yoga

Expat Marriages Suck, Part Three

/ Emma-Jane Austen-Jones / 5 Comments

or Phoenix From The Flame

In my confusion, this evening I at least managed to drag myself to yoga, the class that Seth goes to. (I think it might fit in with my schedule after all.) Whilst doing the Warrior Pose, I started thinking about all the horror and my arms began to shake and sink towards the floor. But then I felt strength, like a bolt of lightening, rising up from my feet, up through my shapely legs, and hips, and into my arms, until my whole body was glowing from the inside out. Vikram looked briefly alarmed, and asked if I was ok. Seth noticed too, of course, giving me a tiny gentle nod.

When the rest of the class moved on to the next pose, I said to Vikram that I’d like to stay in Warrior a while longer. By this point, the glow had risen to my head as well, and there it was: I found my missing thinking cap. And it was no meagre, flimsy thing. It was a crown of shimmering flames, calcinating my pain into ashes of realisation.

I knew then that I have to find a lawyer. I will ask the wise ladies on the Real Singapore Expat Wives Facebook group, and the Flying Solo group. The problem is the money as it’s not easy for me to get large sums under the radar from our joint account, but my crown offered immediate reassurance, telling me to sell whatever I can. That dampened my mood a little. It’ll be horrendous to say goodbye to my handbags and watches. Needs must, though. Needs must.

I got home tonight and am having some Veuve Click on the roof terrace. I’m fighting off the desire to Whatsapp Clara, but fight, I must. Given her obvious nefarious intent and shameful betrayal of my trust, she would of course tell Don that I know. I can’t let that happen before I have a plan in place. I refuse to give her the satisfaction of being an accessory to my assassination.

 
 

You are my cloak against the elements, dear babeses

You are my cloak against the elements, dear babeses

I’m So Hot This Week #sizzling!!

/ Emma-Jane Austen-Jones / 15 Comments

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.

Whirlwind Expat Weekend of Hotness and Roof Terrace Yoga

/ Emma-Jane Austen-Jones / 2 Comments

What a whirlwind weekend, babeses! [Apart from yesterday when I needed to get some rest. I’d paid the help to help on her day off because Don left early for NY, and I deserved a day off myself after all the hard graft of fun-ness. So I focussed on recovering my strength for the week ahead.]

The Fashion Week party on Friday night was awesome. Apparently last year Audi sponsored the whole dang thing, but this year it was left to individual brands to come forward so I think it’s awesome that H&M, out of the goodness of their Scandinavian hearts, donated their main shop on Orchard Road to the great cause. The ground floor was transformed into a nightclub, with DJs and a dance floor and a bar. On the other floors there was all kinds of fun stuff to do, so me and my girlies totes rocked the joint. I went with my friends from Oh My Beagle Couture who make gorgeous dokinis and other glam clothing items for trendy doggies. I’m their best customer! There is no dog trendier than my little Froo Froo (well, maybe that dog I did my amazebobs expat stylee rap about, but her momma was too rude, so the hound loses a bajillion trendy points for that).

The highlight of the evening was this celeb dude from Taiwan spinning the decks. The crowd went crazy. They loved the guy! What I loved about him was that he was mainly playing tracks from the Spotify Fun Workout playlist, so of course I knew all the songs from the hours I spend elegantly pounding the treadmill, and could really get my moves activated in full techno-colour glory.

https://instagram.com/p/2tWklfC8Cs/

 
 

I also met a lady who reckoned that her hair was naturally red and mine wasn’t. What now, now?? The photos are on my Facebook page, so I’ll let you decide, dear readers.

On Saturday Don and I took the irritants to the Botanical Gardens, the aquarium, the Science Museum, and Universal Studios. Don wanted to pack in as many good dad treats as poss before escaping to the U.S. I had to leave early for my salon appointment in prep for the ANZA Singapore Orchid Ball (it’s really unfair that men just have to shower, shave and chuck on a suit! No wonder there’s all this gender inequality in the world), so I only really made it to the first part of the day. I had to go when we got to the jelly fish. Which was fine because I find jelly fish truly sick-making. Particularly the ones that look like they’re pooping bits of their tentacles all over each other. Ugh. Humans would never do stuff like that.

Don and I met back at home, and went together to the ball, though we didn’t see much of each other once we were there. We’re just both so busy with our own thing, and I believe it’s important for spouses not to be constantly in each other’s pockets. Liz was hanging around like a bad whorey smell – the smell that Lycra gets in Singapore, yes you know what I’m saying. In fact, whenever I saw Don she was there, but I’m totes cool with it because there’s nothing going on, and I am a strong, powerful, independent woman.

The ball was super doops, really well put together, and everyone looked mega hot. I just love it when people make an effort, so it was v much My Scene. Then this guy sidled up to me, and I thought, “Argh, I know you from somewhere, but like, where??!!” That happens to me all the time, and I’m never sure if I actually know someone or if I dreamt them or they look like someone else or someone on TV or what. And remembering names… Ferget it!! With the number of people I meet every day (like most expats do), I can’t realistically be expected to match faces and names. It was a bit embarassing though because he evidently knew my name, saying, “Hi EJ, great to see you!”

“Oh!”, I said, “Yes, hi… you… great to see you too! How… what… where…?”, I trailed off.

“Seth. Yoga. Tuesday evenings? Every week for the past year..?”, he said with a grin.

“Of course! Yes, I know, Seth hi, how the hell-ski are you?!”, I replied, regaining my perfect composure. He probably hardly noticed that I was scrabbling around inside to figure out htf I knew him. In hindsight, I should maybe have joined the dots a little more speedily because he has quite a memorable look. Like me, is the proud owner of a fabulous hairdo.

Pretty cool hair, huh??!

Pretty cool hair, huh??!

He grabbed us a fresh bottle of bubbles, and we got along mega-well. We have a ton of stuff in common, including the unique hair, and it was so nice chatting. We’re both great listeners, and we’re both really interesting and smart and cool and stylish. Turns out that he’s an uber expat too, so he likes doing what I like doing. He’s an expert in Expaterati issues. We spent a long time discussing travel, green juicing, meditation, yoga (of course!!), gorgeous restaurants and hotels around the globe, and hilarious things on Tumblr; and then I told him about what’s going on with our maybe repatting. He was totes sympathetic, and I realised how nice it was to be talking to someone who just got me. It was like we’d known each other for years. Maybe in a past life??

Then his wife came over. She gave me a Look (?!), and told Seth that she was ready to go home. So we said bye, and I went off to dance with my girlies. My moves were smoking of course, but at the same time my heart wasn’t really in it. I tried to get into my usual party vibe and it just didn’t work. I felt kind of… empty. Flo noticed so she got me another glass of champagne. That didn’t work either : (

I decided that I must be in a temporary inexplicable funk and that I should leave before I tarnished my party babe reputation. Don didn’t want to go, so I got a cab on my own. Once I was home, I regained some of my resilient lustre via the medium of yoga. I took my mat up to the roof terrace and yogi’d it out under the Singapore stars (difficult to stay upright in the tree pose, but I managed it by holding on to the champagne fridge). I really really dig yoga. It’s so good for my chi. I’m looking forward to the class on Tuesday as I do v much want to advance my practice.

 

 

Expat Friendses & Not So Much Friendses

/ Emma-Jane Austen-Jones / 5 Comments

I got back to Singapore today, with two cases full of fabulous London fashion, hot off the racks. Ok so I was somewhat stung on import tax, but as long as I don’t tell Don, it basically didn’t happen. Am I right, Ladeez? Yes, I am right.

It was lovely to see Max, Mills, and Don after my week away, but even lovelier to wave them off to their respective daytime occupations, and then slink elegantly back to bed. Jet lag can be such a killer. It could take me days to return to a normal sleeping routine – possibly even weeks! I have only my lucky stars to thank that I felt sufficiently together to rise in time for a high tea with my Expaterati girlies.

What I did not expect about said tea was that both Liz and Michelle were there. But you betrayed us and got a job, Michelle ma belle, so what the hell are you doing at a high tea?! You don’t even drink Veuve Click anymore, babes, due to the whole being a “recovering” alcoholic thing (can’t last). Very bizarro.

I found myself sitting opposite Liz, with Michelle to my right, and gorgeous (actual friend) Flo to my left. Liz would not stop talking about how clever she is, trying to discuss some bit of whatevs she’d read in the NYT. Something to do with women being made to feel bad about their bodies, so that people can make money out of fixing the source of badness. What now, now? I wasn’t aware that we feel bad about our bodies. What’s to feel bad about, as long as you dedicate every waking hour to looking super hot until you draw your last breathe?? Mystery to me.

Liz, though, totes agreed with the story, and went on and on, quoting verbatio: “Show me a body part, I’ll show you someone who’s making money by telling women that theirs looks wrong and they need to fix it”. Could she not just send us all the link and be done with it, rather than bore everyone ridic?? God, she thinks she’s all that. She annoyed me so much that I got my iPhone 6 out of the beautiful McQueen Heroine tote I that bought last week, and, cupping the phone discreetly, I showed Flo the photos I have of Liz and her enormous snatch. Hilariously, bless her, Flo gasped and tried (failed) to raise her eyebrows, but kept right on listening to Liz’s NYT monologue, as if nothing had happened.

Next Michelle piped up, having apparently also read the article. (Don’t these people have LIVES??) She said that even though she’s in the business of pubic beautification, i.e. vajazzling, her work is “very much a celebration of femininity… a centuries-old adornment practice by women, for women”, yada yada yada. I switched off at that point because it occurred to me that I’m over-due for a Brazilian.

“So although I agree that the media and the increasing need to up the stakes, as it were, in the face of images that were only recently considered to be pornographic becoming mainstream… I still believe that there is a difference between internalised misogyny and a woman’s own desire to celebrate her body”, continued Michelle.

Having put an alert in my phone to schedule a wax, I started listening to that last bit and thought, “Oh yeah, sweets, well you’re so bloody knowledgeable about internalised misogyny and all that, but how much exacto do you know about your husband?!”

It’s all very well getting the full digital subscription to global news publications to make yourself look like a smarty-hottie-pants, but if you don’t even know what’s going on under your nose job, then HELLOOOO!!! Can I drop you a bone here?!

So that’s when it came to me. A stroke of pure honeyed genius. Manuka, babeses. Sweet, sweet Manuka.

As I thought about how profoundly irritating both Liz and Michelle are in the depthses of their beingses, I realised that I hold important news items about both of them. News that is not available via subscription. I know that Liz is a psycho husband-stalker with an acute case of vagenitical cunticulitis, because I have photographic evidence. And I know that Michelle’s husband Will is a serial player, because last year I experienced first-hand an attempt by him to assault my marital dignity.

So while the women were playing Who’s the Cleverest?, I came up with a divine win-win plan. I <3 win-wins. I decided to message Will asap with a polite request to tail Liz at times of my choosing, in order to find out wtf she’s up to. If she is sending these naked photos to Don, she may well be doing the same with other husbands, whose wives are probably less emotionally robust than me. I am all about the giving and the rescuing, so I cannot – nay will not – stand idly by while this woman attempts to wreak her nasty havoc on otherwise blissful expat marriages.

As part of my polite request, I’ll tell Will that, should he fail to comply, I can happily forward to Michelle screenshots of his flirtatious communications with me*. I might also inform her that I saw him last year with a petite Asian girlie, whom I realise now was most definitely not his half-sister.

Good plan, babeses and dear readers? Yes, lah. Amazebobs plan : )

I’d better go now because I only have a tiny slot of me time between the high tea and my evening date with a brand new BFF I met on the flight. You won’t believe what happened!! I can scarcely believe it myself. On the flight back from London, I was sitting next to a Russian chick. Yes, of course, I had spotted her from a mile off when we were both at the Terminal Two branch of Gucci, but the totes crazy thing is that we got chatting on the pihengi (that’s the phonetic pronunciation of airplane in Korean, spelt like this: 비행기, and you’d be wise to learn some Korean, babeses, don’t ask why, just trust me! They’re taking over the world, these Koreans!!), and…

I LOVE this Rrrrra-shon girlie!!!

Who’d have thought that I could fall in friend luv with someone so #bogan #newmoney #marriedtoabillionaire #yellowjeans #bling?!! I know, right??! But when we got talking, we just had so much in common! To the extent of spooky!!

Just like moi, she lives a glamorous life in Singapore, on the same iconic street as me (where has she been hiding?!), her kids are the same age as mine, her husband smokes Siglo VI Cohibas at the same cigar bar as Don, and we are both life-long dedicated yogis with an intense fondness for the tree pose. AND her d.o.b. is the first of April 1976, too! Unbelievable spookinesco.

So I’m meeting up with her in an hour to test out our unlikely friendship. Her name is Anastasia Jovakova. I think it’s a great testimony to my cultural objectivity that I am opening my friendship doors to a blingy Rrrrrra-shon. Don’t you agree? That’s what’s so awesome about expats: we totes connect with people who we might otherwise have seen as trash. Go, us! Viva La Expaterati!!!

 

* From last November. Pretty flirtatious, wouldn’t you say?…

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Is the Helper Selling my Designer Toilet Brushes Online?

/ Emma-Jane Austen-Jones / 9 Comments

A majorly odd thing has happened in our beautiful exclusive home this week: the luxury toilet brushes that I ordered from Italy have disappeared.

I noticed our en-suite looked different on Monday morning, while I was lying in the bath, contemplating the lovely day I had ahead of me at Flo’s Australia Day lunch. Well, I didn’t exactly notice. I saw a space next to the loo, felt weird, and thought, “Hmmmmm, that’s not a very nice space… It’s like… just an empty space… with nothing going on there.”

That thought made my mood plummet like you wouldn’t believe, dear readers. Emptiness is all good and cool when I’m meditating, but otherwise, I don’t like it. I’m not having it, I tell you.

So I got out of the bath and tweeted about this strange empty space to Kim Kardy, Chris Lilley, Mindy Kaling, and a few others. Within seconds, my tweet had been favourited multiple times, and I’d had a ton of reassuring replies. That made me feel much better, and off I went to the salon for a blowout, totes forgetting the dreadful void.

After the amazebobs party with an awesome group of Expaterati girlies, I got home and, super silently but gracefully (Don was asleep), I went for a shower. Despite my super silent creeping aroundness, a bunch of stuff fell off the bathroom shelf (how, I do not know; that keeps happening to me late at night), making a bit of a crashing noise on the marble floor. Don burst through the door, asking me very rudely what the hell was going on, adding, “You do know it’s one o’clock in the morning, don’t you?? And you do know I have a flight to catch at five?!”

Such an effing drama queen.

I told him it’s way not my fault that we have such slippery shelving. That’s the landlord’s responsibility, not mine.

Don then proceeded to relieve himself in my presence – quite unsuitable, I feel, even after 12 years of marital bliss. When he was finished, instead of apologising for making a scene and having a pee right there in front of me, he pointed at the floor next to the loo and grunted, “Didn’t there used to be something there, in that empty space?”

“Whatevs, babes, go back to bed. How am I supposed to know?!”

Just by pointing it out, he single-handedly destroyed my chi and ruined my entire fabulous day that I had worked so hard to have. Ugh, marriage is such a difficult thing. Alain de Botton was absolutely right with all that guff he wrote about how marriage is basically promising to disappoint each other. “Big time”, I’d have added, had I been his editor. (Which I could’ve been, but I think he didn’t return my calls because he realised I’m so hot that I’d be a threat to his own marriage, should we work closely together.)

The empty space issue stressed me out so much that since then I’ve been making a gargantuan effort to ignore it, with the help of chanting, sexily doing the frog pose (yoga, babeses, if there’s anyone left in the world who doesn’t partake), and intensely studying every post on the Real Singapore Expat Wives’ Facebook group, as well as their fab Classifieds off-shoot. None of that helped : (. It made it worse, in fact, because today, on the Classifieds I saw…

My goddamn loo brushes!!!!!!!

All six of them!! You can imagine how distressed I felt at that point, as I ran screaming from bathroom to bathroom to bathroom to bathroom to bathroom to bathroom. I felt for sure I was losing it! How could this be?? All six!!

I immediately rang cousin Clara the psychologist (it must’ve been 4 AM in the UK, but she gets up early), and she calmed me down. She told me to try to put it in perspective, that they’re “only things”, and why didn’t I go for a really time-consuming nail art manicure, or something else that would get me out of the house and stop me looking at my phone.

Most of what she said made zero sense, but the manicure idea was a great one (which I could’ve come up with if I’d spent a gazillion years and a bajillion £s training to be a therapist). So I did that, and it totes mega helped!

Then I met up with my one friend who isn’t on Facebook – so bizarre – and I haven’t told her yet about the awful events because I don’t want to raise the spectre into the now. I’m typing this while I’m with her, but she doesn’t mind. She just chats away, bless her.

I’ll get to the bottom of this nightmare though, if it’s the last thing I ever do. I’ve texted the helper to tell her to buy a substitute brush in the meantime. Just the one, mind you. No point wasting money on non-designer household items.

(It couldn’t be the helper who’s behind all of this, could it?…)

The Who-Has-the-Most-Starbucks-Country-Mugs Competition

/ Emma-Jane Austen-Jones / 4 Comments

Since getting back from Boracay, I’ve had a bonkers busy week, what with the kids off school, and trying to find reasons not to spend time with them. The helper has taken them to a few things, so I should stop beating myself up about it. Us mummies! We can be so unkind to ourselves!!

Yesterday I went to meet up with some of the mums from Max’s class PTA, which I wouldn’t normally do (tons of emails to delete about all this parent involvement stuff argh!). It’s a new year though, so I’m all about opening my heart chakra to people I don’t really want to hang out with. It won’t last.

I was a little bit late because I got chatting with our pool guy about his incredibly tedious life. I think it’s important to maintain a positive rapport with the staff, as consistently demonstrated in my favourite TV show, Downton Abbey. I’ve said it before, but it’s worth repeating: it would really have suited me to live back then. Way more my scene.

The PTA meeting was at a Starbucks near the school, and serioso, what unfolded was worse than I could possibly have imagined. Apparently, everyone else reads the emails! When I arrived, I got only the slightest nod of an acknowledgment, and no thank you whatsoever for bothering to show up! They just kept on talking about the emails.

I felt like such an outcast!! In that moment, I took on the feelings that every politically marginalised and oppressed person must experience. I felt like Nelson Mandela. I felt like Aung San Suu Kyi.

I was still reeling from my oppression when a conversation started about who had the most Starbucks mugs from different countries.

Boracay mug

I have 28, which I thought was amazebobs, but some of the other ladies had so many more!! Argh! One woman had 115, but the winner by miles was the chick who had a mug from the Forbidden City. Wow, mega-mundo impressed!! She got that in like the five minutes before the po-lice shut it down. (Yes. The po-lice shut it down, I believe.)

I cannot stand competitive expat wives. It’s just embarrassing. I’m totes not jealous though. That’s not my modus operandi. I’m not a big douche, am I, dear readers? Nope.

So it was a complete accident when I stood up to do some spontaneous flash mob yoga, and my knee knocked Forbidden-City-Mug-Woman’s hot skinny latte into her not so skinny lap. Oooopsy! That’s my tree pose for you!! I always get a perfect angle on it, consequences be damned. I just can’t help myself.

Perfect Angle

I should probably be a yoga teacher, but the thing is that it would be a lot like Starbucks because I would put all the other teachers out of business. Because of my awesomeness. So I mustn’t go there. Don’t worry, lovely Singapore Yogis, I’ll leave you to it! I know how hard you’re trying : )

EJ’s Ultimate Expat Wife Beauty & Wellbeing Guide

/ Emma-Jane Austen-Jones / 29 Comments

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.

A Tale of Two Husbands

/ Emma-Jane Austen-Jones / 5 Comments

Another stressful couple of days, dear reader(s).

One of the yoga places I go to that I really rate (and my rating should not be under-estimated in its value, given that I am an accomplished lifelong yogi, and can do the crow pose) is on Orchard, not far from my house. It’s one of those very earnest and spiritual, but warehousey-cool places (so cool they don’t provide any means of drying your hands after using the loo – I love that nonconformity!), where the atmosphere is befittingly sombre and dignified. I can’t stand it when people don’t take their practice seriously.

I really needed to go this evening because it has been a serio stresso couple of days. As it turned out though, even the yoga was mega-stresso! There was a girl there, late twenties/ early thirties, all skinny and dressed up in her Lulu Lemon, like she has even the faintest idea of what yoga is really about. It’s not about the clothes, honey!!

When we were doing the tree pose she kept peering at me, like, can you hold this as long as I can? I held it AND I closed my eyes, which is a very difficult thing to do, as any experienced yogi would know. I flickered them open occasionally to check out how she was doing. Haha, lo and behold she was trying to close her eyes too, but kept losing her balance. Oh you silly girl! It takes a lot of serenity, loving karma, and oneness with the universe to achieve the closed-eye tree pose, sweetheart. Stupid b****.

So anyway, yes, serio stressoso time right now.

Don got back yesterday. The children greeted him like he was some kind of hero, returning victorious from battle. Come on, I’m the one who has spent the last week in battle! With those little ingrates.

Froo Froo dog is, I suspect, developing dog borderline personality disorder. That’s the most difficult disorder to work with in humans, Clara says. So, in dogs, I dread to think what we are going to do. I would welcome any suggestions. (And, don’t forget, you can follow me on twitter @expatej)

After the children were in bed, Don passed out. Great, sweetie. So good to have you home.

Having run out of floss, I went into his washbag (Don is a passionate flosser) to find his. I found something else though…

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And it was half-empty!! What fresh hell is this???

I mailed Don immediately to address the situation. I’m not one to let these things fester. It’s not good for my chi.

He rang me to say that it has always in his washbag, and I must have forgotten we used to use it, it has been so long. Excuse me, what now, now??? OK, that does ring a bell when I think about it, but taking it on a work trip? Hmmmmmmm.

Then something quite shocking happened, dear reader:

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I didn’t respond, but I can imagine that Michelle – much as I adore her ridic-amundo – is a nightmare wife, so I do feel for Bill. He seems like a nice guy, despite everything. I used to think Michelle was just a really fun lady. Now I’m starting to wonder what it must be like to be live with her 24/7. Flo told me she starts drinking in the morning! Argh!! No wonder she needs so much botox.

Oh dear, what a messed up day. I’m so glad I have a massage booked first thing tomorrow. FYI, the massage is at the Hyatt, of which I am now an Official Member. Having so arduously struggled with deciding which club to join, I realised that I needed to prioritise Me in this difficult process of remaining sane under duress. So, I joined the Hyatt rather than bothering with all the other clubby nonsense. So far, so good. It could do with a refurb, but I’m not one to make a scene.