On turning 30

 So… I turned 30 last week. That’s a bizarre sentence to type, because most of the time I feel like I’m perpetually 19 years old (I have no idea why). It’s even more bizarre that 30 just snuck up on me surreptitiously. I had always imagined that 30 would arrive with an impending sense of doom or huge fanfare or a sudden emergence of wrinkles and white hair overnight and an existential crisis about how old I am but… nope. I have been too busy getting on with my life to worry about what age I am, and I feel pretty good about it.

It is very apt, then, that I was reading Bad Feminist by Roxane Gay on my birthday present, the (TOTALLY AWESOME, NEW LOVE OF MY LIFE, DESERVES OWN POST ABOUT IT) Kindle Paperwhite that Goose gave me, and Gay says this about her 20’s:

Girls reminds me of how terrible my twenties were—being lost and awkward, having terrible sex with terrible people, being perpetually broke, eating ramen. I am not nostalgic for that time. I had no money and no hope. Like the girls in Girls, I was never really on the verge of destitution but I lived a generally crappy life. There was nothing romantic about the experience. I understand why many young women find the show so relatable, but watching each episode makes me slightly nauseous and exceptionally grateful to be in my thirties.

It resonated with me, not because I had a particularly terrible time being 20-something (for the record, I also did not have terrible sex with terrible people while being terribly broke), but because I really do feel like I’m in a much more enviable position now than I was at any point in my 20’s.

 

In the grand old tradition of lazy writing and year-end/start-year lists…

 

Why Being 30 is Awesome:

 

1. I give less fucks.

And it is truly liberating. I am a pretty high-strung, tightly-wound individual. When I was younger, this meant I used to care a lot about things that honestly, in hindsight, didn’t really matter in the long run. (To quote super economist JM Keynes: “in the long run we are all dead.”) I used to worry about what people thought of me, about making a bad impression, about saying the wrong thing, about coming across as unintelligent. Gradually, I learned to distinguish between what matters and what doesn’t; to follow the principle that it is better to have said and done than to regret not saying and not doing; and to prioritize my fucks accordingly. If it doesn’t matter, and it holds me back: fuck it. I think (and I hope I’m right) that if you have conviction; and logic, reason, and integrity to back you up: you have to just keep doing you, and tune out the background noise. I now give fewer shits (metaphorically, not constipation-ally), less fucks and generally care less about things that aren’t important to me, things I cannot control, and the people to whom I’m not important.

2. I’m more comfortable in my own skin. (Literally.)

This confession can totally be chalked up to me being in equal parts insecure and an unfashionable vainpot (the most unfortunate combination ever), but throughout my 20’s, I used to hate being seen without make-up, I was perpetually anxious about the way I dressed, and I have been in a constant battle with my hair since I was 13 years old. My relationship with my appearance has improved throughout my 20’s, but ironically, it has improved because now (and this is also partly related to #1), I generally give less fucks. My physical attributes are never going to magically transform into something different, so you do what you can with what you have, and call it a day. That isn’t to say I don’t care at all anymore (you can pry my NARS Orgasm blush from my cold dead hands… after you apply some on my cheeks so I can go to my grave looking rosy), but it means that I DO now like how I look even without make-up. I wear make-up because it’s fun and it makes me happy, but not because I’m going to freak out and not function in life if I’m not wearing it. It’s taken me almost 30 years to be friends with the person I see in the mirror; sometimes her hair still looks crazy and her boyfriend jeans are too baggy, but we both don’t really let it bother us that much.

3. I’m financially stable.

Especially compared to my teens (when my income was totally dependent on my parents, for which I will always be grateful; but being the eldest child of five means you never have very much disposable income) and even my early 20’s (as a fresh graduate). I’m now fiscally comfortable, and can indulge in whatever strange and weird spending habits I so desire, whenever I desire (books, bags, and travel, mainly) without having to answer to anyone. I’m half of a Dual Income, No Kids Yet couple, have life insurance, savings, pay my taxes and bills (mostly) on time and hopefully, early this year, will become a joint home owner with Goose. We’re going to own a house?! That’s pretty financially stable.

4. I have a great support system.

This, for me, is probably the most meaningful difference. When I look back on my early 20’s, the period after graduating from university, I remember being achingly, suffocatingly lonely. Most of my family was in Brunei; my then-boyfriend was in the US; my high school and university friends were scattered around the world finishing up their degrees or starting their careers.

 

When I moved to KL, I literally only knew one person whom I counted as a friend, and I hadn’t seen or been in touch with her for 5 years. This probably wouldn’t have been such a big deal if I was naturally gregarious, but I’m not. I’m not outgoing. I tend to be cautiously quiet around people I don’t know. I don’t think I make a stellar first impression and can sometimes come across as cold. And I did encounter more than a little culture shock when I moved to KL, which made me wonder if I could find anyone I could really connect with, if the culture just seemed so alien. It was lonely, because I remember being very alone.

 

During my first few weekends in KL, I slept all day during the weekends, because I had nothing else to do and no one to do it with. I think I cried on occasion, but I can’t remember because I have mostly blocked it out and because tears are pretty unproductive. I fulfilled my social interaction quota at work – my colleagues were kind and hilarious, but they were significantly older than me and didn’t really want to be hanging out with me outside of the office – and via Skype and chats with my far-flung family members.

 

I plodded along with the dogged, and fortunately for me, not deluded, determination that I was going to give this city a try for a year or two, and see what happened. So what has happened now is that I am no longer lonely. I have best friends, good friends, and acquaintances in KL. I have people to call in an emergency, people to go out with, people to have lunch with. If I sleep in all day during the weekend, which, I must admit, still happens on occasion – I do it knowing that when I wake up, my husband will be in the living room playing video games, waiting for me to wake up, so we can have the lunch that we had delivered from a home delivery service because we are lazy. It is incredibly comforting to be so not lonely, and so happy.

 

 

QED: 30’s > 20’s.

 

 

On feminism

Feminism is one of those topics that I get intensely, superbly worked up about, and as a result, when I try to explain it, all the clarity and succinctness (hah) that normally manifests in my writing or speaking immediately disappears in a puff of pink smoke and I end up trying to write or say a million thoughts at once.

That is my disclaimer. I will now proceed to list out my thoughts about this as coherently as I can.

I am a feminist.

(Duh, right?) I feel like I should be upfront about this. Gender equality is a concept in which I believe very, very strongly.

If you don’t believe that people should not be defined by their genders, that people should not be limited or constrained by society because of what kind of genitals they happen to be born with; if you believe one gender is entitled to more rights than the other: you are a terrible human being, and you should know that is a fact, not an opinion.

But if you, like me, also believe in gender equality, “Why, Iman,” you may ask me, “don’t you call yourself a humanist and be fair about it?” That would cover the equality issue, right?  

The simple reason is that life is inherently already unfair. It’s great that you would want these conceptual terms to be fair to both genders, but unfortunately, the ship of fairness has sailed and crashed into an iceberg a la the Titanic.

Referring to the concept of gender equality as feminism reminds everyone that we live in an entire world (not just a society, not just a country) that has been built to favour males. Even if the males in question didn’t ask for it.

The simple truth is that being male (like being white in many places in the world, like being Malay in Malaysia, like being rich in… umm… just about anywhere), always and inherently grants you a privilege. Calling feminism feminism makes you remember that while the end goal is a balanced, equal society for both genders, it’s females who are disadvantaged in this system, and female rights, on the most part, that need to be addressed.

(For those who are super well-versed in feminist theory – there is actually a whole other school of thought that believes that the term feminism excludes transgendered and transsexual people, who can be even more disadvantaged and marginalized than females by the world we live in. This is something I’m still learning more about, and thinking about how to reconcile this fact with the concept of feminism. For now though – I am fighting my own homeground battles. I don’t wish to exclude others who are fighting their own battles, but for now I can say that I am a feminist who also cares strongly about gay, bisexual, transgendered, transsexual and queer issues.)

Why am I a feminist?

Do you remember the moment you had an epiphany about the way the world works? For me, it was when I discovered the existence of the concept of feminism, and immediately following that, the realization that the world that I was living in was a patriarchal one. (To people who know me in real life and know I am always harping about “the patriarchy”: it literally means “a system controlled by men.” But isn’t it true? THE ENTIRE WORLD is a patriarchy.) And it was like a light bulb went on in my head.

For as long as I can remember, I have felt this burning, angry feeling inside me about being a girl, or specifically, about not being a boy. When I was growing up, it felt like the boys could do anything they wanted! The boys were never limited! It was constantly inferred or announced, subtly or directly, that boys were better, faster, stronger, and freer. No one ever told my boy cousins to stop slouching because it wasn’t ladylike. No one ever tsk tsk-ed that my boy cousins didn’t know how to cook. How come the women in my family had to serve themselves dinner after the men have filled their plates, have to pray behind the men, had to defer to their husbands instead of mutually agreeing as partners? How come, no matter how successful or independent I am, I will always be, in religious law, the ward of a male, be it my father, husband or brother?

If there is one thing in the world I don’t respond well to, it’s illogical restrictions. I fucking rail against illogical restrictions and expectations and  shackles; and I use the term shackles because when I think about it, it actually makes me feel physically suffocated.

When I found out about feminism and the patriarchy, I was finally able to put a name on my anger. That was why I felt so hard done by (in feminist theory terms: marginalized). That was why the world seemed to favour boys. I was playing in a game that was already rigged to let the men win no matter what. Why hadn’t I seen it earlier?

The more aware I make myself about feminism, by reading about feminist theory and feminist news, the more I see the ways in which the world is unfair; even now, when I’m no longer comparing my freedom to my boy cousins’. I’m still catcalled, or hissed at, or whistled at, like an animal, and made to feel unsafe just by crossing a street. I’m still called “dear” affectionately at work, by older male colleagues who no doubt think they’re being paternal, but who are not calling my male peers “dear” and thus are genderizing me. I’m still dealing with the fact that men are just treated differently to women, all around the world. Am I still angry? Yes. I’m always angry. Every day I am reminded that my gender and my feminine appearance gives people preconceived notions about how they can treat me and what to expect of me.

Do feminists hate men?

Some feminists hate some men, some men hate some feminists, some people who may or may not identify as feminists hate other people who may or may not identify as feminists. But is man-hating a pre-requisite to be a feminist? Of course not.

And it’s infuriating and frankly ridiculous that that is what is has come down to. Especially from female celebrities who otherwise seem so empowering. Lady Gaga has been on record as saying “I’m not a feminist! I love men!” Shailene Woodley was asked if she considered herself a feminist and she said “No. Because I love men.”

Brain. Cannot. Compute. What?!?!?!?! That is literally the equivalent of someone asking me if I am a Death Cab for Cutie fan, and me answering “No. Because my feet start to hurt after I wear high heels all day.” IT MAKES NO SENSE. THE TWO ARE NOT MUTUALLY EXCLUSIVE. DO YOU UNDERSTAND YOU ARE SPEAKING THE NONSENSE.

Am I, person who is coincidentally a feminist, going to hate you if you’re a sexist asshole who happens to be a man? Yes. I will. But that is because you are a sexist asshole, not because you are a man. Get it right.

Why do people tend not to call themselves feminists, and why do I care about it?

Because, like Lady Gaga and Shailene Woodley, people tend to equate feminism with man-hatin’. It’s wildly inaccurate, and like I said earlier, infuriating. But I’ve been trying not to be flabbergasted when people who seem to espouse feminist ideals and live by feminist principles tell me that they’re not feminists. Everyone has epiphanies on their own time; everyone has the right to identify with whatever –ism they want. It is unfair to put labels on people who don’t want to be labelled.

I will say though, that I do wish more people would embrace the term. It’s okay, people. It doesn’t mean you have to burn your bra and become a lesbian who doesn't wear makeup, it doesn’t mean you want women to run the world, it doesn’t mean you hate men. It just means you think women deserve the same rights and choices and options as men. That’s literally it. The same freedoms. You can be a feminist who is a housewife, who is supported solely by her husband. You can be a feminist who is a CEO of a Fortune 500 company. There’s no right way to make choices. But what is important is that women will be able to have that choice in the first place. 

I really like something that Ellen Page has said. It's so true.

“I don’t know why people are so reluctant to say they’re feminists. Maybe some women just don’t care. But how could it be any more obvious that we still live in a patriarchal world when feminism is a bad word?”

And, also, I like more stuff that my favourite comedienne Caitlin Moran has written. Also true.

“We need to reclaim the word 'feminism'. We need the word 'feminism' back real bad. When statistics come in saying that only 29% of American women would describe themselves as feminist - and only 42% of British women - I used to think, What do you think feminism IS, ladies? What part of 'liberation for women' is not for you? Is it freedom to vote? The right not to be owned by the man you marry? The campaign for equal pay? 'Vogue' by Madonna? Jeans? Did all that good shit GET ON YOUR NERVES? Or were you just DRUNK AT THE TIME OF THE SURVEY?”  

“These days, however, I am much calmer - since I realised that it’s technically impossible for a woman to argue against feminism. Without feminism, you wouldn’t be allowed to have a debate on women’s place in society. You’d be too busy giving birth on the kitchen floor - biting down on a wooden spoon, so as not to disturb the men’s card game - before going back to quick-liming the dunny. This is why those female columnists in the Daily Mail - giving daily wail against feminism - amuse me. They paid you £1,600 for that, dear, I think. And I bet it’s going in your bank account, and not your husband’s. The more women argue loudly, against feminism, the more they both prove it exists and that they enjoy its hard-won privileges.”

“What is feminism? Simply the belief that women should be as free as men, however nuts, dim, deluded, badly dressed, fat, receding, lazy and smug they might be. Are you a feminist? Hahaha. Of course you are.”

On poetry

Despite (or because of?!) the fact that I majored in English Literature in university, I'm not really that into poetry as a literary medium. Though there are many poems that I like, a number that I love, and a handful that I can recite from memory or at least with very little prompting (because yes... I AM that nerdy that I have been known to memorize my favourite poems; gentlemen, please TRY at least to keep your panties on while I'm telling this story), poetry seems to have a much higher incidence than prose of being (a) terribly shitty, (b) disgustingly, cringeworthily schmaltzy, (c) incredibly affected, pretentious, and ostentious, (d) SUPER BORING and/or (e) gag-reflex-inducing.

Let me just say that it is NOT an accident NOR an exaggeration that Douglas Adams writes about poetry in the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, and writes that Vogon poetry (the Vogons are a hideous and bureaucratic alien species in the book, obviously):

“is of course, the third worst in the universe. The second worst is that of the Azgoths of Kria. During a recitation by their poet master Grunthos the Flatulent of his poem "Ode to a Small Lump of Green Putty I Found in My Armpit One Midsummer Morning", four of his audience died of internal hemorrhaging and the president of the Mid-Galactic Arts Nobbling Council survived only by gnawing one of his own legs off. Grunthos was reported to have been "disappointed" by the poem's reception, and was about to embark on a reading of his 12-book epic entitled "My Favourite Bathtime Gurgles" when his own major intestine -- in a desperate attempt to save life itself -- leapt straight up through his neck and throttled his brain.”

That is what bad poetry can do (or what it feels like bad poetry is doing to you). But good poetry: good poetry is awe inspiring.

My favourite poet is a grizzly, frankly terrifying looking, hardened man with an acne-ridden face, who was addicted to alcohol and women, and is best known for being a laureate for the masculine American low-life and documenting the despairing, dirty, vulgar fringes of mainstream society. His name is Charles Bukowski, and he wrote thousands of poems, hundreds of short stories and a number of novels about extremely joyous things like desperation and violence and the mundane, soul-sucking nature of life.

He literally could NOT be any less like me or anyone I would ever expect to become a fan of than if he was a purple haired devil unicorn. I have nothing in common with him, given that I am not a gruff alcoholic womanizer (I think).

But I still remember the first time I read one of his poems. Bukowski stirs all these emotions in you that you don’t even know you have. The first time I read his poems, I felt like he was talking straight to my soul. TO MY SOUL, MAN. I can’t say that about ANY of my favourite prose authors, love them though I may. I don’t even know why Bukowski touches me so much. Maybe my soul is secretly masculine and hardened (this is actually a totally possible explanation although I live in high heels and adore make-up), but whatever the reason, Bukowski is totally my spirit poet (like the poetry equivalent of a spirit animal. On a related note I don’t know what my spirit animal would be. I would like to think it’s something awesome like a white tiger but it’s probably a capuchin monkey or something).

What I can articulate about what I like about Bukowski’s poetry is that I really appreciate, in a way I can’t even emphasize, when beautiful, sensitive things are wrapped in all these layers of grime and muck and vulgarity. And when simple, normal, everyday words, even profanity, become touching and truthful. I would imagine (though I’m no poet, so take this with a mountain of salt) that it must be easier to write beautiful things when you use flowery language and rhyming structures and sophisticated word choices. But when you use the everyday vernacular, and everyday scenes –  poverty and prostitutes and seedy motels – but you can make those beautiful and touching and extract all this emotion out of just simple words and dingy life scenes: THAT’S amazing, because it's all real, and it's ugly, but it's beautiful, and that's life.

Dreamlessly

 old grey-haired waitresses
 in cafes at night
 have given it up,
 and as I walk down sidewalks of
 light and look into windows
 of nursing homes
 I can see that it is no longer
 with them.
 I see people sitting on park benches
 and I can see by the way they
 sit and look
 that it is gone.

 I see people driving cars
 and I see by the way
 they drive their cars
 that they neither love nor are
 loved-
 nor do they consider
 sex. it is all forgotten
 like an old movie.

 I see people in department stores and
 supermarkets
 walking down aisles
 buying things
 and I can see by the way their clothing
 fits them and by the way they walk
 and by their faces and their eyes
 that they care for nothing
 and that nothing cares
 for them.

 I can see a hundred people a day
 who have given up
 entirely.

 if I go to a racetrack
 or a sporting event
 I can see thousands
 that feel for nothing or
 no one
 and get no feeling
 back.

 everywhere I see those who
 crave nothing but
 food,shelter, and
 clothing; they concentraate
 on that
 dreamlessly.

 I do not understand why these people do not
 vanish
 I do not understand why these people do not
 expire
 why the clouds
 do not murder them
 or why the dogs
 do not murder them
 or why the flowers and the children
 do not murder them,
 I do not understand

 I suppose they are murdered
 yet I can't adjust to the
 fact of them
 because they are so
 many.

 each day
 each night,
 there are more of them
 in the subways and
 in the buildings and
 in the parks

 they feel no terror
 at not loving
 or at not
 being loved

 so many many many
 of my fellow
 creatures.

   

Whats The Use Of A Title?

They don't make it
the beautiful die in flame-
suicide pills, rat poison, rope what-
ever...
they rip their arms off,
throw themselves out of windows,
they pull their eyes out of the sockets,
reject love
reject hate
reject, reject.
they don't make it
the beautiful can't endure,
they are butterflies
they are doves
they are sparrows,
they don't make it.
one tall shot of flame
while the old men play checkers in the park
one flame, one good flame
while the old men play checkers in the park
in the sun.
the beautiful are found in the edge of a room
crumpled into spiders and needles and silence
and we can never understand why they
left, they were so
beautiful.
they don't make it,
the beautiful die young
and leave the ugly to their ugly lives.
lovely and brilliant: life and suicide and death
as the old men play checkers in the sun
in the park.

How Is Your Heart?

during my worst times
 on the park benches
 in the jails
 or living with
 whores
 I always had this certain
 contentment-
 I wouldn't call it
 happiness-
 it was more of an inner
 balance
 that settled for
 whatever was occuring
 and it helped in the
 factories
 and when relationships
 went wrong
 with the
 girls.
 it helped
 through the
 wars and the
 hangovers
 the backalley fights
 the
 hospitals.
 to awaken in a cheap room
 in a strange city and
 pull up the shade-
 this was the craziest kind of
 contentment
 and to walk across the floor
 to an old dresser with a
 cracked mirror-
 see myself, ugly,
 grinning at it all.
 what matters most is
 how well you
 walk through the
 fire.


For Jane

225 days under grass
and you know more than I.
they have long taken your blood,
you are a dry stick in a basket.
is this how it works?
in this room
the hours of love
still make shadows.
when you left
you took almost
everything.
I kneel in the nights
before tigers
that will not let me be.
what you were
will not happen again.
the tigers have found me
and I do not care.

On Youngest Sisters

One of the good things about having a lot of siblings (three sisters, one brother, many cats throughout the years = MAYHEM) is that you are pretty much guaranteed to have an interesting childhood, that, when you're older, you can turn into strange and silly anecdotes to eventually write about in your blog that no one reads.

One of the BAD things about having a lot of siblings (specifically, sisters) is that my god they can be annoying. Some days I wanted nothing more than to make Sisters No. 2 and No. 3 completely disappear.

No. 2 would totally cramp my style (yo) and (I'm not even joking about this, this is the extent of the evil) used to CHEW ON MY KEN DOLL'S SHOES SOLELY TO PISS ME OFF. Like really. Just to make me angry. Because then my Ken dolls would have to date Barbie barefoot. Honestly. THOSE SHOES DON'T EVEN TASTE LIKE ANYTHING!!! And she did this when she was EIGHT YEARS OLD, not like when she was teething or anything!!! (Residual annoyance.)

No. 3 can be super grumpy and moody (and still is. She is definitely The Most Feared Person in our family. That accolade doesn't go to our mother, nor our father.... but Sister No. 3. Trust me. You don't want to get on her bad side, and you especially don't want to get on her bad side when she's tired or hungry. Like I'm so scared of her, I actually feel safer putting all of this in brackets, because that way it seems like less chance that she'll see it and get angry at me for saying it).

But Sister No. 4 (and in the interest of keeping my family members straight: I'm Sister No. 1, the eldest, 1 for first and best, all that jazz bla bla)... I don't think I have ever wished that Sister No. 4 would disappear. This has a lot to do with her personality (super mellow) and the fact that I was used as child labour to take care of No. 4 when she was a baby, since somehow (and I'm sure this is the reason parents are always compelled to love their children no matter what) cleaning the poo off a baby's butt pretty much means you are going to forgive them anything. Even when they grow up and officially become an adult.

So this is a post for No. 4. You were born at 12.27am on 14 April 1994, and I didn't need to recheck that time or put that into my phone calendar, because although I have a terrible memory, I still remember reading that time and date on the name tag that the nurse put around your foot after you were born. I picked out your name, because although Umi doesn't believe in checking a baby's sex before they are born, everyone was expecting you to be a boy (based on totally non-scientific things like the way Umi's tummy looked, what she was eating while she was pregnant, and the totally illogical fact that she already had three daughters). But I knew you were going to be a girl (and transform our family into LITTLE WOMEN BY LOUISA MAY ALCOTT! Which was technically true for 6 years until our idyllic Little Women-ness was totally spoiled by the emergence of a baby brother) and I remember poring through baby name books (this was pre-internet times) to find the prettiest, best name for you, eventually landing on a name that means "cantik dan berseri" (all the baby name books we had were in Malay, and I had to ask Abah what berseri meant). 

I changed your diapers, bathed you, burped you, carried you around the house when you wouldn't sleep, sang to you (which probably REALLY didn't allow you to sleep), cleaned up your vomit, and when I held you in my lap on car rides (this was also pre-car seat awareness times) you would fall asleep and drool all over my arms, and I would LET you drool all over me because I didn't want to disturb your sleep. You had insane gravity-defying hair that actually grew upwards, like Fido Dido's, before Umi shaved it off, and even though we all laughed at you while you were growing your hair back, you were super cute regardless, and we always got stopped at supermarkets or shops by complete strangers who would tell us that. You used to suck your thumbs, which made your palms smell like mayonnaise, and even though I was kind and mature about it, I distinctly remember Sisters No. 2 and No. 3 running away from you, screaming "EWW MAYONNAISE HANDS!" when you walked towards them, for which I think you should give them shit about forever. We all cheered for you the night you walked for the first time, on the eve of your first birthday, and were so super proud that you took your first steps before you were even one year old (theoretically, that statement is true because you made it by a few hours; most probably because we were all egging you on like crazy).

In one month, it will be your 20th birthday. You are absurdly tall and will probably be 6 feet by the time you finish growing. You study environmental science, which I totally don't understand because yuck, science. You are the quietest out of all of us, but that is probably a survival instinct since you had to live with No. 2 and No. 3 for longer than I did before I went away to university (ha ha) and then after that, had to live with No. 5, our long-awaited, chattiest human being on earth brother. You are the spitting image of Kat Dennings, and no one can figure out how that happened. 

But, you should remember that although you may be all those things: you will also, and always, be No. 4 - our drooly, bald, mayonnaise-smelling baby sister.

On skincare

Earlier this year when someone told me my complexion was amazing I almost fell off my chair in shock and spilled my drink on myself. Then I told that person that I loved her.

Even more strangely, is that for some reason this year, I've had even MORE people after that incident tell me that I have great skin and asking me what products I use (resulting in me expressing multiple declarations of love for said people), which has lead me to conclude that whatever skincare regimen I'm following right now: it's working. I mean, it's either that or I'm influencing or intimidating people in such a way that they feel the need to feed me unsolicited compliments.

Lest you think this is a #humblebrag, let me assure you that it is really not because I have NEVER, EVER been known for having good skin. When I was growing up I had terrible acne and oily skin that reduced me to emotional adolescent tears every time I looked in the mirror. Can you imagine being a pimply little pre-teen who matured early, in a class full of immature pre-pubescent boys who at that time wouldn't know a pimple if it hit them in the face? Cause if you can't imagine it, I can tell you: little boys are mean, man. And none of my sisters ever had a serious case of the teenage zits, so I really got the short end of the gene stick on that one. And then I went to university in the middle of a frozen tundra, and promptly developed dry and flaky skin from the seriously cold weather. And to make matters worse, since I have big eyes, I also have big eyebags (seriously: please see Anne Hathaway for proof. Big eyes = big eyebags, it is a curse). (Someone ALSO once told me I look like Anne Hathaway. That dude was OBVIOUSLY lying and/or trying to get into my pants, so I did NOT tell him I loved him. My own husband who has regular access into my pants does not even say I look like Anne Hathaway.)

So all the praise must go to my skincare regimen (which makes me think of little soldiers fighting for the state of my skin - we declare war on wrinkles and dull skin!), which is a hodge-podge cocktail of various products that I've either read good reviews about, or randomly picked up off the shelf and for some reason never stopped using. Thank you, my little skin soldiers, who are, in order of use:

Morning:

1. Facewash: Neutrogena Deep Clean cleanser

Started using this because it was right next to the Neutrogena makeup remover at Guardian and I was too lazy to look for the face wash I was using at the time (Nivea one that I was not particularly attached to). I like this because it doesn't foam too much, and it isn't drying.

2. Toner: Clinique Clarifying Lotion

I picked this up off the shelf during a random Sephora run and was totally shocked at how effective it was (i.e. how much dirt/dead skin cells it seemed to pick up). Also, comes in a giant pink bottle with a green cap, which are my sorority's unofficial colours.

3. Eye cream: Kiehl's Line-Reducing Eye-Brightening Concentrate

I tend to be wary of products that seem to promise too much, and this is supposed to be line-reducing AND eye-brightening?! But I think it works?

4. Face cream: Kiehl's Powerful-Strength Line-Reducing Concentrate

Same as previous product: I think this works?

5. Moisturizer: Clinique's Dramatically Different Moisturing Gel

I think this works (note lack of question marks). When you have terribly schizophrenic combination skin, you WILL notice whether your moisturizer works or not.

6. Primer (if I plan to use make-up for a full day): Make Up For Ever UV Prime SPF50

I don't remember how I got sold onto primer in the first place because I used to (a) not be aware of its existence, and then later on (b) considered it a wholly unnecessary step in one's make-up routine. I think it was the SPF50 that sold me onto this - I mean whether or not this is really helping my make-up stay on, at least I'm protected from the sun.

Night:

1. Make-up remover: Neutrogena oil-free make-up remover

 

Amazing, takes everything off. Although I find removing make-up a huge ass pain in the butt, I still do all these steps every single night without fail, no matter what kind of state of exhaustion or otherwise that I find myself in at the end of the night.

2. Facewash: Neutrogena Deep Clean cleanser

Described above.

3. Toner: Clinique Clarifying Lotion

Described above.

4. Eye cream: Kiehl's Midnight Recovery eye cream

I think this works?

5. Face cream: Estee Lauder's Advanced Night Repair

Really like this - it's not too gooey or sticky or oily or smelly. And of course it could totally be my imagination but I think it makes my skin look dewy. 

6. Moisturizer: Clinique's Dramatically Different Moisturing Gel

Described above.

Other:

1. Caudalie Grape Water

I use this when I travel, because I get worried to the point of paranoia about my face drying out during long-haul flights on airplanes. I still don't really know if this works or not, but I guess it feels good to have water spritzed onto your face?

2. Kiehl's Rare Earth Deep Pore Cleansing Masque

Was a gift from my sister, who, before she started working for EY and becomes weirdly animated when she talks about tax structuring, was a housewife who worked part-time at Kiehl's. The tub she got me is a limited edition Mark Ruffalo version (he of the Incredible Hulk and childhood bestie from 13 Going On 30 fame). I don't even know what a Mark Ruffalo version of a face mask is, but I don't question this. I use this once a week or so, and hide behind doors after I've put it on my face so I can jump out and scare Alman, who still doesn't understand what a face mask is, what it is for, and why I put green gunk on my face.

I have now revealed all my secrets. Also, and this is totally Murphy's Law now, isn't it, but I started this post in the afternoon and now it is evening and I am convinced I am getting a zit on my chin. 

-_________________-

On Desert Island Essentials

Sometimes, in the interest of Be(ing) Prepared (which, in case you don't remember, is the Girl Guide motto, and, in case you didn't know, I was totally the most gung-ho Girl Guide ever; I know right: I am just too cool for words), I like to wonder about disaster scenarios, and what I would do in these disaster scenarios. For example, I have put much thought and consideration into what I would do in the event of a fire in my apartment. This way, if there ever IS a fire in my apartment (which is totally possible because I can't cook and Goosey smokes a lot), I'd know immediately what to do and wouldn't have to waste time panicking. If there was a fire in my apartment, I can tell you immediately and without hesitation that my plan is to drag Goosey out by his feet (assuming he has passed out from smoke inhalation, as I have heartier non-asthmatic lungs), grab his asthma inhaler, and strap my two favourite bags onto me (and this is why my handbag is ALWAYS stocked with essentials such as lipbalm, eyeliner and wallet. I am PREPARED).

This post isn't about that particular disaster scenario though. This is about what I would salvage from the burning wreckage of an airplane crash, if I were ever stranded on a desert island.

1. Lipbalm. 

I cannot cannot CANNOT function without lipbalm. I literally get fidgety and anxious and paranoid when my lips feel dry. In desperate cases I have put hand cream on my lips. (In retrospect this was probably not safe at all, and I'm lucky I didn't poison myself.) My complete and total reliance on/addiction to lipbalm is also the reason I have emergency lipbalms everywhere: by the bed, on the living room coffee table, in my handbag, on my desk at work, in my walk-in closet. My favourite lipbalm is a Crabtree & Evelyn version that Turkish Airlines gives out on business class long-haul flights (which I've tried looking for at Crabtree & Evelyns, but they don't sell them! So now I hoard lipbalms everytime I fly Turkish Airlines). My next favourite is Palmer's Cocoa Butter Formula (easily available at pharmacies everywhere for a mere RM10), which is super moisturizing. And is SPF 15 i.e. pretty much perfect for being stranded on a desert island.

2. Liquid pen eyeliner. 

I actually use and prefer gel eyeliner on a daily basis, but it seems like too much effort to look for a pot of gel eyeliner and a eyeliner brush in an airplane crash, so my emergency pick would be a liquid pen eyeliner. I actually do have a black Dior one that I use in emergencies i.e. when I look dead after work and have just been informed (usually by Goose) that we have after-work going-out-and-must-look-presentable plans.

3. Wet wipes. 

SERIOUSLY. Multifunctional and practical. I always have either wet wipes or a small pack of tissues in my handbag. If I have to do my business in the woods on said desert island (even the thought of which gives me the heebie jeebies and is why I would never be able to go camping) (question: is it hortologically possible to have woods in a desert? Must google answers to such questions before writing blog posts and not wonder about them during) then at least I will be able to clean myself after.

4. Toothpicks. 

Also always have this in my bag. This is more for Goose, because he is addicted to toothpicks, if such a thing is possible. However, I feel like toothpicks could also be useful for other survivor-ish things. Like possibly, theoretically, making fire. Which leads me to my next item.

5. A lighter. 

I DON'T always have this in my bag, but I totally should. You never know when you will need fire.

6. A pashmina. 

Actually a towel would be best, like Douglas Adams recommends in The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, but who the hell travels with a towel unless they're actually hitchhiking across the galaxy?! I make do with a pashmina. Which I always bring with me when I travel, because airplanes are always ridiculously cold, and also I hate cold weather and can never have too many layers.

7. A book. 

If you're stranded on a desert island for a short period of time, at least you'll still be in touch with literature and culture, and will be able to distract yourself by reading. If you're stranded on a desert island forever, at least you can burn the pages of the book if your toothpicks run out and you are too weak to chop firewood. You could also clean yourself with this after doing your business in the woods.

Luckily I never travel without any of these items in my hand-carry luggage, so I probably wouldn't have to jump into burning wreckage to get these in the event of an airplane crash. In conclusion: I seem to be a super high-maintenance person, but at least I prepare for that. Also: I am totally not joking about all these things, and if you have never considered what your Desert Island/Things to Save in Burning Fire list would be, I STRONGLY SUGGEST YOU DO SO.

BE. PREPARED.

On 2013

When you’re an early January baby, it’s hard to separate the end of the year from the start of the year from the start of your new age from the end of your old age. And when you’re naturally introspective, it’s hard not to become somber and reflective about turning a year older, and about the year that has just passed. I don’t know if this is a by-product of my birthday being crammed into the tail end of a holiday season with such non-stop partying that it would be easy to feel endorphined out by the time it actually rolls around, or if, because it’s so close to the year end and year start, it’s only natural to take a step back and assess my life. I only know that I like year-end/year-start lists, and so in no particular order, this is the year in review: 2013’s list of firsts/achievements/accomplishments/notables:

1.    My first year as a wife.

Would say I get a B+ for this. Possibly A- if we’re going to grade on a curve. My cooking skills are still non-existent and my recipe books languish in the dusty nook on top of my refrigerator, but my husband has managed to put on a few discreet pounds post-marriage, which is what husbands are supposed to do if they’re happy, right?

And although I avoid cleaning the apartment unless absolutely necessary (like when I spill things, which actually happens much less than it should when you factor in my lack of hand-eye coordination and tendency to slam things down on tables), I have a trusty part-time cleaner who ensures that Goose and I do not live in squalor.

And! Goose and I have fallen into a housekeeping routine where we each take care of certain house errands and chores, and 90% of the time it works every time. For example, Goose only finds himself completely out of clean underwear about once every few weeks (I never find myself out of clean underwear because the ratio of my underwear to Goose’s is 3:1., as evidenced by my overflowing underwear drawer), and we have only once found ourselves without electricity (which has more to do with constantly being on vacation and the irregularity with which we receive our electricity bills, really.)

I shall also give myself extra credit for being a generous and regular distributor of no-strings-attached massages and I have never! NEVER! (okay maybe only like once) let us run out of toothpaste. I’m not sure that the list of wifely duties is exhaustive, definable or actually generally agreed on at all, but for some reason, I am quite sure that it includes never letting your spouse worry about whether he has to go to work without having brushed his teeth because he has run out of toothpaste.

2.    Kissed goodbye to extreme myopia and astigmatism and waved (blinked?) hello to 20/20 vision

Thanks to this magical newfangled technology called Implantable Collamer Lens (which sounds fancy but is really just –prepare to have your mind blown—a permanent contact lens): I have 20/20 vision for the first time in TWENTY YEARS. I really can't emphasize how huge this is. I have been blind as a bat for most of my life. I couldn't see beyond my nose—literally (as in, I have a tall nose bridge and also I was that blind). I used to have morbid fantasies where I'd be in a plane crash, shipwrecked on a desert island and be a completely useless member of the survivor society because I wouldn't be able to use my contact lenses without any contact lens solution, and inevitably, at some point, would lose my glasses and then be eaten by my fellow survivors (so at least I'd be useful as food).

But NOW I can see better than most people! I no longer live in fear of being voted out of any survivor community that doesn’t produce its own contact lens and contact lens solution! I don't have to pack contact lens cases or glasses when I travel! And I get to see the world in all its glory as soon as I wake up! Was totally worth it, even if I did have to stop using eyeliner for a month (which was one of the most painful parts of the experience).

3.    Went for surgery to remove a tumour from my breast.

Made me appreciate my health, and also my previously unscarred breasts. Honestly. I’ve always thought my breasts were too small, but they used to be small and unsullied. Now they are small and slightly scarred. Well, one of them.

There's nothing quite like a random mass of growth in your body to make you freak out like you never have before, set you into panic mode, and move mountains to get that sucker out of there. The tumour was benign, and surgery sucks. Luckily, I did this surgery before I did my eye surgery, so once they made me take off my glasses and laid me out on the operating table ready to be cut open – everything was a blur, which made it a little less sucky. 

4.    Bought my holy grail Fuck Off bag.

A big deal because it’s my holy grail bag! And also because it’s a symbol of my complete and total financial independence: I didn’t have to wait for Mommy and Daddy or Husband (who all frankly have wildly different views than me on the values of handbags, by which I mean, just don’t get it) to gift me anything – I’m lucky enough to be in a position to buy things when I want them.

5.    Went on an epic Eurotrip of a honeymoon (honeymoon of a Eurotrip?) with my favourite person in the world.

Epic not only because of how many places we visited (London, Amsterdam, Florence, Rome and then London again), or how much leave I took (3 whole weeks away from work; woohoo motherfuckers!), or the many, many beautiful sights we saw, food we ate and experiences we…. umm… experienced, but also because it really made me appreciate how lucky I am to be married to someone who loves all this as much as I do.

The travelling from place to place, navigating completely unknown cities by foot or public transportation, trying to converse (and failing miserably) in unfamiliar languages and picking a new place to eat every day: to do that consecutively for 3 weeks with one other person means you love adventure, and you love that other person (honestly – I’ve always maintained that one of the best tests to see if you really know someone is to travel with them or live with them).

So we saw and did amazing things (Jay-Z at the O2! Turandot at Teatro dell’Opera in Roma! Educational shows in Amsterdam! Beautiful art and artifacts everywhere!) and also reunited with family members (siblings, siblings-in-law, cousins) and practically family members (college roommate). Best second honeymoon ever (Bali/Gili Islands was the first honeymoon). Cannot wait to see where Goose takes me for the third honeymoon. 

(I’m kidding, I put that in to freak him out.) 

(I’m only half kidding.) 

6.    Went to Seoul for a hectic, party-filled wedding weekend.

Honestly. I can count on my fingers the number of hours of sleep I got there. If trips had names, this would be titled Sleepless in Seoul. We came; we went to a club (ah don’t all the best stories start like this?), got a tour of Seoul at 3am, went shopping in Gangnam (sounds ballin’ right?), went to my college roommate’s wedding, went to the wedding afterparty, took the entire afterparty entourage to Goose’s friend’s club where DJ JAZZY JEFF WAS PLAYING and so basically organized the after-after-party, had amazing Korean barbeque, and got on plane… so I think it’s safe to say we conquered Seoul. For now. Must go back though. The Korean barbeque was amazing.



So that was the year in review. In retrospect, it included a lot of travelling and surgeries. May 2014 bring more travelling, and no more surgeries! The year has somewhat started off on the right track for this as we ushered in 2014 on Koh Phangan in Thailand, and it is now 10 days into January and I have not had any surgeries. So far so good 2014.

Added: more firsts that I completely forgot about:

7.    First time I cut hair short/First time I have ever NOT had super long hair.

So although it's only a long bob (which, according to the extensive internet research I carried out prior to chopping off all said hair, is also known as a "lob"; but since lob is perhaps the most unattractive hairstyle name ever I'm going to stick to "long bob") and not a shaved head or pixie cut, it's still a big deal because I've had long hair my whole life. When I was a wee lass, I was one of those extremely feminine girly-girls who used to only wear dresses and skirts and bows and ribbons (I remember being totally horrified that my younger sister used to love wearing shorts - like ugh, what are you, a barbarian boy?!), and my (actually, probably my mother's) pride and joy was my hair, which my mother would braid intricately each morning. 

Even the very first costume I ever wore, for my first Kindergarten Dress-As-A-Book-Character day (the beginning of a sordid love affair that is still going strong with wearing costumes, going to costume parties, and Halloween) was Rapunzel, in all her hirsute glory. My mother really went all out for that: she had a floor-length custom-made medieval-era dress made for me and bought metres of brown yarn, which she braided into a thick plait, and then fastened onto my hair with ribbons. Walking around school with a brown yarn braid that literally trailed on the floor behind me and feeling like a real princess is probably one of my earliest childhood memories.

Exact replica of my favourite book at the time, and inspiration for my costume (apart from the hair colour).

Hmm I'm digressing. Anyway, the long and short of it (*ahem* pun) is that as I grew older and my hair became curlier, I still kept my hair long and thought I'd feel naked and insecure without it. I've thought this for so long that I don't realise when I stopped thinking it, but sometime in early December, I realized I was ready for a change. And then I made an appointment and cut it all off. It's been liberating to be able to use less shampoo and conditioner; it was scary to see how my hair would behave (surprisingly, so far: not very badly at all).

It's just hair. I can't believe it's taken me almost 29 years to come to that conclusion and stop hiding behind it (metaphorically). It'll grow back. It doesn't define me, and isn't my defining feature (or at least, not anymore!). I realize all this in hindsight, but I can tell you while I was sitting in the salon chair waiting for the first snip of the scissors: it was almost as adrenaline-inducing as waiting for a rollercoaster to start moving.

8.    First time spending Hari Raya with two families.

I agonized about this earlier, but Married Hari Raya actually wasn't that bad. I got to spend the first day of Malaysia's Hari Raya in KL with my in-laws, and then spent the following day in Brunei - but the following day was still only the first day of BRUNEI'S Hari Raya! (Brunei has for the past 6 years had Hari Raya one day later than Malaysia and pretty much the rest of the world, due to a stubborn refusal to move on with the times and actually use things like, umm math and calculation and science to determine the lunar calendar.)

The first day of Hari Raya is like the first day of Christmas: as in, yes, technically there are more days to follow the first day (11 more in the case of Christmas and 29 more for Hari Raya) but the first day is the best. It will always have the best food, the most family members, and is the biggest deal. And we got to have two, with both our families. Maybe should stop criticizing Brunei as being backward and outdated since its backward- and outdated-ness is what enables this fortuitous turn of events in the first place.

On Books (And Their Titles)

I, Ms Super Contrarian, Defier of Well-Known Idioms, totally judge books by their covers.

I don't think of it as being superficial so much as literately snobby: I don't care if a book cover is old and ugly and tattered, and I love used books because there's so much history in them (whether it's true or not - it might just be my imagination running wild and creating an entire backstory for how a used book was bought and read and cherished and fell off a bookshelf and eventually found its lonely way to a used bookstore but that is, unfortunately, the way that my imagination runs), but hell to the yes I DO care if a book looks tacky.

Examples of tacky include:
- Chick Lit: First of all, I despise this genre even if I didn't find the covers tacky, because it is generic, insipid, and quite frankly insulting to my entire gender. So I don't buy chick lit, or, whether it's chick lit or not, books that have any sassy graphics of lipsticks and high heels and diamonds on the cover. Although I am actually quite fond of sassiness, lipstick, high heels and diamonds in real life, I totally resent the fact that some publisher out there is trying to exploit my love of these fabulously girly things to trick me into buying a shit book. 

 

 I say no. Nononononononononono.

- Books with the movie adaptation poster as the cover: The books are always better than the movie, so why reference the lesser? Also, I don't know if there is anyone who actually goes out of their way to actually buy the book WITH the movie cover, but I do know that I specifically go out of my way to AVOID AT ALL COSTS buying the book with the movie cover. If it's between buying the book with the movie cover and not buying the book at all: I won't buy the book at all. So why bother publishing the book with the movie cover, other than as a cheap way to advertise the movie and drum up book sales in anticipation of the movie? (Alright, so that's why. But still! I refuse to play! I may watch the movie and I may read the book, but I reject the industry's trying to mix up the two mediums!)

I also say no. Even though Leonardo DiCaprio is very handsome as Gatsby. I say give me the not-handsome and kinda creepy eyes of the original cover.

- Fifty shades of S&M/Twilight vampire covers: I cannot believe that we live in a world where these are actually things, but things they are. Once at Barnes & Noble I came across an entire table of Fifty Shades of Grey rip-offs. Really? Really?! Are there people who are that addicted to S&M porn lit that they need an entire table of it, all with similar covers, you know, in case they get confused about which books in their libraries are the S&M ones? I refuse to buy. REFUSE! I refuse so much that when I read Fifty Shades of Grey it was an illicit PDF version (hey, I didn't say I refuse to READ it). I couldn't finish it because the writing was so terrible, though, and had to make someone who had already read the book tell me what happened. Same with the Twilight books, though for that, I just watched the movies. You know, to find out what happened. Not just to see Robert Pattinson in the movie version. Robert who? I actually don't even know his full name.

Please tell me I'm not the only who's seeing this. I'm not, right?! Even Interview With the Vampire, the grand-daddy of vampire books, has been given a teen-vampire makeover.

 
But the number one factor that I REALLY judge books by: their titles. I think I've amassed enough books to classify myself a collector of Books with Awesome Titles. Though awesome book titles do not always translate into awesome books, I feel less cheated by a not-awesome book when I know that at least the author had good intentions, and at least put in a lot of effort with their title.

The top 10 best titles so far:

10. The Solitude of Prime Numbers by Paolo Giordano
(But book was meh.)

9. The Elegance of the Hedgehog by Muriel Barbery
(Also meh. Set in Paris, though, if you like books set in Paris.)
  
8. Special Topics in Calamity Physics by Marisha Pessl
(Loved this; totally lived up to its title expectations. Apparently was supposed to be made into a movie. If it is - BUY THE ORIGINAL COVER.) 

7. Super Sad True Love Story by Gary Shteyngart
(Was expecting a dystopian Romeo & Juliet-type affair. Umm. Not what I got. Though it was very dystopic.)

6. The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake by Aimee Bender
(I remember I bought this book because it had an interesting title, but also because I was hungry and wandered into Kinokuniya during a lunch break in fasting month. The plot has an interesting concept - about a little girl who suddenly develops the ability to taste feelings in food; as in taste what the baker/cook was feeling when they baked/cooked it - but then the author veered into magic realism territory, and failed terribly at it. Terribly.)

5. The History of Love by Nicole Krauss
(One of my favourites; already reviewed here.)

4. The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul by Douglas Adams
(It's Douglas Adams! Of course I loved this. I could probably read his grocery lists and howl with laughter (albeit like a lunatic).)

3. How to Live Safely in a Science Fictional Universe by Charles Yu
(Alas, didn't like the book - it was too metaphysical and new age-y.)

2. An Arsonist's Guide to Writers' Homes in New England by Brock Clarke
(Mehhhh.)

1. The Library of Unrequited Love by Sophie Divry 
(A trippy soliloquy of a very lonely librarian, who is ultimately not terribly interesting. But a library! Of unrequited love! Does that not sound like the most magical thing ever?!)

Honourable mentions: The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky; The Woman Who Went to Bed for a Year by Sue Townsend; The Notable Brain of Maximilian Ponder by J.W. Ironmonger; The Left Hand of Darkness by Ursula K. Le Guin; The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie by Alan Bradley; The Inheritance of Loss by Kiran Desai


Looking at the track record above, judging books based on their book titles actually seems like a wildly inaccurately hit-and-miss way of gauging whether a book is worth reading. If it is any consolation (to myself, I mean; I can’t imagine that anyone else is feeling a little put-out or surprised that superficiality/literate snobbishness doesn’t pay in the end) at least I have a library full of interesting titles and no S&M porn.