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Find me on cloud nine

Spun sugar

We always want what we can't have. 

Thunderstorms

Today I found in my archives a post unfinished from September:

Sometimes we are so preoccupied by end of season sales and chipped manicures that we forget to enjoy the simple pleasures in life, like listening to Kalmaegi make her rounds in the city. 

If I were a kind of weather, I most certainly would be a typhoon - loud, impatient and completely selfish - I probably sounded like one last week stomping around the flat in a rage because I had misplaced my sunglasses again. 

For as long as I can remember, I've loved

I'd like for it to have been something philanthropic, like ending ivory trade or finding a way to get Spotify Premium for free, but I was probably writing about my love for listening to thunderstorms while nestling under covers, knowing someone less fortunate is fighting through rush hour in the rain without an umbrella.

In fact, it had most likely taken too long to come up with the words to romanticise my terrible case of schadenfreude that I got distracted and left things half-written.

Bare

I'm hiding in my car taking deep breaths, completely overwhelmed by the wave of new information and confusing logistics. An unfamiliar playing field with too much oestrogen. 

It was a good idea to skip lunch - the anxiety is making me nauseous. The fact that I am without a manicure makes it worse. I'm at a state of utmost vulnerability, where the lightest snowflake could send me tumbling. 

And so I find comfort in old spaces and old faces. This is when bad judgement and lax morals come out to play. 

Everything tastes of salt.  

Never too chocolate

I'm in bed willing myself not to finish the last of the German peach Bellini gummies too quickly but, as I had with the rest of the sweets V sent me, I practically inhale them anyway and am already browsing the store's website and contemplating my next order.

Just a few summers ago, I was sipping the most delicious apple martini in Huangpu district, watching a logo-laden group of middle-aged men pay for enough bottles to have the privacy of a partition because they were too embarrassed to dance on the main floor. I would never spend my hard-earned money on such ridiculous things, I had mused.

It just goes to show that even the best of us sometimes eat our own words, amongst other things, like the gold-dipped marshmallows and candied black cherries that will arrive at my door within the next few days via expedited shipping.

I've become quite the frivolous spender since starting becoming a doctor, and money is not the only aspect of life I have completely given up control of. Work has become the perfect justification for evading self-discipline: being too busy to exercise yet always making time for retail therapy, adopting reckless eating habits as reward for trivial accomplishments, and forever giving myself one more day off from studying.

Perhaps it is post-call mania, but after an afternoon of reflection, I don't see why I can't have it all. I'll have my red velvet and eat it too. 

The Perfect Egg

I am absolutely eggstatic to share with you my foolproof recipe for soft-boiled eggs, aka the first result on google search.

You're welcome.

Perfect for a breakfast, lunch, or a rainy night in. 
Instant curry and leftover rice not included.

Way To His Heart Series: The Perfect Soft-Boiled Egg
1. Take a little pot and heat more than enough water to cover your eggs on their side. 

2. Wash your eggs while that's boiling (newbies: maximum heat, lid on). 

3. When your water is at a full boil (newbies: spilling over the sides) lower your eggs in with a strainer. Or with as much gentle loving care as possible without steaming yourself. 

Goodbye, my children!

4. Your eggs may crack up a little if you told them a joke If they came fresh out of the fridge due to the temperature difference (hello heated soda can experiment in year 7). This makes them easier to peel later on, but by all means leave them out at room temperature for longer if you prefer intact shells (you don't).

5. Lower the heat so that your water is making the tiniest bubbles (I turned my setting to 7/12 on my electric stove). Replace the lid and let your eggs cook for five and a half minutes. 

6. Fish them out with a strainer. Run cold water over your eggs until they're cool to touch. 

7. Peel off the shell. Realise how right I was about #4. 

8. Sprinkle on salt. Savour this glorious eggsperience. 

And there you have it, directions to heaven, all in an eggshell.

2.0

'Most men die at twenty-five, but aren't buried until they're seventy.'

In my second year of medical school, I made a conscious effort to turn my brain off. To keep things short, it was probably a rebellion thing, having been a model student/nerd for all the prior years. I'm not sure why I'm telling you this in public, but then again this space should be desolate considering the length of my hiatus. 

I just read somewhere about a small study concluding that we are happiest doing mindless tasks, but there surely is more about life beyond online shopping and going to work without my brain. In no way do I intend to drop everything and backpack around South America, but I'd like to have more to derive happiness from than just a difficult drip in the convoluted veins of an oedematous granny. 

It has been an embarrassingly long time since I have read (frantically scrolling through Wikipedia because I have no idea what on earth is wrong with my patient hardly qualifies). I brought home with me Murakami's Norweign Wood today - it was shelved under 'Literature' - as my first step to becoming a person of culture. 

And while we are on the topic, perhaps I ought also to invest in some new glasses from Oliver Peoples to look the part.  

 

 

The dying patient

Lately I often find myself complaining about work, whining about the long hours, and generally feeling very sorry for myself and my lifeless job.

Because sometimes I forget that I encounter life and death on a daily basis.

Induction

Between people-watching from the wall-mounted mirror in one of my favourite cafes and taking a slow slp of my flat white, I decided today was one of those times to look back and not forward. It is far more pleasant to reflect when what lies ahead is work tomorrow (and having to remove your turquoise manicure for it). 

The first month of employment has been rather pleasant. My senior colleagues have been extremely lenient and tolerant of my various antics, and the staff have all been wonderful to work with - a lovely surprise taking into account the horror stories of bitchy nurses and my track history with species of the same gender. 

I wish I could remember all of my patients, but we usually only recall the mortalities, and the ones with angry relatives. Then there are the idiots who make for interesting stories, like the young man who needed orchioplasty because he had strangled both his testicles by forcing all of his external genitalia through a 1cm thick metal ring/sex toy that we could not break without snipping off bits of him. And of course there was the drug addict with COPD on long term oxygen admitted for a facial burn because his oxygen supply caught fire and blew up in his face when he was sneaking a smoke.

Time has been slipping away through my latex glove-cladded fingers like medical knowledge through the sieve that is my brain. It was only when I changed a suprapubic catheter again for the same patient did I notice an entire month had passed. Overall though, and I may or may not be writing behind rose-tinted eye shields, there has been more good than bad, and I definitely feel a lot more competent than I first started. Now, if only I could remember where I last left my pager... .

Working for royalty

The bigger hospitals here are mostly named after royalty, so let's just say I'll be spending my next three months at the Prince's.

That sounded sleazy.

After attempting to explain my working hours to my sister and friends, I am once again reminded of how inhumane the system is. Essentially, my life in the next three months will run in cycles of three to four days:

Day 1: 8am-6pm
Day 2: 8am-6pm-8am
Day 3: 8am- 6pm
(Day 4: 8am-6pm)

Whoever's decision it was to make house officers thirty-three hours shifts every few days is an absolute moron. Besides, taking into account my current unfamiliarity with my job, my days should start slightly after six every morning if I want to do a round on my patients before my medical officer does. I should start looking for a better eye cream.

You may say, hard work pays. Unfortunately, only minimally.

10 hours x 5 week days = 50 hours
4 on Saturdays = 4 hours
14 hours x 2 overnight shifts = 28 hours
Allowing an extra 8 hours overtime per week to accommodate the ridiculous number of patients in our overloaded public system
      = 90 hours x 4 weeks = 360 hours

Divided by our measly wages after subtracting costs of things like mpf and insurance, we receive less than seventy bucks an hour, i.e. just a little over a dollar per minute. In other words, it seems like a better deal for us to work at one of those 每六秒一蚊 sex story hotlines. The job nature is similar - 候召 - but with a better label.  

Despite all the ranting, I'm actually pretty excited to start finally contributing to humanity as a small potato at the bottom of the food pyramid (how apt). T-minus three and counting. 

Prologue

Life has been a whirlwind. As usual, I found myself overwhelmed by all that I had on my plate because, as usual, I'd bitten off much more than I could chew. Perhaps that's just the way I get things done - I push my poor self past my limits, crumble under stress like an overbaked cupcake, pull myself together, then write a literature review, plan a three-week trip, and throw a fabulous ball all within a month's time.

I have been in school for too long, and many a times it felt like I would never have to grow beyond the umbrella of my parents, professors and teachers. Yet suddenly, I find the end of my childhood dawning upon me all too quickly with work starting in two weeks. 

This will be a challenging path strewn with pebbles that will trip me over when I'm not looking, and most likely even when I am. Hopefully I'll find some boulders to lean on and climb a few mountains that will help me see further. And when I fall flat on my face like the time I ran down a flight of stairs in five-inch heels, I'll think of the insanity I subjected myself to this month and feel invincible again, even if only for long enough to get back on my feet and dust myself off. 

Look out, world.

Productivity

It's been three weeks, and so far this is what my literature review looks like:

Yes, my productivity has truly hit an all-time low, and desperate times call for desperate measures. After dinner today, I plan to paint my nails, pluck my brows and play Candy Crush.

Stress

You'd think that I would be completely stress-free with exams over and degree in hand, but apparently it's quite the opposite. It's times like these when I wish I had a vibrator

Aw! I googled 'cute vibrator' and this came up

Way To His Heart

I realise my level of attractiveness takes a sizable plummet as I finally graduate: as doctors, we neglect our personal hygiene because public hospitals are so busy one may not even have time to shower during an overnight call, life beyond our inhumanly long calls will be spent catching up on sleep instead of with friends over drinks, and any men with potential in our laughably small social circles will likely pick someone with shaved legs and a less intimidating occupation, i.e. a nurse.

In order to keep my game up, I've started cooking because we all know that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach. The truth is it's probably via an organ further down south, but let's keep this blog remotely PG-rated and learn to make minced lamb pasta instead.

Please note that this is a cooking a guide for noobs that will hence be written in exquisite (unnecessary) detail. The following recipe was adapted from one of Nigella Lawson's. 'Adapted' is a professional way of admitting that I may or may not have forgotten one or two ingredients, while tweaking the amount of others. Here is what you will need:

If you are keen on saving some 婆乸數, certain things can be bought at a wet market...

- 3 tomatoes

- One and a half onions

- 4 cloves of garlic

- 2 tablespoons sugar

- Salt to taste

Others at a small local supermarket...

- 2 cans plum tomatoes

- 3/4 packs of linguine (or spaghetti if you prefer)

- 1 tablespoon tomato puree

- 250ml red wine (I've tried this with Merlot and Cabernet - both worked fine)

- Olive oil

Everything else you will have better luck finding at Citysuper...

- 500g minced lamb

- Oregano (4 tablespoons fresh or 2 dried)

- 200g feta cheese (you want the crumbly type, which is also the cheaper of the two options at the fresh cheese counter)

The Way To His Heart series: Minced Lamb Pasta

4-5 large servings

Requires 1ish hours but most of the time you are free to do other things (see step 8)

1. I know, you're thinking who needs to cook if you marry rich? Well, the point here is it's sexy for a girl to be able to cook, so throw on a racy apron.

2. Chop your garlic as finely as you can without compromising the number of fingers in your possession. Roughly dice your onions and tomatoes. 

3. Drizzle olive oil into your medium-sized pot and swirl the pot around so that its base is mostly covered. Set on medium heat and throw in your garlic, onions and half the oregano. Keep stirring for 5-7 minutes so as not to burn anything.

4. Add lamb, bring to high heat and stir until it becomes brown.

5. Add wine and let it cook until mixture bubbles.

6. Have someone take a picture of you cooking as proof.

7. Add everything else (except pasta and cheese!). Turn the heat just low enough to prevent everything from bubbling over. Let it cook uncovered for at least another 30 minutes, then put the lid over the pot and continue to let stew until it reaches desired consistency.

8. While that's cooking, freshen up your manicure/shave your legs/tweeze your nostrils.

9. Cook your pasta. While it is boiling, prepare your feta by smooshing it in a bowl with a fork.

10. Serve pasta with sauce. Sprinkle the crumbled feta over it.

Took a picture without the cheese because it didn't look good, but it really does elevate the flavours that much more. Tastes even better overnight - wink, wink. Enjoy!

A votre santé

By no means did twenty twelve go by in a flash - the last countdown seems like an eon and some away - but I can't exactly tell you where all that time went either.

For the first time in a long time, I spent New Year's Eve at home with family. Not that it was much of a celebration:  my sister and mummy were fighting for couch space and both began snoozing beneath my duvet by quarter to midnight, and this old lady was struggling not to fall asleep so she could catch the fireworks.

As you can tell, it was a very joyous occasion at our household indeed.

A true fobby Asian at heart, I religiously take pictures of myself and all my meals, so of course I also had to screen capture the pyrotechnic finale on television with my iPhone.

This year, I have much to be thankful for. I am thankful for the new people and things that have found their way into my life, and more so for those who have stayed a constant despite my turbulent personality.

Stepping into another new year (and Cafe Grey)

So here's to our loved ones, their health, smooth sailing, good food and more frequent updates with less narcissism. And nail polish that doesn't chip world peace.

How to be a lady...

...bird.

Decided to throw out a short post while detoxing, one of my favourite ways to do which is to let sit a bulgarian rose mask on my face while listening to Rachmaninov's Concerto No. 2. My favourite rendition will have to be Lang Lang's - it's like winter on steroids.

My mind has the tendency to go off on a tangent. Anyway, I dressed up as a ladybird for Halloween this year. Or ladybug, if you spell colour without the u and get your re's mixed up with er's. Here's how I improvised my costume. Quick, easy and very economical - everything I saved by forgoing the skanky French maid costume will contribute to more overpriced shoes.

1) You will need a piece of black felt, scissors, double-sided tape.

2) Cut out different sized circles using round objects for reference. They do not need to be perfect. You are not Archimedes.

 

3) Keep cutting out felt circles as if working in a sweat factory. I ended up with about thirty, but it depends on how spotty you want to be/how much surface area needs to be covered.

4) Find a red dress or fake a jumpsuit like I did with a red top and shorts. Attach circles with double-tape. Be roughly symmetrical. Remember to do the back as well.

5) You should be able to achieve the makeup with products you already have. Eyes: use a pink lipstick on the outer corner as a base, and top with blusher. Pop some white shadow in the inner corner. Put a few dots along your crease with black liner. Practice the look before the actual day, because more likely than not you will mess up the first time.

Insert narcissistic self-shot

6) The whole process should take less than two hours, unless you have two left hands. Hope you had a fantastic Halloween!

P.S. For those who clicked into the post looking for advice on how to be an actual lady, my tips are to 1) never poop; and 2) drink tea with your pinky sticking out.

The moving chronicles

My dad says that a good start is half the success. In that case, I better start investing in low tops and cute heels to please the surgeons, because I spent the first three days of my surgical rotation in hibernation. I must have been part bear in my last life.

I know, polar bears don't technically hibernate. But how adorable is this?

Or marmot, which sleeps for eight months, and copulate and eat for the other four. What an enviable life indeed.

Or snake, except the metaphor is suddenly not so cute anymore.

But I digress. My slothfulness was absolutely imperative because I had to move houses straight after my paediatrics exam, and those who have done either one will understand my torment. Moving is a painful process, especially if a) you/your mother are stereotypically Asian and like to hoard; b) your apartment is large and allows for storage of aforementioned hoarded items; c) the last time you moved was nineteen years ago; d) your family pretty much dismissed the renovator's advice a month ago to take action early.

In our case, it was all of the above. We were so last-minute with things that our kitchen looked like this at 6am on the day of moving.

The kitchen, three hours before the movers arrived

Bad time management aside, we do actually own a hell lot of stuff. I wish I'd placed some money at the back of all our closets, because they seem to be a fantastic culture medium for replication. When the movers called earlier to arrange for cardboard boxes to be delivered to us, my mum told them she guesstimated we would need about thirty. We ended up with about eighty. Needless to say, we felt the need to tip the movers generously. 

It was definitely no easy feat to pack my whole life into boxes within two days. As you sift through your possessions, you find yourself reliving chunks of your life...like that slutty hoe phase you went through in year 9. Those skanky Ecko tube tops should not have been mine to own, especially since I was neither black nor did/do I own boobs. Looking at my old closet, I'm surprised I was even let out of the house, thank god that part of my life is over.

Of course, there are many other gems retelling precious memories, some not for you to relish, such as the photos of your mother posing in a bikini on a sofa in the hotel on her honeymoon.

Yeah, let's not even go there.

Did you really think I was going to show you my mother and her goodies? Seriously now.

Anyway, it has been almost two weeks since we moved into our new place, and it is still strewn with boxes with just the minimal amount of floor exposed for one to shuffle sideways from one room to another. Unpacking is seriously such a bitch. After all, what goes in must come out. Of bags, not vags, you dirty-minded child.

Moment

Waiting for my yellow pill to set in. It's always worked like a charm. Don't fail me now.

Have you ever woken up in the middle of the night, your way back to slumber barricaded by a torrent of thoughts and old memories, of him?

The beauty of childbirth

Whoever said childbirth was the most beautiful thing in the world has clearly never seen one. 

Let's talk vaginal deliveries first:

• Firstly, babies never arrive when you want them to. The first day I was on duty, the labour ward had a record low of two deliveries the whole day, neither of which happened within my fruitless 12-hour shift.