For the longest time, I couldn’t fathom why.  I mean, I could take the easy route and blame it on my new trainer (from hell) who gives me a list of what to eat for my six meals a day regime.  To understand that, you’ll need to know that he’s a huge oatmeal aficionado, like of epic proportions.  Or I could attribute oatmeal to my desire to regularise certain bodily rhythms and we shall leave it on that ambiguous note.

But in truth, it’s none of the above.

Oatmeal simply reminds me of home.  My home in Kuching, Sarawak, East Malaysia.  It reminds me of growing up as the youngest of two and being utterly spoiled (shhh, brother, let’s not delve into details now).  You see, my Dad loved oatmeal, Quacker Oats to be precise, and he even had a special pot for it.  The cutest most la-la-land looking gizmo ever.  There was a specific ritual to the entire process from weight of oats measured with the precision of a heart surgeon to how long the cooked version needed to chill in the fridge to the milk that was used as a (generous) topping.  Yes, my Dad had my Mum nailing this to a scientific art.

He wanted his oats (or porridge as he would call it at times, spoofing the fodder from Goldilocks and The Three Bears) chilled just so, with that perfect helping of Condensed Milk, mug of Nescafe to the right sporting that blue cap (my Mum had the green cap), and the occasional serving of sliced bananas.

So anyway, after all that rambling and post the consumption of countless bowls of oatmeal, I’ve come to the conclusion that I am homesick.  Or, more specifically, parent-brother-sick it’s been three years since I went back to Malaysia and I think it’s high time to have a bowl of chilled porridge with my Dad.

Love, SG

p/s I promise the next post will be less melancholy

pp/s I promise it will not be another three months to the next post

Yes, a post has indeed been a long time coming and, honestly? Looking through the Archives, I see that my last post was dated 22nd February.  Oy.  Cringe, I cringe.  I’ve not been resting on my tush, I swear.  No indeed.  In fact, I’ve been working very hard.  As someone recently coined, I do have a grown-up job and it’s been keeping my nose pressed firmly to the grindstone of late.

Also, I’ve had back-to-back trips to NYC within the space of a fortnight, then a week’s worth of time was spent in San Francisco for two separate events and when I finally got home, I realised it was month’s end.

So this is just a quick note to say HELLO THERE and to assure everyone that I’m still (barely) alive and kicking and well

I shall post more later, I promise.

Love, SG

I don’t do flats.  Even my boots walk a height of no less than 2.5″, at the bare minimum.  So, let’s not even get me started on my heels.  As I once told someone, the height of my heels appears to escalate in tandem with my age.  On that note though, I do hope it peaks at 40 because 5.75″ is about the max for me.  Anything more and I may as well go with stilts.

Here are some glorious flats I found while scouring the web.

Blue Monarch Butterfly Flats from here.

Muse Leather Ballet Flats in Olive from here.  This store does have some wedged heels that I’m positively aching to get my hands on and feet in.  I shall keep you posted on that!

Hand-painted POW BAM Flats from here.

Pastel Pixel Leather Oxfords from here.  Several chunky boots available too.

Vintage Cork & Mesh Flats from here.  These are simply magnificent, why couldn’t they be heeled???

Rainbow Retro Flats from here.  I feel like doing the jitterbug now.

I do so wish these came in the kind of heel and/or boots I’m partial to, so I could strut loud and proud in them ~ maybe I could find some heels somewhere and stick them on.

What say you?  Are you a heel kinda woman (or dude) or you like being grounded?

Love, SG

As much as it pains me to write these thoughts in public, it’s probably a healthy way to start the detox process.

I envy those nubile young things who look perfect from every which angle and whom can make even a potato sack look like haute couture. I am fiercely jealous of how skinny they are and how the world adores them, particularly the fashion houses. I want to be noticed too. I want to be famous.

I. Want. To. Be. Just. Like. Them.

But I can’t. I’m no young thing.

I’m not skinny. I’m not photogenic and I most certainly don’t have a figure to rival that of a clothes rail. I’m 40. I’m a mother of a teenage drama queen, and two stepsons aged 15 and 18 respectively.  I work and I cook and I clean, and I keep house, and I have a family. Blogging was “supposed” to be an outlet for me to express myself, a means for me to be me. To write whatever the heck I wanted, without censor, without boundaries, without fears, without restrictions. And certainly without this (recently, it would appear) overwhelming desire to be part of “the cool crowd”. To be recognised on the street. To be lauded at every turn for my sense of style and my bravado in putting together outfits.

Blogging was meant to be a natural extension of my thirst to write. Something which has been in me for as long as I can remember.  I mean, I wrote my first story when I was 7, in true Enid Blyton “enchanted woods and faerie folk” fashion.  Blogging was supposed to be my small corner of the world, wherein I could be me, just me. Not the Sheela my husband loves. Not the Mummy my daughter calls me. Not my brother’s sister, nor my parents’ daughter. Not the Ms Goh my clients write to.  None of those.

And yet, somehow, somewhere along the way, I lost track of all these important things and because of that, I feel like I have lost myself.  And I need to rediscover who I am.  I must.

In summation ~ Life Is Way Too Short To Covet What Others Have.

In other words ~ Get A Grip, Sheela.

In conclusion ~ I need to work on liking myself more.  Then, and only then, will things start to fall in place.

Have you experienced such internal conflict?  When you felt pushed and pulled in a gazillion different ways?  What steps did you take to rise above the din?  Did they work? 

Love, SG

p/s this probably won’t be the last time you read such thoughts from me but hey, if it helps me in dealing with the issue and work towards becoming the person I was meant to be, I’m just going to roll with it.

pp/s I know I’m going to regret putting it out there the moment I hit the Publish button so, be gentle with the comments

Or it could be laced with equal doses of fun and sage-esque qualities.

However your day turns out, live it to the fullest.  I’ll write a more personal V-Day post later this week.  Or something.

Love, SG

Le Objet du Désir.

DANNIJO Zeppelin Boots.  Black.  Neon.  Glitter.  Cut-outs.  Combat Style.  Can you really blame me?

Love, SG

Footnote:  I purchased these here, they were on sale from $325 and I ended up paying under $100.  Good times.

Butterfly, Butterfly.

Spread your wings, and fly away.

Love, SG

Truth be told, I didn’t snap as many as I’d expected nor hoped, and this was because, as I sadly realised, my Digital Camera (while perfect and wonderful for close, cropped shots) is simply not the appropriate tool for outdoor pictures.  It’s just not the right camera for that genre of photographs.

In case you’re wondering, I took a shot of Waverly Place for my daughter who adores Selena Gomez and her TV series, “Wizards of Waverly Place”.

After about 45 minutes of sauntering around, the tummy growled and I decided I fancied of a spot of Asian food (I know, right?).  Morimoto, it certainly wasn’t, but here’s what I had for a very late lunch at the Empire Szechuan Village which is located on 173 7th Ave.

I had a chip with a dip.  That chip with that dip was da bomb.  The latter being a chutney of apple with mango and pineapple and dried plums, all kinds of yums.

But of course it’s Unagi Sashimi, did you really think I wasn’t going to have any?

My massive entré ~ Stir Fried Shrimp with Thai Basil.  Not quite what I was expecting but I ate all the shrimp.  I like shrimp.  Very much.  Very very much.

All things said and done, I did what I could, and I hope to still be able to impart a modicum of what I saw, through these.

Love, SG

p/s I made it out of New York City just before the blizzard hit, phew.  When we were lining up to board the plane out of Newark, a guy offered me $750 for my ticket.  Like woah.

I started with a Clam Miso Soup which was completely forgettable. Granted the molluscs were very fresh and the broth, light, but I was expecting something wow from the Iron Chef who brings his own Ice Cube-esque Smoker and creates furniture out of bread.

Next, I had the Kakuni – now we’re talking.  AMAZING. Just AMAZING.  Morimoto’s take on the traditional Cantonese brekker of congee with braised pork belly was delicious, particularly with those light tendrils of crispy fried Sweet Spud.  It wasn’t a WOW moment, it was an OH MY GOD moment.  Apparently, the meat is slow braised over very low heat for, get this, 10 whole days.

For my entree, I chose Duck, Duck, Duck, thinking I was in for a treat of an edible ménage à trois, and was terribly, terribly disappointed. It was crispy duck, it was tasty duck, it was moist duck but I could’ve gotten all that from any decent Asian eatery. And the foie gras mousse?  Practically nonexistent.

And then dessert arrived, and the sun shone in my world once more. Apple Bread Pudding. Three innocent words for the most incredible sugar trip, ever. The pudding itself was a masterpiece of apple with pineapple, light and fluffy on the inside, crispy on the outside. The Green Tea crumble provided just that right amount of bitterness to counter the saccharine levels of the pudding while the creme fraiche was sufficiently laced with brandy to put a smile on this face ~ see the finishing touches of Mango Sorbet as well as a platter of fresh fruits completed the Morimoto gastronomical adventure.

I’ll be going back tomorrow (well, I hope to), to try a fish or lobster dish, I’ll let you know how that works out.

Love, (a very stuffed) Sheela

p/s everything is a tad on the salty side here.  Be forewarned.

Entering the Fashion District and my Egyptian-born cabbie goes to town with the horn.  Only in New York (and Kuching, and Calabria).

Turning the corner into West 28th Street, and you can see remnants of snow from the morning.  It’s all a tad mushy and slippery and grey outside though.

Think what you like, say what you think, but I do firmly believe this is the most important bit/tool of any hotel room.

The wallpaper in my hotel room.  Trippy or what?

First night in NYC and I pig out at Morimoto’s.   In fact, I think the other patrons around me were taking bets on where I was packing it all in.  Oink, oink.  Can you blame me?  When you’re in the same vicinity as the restaurant of an Iron Chef, YOU_JUST_PIG_OUT.  Resistance is futile.  More on that tonight.  I have to start getting ready for IFBCON, super excited and nervous, and hoping I won’t fall asleep (the traffic outside kept me up and woke me at 4.34am, yawn).  That’d be rather awkward.

Talk to you guys from the Altman.

Love, SG

p/s I did dream of Puff The Magic Dragon