Group Rojak Timeout: Holiday!

Week One of 2011 is almost over, and some of us girls on eat.shop.play.love are still recovering from our year-end hangover. Take a 3-minute virtual vacation with us to the many corners of our lovely earth: Tasmania, Oslo, Barcelona, Turks and Caicos, Vegas and New York.

Duck's Nuts Says:

I usually head overseas this time of the year to visit my family in Singapore and in other countries, but I decided to stay and enjoy the Australian summer this time round. I still find it odd to celebrate a sunny Christmas, but a week-long jaunt to Tasmania to meet a friend satisfied my longing for some time away from Sydney. We visited three national parks at Maria Island, Ben Lomond and Mt Williams, and did some hiking and camping.

Here's a rainbow over Maria Island, which is off the coast of south-east Tasmania. It used to be where some convicts from Great Britain were held, before becoming a site for cement production. It's now a national park.

The painted cliffs at Maria Island, formed through the percolation of ground water through the sandstone.

The water was so still you could see the sky reflected on it. Seeing this made me feel like I was in a painting.

On the other side of Ben Lomond, we walked down a road called Jacob's Ladder, which is very steep.

No holiday in Tasmania is complete without a glimpse of the local wildlife. I think this one is of a kangaroo and her joey at the Bay of Fires. The wild kangaroos and wallabies stare at you straight in the face for the longest time before hopping off when you near them.

Sights like that make me wish I grew up on a farm, with lots of vast open space, rather than a HDB flat!

***

Little Pixy Boots had a lovely Norwegian holiday, sprinkled with a little Spanish excitement in Barcelona.

Dear Santa, I just wanted to say, "Merry Christmas to Chew."

I don't usually have bacon for breakfast, but I couldn't resist.

Jultomten (the Christmas elf) caught taking a break.

"Honey, that's not exactly hiding the presents from the kids."

Enough sugar to power a day of sightseeing in Gaudi's city.

"I've never said that attaining enlightenment was easy."

***

Cirrus Cloud takes not one, but two, vacations to end the year with a bang! First up was fabulous Turks and Caicos. Next, a New Year countdown in Sin City -- Las Vegas.

Glorious.

Here's a view from my room in Turks and Caicos, when I open my eyes in the morning...

... When I turn to my right whilst in bed, this is what I see.

Watching the sunset, sipping a cocktail. Life is good.

View from our room in the Wynn in Las Vegas, NV.

***

Una Ragazza enjoys Santa's Christmas gift of a snowy blanket that brings joy and havoc (depending on who you ask) to the New York Metropolitan area. Nothing like 30 degree F weather to make you look forward to jumping on a 24-hour plane ride home to the equator!

Overnight, the a/c gets a white cap that is a foot-and-a-half tall.

Kids of all ages and sizes rush to the once-grassy slopes of River Side Park with their sleds. Wheee!

White and serene. A zen Manhattan that we rarely see.

On the 10th day of Christmas... the garbage has still not been cleared!

... two broken washing machines, and a beer bottle stuck in a Christmas tree.

Making s'mores in my fireplace. Delish!

Doing research for our upcoming Singapore vacation in Cafe Lalo, while waiting for Meg Ryan to show up for a cheesecake and an espresso.

From all of us here at eat.shop.play.love -- have a fabulous 2011!

***

Cirrus Cloud on Love: 5Cs to 5Bs (The Alphabets of Singaporean Love)

On my recent trip back to Singapore, I bumped into an old friend at Takashimaya. I was walking by Tiffany’s and saw him shopping for something. I rushed in to say hello as well as to find out whether he was picking out a rock! Ooh how exciting I thought.



“Hello K! Long time no see.”

“Oh wow, hello it’s you! How’s New York?”

After the exchange of pleasantries, I boldly asked if he needed to tell me any good news.

“No, I am buying a gift for my niece and I am also not going to get married in the foreseeable future!”

He sure sounded jaded but I didn’t want to probe further. So we picked out a gift for the birthday girl.

Then, K confided that he was dating a 25 year-old lady and how he came to relationship fatigue.

During my growing up years (K’s included), Singaporeans were criticised for being too materialistic. The relationship or marriage equation is simple. The man must have the 5 Cs to be deemed courtship-worthy:

1. Condominium

2. Cash

3. Car

4. Credit Card

5. Career

K told me how he had been re-educated about the alphabets of Singaporean love. The 25 year-old had told him that the girls today no longer crave for the 5 Cs, but the 5 Bs.

They want:

1. Not just a condominium, but a Bungalow

2. Not just cash, but a Billionaire

3. Not just a car, but at least a BMW

4. Not just a credit card, but own a Bank (gasp!)

5. Not just a career, but be a Boss

I would say, not only did I sympathise with K, I thought this to be ridiculous. If we were to measure love by material goods, then should we all be lonely souls because we deserve it?

I was flabbergasted, a tad disgusted by what I heard to say the least. If I were K, I would rather be celibate than give in to the impossible demands of women in Singapore. Or is it just Singapore? That is another question in itself.

K then told me that he was going to concentrate on his career, earn big bucks and buy a wife when he reaches 40. This is just sad. I told him maybe he hasn’t met “The One” yet and am sure she will not be that avaricious.

In my generation, we were once capable of being ‘Mesdemoiselles Materialistic’; now the young girls are touted to be ‘Mesdemoiselles More-than-Materialistic’.

Surely there must be other versions of this alphabet of love, but I lament about the inflation of love. Can you imagine? Even love has to be put through economic inflation!

As I pen this, I simply ask myself, “What are we becoming or what have we become?”

Cirrus Cloud on Play: Moved

Three Mexican men surround me. Juan who speaks perfect English, Luis who speaks some and Fernando who speaks nada.

They are in my house decorating our new apartment. Yes, we moved again. This is our fifth move in three years (including two international moves). I loathe moving; it is like a virus which always succeeds in breaking down my immune system.

This move is technically the simplest as we moved four floors above where we used to live and we have a private elevator which opens up into the apartment.

However, a move is a move. I still needed to pack, unpack and repack (not necessarily in that order). The big items like sofas and tables are always the easiest: bulky but not difficult. The worst are the small things: paper clips, paperwork, pending bills, small cosmetic bits and bobs.

The most annoying category, in my opinion, is "miscellaneous." The items float suspended in the air, in limbo, in no man’s land. It reminds me of the stretch of road between Singapore's Tuas causeway and Malaysia. That particular stretch of road seems to belong to neither country, its jurisdiction appears to be in question. If anything happened to you on that piece of land, you better pray that someone will take care of you.

“Miscellaneous” is a category that we classify for the things that do not fit well anywhere else. That’s me. I always found that I was a “miscellaneous” item in Singapore. I fit in awkwardly. I do not really belong and yet I do. I think the saving grace is family and close friends. Still, I bear the burden of not sharing the same thoughts as many. I have to bite my tongue to prevent myself from saying something too controversial. My dry humour offends people. I have been accused of being too bitchy when my sole intention was to amuse.

And so I am sipping my morning coffee, listening to Cuban music, speaking to my newfound acquaintances, explaining what needs to be done in Spanglish. I could not have done that in Hong Kong or Singapore where we moved from the last two times. This is by far the most stressful move as I have no help at all, but at the same time, it is the most liberating.

I love my solitude. I fear that I might be a hermit soon. It reminds me of singlehood when I used to hang out with the trio – me, myself and I. We hung like best buddies, inseparable. We watched movies together, sipped copious amounts of coffee, and sat at bars listening to live music. I missed them and they missed me too.

I needed to tear myself away from Singapore to find myself once again. I also found God again and thereby found my inner peace as well. All these great moments are happening but I still cannot escape from intermittent bouts of acute loneliness attacks at times. I have no one to hang on to in this country, except a busy traveling man.

Last night, I had a terrifying dream. I am sure it is caused by the fresh coat of paint, which made me hallucinate. I did not sleep well, am knackered, dark circles and all, but still trying to cope with silly adulthood responsibilities with no one to delegate!

“Fernando, no no. Mi esposo lo quiere aquí, no allí. Sí, pinta aquí por favor.” Juan runs to help with the position of the bed and instructs Fernando to paint behind the bed. Duty calls. I have to run along now but I have a few last words before I pen off.

I love you, New York City. I will always be grateful, Lady Liberty, for the experience and opportunities. You will always be special in my heart.

I am moved.

Cirrus Cloud on Eat: Disco Biscuits

Today marks the first day of my training with a trainer. Who would have thought that I would succumb to being a gym freak? Me? At a gym? Looking like a hamster trapped in a glass cage? A few years ago, you would not see me at the gym much, even though I had a corporate gym membership.

Let me tell you how I ended up, in what I used to call "the glass cage."

Run, Rabbit, Run...

One fateful night, I was feeling peckish and it was snowing. I decided to run to Duane Reade (in New York, there is a Duane Reade almost every three blocks). Duane Reade is similar to a 7-Eleven in Singapore. I ventured into the cookies department and picked out this particular brand of Italian biscuits-Stella D’Oro Margherite made in the Bronx, New York.

As it was two packs for five dollars, I thought this was a great deal especially since I was not going to buy them again. Or so I thought. That very night, my husband and I finished all twenty sticks in the pack. Each stick was about as long as an iPhone, and approximately half the thickness.

The Disco Biscuits!

Caloric count: 65 calories per stick. We didn’t look at the information on the back until we had finished the whole packet. It is very delicious. It is not pretentious. It is a simple yet flavorful old-school biscuit. It is not as heavy as shortbread. It is light and fluffy akin to a chiffon cake, but has the texture of a regular biscuit. It is not too sweet and does not leave you satiated.

Within weeks, I had purchased 24 packets and counting. My jeans were tighter and tighter as I could chomp down a pack in a day. As I typed the beginning of this story, I had a biscuit in my mouth. This biscuit could make me salivate just thinking about it.

The 2 very important objects in my life.

I had three options:

1. Keep buying and get sick of it after stuffing my face silly. Not working. Next option please.

2. Stop buying immediately. Tried cold turkey but didn’t help. I would sit in church and dream about the biscuit during the priest’s sermon.

3. Join a gym to counter the calorie and fat intake.

I chose option 3. I joined the nearest gym and decided to enjoy my biscuit but work out. I have been to the gym everyday for 10 days now. Today I upped the ante by meeting a personal trainer to fight the flab.

In retrospect, I did not foresee that a $2.50 per pack of biscuits would cost me $145 per month at the gym. Obviously, the one year away from the banking industry has robbed me of the ability to count or read value!

My trainer, CJ, was intimidating. I had to allow him to use calipers to pinch my fat on my triceps, abdomen and thigh. He was allowed into the secret mysterious world of my weight and height; furthermore, he could comment on anything he wanted. How terrifying. As he did test after test, the suspense nearly killed me. Anyhow, I was rather shocked by my results. My body fat ratio was below average! My resting heart rate is 45 beats per minute, which was a beat away from the “Elite” category in my age group! I am trim and fit, biscuit or not. The only few points I need to work on are improving flexibility in my hip flexors (wherever they are), strengthening my core muscles and losing some weight (I added the last point myself as I like to be skinny).

With CJ's implicit backing, I skipped gleefully home, the whole time dreaming about gorging "the Disco Biscuit". However, the truth is my jeans have been feeling very tight of late. Perhaps it is a hormonal time and I am suffering from water retention. Or perhaps it is a permanent condition.

The reality is, denial is a beautiful thing.

Fat, I am not.

Weight put on, I surely have.

Biscuits I will eat

Life I will enjoy.

*Some pictures taken from the internet*

Group Rojak Timeout: We are Sing-ah-pore, Sing-ah-poree-aaans!

August. It's that time of the year. No, not monsoon season. The only floods here are those of red, white and starry patriotism - celebrating Singapore's 45th National Day!

So the girls at ESPL togged up, ditched any lingering feelings of homesickness, and headed out to National Day parties in their new adopted towns. Food, friends, more food and loads of fun. Sounds like a genuine down-home Singapore extravaganza!

Shakeleg in Jakarta opens her vocal chords to share her rendition of NDP favorites:



In Washington DC, Una Ragazza visits the funky Newseum building on August 8, one day before Singapore's National Day. Among the daily exhibition of newspaper front pages from around the world, she finds a copy of The Straits Times!



And in New York, Cirrus Cloud teams up with Una Ragazza to pose as citizen photojournalists at the Singapore Consulate's NDP party:



Just in time for the anthem and pledge!



Spot anyone you know? Singaporeans just have a familiar look. We'd recognise them anywhere.



Of course, there's food. A lot of food. It's a Singaporean shindig, remember?



Commemorating NDP in red and white (handbag included).



Inside the goodie bag: We heart the Yeo's satay sauce and Singa the Lion!!!

Meanwhile, Horse With No Name braves an excessive heat warning in the sweltering desert to take in the ND celebrations in Arizona.



Hot so what? Hot can still eat. So just eat lah!



No party is complete without a bouncy castle! (Bouncy kids not included.)



The Singaporean young'uns get in the spirit with a super cute song and dance routine.

A big birthday group hug from us at ESPL to our fellow Sg-ers around the world. We'd love to know: How did you celebrate National Day this year?

Cirrus Cloud on Play: Yoga and Yoda

I am one of those unlucky people who have extra long limbs splashed with inflexibility. Long limbs are good but inflexibility not. My muscles (especially my hamstrings) do not seem to extend much for some reason and I fear that when I grow older, I will shrivel up looking like the hunchback of Notre Dame.

My aim for the year was to be able to touch my toes when I bend over by Christmas. So I thought to myself that I have to practice yoga to improve my flexibility.


I must, I must, I must touch my toes!

When I was still living in Singapore, my very good friend, JZ, introduced me to yoga. JZ was a gymnast so flexibility was innate. She dragged me into class and boy did I struggle. After two minutes, I had wanted to walk out but I did not want to embarrass her. Everything was horrid. I could not understand a word the instructor was spewing and I could not bend anywhere. The last 10 minutes was sheer bliss to me. The instructor had told us to lie down and relax.


Elegant tree pose which JZ can easily do

We were made to take very deep breaths and clear our heads. And I fell asleep. I was in slumber on a yoga mat, in the middle of the class. JZ said under her breath, ”Babe, wake up.”

That was the last time I was going to embarrass myself, or any of my friends. I swore off yoga.


Some of the yoga poses I probably did the first time round, without me knowing.

Now that I am in New York, bored with a gym membership and no friends to embarrass, I decide to rediscover yoga.

The first class was a mistake. I accidentally went for the advanced yoga class. I was beyond a beginner. The instructor was very kind and patient to see me through 60 minutes of shock and bewilderment. I felt like an alien drowning in a sea of flexible homosapiens!

Words like “downward dog," “cobra pose," “dolphin," “tree," “vinyasa," “chaturanga," “reverse warrior," “pigeon” and “lotus” made me think I was in a Kama Sutra class! I had no idea what each term was; let alone how to do it. I copied the guy in front of me. The lady next to me did not just touch her toes; she put her palms underneath her feet while keeping her legs straight. Oh, did I add that she was 62? Lily is her name.


Caterpillar crawling...


...and searching for food from the sky.

People like Lily make me feel like killing myself on a bad day, or inspired on a good one. Born with a competitive nature, I stuck it through 2 months of yoga. I want to challenge myself and if 60-somethings can do it, so can I.

I realised that breathing is a fundamental of yoga. Every graceful movement (for some) is done in accordance to either an inhale or an exhale. After a month of frequent yoga sessions (at least 3 times a week), I dare say that I can do a “cobra pose” from chaturanga better now. It looks like a caterpillar crawling and searching for food from the sky. Initially I must have looked like Chewbacca doing yoga, mane and all. Awkward and clumsy I was.


The same frustrated look (and hair) I have whilst in a yoga class.

Today, for the first time, I went to a yoga class taught by a male instructor. He is very graceful, handsome and speaks with a strong Greek accent. His physique embodies a yoga ideal. He has a strong but lean body, fluidity of movement, and absolute precision in every pose. Just as I thought I knew quite a bit about yoga, this "Yoda" made us do something I have never heard of or imagined. He told us to put both our index fingers in our ears and hum like a sweet honeybee, “not a mosquito." Remove and repeat 3 times and thereafter, focus on our right ears. We should hear a high-pitched sound.



Errrr, Yoda, I heard nada…


Some pictures taken off the internet

Cirrus Cloud on Shop: Junk and Junkies

I checked into a "clinic" last weekend for five hours. It is one of the best in Manhattan. It never fails to soothe me, make me feel pretty and make me feel good all over, at least for a bit. Then it makes me feel guilty and broke.

The "clinic" in question - Saks Fifth Avenue.

Retail therapy is such an overused and abused term. Women love it; men loathe it. Women squeal with each purchase; men feel their credit card melt with each swipe.


Shopping!

In Singapore, shopping for clothes is much easier as it is summer all year round. I have lived in Singapore for most of my life and do not have enough winter clothes now that I live in New York.


Snow storm in New York winter 2009/10

So I told my dear husband that I needed more clothes. He stared at me and said innocently, “Our walk-in closet and the two others in the adjoining room are already filled with your clothes.”

I glared back at him and muttered, “I do not have enough winter wear.”


Frozen tree in Central Park

And so I managed to drag him to my favorite clinic. He was tasked to be my retail version of a wingman and to give me comments about each piece of garment.

Being a woman is not simple. We are complex creatures to begin with, and when we shop, we make truly important, mind-blowing decisions. Men should be more patient with us if we cannot decide between smoky-grey and charcoal-grey, or salmon-pink and rusty-pink. We always strive to dress the best for them. They should be constantly reminded: You are the main reason why we dress up (clears throat).

For starters, we looked at mink coats. I have been trying to envision myself in fur for a while now but I still cannot get used to the thought of wearing an animal on me. Don’t get me wrong, I am not trying to play animal activist and I do wear leather. Just not fur. The image of the whole animal on me is just not alluring. To convince myself otherwise, I decided to try some on.

The first coat made me look like Sesame Street's Big Bird. The only thing different was the color but I still felt like a bird. A clumsy bird.



The second coat made me feel 50 years old. Perhaps it is the connotation that most older woman wear fur. It is no doubt that a fur coat looks luxurious and expensive but somehow, I felt my youth dissipate in it.

The third coat, by then, would simply hang in its glorious mane, on the rack.

We ventured into the "Young Ladies Fashion” department. I had a smirk on my face but was feeling apprehensive at the same time. I do not consider myself old, but not that young either. I consoled myself by incessantly chanting, “30s is the new 20s” in my head.

We immediately stumbled upon a sleeveless fire-engine-red shift dress. On closer inspection, the dress was made up of hearts sewn together. I decided to try it on for the fun of it. I never thought that I was going to buy it as I always thought that hearts look too girly for my persona. The only size left was a US 2, which translates to extra-small. My husband and I laughed out loud but he convinced me to put my definitely-larger-than-extra-small body into the dress.


THE red dress

Voilà. It fitted well. Shocking! I had to buy the dress. I do not own a size 2 in my closet. I needed to buy this dress then, if not the day before. No debate, no questions, no nothing. Just a yes to size 2. I felt super slim when I walked out of the shop with the dress in hand. The sales person was shocked to find out that I am in my thirties. Ooh, I love cheap thrills. Even if she had lied through her teeth.

In New York, it is common knowledge that a woman cannot wear mini-skirts past the age of 35. I have to wear them now before the societal expiration date. With a vengeance, I swept two mini skirts into my shopping bag. With another swoop, the bag was laden with two skinny tops. Now, anxious of the fact that I have gathered only summer clothes so far, I started hunting high and low for winter clothes, before my husband could make any murmur. I took a thick black cardigan with simple details and used it to cover the summer clothes in the bag.


The mini-skirt which I haven't had the courage to wear...yet.

No comment from the man? Phew. The coast was clear. I could sense his weariness and suggested tea. Between tea and stretching our legs, it occurred to me that shopping is like a drug; it is addictive. The more you get, the more you want. The point of satiation is incomprehensible. After you get hit, you always come back for more, and it certainly brings you highs and lows.

I suddenly felt like a junkie. I am sure there is a retail version of AA (Alcoholics Anonymous) in Manhattan for rehabilitation and I was worried that label would get stuck on me.

Instead of shopping for more, I told my husband I wanted to go home. He agreed and said, ”OK, tomorrow we will carry on shopping for proper winter clothes.”

Oops. And I thought he hadn’t noticed.



Some pictures taken off the internet.