Too Much Information

I had to re-edit a personal profile that will be flashed up on our internal work network for everyone in my increasingly large company to see, and our HR department wanted me to add in my personal interests/hobbies. Notwithstanding that it’s not anyone’s goddamn business what I do in my free time… I feel like a little put out my profile sounded totally boring. I couldn't think of anything to write other than my “interests include reading and baking.”

It doesn’t really capture the fact that when I say my interests include reading, I really mean that one of my life goals is to own a library like the one The Beast gifted Belle with in Beauty and the Beast (that is totally the way to make me love a dude forever, FYI, even if he has hair all over his face and claws for fingers), and bookcase stairs make me swoon, and that I feel disoriented and despair of life in general when I don’t have a book to finish reading (and when I start reading a book I feel like I have a goal and sense of purpose again). And when it says my interests include baking, it doesn’t really capture the fact that I actually just like making cakes and cookies, but that I don’t really eat my own stuff and instead pawn them off to other people as little tokens of affection because I am like retardedly emotionally unexpressive. And that I really enjoy eating more than baking. And that I don't really have any other sustained hobbies because I have a habit of starting things and then not really finishing them, even though they're good for me (like running and swimming) and even though I may love it (like yoga). Actually these failed hobbies mainly relate to exercise, mainly because it's difficult to read while exercising (I've tried, and my book and I almost flew off the treadmill).

But then again do I really need people at work to know this about me? Probably not. I’d rather they think I was boring.

Bounty Cake; Acme Bar & Coffee

First day at work fasting. I think I'm doing okay so far. I went to Bijou during lunch just to look at their cupcakes but I was the model of restraint (I mean, other than the fact that I went to press my nose against the glass at a cupcake shop during fasting month) and I didn't buy any. And I've been trying to stay hydrated so religiously that I drink water constantly after breaking fast, and as a result have to wake up to pee like five times during the night (so maybe will tone down the hydration thing. I'm pretty sure any benefit I get from drinking so much is being erased by lack of sleep).

In memory of lunchtime desserts, I present you with the Bounty cake from Acme Bar and Coffee.

I hate coconuts, don't eat or drink any coconut derivatives, and don't eat Bounty chocolate bars. But I love this cake. I know this doesn't make sense, but when weighing out whether to stay true to the logical principle that if I don't like coconut stuff, then I wouldn't like this cake, against Bounty cake's mutiple layers of sponge cake and cream and chocolate and coconut shavings: the cake prevailed, and logic failed. 

This is the gastronomical equivalent of when you totally have a type and you meet someone/a cake who/that is totally not your type but then you end up marrying them/eating it. So the moral of the story is do not restricted by your types; true happiness could be lying at the bottom of that food you totally hate and in that hipster bar you refuse to set foot into because you're not a hipster! (Examples are for purely illustrative reasons and have nothing to do with my life at all.)

The blogger no longer has a guy type but still hates coconuts. I mean if she WANTED to ingest something slimy and milky, she could just eat jello and drink milk.

Hari Raya Briyani; Home

It's not even Ramadhan yet and I got teary booking my flights to Brunei for Hari Raya. All because this is my last Hari Raya as an unmarried person.

*commence weepiness*

And next year I have to split up my Raya time between TWO families! And I won't get to go to Brunei the whole time and just pig out and be babied because I'll officially be part of someone else's family! Okay, so not like a total stranger someone else, and it's not like I don't know Alman's family, but still! I'll be part of another person's family?!?!?! And I have to pretend to be well-behaved (err wait did I say pretend? That was a typo) and I have to be good and demure and wifely and what if I don't salam people properly and what if I can't make sufficient small talk and what if I don't understand Alman's relatives when they speak Malay and what if they think I'm snobby because I don't understand and what if I miss my family because I'm not with them on Hari Raya, and since my family is already so scattered all over the world what if my parents feel sad that I'm not there on the first day, because I'm part of someone else's family on the first day?! THAT IS CRAZINESS! THIS IS CRAZY!

I have a feeling I'm going to be crying right into my overloaded plate of homecooked nasi briyani come Hari Raya morning from the overwhelmity of it all.

For some reason thinking about Hari Raya is the only time I really feel like STOP THE PRESSES GUYS I'M GETTING MARRIED?! Everything else seems easy. Living together? Check. Setting up a house together? Will do. Total monogamy forever? No problem. Split up Hari Raya? HOLD ON THERE WHAT IS THIS CRAZY TALK.

And now I'm getting all teary again.

Sticky Toffee Pudding, Ben's KLCC

It's almost Ramadhan!

My stomach has already started to rumble its trademark cavernous roars at random times in anticipation of the coming month, as if it knows that it will soon be deprived of lunch (which breaks the monotony of my working day) and more importantly, caffeine (which allows me to stay awake to experience the monotony of the second half of my working day) (can you tell I like complaining about work?).

And if any of my organs deserve to be anthropomorphized, it would be my stomach. My stomach is the root cause of most of my emotions (like when I get upset because I'm hungry and I have to wait SOOOOO LONGGGGG for Alman to get ready to go out on weekends when I just want to GET OUT the DOOR so I can EAT SOMETHING) and tragedy (like when I get really excited about eating food that I've carefully put away in the fridge the night before, and then I open the fridge after a long hard day only to discover that my food has been PILFERED by a PILFERER) and relationship compromises (like when I get angry because I'm so hungry and take it out on my poor fiance. This is a compromise of sorts because he is a pilferer and so crankiness is his punishment, and also he's already promised to marry me so it's too late buddy, my stomach and I are all yours! But it's not all bad - we love him really, so sometimes we do nice things for him. Like give him the last longan in my ice longan, or the most cookie-ish scoops of ice cream from my Haagen Dazs cookies and cream carton. That is compromise, boys and girls, and that is true love).

So... this is going to be a trying month. The light at the end of the tunnel is Hari Raya, going home, being with my family, and forcing my sister to make our famed sticky date pudding with caramel sauce and cream that we have at our family's open house every year. The baking of the pudding used to be my specialty, until I realized that I would not be fulfilling my role as an older sister unless I bossed my sister around and made her do it. So now she does.

Sticky Toffee Pudding with vanilla ice cream at Ben's, KLCC
(Not as good as mine. Oh alright. Not as good as my sister's. Also I hate Ben's, but that's a story for another day.)

Boys to Men

Expelling the ghosts of my dating past and shaking those pesky relationship skeletons from the closet before I get married. In no particular order:

Primary school: I develop a hopeless crush on a blond-haired blue-eyed French boy in my second grade class. And by hopeless crush I mean I feel intense rage and competitiveness when we battle it out for best marks in our weekly spelling and math tests and pretty much make it clear that I hate his stupid shiny-haired big brain. I've always been attracted to the smart ones. I've also always been really great at expressing my feelings.

Early College: Meet a dark haired French Persian engineer during my second day of college. He laughs at Friends episodes in accented laughter (it totally exists: I'd do an impression, but I can't do any impressions other than, for some reason, Minnesotan) and is so genuinely, earnestly nice. He's also into commitment, and unfortunately, I'm not that into him. I feel a rush of euphoria when we break up and immediately put on Walking On Sunshine after he leaves. He never speaks to me again.

Early College: Can't for the life of me remember how I met this one, but unfortunately, that was the entire problem with our relationship. He was tall and geeky, bland and unmemorable. All I remember are fleeting images: a ski jacket, roses on Valentines Day, the way his glasses misted up with tears when I said I wanted to break up. I was a heartless turd.

Kindergarten/Reception: He was a chubby little English boy named Tom and my best friend. He was literally the He-Man to my She-Ra, the Michaelangelo to my April O'Neal, and the Tin Man to my Dorothy (I really have no explanation as to why we used to pretend we were in Wizard of Oz). I wrote 'Iman + Tom' in all my storybooks and all over my bedroom wall, much to the irritation of my parents, who really should have been delighted that I was learning to write in the first place. He moved back to England before first grade, and I was devastated. 

Primary school: Another academic rival. He drew me intricately detailed aliens and predators on illustrated love notes, and I never mustered up the nerve to tell him that I've never seen the Alien movies and while I admire the effort that goes into drawing the spaceship from Independence Day, I don't quite know what to do with the drawing after. I will always remember him fondly as the boy who still liked me even though I had frizzy hair and more facial acne than face.

Middle school: He was way, way too old for me. I can't remember how I met him, I can't remember if he was attached. I've blocked out pretty much everything out about him except for the fact that you liked Sheffield Wednesday (WHO likes Sheffield Wednesday anyway?) and he should really have been dating people his own age. Douche. 

High school: He was a high school jock and I was the complete opposite of a cheerleader. I would be nerdy Taylor Swift to his football hero in the Love Story video (did I just reference a Taylor Swift video?! Yes - yes I did. These are the high school years after all). We had nothing in common and nothing to talk about. He was popular and I wasn't. He was a good brother to my sisters, and ignored all the signs that pointed to the fact that I wasn't really into him.

High school: He was much older. He had dark sparkling eyes, a deep belly laugh and told me he was in love with me. It wasn't love - he seemed so much older but looking back he must have been a kid then, and I was even younger - but I shouldn't have agreed to date him and then changed my mind. He passed away in a car accident. He really did have the happiest eyes I've ever seen.

Middle school: He was the class clown, and I was in public school. He teased me incessantly, made my life a living hell, insulted me constantly, and we were teenagers: of course it meant that he liked me. He made me laugh, and I remember the terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach right before I told him that I wanted to break up. He wasn't  laughing then, and we don't talk now.

High school: He was my first real relationship. He was older and fascinating because of it, but he was also ditzy, and so ultimately, not fascinating enough. I fell out of puppy love, and broke his heart and wasn't sorry. I missed hanging out with his friends more than I missed him. I should have been nicer.

High school: He was my best friend. We spent hours and hours talking on the phone; hours and hours dissecting poetry together (seriously, because we were cool like that). He was the first person who showed me it was possible to have higher standards in relationships and to expect more things - a deeper connection, a shared sense of humour, the ability to keep a healthy debate going (and we had MANY) without it venturing into a full-blown fight. The sad thing is that I wasn't attracted to him, but that's just the way the cookie crumbles.

High school: He was South American, sarcastic and sharp-tongued, which was a defense mechanism for his weight. He had spiky hair, pink cheeks and a Fender guitar. And after I dumped him, he tried to hit on my sister. 

Mid-College: He was the best friend of the guy I liked. I knew what was happening while it was happening but I never thought he'd articulate it and make it real, but, unfortunately, he did. He told me he felt strongly about me, and just like that, our friendship was never the same.

Mid-College: He was the one who broke my heart, who promised so much, and delivered so little, who was insecure, immature, and unsure. I thought that we were taking care of each other, but I was the one who took care of him. I can draw a line in our relationship, and I would draw it in the middle of the second year, when I realized that I cared about him more than he cared about me. And while I can view the period before that with a detached fondness, like watching a movie starring strangers I don't know, strangers who were so young and optimistic and naive, who met at a fraternity party, she with flowers in her hair, he with his baseball cap and ruddy cheeks, who were overtaken by the rush of infatuation, how he became the most important part of her support system and she was so far away from home, how they were happy; I don't think of the second half at all. It has been poisoned by what he did at the end, and if I think about it, or if I touch it, I'll be poisoned too, and his sickness will infect me. He was selfish and pathetic, and I'll never forgive him, because that would make what he did forgivable.

And this isn't even an exhaustive list! (Guys I dated vaguely but really don't care about don't make the list. Also, I have a terrible memory.)