31 posts tagged “happy”

So I quit my job today. And I found out that apparently Elton is earning a lot more than I thought. Or rather, I knew he was earning that amount, but I never fully grasped it until someone else pointed it out.

I didn't exactly go to work today with my letter all typed and my tu-lan-ness maxed out, ready for a dramatic hurling down of the envelope with a brazen declaration on my lips. I like the people enough that the two words would've been "I quit", rather than "fuck you", but it didn't matter, because it didn't work out that way anyway.

What did happen was a sit-down with my editors, meant more to prepare me for the upcoming appraisal meeting with the even bigger boss. And when they asked how I felt about working there, I figured that was about as good an opportunity as any to break the not-so-surprising news. The signs were all there. I'd already come very close to it a while back. I guess it just took me a while to come to terms with the fact that it just wasn't working out for me.

What do you do when you realise you're eyeball deep in shit with your mouth wide open? Do you try to get used to the situation or do you get out? Does it help when you look around and there are other people who you like in the exact same situation? I'm not saying that I was alone in my situation. Hell, I got the least of it, in a sense, since I was the newest member. But I look around for the more established members of the team and they've disappeared deep into the muck a long time ago. I just don't want that life. I envy them their passion, their sense of purpose, their commitment, and I know I lack all those things, and those qualities don't develop; they start off at a certain level and slowly wear away with each rewrite.

The truth is, working in the magazine industry is tough. It's a subjective business with erratic (read: long) hours and an unspoken deference to the wishes of our advertisers. It's especially tough in Singapore because the teams are tiny and each person has to do so much more in so short a time for so little money. One particular title has just two writers for the whole magazine. Two. Their overseas office wondered why these two writers seemed to come up with everything, and were shocked out of their minds when they found out what the situation was over here.

I didn't start off going into magazine writing because I knew it was all these things and I figured then that it wasn't for me. But I decided to try, with the hopes that I would have the passion to overcome all these shortcomings. Now, at least I know for a fact that these problems are deal breakers for me. If I am to give up my life for something, it has to at least make it worth the sacrifice. Glory and recognition and feeling like a big deal for working for a big title doesn't mean much to me. What I value is time away from work with the people I love and the freedom to do and write the things that I want to. If that means I can't hold down a job any more complicated than, say, a receptionist, so be it. Money doesn't have to be great, it never was that big of an issue for me, but time is.

I was leading a life that was sinking me into depression. I woke up at 7am, worked till 7 or 8pm regularly, went back home, had dinner, showered and slept by 11pm. Even with eight hours of sleep, I woke up groggy and disoriented with a permanent knot in my shoulders. By Friday night, I was dreading Monday mornings. Sleep was my solace as it made the time past faster, and I looked forward to an end of some kind to the weekly routine. A public holiday perhaps, or getting knocked down by a car. But this wasn't school, there are no holidays to look forward to. There are deadlines, like exams, and then more deadlines. And meetings, don't forget the meetings, all four of them per issue. I was starting to have entire days of catatonia, and it scared the hell out of me. For all that I didn't entirely enjoy my previous job, I never felt so bad because of it even towards the end.

So I tendered my resignation. My two-week notice was extended to a month, because they don't think they are able to find another person for the job. I can only hope that with a visible end in sight, it will be easier to bear.

The thing that got to me most was the time crunch. We had two weeks to work on this issue. Two weeks for me to finish nine articles. Why two weeks? Because it took a while to finalize what we would actually work on, and then there's time to be allocated for layouts and rewrites. Not edits, rewrites. I guess I should take comfort in the fact that I wasn't the only person who had to do them, except it's sort of like a Holocaust victim trying to cheer herself up because there were other people in the gas chamber with her. One of my colleagues told me she was spectacularly late for this issue because not a single one of her stories would be on time. And that it was normal to be late. It sounds a little like a sales job where the target is set high enough that you'll never hit it without some miracle.

So what's next? I have no clue. Again, I quit without a job offer. Again, I still have a comfortable cushion of savings to mooch off for a while. Apparently the in thing for ex-journalists is to go off to Turkey. Having been to Turkey, I doubt I'll find anything other than lecherous men and bad kebabs (how is it possible that the country they originated from serves such horrible ones?).

Again, it is a topic of great curiosity for some people. Some ask it out of concern, as a necessary follow up question. Some ask it with a touch of urgency, as though hoping to follow in my footsteps. Some ask it with a certain derision, as though what they really want to say is that I'm just some young stupid girl with no idea of how to plan for the future. Well, I guess I should be glad I have about (based on my current salary anyway) a year's pay socked away. I think that should buy me some time to think.

Someone I spoke to today mentioned The Life of Pi, apparently about a guy stuck on a boat in the ocean with a tiger. The story basically talks about people needing a challenge in their life to make their life worth living.

I think that way of looking at life is complete bull. Life is hard enough and short enough that purposely finding something to make your life difficult is like an ostrich sticking its head into the sand. This diversion will not change the fact that we all die and become worm food. If you found out you had a terminal disease and only had a month to live, would you still be doing exactly what you're doing? If the answer is no, perhaps you should start doing more of the things you would immerse yourself in for that last month.

So I lead a hedonistic life. I do the things that please me, fuck the consequences and what other people think. I know quitting after three months is going to draw a lot of derisive lunchtime conversation from my detractors about how they knew I couldn't hack it. So what? At least I have time to pursue what I want in life. Masochism was never something that turned me on.

If I led my life worrying about what other people might think, I suspect I'd be a much less happy person. The one time in my life I decided to stick something out for longer just so I wouldn't be seen as a weakling, it almost drove me mad. That would be about two weeks ago, actually. The fact that just deciding to quit allowed me to sleep like a baby, wake up without feeling exhausted and commute to work without dread was about a clear a sign as any that this was the right decision for me right now. Perhaps it's going to fuck up my CV. Perhaps it's going to fuck up my life. That's fine. Who knows how long I have here? I'd rather make sure I'm at least happy right now.

So Elton's present kicked so much ass, it's probably a good thing he has a Christmas lunch with his family, because I'm just too busy playing with it at the moment.

I'd been talking about a netbook for the longest time, pretty much since I started my new job and had days when I was stuck in town for hours between appointments and wishing I could work on my articles instead of wasting time. It's not because I'm hard working; I'd much prefer to do work during office hours so I can do my own thing after. I do NOT like to be working after the sun goes down, which is actually a good thing, because I'm driven to be more productive.

Yes, I already have a laptop. Unfortunately, it's a really old Fujitsu that has 20GBs hard drive and has completely lost the ability to shut down without me holding down the power button till it emits this little whine and goes black. The battery is so dead, it lasts for about an hour even on normal web surfing. And, as light as it is, it's still a shoulder killer.

And so, on the day of Christmas (I have no clue how you guys count it), my sweetie gave to me, a HP Mini. It's so cute and small, the wire bag I'm using to store the wires is almost three quarters the size. Elton picked it because the reviews on Cnet Asia are pretty good; the keyboard is as big as it gets on a netbook, making for comfortable typing (which is true, it feels like a normal full-sized keyboard, and is even better than the stupid Mac one I have to use at work).

I'm still in the midst of exploring it, but so far the main specs are a 60GBs hard drive, 1GB RAM, 1.5GHz motherboard or something like that. It has a built in camera and two USB ports, a SD Card reader, and one dubious looking HP USB port thingy, no idea what it's for. I'm trying to download the essential software for it, managed to waste a ridiculous amount of time on the paid version of AVG. The free version works just as fine, honestly.

What did I get for him for Christmas? An air purifier. It wasn't much of a surprise, since I physically blocked him from buying one so I could get it for him. What the hell do you get a guy who keeps buying everything himself?! And mind you, it's not just me who had problems with getting him something for Christmas; Yvonne, long time friend, was tearing her hair out and defacing his Facebook wall in some attempt to find inspiration for a present.

I found out by accident that apparently I'm the only one who buys stuff for my boyfriend's family. I've been doing that for a few years now, since I'm a sweet and generous soul. Actually, I just find it weird that during Christmas, I'll give him some big ass present and have nothing for the rest of the gang except greeting words.

Anyway. Even if your partner just gave you socks for Christmas, it's the thought that counts. Really. The thought there are more generous and thoughtful people out there.

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.

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.

Elton and I went to watch Russell Peters in action last night at The Rock auditorium. The show sold out so fast when the released the tickets about a month back that they added another show in case people rioted. Or at least, made angry, ugly, and ungrammatical signs and held sulky protests at the Speaker's Corner.

It was a pretty good show. One thing about Peters is that he tries to change it up by involving the audience in his show. He'll ask what their names are and work from there. Sometimes it works out, and it's fucking hilarious. Other times, he gets stuck with people with no sense of humour but somehow believe that by buying the best seats, they'll somehow learn to laugh. Unfortunately, we didn't get a Tap Sum Bong on our night, though we did score the DVDs for his other show and also for Angelo Tsarouchas, the comic who opened for him.

Quick one on Angelo (because Tsarouchas is just painful to spell, k?); he was fucking funny too. He's a big guy. Biiiiiiig guy. I weigh about as much as his arm. So naturally, his repetoire had a number of fat jokes, and it was all new stuff, none of that if you cut me do I not bleed gravy crap.

Elton commented that he didn't really realize how big Angelo was until Peters came out and hugged him. I said it probably had something to do with the fact that his shirt had two broad vertical stripes that helped to break up the expanse of his chest and made him look slimmer. And kinda like a car. Like one of those Mustangs with the racing stripes.

There are those who'd argue that spending a hundred bucks to laugh for two hours is a waste of money. To them, I say, you've obviously not laughed so hard you can barely control your bodily functions before. It's almost like sex, though slightly less messy. Wear waterproof eye makeup.

A sense of humour ranks pretty high on my list of eligible friend criteria. Which is probably why Kym and I are friends. I make people laugh with the horrible things I say. Well, on this blog, at least. And we all know I know what I'm talking about. There is definite malice, or at least glee in my bitchy comments. Kym makes people laugh by sheer accident.

Among her guy's friends is this dude who recently had a baby. Through his wife, of course, though his size might be misleading. Like any new father, he was proud as a kid with a new toy, showing his baby off to anyone who was remotely sentient. The kid isn't really capable of much more than smiling, drooling, eating and shitting at the moment, but his dad was so incredibly pleased that he could get a smile from his bundle of joy and made a big fuss about it.

Until, of course, Kym stepped in. "Of course he smiles at you lah! You so white and chubby like a big fishball like that!"

According to eye witnesses, there was a moment of utter silence, followed by a wave of laughter that drowned out the implosion of Daddy Fishball's ego.

Thing is, she truly means no harm. All it takes is one look into her large innocent eyes and you will know for a fact that there is no malice behind her words. And it's precisely because she just blurts this sort of thing out with no guile at all that makes it so funny.

I get through life by making people laugh. I mean, to borrow a horribly repeated line, why be so serious? What's the point of acting all professional and strait-laced and be so very forgettable? I guess it's safer, because you never know if something will backfire on you, but I'd rather be remembered, even if it's something embarrassing or bad, than just be Chinese Girl #43 in the ending credits of someone's day. I'm an attention whore, so sue me. No, actually, don't sue me, I'm still unemployed.

Speaking of employment, I went for a couple of interviews yesterday. It's about as last minute as it gets. Normally people start work on Mondays. For some weird ass reason, my work starts on Wednesday. And for an additional shot of weirdness, the CVs I sent out at some ungodly hour a couple of weeks back suddenly bore fruit in the form of those two interviews. It's almost like some greater power just doesn't want me to do the banking job and is giving me an out at the very last moment.

Thank you, greater power. I'd be happy to take the magazine writer job, if they'll get back to me by today with an actual offer.

And yes, with luck, I AM GOING TO BE A WRITER FOR A MAGAZINE!!!!!!!!!!!

The pay is less than what I got for being a waitress in a plane, but then again, I'm less likely to die because my workplace fell out from the sky. Really, I think the reason why we got paid that much was just down to the possibility that everytime I went to work, I might not come back from it. Danger pay.

I don't want to talk about it too much yet, in case I jinx it. I'll talk more about it when I sign on the dotted line. But hell yeah, it feels good to think that I may not have to touch a calculator anytime soon.

It's 6.28am, do you know what your favourite blogger is doing?

The trick to drinking alcohol is to pick a drink with no adverse side effects. Nothing too gassy, because burping and farting are unpleasant, then there's the fact that the bubbles actually get the alcohol in your blood stream faster, and the worse fact that they'll make your tummy gurgle, leading to possible vomiting and diarrhea. Nothing too, er, convoluted either, because they tend to give you a headache (like bourbons and tequila) and make your face swell.

Now, I have a new thing to add to the list. Nothing with a fucked up mixer. I'm sitting here, sober as daylight and alert as a paranoid housewife, thanks to the sheer amount of Red Bull in my system right now. At least my heart rate's gone down. All the vodka's been pissed out or sweated out already, but the Red Bull gives me wings. Not only did I manage to come home after a whole night of clubbing (no, seriously, the lights went up, the music went out, and they started chasing us out so they can go home) and edit almost 60 photos and upload them, I'm now blogging.

Am I conscientious or what?

Ok, I'm insomniac, but hey, this sort of endurance deserves a little applause.

It'll only be more kickass if I start packing my luggage for our Melbourne trip right now.

Hmm.

Ok, maybe not. After this, bed.

We were out celebrating Yvonne's birthday, which is really really cool, because this would be her first birthday as two people, technically. (No, she's not schizo; she's preggers. And in case you start judging her, she had a little red wine and that was it.) So we had a kickass dinner at Indulgz (seriously, for about $50 per person for five people, we ordered so much stuff, it was beyond scary), before proceeding to Loof for drinks.

Unfortunately, Loof was crowded as hell, thanks to the lack of a cover charge. So we went downstairs to look for Supperclub. Unfortunately, their marketing department was a little low on budget, so there were exactly two arrows on the ground pointing us to that place. And the second one pointed to the street.

Fortunately, we has brains, so we found the joint in the end.

Now, Supperclub is great if you, like me, can't sit straight. It's a problem for the, uh, older generation, thanks to the weird length of the seat, where unless you have Lance Armstrong's thighs, you can't quite sit, lean on the back rest and keep your feet on the ground. We didn't get one of the beds, mainly because that section was closed off when we got there, then we were too comfortable in our little corner to move. The lack of free form chairs meant if you didn't get a table in a corner, you all had to sit in a line, which was a little silly.

The DJ was very good though. I'm not entirely certain what category of music that is, but it got even me moving, and I usually don't like that stuff much.

Throughout the whole night, I kept taking pictures. Lots and lots and lots of pictures. Why? Because sometimes, when you're having fun and you just have fun, you end up the next day with like four pictures and you completely regret it. You know it's true. That, and it's nice to have memories of the night, especially if there's alcohol involved and you might forget all about it. That, and I happened to be the only person who brought a camera, the lazy bastards. Fine, so they had 8 megapixel camera phones, but that's just not the same.

It's probably a good thing I did that too, because I discovered that my camera lens was a little smudgey, so I managed to get it cleaned up before our trip. It didn't really show, except for a couple of shots with the flash on.

Oh, and in case people start giving me nonsense about how I shot the entire night on just 4 MPs and the pictures are going to turn out shit, please realise that megapixels mean nothing. You need skillz to get a good shot. Unless, of course, you intend to blow that one picture up to be the wallpaper in your room or you don't understand the concept of zoom and resort to cropping your photos by THAT much.

Ok, I'm sleepy now. Next post might take a while. Or it might be from Melbourne. :)

I just bought over $300 worth of clothes. Even before I go on holiday my wallet starts bleeding. But it was for a good cause.

Since I'm starting work in two weeks' time and there's no uniform provided, I actually have to get clothes for work. I have some remnants from my days as a young foolish intern. But since they were bought in my young and foolish days, they sort of reflected the mentality of those days. So no, looking like I just hit G2000 when it was on sale is not quite the look I'm going for.

First off, I'd like to say that G2000 is a very Asian friendly brand. Why? Because it assumes that its customers are short. I have not managed to find a single pair of pants or shirt from that place that fits me properly. I keep looking like either some retard executive farmhand who kept wearing clothes from prepubescent days or as though I'm a satisfied customer of Marie France Bodyline. Or I'm auditioning for the role as the central mast of a yacht. Their stuff isn't bad. But they just don't fit me, which is why I refuse to buy their things.

That, and you might end up wearing the exact same thing as the new intern.

Which is why I headed straight for Bugis Village for my insta-work wardrobe. Now, if you've been to Bugis Village, you might be completely baffled, because it's just this labyrinth of cute little clothes for teeny-boppers. Ah, young padawan, you need to ascend.

No, literally.

On the second floor (yes, there is a second floor, look harder), there are a few shops that stock more sophisticated clothes. Emphasis on the "few". They're usually run by middle-aged women rather than teenaged girls, and get their stock from Korea and Hong Kong. These aren't as dirt cheap as the stuff you can get on the first floor, but they don't charge you that much either. For a price comparison, Mom and I saw the exact same top there and at Bugis Junction across the street. The Village charged $36, the Junction $49.50. EXACT SAME TOP.

Granted, the shopping experience isn't as comfortable; there's usually only one dressing room, if any, and the air conditioning isn't that fantastic. The quarters are cramped, which means if there are a number of people in the store, it's pretty hellish. But hey, until the day I can shop without looking at price tags, I can put up with a bit of inconvenience.

Then again, I did shop without looking at price tags today. But that's because we knew the shop owner.

One of my mom's ex-colleagues, Jennifer, opened her own little shop, Zenn Collection, there and her taste is excellent. It's feminine but edgy at the same time, so it puts across the exact right message, "Yes, I'm a woman, but I can still hit that quota and look good doing it." The last time we went, Mom bought $300 worth of clothes. I still hadn't quit my old job yet, so I just picked out a pencil skirt and this coat.

So now that there is a need, it was natural that I dragged Mom down there to help me vet.

It was insane. We spent about two hours in that shop, at least. I started picking out things I wanted to try, and that was a huge pile by itself. Jennifer also recommended me a number of pieces, which meant I was going through clothes like Imeda goes through shoes. And mind you, that shop was tiny enough that if two people lay down on the floor, there would be no more space to walk.

Because she was old friends with my mom and because I was pretty much buying up her whole shop (ok, fine, I bought ten pieces), she did give me a discount. Overall, I paid about $30 on average for each item. That was pretty much why I was shopping like my dad owns an oil rig.

But to be honest, even if she charged me more, I'd still have gone to her. Her stuff are sometimes pieces inspired by other brands (like Zara), but they're not exact copies, which means it's unlikely I'll see someone wearing the exact same piece. The cuts are usually flattering, and she allows me to try every single piece, taking great joy in making me try more rather than grouching that I'm taking up her fitting room and time. The materials are good too, no cheapass cotton or polyester that breaks down after a few washes. And the best part, she makes you feel so welcome and so good about yourself, but she doesn't push you to buy. She even advises you on how to wear the pieces, whether you should add accessories or tuck in the tops and even how to wear the accessories. She was teaching this other lady how to twine two different coloured woven belts together while we were there.

Of course, I know that after this post, I might have problems getting that undivided attention like I did today, but hey, I'm not one of them selfish people who hoard knowledge like this.

Oh ya, and she stocks her clothes in a number of sizes, so even the larger women can find something. If not, she'll order them in for you.

After shopping at her place, it's hard to consider buying things from other shops. There isn't that sort of attention and warmth for those prices outside of the Village. These people who own these shops are usually so sweet. They bring in each and every piece, tending that few square metres like some sartorial bonsai plant, presenting only what they feel is good.

So I sometimes get pissed on their behalf at those girls who come marching in, ignoring the shop keeper, flip through then leave, occasionally making a face or some passing remark to their friend about how sucky the collection is. Would you like it if people went through your wardrobe and dismissed it as crap? You don't have to gush over how great everything is, but it wouldn't kill you to at least smile at the shop keeper. I always make it a point to say thank you before I leave a store, if the shop assistants say goodbye.

Someone once told me I should start my own little business. It's not that I'm not tempted to. I would love to do what Jennifer is doing, but it's sort of the labour of love kind of thing. If I had a business, I want to keep it to a small scale, because I want to be involved. I don't want to be the paper pushing CEO of some big company, not knowing what goes on, er, down there.

That is, if I can avoid buying up all my merchandize myself.

Elton and I had a very interesting talk last night after the lights went out. It had something to do with the fact that I'd read that stupid book Sugarbabe by Holly Hill and watched episodes of that Korean drama My Man's Woman. All in all, it led to a strange need to draw some lines in the sand and make it clear to the love of my life exactly where I stood with regards to the possibility of him cheating on me.

If you think about it, it does seem ludicrous that from age 24 onwards, I expect him to be completely monogamous to me and his right hand. We've been together for five years already, so that's saying something, but expecting him never ever to think about another woman that way seems like I'm setting the standards a little too high. And when standards get set that high, bad things happen, like priests raping little boys.

And so, I conceded the fact that while it is well and good if he can forever more just turn to me and only me and maybe on occasion his right hand for all his needs, he may fall off the wagon at some point in time. But if he does, there are conditions.

#1 It must be just sex. Preferably with a complete stranger and definitely NO friends. No talking, no sharing thoughts, no long emo sessions about how their respective partners aren't good enough. Just wham bam thank you ma'am and come straight home to me. And definitely no exchanging numbers, emails or adding on Facebook as friends. Just sex.

#2 Use protection. There will be no bareback riding of any kind where disease or children might result.

#3 Be discreet. Better not to tell me, better that no one knows. You don't have to rub in the fact that I'm not good enough. And if my friends find out and make my life hell, I will make your life hell.

Thing is, it may sound incredibly open-minded or liberal, but the truth is, way too many tai tais out there with their rich husbands are silently practising these three laws. Unless your husband is a sex god, it's likely that after so many years of marriage, you can't be arsed to put out anymore, so it's not so bad to get a third party contractor to take care of those needs. It's only important that that third party contractor doesn't push for anything more. Know your place, slut.

And so while I do hope that Elton will never have to practice these laws, I'm going to be a realist and put them out there. At least he'll know that if he does marry me and I should ever decide to close shop below, he's not doomed to a lifetime of monkey spanking.

I truly am a pessimist in the optimist-who-got-fucked-over sense. I still hold this very small hope deep deep down that things will turn out for the better, but I always just plan for the worst. I think that's why my bag is always so stuffed full of things. I think it's safer this way, because if things do turn out well, then I can relax, but if things go bad, I'm prepared and ready to handle them.

But there is a big difference in being realistic and preparing for the worst and over-thinking things. That difference is action. If all you do is lament what bad things might occur, then two things are clear. One, you're just whining, and two, no amount of advice is going to help you, because you're not listening.

In my unemployment, I've done my fair share of whining, but I recognize it for what it is. I just wanted the attention and the reassurance from others that it's ok, that things are going to turn out fine. And things are turning out fine. The one serious job search I've gone for resulted in a job offer (yay!), and I'll be starting work next month.

That is, if I decide to sign on the dotted line. Out of nowhere, I was asked to go for a lunch with this other company. I wonder vaguely if it'll lead to employment of some kind.

It's great that I managed to stumble onto a job. Especially in this economic climate, I am incredibly lucky, and I thank whatever kindly entity looking out for me. Even better, instead of starting straight after that little part-time gig I had last week, I now have a month to go build up my wardrobe and enjoy my slackerdom a little more.

But the thing is, I didn't just up and quit and expect to get a job straight after. I saved up enough to make sure I could survive without employment for a while. It's great that I didn't have to break my piggy bank for the last few cents before my next pay check comes in, but things got delayed, I had enough to live on and enough time to get my ass into gear.

In any case, I'm just fucking relieved I at least got a job offer.

Elton, in an act of complete and utter sweetness, bought me a present today. After the initial joy of fiddling with it, I had to call Kym to ask her one very important question, "Hey girl, how do I blow ah?" 

Lest you think I was researching on a way to show my appreciation for the present and before you start pitying Elton for the lack of certain activities, THAT'S not what I was asking Kym for. And...that'll be the end of the topic; it's really up to Elton to brag about it. Don't want people to think I got a big head by blowing my own trumpet.

Ok, ok, enough.

After reading post after post of me pining for a DS Lite, he bought me one. Hmm. Hang on.

ELTON BOUGHT ME A DS LITE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Ok, that's more like it. But yes. It was especially sweet because the next special event is Christmas, which is months away, but he decided to buy me one because he wanted to cheer me up.

If you're wondering, "What the hell does she have to be depressed about? She's not working! But not poor!" Well, I have no bloody idea myself. All I can say is that past month or so has been an emotional shitstorm. There was good, there was bad, then there was abyssal. Maybe a lot of bad karma decided to come back all at once, I don't know.

With Elton's help, I made it through the worst of it all. To top it all off, he got me a brand new toy. By sticking with me through all that nonsense, that's love right there. Getting me the expensive new gadget, really, it's just, I don't know what to say.

Oh yah, it's called a distraction tactic.

Kidding, kidding. It's love all right. But distraction too. It gives me something to do, takes my mind off things. Lets him play Assassin's Creed while I chop things up on Cooking Mama.

I'm perfectly fine with it. In fact, I kinda like it. If I had to rank what I like to do as together time and keep the list PG, it'll be cuddling and chatting about random stuff, cuddling and watching shows on his computer, literally just sleeping together (which oddly works better on his super single bed than on my queen sized one), sitting in the same room and doing our own stuff, going out, and going out to meet other people. Pretty much in that order. It does depend on mood, of course, sometimes going out ranks higher on the list if I'm feeling active. But yeah, being in the same room with him just makes me happy. He'll be gaming on his computer and I'll be reading a book (or playing with my DS Lite!) and it's just nice to look over at him and occasionally plant a kiss on his head as I pass him to go to the loo. And since his monitor is one of those big ass things, it's sometimes quite entertaining to watch him play too, except for when he does the save, play, reload, play, reload, play thing.

I felt quite guilty though, as he brought me to the shop and asked me to pick out the colour of the set and the cover for it (we're both quite anal about protection. In more ways than one). They have two shades of pink, but the one I wanted, Noble Pink (and which member of royalty would that be? Princess Barbie?) was $25 more expensive, because they didn't have it for the parallel import sets anymore. Elton, The Man, did the no big deal shrug, "Just go for it, babe."

(The other shade was Metallic Pink, which is really more purple.)

So he got me the set, the other essential accoutrements (hint hint nudge nudge), and the case for it (Hello Kitty, of course, in pink). And I was making happy squeals, amusing the bengs in the shop to no end.
ME: (totally engrossed in chopping an onion) "Look, Mama says I did it perfect!" 
ELTON: (aside to the bengs) "Can you guess what her favourite colour is?"

And while I was ridiculously happy with my new toy, I felt uneasy about it. I'm just not used to getting expensive presents, when there's no event behind it, and especially if I'd sort of asked for it to begin with. I feel kinda bad about it, like I manipulated him to get it for me. I swear to you, the extent of whining for it was limited to blogging and pointing the DS Lite out to him on two occasions (what? In case he got the wrong console; Nintendo got quite a few ok?). I did NOT drag him into the shop and body tackle him while I threw his wallet to the cashier in a overhead pass.

This is probably a good thing, for Elton at least, since flat out asking him to buy me stuff isn't something I even think about doing. Usually. I did go on and on about it on my blog to hint to him in a highly subtle manner what I'd like to get for Christmas. I didn't expect him to bring me to Sim Lim to get me something special today.

So in a failed attempt to assuage my guilt, I bought him the new expansion for Neverwinter Nights 2. Ok, so my present was 10 percent the cost of his present. It's the thought that counts. That, and I'm not sure what he wants, so I just beat him to the cashier when he picked up the game. Tragic, yes. That man needs to blog lah.

Since he wasn't feeling well today (and hasn't been for the past few days), I decided for him that he shouldn't spend the day running his Dark Ages game (he feels responsible for it and would have turned up, so I decided to play the bad guy and take it off his shoulders). He had problems holding a conversation with me without hacking up a lung. One whole day of talking might do him in. So after he got me the DS Lite, we went to his place and gamed. He on Assassin's Creed, me on Cooking Mama. Very very different in terms of complexity and skill, but hey, we're happy.

Oh yah, the blowing thing. Kym has a DS Lite too, and she's been extolling the joys of Cooking Mama, so when I got stuck at this recipe where I'm supposed to blow on the stew, I called her, naturally. And this is why the DS Lite is so bloody cool; beyond the traditional controls of the directional keys and the buttons and the tabs, you get to use the stylus on the touchscreen, AND there's also this mic for voice controls. So when Mama says blow, it means to literally blow into the mic. Blow, mind you, not spit. Kym's congratulatory message: "Yeh! U did e blow job!"

"-_- indeed...

I made the mistake of not sending one single flyer back with the "No, I do not wish to be a member" back and am now a member of the SDU. Don't be so shocked; once you graduate from uni, you'll be automatically made a member of the government's good ol' social engineering department. You have to tell them you don't want to be a part of it to avoid the monthly newsletters with tips and tricks from some 90s adolescent magazine about how to hook a mate.

And once again, I made another mistake. I'd added this Speed-dating app on Facebook because someone or another sent it to me. Again, I did nothing about it. Then, exploring it one day while I was bored, I thought I'd just see what it was before I deleted it.

Baaaad mistake.

It insisted that I fill out my profile before I can check out the app. So I did. Then I took a look around and realized it wasn't one of those popularity contest apps like Spark. It was a true-blue dating app (which was disturbing because one of my married friends came up as a top speed dater. WTF, dude?!). Literally, you go through people's pictures and profiles and you message them to become friends. So I left it be and went to do more interesting things.

Baaaaad mistake.

I logged on today, just a day after I'd activated the thingy, and noticed that I had an obscene number of notifications. Normally I just ignore them. (What kind of a life would I have if I bothered to respond to every poke and every random invite you no life people keep hurling around cyberspace? That's right. No life.) But it was ridiculous even for my standards, so I took a look. And Speed-Date was on every line.

I went onto the app, and simply could not stop the SMLJ that flew out of my mouth. (Which, I have to say, is just that much more cathartic than WTF.) I had about 44 messages from random guys who apparently have some kind of a fairy fetish (my profile pic is the one Eugene took of me at the kiddy story telling gig). One even commented that I'm "quite big".

Si mi lan jiao indeed.

While it's refreshing to have people think my tits are big (where do you live? AA Island?), I kinda felt sorry for that guy, because even if I were single and desperate, I'm not entirely certain boob praise is the way to go for finding a date.

Well, good to know my mom's friend wasn't kidding when she said they'd line up to Tuas for me. Ok lah, maybe more like Ang Mo Kio, but hey, that's not too bad.

But sorry boys, I'm taken. Quite happily too, now.

Yeah, didn't take much to figure out I was pretty pissed at Elton these last few days, huh? As much as I tried to keep from lambasting him here, there was still a lot of pent up anger that had to go somewhere. We're all better now, so I guess my posts can go back to less angsty things like nail art and hair colour.

I love him. I'm not big enough to say "even with his faults" though, because otherwise we wouldn't have been arguing. But I love him enough to look past them and not insist on him changing them.  It doesn't mean I like his flaws, but until they actually impact upon me (like I was depending on him to do something and he didn't and I ended up in the shit because of it), I'll just close one eye.

And that's usually the default OS for the relationship. I think I'm quite chill as a girlfriend. But occasionally things happen, and we have Words. Then he realizes that if I want to, I can be psycho too. All it takes for him to get me back to normal is to remind me that he loves me and that my fears are unfounded. Unfortunately, this sometimes takes a while because he needs to go through the defensive stage and the attack me back stage and the I'm So Dao stage before he finally figures out why I'm upset. It's not like I don't tell him, k? He just keeps interrupting when I bring up examples to illustrate my point to point out that He's Right And Justified In Doing Whatever It Is and I'm Getting Angry For No Reason.

If there was one thing I demanded from him, it was that he end our relationship before starting up with another girl or if he just got bored of me. The thought of being a spare tire is just sickening; I deserve to be top priority, dammit. If I'm no longer number one, then let me go, because it's only fair to me. Hey, I stick with him because he's my number one. There's no one else I want to be with, not even Mr. I Like Your Big Boobs.

But even if things should come to an end for whatever reason, I seriously doubt Speed-Date is going to yield my lifelong partner. Don't do it, people. It's not the single, desperate and ugly who go there. Worse, it's the lazy, desperate and cheating on spouse sort who do.

Oh ya, since the last post, my desirability rating on Spark dropped to 99.15 percent and Elton's rose a little. Perhaps some people are trying to even the odds. That, or while we were fighting Elton went to tweak his profile. Either way, I don't care, I'm happy. And I don't need reserves either; I just need a mirror to admire my chio self with.