Departure

It’s hard to keep up. One moment I’m packing my bags and hauling my tired ass halfway across the world to Hong Kong. The next minute I find myself on a flight back to New York, too exhausted to conceivably qualify for the Mile High Club.

And here I am again, at the JFK airport lounge ready to battle another bout of jet lag when I arrive in HK. To say I’m spent would be a gross understatement.

A lot has happened in the past month. Summer weather finally arrived, the banks screwed themselves over subprime lending, the credit markets went crazy (and I came close to the brink), the Fed and ECB came in to save the day, I racked up a shitload in frequent flyer miles and hotel guest points, Jia moved into my room at 284 Mott, I developed an unhealthy obsession with Pinkberry froyo and an emotional attachment to a certain someone, we saw Monica Bellucci at Morandi… and tonight I will be leaving New York.

The thing about leaving is that you are never quite ready for it. No matter how many “last” weekends of fun partying with good friends, going away dinners with the girls, months of mental preparation, prolonged denial of this transition, even excitement for this new destination. The final goodbye is inevitably and exceptionally hard when you’re leaving a life you love with people you deeply treasure. Especially when you get yourself into somewhat of an emotional entanglement just before you permanently move to another continent.

The situation has irony splattered all over it. What is it about an impending departure that creates inconvenient circumstances which would eventually hinder it? It is perfect recipe for disaster I suppose. Because when you know you’re leaving in a few months, you seize every remaining moment you’ve got, cherish every experience you encounter, and open your heart to others. And when you do really get to the preliminary stages of involvement, you say fuck it – what’s the harm in luxuriating in that short-lived indulgence anyway. So you go with the flow, and the flow takes you to the point where you are actually reluctant to leave…

But I did anyway. Although I can never be sure of when I will be back… if the theme of unpredictability in my life continues, I might actually look forward to the next departure.

Hello Hong Kong

Extracted from the Relocation Guidebook our hired corporate agent distributed to all the expats moving to HK.

• It is polite to use both hands when you give or receive anything.

• Never lose your temper. It is considered an extreme loss of face and all who witness your outburst will be embarrassed for you.

• To hail a taxi or motion to an individual, extend the arm, palm downwards, and make a scratching motion with the fingers. Never use the index finger, palm up and motioning toward you. That gesture is used only for animals.

• If you are eating fish, it is often served in one piece with the head and tail intact. Often the head of the fish is offered to the most distinguished guest. Acknowledge the honor even if you do not eat it. "

Are you fucking kidding me?

Maternal Instincts

Since I occasionally exhibit raging feminist behavior and swear more frequently than a proper lady should, I figure I would have already frightened off a good chunk of the male population. So it’s not going to further diminish my dwindling marriage prospects by coming clean with this additional admission.

I love kids. As in lurrrrve ‘em. And am genuinely looking forward to the day when I have my own.

I’m one of those annoying women who morph into a sickeningly sweet, oohing-and-aahing, full-fledged Auntie with expansive baby vernacular in the presence of kids (but only adorable ones though). Just last week when I was walking around London, Mich said I looked scarily like a predator ready to kidnap the little ones fortunate enough to stumble into my lair. Try as I might to maintain a semblance of my usual reasonably collected self, my heart melts and I go all soft when these little bundles of joy present themselves with such endearing, guileless warmth.

I love the innocence of babies, the refreshing candidness of children and how they look at life through untainted lenses. As much as I enjoy the independence of adulthood and all that hedonistic fun of the crazy mid-twenties, the sentimentalist in me misses that insouciance of youth which I can only experience vicariously through the little ones. Which might, perhaps, partially explain such premature maternal instincts.

And you can imagine how darn attractive a 25 year old with such unadulterated passion for motherhood would be to the New York bachelors. Although on the flip side, this tactic can come in mighty handy when trying to dispose of pesky lingering dudes. Nothing like the imminent threat of a wedding ring and looming familial commitment to scare the hell outta guys.

Truth is, my love for kids quite fortunately doesn’t translate into a burning desire to get married. The notion of settling down is a distant one, made all the more so with the liberty I currently possess and am thoroughly savoring. Call me selfish but I want to be recklessly adventurous and irresponsibly free. I want to explore life and the world with my partner, to luxuriate in passionate companionship. All without the added pressure of consciously working towards a marital finality or conventions of a settled family.

So until I shed the sexy provocative underwear for high-waisted nude-colored Granny ones, prioritize diaper changing above beer chugging, or my conversations revolve around exam preps instead of party venues- it’s living for me, myself and I :)

Surprise, Surprise...

That Grace is on Friendster.

That the word “peruse” means to examine thoroughly, and not browse or glance over. Perhaps perusing those SAT vocabulary cards would’ve helped.

That we got kicked out of a Lower East Side bar for smoking weed. How very high school- to not be able to pull that juvenile stunt off successfully.

That Salvador Dali had designed the Chupa Chups logo. Commercialism and surrealism, at the tip of your tongue. Yummers.

That people still believe in abstaining from premarital sex. And I’m not talking about Mormons or those from the deep South. I’m intrigued by such unyielding resistance. But don’t quite see the point of it either.

That the sensational news of Paris Hilton getting jailed was on Bloomberg Top News and CNBC. With most testosterone-d traders mourning over this tragedy rather than vigilantly watching their market positions, no wonder the Dow tanked that day.

That I still hold my childhood sweethearts, Michael Jackson and Roxette, dear to my heart.

That any reasonably functional human being would wholeheartedly support Bush and ALL his policies. Like Ex-boyfriend #2, the über conservative all American. Needless to say, we didn’t last long because of fundamental differences. Undiscerning Republicans are an utter waste of time.

That Botox, when injected at the cheeks, can create a slimmer and more sunken look. Uhhh, sign me up.

That I wake up every day at 530am for work, i.e. in five hours. Now that’s dedifuckingcation.

Goodnight.

Ex-posed

As the wonders of technology would have it, almost everything on the World Wide Web is public and accessible by all (well, for some porn sites you would have to pay an access fee I suppose).

And since imposing private passwords or monitoring webpage traffic are the least of my concerns- not to mention they aren’t quite within the confined realm of my technological capabilities- these blog pages can clearly be viewed by anyone and everyone.

That’s why embarrassing stories are not loosely posted and only available upon special requests.

And that’s also why the Ex-boyfriend was never mentioned in a conspicuous way, despite our relationship having a profound impact on my previous years. Hints of him unavoidably lie concealed between the lines, unapparent to most except those who know me well and the Ex-boyfriend himself, of course.

So I was understandably somewhat surprised to discover that the Ex reads this too. Not that I mind it, or that it’s a big deal. It just threw me off slightly and momentarily, because I can’t imagine how he came to know of this site given that our social circles are hardly overlap – but then again, Singapore is so incestuously small that there are bound to be certain weak links somewhere out there.

As of a few weeks ago I hadn’t a remote clue what he has been up to. How the magazine is doing, if he’s in marital bliss, who his new friends are, where the new hang out place is. Stuff like that.

Funny how you could be so deeply close to another individual at a certain point in your life, it was once inconceivable that as soulmates you would ever be apart, only to reach a level of comfort with the detachment you have from him at a much later juncture.

When the breakup process is done and dusted, when you have finally let go of all that conflicting emotions – anger, bitterness, hurt, sadness, regret, fear, longing.

It was all new to me at that time. The consuming intensity of our relationship had escalated within an unexpectedly short period of time, yet was marred by extenuatingly inconvenient circumstances that I was not emotionally equipped to handle. And because such depths of feelings were never stirred before, attempting to move on was exceedingly arduous, it even seemed impossible.

But I have, as he has. Fling-ed. Dated. Liked. Cast away all the would’ves, should’ves, could’ves and progressed to a stage where I am able to look back on those special memories with fondness and even gratitude, for all the things that I have learned about myself and just life in general.

Since the divergence of our paths I have developed in such different ways than if I had stayed. I grew up in certain ways that he had thought I would, matured in other ways that he had not predicted, though fundamentally I am still the same person whom he had known so well.

And some things he’s sure to recognize, like the stubborn pride and odd guardedness. Although recently I have come to realize the futility of my guarded tendencies, and understand that being comfortable with exposing the real me to a select special few might be surprisingly rewarding. That opening up to others or taking chances– which I found even more difficult to accomplish after our relationship – isn’t so bad after all.

In my own selfish protective way, for quite a while after the separation, a part of me had wished that he would always hold true to his claim of never sharing with another a love as special as we did. Especially not before it I did! *horror of horrors*

But then I realized that I am, or would be, genuinely happy if he did. Oh, how I surprise myself with such unexpected magnanimity...

Happy belated birthday J, and hope all’s well :)

In Transit

There is nothing that quite frustrates me more than the lethal combination of paralyzing boredom and having to wait.

Unfortunately patience is an admirable trait which I don’t possess in abundance, and my extreme lack of it is duly tested during unavoidable circumstances such as now. As I wait in this Vancouver transit lounge, with no reading material and absolutely no distractions except the other passengers (none of whom are remotely attractive) and the damn vending machine (from which I have already extracted two chocolate bars), my not-so-nifty laptop is saving me from the brink of insanity.

It makes no sense whatsoever for the airline staff to restrict the transit passengers to a cordoned area, leaving us no access to airline lounges, duty free stores, cafes or newsstands. If they don’t have this ridiculous system in place at other airports, Vancouver damn well get with the program.

I attempted to make this message perfectly clear to the staff on duty, obviously to no avail. What if I’m starving and want to get decent food? What if I need to walk around to dissipate the fat tissue that has coagulated at my ass, having sat down for 11 freakin’ hours? Alas. One bitchy passenger does not overhaul an established, albeit stupid, system.

Ok now that I have vented and acted like a petulant kid (it’s 3am HK time and I haven’t had sleep nor alcohol. I believe I have a legit reason to be grumpy), I can revert to my mature riveting self. Haa.

Six more hours and I will be back in Noo York Citay. Can’t fucking wait. Nad’s in town, Su and Hwee are coming up next week, and the local peeps better be up and running the night I get back. The luxury living in the past 3 weeks has left me completely spoiled, but I’m so looking forward to returning home to my tiny Nolita apartment and having Shan the roomie around again. I had some separation anxiety from not having the BFF there.

The past weeks in Hong Kong provided a little taste of what my life would be like in the next couple of years. Vibrant, convenient, fun and cosmopolitan – it promises a crazy lifestyle of intense partying, travel around Asia, international acquaintances, great shopping and proximity to Singapore.

Since I barely know anyone in HK, it’s reassuring to realize that meeting new people is surprisingly easy in the small community there. And this might seem like an ironic dismissal of my own kind, but I remain optimistic about not having all banker/finance friends (who seem to overwhelm the HK scene) – not a tragic phenomenon when in small numbers, but undoubtedly nauseating when it occurs as a majority.

Another huge plus point would be the 16% HK tax, which is half of what I currently contribute to Uncle Sam’s fund. Screw global taxation- that is one of the top reasons not to get a Green card. That and not being able to get into Cuba and North Korea.

It seems to me, however, that Hong Kong seems to lack soul. The kind of sophisticated cultural soul that you can just feel in cities like New York, London and Berlin. That compared to these places, this Cantonese city of ostentatious wealth and frivolous partying would provide a transitory experience that is equally fun but of less depth. But that is just a superficial observation, unavoidably influenced by my reluctance to truncate my life in New York.

And speaking of abrupt departures – it’s time to board.

New York State of Mind

After my (almost) month long hiatus, it’s about time I make a blogging comeback. And after also being inundated with fervent requests to post new entries (and by that, I mean two requests), I’m finally writing one full of juicy gossip and spicy details from the dramatic events in the past few weeks.

Or not. Though I’d gladly barter carefully chosen sensational stories of those around me if you reveal some of your own.

Sadly my time here in the New York is limited. Given that I moved here two years ago kicking and screaming (Okay, I exaggerate. But I was incredibly reluctant to leave my then-boyfriend back home in Singapore), it is somewhat ironical that I now approach my impending relocation to Hong Kong with a heavy and hesitant heart.

It’s not that I don’t get excited about this promising job opportunity and a reputedly fun HK party scene. Or that I wouldn’t enjoy the comforts of an expat lifestyle and being physically closer to home. I do and I am, but it makes me extremely, and surprisingly, sad to close the chapter of my New York life.

I love this city and I love my life here. I love the amazing friends around me and the dear ol’ roommate. I love the Broadway musicals, museums, Madison Square Garden concerts, NBA games, random events. I love American TV, DVR/TiVo, ordering in food from anywhere, Whole Foods, the delis. I love weekend brunch, walking around aimlessly and hardly getting lost in the grid city structure, exploring different neighborhoods and always discovering something new. I love the countless cafés, restaurants, bars, clubs that cater to just about any taste or preference, and an endless string of noteworthy establishments still coming up. I love the tangible energy and infectious vibe of this city, and how it persists 24/7. I love that the best of the best in all fields either live in here or pass through New York, that people are driven and genuinely passionate in diverse ways, and how it creates a tremendously inspiring environment. I love how open-minded most individuals are, and how liberated this makes me feel.

It’s so fucking awesome here that not even the filthy subways, ghetto streets, exorbitant rents, crazy people can dampen my enthusiasm. So my tentative plan is to move back to New York after a temporary stint in Asia – that is if I don’t get married and transform into a Botox-ed tai tai walking the trodden path in Manolos with all that excessive bling. *shudder*

Since that is so far in the future and things in reality hardly go according to the plan, I am going to enjoy my present to the fullest. The next two months in New York, then off to the Far East.

Girlfriends back in Singapore, I’m sure I’ll be seeing you guys more often :) Nad and Shan, would you guys move to HK too, pretty please?

Blissful Ignorance

I felt utterly deceived when I discovered that a tall cup of Starbucks Soy Chai Latte (my current obsession) contains a whopping 230 calories. Who woulda thunk?!

It’s one thing to overdose on chocolate with full knowledge that I am consuming a few love-handles worth of calories, or eat chunky peanut butter out of the jar without giving a flying fuck about the enormous fat content because it’s just so damn good.

But to entice the palates of vulnerable consumers like me with incurable sweet tooth, using seemingly healthy ingredients like SOY and presenting itself as an innocuous beverage (I mean, how fatty can liquid get)… that’s just downright despicable.

My boss J said I shouldn’t have made a conscious effort to look up the nutritional information. Why bother ascertaining the caloric content of my favorite can’t-do-without drink when I could’ve just continued in ignorance with the present Latte consumption, which would hardly be detrimental anyway.

But of course being the naturally inquisitive (euphemism for kaypoh I guess) person I am, I had to find out. Somehow I have this insatiable desire to know about everything that involves me either directly or indirectly. Even if I am not seeking out details through conversation, I do it subconsciously via observation. The minutiae of events and individuals register in my mind bank, from which I occasionally retrieve coagulated formulations of these memories to judge or react to situations and people.

And perhaps it is a deluded belief in my perceptive prowess, or just heightened female sensitivity to latent emotional dynamics, but I’d say my sixth sense often allows me to translate random “feelings” I have into material knowledge.

So essentially my personality doesn’t quite lead me to deliberately neglect any possible information discovery and contend with being in a state of blissful ignorance. Which is why this concept with regard to infidelity in relationships has always intrigued me.

How does a person, when faced with disturbing hints of a cheating partner, choose not to verify the authenticity of those suspicions and instead persist in forced oblivion?

Even more baffling is, when the evidence is startlingly unfavorable, how does a person remain so entrenched in self-denial and continue to believe in his or her philandering partner?

It used to be unquestionably clear to me that I would not want to be kept in the dark if my partner cheats. But then I increasingly struggle with conflicting parts of me. An idealistic one that perceives the world rather naïvely in distinct black and white matters, that is so unequivocal about fidelity and so obstinately unapologetic about always being equipped with the complete truth. And another which recognizes the fallibility of people, the inevitable complications, the role which little white lies play in lubricating relationships and that perhaps what we don’t know wouldn’t really hurt us.

Knowledge is power but not necessarily bliss. Damn that soy chai latte.

Chicks of a Feather, Brunch Together

Weekend brunch in New York is a joyous affair. Friends gather at the city’s countless quaint cafés or über trendy restaurants to exchange the latest and juiciest gossip, squeal or cringe about the previous nights’ drunken festivities, and nurse persistent hangovers with large doses of caffeine and ridiculously overpriced breakfast food.

Last weekend we were decked out at the quirky-hip Freemans in the Lower East Side, and as usual we were convulsed in laughter. I was with my girlfriends- all wonderfully open-minded, extraordinarily free-spirited individuals who share the same inspirational zest for life, as our paths crossed in this transitory Manhattan stop.

Our token “gay” guy friend was at there as well and fortunately privy to insights of our uninhibited girltalk. His presence hardly hindered our hilarious no-holds-barred conversations about pubes-shaving boyfriends, malfunctioning vibrators and arm/jaw cramp-inducing “jobs”. The details of which are obviously censored here since this blog isn’t entirely anonymous. (Ahh, the stories I would post if it were…)

We bantered about party plans, impending dates and occupational pursuits with excitement. We joked unashamedly about certain of our unglamorous traits like deafening snores, clumsiness and auntie-like behavior. We laugh with abandon, voice our opinions with unrestraint, strive for our career aspirations with absolute disregard for any antiquated notions of femininity or social conventions. We desire the comforting nest of home and stimulating company of men, but have no need for either to fill any void – because, and I try to say this without sounding trite, life is good and there are so many other fulfilling aspects of it. We can seek greener pastures in the CSR department, relinquish professional careers for more creative fashion and graphic design passions, or walk the corporate path that takes us to different cities in the world. It is immensely gratifying, to realize that there will always be infinite possibilities if we continue to be as liberated and zealous as we are now.

And talking about infinite possibilities, we then trudged through six inches of snow to Babeland, where we found a vast variety of intriguing toys. We became somewhat giggly, tickled by the sheer monstrosity of some objects, yet amazed by the impressive creativity of these equipment. After much serious consideration and inspection we were the proud owners of some very formidable devices. Yeahhh. There is nothing like friends of a feather, toy shopping together.

To The Doctor's

All I wanted from my very first long-overdue visit to the gynecologist was to be assured that I was free of all that dreadful shit, but of course the doctor had to go above and beyond her call of duty to administer an annoying overdose of preaching laced with disapproval about my lifestyle (or that of young modern girls these days).

It’s been a while since anyone has even attempted to foist their moral high ground or conservative standards on me, because even my parents have realized that this would only be met with a mouthful of sarcastic retorts and me turning a deaf ear to unwanted advice. See, the petulant child in me still hates being told what to do.

So here are snippets of my conversation at the doctor’s office.

Her: “So you’re working under the glass ceiling at XXX. They’re famous for not promoting women.”

Me: “Hmm, yeah. They’ve gotten sued for millions before. Maybe I should adopt that as my exit strategy.”

Joke ignored. Her: “So do you drink? How many drinks a night when you go out?”

Deep in thought. Me: “I’d say maybe from 2-6 drinks a night, depending on how hard I party.” Which is a lie, because I clearly have no idea what the maximum is. Who, in a state of intensely inebriated oblivion, would keep count?

Disapproving frown. Her: “Do you know that having 6 drinks is considered binge drinking? The next time you go out, drink a glass of club soda between drinks and cut it down to 3 max. It’s so much better for you.”

Uhh, hello. Earth to Doctor. Where has she been? Is this lady really that far removed from the reality of what happens at bars and clubs these days? Who the fuck stops at 3 drinks?

Next question of the firing round. Her: “Do you smoke?”

Me: “Well I have taken occasional puffs before, but no.”

Her: “Why would you even socially smoke? Smoking is anti-social. And really bad for you. Do you know that nicotine is more addictive than heroin? Mayor Bloomberg did a really good thing for this city by banning smoking indoors at bars and restaurants.”

Ok, cool it Granny. I’d let the previous moral imposition about drinking go since somewhere in that pile of judgment does lie a reasonable truth – that overdrinking unfortunately tends to create dangerously conducive circumstances for unprotected sex or even rape of women. But what the fuck does smoking have to do with her realm of expertise?

She moves on, after much probing and preaching. Her: “Have you had unprotected sex?”

Avoiding a direct answer. Me: “Well… if a girl is on birth control, there isn’t a need for condoms right?”

Her: “What about STDs? Pregnancy shouldn’t be the only concern on the prevention list. Guys are vectors of several diseases. I’m a Doubting Thomas- even if you have a regular partner, that doesn’t mean he’s not going to give you any STDs. Err on the side of caution instead of possibly getting infected and living with regret. Do you know that herpes is forever, but love isn’t?”

I can’t deny the truth in her words so I just shut up. Most of us would agree with this logic when it comes to flings (although that might not necessarily translate into practicing of such safe measures). But somehow when it comes to an actual legit relationship with someone you love and trust, our insistence on such practices would understandably falter.

So that was Doctor Judge. Good thing I don’t have to see her til a year later. On a side note, her only saving grace was a hilarious little tidbit about one of her patients who had her labia shortened. Apparently one day this woman (her patient) decided that she just didn’t like how her labia looked. (?!?!) DUDE. I mean, go fix your nose, lift your face, enlarge your boobs – but who the fuck scrutinizes the LENGTH of her labia and actually surgically alters it for vanity reasons? God, women these days *sigh*.