The Rage

Hopefully, it is a well-known fact to men everywhere that women, when tired and especially HUNGRY, turn into complete monsters.

I’m talking a total personality change. From sweetheart to ball-breaker (Mr. Mo’s favourite word). From placid to raging lunatic. Kind of like the Incredible Hulk.

In other words: just another normal day being a woman.

If your woman has not had anything to eat for 6 hours and has had little or no sleep for the last few days, you will have a monster on your hands – quick, get the little lady something to eat! Preferably with sugar! Then send her to bed with a nice foot/back/shoulder massage and plenty of kisses. Let her bitch and whine and moan – it’s not the real her that’s talking or saying those horrible things.

Think of it like the movie The Exorcist: it’s not really the little girl who was saying “Let Jesus f**ck you!” It was the devil.

I think this is where the phrase “The Devil made me do it” came from: a hungry, angry woman in the grip of a murderous rage.

I have spells of this monster from time to time whenever I am hungry, tired and my patience is depleted. I cannot bring myself to be civil and laugh at some of Mr. Mo’s more inane and asinine jokes. I am unable to filter my snide comments. I cannot do anything but feel the beast gnawing on my insides and driving me absolutely bananas. But usually, I am able to just quell the fury before it gets totally out of control. It might come off as me being a bit bitchy, when in fact deep down inside I want to gouge out the eyes of anyone who wants to waste my time with dumb jokes and basically get in the way of me and my only goal: food / sleep.

I got a new job on Monday that is physically and emotionally rewarding, but equally draining on my energy and spirits: teaching.

I am the kind of person who needs at least 8 hours of sleep a night to function. So imagine what it was like when I was sleeping only 4 hours (if that!) a night for 4 days straight. Hey man, I’m missing 16 hours of sleep here!!

On top of that, because I am so busy, I don’t even take my 30 minute lunch break. Which means that after my hurried bowl of cereal at 7:00am, I basically do not eat anything else ’til class finishes at 1:15pm. Do the math. That is over 6 frickin’ hours. 

Naturally, I feel quite irritable by then, but I am extremely good at concealing it with big smiles and friendly greetings. Inside, I am seething. I’m not mad at anyone, no. But if you are the unlucky sonofabitch who happens to say the wrong thing in front of me at the wrong time… you don’t wanna know what I might do or say!!!

One day after work, I had to make a pit stop at the supermarket to pick up some essentials (eggs, milk, bread… ok, our pantry was empty alright!). I could not face another day of coming home to an empty fridge. It’s depressing. So I mustered up the last reserves of my will and energy and dragged my sorry butt to Woolworths.

Boy, are there a lot of morons at the supermarket!

First you have a bunch of annoying kids playing chasey and running rings around you.

Then, you have people who walk slowly and block the entire aisle, or people who are walking fast but stop or turn abruptly, almost crashing into you.

Usually if someone is blocking my way in an aisle, I just smile and say “sorry, excuse me” and so on, so they will move out of the way.

This time, I still said it, but without a smile and through gritted teeth. What I was really saying in my head was “FUCKING MOVE YOUR ASS YOU WHORE!!!!” I even gave some people the ol’ hip-and-shoulder when they wouldn’t move out of my way. Just kidding. But in my head I wanted to pull them out of the way by their hair, or something like that.

Do NOT get in my way when I am hungry or tired.

Au Naturale

I went to get my hair cut after god knows how long (probably over 6 months) because I couldn’t stand the horrible dry, split ends and also how hard it was to just brush my hair.

It was so bad that whenever I brushed my hair, the dry ends would snap off – if I brushed my hair over the sink, for example, the result would be I would see different lengths of hair ranging from a few milimetres to a few centimetres that have snapped off because my hair was so dry.

So I finally went to the salon and got about two or three inches lopped off.

While I was at the salon I was asking the lady about how to deal with dry hair and what products to use, she asked me what I was currently using. As a LUSH devotee, I just told her I was using “some natural products”.

She asked me, “Why are you using natural products?” with the same look on her face as someone who might have asked me, “Why are you eating poo?”

I dunno, maybe because I like natural products? Maybe I don’t want to have chemical crap on my hair all the time?

Well, I just told her that I thought they would be better on my hair, to which she shook her head and pooh-poohed me, and started rattling off a laundry list of products I should be using instead, such as Kerastase and L’Oreal and all… all of which, I might add, I HAVE used in the past and honestly, did not make much of a difference to my hair at all. I feel the stuff I have used from LUSH* has made a world of difference**, compared to these silicone and alcohol laden products.

* If you’re interested, I highly recommend Big Shampoo, Retread Conditioner, and Jungle Solid Conditioner (OMG this last one blew my mind!). Also, for leave-in treatment after shampooing and conditioning, use R&B Hair Moisturiser

** The reason my hair was horrible and dry despite me using these products was because a) I was too lazy to use them consistently (but once I did start being more consistent, there was a huge difference) and also because b) when your hair needs cutting, it needs cutting. NO product is gonna get rid of split ends once they’re there.

The clincher of this whole experience?? When the girl who was blow-drying my hair was doing it, she kept marvelling at how good my hair was and how she hasn’t seen hair in such good condition in ages, let alone worked on it. She was practically in a rapturous frenzy as she styled my hair. She told me not to do anything to it (I presume colouring or perming or frizzling and frying it with heating irons and stuff, which I of course never do).

So… I guess using natural stuff works?

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

This is just a wish to everyone who reads this blog to have an awesome 2012, with all the joy and fortune you dreamed of and deserve, and hopefully the world won’t end.

HAPPY 2012!!!’

xoxo

Bursts of Gold

The last post was about losing the one and only rose in the bush to a thievin’ bastard.

Well, THIS post is a happy one

First, because there have been more roses blooming and the plant is doing wonderfully well – photos below.

Second, because I managed to sneak in a post for November, therefore NOT ruining my mission of having a full calendar of posts on my blog

Back to the roses. What a pleasurable sight to see in the morning, when I leave the house. Can you imagine anything more bright, cheery and gorgeous?

The Rose Thief

At the end of last summer, Amir and I got into a DIY phase that saw us building and drilling stuff, doing a spot (or two) of gardening, and so on.

We bought a few plants and set to work planting them – a native bush that is still in midget proportions, a little decorative chilli plant (decorative because the chillies it produces are… well, let’s just say, TINY), a climbing plant that was native to Australia and produced pretty little yellow flowers… and a gorgeous yellow rose bush.

The bad news: the creeping plant died when the idiots at the local council came and sprayed weed killer over it. It just happened to be planted next to the fence so it could climb (and it was climbing fast!), but on the other side of the fence were some weeds… and the council just sprayed the poison indiscriminately, killing our poor, innocent plant.

The good news? The rose bush, which was pretty small and had ONE yellow rose when we planted it…. is flourishing. It’s grown waaay bigger, with many more new leaves sprouting up… but no rose.

Until last week. I spotted the bud, and excitedly awaited its opening. The next day, it was practically in full bloom. I excitedly woke Amir up to show him the fruit of our toil. We sniffed it, made a fuss over it, and waxed lyrical about the fruity, sweet notes of its scent.

Later that evening, it was gone.

Upon close inspection, it appeared that someone had come by, and snipped the new rose cleanly off the bush. It was cut off so neatly, it couldn’t have just fallen off.

I was so pissed.

Look, if I had a rose bush that was just crowded with flowers, by all means, people can come and take one or two, no problem.

But this one had just one. ONE. The first one to bloom since we planted it.

And we had a DAY to enjoy it before some moron came and took it. I didn’t even get to take a photo or anything.

Lonely.

I spent 11 days in Malaysia, visiting family and friends, constantly surrounded by loved ones and engaging in conversation, that to come home to an empty house here in Perth leaves an empty feeling in my soul.

I miss my boyfriend so much. He is away on holidays at the moment and won’t be back for a while. It’s just not the same without him. The dinners in front of the TV, the drives, the walks in the park, feeding the ducks (and having our stale bread scoffed at by the black swan)… I miss all these things.

I know I used to complain about how he can sometimes be ‘overly spontaneous’, like suggesting we go for a quick walk and it ending up an excursion, when I’ve got a pile of Uni work to finish and can’t afford long, meandering walks… but now, I miss it. I need a welcome distraction from the stress of my uni work which is threatening to bury me.

It doesn’t help that I haven’t heard from him since yesterday afternoon. I hope he’s okay. I mean, I know he is, but it’s still not nice missing them and not being able to hear their voice. He’s having phone problems (battery is dead or something), and he usually sends me an email a day but… so far, nothing.

I just miss him so much! It’s been 2 weeks since our mini-airport scene where I saw him properly tear up for the first time ever, as I got ready to board the plane to KL.

Just thinking about it gives me a lump in my throat.

 

The Things You See

Random post, but yesterday as I parked my car outside my house, I saw school kids crossing the road to and from Garden City shopping centre.

I saw an little Asian boy (ok by little I mean maybe 13 or 14), walking out of Garden City, happily sipping his bubble tea. Then, a few steps away from my car as he was about to turn the corner, he hid his bubble tea in his jacket. I wondered why he did that, and then I saw.

From the opposite direction, a group of kids from his school (all wearing the same school blazer from Applecross Senior High, I think) were walking towards him. He didn’t want them to see him holding his bubble tea.

Why?

I imagine it was because he didn’t want to be stereotyped as a typical Asian kid who loves bubble tea. My first reaction to that thought was, who cares!

But when you’re a teenager in high school, you do care. You want your peers to accept you and think you’re cool (or whatever word or phrase kids use these days). You don’t want them to point and laugh, even if, in the grand scheme of things, their opinion really doesn’t matter. It matters here and now.

Perhaps a few years from now, he’ll think back on that incident and smirk to himself. Or he might not remember it at all.

I know I will.

Tongue-Tied

A lot of people assume, when they meet me, that English is not my first language.

Not because of the way I speak it (although yes, I do have an accent), but because of the fact that I am not from one of the ‘native-speaking’ countries*. Most often, they assume this based on my appearance (tanned skin, almond-shaped, dark eyes, dark hair), as well as my accent (many people think I’m Canadian – eh?).

It’s interesting because although I am confident in my English-speaking (and writing, and listening, and reading etc) ability, due to my awareness of this assumption that most people have of me here in Australia, I tend to trip up and get tongue-tied and speak funny at times when I feel under pressure.

For example, when I’m talking to customers at work and describing how a product works, I sometimes find myself getting the singular and plurals wrong, as well as mixing multiple tenses into my sentences. It’s so weird because I know it’s wrong, and at the time I do it, I catch myself immediately but my tongue just does not want to cooperate! I’ve said things like “Use this over two week” instead of saying “weeks”. What the eff?

It is annoying and infuritating to me because I am paranoid that the ladies I talk to are smiling benignly at me not because I am a pleasant and lovely salesperson but because they are humouring me since English is obviously not my first language and it’s a struggle for me to speak in “their language”. My imagination goes into overdrive as I conjure up their thoughts in my own head: perhaps she’s thinking of me “Aww, how sweet she got that wrong” or “My, she speaks so fluently! Fantastic!”

Let me just have a moment of total and utter vanity and self-promotion here (as I believe I am entitled) to announce for probably the millionth time to anyone who listens that I scored a 9.0 on my IELTS (International English Language Testing System), across the board. 9.0 on EVERY single thing. 9.0 is the maximum, the highest mark you could possibly get for the IELTS test.

When I showed this to my migration agent he was impressed and asked to take a copy of my certificate, as he hadn’t seen such a score “in about ten years”. In fact, he told me to frame it. So excuse me for tooting my own horn. Before he reacted that way, I didn’t think it was THAT big a deal. I mean, yes, I thought it was awesome and a big deal, but not THAT big a deal, y’know? So, I feel, belatedly, that I should bask, revel and boast about this since it’s kind of rare. Not terribly rare, but still rare and special.

Thank you. *Bows*

* Countries generally accepted as ‘native-speaking’: USA, UK, New Zealand, Australia, Ireland, Canada and sometimes South Africa.

Blast from the Past

I have a question, folks…

How many of you look back at trysts from your past (and I don’t mean very long ago I’m talking as recently as the end of ’09, onwards) and feel.. wtf was I thinking? Who WAS I at that time to want to date THAT person? UGH!!

I was on Facebook and looking through my photos, friends list and friend’s friends, it made me think…

… why on earth did I give THAT guy the time of day?

I think it really depends on your frame of mind at the time… I can kind of trace how I was feeling and what was happening in my life just by looking at guys I’ve dated / gone on dates with. And I have to say, boy am I glad I’m where I’m at now!

Where I’m headed seems a more positive place, too. Only good things to look forward to in the future. Salut!

Fiction (Dreaming in Digital)

As long as I can remember, I have always wanted to do two things: draw and write.

Back in Year 1 (Standard 1), I recall we were asked in class by our teachers to fill out some form, and one of the questions asked what we wanted to be when we grew up. I wanted to put down ‘artist/writer’. Instead, upon seeing all my friends writing ‘doctor’, I chickened out and wrote ‘doctor’, too. What a wuss!

I love(d) drawing. I started drawing from the moment I had enough hand-eye coordination to hold a pencil and make some squiggly lines into a picture.

I still remember how my father would come home from work with heaps of computer paper – the kind that went into an old-school, dot matrix printer. Yes, with perforations and everything. Reams and reams of paper, all connected, to be ripped apart at the perforated seams by myself and my sisters for our childish doodles.

Only I didn’t stop there. I drew on art blocks my mum bought us specifically to draw on, in exercise books from school, and notepads that were meant for grocery lists. I remember I filled up one such notepad, cover to cover, with an illustrated story (an early ‘graphic novel’, if you will), about a boy snake and a girl snake who met, fell in love, got married, got pregnant. The pregnant girl snake demanded that the boy snake go to the witch’s garden to steal nutritious vegetables for her to eat (“Or my baby will die,” I remember were the girl snake’s words). Yes, I did not yet appreciate the fact that instead of pumpkin and watercress, snakes prefer frogs and rats. But I digress.

In the early days I liked drawing “friendly ghosts” – not really Casper, but just ghosts who had skirts and lipsticks and handbags. Later on, I drew more talking animals like snakes, rabbits, dogs and cats. Later still, I got into drawing unicorns and girls and people. I was always told how well I drew.

These days… I don’t draw so much. I doodle when I’m on the phone. I can really draw some interesting, nice things that way. But generally, as a way to pass the time, I don’t do it anymore. And it makes me sad. I always tell myself I want to draw more – heck, I even bought myself an art block so I would just start drawing stuff – but it still sits collecting dust in the shelf, under the Foxtel decoder.

Now, I want to talk about writing – something I am obviously more healthily engaged in (what with my blog, and having to fill out paperwork, tax returns, badgering immigration people, etc).

Back in the days of my childhood, the budding writer in me managed to write (and finish!) a few works that, when I revisited them as an older, more mature writer, made me snort with laughter. How unsophisticated and inane! But what can you expect from an 8-year-old? Or a 10-year-old?

I remember my best friend Lin and I would create illustrated works of serious writing. Not bad for 10 and 11-year-olds. Series about teenage ghost fighters (culled from my favourite cartoon, The Real Ghostbusters – how ironic!). And about teenage space travellers, set in the future. With lengthy descriptions of their appearance and clothing. We even collaborated on some of these. I still think they’re pretty good.

Later on, in my teenage years, I would write romantic dramas about young people in hospices, dying of some incurable but noble diseases, the inmates falling in love with each other. My depiction of sex scenes were incredibly humorous. No other way to describe it, really. Just… totally out of those filthy romance novels Lin used to borrow from her aunt, bring to school and lend me (with the ‘good parts’ conveniently dog-eared for me to skip right to). Ahh, good times.

I have been trying for the last 5 – 10 years to finally write something coherent, and of substance. It is my dream to publish a best-selling novel before I get too old. Geez, but where and when to start? Here and now is the only answer.

But I am just too scared that my ideas are stupid and the story will stagnate. As it has done for much of my mid-to-late teens. Every time I hit upon something good, I’d advance full steam… then lose it all a few months later in tears of frustration. In my early twenties, I tried again and lost faith.

Now, I want to try again.

I have found these links pretty useful and humorous, not to mention inspiring:

Ten Rules for Writing Fiction (Part 1)

Ten Rules for Writing Fiction (Part 2)

I want it t be my project over the holidays to at least come up with a skeleton of a book for me to fill in with meat and fat over time. Fingers crossed.