pinky promise?

Life had been "too simple" I decided to make it complicated.

By adding unnecessary ruffles and frills.

Lord, give me the simple life.

Or any other life you want me to live.

And I’ll try not to decorate it along the way.

Pinky promise.

at least.

at least

i found a reason to smile.

at least

i knew you for awhile.

at least

you'll always be a friend.

It's going to be a minty big day.

When I told some of my friends that I had chosen my wedding colors to be mint and baby pink, some of them retorted that it doesn’t seem very… Us. 

Apparently we’re serious people who’d pick something more conventional and sophisticated like blue hues for example. The question is, Are We?

I think we’ve managed to fool people into thinking we are. Quite a quirky pair we are really. 

The Fiancé gave me full privilege to pick the wedding colors, style and theme; he only wanted to be in charge of the food. I didn’t want severe colors since I wanted the guests to have fun, and not take the wedding too seriously (not that they should take it too lightly either). I also didn’t want anything too vivid – that leaves out turquoise and fuchsia. Neither did I want solemn colors like gray or deep blue. I don’t really like purple, so I ventured into the green tones. For the flowers, red gerberas are calling out to me.

I wanted a retro wedding, but The Fiancé doesn’t fancy it too much. He would go as far as wearing a pair of Converse instead of dress shoes but nothing too kooky.  So I tweaked one of the theme colors a little, and we’ve settled with…

Mint and Dark Brown (with a touch of Red for gerbera daisies.) Yep, like mint chocolate chip ice cream.

Summer hair.

Some days I just don't feel like blogging deep/profound stuff. On these kind of days I ditch my other blog and traverse here.

So let’s talk about HAIR today. Yes, that mane of glory on and around your pretty head. 

I had been growing my hair out since January this year for no particular reason. In the winter months it seems like there’s less reason to go for a haircut. I use them as a scarf sometimes. 

But lately, the temperature has been steadily soaring and I have been feeling the consequences. SUMMER is definitely here. I suddenly want the mop of hair gone; chopped. Due to the sheer mass and length of hair, it has been droopy and sad-looking. Not to mention the amount of shampoo it requires. 

Unable to take it anymore I marched into one of the cheaper salons in NYC and told them I wanted a trim. The cut itself only cost $12, plus an extra $3 for wash. I love a good wash before my cut, and don’t mind shelling out a few bucks for that. I could do with some head massage too especially since I have been interning 5 days a week, waking up at 6:30 every morning to get there by 9-ish.

After the hairstylist finished his magic, I was shocked to see a good 4 inches had been hacked off. I hadn’t been paying attention to how much he cut off because I kinda didn’t care how my hair would turn out. I just wanted the weight off and did not give him much direction as to how I wanted it. I got up from the seat and glanced down to see how much hair he cut off. 

It was A LOT of hair. Enough to make a wig with.

I had to keep looking at my reflection for proof I still had hair on my head because I felt bald, botak, in a good way. He did exactly what I wanted, albeit a little too short.

What else can I say - I'm ready to brave the 100F temperature now.

true grit.

 

I was never good at track (long jump, high jump, 100-meter races). But what I was good at were cross country races. When I was 11 my mother had bought me a pair blue Nikes, with spikes for soles. I loved them, and I wear them so much they’d molded to the shape of my feet. That morning of a 13-kilometer race, I donned them on for the umpteenth time and made sure I tied the laces tightly enough.

I waited for the sound of the starter’s pistol, my knees feeling like they were about to buckle from the tension. I was surrounded by a hundred other runners flocked like sardines to my left and right. To my front was the starting line; uneager to be trampled over. When the gun goes off, my heart stopped for a full second before I regained control of the muscles in my legs. While everyone else ran as fast as they can, I held back at merely a jogger’s pace on a lazy Sunday. Nothing in motion lets you know I am in a competition.  

It is at this point where I felt anxious, my eyes telling me I should probably run faster because everyone else is ahead of me. Nervous, I closed my eyes and my mind, retaining the same speed. Slowly I became undaunted, shut off from reality, fantasizing my own finale.5 kilometers into the competition, I saw those who were way ahead of me at the beginning of the competition starting to tire, their faces fraught with salty sweat. This encouraged me; every step I pounce started to feel lighter. 

Around the 7-kilometer mark I started to feel slightly drained, and the only thing that kept me going was being closer to the finish line. Having lost a large amount of water, my body was thirsty. I felt blood pumping to every vein, my heart muscles worked doubly hard. During the last kilometer it started to pour. I had noticed the clouds darkening but did not anticipate heavy rain. I could not see what was in front of me; everything seemed like looking through a prism. I started to develop a blister at the back of my ankle, and I knew I had to take off my shoes and run if I wanted to win. 

And so I took off my beloved blue Nike, carried it my hands and ran barefoot across the tartar road not caring the pain searing through my ankles. Only a few runners were ahead of me by now. I started to sprint at the smell of victory.

11 years later, whenever I feel drained and exhausted with nothing left to give, I think of that little girl who so nimbly paced herself for that cross country run. I then strap on my blue Nike and just get my grit going. With God's help of course.

*Photo by mundaex, DevArt

i am mule.

You know how the saying goes – As obstinate as a mule?

Well, I happen to be one. I have a sneaking suspicion that we all are.

Anyhow, I first discovered my mulish tendencies at the tender age of 5 or 6. Being so young you needn’t care about anything in the world, let alone know your character and what you stand for.

I grew up in an orphanage, as some of you may know. My dad was and still is the priest who runs the home. One fine Saturday morning, he had wanted all of us at home to learn a new worship song called “Abba Father”. He scribbled the words of the song onto the blackboard we had hanging in the living room. Everyone had to copy down the words and later we would learn to sing it.

While everyone else whipped up their thick, big exercise books to copy the song, I took out my cute little blue memopad. I clicked my ‘mechanic’ pencil, and laid on my tummy to begin the task.

At that time, my vision wasn’t all 20/20 and it would later be discovered at age 7 that I need corrective lenses. The song “Abba Father” had the word ‘kingdom’ in its lyrics and as I was copying I couldn’t make out the word properly because of my deteriorating vision.

Susan, an older girl, wanted to help me out with spelling ‘kingdom’ but I clearly remember not wanting any help. I tried spelling it as ‘kindom’. She told me it wasn’t the correct spelling. Then I tried ‘kengdom’. Still not correct. Up till the last minute I refused any offer of help.

It was at this moment the 5-year-old me realized she had a stubborn streak in her.

She still does.

cherry curry

 

Ate this for lunch yesterday, The Fiance prepared almost everything. 

All I did was slice scallions and make the dish look pretty.

 

I heart cherries.