I’ve always wondered what it must be like to kiss a man with a full face of beard. Do beards get in the way? Do they chafe? Do you discover cookie crumbs and then become entirely engrossed in trying to pick them out? I don’t know. But I was at the beach a few weeks ago when I saw this couple taking selfies. They seemed very much in love and totally fine with the beard situation.
So, I sketched them and came up with this bad pun on Weird Love; Beard Love.
My husband’s friend from college chose to come out a few years ago. God knows why he chose the people he chose, but soon, at a party, I was on the receiving end of this conversation.
“OMG! Listen! Have you heard? X has now become a gay. His gestures and mannerisms are now SO GAY!”
There was so much I wanted to say, but trying not to be too scathing, all I could manage was, ‘That’s not your information to share. When he is ready, he will tell me.”
What’s so upsetting about what she said? Nothing really. I have heard such things so many times in the past, but it never felt pejorative. Because social environment is pivotal in discerning the intent of language. It may not intend to wound but it does intend to marginalize. The expectation is, that this man who I had in my wedding is suddenly supposed to be “the other”. So few people understand the complexity of public discourse and its effects — failing miserably to recognize the heteronormativity of “that’s so gay.”
Call it out. Make it stop.
I am not even a little bit ashamed to say that while most people indulge in a bubble tea once a week, I have a medium size milk oolong every day. I mean, what’s not to love about bubble tea?
So here’s a short guide to black milk bubble tea in Singapore.
Gong Cha: It’s everywhere, but the tea doesn’t have as much flavor and the bubbles are often a bit too toothsome for my taste
Cup Walker: Gives you a generous helping of bubbles but the tea is soo watery
Artease: Good because they are open till late at night, but even at no sugar, the tea is too sweet. Don’t know how
Hipo: Plain horrid
Koi Cafe: My absolute favorite. I order it with no sugar, no ice, but cold. The oolong is robust, the milk is just the right amount of creamy and the bubbles are AMAZING! Golden, soft and chewy and smaller in size than all the other ones. Almost like sago. I love these guys so much I will take the train to a Koi cafe outlet, even tho I have a bubble tea place right next to my house.
Does anyone have suggestions of other places I can try?
If you’ve been reading this blog, you already know that I love cake. What you don’t know is that I use cake as a crutch for pretty much all my emotions. Sadness=cake. Happiness=cake. Anxiety=cake. Restlessness=cake. PMS=cake.
Sometimes I crave cake in the dead of the night when absolutely no shops are open. That is when I make mug cakes (the singular cause for all my weight issues) which combines my two great loves – cake and nutella.
Most mug cakes either come out dense or mealy, so I’ve come up with my own tried and tested recipe. Also, since you know I am lazy, you already know this cake is easy.
Take 1/4 cup of flour ( I use self-raising, you can use all purpose with some baking powder). Dump into your prettiest mug.
Now take 2 tablespoons of sugar, 2 tablespoons of cocoa powder and a pinch of salt and put that in as well. Mix.
Take 2 tablespoons of melted butter and 1/4+1 tbsp of milk and stir stir stir.
When you have a batter that’s nice and gooey but still runny, drop a spoonful of nutella. Don’t press it down or anything. Just let it drop and stay.
Then stick your mug in the microwave right in the center, for exactly 60 seconds. Take out and let it sit for ten seconds.
After that, I am guessing you would like to eat it.
My friend Miyuki Baker, an artist who travels the world in search of queer artists and activists, introduced me to Singapore’s queer art scene. I had no idea of it’s existence. Most of all, she introduced me to the poetry of Cyril Wong, a Singaporean poet, for which I will be forever thankful.
I know that sexuality is maddening in it’s complexity, blinding in it’s power and relentless in its myriad manifestations in mainstream acceptance as well as rejection. But at the end of the day, to me the one argument to end all arguments is that,
Love is love.
How am I literally the only unfit person at my yoga class? Here I am sinking deeper into my pool of sweat with my big belly and all, while all around me is a sea of stretched out rubber bands.
Sometimes I think people who really need to work out often don’t because they feel fat shamed into staying home and eating their emotions. The giant mirrors, the itty bitty outfits, the unsmiling women staring at your love handles – it’s all intimidating and it makes you feel like a bit of a failure.
If you’ve ever felt like that, just chin up and go for it. You don’t owe anybody perfection.
I’ll admit though, it wouldn’t hurt if someone cracked a smile once in a while. But I guess, peeps are just being super introspective while decidedly checking out their ass in the mirror.
I heard you are mouthing off about me. I know everything you’ve ever said about me. I see you lurking around my LinkedIn profile every other week. I know you tell people I am cantankerous because I am “always talking about feminism and racism”.
Feminist: a person who believes in the social, political, and economic equality of the sexes. If that makes you call me a bitch, let me introduce you to my Patron Saint of Side-Eyes and Not Giving a Single Fuck.
It’s not a secret that I think 50 Shades of Grey is total bollocks. It’s a bit sad that after the likes of Anais Nin, this is what passes as female erotica these days. Anyway, I digress.
One day, I was in the middle of my usual rant when someone I know, who is a routine fat shamer, said that she didn’t think much of the book either. Then she went on to add, “Only the really fat, lonely women in my workplace, the kinds who have nothing going on in their lives are excited about the book.” This is verbatim.
Immediately, I had visions of sassy plus sized women in bikinis, reading the book while getting their BDSM supplies ready. Taking pointers. Finger on the button.
I have a sneaky suspicion she wasn’t really going for this imagery.
I am obsessed with china. Especially tea cups and coffee mugs. These are actually pretty accurate representations of all the mugs I own. O and if you are going to give me a mug as a present, please resist the ones with cheesy/corny/lovely messages in cheesy/corny/lovely typography. The thought of reading something deep before my first sip of morning coffee is just too much for me.
So much is being discussed everyday, everywhere I go — in real life or virtual — about what it means to be a woman. In India. In the Middle East. In the United States.
Despite the good intentions of the world, the public discourse is all about finding the right receptacle to provide female identity. To be of the female sex is not enough. To be of skin and bones and blood and guts is not enough. To be a fully formed human of sound mind is not enough. Are you a good mother? Are you the wife who is fighting to have a career? Are you the sister who rebelled against your brother’s idea of honor? Are you India’s daughter who wasn’t protected enough?
Everyone needs a place. It shouldn’t be inside of someone else. -Richard Siken
Edit: The words in my illustration are from Sarah Kay’s poem, The Type.