My Journal

Tracked since 30th July 2009

Been five days since I last snuggled up to Oyster Boy.

Am now in snowed-out Tasmania struggling to stay thawed while Oyster Boy is somewhere in the Orients doing whatever it is that Oysters do.

Six more days and we'll be meeting in Koh Samui for a week of diving and chilling!

Super psyched about my birthday vacay, though not so about lugging 50kg of his equipment to paradise.

In other news: I'm scheduled to cycle Mt. Wellington tomorrow and can't help feeling that I'm cheating on Plucky. Poor Plucky. He hasn't seen the sun since he left the store.

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Emma Yong, one of my fondest stage actors, has died from stomach cancer. She was only 36. It's a sobering reminder of the fragility of life, the intimacy of death and the power of now. This time two years ago, my first serious love was also fighting his own battle with cancer. He died at age 33 on May 22, 2010. 

"Hey", I could picture God say.

"Live, before it's too late."  

Just found out (yesterday) that I'm covering 10 days of Tasmania starting Tuesday. 

No clue what's going on yet, but the four-day hike scheduled at the end has been cancelled. 

Editor:  So, what do you want to replace the hike with?
Sheabutter:  How about a survival training thing a la Bear Grylls' Man vs. Wild? 
Editor:  Minus the zebra diet right. I'll ask them to draw something up then.
Sheabutter: I don't mind eating zebra...

Oh, what have I just landed myself in. 

Do you guys wanna read about a dirty chick doing Jungle bootcamp? 

P.S. VV, I'll have my Shanghai dates locked by this weekend, but will definitely be there on my birthday. Can't wait to see YOU! 

I spent Sunday with Oyster Boy and two others, playing sailor on a racing sampan. I've never done anything remotely close to sailing before, so everything was fascinating to me. You could give me a knot and I'd get high untying it.

There wasn't any wind that afternoon so we pretty much motored around with the sails down. It was a very gentle immersion into the sport. One of us played driver, one played look-out and two relaxed. Occasionally one of the two relaxers had to throw a rope here, catch a buoy there, avoid a titanic rock and tell a good joke. It was fun but all very la-di-dah. I craved for more adrenaline.

Lucky me, I coaxed Oyster Boy into going hardcore on Labour Day. Just the boat and us. Sails up. No cheating with motors. No faffing. No coddling. 

So.

That was yesterday. 

Also known as the day my face was burnt tangerine from six hours of sun exposure, and the time I discovered a rash guard does shit if sleeves are hiked. It was the day my finger tips grew perma-callous from rope-handling, and legs bruised so swollen from general knock-abouts. 

May 1st - the day I learnt that my heart swells when angled 45° to the wind.

It was my first time sailing, the man does not cut slack, and I like it! 

I love how he screams at me for tacking/ jibing (steering the bow a sharp 90° into eye of wind) the wrong direction, for tacking accidentally (did it four times) or for losing wind. There's something sexy about drumming to the beat of a confident skipper. With him working the sails and me on the tiller, we breached 8 knots. It's nothing exciting but a good-enough speed for a placid day. We flew! Well, at parts :)

I sprung a surprise on Oyster Boy last Sunday.

Instead of the usual cliches (picnics? home-cooked food? I don't know what else people do these days?), I shocked him with an afternoon of... diving.

With the sharks.

In the giant aquarium of the Underwater World.

Y'know, just casual stuff.

It was a tad terrifying to keep this a surprise (he was clueless until two hours prior), because I had to assume he was a confident diver in the face of aggressive sea creatures. That, and that he could really dive, per his mention in one of our wandering chats. It would be really awkward (and somewhat life-threatening) if he had fibbed about his diving capacity.  

Yup. Really awkward. 

Lucky for us, Oyster Boy is one honest (and composed) diver. I'm impressed. 


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The last time I dove in the tank, the highlight was descending with a bucket of cockles (only certified divers get to feed the hungry).

The scent of raw blood drives the resident Manta and Eagle rays absolutely insane. We're talking 20+ two-metre-wide monsters charging at you from all directions, swatting their giant fleshy wings (and spiny tails, sigh) in your face as they try to get to the munchies. Your heart will race, your hands will tremble, you will be bitten.

It can get pretty scary in the eye of a feeding frenzy, but that's where the fun lies. I really wanted Oyster Boy to own this moment. To bask in the thrill of helpless bewilderment and soak in the awesomeness of total submission. 

Alas, the whole feeding thing has been scrapped due to new international safety protocols (an orca killed someone, somewhere). To compensate the lack of rev, our dive master (a very kind Mr. Abdul) said they've "added more fish" to the aquarium so there's actually "more to see now". Great. See fish. Wow. 

At least there are still trigger-happy tourists, I comforted myself. Though less exciting, it's still pretty cool peacing out for photo-ops. Oyster Boy wouldn't know what he missed out anyway?

So, muck we did for the first half of the dive - in the steely waters of Sentosa's Underwater World as general marine populace ignored us. Abdul was right, there are loads more fish in the 'hood. The moray eel looked happier too. We saw token leopard sharks graze past and two emo black-tips PMSing on the seafloor. I coaxed Oyster boy into petting the shark (don't think he did it), spent some minutes spider-manning myself to the viewing tunnel and took snaps of random stuff.

My father has been on sabbatical from family duties for quite a while now. The day he took off to contemplate life and stuff, I knighted myself de facto Dad.

A'right, a'right I lied. I wasn't that gallant to step up to the plate.

The role was kinda dumped on me like an anvil, aptly pulverizing all the fun I could've had in my young adult life. 

Truth be told, being Dad wasn't all that tough. Things only got prickly when I had to play both dad and mom to my two kids. For the past five years, I have been sheperding my wayward son of a baby brother and a sensitive yet theatrical adolescent daughter/ birth mother. 

My son-bro is a typical pseudo-gangster boy. An irresponsible lazy arse who gets into trouble with cops, crashes cars, bikes dangerously, lands himself in hospitals and steals my money. The sort who intentionally expels himself from ITE despite my darnest effort to keep him in school. The sort who inflicts heart-eating moments by having a policeman ring me in the middle of the day to report his hospitalization. The sort whom I don't know to scream at, hug or cry helplessly when I see his battered, bloodied face lying in a death-stenched ward, his swollen right hand cuffed to the bed rails. The sort who is remorseful enough to soften my will (making  me his personal ATM), yet bold enough to never attempt repayments. 


My daughter-mum, while more manageable, is a clingy 16 year-old. She stays over at my place every Friday without any regard for my dating health (or social life for that matter). Well, fortunately for her, I have none of both. When she's not exhausting me with her rhetorical emoting, she worries me by hanging out with stranger boys, drinking, ignoring my "WHERE ARE YOU?" texts and coming home at 2am. 


I am so tired.


Teenagers are devils I tell you.


In other news:

There comes a point in every relationship where the above pivotal question must be asked.

For Oyster Boy and I (more I, than him actually), this point sort of surfaced last night. 

We've settled into a nice rhythm where I'm cooking dinners and we're spending nights together. I really enjoy his company, in the most organic sense, because I am (horror of horrors) a closet housewife. Or I suppose in this case a closet friend-with-super-domestic-benefits. 

When you love playing house as much as I do, you'd understand why it's purely out of practicality I suggested he move in with me.

I know. Two weeks of dating and I popped the question. Not just that, I had to pop it the only way I know how: As-is. Earnestly. Spastically. 

Ceteris Paribus (we both live in lofts, are super clean, have white sheets, can work from anywhere), I argued it's sounder he stayed with me than the other way around because, well, I cook. I buy the groceries, I lug it back to base camp and I make the meals. I need a Sheabutter kitchen that's open 24/7 for mise-en-place and perfectly-timed dinners. 

"Tell me what you need and I'll get it" Oyster Boy rejected gently as he poked around my lovingly broth-wilted spinach.

"It's not about fancy kitchen toys", I philosophised. "It's about logistics... and please finish your spinach". 

"But if you cook here, you don't have to wash up!"

It was a valid point, made more compelling by the brand new Kitchen Aid mixer he bought just because I mentioned I liked it. The caveat was I can't bring it home. 

"Why can't I bring it home if it's mine?" 

"Because [insert distracting deflector]. And I can be noisy and work downstairs when you're sleeping here."

"I have a downstairs, too."

"I have doors."

And just like that, I lost. 


Kids, never underestimate the power of doors.