Of love songs and fairytales

Of wedding bells

It was Carlton’s wedding over the weekend. It was an exciting time for all of us, particularly for Carlton and the beautiful Miss T, because it was a chance for my big family to get together. We haven’t seen each other for awhile. I live in Brisbane now and it’s getting increasingly difficult to get enough time off to visit my family down in Sydney town. It was also the first time that Mr Marvel met my family. I would like to put on record that Mr Marvel is quite possibly the best boyfriend ever. He chose me over Marvel for the weekend. I would like to give you my many thanks my beautiful baby boy. Everyone loved him. He had fun and loved my family. I feel like my life is complete. Miss T and Carlton also showed me just how much weddings mean to me, although I haven’t changed my stance on them just yet. I appreciate the symbolism. It is the union, not only of man and woman, but of families. And that is what means the most to me. I love my family to death and, if not for anything else, I want Mr Marvel to be one with my family. 

I have already told him that he is my family. He is now the centre of my universe.  I know it sounds strange for someone who doesn’t believe in marriage to say this but I want to spend my forevers with him. It’s not marriage I believe in but love. I feel that where other people I know marry for convenience, my family have always married for love and I admire them for it. And the result is that I, and my cousins, am fiercely loyal to my family.



I have never been so excited to see my cousins. I haven’t spoken or seen most of them for a long time. Some of them I used to babysit when we were younger and now they’re taller than me. I miss them already. I am heartbroken that I won’t see my family for christmas. I had hoped that I would spend time with them.


I am especially heartbroken that I won’t see my sisters for christmas. The potatobelle has started saying my name. I miss her deeply. I regret not taking videos of her this time around. I was too caught up with catching up. 

of anniversaries

It is my first year anniversary on Monday. Exciting, right? I bought Mr. Marvel’s present today, a belt and wallet set.



They were things he needed. I am a giver of things that are needed. He doesn’t have a lot of wants but he has a lot of needs which is great because I don’t have to think about what to get him for holidays— I got him a hard drive for his birthday and I am getting him shoes for Christmas— and special occasions.

He gave me my present today. The most beautiful red wedges with gilding on the sole.

 

We were going to have dinner at my work on Monday but it’s opening night and I don’t want to be there when it is crazy busy because I want to sit down and have a relax, casual dining experience.  

This time last year I was on a taxi to the Mantra on Cavill. It was for our first date. I had an overnight bag in one hand and a box of cupcakes in the other. I was nervous, I couldn’t stop smiling, and I don’t remember ever looking forward to anything so much in my life. It was supposed to be our first date but a year later, here we are. I knew I loved him the moment he laid his head on my stomach. We went to Dreamworld, watched the Lion King and he beat me in Tekken. The worst moment of it all was the the flight home to Sydney. My heart hurt the entire time. I came home to a message from him telling me he missed me. 

of thank you notes

I got a few new followers today. I don’t know if it’s because of the post about Tyrone but I deeply suspect it is. I hope you guys won’t be disappointed because I won’t always be posting things about him.

I have read some vile things about him and his family on the internet. I have to say it hurts. He has never done anything to these people and they hate him purely because of his race. He’s not even Islander. I don’t know how people got the idea that he is. If you are going to say that someone’s family is full of crack whores and dole bludgers at least do some research. You don’t know what my family is like and honestly you will never know what it’s like to have a family as supportive and loving as mine.  I can’t believe some of the things that these girls say about him. I especially abhor the girl who insinuated that he has a mental disability. Your lack of education is showing through your prejudice. There are a  lot of disabled people in this world who have made significant contributions to the world. What have you done? What could you possibly gain from tearing down someone who is working hard to achieve his dream? Get off the internet and go do something constructive with your life. 

But this post is also a thank you to all the people who continually supports Tyrone. And as a thank you, here is another rare photo of Tyrone as a baby with our Grandfather. Tyrone was always a personality even as a baby. 


 

of breaking my rules

So X-Factor aired on Monday and I was pleasantly surprised to hear that my little cousin Tyrone — even though he is a head taller than me now— auditioned for the show with his band, What About Tonight (WAT). I know I have mentioned many times on this blog that I would never name my family or friends but I really want Tyrone to go far. Since Monday I have watched all the WAT videos on youtube. I absolutely love them. My mum has posted on her facebook that she cries whenever she sees a video of Tyrone. My whole family—not just in Australia but the US, the Philippines and Europe— have all gone online to find videos of Monday night’s episode. I can tell you now that the X-Factor will be the highest rated show this season, purely from my family viewing. 

I can’t believe how far Tyrone has come. I know that my whole family is very proud of him. We’re a very large but very protective family who support each other in all of our endeavours.

From baenaboy to What About Tonight. We will watch him proudly as he transitions into a global sensation.  

Here is a video of What About Tonight singing a cover of Maroon 5’s Payphone and here is Tyrone’s first video appearance singing You Give Me Something at a school talent show.

And just because I am nice here’s a rare photograph of Tyrone with his Dad on their trip to the Philippines. 

Remember to vote for What About Tonight on X -Factor on Channel Seven at 7:30pm every Monday. 

I drew an Owl on a mole on my leg

of quiet nights

I am grateful for many things in my life. I am grateful that I have the talent to express the thoughts that keep me up at night in a way that is both cathartic and calming. I am grateful that I wake up every day. I am grateful that I am able to sleep each night in the comfort of a warm bed. I should be thankful.

I’m not though.

I stay awake at night because Mr. Marvel still has pictures of his ex-girlfriend on his Facebook. I stay awake because I feel inadequate as a writer. I stay awake because no matter how happy I am, I am disappointing someone. I stay awake because I know that I should be doing my assignment. I stay awake because I wonder if I am meant to be someone else. I stay awake because I wonder if the right man for me isn’t somewhere out there.  I stay awake because I can’t decide what I am going to wear tomorrow.

I know that I’m not the only person who experiences this. I understand that they are petty. I understand that if someone else were to come to me with a similar list, I would quite possibly dismiss their fears as phases. I just want to be told that they are stupid fears. I want someone to laugh my insecurities off.

I want someone to talk to. Back home, I had Kujira or the girls to talk to. Up here I have no one but Mr. Marvel. It’s not that easy to talk to Mr. Marvel because I don’t know how to talk to him about anything. I would like to. And I am trying. I know that I have to stop running to the internet instead of talking to him. I know that I should stop writing stories instead of dealing with my insecurities. I know that I shouldn’t hide behind my poems. I know all of this. I have been told all of this.

But stories are easier.

I worry about everything. Mostly, I worry that I might say something the wrong way. I can’t express myself properly or over-explain myself, which I do, in a bid to prove that, even if I am not right, I am reasonable.

I’m stuck in the middle of everything. The only certainty in my life at this very moment is Mr. Marvel. I want to believe that every decision I will make from this point on is mine alone but I would be lying. There have been cracks in the wall for awhile now. Words, that I have repelled for so long, have slithered through and made a home in my brain. They are not unwelcome but they are not my own. I fear of being someone else.  

of my death as an author

I often feel inadequate. I feel inadequate as a writer. I feel inadequate as a reader. I feel that my grasp of language is inadequate. The words I know are never enough to convey the images in my mind. I feel inadequate as an orator. I often feel my tongue betrays me. The words I know are never enough. In winter, more so than any other time, the cold chills the metal on my braces to the point that it cuts the skin on my tongue. I have difficulty pronouncing words that have a rolling ‘r’. Words like ‘periodically’. So I stutter. I force my brain to slow down, find another word, a less adequate word but one that doesn’t send my tongue into shock each time I say it. I censor myself. I avoid words like ‘hummer’ or ‘disturb’ and especially ‘theatre’. I find it difficult to part with myself in my writing. I feel forced. I imagine the reader and I scoff. Who wants to know how you feel? I decide that something is irrelevant and when I read it back, I am dissatisfied.

I am a compulsive drafter. I have more drafts than endings. In the end, perhaps because it is easier than finishing a story, I spend two hours sorting my collection of buttons. Words. Words are what I should be collecting. There used to be a time when I would read a book all day long. Immerse myself in the spaces between the letters. These days I read articles on my computer, comics on my ipad, other people’s lives on Facebook, but still I am dissatisfied. More. I want more.

Mark Mordue once asked me what I was afraid of. ‘What are you hiding from?’ he asked. ‘Why are you so afraid of telling the truth?’ I did not answer him then. I cannot answer him now. My grammar is only what I have lived. It is what I have learnt from copying aphorisms. I write in fragments. I write vignettes of observations. Each time I learnt to write bare, I was told to fatten it up. Each time I learnt to write descriptively, I was told to pare it down. I’ve grown afraid of my inadequacies. I am afraid of a misplaced comma, of broken sentences, of semicolons and dashes, of nominalisations and verbosity in my writing.

So I cling to what I know best. I cling to Walter Benjamin’s ‘musical stage’ in the hope that the reader hasn’t noticed that it is a story I have told before. It is the same character I have plucked from one story and pasted onto another. But it’s time. I, too, can hear the dying fall. It isn’t writer’s block of which I am dying. It is complacency. I often feel inadequate because there has to be more to my writing than just being good. 

of pebbles, pebbles that grate on my mind

You may not be her first, her last or her only. She loved before she may love again. But if she loves you now, that else matters? She is not perfect, you are not either and the two of you may never be perfect together, but if she can make you laugh, cause you to think twice, and admit to being human and make mistakes, hold onto her and give her the most you can. She may not be thinking about you every second of the day, but she will give you a part of her that she knows you will break; her heart. So do not hurt her, do not change her, do not analyse and do not expect more than she can give. Smile when she makes you happy, let her know when she makes you mad and miss her when she is not there-  Bob Marley

There is no two ways about it. I am in utter disarray. That choke up feeling in your throat. That feeling in your eyes when the tears are right at edge of the ducts. That muscular cramp you feel deep down in your belly button. That is the feeling that perseveres. I am not at liberty to share what it is that I feel. I only want to share what it is that I am experiencing. I believe it may be uncertainty. I am not wholly certain myself. Therein lies the greatest conundrum. How can I do what the right thing is when I don’t know what is wrong? 

I want someone who wants to share the rest of my life with me. I want someone who will love me unconditionally. I want someone who will throw away all pride and logic to make me happy. I want someone to love me so much they want to marry me without the marrying me part.

I’m at this stage in my relationship where I distrust him when he tells me he loves me. He loves me now but for how long? I avoid kissing him because I wonder how many kisses have those lips known? I overanalyze every compliment. He tells me I have beautiful eyes, legs, hair, back, lips, cheeks. How many have accepted those very same words?

I asked him if we could go on the ferris wheel together. It was in his eyes. That memory of having been on a ferris wheel with someone he loves. Someone that wasn’t me. 

Sometime last year, or maybe the year before the exact time escapes me,  Usagi-chan messaged me when she was in HK to tell me that Bubbles was in the Venetian with his then gf. It seemed like he was trying to re-create his Venetian memory with a different gf. It almost seemed as if he was trying to erase the time we spent at the Venetian. Or he hadn’t really thought about it all that much. 

Lack of empathy. That is what Mr. Marvel has. It isn’t that he refuses to acknowledge my unerring desire to spend a wonderful moment on that slowly revolving wheel, suspended in the night sky with the river to our right and the park to our left.  It’s that he has done it once (maybe twice) and that’s all that matters. 

I found myself hurt by it. I had hoped that his feelings for me superseded all other feelings he might have had for anyone. I am convinced I know the exact problem. And it is because he doesn’t love me as much as I love him. I don’t doubt that he loves me. I know that he loves me. Now. But will he love me tomorrow? How can he truly love me if all he sees are my shortcomings? I see only the good in him. I love him unconditionally. I change not because I have to but because change allows me to love him above all else, especially myself. 

There’s only ever one person who loved me unconditionally and I treated him unkind. This is the pain that I meted out to an innocent heart. A pain not of cruel words or heartbreaking acts. It is the pain of truth. The slow, unerring truth that no matter how much I give him, no matter how much I love him, he will never love me the same. It is the pain that the only thing infinitely greater than I how much I love him is my selfishness in asking for reciprocation. 

of Kate Upton and being skinny

This is a comment I made in response to an article in HelloGiggles THE FAT-SHAMING OF KATE UPTON; OR WHY I’LL NEVER BUY THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN “THINSPIRATION” AND “PRO-ANA” WEBSITES 

There are millions of people starving in the world as we read this article. Millions of people who have to fight for food.

I don’t know if there really are pro-ana websites out there. I don’t know if skinny gossip is really trying to make things less hurtful.

I am a skinny girl. I am made to feel guilty when I don’t eat because it’s unhealthy when really I’m just too lazy to cook.

I don’t think I will ever be a bigger girl. It’s not in my genetics.

But to call someone out for being a bigger girl. For eating. For having fun. That is what breeds discontent.

I read her ‘some changes’ article about how hard it is for skinny girls to be called skinny but the fat girls never get called fat. The only difference between the two is that skinny girls get called skinny to their face while the fat girls get bitched about behind their back and made to feel disgusting.

Why can’t people just accept other people for who they are? Why can’t we all just get a little perspective and realise that it isn’t someone’s size that determines their worth?

For some reason this article just really pissed me off.

I have been told my whole life that I must be skinny because I want to be sexy. And when I gain weight I get called fat when really I look healthy and happy.

Kate Upton has boobs so she must be fat but I don’t have boobs so I must automatically have a complex.

Frankly my dear I don’t give a damn.

You can read the original post about Kate Upton here. I know that linking to SkinnyGossip’s site will just direct traffic to her. But I believe that might actually be beneficial to her. I think she has survived the way she has for so long because she’s been surrounded by people who share the same sentiments. Maybe if some moderate thinking people were to read her stuff and disagree with her she might realise that there is more to life than just hating on the big girls. 

I have to admit that reading her posts really made me angry initially. But now I just feel pity for her. She must be going through some intense insecurities to think that the only way that she can feel better about her choices is by justifying it through hating other girls. My heart sank at the some of the comments in the article. ‘I would rather not eat than look like that’? As a gastronome I couldn’t keep reading. I love food too much. I’m lucky that my genetics allows me to eat as much as I can with minimal exercise. I know that. I just wish women started acknowledging that beauty doesn’t exist in a vacuum. Ideals of beauty are subjective. Above all we need to treat each other kindly. So please don’t judge the author of skinnygossip too harshly. She’s going through her own demons. Maybe now that she knows the impact of her words, she’ll be kinder too.

of making the worst cupcakes in existence

Two days ago I made what could only be described as the worst cupcakes in existence. They were sour. They smelt like coconut. They weren’t cooked through and they were heavy. Mr. Marvel hated them. He came in while I was getting dressed with disappointment written all over his face. 
“At least now when I tell you I like your food. You’ll believe me.” He said before, “this is terrible.”

I could have kissed him. He looked like a little kid who had just dropped his ice cream. I was heartbroken because I really didn’t expect them to turn out well. The moment I mixed it I knew it was a lost cause. I cheated you see. I didn’t have cocoa powder and I came across a packet of leftover icing mix from a packet of cupcake mix that I made earlier in the year. I didn’t really think it would make such a big difference. I mean how different could it be? Icing is really just sugar, butter, eggs. The same thing I was using in my recipe. 

The result was instantaneous. The mixture just didn’t feel right. It was airy. It was too dry. It didn’t sit in the pan well. 

And it came out like this:

 
It tasted even worst. I even made lemon curd to try and mask the flavour but the lemon curd tasted too eggy. Too much egg, not enough lemon juice. 

So today I was resolved to make the best damn cupcakes in existence. Mr. Marvel and I went down to the shops for to get all the baking stuff I needed as well as meat for tonight’s dinner.

The batter yielded 18 cupcakes. All of which were the best cupcakes I have ever made. I used dark chocolate buttercream for the icing. It was so godlike. And Mr. Marvel was happy so all is well with the world. 

I am pleased with how the icing turned out as well. It really held up its shape this time. I don’t have a piping bag so I usually just scoop the icing onto the cupcake and manually make the swirls. I really should invest in a spatula and a piping bag for next time. 

We had Spaghetti bolognese for dinner. It is a simple recipe that my dad used and I have since taken on board. The Panna Cotta is setting in the fridge as I type this so I don’t have photos yet. I whipped up some berry compote to go along with it. I’m just waiting for the boys to finish their dinner so they can tell me when they want dessert. 

I am beat. I might lie down, read some Batman, listen to music and have a cupcake. 

of identifying as a feminist

For the record I am a feminist. I believe in women’s rights. I believe in equal pay. I believe that women should have the same education as men. I believe that women shouldn’t be hindered by their biology. 

And no, I am not a lesbian, although I believe in a woman’s right to be with another woman, I am in a relationship with the most wonderful man in existence. And no, I am not a slut, although I believe in a woman’s right to practice her sexual preferences, I believe that my body is my own and would never relinquish control of it to another. And no, I do not hate men, although I believe that women have the right to stand up to misogyny of any kind, I was raised to respect men as my equal by a wonderful man who I am proud to have called my father. 

I don’t believe that women should be elevated to a status above men; I believe that women should receive the same rights and privileges as men. I don’t believe that women should be exempt from the responsibility that comes with those rights and privileges either. I think that as human beings we are all responsible for our actions and that our existence alone has a detrimental impact on another’s existence. It is our responsibility to lessen that impact.

I think that all women are feminists in their own way they’re just too afraid to identify as such because of the stigma that a small minority of feminists have managed to attached to that word. I am not ashamed of who I am. I am not going to argue with anyone over this identity. I believe that I have the right to be in this world free from oppression and free to live my life as I see fit.

Thank you for respecting that right.  

I finally managed to straighten my hair the way they do it at the hairdresser’s

The important thing was to do my hair in small sections. When I tried to do it in larger sections the heat couldn’t penetrate my hair. I ended up with really dry frizzy ends that felt like straw to touch. I ran a moisturising serum through my damp hair and blowdried it to that abomination you see on the left. Before I ironed it I sprayed my hair with heat protector. I started at the bottom separating the hair into left and right sections then into three sub-sections. It took me an hour to do it but it is worth it. My hands were so tired after. 

I have really thick strands of hair and a lot of hair.  I’m sure I’m not the only one. I don’t know how to classify my hair. It’s not asian or hispanic. Anyone have any ideas?

I woke up with the biggest urge to bake something. I might make banana and chocolate cupcake.