who nose

Job hunting in a tough market is a real mood killer; it can seriously mess with your self-esteem as you navigate the interview gauntlet. I waited anxiously for a callback from DA, and it felt like the longest week of my life, as if I were running a marathon in high heels.

My anxiety levels skyrocketed, leading to a rapid decline in appetite. I've been eating less but snacking more, developing an embarrassing craving for pork rolls - something I used to despise. My taste buds have gone rogue, and I've devoured countless Ferrero Rochers and Mamee noodles. At one point, I pondered how wrong it would be to die from sheer gluttony. After all, it is one of the seven deadly sins for a reason.

In my incoherent state, I devised a plan to sit at home, gorge on all the glorious food my heart desired, and slowly succumb to indulgence. Picture me sprawled on the most luxurious couch imaginable, living the ultimate couch potato fantasy. But fearing ridicule, I eventually dragged myself out of my pyjamas and abandoned this pathetic dream. Just then, reality called - literally. My phone rang with news of a second interview appointment with DA.

I met with the GM, a laid-back guy with a dry sense of humour and hat hair. Instead of a stuffy boardroom interview, he took me to a nearby café for a casual chat. Interviews are one of my strong suits, so I wasn't nervous. We had a comfortable conversation as I sipped my peach iced tea, while my potential boss assessed my ability to impress within an hour. Between discussions on Database Marketing and Opportunity Optimisation, he asked if I was Eurasian. I made him laugh by crediting his misperception to my dark eyeliner and inheriting my mother’s high-bridged nose.

God is truly gracious to me, blessing me with employment in such dire economic conditions. Who knows when the recession will end, other than God? It's comforting to know that His plan is perfect, even when we don't understand it yet...

jd, the wokstar

Perhaps it’s my Vietnamese upbringing that has convinced me that cooking for the home is part of a woman’s role. Now, feminists, please put your posters down. I’m not suggesting that every woman should cook. Personally, I’ve always imagined my husband coming home from work, excited for the dinner I’ve prepared for him. Our beautiful children would set the table, one playing the piano while the other gently plucks the violin strings.  

Fortunately, I’ve met a man who sees things this way too. Perhaps his fantasy doesn’t quite extend to the perfectly behaved, musically gifted offspring, but I know he appreciates a woman who enjoys cooking. The funny thing is, while I pictured myself becoming a wife who cooked, I was actually completely uninterested in cooking. The thought of clumsy me handling sharp knives and open flames was slightly terrifying. I had no business being in a kitchen and assumed I’d learn when the time came.

When I moved into my own place, the time finally came. I soon discovered that cooking was one of the most rewarding hobbies I’d ever picked up. Not only did it satisfy me creatively, but it also brought joy to my better half. Cooking for two is much more enjoyable (and economical) when there’s someone to share it with. The best part about cooking is seeing the happiness in his eyes as he tastes something I’ve made. I totally wok his world!

two point five

It's rare for Asian men to have much facial hair; they usually sport a patch of awkward strands - a pathetic excuse for a moustache. I'm not a fan of the mo; it just makes them look sleazy, so I avoid my male friends during Movember because I never know whether to slap them or laugh at them. Ruggedness is attractive, but it has to be a manly, five-o'clock-shadow kind of rugged, not a lazy-to-shave-even-though-I-don't-have-much-hair kind of rugged. 

RD is clean-cut and nicely shaven on all of our dates, but I like catching him unshaven when I come over unannounced. R definitely stands for rugged. I also like his chiselled jawline and the tickling of his five-o'clock shadow on my cheek as he jokingly pulls my face against his while I try to push it away because he's telling me he hasn't showered. I also like how he sniffs the top of my head when we're waiting at traffic lights. Stupidly, my heart flutters a little when I recall these moments.

case of the ex

After my tutoring session last night, my student’s grandmother shared a delightful anecdote from her past. We were talking about names when she told me that, during her pregnancy with her only child, her late husband insisted on naming the baby *Alex, regardless of gender. His reason? It was the name of his high school sweetheart. Being young and easygoing, she agreed, and their daughter was named Alex.

Looking back, she finds it all a bit strange. She chuckled and shook her head in disbelief as she told the story. “After 40 years,” she said, “all you can do is laugh.” I couldn’t help but joke, “Well, at least whenever you’re annoyed with your daughter, you’ve got an extra reason to frown at her name.”

Her story got me thinking about exes. Oddly enough, I seem to get along famously with my boyfriends’ former girlfriends. I suppose the ex and I usually have one thing in common: excellent taste in men (or at least one man). One of my close friends, in fact, is my high school boyfriend’s ex. I met TL after their breakup, because I was his friend before they dated. I ditched the boy but kept the friendship with the girl. As my relationship with him fizzled, our bond only grew stronger, especially once we found ourselves throwing darts at the same photo.

I’ve connected with most of the exes and had a few meaningful chats, though there’s usually a hint of awkwardness, a half-smile, a soft cough, a quiet nod to shared history. The one exception is TL. With her, there was no tension - just an easy, natural friendship.