?

Or, as one instructor says, trelax (he's from India. He also wants me to touch my "toech". I would, if I knew what the heck it was).

So Yogalates is a nice mix. There are still insane people who do crazy shit like Ihavenobonessana just to warm themselves up. Show offs. But in general, the extreme cases prefer to go to the "pure" classes. That's perfectly fine with me. If I have to go get exercise to lose weight, I don't need you to come in and fuck up my self-esteem any more by smirking while I struggle to pretzel myself.

The centre also has dance classes, which I avoid at all costs. There's a Bollywood dance class. Coconut trees optional. Or maybe that's for the adwanced students. Chinese people, in general, aren't too good at dancing. Sure, there are some freaks of nature who can get down and move it all around. I mean, we're one of the largest populations in the world. Sooner or later genetics will give you a Yao Ming. But most of us don't got no rhythm and we don't know where our hips are.

I'm not too good at dancing. Fact. I drink enough, and I think I'm damn good at it. What I lack in skill, I make up for in enthusiasm. I discover that's usually a good tactic for most activities. Yeah, you know what I'm talking about.

But my point is, you don't exactly get sloshed before attending a dance class, even if it's a Bollywood dance class. There are steps to follow. And without alcohol, the cover of darkness, strobe lighting and the ability to just shimmy any old how and call that freestyling, I look like a right fool attempting to do the energetic shoulder shrug thingy. Laugh all you want about their crazy overacting and their unbelievable story lines, but those people can dance.

Even worse, there's also a belly dancing class. I attended that twice, and swore never to go back. For one thing, one of the instructors has a waist the size of my wrist. And she has shit taste in music. Like really really bad music. Take elevator music, put a techno beat to it, and that's what she wants us to dance to. Seriously, woman. With so very many kick ass tracks out there, I fall to my knees in the pouring rain and shout "WHY?!?!" to the heavens regarding your dubious taste in music.

The first time I went, I couldn't help but notice that the attendees were clearly really into it. All except me and this other lady, first timer as well, had on these shimmy belts, sashes with a lot of metal plates and bells on so every ass shake resulted in a loud jangling sound. Some even had on full regalia, with baggy chiffon pants and dance shoes straight off the set of I Dream Of Jeannie. One lady looked old enough that she might have stole it off the actual set.

So while everyone else looked really pro (and I mean professional in the traditional sense of the word) shaking their bon bons and jangling away like some perverse orchestra, I felt like I was doing it all wrong.

I went back again a few months later after a shopping trip in Hong Kong yielded a shimmy belt. Do not ask me why I had to go Hong Kong to buy a shimmy belt. I was there, it happened to be there, and so I bought it.

Armed with my new tool, I went for class again, with much confidence and great excitement. My ass made noise when I shook it, and it was gratifying. Except it being a dance class, we had to check ourselves out in the mirror a lot to make sure we were doing it right. And everytime she asked us to do a body roll, I did more of a body bend. She came over to help me attempt to isolate the different muscles of my abs. "Contract this part first, then release that while you contract the middle part," she coached.

I tried my best, I swear. She gave up after realizing that my fat just glued everything together in a not too malleable chunk. And I was too ashamed to ever go back again after that.

It's ironic, really. The activities that supposedly help you lose weight are difficult to attend unless you're actually fit and skinny. Maybe it's a good thing I got those six blades to go over the new found lands.

Yes, it's another post about shoes. Talk to the title, the text don't want to know.

You'd think after 25 years of having to wear shoes, I'd wise up about how to pick them. I think I finally have. And because I'm such a nice person, I'll even share it with you.

And here it is, the only tip you'll ever need when it comes to buying shoes.

If you put it on, and it hurts, don't buy it.

Really, it's that simple. Backhand the sales girl who tells you it'll stretch, do your best Mr. T. impression ("I pity the foo who has no fucking brains."), and walk out of there. Shoes do NOT stretch. The ones that you need stretched are the ones that will not budge a millimeter. Those are the stiff sort, usually made of patent leather or some other such material. Even if they are the right size, they will kill your feet after less than an hour of walking around in them.

That's not to say you'll never wear a pair of patent leather heels. Just make sure the material flexes. For some weird ass reason, some shoe manufacturers choose to stiffen the sides and back of the shoe with cardboard. As though without it our feet would be a shapeless blob of flesh. It is NOT necessary, people. AT ALL.

I feel a need to post this after buying three consecutive pairs of shoes from Charles & Keith that hurt. Yes, I know the obvious question is why the heck did it take THREE pairs before I decided to give up. Well, they're really quite pretty. And I've got their discount card. In other words, I thought with my other head. Guys have a pretty obvious other head they think with, and it's all about finding their next field to plow. Let's call this their Fuck Head. Girls have another head that you can't see, but makes them do stupid things like buy pretty shoes that hurt their feet, date assholes who should be so lucky to even breathe the same air as them, and keep their mouth shut even when they're in the right. This is what I call Fucked (in the) Head.

Well, I managed to cure my other head of two out of three of the main problems. Which isn't too bad.

As much as I would like to support our homegrown brand, I find little reason to. It's affordable, $30 to $50 for a pair of shoes. Nowadays the designs available are pretty trendy (there was a period of time they had NOTHING except kitten-heeled sandals, of the sort the Shenton Way admin assistant types like to wear). And their size range is quite good.

The problem is, they hurt. They do have stuff that don't hurt, like their flip flops and their sneakers, but if I can't even buy a pair of ballet flats that are comfortable, there's something very wrong here.

The other day, I went for my cousin's wedding in a pair of gorgeous creamy pink and beige patent leather peep-toe pumps (if you're drawing a blank, just imagine high heeled covered shoes with the front bit cut out so you can see my first two toes)
from Charles & Keith.  By the end of the night my feet were so destroyed, my blisters had blisters. No, really. I didn't believe it myself until the one on top popped and I noticed there was one underneath it.

That was the first pair. The second pair: black patent leather Mary Janes with a four inch heel and a zipper across the strap (high heeled covered shoes with a strap over the top of the foot). That pair I purposely bought a size larger because the proper size squished my toes. Unfortunately, just one size larger equals too damn big. And I got blisters from those too, thanks to all the friction.

The third mistake, which I bought the day before yesterday, is a pair of black and gunmetal patent leather ballet flats with bronze coloured rivets. I don't know how this is possible, but the heel area pinched so badly because the material was so stiff, I couldn't even walk properly. Hello new blister.

Probably a good thing Elton isn't into feet either. We'd be having a pretty dry spell otherwise, considering the state of my poor feet.

Yes, I know that the common factor is the patent leather. Look, the reason why there are so very many women's shoes is because looks are everything. Otherwise we'd all be wearing Dr. Scholls. And besides, shiny leather doesn't necessarily equate pain, as I found out.

Determined to find shoes that looked good and didn't hurt and didn't expect me to sacrifice my first born, I went shopping again. And I found it in the most unlikely place; Far East Plaza.

Far East Plaza (not to be confused with Far East Shopping Center) is a haven of very many tiny little shops. Level One, especially, is a wonderland. It is THE place to go shopping. There's air conditioning, cleanish toilets (I usually hop to the hotel next door or the DFS opposite if I want really clean ones), lots of shops and lots of cheap cheap stuff that don't always look cheap. It's like a filtered version of Bugis Village; less crap to sift through, but at slightly higher prices.

Thing is, most of the shops at Far East tend to bring their stuff in from North Asia; China, Korea, Japan (not much). And apparently, they all have tiny feet over there. Their largest size was often 39, and there is no way in hell that is really a 39. It felt like they just made a whole bunch of 37s and stamped on different numbers.

But in recent times, things have changed. There's a shop called Trendy Zone on Level One (see, there's this giant putrid neon yellow sign that says Level One) that I always head to. They have my size and beyond (they stock up to 42s), the shoes look great, and they're so ridiculously cheap, I handed over $50 for two pairs of shoes and still had change. Two bucks worth of change, might you, not ten cents.

The best part; they're comfortable. I bought a pair of grey ballet flats with an Oxford design and a pair of (wait for it) black patent leather high-heeled Mary Janes. The difference between this pair and the pair from Charles & Keith? They fit, and they flex. The shoe moves with my foot, the material bends, and it makes a world of difference. According to the sales girl, her friend who works in a bank and has to stand all the time bought that pair, then came back and stockpiled another pair because it was so comfortable.

I know I've got two pair of MJs now. And this hurts you how?

In other news, I went for this monthly alumni gathering my faculty has. It's great, in that we get free food (nachos, buffalo wings, calamari) and free beer (and it's really good stuff that they brew themselves). Unfortunately, I knew no one there, because no one from my year had the decency to show up, except one girl whose name I can't remember.

I went there because at an interview I attended, I ran into a guy from my school. We had a brief conversation, and agreed to meet at the gathering to chat a bit more regarding the job I was applying for. I didn't take that job, but I figured I'd still meet up because it's a Thursday and Elton was busy getting his ass dragged all over the Punggol river (Spawn took the boys wakeboarding).

It was weird, talking to him. He reminded me a great deal of my younger self. Idealistic, with weird principles and a bizarre need to be edgy. By bizarre need to be edgy, I mean this strange desire to be awkward, because something that's awkward and ugly has to be genuine. Kinda like those pictures photogs like to take of ugly people; surely, that is truth.

We're the same age, but since he's a guy, he lost two years to a bald, green, gun-toting hell. And that two years made such a huge difference. If I ever doubted that my stint as a stewardess made me grow up, talking to him proved it to me.

Like me, he started doing a job that wasn't his dream job because it was the first thing that fell into his lap. Seeing that I nailed mine, he asked how I went about it. As I described how I went through the interview, he kept saying things like, "That's too smooth" and "That's a bit too slick". One would think I went in there in an evening gown with a glass of martini and a cigarette in those long holders and did a Marlene Dietrich impersonation.

Thing is, I wouldn't have conducted myself in the same way two years back. I would have been a lot more formal, a lot less assertive, and much too prone to rolling my eyes. Even then, I was too emo for my own good, constantly thinking that everybody's hypocritical and desperate to tear down the facades that everyone hid behind by making snarky comments. It was quite passive aggressive and not particularly productive.

Confronted with the male version of my past, I wonder if he saw me as a sellout. That I'm one of those fakers who uses slick lines to get my way. Two years ago, I'd have viewed his job, the one I interviewed for, in the same way he does as a complete abomination, a crime against the journalistic integrities of blah blah blah. Now, if the pay had actually been decent, I'd have no qualms about doing it. Considering that I once threw a fit because the newspaper I wrote for insisted that I added this company (which catered this party the paper had) in a story I was writing, never mind that it didn't fit with my theme at all, I've come a long way, baby.

I guess the question is, am I a sellout? Is that a bad thing? Or have I just lost my idealism and come to grips with reality? Have I now really just come to realize the fact that if the shoe doesn't fit, don't fucking buy it and hope it'll expand?

I can tell you this much. Two years ago, I wouldn't have been able to play the game. I wouldn't have attempted to befriend my future bosses at all, in this attempt to maintain a professional relationship. Now, I know that just because I'm approaching them in a more informal manner and being all friendly doesn't mean I'm being fake. I actually do like them. And friendliness doesn't mean I can't maintain professionalism (the difference is telling them a one-liner summary and not a blow-by-blow account of your weekend if they should ask about it). Ironically, this supposedly smooth and slick me is a lot more genuine than the old me.

Hey, it worked. So what if I'm smooth?

It used to be that when you walked behind a woman and you caught a flash of vivid, sultry and unabashed crimson from the soles of her shoes, you knew for a fact that she was moneyed. Whether her own or someone else's money isn't the point. The lady has Loubies on her feet.

Loubies, or the sex-in-a-shoe creations by Monsieur Christian Louboutin (and please, don't shame yourself, it's loo-boo-tahn), are the only luxury brand shoes that I lust after and hope to own a pair of someday. All because of the red sole.

There's just something so unbelievably sexy about them. That glimpse of this amazing scarlet sends a jolt through your groin like you came across some porn while in public. It's the shoe that femme fatales wear with their tight tight pencil skirts and their buttoned-up-to-the-chin but sheer chiffon blouses and their impeccable makeup. And when they turn away after bantering with some Bond-level man, with an arched brow, a quirk to their lips and a glint in their eye, that man will stare after their sashaying hips, their long sleek legs, and spring an instant hard-on when he spots the fuck-me red soles of her shoes.

Hey, don't take my word for it. Go watch Rocknrolla and see Gerard Butler check out Thandie Newton's Loubies.

Why on earth are the red soles so alluring? Because they're so unexpected. It's reminiscent of those sexy librarians, where they suddenly unleash their chignons and morph from stuffy to slutty. You could be dressed like a nun, but that red on your feet says with the right person, you can get down and dirty.

The best of Louboutin's creations are stilettos, vertigo high stilettos, though he does make flats, platforms and other not so sexy chaussures. But seriously, Loubies are the ultimate in fuck-me shoes. If I ever get to own a pair, I'd break them in by having wild sex in them first, complete with photography and film just to commemorate the fact that I just spent at least $1,000 on a pair of shoes. Should this interest you so much you'd buy them for me just to watch me go wild, please note that I like the Piaf in black patent leather and I wear a size 39 or 40, depending on how large the cut of the shoe is.

(And yes, it's really a simple pointy toed pump, I know. I even own a pair that looks something like that. That's not the point.)

Which is why I nearly blacked out from losing my balance and swishing my head waaaay too close to a shelf a few days back. I picked up a pair of heels at Pazzion and flipped it over to check the price tag. And came close to a spontaneous orgasm when I caught sight of the oh-so-slutty shade of red on the sole.

At $60+, that shoe was only six percent the cost of a Loubie. I had to have it.

I also had to have much smaller feet.

For some reason, the folks at Pazzion feel the need to assuage the insecurities of the tiny-footed by making their sizes smaller. Their 40 is about a 37 for most normal shoe companies. I should know. I barely managed to squeeze it on. I managed to stand up for about two seconds before I had to sit down or break a few bones in my feet.

Disappointed, I walked away and into another shoe shop, Gripz. And saw that familiar red again.

Heart pounding, I made the sales staff get my size.

Again, too small. Not for the first time did I curse my giant feet. Some say it's necessary to have big feet since I'm tall. But I'm not that tall. I've been around models a foot taller than I, and they have the same size feet as me. So fuck you and your balance theory.

So despite the very many knockoffs out there, I'm still bereft of my red soled shoes. But perhaps that's for the best.

The whole point of Loubies is that they are exclusive and distinctive. It used to be that no other shoe maker had that very obvious red sole. It used to be that red meant you spent a good part of your pay on that pair of shoes, so much so you have to live off fresh air for the next month.

Loubies are the shoes for a very special group of women; pampered mistresses of powerful men, and their only job is to be creatures of pleasure in every sense of the word. They'd wear those killer stilettos and their silk negligees and recline on their silk sheets in their opulent rooms, waiting for their man to come home, take one look at them, and rip off their tuxedos and consummate their lust in an earth-shaking rush that would leave any mere mortal in awe and cure impotence even in the wimpiest man. Then after that, sauntering to the kitchen with the delicate click-click of those heels on their marble floor, they'd magically whip up something that'll make Nigella look like an amateur and proceed to shame 9 1/2 Weeks with the most unbelievable combination of food and sex that will also involve lots of flexibility and endurance.

But now, any auntie with feet smaller than mine can just fork out $60 and pretend to be wearing Loubies. What the fuck. They're like push-up bras. An evil fucking lie, as any disappointed man will tell you.

Some things just shouldn't be made available to too many people. It loses its specialness. Like international school girls.

(If you're a particularly prudish girl who happens to attend international school, blame your classmates. Before you even dare say that it's an unfair generalization, how many of your classmates are still virgins? And yes, blowjobs count.)

Despite the fetishistic tendencies I display on this subject, I never really got the whole foot fetish thing. Legs, yes, I can sort of understand. But feet...weird. Perhaps that has something to do with the fact that I don't like mine. This girl once told me about this guy she slept with who absolutely loved feet. He'd massage them, suck her toes, make her keep her shoes on while they did it, and went wild when she ran her cold feet over his legs, and, uh, other parts. I blame it on the late night flight and the lack of supervision. I couldn't look at her for the rest of the flight without my eyeballs wanting to roll downwards.

I wonder if he bought her a pair of Loubies.

One of my embarrassing past-times is reading Xiaxue's blog. Her name usually evokes such disdain and derision among people we know that it makes me feel ashamed about it. Kinda like masturbation. Everybody does it, but nobody wants to admit it.

I read her because she's actually quite funny. It's not Pulitzer material, but it's about as evocative and cathartic as it gets when she goes off on one of her ranting sprees, and she tends to rant about things that bug me too.

Like smoking. I'm a little more moderate in that I don't actually mind the smell. Dad smokes, so it pretty much stopped registering as a smell to me quite a long time ago. I don't have a problem if people light up in front me of. I do have a problem with being suddenly deserted when they all go off to smoke together, and you have to sit there and babysit their stuff.

And you know they aren't just puffing furiously to get the nicotine in their system; they're most likely chatting away and you, with your healthy pink lungs, are missing out on all that conversation. And they could be talking about you.

Yes, one of my problems is my fear of being left out. It's weird, but there you go.

Recently we went out to celebrate a friend's birthday. Of the group, only Elton and I didn't smoke. So every so often, the whole bunch of them would troop out for a smoke and we'd be left there, trying to defend our nice corner table at Supperclub against the Sunglasses gang. (Yep, because the lighting in Supperclub is so fucking glaring.)

Its a bit of a drag, because you're left feeling like a little kid and the grownups have gone to do more fun things.

I guess the simplest solution is just to join them, but I don't feel the need to smoke. It's expensive, it fucks with your skin (seriously, some of the models I had to work with on that F1 gig were so chao lao it's like their heads were grapes slowly transitioning into raisins with all the fine lines), and it involves fire. I've been burnt by cigarettes twice and I always cringe around smokers who gesticulate with a cigarette in their hand. And I don't like the spit build up that occurs when you take a puff.

Of course, I've tried it before. That's how I can make an informed decision. I think that's going to be my rationale if they should ever catch me with pot.

I mean, it's one thing to have an addiction, it's another to have to inconvenience your friends on your night out together. What if I were addicted to sex and whipped out a vibrator every hour on the hour and disappeared off to the bathroom? Or even worse, did it right there on the table? Ok, what if I looked like Quasimodo and had that addiction? Uncomfortable, to say the least.

Thing is, smokers sort of expect that kind of tolerance from non-smokers. We can't help it is their rallying cry. Well, you can. I could say that women can't help menstruating and having PMS, so therefore we should be given days off every month and be acquited of all road rage incidences and over-zealous circumcisions because of that. We really can't help it, it IS biological.

Smoking isn't biological. And you were the one who got yourself addicted to it, so stop whining. It's not like a crack team from Philip Morris tied you down and forced you to smoke at gun point until you got hooked.

I'm not saying you have to quit. I'm just saying be a little more considerate. Slap on a patch when you've got company. Smoke faster if they really are just overpriced stickers. It's just irritating having to wait 20 minutes to resume a conversation, especially when it's obvious you cheated by having another conversation outside.

Part of my upbringing resulted in a strong desire to not impose on people. I try not to make a mess, make too much noise, and usually am a gracious guest. (Unless, of course, you get me drunk, in which case it's your own damn fault.) I can't really shop with other people because I'm not comfortable making them wait for me.

Which is a reservation that not everybody has. I used to fly with this bunch of people occasionally. Of the bunch, there were two women, who had no mercy and no concept of time. I lost count of the sheer hours the rest of the group would wait for them while they shopped. And they had the tendency to pick really shit shops that none of us were interested in.

Honestly, it's just fucking Gap. They sell basics. And you're just buying a beanie. There aren't that many varieties or sizes to choose from. It's not that fucking expensive. HOW the FUCK is it possible for you to spend an HOUR buying one?! Look, if you put it on and in that first minute it doesn't look good, you're not suddenly going to be able to change your bone structure in the ensuing 59 minutes that would result in it looking better on you. Really.

And the best part is, after making us wait that long, they just breeze in with their purchases and say, "Thanks for waiting!" and move on, as though we just did a quick pee stop. Really, I'd expect at least a performance that warrants a Golden Globe nomination and a free lunch.

If you're wondering why we don't just leave them be, all I can say is, you don't piss off the queen bee. That, and I was the lowest of the low in the group, and mine is not to question why. Mine is just to die of boredom.

It was good training, in a way. I used to show my disgust with things quite quickly. My face was Macbethian in its inability to hide what I was feeling. It wasn't that I couldn't, it was just that it seemed so much more fun to stir shit up by letting people know I thought they were shit. As though my life was being filmed by invisible cameras and I'm actually starring on my very own Trunanashee show.

I've stopped that, mainly because I grew out of it. But I know a lot of people, especially guys (Elton's guilty of this), who do it. They'll roll their eyes when you're trying to tell them what bugs you, and it doesn't fucking matter what sort of concilliatory statement they make after that, because right there and then with that nifty ocular movement, you know they don't give a shit about you.

Perhaps that's the point, they want you to know.

Always trust the body language and the actions over the words, unless you're dealing with an actor, in which case trust nothing. And then they wonder why their attempts to calm you down don't work.

I guess they might rationalize their "slip ups" as a silent protest against your unreasonable behaviour, but really, it just smacks of sheer stupidity. It's really not that tough to hide your true response. What are you, like, trying to earn cool points with the invisible audience?

Even if you think the other person is bat-shit crazy, damage control first, then try to win your case. It's really not a very difficult formula, and one you HAVE to practice if you're in customer service of any kind. Yes, this includes all them professional white-collared people like doctors and lawyers and business executives.

I'm not saying that we should lie to people, but THINK about your response before you do it. All it takes is a split second dirty look for people to hate your guts.

I used to have this really cushy part-time job as an actress for medical exams. Part of becoming a doctor is having good bedside manners. Or at least, not terrible ones. And so one of the exams is a role-playing exercise where they go through getting medical history from a patient, breaking bad news to patient families, and other stuff.

Unfortunately, I never got the fun stuff. Apparently one of my friends got so riled up by one of the doctors she actually threw a bedpan. I'm not sure if it was at him. Or if it was clean. They say he not only told her that her hypothetical husband was dying, he insinuated that he brought it on himself.

I agree. Fucker.

One time, I was stationed in the medical history section. The good candidates were professional, non-judging, and explained what might be the problem. One guy fucked it up so bad, I actually looked around for a bedpan to throw. He actually asked if I had other sexual partners, after I'd told him I was supposedly happily married with two kids.

The kicker was that after I expressed a bit of outrage, he actually went on to insist that it's entirely possible that my symptoms were a result of an STD and that either I cheated or my husband did.

I swear that I presented the symptoms to all of them in the same way. And all the rest of them got it right. I have no idea how he managed to mistake gall stones as an STD.

See, if he'd backed off after I got pissy, considered other possibilities and approached from a different angle, he would not have failed both components. Getting the diagnosis right was one point. The other was dealing with me in a way that wouldn't result in the hurling of various instruments around the room. But noooooo, he's some big shot doctor and HAD to be right. Moron.

Yeah, I know these aren't really habits. I just like the title that way, k?

And apparently it works out!

In a fit of desperation and late-night heebie-jeebies, I yanked out copies of various magazines in my bookshelf (which I have a lot of) and sent off my CVs to the editors. That was about two weeks ago.

And they responded.

I went for two interviews yesterday, both for the magazine business. One really wasn't what I wanted to do. All I can say is that the job title was misleading.

The other is my dream job. No, seriously, my Dream Job. As in, when the HR lady called me on the phone to say, "I know you sent your CV to this magazine editor, but would you also be interested in writing for the Beauty section of this other magazine instead?" I leapt about a foot in the air and had to bite my tongue in case I went, "Shut UP! No WAY!" Damn you, American pop culture.

Because absofuckinglutely YES! Tears literally sprang to my eyes as my brain struggled to catch up with the enormity of the situation. After she hung up, I was vibrating like a guitar string, and it had nothing to do with the temperature.

At the interview, I was so nervous my voice was shaking. I'll admit I played for the sympathy votes as well with my new bosses, telling them the sob story that is my life. It wasn't like I bust in there crying and begging them to hire me, but they did ask why the heck did I go work as a stewardess if I wanted to write. So I told them the truth. Performance anxiety.

For some weird ass reason, I kept thinking that the world of magazine writing is this extremely exclusive club that is impossible to get in just by sending your CV to the company. That may be the truth, I'm not sure (I do lead a pretty blessed life). But I was always scared that I'll send my CV off to them and it'll disappear in the silent monolithic organization's recycle bin. Writing is one thing I love to do, I care about, I take pride in, and the thought of being judged on it freaked me out, because I was afraid I'm just the queen of my little island and everybody else thinks I suck. I idolized the editorial staff too much to even consider the fact that me, a mere reader, could be among them.

It was really by the kindness of that lady, Penelope, that I even got that interview in the first place. Thank you Penelope. May the gods smile down upon you and your family. May the assholes get out of your way without you having to do anything. I was so touched by her simple act of kindness, I sent her flowers. Seriously, bouquet of sunflowers and gerberas in a watering can. She could have just hit delete, but she didn't. She took the time to read through my email, thought about it for a while, and sent it to HR, most likely saying something like, "Give this girl a call. She sounds desperate."

But her simple act saved me from going into a job that drove me to drink even before I actually started it (see post on me getting plastered at Boat Quay for details). It was kinda like that scene in Constantine where he dies and the Devil is trying to pull him to hell, but at the last minute, he gets inducted into heaven. I didn't have that much resentment in me as to raise a middle finger in slow-motion at my other job, but the relief and excitement was so profound, I literally could not keep the good news to myself.

And I realize I managed to miss out the important point after so many paragraphs.

I GOT THE JOB!!!! I GOT THE JOB!!!! I'M GOING TO BE A WRITER AT ONE OF THE BIGGEST WOMEN MAGAZINE TITLES!!!

And exhale.

In the interview, I was very open and truthful. I told them I was supposed to start work on Wednesday, I told them I also interviewed with their competitor, I told them this is my dream job and I haven't had the guts to go for it because I was afraid I couldn't get it, but I'd rather try and fail than have to regret having never given it a shot. I was myself, albeit a trembly version of myself that barely managed to keep a quaver out of my voice. In no uncertain terms, I told them I want the job and I want it bad, and if they wanted me, I will work my ass off.

Fortunately, they seemed to appreciate it. One of my new bosses said she liked my spunk. I told her that's good, because I have lots of it.

And now that the excitement has gone down a bit, here's the not so bright side. The pay is not high. It's decent, you won't starve, but it's about three quarters of what I used to earn shoveling shit at 40,000 feet. Yeah, they paid us that much. And according to my new bosses, it's not like Ugly Betty or The Devil Wears Prada. No swag. I had the same reaction.

(For you people who don't know what swag is, it's the wonderful free stuff you get as samples and end up keeping anyway.)

Working hours are technically Mondays to Fridays, regular office hours, but those are like lane markings in China; just suggestions. It may bother me, but I think maybe not, since I'll actually be writing about stuff I like. Makeup. Skin care. Hair products. Oh yeah.

The HR lady at the interview was pretty worried that since A) I had a "not very cerebral" job (really, those were her exact words) before this and B) I had no experience in this industry that I might not be able to do it, or drop out after a few months because I didn't like it. I told her about my zapping experience in the airlines and how I still stuck with it for two years. And that's when I didn't really like the job.

Thing is, people have a tendency to think that I can't commit. I'm not sure why. Maybe because I'm a Gemini. But the truth is, I can stick in there for a decent amount of time. I won't up and leave in a few months. A few years, maybe, but I'll at least give it a good run before I call it quits.

I'm just so fucking happy about this. It's like I finally woke up from a long uncomfortable sleep. It's like someone slathered me in AHAs and peeled off this dull thick wetsuit-like layer that had been encasing me all this time. I feel alive! Food tastes better, things seem brighter, the birds are singing, the clouds are fluffy. It's all good. It's alllllll goooooood.

Looking back, I'm not entirely certain why I had such a major hangup about applying. The majority of the things I've done led up to this. I was an Arts student in JC, I went to the one specific university for the one specific faculty that pretty much has a through train programme with our one major newspaper and magazine publisher. I even worked for that company once as an intern. I graduated with a second upper honours, which puts me above a lot of people in my year from my tiny faculty (we had about 100+ people in our year). I even speak French. I sort of have all the advantages possible for a middle class girl. Need to put that in, because if your dad owns the publisher, THAT is the ultimate advantage.

So yes, it was a lot of good luck and sheer chance, but I did put in the hard work as well. Impossible is nothing, so says Adidas. I say, possibilities have nothing on me. Maybe I should become a professional roulette player.