All the pots and pans

Baking is therapeutic, and every overworked mentally strained female should own something called a MIXER which is basically happiness in a bowl. You pour in the select ingredients and watch everything smoothening into luscious paste while the whisk does its magic. Then you stir this, and flatten that and layer and pat and pour and be happy again.
I figure the most fun part of baking is decorating because life is ALL ABOUT THE FRILLS and no frills is a painful nightmare worth waking up from.

Then the second most fun part is watching people eat the food and asking for more then you go:

"No sweat, eat as much as you want BAKER's IN THE HAUS", but when your food gets spurned it is NOT FUN to see it sitting for weeks in the fridge turning blue-green from a bruised ego.

Now my raspberry cheesecake is almost utterly devoured so more happiness for me.

And today, 27th you remembered, which is cute.

Mind blots#1

These weeks, I cannot bring myself to pull on a pair of jeans because the weather dictates that I throw on all my loose dresses and shorts so I survive to reach my destination in a state better than a puddle.
And those decked out in blazers and the new 'trend' of floor-sweeping bell bottom jeans: highly impractical because i imagine they drag along mud and twigs and little crawly insects and soon you'll have collected the jungle at your feet.



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Complaint

Dear MRT station people,
it is extremely disconcerting that your female toilet (Promenade Station) has blue cubicle doors because today i hurried in unthinkingly and the moment i enthroned myself inside, yours truly began to fear that i had accidentally entered the GENTS, and in my haste somehow skipped the row of urinals.

Then i was left fearing to open up only to greet a happy smiling uncle, so i froze for 30 seconds hoping that whoever was in the cubicle next to me would do something anything to confirm his/her gender like maybe a feminine sneeze or something would help.

Next time, pink girls, blue boys. Thank you for your understanding.

Incredibly ridiculous obsession

Phone underwent a major operation because the screen died on me like what you’d expect of any trusty electronic named after a fruit. Anyway, my dependency has already been established because I felt crazily uneasy without the familiar comfort of that rectangular weight in my palm, like somebody made me wear pants first then underwear that sort of discomfort yes geddit.

So I sent to get it fixed and it scared me to see the repairman in a white coat (some practical joke) take out impossibly small screws, strips of metal and plastic like it’s a toy and happily tap his foot and hum a tune while at it. And I was all “DUDE please label the parts please! WHAT IF YOU CAN’T PUT THEM ALL BACK?! That’s half my life you’re handling and the other half can’t exist without it.”

But maybe that’s what happens in an operating room while Mr. Whitecoat fiddles with your innards. "Now wait a minute, where'd i put the kidney? Saw it a moment ago now seems to be missing."

So I’m obviously not doctor’s material because I hurt for my phone not to mention a real human being.

But phone is back in order and so is my life. 

Female frivolity

Friend suggested that i change my hair so i decided to go BANG BANG BANGETTY BANGS why not, since i have fringe long enough to contend with Pontianak and WIN. Turns out i like them bangs however silly they sound, and doing things without consulting anyone makes it a whole load less stressful and fun because it is my hair and i cut them anyhoo i delight. 

And i remember on Saturday the rude hairdresser kept laughing at me because after i got off the chair it dawned on me "OHH sooo much hair on the floor, are they all mine?!?" And yes all mine plus he was ruthless with his scissors which is good because i was ecstatic the next few hours feeling like a new WOman and more Oriental somehow like my ancient Chinese ancestors and there are a ton more ways i can do my hair now PLUS i get kicks leaving parts of my old self settling all over the hairy salon floor. 

Picture above on sofa was taken by Dad to help him recognise his daughter on the street. His comment: 

Obviously you can't blame me for not recognising you because you keep doing this.