What’s Up With The Whitening, Babeses?

On a par with learning the local language (ie. here in Sing, saying “lah” as often as poss), it is equally important for the expat specimen to engage deeply with the host country’s culture and daily life. When people accuse you of living in a bubble – and sooner, babeses, or later, babeses, they will – you must have ample evidence readily available to the tip of your tongue, establishing categorifically that the accuser is both utterly incorrect and a mahusiv loser. Photographic evidence is highly desirable (see pics below).

In furtherance of this, I have always made it my business to experience everyday Singaporean life, such as quarterly trips to Tekka Market, hanging out at hawker centres in Joo Chiat, and once I did a food shop at a vendor other than Paragon Market Place. I even take the MRT sometimes, in order to stay abreast of what regular folk are watching on their phones. This is how I discovered two hilario Singian YouTube sensations, Dee Kosh and Mr Brown. The latter seems to have gone quiet of late, quel dommage hashtag sadface.

So as part of my ongoing process of saying goodbye to this lovely country, I decided to take the MRT today to my appointment at Expat Dental (to commune with Lady B, of course; think I’ve mentioned they do Botox now – so discrete and handy). There I was on the platform at Somerset, totes minding my own thang – other than checking out other people’s phone screens – when my least favourite member of the Expaterati tapped me on the shoulder, saying, “Hi Emma-Jane, God can you believe this stuff??”

I turned around elegantly to see Mrs Doom & Gloom Expat Wifey gesturing heatedly towards a row of billboards. Said “stuff” was a series of ads for a moisturiser:

Whitening 1

 

Whitening 2

 
“Oh hiyee, how lovely to see you!”, I replied, polite to a fault at all times, as per my modus operandi.

“Um, no babes, cannot believe it, lah! As a Photoshop aficionado, that font is just ridic!! So dull! And that shading has been brightened at least seven times, I reckon”, says moi, taking a wild guess at what might be unbelievable about the ads.

“No, no, it’s not that! It’s the product, and how they’re choosing to sell it! Look! Look at that!!,” D & G rabbitted on, as if she was talking about something that actually mattered, “It’s a huge Western brand selling a product to Asians on the premise that white skin is more desirable than dark. Look at the bottle!!.. It says ‘healthy white’!”

Then the train appeared, and I realised with horror that D & G was going in the same direction as me.

Getting onto the train, I said, “Oh gosh, yes crikey, how funny is thaaaat?? Healthy white is so not how I’d describe the pasty peeps back in Blighty lol!! Did you know we’re probably going back? Well we probly are, and one of the biggies I am totes not looking forward to is losing my perma-tan. Argh, huh?? It’s a major problem because we’ll only go to hot places a few times a year, and the nightmare is, what happens in between?! I’ll be a pasty pasty too!! Hell, shear hell, the very worst kind of hell that anyone can endure and …” –

I had hoped that if I just kept on talking all the way to Novena I could circumnavigate the intrusion of her appallingly whiny voice, but then the inevitable occurred: I had to pause for breathe. Damn you, cruel respiration!

“What’s at least a little reassuring”, said D & G, pouncing hungrily on the silence, “is that a local charity has picked up on it – AWARE, do you know them? They do great work. But they really only mentioned it, so I don’t think they’ve taken it on as an initiative. It’s such a shame because I dread to think what the impact is on children and young people, when the message is that you’re not ok if your skin isn’t white, and” –

Now fully ventilated, I managed to interrupt her, in an effort to resume plan A of preventating her vocal interventions: “Oh I know, babes! I’m all over the body image issue. You’re probably familiar with my amazebobs campaign to have fakeness ratings put on media images. It is so worrying what that industry does to people’s self esteem, telling us that how we are isn’t good enough, but using totes faked up photos to prove it. Soooooo bad! Hashtag hate hate hate it!!! Oops well it’s almost my stop. It’s been awesome having this little chat-ski, but gotta go!!”

I swiftly stood up, hoping D & G wouldn’t do the assaultative kiss-kiss thing. Her cheekbones are like boulders! She should def go to Korea and get something done about that. No wonder her long-suffering hus took his attentions elsewhere, to a less violent visage. She stood up too though, and even now, hours later, my face feels like I‘ve been to Korea for a Gangnam Special. Ouchey.

As I dashed up the escalator, I worked hard to cleanse myself of the difficult journey, visualising that with every step I took I was putting the conversation behind me. That woman! The audacity of trying to lecture me, of all people, on self image. At least she didn’t make me late for my appointment with Lady B.

 

Me at a hawker centre:

Lovin the freshly steamed fish! Dress by Attaby: https://www.facebook.com/attabystyle

Lovin the freshly steamed fish! Dress by Attaby: https://www.facebook.com/attabystyle

 

Orange is SO the new black! You want this dress, get yourself down to the Attaby Pop Up Boutique 17 & 18 June. Click the pics for deets.

Orange is SO the new black! You want this dress, get yourself down to the Attaby Pop Up Boutique 17 & 18 June. Click the pics for deets.

And me at a supermarket that isn’t in a mall on Orchard Road:

Rockin the Carmen Miranda look

Rockin the Carmen Miranda look

 

Oui, je suis one classy oiseau

Lovely melons LOLOL. Oui, je suis one classy oiseau.

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Expat Wives = Swans

Because Milly’s birthday party last year at the casino on Sentosa was such an amazebobs success, I’ve been stressing my gorgeous head off for a way long time about Max’s bday, coming up next month. So the coolest thing has happened, and Seth is defo right about the universe being wise and all that.

Yesterday I went to a beauty workshop held by one of my BFFs here, about Guasha. Now, Guasha itself is incrediblé. It’s basically this little curved tool thing that costs $15, and you put an ocean of coconut oil on your face (or wherever – you can do derrières, arms, legs, the whole caboodle; if you can dream it, you can Guasha it). So you run the thing over your skin, paying particularness attention to wrinkles, should you be in the unfortunate position of possessing them, and by stimulating the lymph you literally rub out said wrinkle-age. The mentalistest thing is that…

Babeses, it bloody works!! 

Ridic, I know, and I wouldn’t believe it had I not done it. Totes truesome though. Insania.

Anyways, so at the Guasha thing I met some really awesome ladeees and I so felt the ladeee luuuuuv goin down. One of them was a horse whisperer who used to be an astronaut. How cool is that??

Another ladeee was something to do with yachts (all these expat wives with jobs!! If I knew we weren’t repatting, I would definitely get one). I’d heard there’s a lot of yacht stuff here, but as I’m an Orchard Roader at <3, I rarely feel the need to venture water-wise, unless I’m on one of my fabulous holidays. Froo Froo and I are crazy about the Tanjong Beach Club, but I like to stay close to the bar and the DJ so the actual water is more of a backdrop. Like The Truman Show.

Anyhoo, yacht chick made me think that we should totes have Max’s party on a yacht!!! That would just kill all the other parties at Polliwogs, Port of Lost Wonder, or at the condo pool. Expat wives can be SO competitive (like a few months back when there was this who-has-lived-in-more-countries jam-shackery), but I choose to rise above all of that by just being a mahusiv lot better. More creative. More expensive. More awesome. That way there’s no need to compete.

So I have to get busy planning. As if I didn’t already have nuff on my plate!! I know that you, dear readers, appreciate the lengths I go to in sharing my glamorous life with you, and that takes up a lot of my time. Don, au contraire, so doesn’t appreciate. He thinks I just swan around from brunch to pedi to Pilates to high tea to cocktails to dinner to activating my hot moves on the dance floor. He doesn’t seem to get that there’s a great deal going on under the surface. He doesn’t realise that I, like most expat wives, am a swan; elegantly gliding through choppy waters, whilst underneath I’m working my hot a** off just to stay afloat.

Here’s me working my hot a** off with my personal trainer, Eva. It’s surprising how stunning I can look during a workout.

 

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I’m So Hot This Week #sizzling!!

I am having a majorly mahusiv workout week so far, in preparation for my Fit For Fashion Season Two audition video (see below for a sneaky preevy, lucky dear readers!!). It’s only Thursday, and already I’ve notched up 40k on the treadmill (thank golly for Spotify), three sessions with my personal slave-driver Eva, and two, yes TWO, yoga classes c/o awesome Vikram. Ordinarily I only do one yoga class per week, on Tuesday evenings, but this week I found that I was progressing so well in my practice (it’s totes truesome that practice makes perfect because in my case it v much has), that I decided to go to the Wednesday class as well. I didn’t even know there was a Weds class! Usually I block off Weds mornings for champagne brunch with my Expaterati girlies, but Seth told me Vikram does a sesh at 11AM which he goes to, and he said I should go too, so I was like, “Hells-to-the-yeah, babes, I’m all over it!”

It was really great to hook up with Seth again, having had our nice chats at the ANZA ball last Saturday. After the class on Tues we went for a quick soya chai. We were talking about the many amazebobs physical, mental and spiritual outcomes of doing a whole bunch of down-dogs every day, and that’s when he told me about the Wednesday class. Rarely does one meet a gentleman in Singapore who is free during the day for yogi’ing AND has an awesome hairdo. A most unusual combination. I was just about to enquire as to this phenomenation when I got a text from Max: “Mummy, you said you were doing bedtime stories tonight. Milly is crying, but I’m fine.”

Argh, I’d completely forgotten that I told the irritants I would be back for bedtime. Being the wonderfully committed mother that I am, I sacrificed my enjoyment of the conversation with Seth and cantered home tout de suite. Hashtag annoying, but such is life as the default parent. If only I had a second helper, perhaps she could take on my burdensome role as default parent.

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Haven’t quite got there yet…

Then yesterday I went to the Weds yoga class and, yet again, I outdid myself in terms of both yogic perfection and simultaneous hotness. Seth suggested lunch afterwards, so we cabbed it to Robertson Quay and went to Super Loco. That place is HONESTLY the bestest Mexican restaurant outside Mexico, and I don’t say that lightly. I spent my gap year in el Distrito Federal, and have partaken of many many Mexican joints from Lexington to London to Lahore. So trust me, babeses, I totes know wtf I’m talking about. And no, the Super Loco chaps are not paying me for my glowing endorsement. (Why is no one paying me for glowing endorsements?! PS Café still haven’t named a dish after me!! “Eggspat EJ”… Come on, now!! What’s the prob here??!)

Over our huevos rancheros, I finally had the opp to ask Seth what he does for a living, and why he has time for yoga and lunch on a Weds daytime. So you won’t believe this, peeps, but Seth is actually and totally the original founder of the global chain Yo Yeah Yoga!!! Can you believe that??? OMG, Yo Yeah Yoga is like the benchmark for yogis everywhere in the Western World (ie everywhere), and here I am, elegantly spilling salsa on my top in the presence of its founder!! Too much embarrassing!!!! I started hyperventilating, so I excused myself to the little girls’ room to re-apply my lippy and to make sure I looked AHAP (as hot as possible).

It is an important principle of mine not to be dazzled by wealth, power or fame, and I thusly therefore pulled myself together, and returned to the table.

“Ok”, I said, super-nonchalantly, “But that still doesn’t explain why you have so much spare time. Usually it’s only expat wives who get to do what they want, not the dudes. You’re totes freaking me out, babes, ya know??”

“Argh, sorry babes, I totes didn’t mean to freak you out. That’s the very last thing I wanted to do!! It’s cool. It’s really no big deal. I started something, it got really big, I sold it, and now here I am. I’m back to doing yoga, like I always wanted to do, with the most awesome yogi in the world who just happens to be in Singapore.”

I tried to contain myself, gracefully mopping up the eggs/drool mélange, but couldn’t help exclaiming, “So you’re Seth Lickerberg??! Yo Yeah Yoga is your company?? But that’s like huge! That’s like in every country that matters!! OMG I’m brunching a la Mexicana with SETH LICKERBERG!!!!!”

I’m not sure what happened next because my oxygen levels dipped through excitation (my portable fitness device told me so), but apparently I began taking selfies of us both and posting them on Facebook, Instagram and Twitter, until Seth grabbed my hand and said, “No, EJ. This stuff, it’s really nothing. It doesn’t matter. I just enjoy your company. So please, chill, babes. Can we get back to the present – be right here right now, mindful of the joy in each new moment? I’d like that.”

“I’d like that too”, I said, with my beautiful, haunting Angelina Jolie smile (goodbye Kate Mid, you’re not sexy enough for my smile).

“Ok, well although you’re like a global icon, babes”, I went on, not wanting him to feel uncomfortable, “It really makes no differencio to me who you are or what you’ve done. I just totes heart that sexy snort you do when you laugh… Holy argh-ness, did I say that out loud??!”

“Yes, you did”, he said, with his signature sexy snort, “And that’s ok. It’s all good. Nothing is a coincidence, you know? We’re sitting here for a reason. The universe has its own wisdom. We just trust it, right?”

I can’t say for sure whether he touched my hand or I touched his. It just sort of happened.

But then I had to go. I had a shoot scheduled for my audition vid for Fit For Fashion. It’s not easy being a celebrité blogger. I make it look easy, but it’s so not. So voila babeses, see below!! To audition, click here. I cannot wait to meet those Fitness First gym gods. If anyone can make me even more ravishing and physically powerful, it’s them.

Facebook Drama!!

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Babeses, a shocking thing has occurred. The week before last I posted a few gorgeous photos of myself on my awesome Facebook page, and one of my “likers” made some unkind, and frankly totes untrue, comments about my physique. So I hastily took steps to remedy the situation and expelled the commentator from my awesome page. I did this in my quest for justice, not at all out of desires for revenge. I’m a lot like Ghandi in that respect. An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind, and stuff. The intention behind my endeavours is always benevolent and giving, with no expectation of getting anything back. My aim is to generously share my fabulous life, and offer v wise advice from my expert expat perspective. I have never asked for anything in return for what is effectively voluntary service to the Expaterati of Singapore and beyond.

So. Imagine my horror when the expelled commentator (let’s call her Beyoncé – not her real name, but she obv thinks she’s Queen Bee) took it upon herself to set up her own Facebook page, and recruited my haters in retaliation for her expulsion. Yes babeses, I have haters : D! You know you’ve made it when you have haters!!

Her page, “The Most Awesome Expat Page in Singapore”, has grown at an astounding rate, which just goes to show how much I’ve made it if I have that many haters! Go me!! I know this is thusly therefore the case because I have read Guy Kawasaki and Peg Fitzpatrick’s The Art of Social Media.

Now that’s all well and good, because I respect everyone’s right to have and express different/ wrong opinions, and I am not one to belittle the work of others. What I take issue with is the content of her ridic page. Beyoncé basically uses everything I post, and either copies it or shares it like it’s her own (she has blatantly stolen my Mannequin Shenanigans concept), OR, and this is the kicker, she screenshots my material to her page, and attempts to make fun of me!! Of me!!! Mega-LOLs. Or not… She has even started a blog that parodies mine, and every time I publish a new post, she writes her own post about my post!! What now, now?! Hashtag too much time on her hands!, am I right, dear readers??

I, au contraire, have v limited time because I am busy living my glamorous life rather than mocking the lives of others. That’s just not my modus operandi.

As a quick update on said glamorous life, it looks like we are repatting, but still dunno, and am totes not sure how I feel about this. Can life be as glamorous in London? I don’t recall…

Don is also v busy, travelling a lot, and returning home to the irritants like a hero from the battlefields, with gifts and promises of staying up late, and of trips to Universal Studios.

Max’s Minecraft addiction continues apace, and he now does pretty much nothing else. Which is fine because it means we don’t have to worry about keeping him occupied. I heard this fascinating radio prog about kids and Minecraft (apparently it’s a thing in the UK too! Who knew?!), and that’s basically what it concluded too, I think: that if you just give the irritants free-reign with the game, we parents no longer have to suffer the burdensome responsibility of entertaining our children. So that’s great.

Neither Max nor Mills are now kicking Froo Froo dog. It’s partly because of the amazebobs dog therapy she had, and partly because the Froofster and the Millster are currently engaged with their respective modeling careers. High self-esteem is running rampant in our house these days! Froo Froo is doing some fantastic work with Oh My Beagle and Milly decided she wanted to get her career started too, given that she is halfway to five years’ old, and I completely support that. If I had started earlier, I would no doubt have been a super model, and I would’ve saved the photo editors a ton of time because I don’t need a lot of Photoshopping to look hot (as even Beyoncé knows, if she’s honest).

Angel, my step-daughter house-guest, has also been approached to model, but she says she wants to get on in her “own way”. Something about having her own plans?? To do with a thing called YouNow..? #baffed again. Oh well, she seems happy enough, so I keep out of her way. Her mother, Chantelle, is not making much progress it would seem. She still can’t accept the fact that my father has replaced her with a nice old dear in the home, to whom he thinks he has been married for decades. The old dear is a way better match, but Miss Chantilly just doesn’t get it. She’s hanging desperately onto the past as if that would make it come back. Never happens, babeses, am I right? Move on!! That’s my excellent advice.

The helper is acting a bit strangely, and her underwear on the washing line is getting racier by the day. I keep out of that too though. It’s not like she’s my responsibility or anything.

And me, I’m just doing my Thang, having beautiful times, staying hot, being a caring mother and wife, brunching, lunching, dinnering and partying with my Expaterati gangs. Next week I have a modelling job (yes, me!!), and I’m going to the ANZA ball. It’s all go! I’m also super-excited about the elections. Hopefully those nice Conservatives will get in again. I just loved what they did with our income tax rate. Maybe they’ll lower it even more, once they’re in!! And after a few fab years with them, I reckon Boris is a dead cert to be PM in the not too distant. Cannot wait for that! He really is a man of the people. Well, my people anyway.

Beginner’s Guide to Brix @Hyatt @Scott’s @Singapore

brix_logoI have been looking forward to going to Brix for a long time, since hearing what a yo-yeah! it is, and last night I finally got around to it. Ladees, if you haven’t heard of it, ask your husbands. They will know it, even if they’ve only been to Singapore “on business”. It’s a club in the basement of the Hyatt Hotel, and I’m told that it’s a lot like its counterpart in Seoul, JJ’s, for any Seoulite dear readers. (Aneyo haseyo! I see you on my stats page!!)

Maybe it’s a Hyatt thing, and not just Seoul and Singas. Let me know if you have further info on this, from other global Hyatt locations.

What’s awesome about Brix is that the music is great for dancing, and everyone there is super duper friendly. I’d heard that was the case, so I wasn’t surprised when men of all ages, nationalities, and creeds said hello, and wanted to chat. How lovely : ). I spose I wouldn’t have been surprised anyway, because I have a mahusiv glow about me this week, and I looked incrediblé hot in my faux leather black boustier mini-dress with zips up either side. Flo told me I should wear that (she has been to Brix tons of times so she knows) and she was absolutely spot on. I fitted right in.

I noticed that there were a whole bunch of single women there, and they were super duper friendly too. It was just like being back at my old university nightclub in the 90’s, except here in Singapore, of course, no illicit substances. No thank you very muchly!! And that made the friendliness even nicer because it must’ve been genuine, without all the synthetic stuff.

Given the precedence of its reputation, I can well understand that some ladees of my calibre might feel reluctant to visit said venue, but I am here to tell you now and tell you straight: Ladees! Brix is a fab night out.

So in order to facilitate your enjoyment, here is a five-part 101 guide:

 

1. What to Wear

According to Flo, and I have to agree based on experience, it is a good plan to dress as hotly as you can. In order to blend in, my advice to sistas is small tight clothes, killer heels, a huge smile and generous eye contact. You’ll meet some really nice chaps.

For the men, I dunno really. It didn’t seem to matter how shabster the men looked. There were women fawning all over them regardless of their appearance. Hashtag funny, that.

 

2. Getting In
Unless you are staying at the hotel or you’re an oligarch (and argh, how uncool are oligarchs!!? So 2008), you will have to wait in a queue (Americans: a line), which will make you feel like you are back at school. While you’re in this queue/ line, you will be entertained by a string of single ladies who saunter back and forth, looking friendly. So sweet. What I found fascinating about these women was that, while I myself make every effort to avoid the VPL, they apparently uniformly embraced visibility of the panties through their garments, regardless of quite lumpy outcomes. Extraordinaire! It was as if they had deliberately purchased dresses two sizes too small. Lol. Now, why on earth would anyone do that?? Maybe they have really crappy personal shoppers.

To go in, you pay $30, and for that you get one free drink. Not too shabby!

 

3. The Lay of the Land

The layout is essentially a big square room with impressively low ceilings. The bar is in the middle, and there are tables and stools surrounding the bar, and more comfortable seated areas at the edges of the space. Beyond the bar, diagonally opposite the entrance, is the dance floor – an intimate area, completely dark unless the band is playing in the tiny cave-like stage at the far corner. It’s probably a lot like where the Beatles used to play in Liverpool when they were starting out.

 

4. Exploration

If you are a woman, I advise you to explore the powder room before you need to. It is full of women in various states of undress who will either eye you up suspiciously, or spontaneously give you a massage in intimate areas. At first I thought it was weird, but the gals were so nice about it and I’d had a few drinks, so I was like, “Ok babes, if that’s what floats yer boat!!”

Afterwards, I was a tad taken aback when my two friendly masseuses followed me out of the loo and suggested I could pay them straight away or Don and I could go “upstairs” with them. What now, now?? I wasn’t sure what to do so I gave Don the lowdown about what had gone down in the powder room, and he handed each of those nice women $50. I still don’t know what that was about.

If you are a smoker who would like to kick the vile habit, the Brix smoking dungeon is the way ahead. Make your way into the glassed-off room to the rear left of the entrance. Therein you will find such a high concentration of carbon monoxide and of men pawing ladies’ lower regions that you are likely to never want to smoke again due to what you have inhaled and witnessed.

 

5. Have an Awesome Time!

This is the easy part. Make you way to the dance floor and let loose. Should you discover, upon returning to your table, that your husbands are surrounded by single ladies, your men will most probably make a great show of their connection with you, suddenly demonstrating unsurpassed levels of interest in your bodily self. And if that’s not a nice way to end an evening with your one and only hus, I don’t know what is.

 

So I hereby give Brix @Hyatt @Scott’s Road @Singapore five EJ stars of fabulousness. Boom!

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Free Anti-Ageing Techniques, For Expats and Non-Expats

I believe I may have mentioned once or twice, that expat wives can be very competitive. Cousin Clara says it’s about, “establishing a hierarchy in a mixed environment, wherein cultural norms such as class system are less clear-cut than among static populations”; but I think it’s more like Froo Froo at Tanjong Beach Club. She does that sniffing thing all dogs do. I won’t degrade her by going into details, but I think you know what I mean.

Anyhoo, today I was lunching with my Expaterati girlies – some friendses and some not so much – and a discussion emerged about personal anti-ageing preferences in the facial region. My totes babesome BFF Flo has had a fair old whack of interventions: regular meet-ups with Lady B, a touch of collagen, a few teensy implants, a little eye-lift, and some other minor bits and bobs. She is gorgeous. Trust me. Hot as.

Au contraire, Doom and Gloom Expat Wifey (why does she still get invited to our lunches??) shuns all beauty enhancements, and instead chooses the Abandon All Hope approach to physical signs of ageing.

As loyal readers will know, I espouse the Ladeee Luuuuuv view, that we ladies should be free to decide what, when, why and how we do whatevs we want with our appearance, as long as we look and feel our utmost hottest at all timeses. And we should totes support each other in those decisions, rather than put sistas down.

Me and the gals were therefore thusly being super supportive when we said to D & G that maybe she should consider doing something about her face; at least opting for waterproof mascara, given the realities of this climate (she seriously looks like an owl and I’m seriously not joking TBH). I feel mahusively sorry for her because I secretly know that her hus is heavily involved with his male PA (I’ve only told six other people, including Flo), so we were doing her a favour by trying to force her to make an effort. For her own sake, you know?! It’s what her Guardian Angel would have wanted.

In a way, we were just being the earthly embodiment of her Guardian Angel. At the time, I even formulated an intention to chant for her in my meditation space with the Buddha water feature and a nice Nag Champa burn, offering up these words: May the Universe throw forth eternal blessings to make Mrs Doom & Gloom look a lot better so that she can be a bit hot, namasté.

So I was serioso horrificated when D & G said to Flo, “I completely respect what you’ve done to your face, and your right to choose that. But I choose not to do those things, so you should respect my right not to. And no offence, but you don’t look your age, or anyone’s age, you just look like someone who has had all kinds of stuff done to your face. You basically look like everyone else who has Botoxed, collagened, and whatever elsed their faces beyond recognition. I don’t even know what you really look like!! Do you?!”

Weeeeellll, that was a step too far, babeses.

I was shocked (Flo was too, though you’d have to know her deep down to see it, due to the lack of facial cues), but I remained sufficiently in retention of my verbal and empathic skills to intervene.

“Hon”, I said, with my sweetest Kate Middleton smile, “Just because you choose to pay zero attention to your appearance, despite the fact that you’re probly pushing 49, and you’ve obviously had way too much sun on your face during your youth, it’s really quite unfair to judge others, ya get me? Partic when they look way hotter than you, and their husband isn’t screwing his dude personal assistant”…

Oopsy!! It just came out! Oh dear. All cool though because almost everyone there (except D & G herself) knew about it anyway. So that was fine.

D & G stared at me, with the weirdest look. It was like a combination of, “I hate you and I want you dead”, and “OMG, babes, thanks so much for letting me know!”

More the latter, I felt, so when she stood up to leave, it seemed right for me to give her a great big hug. People need warmth and intense suffocating closeness after hearing difficult news. I know that because of my six-month counselling training.

After my lovely hug, she left, and I was happy for two reasons: 1. I felt secure in the knowledge that I had done all I could to boost her self-esteem. And B) I wanted to get back to my pastrami Reuben – my only carb and mayo shots this week. No way I’m not going to enjoy that!

Once she was gone, we normal happy ladies had a nice chat about how we manage to look so young. I shared with them two of my amazing anti-ageing gems that are 100% free. Because I am v generous, I will share them with you too, dear readers.

The first one is to think of a beautiful female celebrity who’s at least ten years older than you. Fully appreciate that a ton of work and cash has gone into how she looks. And know that she will always be SO VERY MUCH older than you.

And that’s it! It’s basically my reformulation of Einstein’s theory of relativity, applied to ageing. You’re welcome!

My other genius tip is to say that you’re older than you are. For centuries, women have been making the ridic error of claiming to be younger than they are. Whyee?? If you say you’re younger, people are more likely to be looking at you, thinking, “Yowzer, she looks rough!”. Say you’re five or ten years older though, and they’ll be thinking totes the opposite, begging you to reveal the secrets of your amazebobs youthfulnessification. A great thing about this technique is that after you’ve said it a few times, you will start to partly believe it, so you can fully embrace the positive feedback you receive.

Then, unless you develop an as yet unclassified mental health disorder of believing your own age lie, you’ll also partly still not believe it, which will remind that you’re really 35 not 45 (or 50 not 60, 60 not 70, you get the pic). That’ll keep you totes aware of how young you actually are, in contrastation with the age you’ll be a decade from now.

All my girlies agreed that both ideas are incredibly wise. So it’s fair to say that this proves beyond reasonable doubt that if you follow these strategies, along with my previously provided beauty advice and my fashion go-tos, you can be as hot as me for many years to come. If only D & G read my blog. It could save her marriage. There’s just no helping some people. Shame.

 

Froo Froo in her dokini at Tanjong Beach Club. Even the dog is hotter than Mrs Doom & Gloom.

Froo Froo in her dokini at Tanjong Beach Club. Even the dog is hotter than Mrs Doom & Gloom.

 

EJ’s Ultimate Expat Wife Beauty & Wellbeing Guide

This probably doesn’t happen to you, but I constantly get people stopping me in the street, saying, “EJ babes, you’re such a hot expat wife. How do you do it?”

And I’m like, “Well, how long do you have, sweets?”

Weirdly, they rarely have long enough, and when they do, I’m getting a bit tired of repeating myself. So I’ve had the most amazebobs idea to write a post with the deets and just refer peeps in this direction when they ask. Genius, right?? I know!

Alora, here are my head-to-toe beauty and holistic wellbeing tips for expat wives (ladies who aren’t members of the Expaterati are welcome to have a go at following, but I make no guarantees for those parties).

Top Hot Bits

How I am so Hot on Top

How I am so Hot on Top

As a natural redhead, I just need a little gentle colour-enhancement once every six weeks. At the same time, I have a keratin treatment to counter the tropical climate. Shinee and straightee, likeeee : )

Underneath my lovely hair is my brain, which I keep in balance through rigorous daily meditation and chanting, and staying up to date with all the news on the expat wives Facebook groups. Gotta keep those smarts in gear, or you’ll turn into the very worst kind of vegetable. A potato, or other starchy carb.

I have regular facials, some of the botulistic variety. You have to start young or you’ll never catch up.

I see my neck and décolletage girl once a month for neck yoga-lates, followed by acupuncture in the same region. She tops it all off with a divine Korean placenta product. It features a distinct odeur de kimchi, but the texture is like the finest Cornish clotted cream, and it really works. Those Koreans. They know a thing or two about placentas.

Main Body Area Hotness

For the main body area, I’ll need to tell you about my dietary intake and my exercise regime, some of which loyal readers will already be familiar with.

Diet
Lemon water upon rising.
Green smoothie for breakfast, following the strict 60/40 rule of greens to fruit. (If I get it wrong, I can be bilious for days afterwards, so be careful, FOR GOD’S SAKE, YOU MARK MY WORDS.)
Lean protein and steamed veg for lunch and dinner, with a smattering of wheat-free and starch-free carb. Abso no carbs after 5PM.
The only exceptions I make to my strict diet are at restaurants and parties, and during weekends.
Some alcohol consumption, but no more than the average expat wife.

Exercise
Private Pilates sessions three times a week.
Lots of treadie runs; and daily push-ups to keep the batwings at bay.
Yoga with awesome Vikram at the Hyatt, and this other place which is sh**, so that I can fully appreciate Vikram’s awesomeness.
Yoga-Zumba-lates once a week, just to mix it up a bit.
[I’m thinking of trying naked yoga, but I’m not going on my own, so if you’re up for it, let me know.]

Please note: I have had no surgery whatsoever – it’s all pure dedication to the cause. Take that, you petite Asian girlies, with your fake noses and boobses!

So that explains why I am so buff. Now back to my beauty tips…

I have regular IPL and waxing for my lady locks, in accordance with Don’s exacting specifications. Since discovering topical anaesthetic cream, it’s a breeze. That’s one of my all-time top tips! And apply liberally!!

Last, but not leastly, the obvious: gel mani-pedis whenever necessary, with seasonal nail art. Bunnies at Easter. Mini fascinators on each toe for the Melbourne Cup. That kind of thing. This, ladies, is because it’s the details that count, am I right? Every self-respecting expat wife knows that.

I will have to fill you in on my day-to-day at home beauty routine another time. I’m dashing off to meet Jenny for pan-seared foie gras, truffle fries with aïoli, and a few bubbles. I spent two hours on the treadie in preparation, so I am #goodtogo!

It is SO great to be back in Singapore. On hol, I got heartily sick of seeing badly-dressed Soviets (it’s still ok to call them that, lah, ya?), and North Asians covered up on the beach, in scorching heat, pretending to be whities. Come on, peeps! Just be Asian, wouldyaplease??

What mega gets to me is the relentless stream of selfies, and posed beachside shots! The narcissism, self-satisfaction, and complete lack of irony is quite simply coma-inducing. Totes, and I really mean that.


If you’re still reading, I need to make sure you know about the shocking thing that happened yesterday! I have only just come out of hiding – lured out by the thought of foie gras and bubbles. Less than that, and I would still be in there.

Bikini Party, Babeses!

Hotness

O
Em
GEE, peeps!
I had the MOST amazebobs Thursday, when I went to this seminaked competition at a totes coolio groovalicious clothes shop on Orchard Road. Guess who won, babeses… Yes, moi!!! YAY!!!!!!!!

99 other people also won, but given that there are 5.47 million bods in Singapore who are perfectly capable of wearing bikinis, I think I can safely say: NAILED IT!!!

Hells-ya, I did!!

It wasn’t that easy, actually. I had to get up at ridic o’clock to arrive by 7 AM (I’m only a five minute walk away, but I had to straighten and pouffe my hair.) I chatted to lovelies in the queue, made some new besties (super fun buff gay guys, and finally, more local friendsies!!), and suddenly it was time for the shop doors to open. Then we had to run round in our tinies, choosing clothes. The choosing bit was almost as tricky as getting up before 9 AM! Their clothes are so me, and I looked incrediblé hot in literally everything I tried on. Literally. Totes literalmenté.

New local gal pal

New local gal pal

Anyhoo, I eventually chose something fab, and fought my way through the paps clamouring for my attention (maybe I should become a celebrity instead of a child psychologist, writer, historian and life coach), to the exit. One of my new gay BFFs, CJ, was standing outside looking awesome, and he said, “Like, let’s grab some lunch, bitch!”, and I said, “Like, totes let’s, bitch!”

So, like, we did! And his besties came too. We went to PS Café Ann Siang Hill which is my new fave hangout. CJ is hilarious! I had the best time, just chatting, chilling, and drinking rosé and berries sangria. Then I checked my ludicrously expensive watch – I was just admiring how it glints so nicely in certain light, not looking at the time – and saw it was 6 PM. OOOPSY. I had told the help I’d be home by midday.

While I was having sucho mucho fun times, Mummy’s flight landed. I think around 9.30. Annoying timing, Mutha! I did tell her to change it because Singapore Air is never late, but she said she didn’t want to “go to all that bother”. (Selfish.)

It wasn’t a major inconvenience though because the helper got the bus to Changi, with a sweet sign the children made: “GLAMMY GAMMY” in big letters, so that Mummy would recognise her.

Once I realised how late it was, I gave my new GBFF lots of air kisses and dashed off home. I tried to think of a good excuse for my absence, but then I thought WHAT?? I’m not a kid anymore! Just because Mummy flew 5,000 miles to see me, it doesn’t mean I need to curtail my sosh activities from a prior engagement. Plus CJ knows TV people, so that’s my career we’re talking about.

Besides she’s really coming to see the kids, and they were home before I was, so no prob.

I walked into the house, expecting to find jet-lagged Mummy reclining on a chaise longue in the downstairs front living room, but instead I was greeted by the sound of raucous laughter from the upstairs rear living room. From Mummy, and, get this, the help!! What now, now?!

So, there was my mother with her G & T and chamomile tea chaser, Max playing Minecraft, and Mills asleep on the Froofster (who looked too traumatised to move), while the helper laughed uncontrollably at whatever stupid thing Mummy had just said. Thankfully, I was so overjoyed to see Mummy after such a long time that I was able to ignore the gigantic boundary transgression which was happening under my own roof. I thought she understood about not fraternising with the help!! She had thousands of staff in her expat days.

The helper disappeared as soon as I arrived, looking embarrassed, and off she went to wash the car and clean the shoes. Too right!

I had a lovely catch-up with Mummy, hearing about her aqua aerobics gang and her online scrabble shenanigans. Mega-LOLs. While we were trying to talk, Max and Milly kept interrupting, showing her their artwork and their Mandarin homework. Egotistical little irritants!!

I’m just happy that I’ve signed them up for an awesome speech and drama holiday camp during part of the break, so that they won’t completely monopolise Mummy’s limited time here. My Harvard friend who is some know-it-all about childhood development and stuff recommended it. She says it’s the best way for kids to learn, and this place is fab. Whatevs, sweets. If they’ll take the irrits off my hands for a few days, let’s do this thang, babeses.

IMG_3552

P.S. (not the café lol) As you know, I’m never one to blow my own trumpet. I just wanted to let you know that I made the national paper here. I’m a page three girl! Go me!!!

From yesterday's The New Paper : )

From yesterday’s The New Paper : )

More hotness

More hotness

Hanging With My Expaterati Crew on an Average Sunday Avo

Considering that weekends are the worst time of the week for an expat wifey, this one hasn’t been too shabby.

I got a good chunk of time at the gym and by the pool yesterday, because Don took our spoilt little people to see Penguins of Madagascar at the Platinum Suites. Unfortunately, he forgot to take jumpers for them, to counter the fierce A/C, so even with the duvets, Milly got frostbite in one of her toes (which has curtailed her kicking of Froo Froo dog, so it’s not all bad), and Max came home with a nasty runny nose. UGH. I cannot stand snotty children. That was one of my reasons for wanting to exchange London for Singapore’s climate: so many snotsville children. Crouch End is positively awash with kiddie nose juice.

One problem with this climate though is the sweating. I don’t do it myself, of course, but lots of people do, most notably FMAWG*. Their petite Asian girlies don’t seem to mind, which is v odd because:

1. They don’t sweat themselves. Even in my Bikram class (that’s hot yoga, to my dear non-yogi readers).
2. Asian blokies also don’t do it.

So, I am serioso at a loss because why would you want to cross over to the FMAWG team, when your own team doesn’t do the disgusting sweating? Wait. Oh yes, silly me… KA-CHING!!! Haha, what was I thinking : )?!

Anyhoo, so in the evening we left Max and Mills with the help, dashing quickly out the door amidst sounds of hysterical crying from Milly about her toe, and sneezing from Max. Crikey-O-Riley, it was good to get out!! We went to Din Tai Fung for dinner – my current fave food go-to. I think I’m addicted to dumplings!! I can’t get enough of them (hence the extra gym time, babeses). I might need to spend a week or two at a detox farm in the Philippines next year, to de-dumpling myself!

In the last two weeks, I’ve been to every branch on the island at least once. I was a bit bummed at the Sentosa one though. They charge for water! Bit of a low blow, given that Singapore has such amazebobs tap water.

Then yesterday after Max’s golf and Milly’s ballet (golly, it was an uphill struggle forcing her into her point shoes with that frostbitten toe!), we went to the Tanjong Beach Club with our Expaterati Crew. Every expat should have a crew to hang out with, preferably several different ones, but one really solid one will do. We rocked up early enough for the family slot, and then when the pool closed to kids (3PM), our respective helpers arrived in cabs to schlep the irritants back home. We don’t always ask the help to work on Sundays, but this was an exception and she was handsomely rewarded, so she was more than happy to forfeit her day off. Thank phewy, as well, because after swimming for hours, Max’s cold was even worse. More snot!

Once they were gone, we hot mammas changed into our raunchiest cut-up swimsuits lah, switched from diet coke to margaritas, and got our Ibiza on!! Ya, baby! That’s how we roll at the T Beach Clurb on an otherwise average Sunday avo! Suck that up, rainy Londrés!!

Don left to get ready for his trip tomoz, and Liz had to go too because she ate some dodgy pepper crab last night, but otherwise the crew was out in full force (except Michelle and Will… WTF is up with them?). Take that, you volleyball-playing twenty-something posers! What we lack in skin tone, we make up for with our vast experience of long term hotness, and our amazebobs dance moves. You can’t get those 90’s moves vicariously. You had to be there!!

The more margaritas I had, the better I looked, and my groove got more and more smokin’.

So, I got home around 11 tonight, and opened a Veuve Click for a bit of a catch-up on Facebook. I can do that kinda thing because I’m off-duty tomorrow morning. Nothing until pilates and a late lunch date. One of my girlies had posted this super coolio thing that’s happening this week:

FullSizeRender

I’m totes thinking I should go, having looked so great today. I could win that thing, right??

 

 

 

* FMAWG: Fat Middle-Aged White Guys (but my discussion on this topic includes the non-fat ones too)