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.