Chatty Lass

Love, Max (and his Mama).

You know, I don't understand people. I really don't.

No one can say I didn't try. I did, and I realised that I'm not good at it.

Along the way, I did pick up some really good friends and loaded them on my truck of friendship.

Till now, we are still on that same truck, venturing on new sights and places together. Absolute joy, that bunch.

I have been away for a couple of days (almost a week) and I apologise in advance to return with an angst-ridden post.

However, I need to blow off some steam. What better way to do it than in writing?

I am, by nature, a short-tempered person. My friends know it, my family; even more aware of it.

I do not throw hissy fits. I get pissed off, rant and tell it straight to your face that whatever it is that you are doing, it annoys me. To my very core.

People, in general, can't accept that. Why? Because, they prefer for you (me) to be good-natured and Little Miss Sunshine all the time.

No, I am not that sort of person. When I get mad or upset, I do not conceal it (unless there is an incredibly valid reason for me to do so).

At the very least, take pride in knowing that I won't be back-stabbing you.

Now, after that, I will calm down (I do not lose my mind in the heat of anger, mind you) and forget about it. Let bygones be bygones, no use harping on the past.

I am not one of those punctilious people who remembers each singular sin inflicted upon me. I have better use for my memory and brain.

With that, I hate (note the word, it is not often that I use it) people being Nosy Parkers and mega blabbermouths.

Even more so, I hate Nosy Parkers and mega blabbermouths who take me for an idiot, thinking that I actually lapped up all of their fake charm and flirting. (Word of advice: I can see right through you. Don't bother being an imposter, I am well aware of your phony remarks.)

Nothing gives you the right to judge a person. The age-old analogy of one finger pointed to a person and the remaining four, right back in your face, should be applied in life and has nevertheless stood the test of time in the area of relevance.

Should you open your disproportionate pie hole (seeing that it is overdeveloped), might I suggest that you look at yourself in the mirror beforehand.

Do not think that you are better than any person. You are not. I am not.

Do not, for a second, think that you are the best or if you are anywhere close to that. Life is fragile, it could be taken away from you in the bat of an eyelid.

You can only talk so much about people. In the end, I think that that person is feeling so empty and worthless on the inside, that he/she has to succumb to such a deed. I almost feel sorry for this bunch.

Nothing gives me the right to judge someone (even if it is something as obvious as the abominable snowman).

It is not about 'who-did-what-and-I-will-never-do-such-a-thing'. It is never about that.

It does not count if you murdered a person accidentally or intentionally. The sum-up? You took a person's life. There is a price to pay, the reckoning. It is the death penalty.

What I am trying to get across to you is, at some point or other, we have all made mistakes.

The difference is, I learn from it and I don't judge a person because of his/her mistake.

Look beneath the outburst or mistake. It happened because of a spark that set it off and a given opportunity.

You and I, we are an inch from falling into that. Chances are, it is because the spark has not yet been ignited or the opportunity has not come, did we not do what the other person did.

If it had been us in that position, who's to say that we won't fall into the same thing?

Think about this, ponder upon it.


P/S: My dearest Saviour,

Thank you for loving me, despite of my vast imperfections. Thank you for smoothing out my rough edges, and prompting in me the conviction of sin. I love You.


Daddy and Mummy,

Thank you for always reminding me this, patiently imparting values and embedding principles in me. I couldn't have asked for a better set of mentors and parents.

I haven't been tearing up and crying for the longest time.

The question came - strangely but making enough sense in my mind - if my heart had indeed grown numb and frigid, unfeeling and untouchable.

I couldn't get any more wrong than that.

The past weekend has been amazing for me.

I sat for hours, crying and weeping. Prostrating, kneeling down, my face drenched with tears.

None of the waterworks were credited to sorrow or hurts, but it was for thanksgiving. Tears of comfort. Tears of love. Tears of reassurance.

My heart was set ablaze with more passion than before, my soul; quietened with gentle whispers of love.

My eyes are looking ahead with clarity, willing me to move forward; undaunted by fear or doubt because I have in my palm, a beautifully scarred hand closing in on mine. His hand.

My goodness, one touch. Just one touch is all it takes.

One touch, and I am ruined for all else.

The weather was lovely this morning.

I decided to soak up some sun, whip up a simple brunch and dine in the garden.

I love all things sugary. I must have something sweet after each meal.

Some spare time, and I decided to channel my likings in my header. =)

When I was 5 (or 6), I commited the biggest sin known to the beauty world: I accidentally shaved off half of my eyebrow.

The details are hazy, but I recall looking incredibly awkward and wishing for the thousandth time that my overly itchy hands did not do something so idiotic. I also remember peering real close in the mirror every single day to check if wisps of those tiny hairs would already grow and blossom into an eyebrow once again.

I was not disappointed, but my patience was stretched to the limit. It took months, and the agony was excruciating. I vowed, never again will that happen.

As I inspected my freshly shaped eyebrows this morning, the memories of the incident engulfed me. I slumped on the floor for 5 whole minutes, laughing. It was a splendid way to start the day.

My eyebrows are pitifully light in colour, that they are sometimes non-existent on my face. However, I shape them once every 2 to 3 weeks.

My friend who occasionally tags along wonders the reason for my disciplined and religious need to engage in that practice.

I then explained to her that eyebrow shaping is not an act of vanity, it is a necessity.

It is because the eyebrows shape a person's face. It is a way of expressing emotions.

For instance, you furrow your eyebrows when you are not pleased with something, you raise an eyebrow (or both) quizzically when you do not understand a question posed to you.

Which is why, unruly and unshaped eyebrows looks horrendous. (On some days, I wish I had my tweezers with me. I would grab ahold of those eyebrows, wield my tweezers and work some magic on 'em.)

I am meticulous about my eyebrows, and only my beautician (and myself) is allowed to touch them. Anyone else who inches closer and exposes my eyebrows to possible danger, I will not hesitate to break their arm (I mean it.).

With technology, there are abounding ways to make one's eyebrows look gorgeous.

An increasing choice for many, is to do the eyebrow embroidery (or what I dub as 'permanently stenciled eyebrows').

I've had several recommendations to do the procedure (of stenciling eyebrows), but I politely declined.

I usually calculate my risks before plunging into a decision, and I realised the risks for beauty mishaps or malpractice is rather high.

The person brandishing the needle could be having a rough day and to add some humour or blow off some steam, she would stencil my eyebrows too high and I would look like a perpetually suprised rabbit.

Now, I'm off to fill in my eyebrows, curl my lashes, dab on some Vaseline and I'm good to go.

The much needed holidays are here, and she is coming to stay for a whole week. I am thrilled to catch up with her, soak up on the quality time. Ahh, sheer bliss.

My two accompaniments for this brief holidays are The Doomsday Conspiracy by Sidney Sheldon and Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte (pic below).



P/S: Reviews will be up once I'm done with 'em.

Yes, you heard right.

This Chatty Lass is on a mission.

A mission to be in ship-shape condition, lose a whole lot of excess weight, get rid of jiggly thighs and wobbly arms, banish love handles, and let my thump-thump resound in its' best rhythm.

Bertha (my treadmill) and I have embarked on our journey of discovery.

I shall ring Jessica Alba for a physique comparison in one month's time.

I am not particularly fond of ageing. Very not fond of it, to be honest.

I am already in the second decade of my life, and my adolescent acne is not clearing up. It is getting a little better; going through a calmer patch, but not altogether gone.

When I peer into the mirror, I see lines forming at the bottom of my eyes, coupled with dark circles and eyebags (credit goes to my religious late nights).

Those visible-only-in-a-close-up lines are like premature stalactites. Give it another 10-15 years or so and they will mature to a full-fledged, highly visible (even from afar) crow's feet.

Don't get me started on jiggly thighs, love handles, ghastly cellulite and bulging veins on my hands and feet.

As much as I try to slow down the process (this is where the eye cream, rigorous DAILY exercise and healthy food intake comes in), ultimately I am getting old.

Counteracting ageing requires a lot of discipline, and positive outlook.

Most importantly however, the revelation has to dawn on you (me) that you (I) are not able to erase ageing.

I am all for looking your best, at all times, at whatever age you are.

But, I believe more in embracing life and loving yourself for who you are on the inside.

"Those lines and scars are beautiful," says make-up maven Bobbi Brown.

There is nothing chic and hip about a 40 or 50 year old dressing like a teenager, behaving like one, slapping on theatrical, four-inch thick make-up or being a Botox Barbie.

What it does is it highlights insecurities. What it does not do is make one look more attractive.

To send some shocking, reality check waves into the system, it comes (to me, at least) as an abysmal attempt to turn an old hag into a Cinderella once again.

The attempt is an epic failure, needless to say. (Cinderella's fairy godmother only managed to transform her outfit, not her features or take some years off her face.)

I may be from a prehistoric era, but I am not a paladin of assets' augmentations, facial alteration (disfigurement, in my opinion) and those bunch of rigamarole.

For what it's worth, those lines are well-deserved by one as it can only come with age.

I look at them as a lifetime achievement; where you would have to go through the ups and downs of life before you are granted with your mark of maturity and stamp of approval.

Looking at my reflection in the mirror once again, I am beginning to fall in love (all over again) with what I see.


Related post:

• Real Women Have Curves

P/S: It has been raining persistently, for the past two days.

The air is damp, and Max is not too pleased with it, but the smell of rain on the grass is heavenly.

P/S: This video is too cute, for it not to be shared.