Word on the L Street

Departure

2007-08-15T07:24:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-16T07:17:00.000-07:00

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

2007-06-26T06:48:00.000-07:00

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...

2007-06-13T21:11:00.001-07:00

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

2007-05-24T19:51:00.000-07:00

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

2007-05-20T19:11:00.000-07:00

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

2007-04-25T22:36:00.000-07:00

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

2007-04-01T22:37:00.000-07:00

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

2007-03-20T10:50:00.000-07:00

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

2007-03-11T18:58:00.000-07:00

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*.

Sugar Daddy

2007-03-05T19:11:00.000-08:00

Yes, I want one.

When you’ve just had one of the most exhausting workdays, when the volatile market whips around and takes your stomach along for the ride, when you’re the only one holding down the fort because your boss is away in Florida and you run the end-of-day P&L only to have an unfavorably large loss spew its virtual bile at you – just like I have, you would want one too.

And if there are any girls out there who need some facilitation in getting that precious Sugar Daddy, is willing to fork out $50 (application fee) and subject themselves to judgment on a purely superficial level, there’s always Pocket Change – a New York matchmaking service that plays Cupid to wealthy dudes and hot chicks.

(A trader friend forwarded me this link as a joke, but I strongly suspect he has already sent in an application)

Quote from Pocket Change:
“Pocket Change is honoring the age old union of wealthy men and hot girls. Society has taught us to not publicly acknowledge the obvious - no longer dear friends. Women want money in a man, men want beauty in a woman – this is a factual force of nature. Women don’t ask “So, what does he do for a living?” because they’re interested in his personality and guys don’t ask “is she hot?” because they’re concerned with character. Guys know that money buys them the car, the house and the trophy wife. This genetic cleansing is how the wealthy stay beautiful.”

Wow. This grotesque manifestation of such superficial desires is kind of hilarious. It unites rich men who regard physical beauty as the only appreciable trait of worth in women and are likely to replace their trophy girlfriends/wives with younger nubile ones after their expiry dates, and materialistic money-grubbing social-ladder-climbing women whose sole purpose in life is to gain affluence through partnership or marriage and hopefully retain the cash coffers with prenuptial agreements.

Ludicrous? Please. What a match made in heaven.

Perhaps when one day I no longer see the significance of love, nor derive fulfillment and inspiration from work challenges (be it in the corporate sector or other creative endeavors), I will send in some digital enhanced, strategically profiled personal photographs. So that my Sugar Daddy can come whisk me away into a luxurious world of Chloe handbags, Eames chairs, Caribbean vacations, Tatler parties.

But for now, there are better things to invest $50. Like my fav Ciao Bella pistachio ice cream, oh-so-divine chunky peanut butter, wasabi-laden sushi, or even a transatlantic booty call.

Fag Hag

2007-02-26T20:45:00.000-08:00

For all my incessant complaining about the lack of a gay guy best friend and untempered desire for an un-bitchy, moderately sensitive, impossibly well-kept one, I could never quite think of an accurate and succinct phrase to describe this part of me.

Today Michelle brought up a term which totally fits. I’m a fag hag. An unashamed absolute fag hag wanna-be, actually.

She claims to have a veritable source of gay male friends and promised to introduce me to the funny, interesting ones when we’re back in Singapore. And just in case that doesn’t come through, I have lined up another alternative: my coworker N who lives in the “happy” district of Chelsea and as a result has gotten to know many gay men said he would connect me with his queer acquaintances.

I want someone like Will (from Will & Grace, one of my favorite TV sitcoms) - the exemplification a perfect gay male friend. If there is someone in reality as funny, witty, caring, domestic and attractive as Will is, I’d gladly engage in a somewhat dysfunctional but nevertheless appealing gay-guy-straight-girl relationship with him.

Maybe its about striking a balance between the yin and yang in my life. A flamin’ homo to negate effects of the WASP-y straight laced alpha males that I’m surrounded by at work. Some femme–laced testosterone to inject a semblance of symmetry to my social circle of mostly female friends.

And I’m just exceedingly tired of guys who think with only one head – and we all know which head that is. At least gay men have heads that don’t find their way into my (or any other female) pants.

Imagine the possibility of hugging and cuddling with a gay best friend (let’s assume he’s tantalizing muscled eye candy) in a wholly platonic fashion, without ever worrying that he’d take advantage of you. Shopping and exchanging the latest gossip with a Happy Him who would similarly appreciate and enjoy those indulgent activities. I should be so lucky.

Fortunately I have some amazing girlfriends to shop and bitch with. Love ya girls.

Reggae & Rum

2007-02-21T19:59:00.000-08:00

Amazing what a couple of days in the Caribbean does to a winter-drained mind and exhausted soul. The UV rays worked their magic on our pasty skin during those four days in Port Antonio Jamaica, and now we’re back with a bang and a much-needed tan.

The clear blue water was breathtaking, the simplicity of life alluring. Everything was beautiful- the villages, the locals, the greenery, the beaches, the mountains. Faced with towering skyscrapers, Times Square Billboards and countless people in this city everyday, a peaceful sunny respite at this Jamaican destination felt like a stolen transient moment that was pretty damn precious. Because in no time I will be back in my Wall Street job, going blind staring at Bloomberg screens figuring out how to make more money in the market.

I love vacations in exotic locations that are vastly different from the cities I have lived in- Singapore, New York, Berlin. Or even just cities in general. Of course, London is still fun, Paris will always be romantic, Stockholm remains pretty, and Boston is… well, just boring.

But there’s just something really charming about places that aren’t quite so developed with people of a very different culture. That’s why I need to figure out a way to take a sabbatical from my corporate existence, so that I can travel to Central and South America, Africa, Caribbean and the other gazillion places I haven’t seen.

Being in a setting so far removed from the hectic Manhattan world I am used to, it was almost effortless to completely detach myself from the intense rat race I’m currently holed up in. My wanderlust is refueled and my spirit is rejuvenated. I get whimsical thoughts about being a travel TV show host, a photojournalist, a creative writer, or any role which would present varied opportunities to live in different parts of the world.

So I started talking shop with Hang, who came over to order sushi with me tonight. By talking shop, I mean perving (or laughing) at Cleo’s latest eligible bachelors, online stalking Nadya Hutagalung, and finally discussing our entrepreneurial aspirations. Hang is one of my treasured inspirational sources in a sea of finance friends, who regularly injects a creative boost in my life. Just like how a beach getaway spices up my corporate-whoring path, her artistic influences keep me sane and on track.

P.S. the most promising Cleo bachelor we spotted is this dude Daryl Pan who’s a whopping 20 years old. Talk about feeling old. Jeez, he’s even younger than my younger brother.

Love That Lasts

2007-02-15T20:41:00.000-08:00

One of my girl friends Su and her boyfriend are currently in their 10th year of dating. T-E-N freakin’ years, people. That’s a whole decade of being together, through thick and thin, for better or worse. From our impressionable Sec. 3 school-uniformed years, through the developmental JC and college times and still going strong now.

Holy crap. That’s an impressive and almost unimaginable stretch of time, somehow dwarfed by the sheer stability of their relationship that has rode the tumultuous waves in these ten years. As the rest of us continually experience new relationships, some of which resulted in tormenting or much-desired breakups, Su and her guy have stood firm and together as a constant– like the couple that we have all grown to see and love as an eternal item. And that is so damn sweet.

So allow me to indulge in a little Pollyanna-ness here. Because couples like that are inspiring as hell. Two people who are still able to profess their love for each other even after ten years of peaks and troughs, who have survived the inevitable plateaus of complacency and unavoidable fights that might have almost resulted in separation, allow us to maintain a sanguine outlook on love and lasting relationships.

They are like the unyielding pillar of strength which we can rely on for hope and faith in emotional affairs, whenever our notions of love get tainted by the convoluted mind games or infidelity and distrust that commonly plague interactions that surround us nowadays. I’m not an entirely jaded individual, but I’ve seen and heard of pretty fucked up things that defy the distinct values and ideal expectations I have towards relationships.

Some of us can say we have been “crazy in love”. The kind of dizzying emotions that throw us off balance, make us insane with longing, seize your damn heart and rob you of precious emotional independence.

And as much as I believe that relationships should be founded upon the authenticity of such raw unadulterated emotions and pure chemistry between two individuals (as opposed to more pragmatic reasons like seeking comfort in convenient companionship or more materialistic grounds like wealth and social status), not every “crazy in love” couple lasts. Initial infatuations fade, intense feelings waver, aspirations diverge.

With every of our boyfriend-change, my dear Mom (who does NOT read this blog, and shall remain that way), who grew up in the generation of “we-marry-our-first-loves”, responds to the news with a resigned shake of her head and a tinge of disapproval. So until now, Su and her man are the only ones who dispute her diminishing faith in our frivolous Generation Y. Keep up the good work, sista.

On that note, I’m off to Jamaica for some sun, sand and sea. And rum.

Cut the BS, Please

2007-02-08T21:10:00.000-08:00

I call bullshit. Ted Haggard, once-homosexual pastor who was ousted from the Church by a gay sex scandal(NY Times Feb 7), has now turned over a new straight leaf. Apparently his three weeks of counseling felt like “three years’ worth of analysis and treatment,” and now “Jesus is starting to put (him) back together”.

So after a three-year affair with a male prostitute, and likely other undisclosed relationships, Mr. Haggard has completely and miraculously transformed into a straight man worthy of mention.

Translation: I have no fucking balls to retain my true gay identity and chose the cowardly path of claiming redemption in the name of religion. If Bush could successfully utilize the born-again Christian armor to shield his alcoholic past and imbecile brain so that the American public would shower him with undeserved votes, I can become straight with God’s help so that the Church will once again restore its faith in me.

Is it just me or does this story absolutely reek of blatant hypocrisy and sheer intolerance?

It was also written in the article that the people in Haggard’s community “define (homosexuality) as a behavior that can be changed, and there is this thinking that if you control those behaviors enough, heterosexual attractions will follow.” So they are in the camp of thought that socially divergent sexual orientations are a result of environmental nurturing, that sufficient psychiatric treatment and persistent suppression of such gay desires would ultimately result in one reverting to what nature intended and becoming a (thank goodness) straight individual again.

If things were really so distinctly black and white and if such progression of logic were to easily hold up in reality, there wouldn’t be any issues regarding sexuality, would there? Now why would any rational individual, who cherishes familial and societal acceptance, choose to inflict hurt upon his or her own life by treading a difficult path that would unavoidably evoke incisive criticism and sometimes excruciating ostracism?

And are these Bible-toting, self-righteous enthusiasts really enforcing their theological beliefs of the same religion that espouses tolerance and forgiveness?

I am a heterosexual. And I have a growing faith in God. I am also fortunate enough to have close friends of varied sexual orientations who would not succumb Ted-Haggard-style but who undoubtedly experience social pressures to conform to a certain mold that would fit right into the conservative Singapore scene. And it pisses me off that they have to deal with bullshit like this.

Under the Weather

2007-01-30T15:24:00.000-08:00

It’s that time of the year again- when your coworker has a sore throat, your neighbor is down with the flu, the one next to you on the subway is coughing his guts out. The harsh winter chills seem to bring with it a host of bacteria that cuts us overworked and overparty-ed beings no slack. Basically almost everyone is sick, and it’s not surprising that I –who hates veggies and wolfs down hazardous doses of junk food on a daily basis - am no exception.

It’s also not surprising that only when my immune system succumbs to the bout of deadly germs that I start taking my Vitamin Cs, eating salad and going to bed at a decent hour. I amuse myself sometimes with the perseverance I exhibit in times of sickness- despite my agonizing sore throat I still find the strength to down that shrimp tempura roll and chocolate cake for today’s lunch. Not to forget the vanilla raspberry swirl ice cream I’m contentedly feasting on now as I type this. It does soothe the throat, really.

Tomorrow I will once again haul my ailing ass to work because unless you’re nose-dribblin’ mind-numbin’ sick hardly anyone takes MCs (sick days) here. If anyone else is feeling physically under the weather like poor me here, get well soon- we’ll get some much-needed beers to celebrate our recovery.

My bed beckons. And before I retreat into this desired state of unconsciousness, time for an inspirational boost- commencement speeches by Steve Jobs of Apple and Carly Fiorina previously of HP are my favorites.

Random 101

2007-01-25T21:49:00.000-08:00

Ramblings of an insomniac at 12.40am – way past a weekday bedtime

I am obsessed with certain condiments – spicy sambal chili, peanut butter, wasabi- and eat them in unhealthy excess, with just about everything and anything.

Sleeping is the ultimate luxury I need to have more of. That hour spent lazing under a soft duvet right after I wake up is almost an orgasmic experience in itself.

I love having alone time. Just me, myself and I. To have inner monologues and ruminate over the people, places, events and just life in general.

Any form of media which touches on an emotional subject makes me cry too easily. TV series, movies, books. I have sobbed over episodes of Grey’s Anatomy, bawled during movies which reek of sentimental cheesiness like the Titanic, and wept over fiction from Judith McNaught –embarrassingly enough- to Reader’s Digest.

I have greatest and strangest phobia of frogs and their equally-gross relatives the toads. The sheer sight of these repulsive amphibians disturbs me even more than an OCD person would be in a pile of contaminated filth. Anyone who uses this fact against me will undoubtedly be stabbed mercilessly by yours truly.

Which brings me to my next weird point. My mom had to cover up photographs of insects, reptiles, amphibians and STD symptoms in my school textbooks so I could flip through the pages without getting a heart attack.

I am a compulsive over-achiever but realize that I should really take it easy sometimes. I swing intermittently between my ambitious, success-seeking, corporate-whoring self and the fluffy alter ego who wants to pursue more creative aspirations and entrepreneurial dreams, or possibly allow my maternal instincts to crystallize into a children-centric life.

I love kids. With an inexplicable passion.

Charlize Theron is the epitome of classic beauty, Sienna Miller the aesthetic perfection of style. Other favorites include Kate Hudson for the optimistic cheeriness she exudes, Julia Roberts for her loud uninhibited laughing, Meg Ryan for her genuine disposition and unforgettable faking-orgasm scene of When Harry Met Sally.

I like bad boys with good hearts- a rare, or non-existent, phenomenon.

I have never seen a horror movie, unless Scream is included in this category. Neither would I venture to dark places alone – let’s just say I’m not remotely different from a coward when it comes to the Eerie and the Creepy.

I am too judgmental. I don’t express my emotions enough. I can unleash one helluva bitch temper when provoked. I have ADD. I get bored easily. I get really random sometimes, especially in ungodly hours of the night when I can’t fall asleep. Like now.

School of Conformity

2007-01-17T20:30:00.000-08:00

Okay, so this is freaky. But I’ve discovered a foolproof way to shed ten years off your age and look instantly and effortlessly younger. Who needs La Mer eye creams and exorbitantly priced age-defying lotions when all you need to do is throw on that old school uniform of yours?

Warning: this method only works until a certain age. Once you hit that dreaded wrinkly shriveled menopausal phase, you’re beyond redemption.

Here’s the visual evidence. One of my gal pals recently had a “Back-to-School” themed birthday party. Although I wasn’t in Singapore to partake in the exciting Bibi & Baba excursion, I was treated to an arresting blast-from-the-past photographic display of my Sisters of a Better Age.

Oh those carefree days of yesteryear *sigh*… When playing hooky was the biggest concern on our impressionable minds, Far East McDonald’s was still a hangout spot, and the alpha-numeric pager was a fashion accessory. When boys and girls held hands and kissed innocently (well at least I did. Ahem!), and straight girls went through lesbian-ish phases.

And oh those suffocating times of regimented school rules. Pinafores two-finger-spaces below the knee. Belt firmly at the waist– the puffed up and loose pregnant looks would be duly punished with detention. Brand logos on our white shoes should not exceed God-knows-how-many inches. Hair neatly pulled back by black bands only.

Sure, Madam Headmaster. And do you meticulously observe such rigid discipline in the bedroom too? Missionary with one and only one pillow? Doggy at a perfect 90 degree angle, I bet. And ride on top- but only on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays.

In all fairness, this uniform school culture had its advantages. It saved me the extra time I would have spent choosing my outfit and dolling up in the mornings. The hours I would have spent shopping for and choosing outfits were devoted to more worthy pursuits- like basketball practice, talking on the phone (those were the pre-MSN days), watching TV (to nurture the young mind) and studying (nerds are cool, okay). And most importantly, sleeping. Admittedly I was guilty of even sleeping in my uniform so I could steal another five minutes of precious shut-eye in the mornings.

There is also something about such forced physical homogeneity that allowed us to channel our pubescent efforts to develop the individuals we were internally. Dressing up breeds a certain level of superficiality and vanity, that would have unconsciously seeped into our interactions in a school setting. A superficiality that might have hindered the development of meaningful, lasting friendships as I had during those uniformed girls-only school days.

Obviously our lives aren’t controlled experiments with tweak-able variable factors, so it’s hard to say that we all wouldn’t have turned out to be the same wonderful, strong, independent females in a completely different setting (Aha!).

But I do blame this stifling environment for propelling me in the other direction. Perhaps this is why I get drawn to rebellious characters. Men with a little renegade in them. Dudes with an avant-garde flair and concealed streak of eccentricity. A cowboy with no regard for hierarchy, a fighter pilot with no fear of danger, an artist with no acquiescence to convention.

For that bit of extraordinary that will rock my socks off. Or maybe it’s just lil’ ol’ mainstream me who craves others that would provoke and inspire. Another half who would balance out my potential urges to send the kids to excessive supplementary classes and insist on allegiance to the Raffles/Anglo-Chinese schooling heritage.

But who doesn’t stop me from donning that kinky school girl outfit every now and then, of course.

Changes and Such

2007-01-13T05:17:00.001-08:00

After three weeks of luxuriating in the balmy weather of Singapore (actually there was torrential rain the first two weeks, but at least it was warm) I almost forgot what it’s like to have to bundle up in layers. I’m going to refrain from commenting about the winter here in New York and jinxing it in the process, because it has been unseasonably warm. Which makes me one very ecstatic lady, and those with long oil positions very disgruntled peeps.

I am very much a warm-weather person. Meaning I cease to function normally when the temperature dips below 15 degrees Celsius (yes, I am officially in hibernation mode now) and my room has to be perpetually heated like a sauna. Moisturizing becomes a thrice-daily event, trying on clothes while shopping becomes a monstrous “shed-the-100-layers-of-clothing” affair. My social life grinds to an unhealthy halt (read: no dating action) and staying in becomes the most appealing option (read: get lazy and fat).

But as much as I adore tropical temperatures that allow me to wear short skirts and summer dresses all year round, I find myself having a surprising appreciation of the change in seasons. The turn of a season entails a transition of wardrobes (and never underestimate what fashion does for a gal), a switch to new activities (from snowboarding to golf), an alteration in lifestyle (emergence from hibernation) – all rather refreshing, actually.

Change and I have a love-hate relationship. On one hand, being the energetically restless character I am who craves regular novel pursuits, I look forward to and embrace change to quell the boredom that would inadvertently arise should my life be a plateau devoid of adventures and challenges.

On the other hand, accepting changes – specifically in the emotional department- has never been an effortless task for me. Moving around in the past six years has inevitably resulted in departures from family and good friends, and reluctant termination of relationships. And as much as I would like to think of myself as the embodiment of rationality and strength, and have approached most emotional changes in my life with the kind of practicality that I would similarly advocate to others, I was not completely insusceptible to the One Big Hit that smacks every one of us at least once in our lives. Because we are emotional creatures after all.

Close friends who witnessed the demise of this collected façade in my last relationship can attest to the fragility that unavoidably comes with being in love. The genuine vulnerability that accompanies that blissful indulgence. The illogical acceptance of excruciating inconveniences because the state of happiness could be so profoundly sweet.

Recognizing that a situation is unsustainable is one thing. Accepting and implementing the change is another. Moving on wasn’t the easiest accomplishment, but the painful process of change and letting go does build the strength of character and mature the mind, I suppose.

You learn more about yourself. You accept that it is perhaps okay to be vulnerable. You develop some sort of tenacity that you can wield in future changes, yet establish a softness that brings about a greater degree of selflessness. And maybe change isn’t so bad after all. Because everything happens for a reason, and you look forward to finding out what that reason is. So stay tuned.

New Year, Old Friends

2007-01-06T02:24:00.000-08:00

It’s 2007, kids. The beginning of a new year. Bring on the fireworks and celebration. Time to get serious cause this person is turning a quarter of a century old this year. Yikes.

The turn of a new year is merely a change of digits- purely aesthetic really, and perhaps just more of an administrative hassle because everyone has to get used to writing 2007 after 365 days of having the same year date. But it somehow heralds a whole new start of something new and exciting, prompting a slew of New Year resolutions which are hardly kept and a host of momentarily transformed worrywarts who suddenly realize that they are going to turn a year older and none the wiser.

Like many others I celebrated the New Year in intoxicated splendor. Alcohol overdose seems to be a common theme these days – but what the heck. I should revel in frivolous fun before I turn to my baby-making, husband-serving days looming ahead. Yeah right.

The past two weeks of merry-making festivities have been a blur- seeing old friends, old flames, partying till the wee hours of the morning before satisfying my alcohol-acidified stomach with copious amounts of greasy fatty hawker food. And despite the superficiality of party interactions and inconsequential conversations that go with it, the past weeks did make me realize what I’d really miss when I leave for New York again.

Being the sappy soul I really am, I tend to get all sentimental and nostalgic when I think of family and friends. Not to sound like a clichéd Oscar-winning speech, but I really am grateful for having these people in my life.

The ever-so reliable confidante who is always there for me. The childhood friend who shares a big part of my life. The brave one who uprooted for her dude. The petite but feisty one who never forgets anyone’s birthday. The skinny one who goes crazy when drunk. The cute little one with a heart of gold. The one with the endearing freckles. The London one whom I shared a crazy NYC summer with, refugee-style. The tough one who boxes and fights. The flakey chef-wannabe who is often MIA. The tai-tai who goes OMG… The one with the Spanish adventure. The adventurous soul with an Italian stallion. The designer with few words but a lot of spunk. The great friend and coworker with amazing maternal qualities.

I heart all of you.

Happy 2007. Find a wife, get a boyfriend, forget old flames, satisfy your bi-curiosity, spice up your life, take leaps of faith, seek new adventures – whatever your New Year resolutions are, all the best.

Waxing Lyrical

2006-12-17T15:57:00.000-08:00

R-III-PPPPPPPP.

That was the sound of wax strips brutally torn from my sensitive skin. But telling me to Rest In Peace would have been apt as well I suppose, given that it felt like I was precariously close to death when the wax-tress (for lack of better nouns) mercilessly pulled the wax strip from my hyper-sensitive lower body region, taking the firmly-rooted strands of coarse hair with it.

Yes, Brazilian waxes are as excruciating as they sound. And hells no, they do not get better, despite what I was told. I still, however, endure the twenty minutes of agony every couple of months. Fortunately this is the only area in which I am sadistically inclined to afflict pain upon myself.

I remember how my girlfriends and I were all “deflowered” at Strip Wheelock Place. As if the intensity of the traumatic experience could somewhat be abated by having our fellow comrades suffer in the next room too. But that’s what great girlfriends are all about. We freak out together in the waiting room, grimace involuntarily in different rooms when the torture starts, and then reunite once more to commiserate over retail therapy – in true girlish fashion.

Admittedly it was somewhat comforting to hear the Ouches and the Holy-Shit-it-hurts in the next room. Although the oddest part of the whole process was having a complete stranger scrutinizing my naked bottom half of the body (with very unglamorous Granny paper thongs too- thank goodness it isn’t a hot guy doing the waxing job) and asking in all seriousness what shape or pattern I wanted my manicured area to resemble.

You want a heart shape? (He’ll lurrrrrrrrrrrv it)
A lightning bolt? (OMG how much skilful tweezing would that require)
All off? (The Full Monty - just to satisfy those Lolita fantasies…)

I finally settled for a simple triangle. Boring, I know, but hey – I deserve some credit for embarking on this perilous hair-shedding journey in the first place. When I limped out of the execution room with remnants of wretched pain still dripping slowly out of my pale face, the receptionist at Strip tried injecting a positive dose of encouragement.

“Suffer now, enjoy later,” she said, and punctuated her comment with a mischievous knowing wink.

I wasn’t quite sure which I found odd: the bizarre advice I had just received or that it came from a straight-laced auntie-like woman who looked like the only position she had ever ventured to try was missionary.

I also wasn’t entirely certain if she meant that the person “enjoying later” would be me or my (then) boyfriend. But based on the common (mis)perception that Brazilian waxes are done solely for the partner’s enjoyment, she was probably referring to the latter.

And I could pretend that this torturous act is one of sacrifice, borne out of genuine altruism or utmost devotion to the pleasure of my man. But it’s not – fortunately. I do it because I’m vain and like it that way– just like how I like to wear nice lingerie even if they are solely for my viewing pleasure, and how I would have manicured nails (well most of the time anyway) even during the winter despite my feet making a bare appearance only at home. Regardless of whether I have a husband, boyfriend, fuck buddy or not.

Not that I’m morally opposed to doing it for a guy either, and he wouldn’t necessarily have to twist my arm for me to fulfill any special requests that is within reason of course. I mean, if he cooks, cleans, serves and pleasures, what’s a little waxing in exchange for all that?

And for a single girl, there’s always the “Just-in-case” theory. It never hurts to be prepared- a lady isn’t going to have the time to squeeze a Brazilian wax in between meeting an amazingly gorgeous dude at the bar and jumping into bed with him for the night.

So hear, hear. Whatever the reason is for going Brazilian- caving to trend influences or acceding to male desires, purely out of random curiosity or quirky mane preferences, it’s our bodies and we’ll wax if we want to.

Ouch.

I'm in Love

2006-12-12T20:24:00.000-08:00

Who: The cutest baby ever + Me.
When: Sunday brunch
What: Love at first sight
Why: Maternal instincts

Then? I want one too.

Farewell Pat

2006-12-10T13:51:00.000-08:00

Essentials for the Beijing journey:

Just-in-case air ticket back to Singapore (if the going gets rough)
Supplementary credit card courtesy of Mom & Dad (if the shopping is too good)
The rabbit (if he gets too busy)
Photos of us (if you forget what we look like)

When you make a life-changing decision to move to Beijing with your boyfriend, you deserve a mention in this blog (in the title, no less).

When you set your heart on this one person you love and want to marry, sacrifice certain things in your life so that the relationship would work out, you deserve all my heartfelt best wishes and utmost admiration.

It’s funny how your name had always indisputably emerged as one of the first few who would get hitched the soonest (if not, the first haha) when we had those girlish conversations during our school days. Funny, because now you’re really taking that gigantic pivotal step towards Marriage-dom. And also funny, because I was hardly elected as part of the pioneering batch and (lo and behold) I am predictably well on my way to becoming an old maid ;)

I’m surrounded by friends who lead similar semi-nomadic lives as I am now, who have also consequently developed a certain level of detachment from home and constructed strength in distancing ourselves from emotional matters which might dictate a different life direction than our aspirations point us to.

The one who left a boyfriend and comfortable life in Hong Kong to accept more promising career advancement halfway across the world. The one who delayed an expected return to her Singapore man in exchange for a transitory design stopover in this inspirational city. The one who, despite commitment to a longtime love from home, made the heart-wrenching decision to fulfill her wanderlust and pursue the libertine in her.

While it takes an immeasurable amount of courage and strength to resist the pull of emotional comfort and the allure of settling down to carve an independent life journey as these girls have, it requires the same degree of fortitude (or arguably greater) to abandon your fears and uncertainty, to surrender the current chapter of your life so that your story can be told with his from now on.

What I have most respect for is the level of selflessness involved in such a choice. Something I am not confident of achieving, because it scares the hell out of me to make a life-changing decision because of another person that isn’t my family. Sure, we can always attempt to hedge our bets (with spoken promises, signed agreements, or potential threats haha) but ultimately if we don’t take the plunge with wholehearted belief and 101% commitment, we will never reap the benefits of being truly happy with someone we truly love.

And now that you are taking that plunge, albeit with unavoidable apprehension, you not only have the love and gratitude of your boy but also the moral support of all us girlfriends. But rest assured that I will still be that bitter biaaatch when I receive a wedding invitation sometime down the road, for your early betrayal and leaving me in the Single Girls Club (a.k.a. Spinsters United – new members always welcome).

But for now, I wish all you the best and happily ever after. Until I fall in love and be courageous enough to allow the romantic optimist in me to surface, I shall live somewhat vicariously through your fairytale experience. To me, I wish myself good luck and may I one day make such a sacrificial decision.

P.S. Bring me a good present back from China.

A Decade Later

2006-11-29T20:28:00.001-08:00

… Would I still be writing on this blog?

… Would I be the MILF-esque tai tai seeing my two kids off to Sunday school in an ostentatious BMW or the powerful executive ferociously tearing through the corporate jungle with a tenacity that also happens to scare most eligible men away? Hmm.

… Would I be happily married to a Singaporean living in the comforts of my tropical homeland or contentedly settled in American suburbia with a white picket fence and angmoh husband?

First of all, (drum roll and red carpet please) a big congratulatory pat on my back to commemorate the four-month anniversary of this blog, which has been kept alive and is still going strong. What a monumental milestone- especially for someone with a short attention span and commitment phobia, whose countless failed attempts to maintain any semblance of a written journal in the past certainly did not provide much initial optimism for this online endeavor.

I have surprisingly found much personal gratification from the written word. Bear hug to J, which I started writing for, without which I wouldn’t have discovered this refreshingly therapeutic outlet to stir and channel creative juices into, especially after a crazy day at work crunching numbers and reading economic news.

This is like an e-canvas of what I am like as I grow older, a chart of my maturing mind as it enriches and transforms with every passing day. So that a decade later, wherever I am and however I may be, I can look back on this evolving sketch of myself, laugh at how unembarressingly foolish I was and laud myself on what a precocious worldly twenty-something I was (like, hello...).

I have loosely predefined ideas of what I want the next decade to bring – married by the age of 30, have two kids in the following four years (preferably a boy and a girl please), attain a certain elevated level of career achievement by then so that my priorities can be moved to my children and family.

After my fun and fling-filled years in New York, I would meet my inspiring other half whom I would be madly in love with and move back to Asia to spend more time with my precious folks. I would, of course, be a smokin’ hot mom who engages in both frivolous activities like high teas with my lovely girlfriends and intellectually fulfilling activities like running my bakery business, freelance writing and managing my personal investment portfolio.

How cliché. But I like cliché in some areas, and I want cliché sometimes.

And quite the grand plan I suppose. If life has taught me anything in the past twenty four years, it is that things seldom go according to the grandiose scheme one so gingerly and thoughtfully weaves. Life is going to throw me some unanticipated curveballs, some which I would be able to deflect, some which would divert me off the chartered path into unknown territory.

But as much as the proverbial bed of roses I strive for is inevitably going to get thorny at times, I will (being the eternal optimist and perhaps perfectionist I am) continue to fertilize it with sanguine hopes, glorious notions and inspirational endeavors. I am going to embrace my young years (or what’s left of it!) and grab the next decade by its damn balls.

So when I become an old wrinkled shriveled hag, I would at least be an old hag that once was.

Before You Know It

2006-11-24T20:15:00.000-08:00

Sometimes it creeps up on you with such stealth that you are completely caught off guard. You presume that your indifference towards unwanted advances from others could also be applied to everyone and anyone else at will.

You don’t realize it even when he’s one of the people you email and call the most often. Or even when he is the first who comes to mind when something funny happens. Not even when you somehow end up calling him on drunken nights just before you pass out into inebriated oblivion and wake up the next morning convincing yourself it meant nothing.

Denial is still in full force when his name appearing on your cell phone precipitates an effervescent smile on your lit up face. The smile that you instantly suppress to maintain a collected façade.

Because the last thing you want is to lose control. It is unnerving as hell.

When odd waves of unfamiliar jealousy surface unexpectedly, you use it as a subtle reminder that you should keep yourself in check. Caution, my dear, with a capital C.

You are confident that the little tinker of feelings you might have felt can be stifled, because there are many pragmatic reasons that would hinder the feasibility of anything happening, and inconvenient grounds that should prevent it from developing. As always, practicality should take precedence over any whimsical direction your heart might want to take you to, but it doesn’t.

And since you are so incapable of emotional expression he cannot be absolutely certain how you feel. But you like it that way, being the fiercely private and guarded individual you are.

Jokes and excuses are useful tools when it comes to concealing genuine emotions that lie beneath layers of apprehension. So you continue with the casual banter, masking the ebb and flow of feelings that you would hardly admit to.

Yet your voice softens a little when you talk to him. Your eyes glow a little when you think of him. And your heart might beat a little more quickly if you would see him.

Even before you know it, you’re toast.

Disclaimer: characters in this entry are either 1) purely fictional or 2) extracted from the past. Take your pick.

10 Things I Hate About Winter

2006-11-22T13:54:00.000-08:00

1) It’s cold. ‘Nuff said.

2) The subways smell like the rats died a century ago and the carcasses were never cleared. Think of the kind of environment where a silent and deadly fart would go unnoticed by passengers. You wonder when it started being cool to emanate the Homeless Stench. What’s scary is that your olfactory senses get used to the pungent odor 2 minutes after being in the subway, you worry that you reek of the same stinkin’ scent when you get out and don’t realize it.

3) Going to the gym seems like climbing Mount Everest. I think about accomplishing this admirable feat, but can never haul my ass out of my PJs and out of the warm apartment. Even if I do make the trek, I would possibly freeze and die on my way. Such paramount self-preservation grounds require that I don’t ever make it there. The Couch Potato triumphs o’er the Eager Beavers.

4) I have to wear winter clothes. Bulky, puffy coats with numerous layers that hide my oh-so-svelte silhouette (yeahhhh, right). Unflattering is an understatement. I can’t decide if I bear a stronger resemblance to a snowball (inanimate object, so not very realistic) or a walrus (ooh, now we’re talkin’). Which leads me to my next point.

5) I gain the dreaded pounds. What is it about nesting in the warm, comfortable, and luxurious indoors that makes it so much more irresistible an option than braving the harsh inhumane temperatures out? I could never understand the appeal. That’s why I keep trying the former. And reassuring myself that the extra blubber is there for a reason. To hell with Skinnys – they’ll freeze their bony asses off.

6) Sometimes I feel compelled to have a winter-hugger during this hibernation period. A lovely companion whom I can snuggle with under covers and whom I can bitch to about the damn weather. Who comes to me so that I don’t have to venture out within my 2 meter radius of the apartment. But therein lies the profound complications- I’d have to dump him in time for summer a.k.a. the season of fun, laughter, and flings. Too much hassle.

7) I lied. There are only 6 points I can think of. Maybe winter wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Laughter is the Best Medicine

2006-11-12T13:37:00.000-08:00

There is nothing a good hearty laugh can’t cure. And being the receptive patient I am, I like to believe that there is nothing as tragically catastrophic or gravely serious that laughing can’t remedy. Regardless of how transient that comedic moment might be, its lingering effects are undoubtedly uplifting and undeniably helpful in just making things a tad bit better.

I am anything but ladylike when it comes to laughing. A demure giggle or a bashful smile simply does no justice to a witty joke or funny story. I would throw my head back with candid ardor and convulse into resounding laughter, while my body shakes with a bubbling effervescence that emanates from deep within, only to end up breathlessly (and probably unglamorously) spent.

And I would definitely appreciate similar uninhibited laughing behavior in a man. That and an incredible sense of humor. I mean, good looks are seriously overrated and it is a quality which seldom suffices as compensation for the lack of personality. (Seldom being the operative word here, to which I would add a disclaimer that if Brad Pitt were exceedingly dull I would be very tolerant of that nevertheless.)

Yes, yes, after my limited years of experience I have transcended the superficiality that has plagued me in my younger days. As much as I still get initially drawn to physically attractive men, I have found a disturbing number of them to be rather uninspiring. I mean, a gorgeous male with a boring personality is, well, just boring.

There is nothing more painful than sitting through dinner with a date whose blandness surpasses that dreadful bowl of un-salted, un-spiced, un-fried steamed veggies the Detox Diet advocates. Or someone who is so serious he would look right at home with a Judge’s wig and gavel. Have an interest, talk about your passions, joke about something. Even if he had that Jim Carey sense of “Twist-my-Plasticine-face-so-I’ll-be-funny” brand of humor, I would be somewhat relieved.

Here’s my very insightful theory (*ahem*): guys with such redeeming physical qualities (i.e. good looks) often turn out to be disappointing because they don’t have to try as hard as their fellow less handsome counterparts. Ladies flock to them en masse and are generally more forgiving of their character flaws. And since they have more margin for error, aesthetically pleasing guys can afford to be less interesting and engaging, and get the same amount of ass.

For me, it’s often love at first laugh. The emotional connection experienced when I share and enjoy a hilarious moment is profoundly touching. There is something comfortable and comforting to laugh away carelessly with someone. Oddly enough, it is then that I open up to another individual. No amount of fancy dinner dates expensed or smooth lines delivered can find a place in my heart more than a bout of laughing would. (But hey, if those were complimentary sides I definitely wouldn’t refuse them.)

And no, I’m not talking about the obligatory giggle one might feel compelled to produce in a social setting, or the subtle smile that one would politely display to avoid the inevitable transitory moments of awkward silence on the first date.

It’s the hearty chuckle connection that would be telling of a much deeper emotional and cerebral association between two parties, also known as chemistry. The kind that connects the depths of two souls with a spark that elicits incandescent smiles on the pair of luminous faces.

Exactly what was lacking in my interactions with Unnamed-Dude. Reasonably attractive, occupationally successful, socially gregarious, he was the type that looked amazing on paper and would certainly qualify as a great catch. And although I didn’t quite feel the sizzle with this eligible bachelor, his relentless pursuance and thoughtful gestures did eventually lead me to make the conscious deliberate effort to give it a shot.

I can’t quite identity any particular reason for not luxuriating in such a companionship that would have struck almost a perfect ten in every other department, except for the fact that I haven’t had a good laugh with him. But this empty checkbox made the whole application so strikingly incomplete, that it would be impossible to elevate our friendship status to a more intimate level.

Affectionate indulgences are reserved exclusively for a certain someone would be the first who comes to my mind when a funny incident happens. Someone whom I can’t wait to relate the hilarious story to because I know he would also appreciate its humor and revel in the hiliarity of it all. Someone who steps into my carefully guarded comfort zone in the midst of laughing away during the most mundane of activities- like coffee or brunch, stuck in traffic or lazing in bed.

So to the not-so-good looking and not-so-rich men out there, despair not. Because life is fair, and you can cultivate a good sense of humor which would significantly enhance your desirability to many women out there like me. But beware the fine line between amusingly sarcastic and irritatingly deprecating, entertainingly witty and embarrassingly corny. Just throw in some lighthearted humor, don’t try too hard, and keep us tickled and smiling all night long.

Of Camel Toes and VPLs

2006-11-08T18:51:00.001-08:00

It was rather amusing and enlightening to discover the definition of a “Camel Toe” today. (Check out the Wikipedia link. Don’t you just love the juxtaposition of picture examples with the actual animal hoof it was derived from?)
This topic came about when Amy, one of our friends who stayed over at our apartment last night, lamented about the state of her poor butt that she had to squeeze into Shan’s teeny “suction shorts”. Jacqui, another slumber-party friend, promptly pointed out she had a Camel Toe. Upon seeing the extremely confused “What-the-fuck-is-that” expressions on Shan’s and my face, she proceeded to elucidate with a vivid demonstration by hiking her tights up.

Ladies, this is a Camel Toe. When your bottom is so tight that it reveals the shape of your crotch. And then some. Sweeeet. It was one of the funniest things I’ve heard all week.

I wonder if I have been a Camel Toe-er before. Thinking back on those times when I had been too lazy to throw on underwear (sometimes going commando is just much more comfortable when working out), my fitting gym pants probably were not helpful in concealing an embarrassing display of you-know-what.

Speaking of revealing the unwanted, one thing that I steer clear from is Visible Panty Lines. It just bothers me somehow. Popular media and slick advertising have led us to believe that this VPL phenomenon is an extreme turn-off for men. While I don’t entirely buy that, I can see how this propaganda would sell the abundant variations of G-strings, V-strings and thongs.

Interestingly enough, I know of a few men who don’t mind, and a rare few who actually like visible panty lines. Something along the lines of “Ooh, VPL reminders are so visually sexual because you know she’s wearing one and you can rip it off”.

Uhhh, sure. I’d be curious to hear more male opinions on this subject and to find out if any surveys have been done (because statistics are always SO reliable and survey samples are SO representative of the general population. But I digress).

Personally, this aversion to Panty-Peek-a-boo has nothing to do with pandering to male preferences. VPLs just make me… uncomfortable. And they are just unsightly. It’s like wearing a Versace gown and Granny panties underneath. Definitely not too sexy. My perky ass is one of my very few assets (other than my riveting personality, of course), so why would I allow an unnecessary avoidable VPL steal the limelight?

That’s why, in the name of vanity, I endure ass-splitting thongs and torturously uncomfortable V-strings. I go in the buff when needed. I also religiously ensure that my legs and armpits are hair-free, eyebrows are neatly plucked and nails are immaculately manicured (well, at least I try to). Because even though we are all cognizant that certain things are there or occur naturally, we continue to resist it with our individual minds that are already tuned to social conventions of beauty.

Any rebels out there?

Starvation Sucks

2006-10-07T13:51:00.001-07:00

Big time. And I know this for a fact, because I am currently living through a hellish experience otherwise known as a detox diet.

What started out as a frivolous bet between my boss and me evolved into a full-fledged challenge on my discipline. Of which I have absolutely none when it comes to restraining the consumption of carbohydrates, chocolate and cookies (the 3 evil Cs). Sure, I desperately hope to do justice to Skinny jeans when I wear them, but this desire to lose weight unfortunately pales in comparison to the immense utility I derive from chomping down every morsel of that delicious meal.

That’s why a girl with as weak a resolve and as insatiable an appetite like me should not be engaging in deadly 3-day liquid-only detox diets. But what I lack in determination I make up for in pride, of which I had a lot at stake if I were to back out of the diet. In my carb-starved opinion this intestinal cleansing/weight loss regime is not at all worth the sacrifice, but the competitive spirit in me persists as the driving force behind my unrecognizable self who is actually keeping to this impressive regiment. (And as I type this long sentence I come precariously close to collapsing).

As torturous as this process is, I do admittedly experience a sense of satisfaction as I see my weight dip on the bathroom scale. With every treacherous pound shed, I push just a little bit closer to my ideal weight. Because like almost every other girl out there, I am on a perpetual quest to be slimmer. My stomach could be flatter, legs could be thinner, face could be more chiseled…

Thin is unfortunately so in, as you can probably tell from photos of anorexic celebrities splattered all over the tabloids and emaciated models strolling down the runway. Gone are the Rubenesque days when women’s ample curves were appreciated and celebrated. Wide hips and plump asses are only condoned in paintings of Peter Paul Rubens and the disgraceful “Before” portion of slimming commercials.

And just when I thought nothing could be worse than the waif look making a comeback, I realize that the look du jour is now thin with boobs. Not just Kate Moss, mind you, it’s Kate Moss with Tyra Banks boobs.

I am not huge by any measure, but I inevitably feel the compulsion to fit into a Size 2 (but if I skipped today’s dinner I could perhaps squeeze into the Size 0…) or an Extra-Small. Especially when I go back to Singapore, where thin isn’t just in, it’s everywhere.

The Skinnys are walking down Orchard Road and gyrating away at Butter Factory in their teeny tiny outfits. And oh, just in case you were oblivious to those reminders, retail stores are there to unapologetically assure you that they do not carry sizes larger than medium.

Sorry miss, these come in only one size. One tiny size.

Alas, I am but a trend-whore, slave to the societal ideals of beauty, fan of the unattainably svelte model figures perpetuating such impossible body images. Vanity makes one dangerously vulnerable to unrealistic promises touted by advertisers prowling the consumer landscape and unrealistic photographs by magazines in pursuit of their circulation goals. We become increasingly demanding of ourselves to look perfect.

Botox off your worries, Nip and Tuck your concerns away, and Lipo whatever is in excess. You do it because you can afford it, technology allows it, and society accepts it.

Dietary fads are all the rage. With buzz words like South Beach and Atkins pervading our everyday lives, why would we even recall the old school way of eating healthy and exercising? Besides, if all else fails, we can always pop over to Marie France and fork out an exorbitant fee for so-called professionals to envelope us in seaweed wraps and jab us with vibrating ultrasound (ooh, I don’t even know what this word means) fat-dissolving gadgets.

And though I am cognizant of such deleterious influences, I fall prey to it. Just sometimes, somewhat, in some ways, to some extent. But now all I am thinking about is that once I win this bet, I am going to take one for the team and eat with a vengeance. For my deprived 3 days, for all the starved refugees and for all the anorexic peeps out there.

(P.S. refer here for gorging eat-fest post-mortem)

Vegas baby, Vegas

2006-10-02T16:02:00.000-07:00

Why do guys always maintain that nothing scandalous goes on during bachelor parties or all boys’ weekends in Vegas (or Miami, or Cancun, or wherever their mighty dicks lead them to)? That it is mostly gambling in the casinos, or partying in the clubs, and the strippers in the clubs are just seen but not touched.

Maybe it’s the men’s code of honor, which dictates that secrets within are only shared among those with a complete pair of XY chromosomes. But I don’t have a stick up my ass, so I wouldn’t be uncomfortable or insulted knowing that you paid good money to shag a hooker. In fact, I might even spare a modicum of respect if you had safe sex and used protection so that you would not implicate your next partner.

I am going to get a stripper for the next girlfriend who gets married. (Pat, you might want to watch out for this. Haha). There is something exciting about this forbidden stripper dish, which isn’t usually found on a regular gal’s night out menu, that makes the hen’s night meal so complete.

Also my last experience with a stripper left me with a bitter taste of revulsion that I need another to erase its memory.

So in college my sorority (Yes, you can stop laughing. In my defense, I depledged in my senior year. *snaps* to that) hired a stripper just for the heck of it. One night forty girls piled into someone’s house, waiting in eager and curious anticipation for this stripper to drive up all the way from Boston. Apparently our friend “ordered” him from a click-and-choose website with a photograph included, so we were all assured that he was previously screened by someone of decent judgment. Or so we thought.

Alas, we learned never to have expectations. Actually, even if we didn’t, I doubt our response would have been much different.

This dude was repulsive beyond recognition. Short, stocky, with beady eyes and Mafia-greased hair (… it gets worse), he had the worst case of backne (back acne) you could ever imagine. With all due respect to the STD-sufferers out there, he looked like he had gonorrhea. Or syphilis. Or whatever God-awful disease you can contract which would necessitate seclusion from the rest of humanity.

He started grooving and stripping to forty screaming girls running away from him. I fled for dear life – the possibility of pus from his back acne oozing out might have resulted in a deadly infection I could hardly afford.

To my dear girlfriends, whichever one of you who gets hitched first, I solemnly promise that I will personally pick an eligible hot male stripper who is taller than us, with rippling muscles, smooth skin and eyes which you can actually see. As much as I would like to claim this concerted effort stems purely from the altruistic heart of mine, it is in actuality solely for selfish personal reasons (uuhhh… it’s the single chicks who need action, girlfriends).

Ain’t going to be no Vegas, but it sure as hell is going to be skanky and hell of a lot fun. And we’ll live to tell every juicy detail.

Truth be Told

2006-09-26T18:32:00.000-07:00

Someone once told me that this phrase is the perfect example of poor journalistic writing. Reporting facts is a requirement, not a choice, thus the declaration of "truth be told" in any piece of writing would be considered superfluous and clear evidence of amateur script.

(Of course, facts are subject to interpretation which creates room for much storytelling, but I suppose the assumption is that fiction should never be the foundation of it.)

I want to be always told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

Unfortunately the truth is, our colorful lives are much more indistinct than the stories related in black and white print. The sheer ambiguity of human relationships can prove frustrating to someone accustomed to precise answers and definite conclusions. Someone like me, to whom the murky realm of “it’s not that simple” or “things just happen” or “it’s just a misunderstanding again” does not exist.

Someone also once told me that I would struggle to accept the shades of grey which unfortunately exist in the real world. That my unapologetically strong personality would inevitably result in internal conflicts. That my obstinate insistence on drawing distinct lines between black and white, right and wrong, acceptable or not, would eventually crater with maturity.

I am starting to see what that someone meant.

Honesty is not always the best policy, and that little white lies are not always detrimental. In the real world you don't call a spade a spade, you embellish it with flattery, exaggeration, euphemisms and excuses. What we then end up with is edited variations of the truth.

I have been through corporate recruiting and painted a grandiose canvas of my abilities. I have witnessed friendships preserved because a tactful selection of words prevented unnecessary misunderstanding. And I have seen relationships survive because trivial tales of harmless flirtation or straying thoughts (or perhaps even a meaningless one night stand) were better left unspoken.

Words are funny things, especially when strung together into emotional promises.

Tell a little white lie, and say a little prayer- that you won’t ever get caught. Or please do us the favor of concealing it so well. Because the moment of truth brings as devastating a betrayal, regardless of whether it’s a twisted version of facts or a purely fabricated story.

Because the entire concert you were once captivated by becomes merely an orchestrated façade. It crumbles into nothing because everything you previously trusted was based on a vacuous medium of theatrical gestures and empty vows. And truth be told, no amount of words can bring the show back.

Up the Bi-Ladder

2006-09-23T11:34:00.000-07:00

I had a personal revelation last week. I found myself attracted to another female.

Yes, yes I know. Experimentation is so last season, and girl crushes would even be considered retro.

But until then, I had been firmly rooted in the very straight bottom rung of the Bi-Ladder. You would think 24 years of being in the straight camp with no desire at all to venture out would have sealed me as one of those boring heterosexual girls (courtesy of my experimental or lesbian friends). Well I certainly thought so. That’s why I find my response to that incident so intriguing.

So I was waiting in line at Bed Bath and Beyond that afternoon. Usually any activity which involves making me wait would be marred by extreme impatience and annoyance, except that today my attention was fixated on this girl in front of me. With a to-die-for figure and a glowing bronze tan that one can only dream of airbrushing on, she was casual chic and effortless grace all rolled into one delectable French package.

And if I may be presumptuous, there was definitely the spark factor. Which have been ignited before, but only with dudes.

The flirtatious confidence that she exuded unnerved me somewhat. Wit and humor, both of which I normally possess in abundance (I mean, can’t you tell?), flew right out of me and left an uptight unfriendly self standing there.

Damn! Why do I get tongue-tied at the most inopportune moments, when I need to display my usual charming demeanor most?

While my unanticipated reaction can hardly be construed as a precursor to bisexual territory (I’m not even remotely close to toeing the bi-line), it is interestingly novel enough to warrant some self-reflection.

Apart from the innocuous secondary-school crushes on the Head Prefect or House Captains, I have never been sexually drawn to another female, nor bi-curious enough to attempt any experimentation. It was just the lack of attraction to another girl, and not any conservative or prudish streak, which hindered my potentially divergent sexual activities.

I have never found dating only men monotonous. Soft lips and luscious skin of a woman just never really appealed to me. In fact, I love tough and strong men who reek of cologne-d masculinity. There is nothing sexier than a confident man taking charge, in and out of the bedroom. If you presented me an alpha male – egos, muscles, dick and the full works, I’d say bring it on.

Hell, if any Tarzan-esque male wanted to pander to my every need and be a pillar of support, I’d gladly play that damsel in distress. Only if you don’t infringe on my feministic qualities of course. (Yes, I have double standards, but so do you).

The ebb of my faith in the male species, which have proven to be disappointingly untrustworthy and despicably promiscuous, could probably be compensated if I expanded my opportunity set of relationships to females as well. If men turn out to be the assholes they are reputed to be, I can say a very gratifying “Fuck you” to them and give my undivided attention to the lovely women out there.

It’s only a baby step up the Bi-ladder, but you know what they say about slow and steady winning the race.

It's a Small World After All

2006-09-17T17:00:00.000-07:00

They say we're all associated by six degrees of separation. Sometimes the world feels a whole lot smaller, especially in Singapore where social circles are frequently interlinked.

Like how your best friend’s ex-boyfriend’s cousin’s brother is your boyfriend that you’re trying to break up with, because your attention has been diverted to your roommate’s colleague whom you had incidentally gone to primary school with. You get the idea.

As claustrophobic as this proximity to everyone can be, it does breed a sense of familiarity and comfort which makes one feel perfectly at home. That’s why it feels especially heartwarming when the daunting big city of New York starts to resemble this “small world” I know so very well.

When this bustling city presents itself in its gargantuan proportions and a diverse population of eight million, coincidences are hardly a consideration. But recently I have been randomly bumping into friends around the city. Jeff at Dos Caminos in Soho, Winnie at a brunch place in Tribeca, Dave at Kiehl’s in the East Village, Lindsey at a Nolita store… Seeing familiar faces on the streets is like evidence of the life that I am slowly building up here, of the sprawling city that I have shrunk with the social network that I am establishing. It makes New York feel more like home.

Suddenly the streets of New York don’t feel that foreign anymore- I am gradually becoming less of that detached individual transitioning through this cosmopolitan city, and more of someone who has a list of favorite eating haunts (Stanton Social! La Esquina! Yama!), that ghetto massage place I frequent (I don’t think it even has a name. But it is AMAZING, I promise), the Japanese hairstylist who can’t really speak English but to whom I have wholehearted hair-trust in (little Japanese dude at St. Mark’s Place), the trendy coffee/drinks spot just down the street (Epistrophy- I even love the name).

For a long time when I first moved here, my heart was rooted firmly at home because of a long-distance relationship. It was somewhat of an emotional tug-of-war, having to establish a life for my physical self here, while the very core of my being never left Singapore nor the special someone who made the few months before I left so memorable. But now both parts of me have converged in New York- I am living in the present and loving it.

Technolo-what?

2006-09-12T18:50:00.000-07:00

I am officially hopeless at anything technology-related. Numbers are my thang and words do flow effortlessly, but when it comes to navigating around the land of IT and computers I falter badly.

Which is why this simplicity is the ongoing theme on this blog. As much as I would love to showcase narcissistic pictures of my Photoshop-ed (or potentially plastic-surgerized) face tilted at varying strategic angles, my technological unsavvy-ness incapacitates me. No templates or skins or links YET (yet being the operative word. I promise I will learn how to eventually).

Being the 21st century high-tech chick I clearly am not, I do however appreciate very much how technology has readily made a wealth of information available over the internet. I can google, mapquest, citysearch anything and cyber-stalk anyone. My most recent discovery is quite a life-changing one - Feedreader.com (all thanks to my tech superhero justin). It collates articles from different online sources and updates automatically all into one screen, making it exceedingly convenient and the perfect solution for a voracious reader like me who simply has no time to peruse individual websites (I find watching trashy TV shows a more fulfilling pastime actually).

It forwards me the Wall Street article about oil prices hitting $65, prompts me when BusinessWeek writes about the branding revamp of Lacoste., and even dishes the dirt on celebs from the various tabloids. Feedreader and I are like, BFF (Best Friends Forever, like hello).

On the similar geeky note, I just found this interesting site www.brandchannel.com by Interbrand. Now I have another source of distraction at work when I get tired of reading about the high yield bond market or economists attempting to decipher Bernanke's Fed speech.

The Prenup Requisite

2006-09-02T20:39:00.000-07:00

I made a bet with my friend Eric on the legality of prenuptial agreements in Singapore. It had seemed to me almost ludicrous that such contracts to protect one’s wealth would not already be in place in our advanced legal system. So confident was I in winning the bet that I suggested the loser had to walk into Balaclava in their underwear.

Turned out I was wrong. Yikes.

Clearly I was not going to stroll into one of the most crowded bars in Singapore scandalously clad. So I did what any conniving but self-respecting wuss would do - wiggle out of the bet by agreeing to walk in WITH my underwear. Beneath my clothes of course.

What sparked off this conversation was a conversation about whether we would sign prenups before marriage. I struggled with an answer, because as much as the pragmatic side of me would be supportive of one, it feels fundamentally wrong to commit to a marriage out of love that is also simultaneously protected by a prenup.

On one hand, I believe in gender equality and female independence, and want to be in a relationship which exhibits both. Both the man and woman (whoever the concerned wealthier party is) should have the prenup tool to screen any potential money-grubbing spouses from pocketing their wealth just like that.

Surely monetary compensation for a marital failure cannot repair the emotional damage or alleviate the trauma that would ensue. For me at least. Besides, I am going to be independently wealthy (cross my fingers ha) so I wouldn’t need any of his anyway.

So theoretically speaking, it shouldn’t be a problem for me to sign a prenup right?

Yet it would disturb me a great deal if my husband-to-be were to request for one. Signing a prenup is recognition of a potential divorce, and to enter a marriage with this mentality completely defeats the purpose of this sacred unity. The idealistic romantic in me wants to believe those wedding vows wholeheartedly and utter those promises of “Til death do us part” and “To love and cherish forever” with unwavering trust. And having a discussion on the split of assets post-divorce would certainly shatter that possibility.

As much as I like to apply practicality in everything I do, my ideals of love and marriage stay untarnished, and will hopefully remain so. To avoid this precautionary measure of a prenup isn’t denial of the possibility that a divorce might happen. Rather, it is evidence of someone who believes in marriage enough to be willing to take the risk.

And this would be someone I can entrust my heart to.

The Roger Substitute

2006-08-24T21:47:00.000-07:00

Allow me to introduce you to Mr. Roger- the revered rabbit vibrator. Introduced and immortalized in Sex and the City, adopted and revered by us civilians who happen to get a lot less action that the four perky 30 somethings.

It is amazingly powerful, surprisingly reliable and inordinately pleasurable. Available 24/7, wherever and however you want it. This exquisite creation only requires the minimal investment of three AA batteries yet guarantees extraordinarily breathtaking (literally) results. What more can a girl ask for?

And all that assured ecstasy without the emotional entanglement of relationships or unwanted dependence on another person makes it an essential in every female’s life. Women can now embrace this possibility of eliminating the need to turn to men for sexual fulfillment. I am no bra-burning, men-hating feminist, just a strong independent female who rejoices in this liberating assertion of my independence. And for someone like me who does not quite luxuriate in random hook-ups, the rabbit is one convenient must-have in a single girl’s life.

I was a girl about to embark on a long-distance relationship when I received this as a birthday/farewell present from my oh-so-thoughtful girlfriends. It served as a just-in-case Plan B, should I decide not to partake in the debauchery of the hedonistic Singles Paradise that is New York City. This gesture turned out to be a prudent one, for as sad as this may sound, Mr. Roger has tide me over many nights.

With the rabbit, let me assure you that you get there EVERY SINGLE TIME. No hassle, no games, no disappointment. And most importantly, no need to fake it – it is the real McCoy every time. To all the men out there who think they are God’s gift to women, this might come as a somber reminder of your mortality. The intense vibrations of the rabbit can hardly be replicated by any guy, which substantiates my conclusion that it would be extremely difficult, if not impossible, for a guy to deliver orgasms with that intensity and consistency. Sorry dudes this sounds harsh, but reality often is.

I wonder if the insatiable desire for efficiency and speed that people in New York inevitably develop has diffused into my sexual perspective as well (gosh this sounds sad). Time is of the utmost important in this city that never sleeps because there is too much to do and see; no one wastes it. So why go through the dating process when I can rely on the rabbit for non-committal, immediate satisfaction?

Perhaps I am also becoming increasingly jaded about relationships. Living in this city and being in the industry I am in (read: testosterone-filled DUDES with too much money and an overwhelming desire to score with girls) certainly does not help my cynical perspective. It is only with absolute caution that I guard my heart against the destructive waves of frivolous relationships, and seek solace with Mr. Roger who never disappoints.

I guess it boils down to me choosing the rabbit over a one-night stand. I am not a conservative girl, nor do I judge women for indulging in their passions (in fact, kudos those who do), but I personally do not quite fancy sleeping with someone I don’t have special feelings for. Yet the rabbit would hardly be a gratifying substitute for physical intimacy with someone I really like and care for.

Despite the reassuring certainty of achieving the big O with the good ol’ rabbit, it is so much more worthwhile to engage meaningfully with someone who makes me laugh. Someone who inspires me. Motivates me. Excites me. Preferably all of the above.

The best sex I have had was with, no not Mr. Roger Rabbit, but a special someone whom I was very much in love with. The emotional affiliation with another person makes the interactive experience incomparably better than a vibrating object. That being said, I would not chuck the rabbit into a corner even if I find someone like that. After all, Mr. Roger may not be a complete substitute, but it sure as hell can be a great complement. ;)

My Debut

2006-08-23T17:58:00.000-07:00

into the new age of blogging deserves some praise.

not because i overcame my private self to publish personal expressions on the internet, or looked past my disgust at joining the ranks of certain narcissistic singaporean bloggers, but because i finally managed to jump on this cool tech-y bandwagon despite my uber tech-unsavvy capabilities. yeahhhhh.

admittedly another pretty compelling reason was because i already had a grand repository of two writing entries. i was supposed to submit columns to Lexean, but it didn't quite work out with the magazine. so where else but blogger.com would provide me the instant gratification of seeing them published. and i guess the writing process also made me realize that it was pretty damn fun.

anyways, i'll see how this new endeavor goes. my short attention span certainly would not be supportive of a continued effort on my part to furnish this bootiful blog with cutesy entries.