If my boyfriend only knew … if he knew I was on Accutane, he would absolutely flip. He who thinks I’m the greatest, most beautiful thing to have ever graced the earth is of the opinion that I’m nuts to take drugs for my zits.
As far as he’s concerned, all I need is...“All you need is the right cleanser. Maybe your cleanser and lotion thing in the fancy bottle you use aren’t right for your skin. Why don’t you just change the brand?”
“It’s not that simple. My skin is very complex, you know.”
“You're making it sound worse than it really is. If it really bothers you so much, maybe you shouldn’t eat so much fried stuff or sleep so late then.”
“I haven’t had a plate of char kway teow since they erected the Petronas Twin Towers la, what do you mean I eat fried stuff?”
“Okay, but I really don’t think you need to see the dermatologist or pump your body with drugs! Your doctor should stop prescribing you all this!”
Ah … the naïve, simple words of someone who’s never had a zit in his life. People like him – you know the type: the ones with skin as smooth as a baby’s arse – will never truly understand the anguish of people like me. He thinks antibiotics are evil, so if he knew I was on Accutane (which can deform innocent little fetuses and turn me into a manic depressive), he would go berserk.
November 30, 2006
Accutane Does What?!!
I’m so disturbed. Was surfing two nights ago when I decided to look up Accutane. For a while there, I was scared shitless. Apparently, it’s “the biggest breakthrough in acne drug treatment over the last 20 years” and works “miracles” and produces “tremendous, dramatic improvement” but may lead to … brace yourselves …
… serious problems with organs like the liver, intestines, eyes, ears, and skeletal system. If you’re pregnant, your kid will probably come out deformed. And according to the USDA, “Some patients taking Accutane have developed serious psychiatric problems, including depression. More rarely, patients have developed suicidal behavior and killed themselves.”
Good freaking grief!!! So what does this mean? It’s either you live life looking like the offspring of Cousin It and some woman named Olga, or you have real clear skin and die of liver disease. You’re damned if you do and you’re damned if you don’t.
I wonder what I should do now. Give it till the fourth week and see if I get the urge to roll myself down a cliff, I guess. Beautiful and dead vs ugly and alive. That’s one bitch of a choice, isn’t it?
… serious problems with organs like the liver, intestines, eyes, ears, and skeletal system. If you’re pregnant, your kid will probably come out deformed. And according to the USDA, “Some patients taking Accutane have developed serious psychiatric problems, including depression. More rarely, patients have developed suicidal behavior and killed themselves.”
Good freaking grief!!! So what does this mean? It’s either you live life looking like the offspring of Cousin It and some woman named Olga, or you have real clear skin and die of liver disease. You’re damned if you do and you’re damned if you don’t.
I wonder what I should do now. Give it till the fourth week and see if I get the urge to roll myself down a cliff, I guess. Beautiful and dead vs ugly and alive. That’s one bitch of a choice, isn’t it?
Week 3 on Accutane
I’ve been on Accutane for 15 days now. I’m now in my third week. I confess that I’d never heard of Accutane when my doctor prescribed it. The only thing that unnerved me was the fact that I had to take a urine and blood test first to make sure I wasn’t pregnant or carrying some unfortunate disease or something. That kind of worried me but I let it slide because as far as I was concerned, bad skin = horrible life not worthy living. So, following that line of thought, I threw caution to the wind and charged ahead.
My Accutane experience so far ...
Week one: acne started to dry up and become scabby; skin slightly itchy
Week two: skin seemed to have gotten slightly worse; more sensitive; becoming flaky; acne drying up some more; much itchier; extremely hard not to pick (as everyone knows, there’s little else more pleasurable in life than picking at scabs – they’re irresistible); extremely hard to refrain from scratching too
Week three: itching has subsided; still hard to prevent self from picking at scabs but am trying very hard; acne drying up at a faster rate; skin still sensitive and very dry
All I can say is ... thank the good lord above for creating the people who invented make-up.
My Accutane experience so far ...
Week one: acne started to dry up and become scabby; skin slightly itchy
Week two: skin seemed to have gotten slightly worse; more sensitive; becoming flaky; acne drying up some more; much itchier; extremely hard not to pick (as everyone knows, there’s little else more pleasurable in life than picking at scabs – they’re irresistible); extremely hard to refrain from scratching too
Week three: itching has subsided; still hard to prevent self from picking at scabs but am trying very hard; acne drying up at a faster rate; skin still sensitive and very dry
All I can say is ... thank the good lord above for creating the people who invented make-up.
My Skin: The Unravelling
My skin history is a sordid one. I’ve always had flawless skin. So flawless in fact, that it wasn’t unheard of to have strangers come up to me to comment how good my skin was. Fair. Rosy. Smooth. Not a zit in sight. And even when I did have an occasional zit, it was small, insignificant and fleeting.
And then my epidermis bliss ended. I turned 25. I started this new job. And I got a zit. And another. And another … and another … I started to really panic when I noticed a sinister pattern to my zits: (1) they didn’t dry up and go away after their customary three days, (2) they travelled in groups and (3) they started to hurt.
Now, you have to understand that this was tantamount to a Code Red situation for me. I am, to put it mildly, a shamelessly vain person. Looking good and having people look at me looking good are very important aspects of my life. True, I’m smart and funny and can pronounce really difficult words like ‘phantasmagorical’ effortlessly but suddenly, all these qualities don’t matter anymore because I had ZITS.
THE UGLY FENCE
Suddenly I was on the other side of the fence. The ugly side. The side that dreads looking into the mirror at your own reflection; the side where washing your face is not unlike running your fingers over a reflexology mat; the side where you wait with trepidation for the next person who comes up to you to say, “What happened to your face?!”; the side that envies all the people on the other side … “Why god, why?!”
Of course, I did what every desperate, newly ugly girl would do: sign up for a bunch of facials and purchased an entire range of must-have of skincare products (makeup remover, gel cleanser, clay cleanser, toner, essential oils, booster, serum, moisturiser, sunscreen, the whole works).
THE FACIAL FARCE
I can sum up my whole facial experience in two words: very expensive and very, very painful. Okay, those were six words. And goddamn, were they expensive (and painful). It was two hundred bucks per session and they went by packages which simply meant that you had to buy something like half a dozen sessions at once. And they were heinously painful. I swear, they can abolish the death penalty and just sentence convicted serial killers to a lifetime of facials. That’ll teach ‘em to kill, steal and destroy.
Facials are very traumatic experiences. Not only do they hurt like hell, you come out each session looking like mini volcanoes had taken up residence on your war-torn visage and had erupted one after another. It’s vicious. Red. Bloody. Poked. Prodded. Destroyed, absolutely destroyed.
But I went back again and again and again. Partly because I’d paid for the thing, but also because – miracle or miracles – they worked.
I went for facials for two to three years. My skin got better, then worse, then back to normal, then slightly better … it was a roller-coaster ... and then, the facials just stopped working. And after a while (and lost of money flushed down the toilet), I just got sick and tired of the whole routine. I wondered why I was putting myself through such physical agony when my skin wasn’t even getting better. I mean, it’s one thing to suffer and get better in the end but when you suffer and still keep on getting worse, I mean, that’s just plain freaking dumb. So I decided to stop.
TO THE SKIN DOC
I went to see a dermatologist. The real kind. At a real hospital. He had a Dr. in front of his name so I figured he must’ve gone to university and all that. Maybe he could put an end to my misery. He did. For a couple of years anyway. The antibiotics worked wonderfully and I could go back to worrying about more important things like what clothes to wear, how to colour my hair and which lip gloss to buy. My skin was finally behaving itself. I loved it.
But alas, good things always come to an end, don’t they? And they recently did. A couple of months ago, my forehead started acting up. You know that familiar sense of dread you get when you suddenly feel a little bump on your face after months of clear skin? Yes, that’s the one. And they starting popping back up, like mushrooms after the rain. All over my forehead. Pop pop pop.
I went back to the good Doctor and whined to him about my skin. I can’t remember what I said exactly but I’m sure I uttered the phrase, “Oh god, please do something before I stab myself in the stomach with a wide-tooth comb.” And that’s when I first heard about Accutane.
November 11, 2005
Meet The New Breed of Man
Apparently, my darling friend Oshun tells me that Metrosexuals are officially passé. Uncool. Untrendy. Un-in. Dare I say it, sissy even. Manicured nails, GQ mags and David Beckham are out. Cigars, The Economist and Sonny Bono are in.
It’s Ubersexual to you, buddy. Think George Clooney, Pierce Brosnan, Bill Clinton and Donald Trump (Donald Trump?? Great. We now have a generation of men aspiring to achieve the world's worst comb-over).
The Metrosexual lasted a grand decade and personally, I'm giving this Ubersexual man five years tops. Today, I'm not here to expound the virtues of the Uberdude. I’m here to predict what's about to crawl out of the woodwork next. That's right ...
... Meet The Confusexual
This new man is totally, absolutely, utterly, hopelessly, shamelessly … confused. He is in a total state of bewilderment. He struggles to grapple with what society (and by society, we mean women and social commentators who spend their time playing Scrabble and dreaming up ridiculous new terms which they then declare are ‘in’) expects the ideal man to be. He winds up with … zilch.
He gets frustrated. He resents being tagged like some cow. He fantasises about retreating to the mountains and spending his days yodeling and pondering the meaning of life.
His hermit-like existence will come to an end the day categories cease to exist. The day we leave men and let them be whatever, whomever the hell they want. The day The Man finally emerges from the ashes, like a long-forgotten phoenix rising from the uh … pond.
Meet The Man
The Man is comfortable in his own skin. He doesn’t give a rat’s arse for labels. The Man’s philosophy in life is “Who The Hell Cares?”.
He can be metro one day and uber the next. He can go renaissance this week and turn into a SNAG the week after. He can saunter around town with dirt under his fingernails today and flaunt his murse (which, apparently, is what they call a male purse) to a play tomorrow.
The Man can do and be any goddamned thing he wants to be. Corporate giants peddling their wares might be cheesed off with a new demographic that’s so incredibly undefinable but will The Man care? Not one bit.
And you know what? Neither will The Woman.
November 06, 2005
Metrosexuals: Mascara Maketh The Man
Men used to be either one of two things: dead or alive. Then it was dead, alive, straight or gay. Then bi … and a whole lot of other bizarre (and highly disturbing) sexual orientations …
And now there’s the Great Metrosexual. A man who:
1) Spawns on urban ground – because that’s where Prada and Versace hold their forts
2) Cooks with great flair – his culinary repertoire boasts of more than beans from a can or boiled kai-lan tossed in soya sauce
3) Appreciates literature, cinema and/or other arts – does not consider Jackass to be the Be All & End All of good entertainment
4) Has an eye for interior design – does not place a vase of plastic flowers on the coffee table with pride and say, “No one will be able to tell the difference!“
5) Knows wine – knows his Chardonnays from his Rieslings, his Cabernet Sauvignons from his Merlots
6) Is a lover of music – understands that there’s more to jazz than just Michael Bublé or Kenny G
7) Enjoys men's magazines – is not ashamed to be seen reading “3 Secrets To Flawless Skin: Exfoliate, Exfoliate, Exfoliate” in the LRT
8) Is groomed to perfection – knows that a ‘face mask’ doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with hockey or a fancy dress party
9) May or may not be gay – is a charmer and will never use pickup lines like, “If I told you you have a beautiful body, will you hold it against me?”
Apparently, the term ‘metrosexual’ first made its appearance in a 1994 article called "Here Come The Mirror Men" by Mark Simpson. So I guess it’s not the carefully molded product of the 21st century I once thought it was. But things are sure coming to a head, especially when sensationally famous male icons (read Beckham, Pitt and Cruise) are proud wearers of the metrosexual tag.
Is this the way of the future for men? Time magazine, in a recent issue, claims it’s what women want. All I can say is, “Uh, do we really?”
Do we really want a man whose talons are more immaculate than ours? A man who’s on a first-name basis with every hairstylist in town? A man who USES MASCARA?
One day, we will wake up and hear, “Honey, does my butt look big in this?” and we won’t know if we said it or he did. Good freaking grief.
Sure, it’ll be great to have a man who can feel emotions other than “I’m hungry” or “I’m horny”. It’ll be rather nice to have one who will happily cook and clean without acting like he’s just been sentenced to the gallows. One who actually responds to your distress calls, listens to you and empathises with you.
But do metrosexuals really exist? Straight ones, I mean? Or are they simply another group of mythical creatures painted by money-grubbing corporate types in order to formulate a new demographic of shoppers? Kind of like the successful man who “has it all”, the super career mom who effortlessly juggles “work and family” or the 40-something year old woman whose face and buttocks are as smooth as a billiard ball.
Mark Simpson hailed the metrosexual as an advertiser’s walking wet dream. Perhaps that’s all they really are - an unattainable ideal designed to get men to go out and … SHOP. Shop for skincare products. Shop for haircare products. Shop for self-help books. Sign up for yoga classes. Buy designer labels. Jewelry. Shoes, shoes, shoes.
We used to be able to count on men to be the uncomplicated sex. They were the ones who were easy to please (just show up naked, with a bucket of chicken and don’t block the TV … you know how the joke goes). Their sole purpose in life was to earn money for their wives to spend. They needed no bathroom shelf space – all they did was brush their teeth and shave. Sometimes, they smelled (refer to "What's the difference between a man and a chimpanzee?").
We can’t count on them to be this way anymore. They’re turning into women. They’re turning into US. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery but seriously, I’d rather they just stop burping for entertainment.
One day, we’ll turn around in bed and find ourselves peering into a face covered with a hydration mask. It’ll all be too much and we’ll shriek, “Be a man!!!!” and he’ll say, “I only wish I knew what that meant.”
November 05, 2005
Will The Real Writer Please Stand Up?
“Everyone’s a writer,” somebody grumbles. What makes one a real writer? If it’s merely the ability to string a coherent sentence together, then I suppose yes, everyone’s a writer. That’s kind of like saying that Jessica Simpson’s an actor, isn’t it?
I’m going to bring my question closer to home: Am I a writer? Well, I’ve written stuff. Some have been published, others not. Some are pretty good, others suck. Some I'm proud of, others I'd rather jump headfirst off the Twin Towers than have people read.
But what does one have to do to earn the right to be called a writer?
Is a writer someone who’s published something? That would mean that the thousands of mentor-wannabes out there who’ve scribbled 32-page get-rich-quick books would be writers too. That’s a horrifying thought. If not, are we talking about those who’ve published a novel? What about those who’ve written crap novels?
Is a writer one who writes well then? If so, who determines how well? A panel of judges who may or may not have published crap themselves? Is one a writer only when one has been recognized by an authority? What about one whose writing is very popular with the masses (most of whom are probably ignoramuses) but is slammed by book reviewers?
Are you a writer if you write brochures and direct mailers for a living? Or are you a writer only if you have the capability of churning dozens of pages on your word processor at a go? In which case, advertising copywriters who usually don’t write more than 3½ words a page would be ruled out completely.
Okay. This is my stereotype of a writer:
1. is intellectual looking (wire-framed glasses, tousled hair, wrinkly clothes, the works)
2. has eyes that pierce right through your soul
3. is absolutely witty and fascinating in everything he says
4. is keenly observant
5. uses obscure words most people don’t and pronounces them with great aplomb
6. reads books that are NOT on the MPH bestsellers’ list (which currently features nothing but Dan Brown – why in hell, I haven’t the foggiest)
7. is philosophical
8. questions everything
9. can be a bit of a renegade
10. has opinions about everything
11. is passionate
12. is a lover of foreign films (would rather nuke him/herself than be the first in line to catch some formulaic Hollywood garbage like Mr & Mrs Smith)
Truth be told, I hardly conform to the list above. I don’t wear glasses, am not particularly fond of wrinkly clothes, have read Dan Brown (in my defense, I found it to be total drudgery), have a perpetual problem with spelling 'manuver' ... 'manuovre' ... 'manure' ... whatever, and once mispronounced the word ‘ingenue’. If it’s any consolation, I have not / will not ever watch Mr & Mrs Smith.
I still don’t have the answer to my question. I’m now wondering why I brought this up in the first place. So, I am going to chicken out and unceremoniously plonk an untimely close to this post. It’s an anti-climax, I know, but on the plus side, I spare my brain cells the agony of having to choke up some profound conclusion and I get to keep my ‘writer’ label intact.
November 03, 2005
Breast. Feeding. Yes, You Heard Right
Yup. That’s what I’ve been doing, hunched over in front of my PC in the office. Writing a guide on breastfeeding. Anyone who’s known me for even close to 7 seconds will respond with: “You? Write a guide? On breastfeeding?!!”. I might as well have announced that I’ve been writing a book on gorilla-scalping.
“What do you know about breastfeeding?” they ask incredulously.
Well, the closest I’ve ever gotten to developing anything even remotely resembling maternal instincts is touching the dog-eared tip of an Anne Geddes photo (in the process of tossing it into the dustbin). I am not married, have no kids and I am physically incapable of making cooing noises or performing any of those infantile antics adults usually perform to entertain babies. So I guess the answer to that question is obvious: nothing.
But after a couple of months on the project, I’d like to share 7 things I have learned:
1. Breast milk is best for baby.
2. Contrary to popular belief, breastfeeding does not make your boobs sag. It’s them blasted childbirth and gravity that turn your boobs into hanging tubes of flesh (yes, and this is supposed to make women feel better how?). I’m not entirely convinced about this but my boss and/or some doctors on the editorial panel may be reading this, so this is purely self-preservation.
3. Breastfeeding’s like really fulfilling and makes you feel like super-mom and all that.
4. You’ve gotta breastfeed the baby a zillion times a day and another zillion times in the dead of the night.
5. You can’t yell at your husband or call him a good-for-nothing #@%@@#!! while you’re breastfeeding the baby because this will disrupt the bonding process. You should also not be watching anything disturbing like horror movies, porn or any Mariah Carey music video while breastfeeding.
6. If you breastfeed right, your baby’s poop should be mustard-yellow in colour with tiny little seed-like things in them. It may be watery and look like diarrhea but rest assured, it's not. Well, not unless he’s pooping 24/7 and stinking up the house, in which case you should bring him to your friendly neighbourhood paed.
7. You may or may not know this but babies bite. Hard.
“What do you know about breastfeeding?” they ask incredulously.
Well, the closest I’ve ever gotten to developing anything even remotely resembling maternal instincts is touching the dog-eared tip of an Anne Geddes photo (in the process of tossing it into the dustbin). I am not married, have no kids and I am physically incapable of making cooing noises or performing any of those infantile antics adults usually perform to entertain babies. So I guess the answer to that question is obvious: nothing.
But after a couple of months on the project, I’d like to share 7 things I have learned:
1. Breast milk is best for baby.
2. Contrary to popular belief, breastfeeding does not make your boobs sag. It’s them blasted childbirth and gravity that turn your boobs into hanging tubes of flesh (yes, and this is supposed to make women feel better how?). I’m not entirely convinced about this but my boss and/or some doctors on the editorial panel may be reading this, so this is purely self-preservation.
3. Breastfeeding’s like really fulfilling and makes you feel like super-mom and all that.
4. You’ve gotta breastfeed the baby a zillion times a day and another zillion times in the dead of the night.
5. You can’t yell at your husband or call him a good-for-nothing #@%@@#!! while you’re breastfeeding the baby because this will disrupt the bonding process. You should also not be watching anything disturbing like horror movies, porn or any Mariah Carey music video while breastfeeding.
6. If you breastfeed right, your baby’s poop should be mustard-yellow in colour with tiny little seed-like things in them. It may be watery and look like diarrhea but rest assured, it's not. Well, not unless he’s pooping 24/7 and stinking up the house, in which case you should bring him to your friendly neighbourhood paed.
7. You may or may not know this but babies bite. Hard.
My Love Affair with Monsieur Gym
In my oblong leather purse sits my gym membership card. It’s a symbol of my commitment. It represents determination, discipline, motivation, rebirth, a reincarnation of the mind, body, soul, spirit…
…Oh, stop waxing lyrical and let’s be Frank here (we can be Lucy tomorrow – hahaha!).
My gym card is just a piece of plastic that simply means that money is taken out of my bank account every month so that I can crawl through the jam at 6.30 every morning, pay two bucks for parking, sweat my butt off on a machine, stretch my body until my flesh split, shower in a locker room with a gaggle of middle-aged housewives exchanging siew pau recipes and fight with other wet-haired girls for the hairdryer.
Vanity, vanity… all is vanity.
This love affair of mine is not unique. It’s triggered by the shocking revelation that:
a) my metabolism has, for some bizarre reason unknown to man, plummeted to new depths. Depths that I never even knew existed. Depths lower than a snake’s belly.
b) which means that I can no longer stuff three bags of Chickadees down my throat and still fit into my skinny jeans
c) which means that if I ignore this situation, there’s a high chance I’d wind up looking like Gutsy Girl (before she sat on the thief and became the ambassador of a slimming centre)
d) which means that I have to peel myself off my swivel chair and participate in this activity most people call exercise
e) which means I have to join the gym because I find it impossible to warm up to the concept of running around in circles at the playground
So I joined the gym. I went in every single day. My gym card began to smoke because I swiped it so much. I worked my ass off on every one of them big machines. Then I fell sick, took a break and never went back. I lasted a grand total of three months.
After my glorious failure, I was eaten up by shame. I was such a disgrace. I couldn’t bring myself to go back. Going back would be tantamount to admitting that I was wrong and that I needed the gym. I was too proud. So I did what anybody would do after coming out of an intense love affair – I went on the rebound.
I bought a treadmill. I called one of those Smart Shop numbers on TV and ordered an Ab Trainer (it guaranteed rock-hard abs in just 30 seconds a day!). I bought several sets of dumb bells. I bought a whole lot of stuff, all of which I never used.
It was when I caught myself mulling over a slimming advert and wondering how many inches I could shave off my thighs that I realised how much I wanted him back.
I wanted my gym back. The track pants sticky with perspiration. The squishy water bottle. The locker key with the number tag. The fluffy face towel. I wanted them all back.
And most of all, I wanted the card back.
Now, when I look at my card, I’m reminded of my renewed commitment. This time, things will be different. This time, I won’t bail out.
This time, it will last.
Forever.
November 02, 2005
Confessions of a Noncommittal Blogger
I go into a Blog Frenzy every few months. Yes, I do. It's usually triggered by stumbling upon someone else's blog, followed by a wave of guilt after realising that I've left my own blog all dormant and cobwebby. Which explains why I've posted half a dozen blogs today. Mostly stuff I've scribbled (ie. typed) over the weeks and stored in my pen drive.
Decided to put this photo for good measure. They say a picture's worth a thousand words. I figure this one will be worth a couple of months of non-blogging. Cheers.
Decided to put this photo for good measure. They say a picture's worth a thousand words. I figure this one will be worth a couple of months of non-blogging. Cheers.
Great Truths about Money & Immortality
1. I have all the money I need … if I die by 4 o’clock today. (Henry Youngman)
2. You can’t have everything. Where would you put it? (Steven Wright)
3. Money was invented so we’d know how much we owe. (WK)
4. I intend to live forever. So far, so good. (Steven Wright)
5. I don’t want to achieve immortality through my work. I want to achieve it through not dying. (Woody Allen)
6. Money is better than poverty, if only for financial reasons. (Woody Allen)
7. What’s the use of happiness? It can’t buy you money! (Henry Youngman)
(WK) = Who Knows?
2. You can’t have everything. Where would you put it? (Steven Wright)
3. Money was invented so we’d know how much we owe. (WK)
4. I intend to live forever. So far, so good. (Steven Wright)
5. I don’t want to achieve immortality through my work. I want to achieve it through not dying. (Woody Allen)
6. Money is better than poverty, if only for financial reasons. (Woody Allen)
7. What’s the use of happiness? It can’t buy you money! (Henry Youngman)
(WK) = Who Knows?
"To love is to suffer ...
... To avoid suffering, one must not love. But then, one suffers from not loving. Therefore, to love is to suffer; to not love is to suffer. To be happy is to love. To be happy then, is to suffer, but suffering makes one unhappy. Therefore, to be happy, one must love or love to suffer or suffer from too much happiness.”
Woody Allen
American Actor, Author, Screenwriter and Film Director, b.1935
Woody Allen
American Actor, Author, Screenwriter and Film Director, b.1935
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