Wash your Dolls with Machines and not the Sink

You look at Laurie one day and notice something off. Her hair is black when it should be brown. It’s infuriating, because she is only fourteen, and you know girls that young should not be dyeing their hair without an adult’s permission. Though it hurts you, you decide you have to discipline her. She’s broken one of the rules, and so of course she needs it. You lock her in the basement for an hour, and your heart breaks when you hear her crying behind the door, but at the end of her punishment, you give her a hug and present to her a plate of baked eggplants, her favourite. 

The next week, you notice that Laurie’s eyes are blue when they should be green. It’s infuriating, because she is only fourteen, and you know girls that young should not be using coloured contacts without an adult’s permission. Though it hurts you, you decide you have to punish her. She’s broken one of your rules, and so of course she needs it. You force her to stand in the corner of the dark bathroom, and you lock the door. You can hear her crying, begging you to open it and save her from the monsters, but you tell her that it’s all in her head. Monsters don’t exist. At the end of her punishment, you let her out, give her a hug, and present to her a plate of baked eggplants, her favourite.

“She’s fourteen,” you tell yourself. “She’s old enough to be making her own decisions.” But Laurie is getting more and more disobedient. She watches television when she shouldn’t. She comes home, her hair dyed another colour or her eyes artificially stained with someone else’s colour. Your friends tell you to let Laurie live her own life, that you shouldn’t interfere so much, but it’s impossible. You can’t help it. You just love your baby so much. Is it too much to ask that she stay under your wing, just a while longer? 

On your way home from the supermarket, your hands full with bags of groceries, you overhear several women in the parking lot, their faces creased with worry. 

“Mrs. Lau was in tears when I saw her this morning,” says one of the woman, a pudgy Indian lady who looks as if she was about to burst our crying herself.

“It’s the third one this month,” another whimpers. “I haven’t been letting Amber out unless she’s with me or my husband.”

A woman with mousy brown hair and pallid skin shakes her head with a sad sigh. “They don’t come back. We don’t know what he’s been doing to the girls.”

You put your groceries in the trunk of your car and drive home. Laurie’s waiting for you. When you walk in the house, you exclaim, “Laurie, I’m home!” 

But Laurie doesn’t answer. 

Immediately, you race upstairs to her room, your heart pounding. You don’t care that the bags of groceries are sitting by the front door, and that if the milk will go bad if you don’t put it in the fridge. You burst into Laurie’s room, ignoring her surprised shriek; there are no secrets under your roof, after all, and whatever Laurie does, you want to be involved. 

She’s sitting rigid on her bed, not looking at the walls you painted for her or the dolls you bought for her. She’s staring straight at you, her eyes wide.

“If you’re home, you should have said something,” you tell her, relieved. “I thought you were in tr -“

But then you notice. Her hair is black when it should be brown. Her eyes are brown when they should be green. You step over an eggplant-covered doll and sigh. “Oh, Laurie, you went and dyed your hair again? Now I’ll have to punish you. Such a shame; I was going to make you your favourite tonight.”

NaNoWriMo Day #3 / DAVIDsTEA 'The Glow'

Day #3 of NaNoWrimo has just passed. I thought I was making reasonably good progress, with just over 4600 words or so on my story. Then, I went to visit the forums and I saw that some people already had over 10,000 words. It's only the third day! Mad respect for them. 

It's starting to feel like winter now: Starbucks has their seasonal Christmas drinks out already; the weather feels like it's in the negative degrees; I slipped this morning walking to my tutor job ... it feels like December even though it's November! It's cold even in my apartment, which is notorious for its heat.

To keep myself warm and hydrated while I studied for my STAT midterm and watched TV, I made myself a cup of tea. It's a new kind I bought from DAVIDsTEA; I didn't know there were so many near my home - there's one in Lougheed, one in Waterfront, and one opening over at Metrotown. I applied for an opening as a tea guide to the Metrotown location but alas, I was a few days past the deadline.

Today, I poured myself 'The Glow', which is an herbal blend of rooibos, jasmine, cinnamon, and rose petals. 

I personally don't like tea from Tea Forte, but I can't deny that they sell very cute cups.

The Glow is said to be good for the skin - it's apparently like a spa in a cup. I don't know about any beautifying effects, but I love the delicate flavours of the jasmine and rose petals mixing together. The cinnamon is just barely there; you can taste it but it's not overpowering at all. It enhances the general flavour of the tea, and adds a bit of texture to it that might not have been there if it was only jasmine and rose. 

I've never had non-flavoured rooibos tea - I thought the taste of the rooibos was the cinnamon at first until the second sip. Though not bitter (even before I added my 1 1/2 teaspoons of sugar), it certainly gives it a bit more of an earthy taste. It's not so bad the first few sips, but after a while, the rooibos seems to give the tea a sort of ... medicinal taste? That's my own interpretation of this odd feeling. It's not bad - it reminds me of the swallow nests or rose-infused Chinese medicines that people drink for skincare. It's just not something I would usually want to drink on a daily basis. 

'The Glow' was put on my 'To Buy' list when I went to the Waterfront location of DAVIDsTEA because I was interested in the beautifying effects. Now that I've tried the tea, I can positively say I will probably buy it again in the future. Despite my comments about the flavour of the rooibos, I am still enamoured by the delicate harmony of the rose and the jasmine. I am relieved, though, that I didn't buy too much - 50 g is more than enough at one time!

The Glow
Brand: DAVIDsTEA
Type: Herbal - Rooibos
Caffeinated: No
Price: $7.50/50 g - reasonable
Flavour: 9/10 - delicate and harmonized, but I personally don't like the flavour of rooibos
Recommend: 85% 

NaNoWriMo Day #2 / Rosemary Marinated Chicken w/ Cucumbers on Toast

I was never really sure what to write about for NaNoWriMo and so yesterday, when it started, I just let myself type away at the keyboard. Now, I just have the most basic skeleton of the plot but nothing else; I am literally writing by the seat of my pants, making up things and throwing them into the mix as I go. 

This does mean if I ever plan to use the story after NaNoWriMo, I would have to go through some serious editing.

*+*+*+

Today, I decided to cook something fancy for myself after going to a job interview for the fancy L'Occitane. I even bought myself some fancy tea on the way home. When I say 'cook something fancy', I don't mean something like lobster or sirloin steak. Boy, when I usually cook, it's just pouring hot water into a bowl of instant noodles and maybe adding in some boiled vegetables and meats if I feel extra special.

I can't find my dad's camera, so I have to use my cellphone. And I didn't have space on my table because I was writing STAT homework. It's the first day. I'm sure it'll get better.

I marinated strips of Costco boneless chicken in rosemary, garlic, salt, soy sauce, potato starch, and alcohol for approximately five hours while I lazed around doing STAT homework and watched Bloody Monday 2. I only watched a few episodes in Taiwan but I didn't get anything since I didn't watch first season but now I feel glad I took the time to do so. It's a very good show. It also reminded me of the pain of liking a show with a very small fandom. 

Anyway, after marinating the chicken, I cooked them with my trusty frying pan while I buttered up some toast and cut up some cucumbers. I cut up too much so I had to separate the two slices - my dreams of a chicken sandwich were dashed for tonight but this also means I get to eat two slices instead of just one big sandwich. Is that better or is that worse? I think it's better, personally.

The chicken was so tender and juicy I was worried I had undercooked it, but it was perfect. I didn't remove all of the rosemary from the chicken because I thought it was unnecessary - imagine my surprise when I bit into a piece of chicken only to receive a mouthful of rosemary flavour. That was wild. The butter, cucumber, and marinated chicken were so harmonized - both the butter and cucumber didn't detract from the taste of the chicken but enhanced it instead. This is a very easy recipe for a hungry student and I think it will be added into my slowly growing recipe repertoire. 

That is, if I could get the chicken from Costco. My mom gave the chicken to me, and I don't really have a Costco card. This could be a problem if I want to make this in the future. 

I didn't think tea or coffee was appropriate but I also didn't feel like drinking water so I just poured myself a cup of milk. I even used one of my favourite cups just because I was taking a picture, even if the picture turned out to be so bad. I bought Avalon milk from the Nesters at school and it tastes so weird. I normally don't like North American milk compared to milk from Taiwan or Japan, but I would even prefer the normal brand than Avalon. 

Drinking it straight is kind of gross, but using it in tea and coffee makes it taste so much better than the normal brand. I made macaroni and cheese last night with the milk and it ended up making the macaroni so much better. I guess it all depends on what I use it for. 

O Magic Bullet

The Magic Bullet. 

Back when I volunteered in a care home, infomercials for The Magic Bullet happened every other week. At first, I ignored it. I had better things to do, like mercilessly crushing my elderly opponents in a game of blackjack. But over time, I began to pay attention to the fanatical praise the underpaid actors were blurting out about it ... and I became fixated on The Magic Bullet ever since.

Don't ask me why I became so fixated on the Magic Bullet after only two viewings of the infomercial, because I can't even pinpoint the obsession myself. I think it's the idea of how many things I can make so effortlessly and with so little ingredients. I'm not entirely sure. 

I have two friends who have Magic Bullets, and every time I visit their house, I beg and plead to let me make something with their Magic Bullet. A smoothie, a shake, a cup of juice ... anything that can be mashed and blended with its sharp, changeable, easy-to-clean blades. I was refused each time, accompanied by the phrase, "Stop being so creepy." 

The reason I made a whole post about The Magic Bullet is because I want one. So bad. The thirst. It is real.

I will be participating in NaNoWriMo this year and I have read on many blogs of people who have 'won' previous NaNoWriMos that using a blender to make homemade fruit juice is an excellent idea during the arduous writing process. Not only does it wake you up with the natural sugar content, but it is a much healthier way than simply reaching for that cup of coffee or that bar of chocolate. Plus, depending on what exactly you put in there, it could be filling enough to serve as a meal, thus helping you cut back on fat.

It's literally win-win! There's no way to lose!

Except I don't have a blender. 

Back in my old house, we had this one old blender that's practically my age. I've seen the thing ever since I lived with my parents in a tiny one-bedroom apartment. And that was when I was two years old. Yes, I remember events from around that age. Two or three, I'm not exactly certain but I can remember the apartment, the nights of watching Jurassic Park with my parents, the pain of falling off the bed and hitting the back of my head while I was watching The Lion King ... happy memories.

But I digress. The point is, that blender reached its factory life long before I even hit my teens, and it couldn't even make me a canned juice by the end. We threw it out when we moved and that was that. I never found a need for blenders and so refrained from buying one, holding out hope that my dad would listen to reason and buy the Magic Bullet that we so desperately needed, for the sake of saying we had one. But then he left for Taiwan. 

My friend, who might become my roommate come January/February, has said that she might bring her Magic Bullet with her, or that we could get one as a housewarming present. This hope that I could get my Bullet without paying the entire pricetag is the only thing stopping me from grabbing my credit card with the intent to pay for some magical goodness. 

But could you imagine life with a Magic Bullet? Readers who already own Magic Bullets, just imagine life without a Magic Bullet, and then imagine yourself in that life imagining yourself with one. My current goal is mainly so that I can use it to make fruit juices or smoothies as a way of losing weight and gaining the nutrients I desperately need due to my admittedly unhealthy culinary choices. 
Beyond NaNoWriMo, though, it's a whole new world. I could make sauces for meats. I can make cappucino. I can apparently even make a whole variety of desserts with the thing, and it can totally cut down on the amount of bowls and stirring utensils that makes baking such a pain. According to the website, I can even make my own toner and my own conditioner using the Bullet. 

I could literally become a god with this thing. A god of the kitchen. A god of the apartment. I could take over the world with the Magic Bullet and oh my goodness, I need one right this second. 

If you're out there, Great Pumpkin, I wish, I wish, with all my heart, to blend with the pros, in time for NaNoWriMo. 

Pokemon X

I got Pokemon X today and I'm probably going to be busy with it for a while. I haven't worked on any writing and I haven't looked for any prompts. I'm so sorry. But Pokemon.

Prompt: "Did I die?"

   Did I die?

   Laying flat on his back in the snow, Max stared up at the inky sky, his thoughts as dark and murky as water in a well. There was a throbbing pain in his head and he could feel rather than see something blood brain life seeping into the white around his body.

   I can't be dead. It hurts. Everything hurts.

   The wail of sirens sounded through the air, breaking through the fog of his mind. Max struggled to move but something moved wrong in his torso and he let out a sharp hiss of pain. Despite himself, he slumped into the snow again. The icy cold bit into his skin where's my jacket I swear I had a jacket on but surrounded him, embracing him like a possessive lover.

   Lover.

   Jacqueline.

   "J-," Max tried to yell but he was interrupted by his own cough and the sound of someone approaching him, calling for him to stay still and quiet and that they were going to help him. No, they can't waste time with him; where's Jacqueline? 

   The men - paramedics, Max managed to recognize even with his addled brain - helped him onto a stretcher, carefully supporting his neck. It was a haze of movement and noise as they placed a breather around his nose and mouth and carried him to the hospital.

   He reached out with one hand and weakly grasped the jacket of one of the paramedics, who looked down at him. She had big brown eyes. No, Max wanted to see Jacqueline's blue ones. Blue like the lakes and the sky and the sea of cornflowers that grew in their backyard.

   "My wife... Jacqueline... where is she?" He breathed heavily, panting and struggling around the artificial air pumped into his lungs.

   The paramedic looked at her partner and frowned, a silent question in her eyes. She looked back down at Max and stated in a calm, soothing voice, "Sir, you're the only one we found. The police are examining the remains of your car but - "

   Even with the hard stretcher underneath him, Max felt as if he was falling. The remains of the car. He could remember it, faintly. The truck. The tree. The crushed remains of their small Honda, smashed as if it had been caught between the hands of a giant. How did he survive? How did he survive when Jacqueline...

   I made a mistake.

   I did die. 

Marinated pig ears

   I was inspired to make this post about marinated pig ears after demolishing half of the little carton box I got from T&T today after my STAT midterm, which is why there's no picture of the marinated pig ears. It's not exactly the prettiest sight and I can't find my camera anyway.

   If you've never had marinated pig ears before, you are missing out, my friend. Thinly sliced and tasting of soy sauce, sesame oil, chili paste, and green onion, these are the perfect savoury snack on an abnormally hot October day. Crunchy yet soft, marinated pig ears have the funniest texture in the world.

   There's no point to this post. I just love marinated pig ears a lot.

The Search

   The soft rhythm of jazz was a comforting backdrop against the muffled zoom of the city, as people clicked and clacked down the concrete streets, and cars drove by in bright streaks of noise and exhaust. Peter played with the handle of the ceramic mug. There was a thin crack near the rim; he said nothing to the barista but shifted the cup so that he was no longer in danger of cutting his lip open.

   The warm scent of vanilla roast coffee made him smile unconsciously but when his gaze fell to what was before him on the table, his face fell.

   A blank sheet of paper sat accusingly in front of him on the table, intimidating in its sheer whiteness. The pen in his hand was useless without his brain to guide it, and Peter's brain was stuck in an odd sort of limbo. He looked around - left, right, left again, outside the window where he caught the eye of an old woman, down to the paper ... his mind was racing just like his line of sight. 

   What should he write about? His notes were scattered before him, his neat cursive decorating the papers. But to Peter, they were nothing more than a jumble of letters and words. Meaningless. Worthless.

   "Would y'like some more coffee, love?" The barista appeared at Peter's side, holding a pot of coffee in her hand. Her long red hair was tied in a side ponytail and she looked bored. There was none of the false cheer on her face that Peter saw adorning the ones on young students sweating their summers away at Starbucks.

   "I need to write a story," Peter found himself replying instead. "I need to write a story but I don't know what to write about."

   "Didn't ask you that. Asked if you wanted coffee," the barista huffed. She turned away, taking Peter's answer as a no. Peter watched her as she returned the coffee pot to the machine and began to bustle about at the counter, her long hair swishing like the tail of a fox.

   What was her story? How did you start working at this coffee shop and why? Was it to pay off student loans? Was it to pay for school? Maybe she's saving up to go to Europe and expand her horizons, and maybe meet a handsome French man and enjoy a hot date at the Eiffel Tower?

   Peter thought these thoughts and pondered these ponders. He picked up his pen, twirled it once, and then set it down. He took a sip out of the coffee and found that it had become cold.

   He picked up his pen again, and began to write.

Scene from a Coffee Shop

   “I like your dress. It looks really good on you.”   
   “Thank you. That’s very kind of you.”   
   “It really brings out your eyes. They’re a beautiful shade of ocean blue.”   
   “…Thanks.”   
   “I don’t believe I’ve introduced myself. My name is Terry. Terry Pratt. And you?”   
   “Madison.”   
   “Madison what? What’s your last name, please?”   
   “I’m sorry, I must have forgotten my manners. Madison Perry.”   
   “Ah! Perry. It rhymes with Terry. It’s a lovely name for a lovely woman. Madison is.”  
   “Oh. I thought you might have meant Perry.”   
   “No, no. Madison.”   
   “Okay, because it sounded a lot like you thought Perry was a nice name because it rhymes with Terry.”   
   “No, no. Madison is a nice name. Perry is a nice name. They’re both very nice names for a nice lady like you.”   
   “Thank you, Terry. I appreciate it. I would also appreciate it if I could drink my coffee and read my book.”   
   “Of course, of course. What did you order? What are you reading?”   
   “Um, I’m reading this book. It’s called Please Go Away and Leave Me Alone.”   
   “I’ve never heard of it before. Is it good?”  
   “Not right now, no. It’s not very good.”  
   “That’s too bad. Do you want to grab a drink with me, then? Not here in this danky coffee shop, but maybe at that bar down the street?”   
   “I’m meeting a friend.”   
   Madison closed her book and shoved it into her bag. Without a backwards look, she strolled out of the coffee house and began to trek toward the train station, shaking her head. She pulled out a phone and dialed her best friend’s number. “Oh my God, I just had the worst encounter at the coffee shop. Some creepy bastard wouldn’t stop talking to me! What an ass!”   
   “Yeah, girl. He must have been a real fucking douche.”   
   “Ugh, tell me about it!"

   Meanwhile, Terry, still in the coffee house, leaned back in his chair. He frowned. "Huh." He pulled out a Dating For Dummies from his bag and flipped through the brightly-highlighted pages. "I suppose common slang would have been much more advisable in a situation like the one I had just found myself in. A pity; Miss Perry seemed like she would have been a most delightful conversation partner. Ah, well. Better get going. It's poetry night at the bar."

--

Creative writing assignment from last semester.

Fake Nails

   Olivia watched in awe the way that the crowd in the mall seemed to part like water as Irina swaggered forward confidently, her heels clicking sharply against the fake marble floor. Her perfectly manicured nails caught the artificial glare of the fluorescent lights with each swing of her hand. Olivia had tried to wear some of Irina’s body-length dresses and shoes before and had failed miserably, only managing to walk a step before stepping on the overlong hem. Her cousin managed to make it seem effortless, like she was gliding instead of walking.

   Irina didn’t visit often; her life in New York was a never-ending haze of parties, work, and more parties. When she did, however, she insisted on spending her time with Olivia.

   “You’re my cousin,” Irina had said with mild surprise on her pretty face, “so of course I like to hang out with you. Why would you ever think otherwise?”

   Looking at Irina with her flawless skin, perfect auburn curls, and extensive collection of the latest fashion and makeup, it was pretty obvious just why nerdy Olivia would find it strange that Irina insisted she be accompanied by Olivia on her jaunts through Surrey.

   Irina looked back at Olivia with a small smile on her glossed lips. “You want to take a bit of a break? Maybe we should go get something at the Orange Julius.”

   “Nah, they only sell fattening stuff there. I’m on a diet.”

   Irina frowned and paused, uncaring that they were in the middle of the mall. “You look fine to me.”

   Olivia fiddled with the hem of her ratty t-shirt. “It’s just … I don’t know. I’m heavier than I should be, I think.”

   It was hard not to feel unconfident next to perfect Irina, but Olivia kept her mouth shut.

   Suddenly, Irina reached out and grabbed Olivia’s hand in a startlingly tight grip, her sharp nails digging into Olivia’s skin. Looking up in surprise, she saw that Irina’s eyes were wide and serious, her lips pulled in an uncharacteristically somber frown.

   “Never think that about yourself, Olivia. You’re beautiful, just the way you are. Don’t change yourself into something you’re not just because someone else wants you to.”

   Irina’s lips were trembling and she pulled away, brushing at an errant curl that had fallen in front of her face. Olivia looked at her cousin. Really looked at her. And for the first time, she saw that the perfectly filed cherry-red nails on her hands were nothing more than fake nails. 

--

A former creative writing assignment that I wrote.