Let It Go, Let It Go

For the past month, after reading Louise Hay and Cheryl Richardson’s book You Can Create An Exceptional Life, I have been sending positive, loving thoughts out to the Universe.

A vast improvement from before, when I would glower internally (my face would remain impassive but in my head, I’d be making faces at less-than-savoury office denizens) and wish colleagues I didn’t particularly like when they walked by my desk an early death. I’m a bitch. I know.

 

But in my defense, the feeling is mutual. I have, more than once, been on the receiving end of curt, in-your-face remarks and behind-the-back insults. Still, there isn’t an excuse for launching a death ray attack towards senior staff whom I feel no longer deserved my respect. Mea culpa.

Death rays can be pretty

When I used to shoot death rays out of my mind, I often felt a reciprocal attack. Murderous thoughts still get the better of me in the past month, and I would get a wayward psychic attack: Though when I concentrate very hard and tell myself to let bygones be bygones, the attack would be somewhat mitigated. And I could sense the other party softening too.

I like to think I have evolved into a more caring – though still cynical – version of myself the past month. This little thought that pops into my little head every now and then reminds me, “We’ve been warring for so long, we’re both tired, it’s time for a ceasefire (even if cooperation isn’t possible at this moment).”

At this point, I would like to quote British WWII politician, Neville Chamberlain, “In war, whichever side may call itself the victor, there are no winners, but all are losers.”

All that energy expended, wasted on stuff that doesn’t matter in the end – having the last word on Twitter about who was right, inciting followers (whom you’ve never met) to join your cause… When that energy could re-focussed for so many wonderful things, like unicorn-shaped lollipops, candied clouds & sprightly stars.

Another Open Letter to my Readers

Sh*t! A pimple has popped up on my chin with all that mounting stress aka the countdown to reunion dinner with Mom on Sunday.

And its presence couldn’t be more untimely – now, my new asymmetric fringe points directly at it.

To compound the stress, BFF will be joining us.

I should be grateful. Really.

BFF has been my moral beacon for the longest time. And the mediator between Mom and I.

While BFF dotes on me – and I do love him to bits – I fear him too. For he’s my worst critic and I cringe just thinking how I might disappoint him with my behaviour towards Mom’s nagging and plea for me to return to my male self.

Well, Mom (hey, I might as well practice my speech, and experiment with different tones), believe it or not, I have been very happy living my life as a woman.

Despite your dire predictions that I will never find a lover or an employer willing to give me a job, I did manage to find both. Not spectacularly, I’ll admit. And yes, I’m single at the moment, and my chosen career (ASPIRING WRITER, WILL WRITE FOR FOOD AND A ROOF OVER HER HEAD, please imagine this in the most extravagant font – ever! – in neon) has not exactly taken off. But I have never been happier in the fourteen years since I left to pursue my heart’s desire.

I know Mom will burrow in on my returning home two years ago. I was broke, down to my last cent figuratively, I had to beg my parents to take me back (God bless Pa). Of course I had to cut my hair and never dress as a girl. But I managed to stash at least one bra at the bottom of my knapsack, under piles and piles of books that I never let out of my sight.

For four months, I was forbidden to use the bus-stop closest to home – Mom and Pa feared the neighbours would spot me, and thus invite gossip that could besmirch the family name. So I walked – to work. I could never understand my parents’ logic: They would rather allow my breasts to hang out, nipples out and proud for all to see, than consider the option of a sports bra.

I didn’t mind the walk, for I had always been an avid walker – even in heels, a considerable distance will not faze me. That’s 14 years of practice, baby!

Plus the office had a gym and a shower, where I could practise yoga and belly dancing after the walk that quite properly served as warm-up, and hit the showers after. I was much slimmer then. (Note to self: New Year resolution: To pick up yoga and belly dancing again).

So okay, back to mommy dearest.

Well, Mom, like it or not, get this, I have not considered returning to my male form at any point during the last 14 years, including the time I was down and out, and had to come back to live with you folks. And I only wore baggy T-shirts so I could have a roof over my head. If that ordeal – breasts hanging out and nipples pressing against my shirt in the cold wind, remember? – didn’t do it, don’t hold your breath. Not unlike this pair of skinny jeans that hugs my ass so so snugly, but doesn’t quite allow me to take in full nose-fuls of breath.

Happy Solstice, mom.

And oh, I am woman, hear me roar.

Put Your Best Hand Forward this Christmas

 

I am a manicure fiend.

I love colour on my nails. So much so, I feel naked when I step out with my nails unvarnished.

This is where the “fiend” part comes in. Nails take a beating when one subjects them to painting and stripping (with nail polish remover) repeatedly. The abuse is compounded when nails are not allowed to “breathe” in between manicures.

Plus I have the habit of peeling at chipped nails. Which I assure you, dear readers, takes the topmost layer off, much like an exfoliating facial mask. Though I’ll admit, there is a sick sense of satisfaction when I manage to get the crusty old polish off in one piece. But really, it does no favours for my poor battered nails.

There is, however, a silver lining to this ghastly habit of mine: My experiments with nail-colouring has allowed me to become somewhat of an expert on the long and the short on how to put your best hand/nails forward for this festive season.

If you like your nails short, deep jewel tones are your best bet. Besides the usual (safer) suspects like burgundy or amethyst, you may like to try navy.

I’ve seen the colour on a couple of colleagues and tried it myself, and found it surprisingly versatile. It jazzes up that casual jeans-and-tee ensemble, and goes elegantly with that LBD for a glamorous party.

And for an extra festive touch, mix navy (or even an electric blue!) and silver — a classic Christmas colour combo — on your digits. Alternate the two colours on your digits or stripe silver atop navy for a twist on the French manicure.

I like to think nails take on a different personality when they grow out. So when the whites start to peek out somewhere between 28th Dec and New Year’s Eve, it’s as if they have outgrown the opulent colours of Christmas and are now looking forward to a whole new year of fun.

That’s when I go wild and go for a two-colour look.

A flat burgundy is the perfect accompaniment to an icy raspberry. As is olive to a dark, glitter-speckled green.

If you are fair like me, a sky blue-and-white combo will work well.

And, let’s admit it, kinda resembles a Tiffany box — which, even if you aren’t able to receive one (or get one for yourself), would be the perfect little gift for yourself.

Sexy Carol #1 (It was bound to happen!)

Fill the halls with beaus and dandies,
Fa la la la la la la la la.

Tis’ the season to be sexy,
Fa la la la la la la la la.

Peel away our gay apparel,
Fa la la, la la la la la la.

Tis’ the season to be merry,
Fa la la la la la la la la!

An Open Letter to my Readers

When I was younger, I had wanted my own magazine.

I cannot recall exactly why. But I think it had to do with control issues. I thought it would be cool to publish the things I wanted (back then I found sex columns in women’s magazines icky, career tips were too far off in the future and fashion just mocked my rotund figure), and I was interested in the most obscure stuff… Even as a child.

While classmates were raving about the latest John Grisham or Dan Brown, I would be nose-deep in classics like Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea and Frankenstein, or The Secret Garden and anything-CS Lewis. I think I might just be that handful in Literature class who actually enjoyed our “textbooks”, The House of Sixty Fathers and The Good Earth – though I never pursued Literature as an O Levels subject, forsaking it for the better prospects and “social standings” that were (falsely) promised by subjects such as Additional Mathematics, Chemistry and Physics.

Whenever I was asked about my hobbies, reading would always be my first mention. And when asked who were my favourite authors, I would reply, “I only like dead authors, I don’t care much about contemporary writers.”

Mind you, I was a macabre child by nature, who watched – and very much enjoyed – The Addams Family reruns on Channel 5 (if memory serves correctly, it’d have been weekdays at 3pm).

Door-to-door makeup saleswoman: What kind of powder does your mom use?
Wednesday Addams: Baking powder.
Saleswoman: I mean on her face.
Wednesday: Baking powder.

When I was older, if I wasn’t trawling the library@Esplanade for old foreign films from the likes of Jean-Luc Godard and Akira Kurosawa, I would be holed up in non-movie theatres such as The Arts House or the Alliance Française watching an arts house film (also known as non-blockbusters, aka quirky, may-possibly-be-nominated-for-an-Oscar films such as Being John Malkovich, City of God, Le Dîner de Cons)

The attendance and attention (from the media and marketing department/advertising budget) given to aforementioned film genres are, admittedly, much better and more numerous now. But back then, they really were considered odd entertainment choices – at least by my friends and colleagues.

You would be glad to know I no longer only read dead authors. Though I still harbour the ambition to read as much as I could of the classics… Paradise Lost, The Canterbury Tales, The Odyssey, The Hunchback of Notre-Dame (preferably in its original French version, but that’s another story for another day), perhaps with a splash of Kafka, Jorge Luis Borge, Proust and Khalil Gibran.

I had thought, until recently, my ambition was impossible and childish. I was told, to my face, that I couldn’t write. It wasn’t too many months ago that a senior staff in the bullpen had asked that I give up my dream of becoming a staff writer.

I had no doubt she meant what she said. I still grudge her. Deeply and unreservedly.

Though I had time to reflect on her message.

It’s true, the bullpen publishes the “Overall Magazine of the Year” and the 2nd (or 3rd) most popular/stylish women’s/men’s fashion magazine, and back then, I wanted nothing except to write in these magazines. And I had thought being close to the source (of output) would increase my chances. But upon reflection, I know nothing about fashion – yes, I may be able to rattle off a couple of trends, but that’s only because I like those trends – and my output would be hallow and laboured (this was the very adjective a senior editor had used. I couldn’t agree more.)

So I turned to blogging.

And it has been fun, un-restrictive, and to be honest, most therapeutic.

What about the magazine?

I doubt I’d get my way in this bullpen anytime soon.

But hey, you know where to find me. And I hope you have my site favourited/bookmarked.

Thank you for reading 🙂