The immigrant's Christmas

For whenever a Malaysian politician spouts another embarrassing quotable, I become Chinese. And whenever we come across another FOB (fresh off boat) mainlander doing something mortifying in public (like sucking meat off KFC bones noisily), I am Malaysian. And for the purposes of avoiding yet another drunk come-on, I develop an Australian accent (Aussie women are fierce).

I've never felt like I fit in anywhere. I wasn't Christian enough in church. I wasn't Chinese enough to hang out with the Ah Bengs and Ah Lians. I wasn't good-looking or well to do enough to be part of the cool kids. I wasn't focussed enough to be a nerd. I wasn't conformist enough to blend in with my ex-colleagues. For much of my life, I flitted between social groups, tailoring my mannerisms to suit my companions du jour.

Similarly here, I remain not ________ enough to be with the ___________. Yet now I understand why the Gold Coast feels like home. We're a motley crue of everyone from everywhere, all in search of a more coastal lifestyle. Almost everyone I know here was born somewhere else. C's dad moved from the UK as a six and a half year. C was born 2,300 km away, in Tasmania. RD is Slovakian. SK is from Slovenia. SE grew up in South Africa and Sydney. KG spent the first half his life in Adelaide. X spent his childhood in the States and Sydney. TF and I grew up a suburb apart.

We are not united by culture, nor common language. Not religion, sometimes not even interests. Perhaps all we share, is the very act of upping and moving somewhere else. Of building a life for ourselves, unencumbered (or at least less encumbered) by our pasts. Of the freedom anonymity affords. And in this rootlessness, we are blessed to find love in our chosen families.

This Christmas, I am not attending any obligatory functions, nor buying presents because it is expected of me. Instead, I am carving out my own traditions and choosing to spend time with the few people I care about here.

And this Christmas finally feels like my own.

The other day at Robina

I was observing some fake moles at a novelty shop. These came with hairs on them, not unlike the one on my brother's face, which I fear mine may morph into.

Someone then stroked my hair.

Now, C is very much a cat person and therefore has a habit of stroking my head and scratching me behind the ears. I have long learnt to stop taking offense at this and instead accept the fact that there will come a day, when he kisses the cat and pats me on the head.

ANYWAY. I turn around and this old lady is standing there, with an expression of utter horror, her hand still frozen in the air. Her grandson stood obliviously nearby. "I'm so sorry! Your hair looked too nice to be real! I thought it was a wig and I was going to pull it off!"

At this I looked around, wondering if I had unwittingly placed myself in the wig section. This is a novelty shop, after all. Nope, no wigs.

I suddenly recalled the time I was 12, innocently checking out some books at the PJ Big Bookshop when someone hugged me from behind. Like full body hug. Then a kiss on the head. You should have seen the guy's face when I turned out not to be his girlfriend.

"That's okay. It happens to me more often than you think."

Nostalgia

It's strange how with this whirlwind of change around me, how constant my music is. How some selections have remained the same since high school, some perhaps dating back to an mp3-less childhood.

And the power a certain composition of notes have, to overwhelm me with memories. I am fairly selective about the selections (pun totally unintended) on my playlist, so every entry is a quiet little victory, often attached to an emotional event of some sort, sometimes personal, sometimes gleaned from of a soap opera character.

This Conversation by The Submarines, of the sad, tender parting between X and I, of when I quietly brought up the subject we had been avoiding all along.

Soft Rock Star by Metric, of trying times in a large soulless corporation, to whom I was nothing more than a replaceable drone. Telling myself that there was no need to "shine before swine".

Crash Into Me by Dave Matthews Band, of MF dictating my music choices, and correctly so, in between ice cream, waffles and chicken chop at Madam Kwans.

The Hole In Your Roof by Augie March, of standing under a pitch black sky, beholding the full glory of the Milky Way.

Edge of The Ocean by Ivy, of standing on Cape Byron, of being blown away by the blueness, the infinity of it all, of God's glory and the beauty of this world.

Babylon by Angus and Julia Stone, of long Melbourne tram rides, of St Kilda, of moody skies and of long, long conversations with KG, with my heart in Queensland all the while.

Kite by U2, of lying on a golf course under a stormy sky in Pangkor, my friends by my side, my 16 year old heart having been crushed the first time.

Dancing In The Moonlight by Toploader, of that fateful trip to Sydney, of leaping up and down on the hotel bed in sheer exuberance.

Elevator Love Letter by Stars, of all the times I worked late into the night, compensating for someone else's incompetence/ love of coffee or cigarette breaks/ feigned illness. I am very glad to be rid of Malaysian work ethic. Hopefully for good.

If only fear was an adequate form of prevention

Parenting has been a question on my mind of the late. (Disclaimer: I AM NOT PREGNANT. REPEAT, I AM NOT PREGNANT) In fact, to ensure this state of non-pregnancy, I've undergone minor surgery which apparently has better chances of preventing conception than abstinence.

Yeah, I wonder about that too.

But I digress. Instead, what I've been pondering on relates to the actual raising of a child. The values passed on. A few days ago, my mother asked me if she failed me as a parent. Some ten years ago as an angry adolescent, I would have jumped at the opportunity to rub salt in the wound. Now in clearer hindsight, I realise I was blessed, that my parents had tried their best to ensure they didn't fail me the way their parents failed them. And in turn I too, will try my best to avoid all the pitfalls my parents made. That no one is perfect, that all we can do is our best.

Possibly a side effect of this aforementioned surgery (the hormones get messed up), but I've been looking at people differently. In terms of Would I Want This Person Near My Child. And of course should I choose to be pedantic about it, no one would be let near my offspring, not even I (possibly I'll just get SE to become godmother and get her to raise them instead). But things that irk me most are selfishness, self centredness (this coming from a person who writes a navel gazing blog), discourtesy, a lack of empathy, irresponsibility, amongst others. When I meet people who exhibit these values, I wonder what went wrong in their upbringing. The millions of variables, the lacking constants. I mean, some psychopaths have had happy childhoods, so who's to say what will happen regardless of all I may do?

I have friends who are completely laissez-faire about their kids; I know people who raise their children with an iron fist. I wonder if I'll be an adequate parent. There is a program in the US which pays drug addicts USD200 to get sterilised, to avoid them perpetuating the earth with their defective gene pools. I am sad to say a part of me agrees to this. But where is the love and forgiveness?

Gullible

I'm currently hunting for a new home, having left my temporary sanctuary (it was near the beach, the cafes, the marina, the mall, Federation Walk and most importantly, contained SE, the loveliest person in the world). My landlord, possibly the nicest man when sober, is an abominable drunk.

Jan: I'm moving out today. Because you pissed on the couch and floor and you act super creepy when you're drunk.

ML: That's okay, you don't have to move! You can sleep in my bed!

Jan: ...

ML: I won't touch you. Not that I don't want to, because of course I do.

Jan: Like I said, I'm moving out today.


So whilst crashing at C's for time being, I've been flatshare-hunting. Which led me to this amazing deal. At AUD500/ month, for what appeared to be fully furnished room at this place.

It was a few hundred metres to the beach and shops at the most central location ever. I liked the facade of the building and was ready to make the required deposit of AUD750 (2 weeks rent and bond).

The only catch? The landlady, "Maria Domenica" was in the UK. Apparently her husband was ill. Her solicitor would send me the documents and would it be okay if I signed them and returned them back to her? Then I could make the deposit and she would send me the keys via next day courier service.

Now I come with a major flaw (actually several, but let's just keep this simple) - I'm extremely trusting. This has led me to many, many awkward situations and compromises. So I happily agreed to this arrangement and soon enough, "Steve Robin" sent me an email, requesting that I sign, scan and return the tenancy agreement to him.

The only problem was, there was no attachment to the email.

Right. Could be simple human error. Give benefit of doubt. Request for agreement. Notify "Maria Domenica".

"Steve Robin" then replied again, this time with an attachment. Only this time, the address for the unit was in the Northern Territory, which is about 2,000km from where I am. He also succeeded in getting my address and duration of lease wrong.

Wow. How do bozos like this actually get employed at all?

I explain the errors and email "Maria Domenica" again. I tell the lawyer to fix the issues.

Then SE calls me while I'm out with SK. She'd previously lived a few months in Denmark and had encountered a similar situation. "The landlord said he'd lived in Copenhagen for 5 years. He said he was in the UK and yet when I asked that he send the keys to a trusted friend, so I could exchange the keys for the deposit, he insisted he didn't know anyone."

Seed of doubt planted in my head, I requested the same of "Maria Domenica". She instead gave me her bank account details and insisted she needed my money because her husband was ill. At this point, I noticed a change in her writing style. From normal to all CAPS to all lowercase.

Anyone in the UK regardless of nationality can receive free medical care, thanks to the NHS scheme. I mean, how does AUD750 (GBP375 or so) help with anything really? It wouldn't even pay for her flight back to Australia. What nonsense.

I didn't bother replying and she immediately sent me scans of her passport. In her initial email, she'd mentioned she was Australian and 27 years old. The passport was Italian and her date of birth was April, 1982. I mean seriously, who gets their own age wrong (except for one time on an ice skating rink, but I forgot I'd just celebrated my 15th birthday)?

Once more, I ignored her email and resumed my hunt for a room on the same website.

There was an ad clearly from her, only this time she was masquerading as a 25 year old named Susan. The address given was neither the one we'd previously agreed on, nor the Northern Territory one. But the introduction was exactly the same as those in her email to me.

Sadly there wasn't a Report This As Fraud button. Let's hope the next person isn't as gullible.

Loneliness

Yesterday SY called me from the UK, where he has been for the past 4 or 5 years. We've known each other for a solid 18 years and have a long history of terrible inside jokes. We've made a pact that he is to make a minimum of one phone call to me a year (ie. The Annual Phone Call). In spite of us having not seen each other for a good three years, like all good friends, we simply pick up where we left off.

SY: Jan, I'm working at a cement plant now.

Jan: Semen plant? (you should listen to our atrocious excrement-related jokes)

SY: And wait, before you say anything, I need to tell you something - I'm calling using the office phone.

Jan: WTF

SY: And, and, wait for this too - it's my account manager's line.

All jokes aside, SY was lonely. He'd recently moved cities for work and with UK's lousy economic state, had many friends move to greener pastures.

Loneliness is so common, yet so rarely discussed. The stigma attached to loneliness is ridiculous. I have been the one half of high school's golden couple, college student council vice president etc. Yet there are days I feel as if I would never be missed, that my mere existence is of such little consequence. During my auditing days, I would have clients quietly enter my room, sit down and tell me all their woes (including the General Manager of a listed company telling me she was "not fit to run the place"). Loneliness is normal, and moreso common for many of us who choose to uproot. I was forced to learn to spend time on my own, to like my own company. Loneliness drove me to compromise standards, of myself and of the people I chose to associate with.

The fact of the matter is, you are forced to make a choice. From the 2 years I've spent here, I've noticed two types of people - the ones who make this home and the ones who don't. Making it home actually requires you to go out, make friends, learn the lingo if you don't know it already (in my case, bastardised English), explore the country, develop your own traditions, but above all, love yourself because chances are, no one else is there to do so.

The trade off? Old friends will fall away. Facebook is extremely helpful for keeping in touch, but the fact of the matter is, only a small handful of people will genuinely love you enough to maintain the friendship. And you with your new life too, will only have the energy for few. The rest will slowly fall away over time.

There are people I know, who have been here for years and years and yet remain their tourist status. Holidays are spent back in their countries of origin. They only mingle with their own communities. They speak in their mother tongues. And do everything exactly the way it used to be done. I suppose that is the easiest way to fit in, but it never fails to befuddle me. After all, why would one go through the entire (very troublesome) process of immigrating, only to do the same thing (let's leave refugees out of the debate)?

But I digress. The point is, there are things you can do to avoid feeling like a leper, but that's really only fighting the symptoms. People come and go. The only constants are you, God and your Mum family. The most important thing to do is to love yourself, to be the best version of yourself because if you don't like you, there is no reason why anyone else should. And then the rest will follow through.

Some ideas on getting out of that lonely rut (thanks to C for this)

Words

Today, I poured my heart and soul out to someone I love in words. About a page long, what would have normally taken me 10 minutes (I'm a fast writer) took six times as long to articulate. To edit. To re-edit. And again.

But it's nothing compared to trying to write a cash rate report when you have NO IDEA what cash rate is. And you think you can Wikipedia it and learn it on laymen's terms but it's got something like a three sentence paragraph on it. And then you check on the Reserve Bank website and it comes along with multi-graphed charts and statistics with strange terms they never taught you in college. And all these strange terms they never taught you in college are all linked to more charts and statistics.

So of course you decide to watch episode 11 of the sixth season of Grey's Anatomy. I can't believe Sloan and Little Grey broke up. Sob. Older men make such stupid choices. And then you decide to watch some action at Dunder-Mifflin. John Krasinski is unbelievably cute and funny. He looked absolutely terrible in Away We Go, with that yucky Post-Cute Brad Pitt beard and glasses.

Office cutie vs. deranged-hobo-in-need-of-a-hairwash

And then you cough up another 3 sentences. Like squeezing blood out of stone (which by the way, rhymes with Sloan who is an asshole). Only 4/5 more of the page to go. Maybe I should use font size 32. She did mention that the page formatting is entirely up to my discretion.

And then you end up writing about the writing process on your personal blog so you don't feel like you've only written 1/5 of a page on cash rates and one very sad love letter in the past 5.5 hours you've been sitting here.

Thank God I didn't leave this until 9am tomorrow. Looks like I won't be sleeping much again tonight.

Food talk - hard to digest

We were sitting at a Chinese restaurant. My seating wasn't central; the oversized table had left an awkward expanse of space between us, requiring me to crane my head over to catch bits of the conversation over the din of the restaurant.

They were talking about food.

For some strange reason, I perceive people whose conversational repetoire revolve around food as irksome. You'll find me very agreeable in general. There's some weird ingrained mummy-instinct that has me feigning being patient and generally supportive of most ventures. Yet there are certain comparative trivialities that completely put me off. I'm not talking about the common crimes against humanities or the seven deadly sins - just minor things like faux Western accents, relatives who make unnecessary comments on your appearance and well, talk about food (not to be mistaken for recommendations for dining out).

There's just something I find incredibly boring about talking about food. I mean, eating it is great! I have 24 entries on food on this blog and like an annoying Japanese tourist, tend to insist on photographing dishes before my fellow diners are permitted to dig in. Yet when people sit around talking about what they had for breakfast, lunch, tea, dinner, supper and what they're going to have next whilst still masticating their current meal, my mind drifts off.

Perhaps due to the Gold Coast's limited culinary delights, I find it almost an exclusively Malaysian thing to keep talking about food. I still remember those boring audit days, when I would be stuck in large food-inclined teams. Apart from gossiping about everyone else in the office, Food was the topic du jour. Like every-jour. Every friggin' jour.

During these lengthy discussions on whether we were to have mamak or chicken hor fun or chap fan for lunch and if we should head back to office so we can have nasi lemak for dinner, I would hold my silence and quietly count the days down on my Excel spreadsheet as to when the assignment would finally be over. And pray that the next team would be less food-sy.

And then there are the dieters. My mother once had a friend who was kind, friendly, helpful and a genuinely good friend to her. Unfortunately, she also harboured two extremely grating habits - her penchant for mundane monologues and the fact that the monologues often centred on what she and all her fellow diners had for every single meal, how they felt about it and she felt they felt about it. Listening to her, you would have expected her to weigh 300lbs, but no, Aunty W was as slim as a toothpick and rarely ever finished a meal, preferring instead to pick at her salads whilst eyeing everyone else's dishes (with of course, a running commentary).

Let's not even get started on people who talk about sleep.


Photo credits

On beauty

Thandie Newton - the first time I realised that one did not need to possess blue eyes, blonde hair and pale skin to be considered physically lovely

I still remember the silly things I did in my quest for beauty, as prescribed by Cleo or Womans Weekly - mayonnaise in the hair for shine (stench, mess, Mother yelling Stop wasting my mayo), sunbathing on the balcony (severe sunburn), egg white on the face (stench). Pre-beauty magazines, I'd greatly envied Michelle Oh's toothy smile and her dimples and spent many afternoons with my pinky nails dug deep into my 8 year old cheeks (pain, futility). At 15, greatly despaired by my uncomplementary nose, I almost agreed to a friend selling his violin to fund a new one. I plastered my face with a variety of masks and creams, certain that someday I would find one which would peel off to reveal large, deep set eyes, a tiny nose and clear, rosy complexion. I got around the make up ban at school with tinted lip balm and cheek pinching. At some point, I counted 8 different types of shampoos on the edge of the bathtub, each only partially used, soon to be thrown away. I fantasised about growing another 7 inches taller, losing another few kilos and perfect shiny, waist length hair. I imagined a day when the pores on my pimple prone skin would vanish, as would the greasy shine.

My self esteem was not helped by the fact that I had impossibly good looking friends; our adolescent conversations involved reassuring each other that we were not fat, pretty and that of course, our crushes would eventually realise we were The One(s), a la He's Just Not That Into You. Alas, I now live with a man who dutifully calls it as it is. On the bright side, I know the bi-annual compliments offered are sincere.

Last weekend, I went to the Beergarden with YM and some friends. Having never really gotten into the whole clubbing scene, I enjoy these annual outings which often do nothing but reassure me of what I'm not missing. Since YM had gotten us free Nandos (a woeful reminder of my declining tolerance for spicy food) for dinner, I felt obliged to buy the drinks. The club was packed full of drunken, hormonal youth moving to the thumping beat.

As I patiently awaited the bar tender's ministrations, I observed a chubby man trying to get my attention.

"I'm sorry?" I yelled across the counter.

"...!" The (surprisingly decent) live band drowned out his words.

"What?"

"I said, you're f-ing hot!"

"Oh, thank you!" I looked at his much better-looking friend, who stood between us.

"You're gorgeous!" He seconded, either for moral support, or out of inebriation.

Maybe the mayonnaise helped after all.

Stopping to smell the roses

BE and I met in 2007 through Facebook (I poked him because he's cute and I thought we shared the same surname). From the start, I liked his gung ho-ness, his sincerity and above all, how he always picked up the tab is always such a thoughtful friend.

And here's another display of his thoughtfulness, after a profound conversation we had. Whilst I am not the sole muse for his post, I am meandering through life a little (albeit quite contentedly so). This attitude isn't exactly appreciated by some Malaysian friends and family; I'm certainly relieved that my sabbatical is far away from the naysayers.

When I worked in KL, I'd faced a lot of criticism because I did things differently (ie. efficiently) from everyone else. And you know what? Those same people are slogging until 8pm-midnight everyday, shopping, partying and boozing away.

A party-pooper and teetotaller, I believe that life holds much more than all that certainty. I appreciate the randomness each day brings and like myself much better for it too. Whilst my mother despairs over my indecision, I'm relieved that I'm in a position to be indecisive.

So here's to Godsent friends who write you blog posts, post you stuff to cheer you up, buy you plants, pray for you, help you fix flat tyres, help you move house and overall, are there when you need them.

I'm really grateful for the one I've got

Whilst I am very fond of my male friends, they sometimes tell me the most atrocious things. I've got this innate truth serum-like quality, which on this occasion, reminded me why I stopped going out with men of a certain demographic 5 years ago.

Male Friend A*: The woman must be slim. She must cook well. Intelligence is not necessary.

Jan: What? Then what will you talk about?

A*: We don't need to talk.

Jan: ...


*: Identity to be protected in case he gets bashed up by the legions of intelligent, liberated feminists out there. Heck, I'm not one and I kind of felt like tipping the Coke on his head.

Hand

This PostSecret postcard reminded me of that day. That fateful day I sat on the toilet seat, in a shopping centre. Sobbing my heart out, unable to curb the tears, the grief, the shuddering. To Cynthia, the stranger who spoke to me through the door, offering hope, kindness, an outstretched hand when I needed it the most, thank you. Thank you for your words, your time, for the fingers you ran through my hair, for the hip you let me rest my head on. And you're right, it did become alright. I'm more alright now than I have been in the longest time. So now, to all those out there, I extend the same message. It will become alright. Have a little faith.

The dilemma of a tiny analyst

Okay, so I've finally started work. The last 2 jobs I held before, truthfully speaking, were less than ideal. The first one too far and too much office politics going on, amongst other more pressing issues. The second could not contribute to my career goals.

For now at least, I'm quite happy with my job. I struggled the first week - for the first time in my spoilt little life, I had to use the Alarm function in my cellphone. I'm still not very good with directions or public transport, so for almost every single day that week, I was either late or too early. My feet were blistered from wearing heels all day. My body ached from lugging the laptop around.

After the initial shock, I settled into a comfortable routine. Wearing flats to work, before switching to my 4 inch heels. Leaving the laptop locked in the office. Giving myself at least 20 minutes to stroll to the train station. My colleagues have been awesome too. Non of that bitchy, gossipy, competitive nonsense I've had to put up with before. They're incredibly supportive and professional.

My one and only issue at the moment, is the fact that as a professional, I'm required to wear suits. Thankfully, shirts aren't necessary (how I loath ironing). But here comes the double whammy - inexpensive suits either look cheap or come in sizes too large for me; the ones that do fit, cost $500-600 a pop.

On my meagre (though adequate) salary, neither is an option.

I am so envious of this girl here. Why can't we have reasonably priced, mass produced, well made office clothing here too?

Thankfully, I was reminded about the existence of G2000 by an equally petite colleague. Unfortunately, this only occurred a day after this phone call from Hong Kong.

KG: Do you want anything from here?

Jan: No, thanks! Have a safe flight tomorrow.

SIGH.

So now I'm relying on BE's impeccable fashion sense to guide me through. (Most girls would run to their mothers for this sort of thing. Not me. My mother always buys everything in L for me, in some misguided optimism that I'm still growing.)

Yet another successful story of a Facebook initiated friendship. I is happy.

Pivots

Have you ever thought about the times you made a life changing decision? Per the Myer Briggs Type Indicator (I'm currently reading Gifts Differing, best book ever), I'm an INFP, with judgment as my weakest point. Meaning I'm one of those people who tend to take a lot of crap before I put my foot down (read: doormat). My desire to be tactful and peacemaker has led me into a lot of undesirable situations, in which I felt compromised.

It's always taken a fair bit to really push me over the edge. Below are some turning points, times where the proverbial straw broke the equally proverbial horse, when...

... you insisted on moving with no consideration for my input.

... you termed my attempt at efficiency 'lazy'.

... you dismissed all my effort summarily.

... you blew me off without even a semi-decent excuse.

... you lied to my face for the final time.

... you left me alone in a foreign country.

... I graduated.

... you became an asshole during that NYE trip.

... you posted that slanderous note about me publicly.

... you overreacted when my foot slipped.

... you sniffed deeply into my hair during that movie.

(Points deliberately vague as many of these people remain a part of my life, only much less important than they could have been.)

Faith

As a churchgoing child, it's funny I should say this - my clearest memory of faith, hope and love are not from the Bible, but from an Enid Blyton book, The Land of Far-Beyond.

If I remember correctly, it's about a motley crew of characters travelling through all sorts of strange, sinful lands to the pearly gates. At the end, few make it and the angel asks, which is most important, faith, hope or love?

Naturally, the answer is love. Even pop culture agrees on this one, albeit the view rather distorted.

As for hope, I'd like to think of myself as a forward-looking optimist, always believing that the future holds much more.

I was never good at differentiating between faith and hope. I suppose in many ways, faith held religious connotations for me. On the other hand, we use hope for everything - I hope you're feeling better, Hopefully, I'll get this! etc. And let's face it, religion doesn't sell as well as optimism.

Yesterday, I had my faith tested. I'm ashamed to say that when things did not go my way, I crumbled and dissolved into tears. I threw up (though that is more likely a result of hanging out in the CBD for 10 hours in a miniskirt at 13C). I immediately dialed the ex's number.

But then I remembered earlier in the day, SL had tagged me on an eloquently put note on Facebook. And it was about faith. And it felt preemptory, as if she knew what I would go through in a few more hours.

I reread it, thoroughly this time. Sooky consoled me. I threw up again. And then at the end of it, I stopped crying, blew my nose, downed tom yum noodles, and decided that if this was going to fall through, I was going to believe anyway, that my Maker had made all the necessary arrangements for what is best and what is right.

"Therefore I tell you, whatever you ask in prayer, BELIEVE that you have received it, and it will be yours." - Mark 11:25

"NOW faith is, the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things yet unseen" - Hebrews 11:1

(Quotes stolen from Sarah's Facebook note, which in turn are from the Bible)

What I did today

I've been asked many times, what I spend all day doing in Melbourne. It's understandable, after all, I'm car-less, job-less, income-less and my housemates work/ study all day. And I have less than 5 friends here.

So today, I...

... walked to the Glen Iris post office to collect my parcel from the States, which is this gorgeous ring from Etsy. God bless X for giving me the nicest break up present ever. Though it'll cost me another $40 to resize it (message me if you know a decent and reasonable jeweller around!).



... walked down Toorak Rd, hoping to see the famed Toorak suburb. Sadly got tired halfway, wandered into a Mobil to get Coke and ask for directions and wound up being driven to Camberwell by a "not rich" 58 year old Russian man with a beautiful 2 year old son.

... strolled towards Kew for my appointment. Wound up there an hour early and had fish and chips under a tree.

... got my bits IPL-ed (first of 6-8 sessions). They really need to emphasise a little more on the pain factor. I only sensed danger when handed a squishy ball. It's akin to snapping an elastic band to your most sensitive areas, followed by a spark. I suppose it beats waxing for the next n years. "At least you know you're working towards something," my friendly therapist comforted me as I leaped into the air.

I suppose they dispense coffins from a very large vending machine.

... bought an evening dress and shiny green work top because I have insufficient work clothes and my second interview is due next week. I have no excuse for the evening dress. It was just too gorgeous.

Fragmented

How strange, this matter of timing and chance. The meeting of two beings in reciprocal circumstances. Fingers linking. Jigsaw puzzles fitting. Peg in a hole. Think about it - how often do you see the wrong people together at the right time? How many right people at the wrong time fight to remain together? And if you choose to fight, how long is it before you realise that perhaps, you are wrong for each other? If compromises are made, will you always resent your love for opportunities lost? And if it comes easy, do you appreciate it any less? With every love I leave a little part of myself behind.

Picture from PostSecret

And in turn, I gain a little bit of them. Then I am whole, but no longer the same.

The (semi) grown up's Tamagotchi

DISCLAIMER: This article is meant to be humourous and is not commissioned by any of the companies mentioned. Share trading can be risky and should be performed with the advice of, or via a licensed broker.

Recently, I've gotten into trading shares. I started becoming aware of investments at the age of 18. Upon realising I was getting peanuts from FD accounts, I dumped a large sum of money into unit trusts (also known as mutual funds locally).

It was a disaster. I made something like a 10% return over 6 years. It might have done me more good to have it deposited. Of course, this was also my fault for never bothering to read my monthly statements, confident that time = money, therefore the longer I left the money sitting, the more sex they would have and the more baby monies they would produce.

Clearly my perception of the financial reproduction cycle must be skewed. Or perhaps Papa and Mama money were barren. Or homosexual.

Yet I remain undeterred. After a whole series of dramatic events in my life, I suddenly awoke to a rather strange fact.

I miss finance.

I miss audit. I miss the quiet orgasm of balancing balance sheets. Of investigating investments. Of suggesting suggestions for improvement. I miss looking at large sums with seemingly infinite zeroes whilst trying not to compare them to my comparatively miniscule salary.

If you didn't realise I was a nerd before, I don't think you can possibly fail to now.

Although my current job still has me dealing with figures, commercial work is very different from a professional job. So I announced my resignation two weeks ago and am serving my last week of notice.

(No, I haven't found another job. Leave me your email address if you want to hire me. I'm smart and have a 34-24-34 figure.)

Anyway. Having surfed the ASX website obsessively, I still lacked practical knowledge of share trading. LZ uses CommSec and suggested I look around for a cheaper deal. I found Bell Direct, liked the happy orange font and registered with them.

I'm kidding. These guys are amazing. It's user-friendly and chock-a-block full of interesting information. I still lack local knowledge, so I rely on the Consensus Recommendation tool a lot. But if you're not a complete idiot, it's got everything you need to research every publicly listed share. The customer service is efficient. And it's only $15 per trade.

I am obsessed. I went through an eBay and etsy period where I couldn't stop myself from buying fashion accessories (rocking horse pin, qi pao, Moschino backpack). It got to this point where X would come home, look at my guilty face and ask, "What have I bought now?" (His PayPal account is linked to his Visa, so I used to borrow it.) Now it's shares. At least they don't take up closet space. Though each transaction can buy me a (low end) Chanel bag/ Carla Zampatti coat/ lots of designer underwear/ endless pretty chiffony stuff from Forever New.

And after the high of buying them, it's like looking after a baby. Minus the diaper changing and cracked nipples. For those from my generation, you might remember the Tamagotchi. That stupid little toy you carry around everywhere in case your dinosaur does a poo/ gets hungry/ needs a nap, then beeps non stop until you do something? Well the shares are something like that. They sometimes need buying/ holding (like hugging)/ selling. They don't beep either (← major plus point).

I feel like a proud parent, watching my little portfolio grow. Sniff.

Bimbo philosophy

My decision has been questioned repeatedly by many. I guess if you aren't at least a little bit afraid of what you have to lose, it means you have nothing to lose. Which really, isn't a favourable position to be found in. And if you're so comfortable where you're at and not striving to make something more of your life, then you're not really living, you're existing.

I want to live.


Update: I popped out for some fried chicken and realised I left my flip flops at home. The asphalt was about 40C and I parked about 500m away. X will have a field day reminding me I'm a moron when he finds out.

Indecision

I'm standing in the middle of the forks of forks now. Road-wise I mean. You that poem by Robert Frost? Think that in a kaleidoscope. There are so many factors to weigh, so many people and things to consider. Should I, or shouldn't I? All my life, I've prided myself in making the right decisions (or at least the wrong decisions, in good conscience). 2009 had proven to be The Year of Making Bad Decisions That Cost Me Many Sleepless Nights and Tears. Perhaps it was a lack of consistency in my life. Or the lack of witnesses and unsolicited (read: maternal) advice. I don't know. I used to think I was reasonably wise, but I have been proven wrong. Yet I can't continue this half life anymore. Even the unwise deserve to be happy.