Misty, water-coloured

I'd say that my memory's pretty good.  I remember things people said to me years ago, details of incidents that have happened.  I can even recite a story verbatim if I hear someone tell it in a dramatic enough way first. 

But there are some memories that we all have that never seem quite real.  Memories from childhood, or from years ago, or memories mixed with dreams that we can't tell apart.  I have lots of these moments.  An image that is sharp as pain but with a fuzzy border, all colours and imprinted feelings.  Some friends tell me they remember feelings, some, incidents with full narratives. 

Some are probably fantasy.  I have a memory of my grandparents, with their white-fluff hair, watching me playing in a huge two-storey ball pit among other sticky children.  I don't think I've ever been there, and they're both dead now, so I'll never be able to ask.  But the feeling has stayed and real and strong over the years.  The smell of the plastic balls, the way they bubbled round my knees as I waded, some denting in my hands.  

On the other hand, you get lucky.  I roll the moment round and round on my tongue trying to taste it ten different ways, sometimes for years.  Nothing changes or moves beyond that narrow window.  It remains distractingly, frustratingly out of reach.  Then one day, you find it.  Evidence.  And everything clicks and there is the tingly feeling of something old becoming something new, and something real.  There is no part of life more vivid for me than this - the validation of a long held memory, a piece of the puzzle sliding into place.  It is a special kind of happy breathlessness.

My earliest memory is from before three years old.  People scoffed when I said that, but I was surer than sure.  Sometime in my childhood, I had been given a yellow object, translucent and pleasingly tactile.  I remember staring deep into it until all I could see was yellow, right up to the corners of my vision.  I remember hearing my parents' voices and ignoring them.  I thought of that moment a lot, wondering if it was real.  My parents didn't know what I meant, but the recollection was so yellow, so alive that I couldn't let it go in my mind.  

Going through some family photo albums much later, I found a picture of a studio shoot that my parents had done when I was a little kid.  They had never mentioned it and I was surprised we even had studio photos, because my folks aren't into that kind of thing.  We clearly never had another session.  But there we were, bright against a blinding white background, then like a bolt of lightning, pictures of me, sitting chubbily on the floor, grasping at a yellow balloon.

I have another memory, this time from when I was about six years old.  My father had been sent to Australia on a work trip and we joined him for a while in Sydney.  I remember the hanging lights in the service apartment and the wind on a grassy hill.  

Most vividly I remember a museum.  It was dark inside and the floor was carpeted in parts.  My father taught me what static electricity was by pushing my youngest brother's pram along the carpet and making me touch the metal bolt to feel it sizzle against my fingertips.  We walked down a corridor and at the end of it, stood and looked over a balustrade onto the one exhibit that embedded itself in my mind forever.  It was a skeleton exhibit - a skeleton man in a rocking chair with a skeleton cat, skeleton dog, skeleton bird and maybe a skeleton mouse.  I could see all their bones standing stark white out of the darkness, fragile and precise as openwork lace.  In my mind's eye, the chair was creaking back and forth in time with the man's bony foot. 

I remember the taste of chocolate sticks with mint inside afterwards, and looking for them in Cold Storage in Singapore.

But even more than that, I remember the feeling of wonder, the start of an understanding of science.  I remember feeling full and complete and loved by my family and not having a care in the world except the 30 pages of Math homework I had to produce because my parents had pulled me out of school.  I remember knowing that we were going to the Blue Mountains the next day.  And we were going to eat scones.  And that I was happy. 

 

For the longest time I couldn't tell if this was a fiction.  I asked my mother and she said that yes, we did visit a museum but she cannot remember which one, only that we spent very little time there. 

As always, the image cycled and recycled and suddenly, when it entered my head last night, I wondered why I had never thought to Google it before.  Surely a skeleton man-pet exhibit in an Australian museum is pretty notable.

So I did.  

And I found this.

(C) John Merriman, from http://www.flickr.com/photos/merryjack/7853831644/sizes/m/in/photostream/

 It's still there.  And it made me cry.

Fixed features: Gratitude list

I'm not sure who reads this blog, but if you're one of the (like, five) people who stop by, I hope it entertains you.  Audience or no, I'm the kind of person who tries to go all out on projects that are dear to me.  

I've recently been contemplating making the blog more interesting and consistent (at least for me) by adding a couple of fixed features that run at regular intervals.  I think it's comforting to visit a well-loved blog on a certain day and know that there will probably be something up.  

While I do this on an ad hoc basis in my journal and on the blog, I thought it would be productive and meaningful to have a weekly (every Monday where possible) gratitude list about three simple little things that I am happy for, or that have brought me joy this week.  

Some books recommend that if you are going through a struggle or a loss, it is important to step back at the end of every day, put aside the anger, and name anything at all that you are grateful for even if they are as small as short queues or finding a parking space.  Some experts even say this is the key to constant happiness.  

People judge these kinds of lists, as if it is shallow and vapid for some to find comfort in something as simple as a piece of clothing or pretty ornament.  I don't agree though.  These are the things that get lost in the hubbub of life.  And I think, often, it is the little things in life that keep you going when all the big things are hard and insurmountable.  

There is no shame in that.

This week I am grateful for:

1)  My favourite scent in the form of a mobile hand cream!  L'Occitane's Cherry Blossom scent is really delicate and nuanced, and unlike the flat, sweet floral fragrances you sometimes get, there is something so beguiling about this one that it has become a constant repurchase.

  
2)  Fun, arty bokeh that I made myself!  A couple nights ago I was enjoying a mocha after work and I spontaneously used Starbucks napkins to make a lens hood with a little shape cut out in. 

I made a bit of a mistake with rotating the focus, so in some places you see hearts, in others, lilypads, but I think that's easily rectified and I was delighted to learn that I could do it to begin with!

3)  My body.  That sounds... inappropriate.  But after pole class today, even though I was still bottom of the class, struggling to do things other girls mastered with ease, I felt grateful.  Grateful that I'm young and have the energy to try and laugh and do and fail. 

I don't look after my body enough.  I don't feed it particularly well or exercise it nearly enough and it still does things for me.  It keeps me on my feet for four to six hours a day, ferries me places, allows me to be present and affectionate and alive. 

And it occurred to me today that I should stop bashing it (huge gut, short stature) and appreciate it for the privileges it allows me. 

____________________________

I hope you enjoyed this post - I'm thinking of also doing a monthly variation of random moments.  Could be a real party.

Laffy taffy

I had a really nice day today and I say that without any irony whatsoever.  I'm still sick, but it was the right amount of productive (with work), chilled out and sans cabin fever.  

I bought a ridiculous amount of winter-appropriate clothing for an upcoming work trip (I've been looking for an excuse to buy a fuzzy-inside hoodie for SO long).  

And in the afternoon, I made corn with ideas gleaned from a bunch of online recipes.  Corn is just one of those things it's hard to get wrong and is good with almost all fixings. This variation is amazing - it's sweet, salty, spicy and zingy all in one, and everything goes perfectly together.  

You just boil the ears of corn and while they're cooking, whisk together a spoonful of melted butter and a spoonful of honey.  Stir in some salt.  Douse the corn in the mixture, sprinkle lightly with chilli powder and squeeze a wedge of lime over before eating.  My parents loved it.

In the evening, I grabbed an impromptu early dinner with my friend, Wei-Yuen, from work.  We haven't known each other for very long but we kind of hit it off over general silliness.  We spent the evening laughing like a pair of languid hyenas and nudging each other over way too much food.

She enjoys photography as well, and very obligingly let me try out Big's night-portrait mode on her (check out the sweet background exposure!), though you wouldn't guess that from the face.  Later, we went shopping at that palace of books, Kinokuniya and both bought very cool things that I'll share eventually.

Before dinner, she made me meet her at Uniqlo to help her pick out a poncho (I'm telling you.  They're the next word in fashion).  I have some kind of disease.  Every time I enter Uniqlo, my hands twitch violently in the direction of my wallet.  I was proudly doing quite well this time, waving a haughty arm at the offerings and we were about to drift beatifically out of the store when we saw stacks of elastic waistband pants in crazy prints.

"Ohmigod," I grabbed her elbow.  

We stared at the stacks for several minutes, then at each other.

Those are the same pants in different colours, in case you can't tell.  I'm not even kidding when I tell you that we've planned to wear them to the office on the same day.

Wei-Yuen is leaving the country soon, and for a long time, so this was one of our last meals together.  I'm going to miss her.  The world is big, and our friends so small in them. 

But I'll be happy to stay in touch, see her when she travels, and know that just like all the other special people I love across the globe, sometime, somewhere, a friend may be thinking of me.

Sick food

Even in the midst of being sick, I've realised that comfort comes in many ways.

Yesterday, at work, I searched for a nearby physician to get some serious medication for a throat infection.  Unable to sleep for the pain, I found myself standing in front of the mirror at 4:30 in the morning, snapping horrifically ugly pictures of my throat with my iPhone and trying to diagnose streptococcal pharyngitis with the help of Google and the presence of lesions on my palate. 

I was still going have to work through the day, but damned if I wasn't going to get some artificial help to do it.

I found a clinic in my building, went in to see the doctor, and got the shock of my life.

He looked a lot like my late grandfather.  

I hesitated in the doorway.  

My grandfather had died after being bedridden for several years, but the man I knew passed a long time before that, when illness robbed him of all memory and eventually, speech.  

But this elderly doctor recalled my grandfather when he was still cheeky and twinkling.  He had the same dewlapped eyes (my mother always proudly pointed out the family's epicanthic folds), the same soft fluff of hair, wore his pants in the same loose, hunched high-waisted way.  He even had a similar slow, spreading smile.

I went in, sat down.

He flashed it on, asked what he could do for me as if it would be his greatest pleasure to help.  I watched, slightly hazy, as he took my temperature and turned the device to show me the figure and nodded "yes" as he looked down my throat.  He wrote his notes in a trembling but precise hand in the kind of cursive people were taught in the fifties. 

Then, he looked up at me, the slow smile spread again and he gently told me to stay away from citrus fruit, cold drinks and deep fried snacks.  As I stood to leave, he added beatifically, "Happy New Year."

I left feeling strangely soothed and hopeful that my grandparents had found each other and were at a similar peace.  

(Also, it might have had something to do with the fact that he gave me some amazeballs antibiotics that are making me light-headed, but better.)

Equally comforting are the "sick breakfasts" I'm enjoying.  Here, is the last Pandoro of the season, star-shaped and cloaked in softly melting butter.  (My mom's friend bought her this delicious smelling candle and I'm gleefully waiting in the sidelines with my lighter and wick trimmer.)

This morning, to line my stomach before my medication, I had some of my favourite smoked cheese, walnut toast (the Sunshine brand is cheap and good) with a chive and garlic spread and hot black tea with honey and lemon.

And my father just brought me a lovely hot congee with soft meatballs.

Apart from just being a good sick lunch?  Congee and meatballs are so neutral and nutritious that my best friend enjoyed some too.  

PS  Every now and then I prick a little cod liver oil capsule from my supply and squeeze the contents over hot food for Chip.  His coat shines a treat and at nigh-on sixteen, it can't be doing him much harm!

Little joys

It took me a while to realise it, but I'm still holding on to a lot of anger about time gone by.  Up until last night, I was raw, seething.  

Sadness is bad.  Denial is painful.  But sometimes, I feel like anger is the worst possible feeling for the human heart.  Anger has all the undercurrents of betrayal, fear, humiliation and mistrust that plain sadness lacks.  And unlike pure grief, it eats, from the inside out.  

This morning, I woke up.  It had rained all night.  A torrential thunderstorm to a quieter prickle.  The world was quiet.  The delicate beige of a washed out eggshell.  The sun was taking a slow shine.  I tested my weight on my emotions.  They held, and I felt all right.

Just like that, the new year felt like a good place to start letting go. 

My father sent out a Tennyson poem to friends and family this December and one line kept crashing around in my head: "The year is going, let him go;/ Ring out the false, ring in the true".  Let him go, indeed.  

Today at coffee, my friend Dawn and I discussed failed relationships.  "You have to remember," she said, "that things didn't happen because of you.  They happened because the other person is who he is, right down to the core, and nothing is going to change that.  It's not your fault."

We spend a lot of time hurting ourselves with playbacks, with hurt and indignation, with beating ourselves up over things we cannot change.  Why not just stop?  Slowly, even though it will be difficult, it's time to gently unloose the claws of all the rage, even, especially the anger I have against myself.  I can't change anything about the situation, but I can try, little by little, to work on how I feel.  

I don't doubt that there'll be good days and bad days.  Scratch that.  Downright horrible days of tears and struggle and loathing.  But I can do the work.  And being thankful for little joys - like the fact that the day involved skyping with one of my best friends, Becky -  is not a bad start.

A couple nights ago, I went over to my friend Ben's place.  This is the cat he shares with a Amanda - a blind-in-one-eye Persian, Crumbs.

Crumbs is docile and friendly, but I really took to Rusty, a little orange rascal who reminded me of Chip because of his curiosity and mischief.

Amanda's carefully placed decor never stood a chance.

In the end, height won out.

New Yankee Candle from my friend Sook.  It smells just like a good vanilla sugar cookie!

Last night, I cut myself pretty badly.  You might not believe it, but as I was bending down to pick something up, I shuffled my feet and kicked my hand with my own foot.  The side of my thumb got sliced open by my toenail, a move both gross and bizarre.

Remember when Burnol used to look like mustard paste and stain everyone's scabs a noxious yellow?  At least it still smells the same.

My coffee outfit, except I didn't really wear the cardigan.  I brought it with me but we sat outdoors.  Sometimes I just like to pretend Singapore is colder than it is for just a split second.

First latte of the year and my gorgeous friend, Dawn.  Every time I take Dawn's picture, I'm like, "Dawn.  You are so hot," and she gets annoyed and shushes me.  Well.  She can't do anything about this.

Me with my favourite delicate silver necklace.

And my greatest joy of all:

Brand new year, same old Chip.

Rag week

One thing about getting dumped is that it really does a number on your self-esteem, particularly if there is no ostensible reason for the break up.  

I've never had the best esteem to start with, but I'm pretty good at faking it.  After all, you have to be thick-skinned to have once started a blog about what you wear every day and even more thick skinned to have told people about it.  I don't actually like being in front of the camera a whole lot, but my love of clothes and my interest in dressing better overcame that.  A hugely healthy sense of humour helps.

After the breakup though, I sometimes struggle to feel good about myself or see the humour in things.  I won't lie, I strut through life a lot and people don't realise how affected I am, but large chunks of my day are devoted to an internal monologue along the lines of "What the fuck is wrong with me?".  I'm trying to accept this as part of the healing process and just get on with life.  

It sounds completely frivolous but feeling good in your clothes can be a real boost to your self esteem.  It's not even about fancy clothes or new rags.  It's the difference between lying in bed and crying (which let's face it, I've done my fair share of) and putting on some fabulous armour and blazing out the door and through the day.  

In the spirit of blazing through the week, I took pictures of everything I wore this week to make sure that it was at least semi-presentable and I could go to work with my head held high.  And what d'ya know, I felt better almost instantly.

Last Sunday, I promised my students I would wear my Iron Maiden shirt (I'm quite a big fan) and attempted to make it more formal with a lace blazer, my H and M chinos and Timberland loafers.  Feeling guilty about looking so casual, I slunk around a bit, but then one of the senior teachers stopped me in the corridor and said, "Your outfit is so cute", and I calmed down.

I went Diptic crazy on Christmas Eve - I'd privately agreed with my friends that we'd dress festively for work, so I broke out my pink/red cropped pants from Uniqlo.  The earrings were a present from Becky and have little paintings of birds in them.  So cute!  Balto the sock monkey came with me to class for show and tell.

An overcast Christmas day with wellies, a hooded dress and a gingerbread man my mother got me for my birthday.  (That's me going nuts over the Christmas fern if you can't tell.)

Wednesday was a long day and I was still half asleep in the morning so I just grabbed the zebra shirt off the top of the pile and spent the rest of the day lying low.  The students liked it though.  Those are the same H and M chinos I wore on Sunday, yes.  I have a couple of pairs in different colours and rotate them a lot.  They're functional, super comfortable for bending and tiptoeing and relatively work-worthy.  Plus they cost less than $30.

On Thursday, the last official day of my work week, I went with a maxi dress, see-through sweater and the Zoroastrian farvahar David got me when he was travelling.  I'm not a religious person but I don't mind wearing religious symbols when they come from people with a lot of love and good wishes for protection.  After all, love is the basis of all great religions and something all humans subscribe to.

I do a lot of this cosy sweater over other less cosy stuff thing because the office can be freezing.

And yesterday, I wore this when we went out to watch Les Mis (which I think was hit and miss).  I'm very much a jeans and t-shirt girl and if I could wear them 90 per cent of the time, I would.  I get a lot of flak from people (particularly those in my parents' generation) for wearing these ripped knees and they do look a bit silly but they are so comfortable that they are my go-to jeans.  The wash has long since faded from blue to almost white, the little tears have become huge holes and the fabric is soft and breathes and makes it easy for me to bend and kneel.

I attempted to dress them up a bit with tomato red heels and my beloved LV bag.

Now, we're back at Saturday and I'm about to commence doing some work at the kitchen table in some very unglamorous sweats and a loose cotton tee.  You know.  Because I can.

Smizing for Christmas

On Christmas morning, I met up with my friend Mel, in blue, (I know so many Mels, we call this one "Niño" though explaining how she got the nickname will take at least two days) for brunch at the Swiss Bakeri.  Her family was on holiday and so we decided to spend the morning giggling over rosti and sausages.

We'd initially planned to just chill out, but then Amanda, who lives in the area, called us and came over with her boyfriend, Ben, for a short while to say hi. 

She brought us cupcakes from the old school local bakery, Chin Mee Chin.  Thanks Amanda!  Pictured here with my slouchy hobo bag (an awesome gift from a student) and Niño's matching blue wristlet.  

We sat in the cafe and chatted like adults for a little while, but as is so often the case with friends, it degenerated into shenanigans when we discovered a pleasantly painted alleyway just outside.  

"Asia's Next Top Model!" Amanda cried, for we'd all recently been discussing that train wreck, and Niño agreed.  

"Let's do that picture that they all take at the start," she began, and I immediately finished:

"Oh oh, where they disappear one by one as they get kicked out?" 

We started laughing and Ben very gamely took our pictures, from this one:

After which we decided we should make better use of "levels", to this one:

"Look into the future," I instructed on one, as Amanda and Niño struggled to get their laughter under control and squint out-of-frame.

And, "I'm trying to smile with my eyes," Amanda said through gritted teeth in one shot, prompting us all into a giggling fit, and even though the "model" pictures looked like this:

The aftermath was actually more like this:

All in, it was hilarious laughing in the alleyway and sending texts among our bigger Whatsapp group of friends afterwards, peppered with "quotes" like, "I'm not here to make friends!", "All this pressure is really getting to me, the other girls ganged up on me last night." or, "The judges need to deliberate".

On the home front, Retno decided to take matters into her own hands and secretly made a Christmas fern with little paper and straw baubles.  It was most excellent, and for once my father couldn't freak out over having a tree this year.

We duly put all her presents under it.

I guess what I'm trying to say through all these convoluted and grammatically incorrect sentences is that I'm so grateful to have friends this sporting, who also understand the delightfully frivolous value of trashy reality TV.  I'm grateful for my family because they bring the cheer all year round (if a bit erratically) and I hope that everyone out there is with loved ones this holiday season.

Here's lookin' into your future, kids.