Hiatus

The Belle is going to take a week or so hiatus due to the unbelievable work load.

I am predicting a 3 hour sleep a night for the next week or so.

I need to start writing my resignation letter soon. 

Pretty men, walking down the streets…

I read an interesting article in the newspaper today. It is about how men are becoming more aware of their appearance, which includes a new found obsession in fashion and skin care. 

Three years ago, I tackled this issue in USA when a Purdue student wrote to the school newspaper that being a metrosexual was acceptable, and that men should wear pink polo shirts proudly with the collars popped. I have nothing against metrosexuality, but I feel that a line has to be drawn on this issue. 

I wrote a response to the newspaper, saying that it was respectable for men to want to dress better and to smell better than their sweats (although there is a certain sexiness to the natural scent of a man’s, but that is another story altogether), however I was rather disturbed when a male friend of mine asked for my help in picking up the right color tone foundation so that he could hide the one and only zit on his face, which in my most honest opinion, was not that obvious, because if I had that same zit on my face, I would just pop it and live with it. This same male friend was also the male version of a typical female shopper; he would go through different stores, trying on clothes and parading them in front of me, consulting me on matching patterns and whether or not each piece of clothing make his butt look big. I can safely say that from that day onwards, I understand the predicament men in relationships face on a daily basis. 

I had a suspicion that he may swing the other way, but he does not; he is simply a metrosexual. But is this a good thing?

Call me old-fashioned, but I want my men to be rough and scruffy, all jeans and t-shirts, and not spending anymore time than I do to get ready (my record is five minutes). I want my men to have this stubborn, utter refusal to throw away old, tattered t-shirts, and I want my men to wash his face with body soap. I want my men to grimace in disgust when the word shopping is mentioned. I want my men to be lazy in doing laundry and to be indifferent towards the labels on their clothes.

The next time I step into Aldo to choose one or two pair of shoes to purchase out of the tens I have tried, would there be a man sitting next to me doing the same thing? Would I be seeing men lining up at the beauty counters for a makeover? Would I be told that my male friend smells better and has better skin than I do? Is this an image of our future?

I’m sure there are women out there who are still thanking the Queer Eye gang for bringing metrosexual to the mainstream. As much as I appreciate men’s efforts to be less of the modern-day cavemen, I still prefer them to be the belching, butt-scratching, fashion-ignorant species, who dress up in suits only three times (baptism, college graduation and wedding) in their lives. I prefer being stumped upon seeing this scruffy being all cleaned up every once in a blue moon to seeing the same polished, beautified person everyday of the week. Operation Shock and Awe is more efficient when it is least expected. When it happens too often, it just gets, well, boring. 

Cereal Killer

Sometime during the afternoon, an image of a bowl of Fruit Loops soaked in ice cold milk conjured itself up in my mind. I have not been able to think of anything else since.

Throughout dinner, I could not enjoy the Indonesian soto that my maid had prepared, because all I could think about was the crackling sound those little fruity rings make upon contact with the milk. As I drank the soup of the soto, I almost tasted the sugar coating from those colorful rings that had diluted itself into the milk.

And so, regardless the state my digestion system is in, I went down to the little shop by my apartment to buy some cereals. (I am sensible and discipline enough not to buy the milk; I am traumatized by the events that happened the last few days). I purchased the 6-pack little cereal boxes, and I have consumed 4 of those boxes in one hour. The other two are sitting on the kitchen counter, tempting me, seducing me to just finish them off. I am sitting on my bed now, psyching myself to stay away from the kitchen. I’m losing this battle.

Why do we have cravings? I am not a cereal person, but out of the blue, with no warnings or triggers, I started having this unbelievable urge to eat cereal. (Although in reality, it is more fair to say that I have binged on said cereal).

I recall several times during my college days in Purdue when I wanted to eat nothing else but American Chinese food offered in one of those dingy, poorly lit Chinese buffet restaurant. Nothing got my stomach rumbling more than those greasy General Tso’s chicken, pea pods in white goo, and that amazing, golden, crisp crab rangoon. Please allow me a few minutes to recall this wonderful culinary experience; I will admit that I have violated the Food Scientist integrity code- quality was secondary in pursue of this Chinese buffet. Having said that, you should eat what we eat, and you should not eat what we do not eat. That’s the rule of thumb for you civilians out there.

I also recall my time abroad when I craved my hometown dish so much that I dreamed it two nights in a row, every six months for five years. When I went back home for vacation, my breakfast, lunch and dinner consisted only of the said hometown dish. Even when I was stuffed, my stomach would magically expand itself so I could keep eating, eating, and eating. It made me feel like a chipmunk- store all the nuts for the winter time.

Then there are times here in Singapore when I toss and turn in my bed late at night, thinking of the signature burger of West Lafayette, the Purvis Burger. The combination of peanut butter and juicy ground beef… it is almost orgasmic. I am a self-proclaimed lazy bum, but when this craving happens, I do the unthinkable. I sacrifice my precious sleeping hours to make the drive to the 24-hour McDonald’s to order a Big Mac, then take it home, slather peanut butter between the beef patty and the bun, and pretend that this makeshift Purvis Burger is as good as the real thing. Ah, the power of imagination. 

With all these unpredictable but regular sprouting of cravings, I would really like to have a psychologist analyze what causes them. Especially now, of all times, when I am afraid to eat, the cravings are even stronger and harder to resist. You may say that this is the case of the forbidden fruit seems the juiciest, but let’s look at the general pattern. Dreams of hometown dish, getting up at past midnight to make the drive to McD’s, being addicted to American Chinese foods with questionable ingredients and hygiene. There has got to be a part in my brain that orders my stomach to get hungry even after meals and spreads propaganda in my mind that I will not be satisfied until I eat what I crave. 

I wonder if pregnancy would make these food cravings any worse. Lucky is he who would be my baby’s daddy. 

If my digestion problem turns out to be serious, I will be forced to avoid certain foods. What a nightmare that would be. I love to eat, and to limit my choices would be like denying my little nephew his daily milk. That is not a life I will enjoy. 

But for now, I am going to grab my fifth box of cereal. And very likely, the sixth too. 

Bon Apetit!

The best way to say the last Adieu!

At the tender age of 26, excuse me, 27, following the rounding up rule once the 0.5 mark has been passed, it may be a little too soon or too disturbing to think of the grandest way to make the final goodbye.

I thought about this while waiting for my turn to see my gastroenterologist, considering the adventure my stomach and digestive system has gone through for the last three to four months. I suppose my imagination went overboard, as it usually does while I am idling, and being a drama addict that I am, I tend to think of the most unusual things, in this case, death.

So how would I like to make my grand exit? I would want something more than lying in bed surrounded by my children and my children’s children, not that it is a bad thing, let’s just say it’s not quite dramatic enough, and we are under assumption that I would still be having commitment issues, so children and children’s children don’t exactly fit the picture.

Having said the commitment issues and my affinity to alcohol, it is possible that I could have a heart attack the midst of an affair, although that may be a little too scandalous for my Catholic family, and as bad as I am, I am not quite the affair type. Additionally, I would not want those I leave behind to deal with the mess of my affair, and I think I would prefer being remembered as something more noble than being the lady who died while making whopee with a younger man. 

The bad ass way to go is doing it action movie style. Car chase, shoot out, jumping through windows, but come on, let’s be realistic, when is that going to ever happen in my life? Even if I were an FBI agent, I would most likely be trapped behind the desk than playing special agent on the street. I had a better chance of getting married than doing anything more exciting than elbowing crazy women at a blowout shoe sale. 

As much as I want to be a Lara Croft type of chick or a Mrs. Robinson kind of woman during my last seconds, I think the most important thing is to close your eyes one last time with a smile. A smile that says I’ve done it all, I have not missed a beat, and given the chance, I would not do it any differently. The way you pass away is just for headline grabbing anyway; sure it would be nice to have a romantic story like the Notebook (but then again we are assuming I would still be commitment phobic) or to do it in the spirit of self-sacrifice like Gladiator or the Constant Gardener. But having thought this through during the wait at the gastroenterologist clinic, I decided that it does not matter how I leave, what matters is the legacy I leave behind. Any way of exiting would be grand enough, dramatic enough finish to the life I have lived. 

There may be children and their children, there may be a loyal canine companion, there may be a group of strangers screaming for help, there may be just my lonesome self with good music in my ear. Regardless, I would exit stage left with standing ovation and roses on the stage. And there would be a big smile on my face.

What is Happiness?

On this date, four years ago, I was a restless senior in college dreading my future. I had an idea of what I wanted to do: I would be a Food Scientist; whether I would be in Product Development or Quality Assurance, it did not matter. Any good paying job would do, as long as it was in the food industry, as long as I would get a monthly paycheck to pay for my rent and finance my growing shoes collection. I had a vision too, of what I would be in four year’s time: a managerial position, paying the mortgage for my first apartment, my black Civic would have been upgraded to a Mini Cooper, and I would have the power to move to any food company I wanted to work for. Boyfriend would be (as has always been) optional. I would be satisfied with my career and my life.

Fast forward four years. I am in a job that does not deal much with food science, and I am unhappy. I have been trying to convince myself that I like what I do, but I realized I have been lying to myself. I do not enjoy what I do, and if I had the choice, I would be handing in my resignation letter RIGHT NOW. Having said that, resigning would mean giving up, running away from the problems I experience at work. By resigning, I would be the weaker version of that person I imagined myself four years ago. Where is my resilience? My determination? Where is my fighting spirit?

Which takes me to this question. What is happiness in the work place? Is it enjoying what you do? Is it having a good group of people you work with? Is it the paycheck? Is it the status or title of your position? I see all these people I see around me and I wonder what gets them going. How many of these people actually enjoy and love what they do? Do we need that passion and love to get us through five days a week, and most importantly, keep us from losing control come Monday morning? Or is it all about the money to take home every month, regardless of our happiness?

Throughout my life, I have dreamed of the bohemian life. Waitressing at a chic road side cafe, having my own regular customers whom I need not take orders from anymore because I just know them too well. I would be living in a little studio in a charming old building, spending my nights watching the skyline and listening to the street musicians earning their living on the streets below me. I would be happy with what I do, with the small paycheck I take home, with the simple lifestyle of meeting people, watching the lights at night and listening to good jazz from the streets. Then, a very logical, non-sensical friend of mine who obviously lacks imagination would ask me a series of questions that would burst my fantasy bubble: don’t you want to save up for your future? What happens when you have children? Do you know how much our parents have spent to send us to college? So the bohemian lifestyle remains nothing but a fantasy.

Back to my search of happiness. We spend most of our time at work, and of course it is important for our mental health to be happy at work, or at least, to be able to tolerate work enough that we do not go crazy or depressed over it. So, the key here is to find something you are passionate about. But what if you don’t know what it is that you’re passionate about? Will you spend the rest of your life searching for it, or will you spend the rest of your life convincing yourself that the job that you have is good enough, that it is the one that you are passionate about?

The scariest thing is, we don’t get second chances. Time keeps going and we keep chasing it to keep up. I wonder what the college senior version of me would think of the current me now. I wonder if her idealistic view would tell me to keep searching for said passion, which would clash with the current me’s realistic view of regular paycheck to invest for the future me. And the ever elusive happiness will continue to be out of our grasps.