All posts tagged: sheela goh

The Fab 40s Get Shorty

Shorts for work? Oh goodness!! Scandalous!!   Fashion has always been my favourite form of escapism.  Reading, writing, dancing, sketching.  They all come a close second.  But fashion.  Fashion has, is, and will always be the tabernacle upon which I worship.  Religiously.  Since I was 6 years old to be precise.  Since I caught sight of my very first Issey Miyake piece.  And then laid my hands upon a coffee table book cataloguing what goes into the creation of a collection, courtesy of the god known as Bruce Oldfield (shamefacedly I confess to pinching this from the British Council library).  From then on, I was fairly obsessed with all things style and fashion-related.  Mostly European, primarily British the likes of Zandra Rhodes, Jasper Conran, Vivienne Westwood, Arabella Pollen, Philip Treacy. Life in Kuching was a bit of a bubble. A complete style bore.  Yawn. Far and away from the fashion world or cultural meccas like Paris, New York, Milan, London or Tokyo.  I used to think of it as a fashion wasteland.  And it is …

Sheela | Sheela Writes, I Have Things To Say

The Fab 40s Shirt Up

Sprucing up the shirtdress. Making it fancy, schmancy, but still wearable.   I struggled with this month’s theme, shirtdresses.  I truly did, Dee.  Can’t lie.  And I don’t even know why that was so because I used to wear them.  All the time.  Perhaps the operative words, “used to” were a telling means to explain my conundrum.  Conversely, my mental block made no sense whatsoever given (1) the frequency with which shirtdresses had permeated my wardrobe in the past; and (2) their undeniable mega “slay” factor. In my 20s, I practically lived in shirtdresses all the work week long.  Mostly in jersey so I didn’t have to iron them and mainly in blacks or browns.  Yes, I spent over three decades decked out primarily in black, channeling Mama Rei and bringing out The Crow in me.  As such, one would think I would’ve had an easy peasy time pulling together a look based on a button-down garment but that was not the case, my friends. T I M E T O S H I R …

23,040 Minutes

23,040 minutes. Or, if you prefer, 384 hours.   That’s precisely how long I’ve been staying at Camden Holly Springs.  The place I’ve called home since 22nd August.  Seems so odd to say that.  As is doing things by myself.  Normal, everyday things such as taking out the trash.  Pumping gas into the car, going to the car wash too.  Cooking for one (I still keep cooking far too much but I’ll get the portions right eventually, I know it).  Getting acquainted with a washer and dryer that aren’t Samsung red boom boxes. Realising that I can decorate things however I please (hence the red couch, moo moo cube, tray tables, bedroom furniture, and night lamps).  Yes, in case it wasn’t already apparent, I’m going with black, red and white with touches of grey/chrome 🙂 I shan’t lie, it’s going to take a while to get accustomed to these (shall we call them) adjustments but I know they’re part of the process in this journey towards my new norm.  And I look forward to embracing …

The Girls

Breasts. Tits. Boobs. Whatever you may call them.   Yes, however you may refer to them, my breasts are my most significant area of body insecurity.  Ever so quintessentially clichéd, I’m fully aware.  Allow me to clarify.  Yes, the insecurity pertains to size but perhaps not quite in the way you think.  I’ve never once desired to be a cup I am not.  To provide some provenance, pre-Eve, I was a 34B.  Right after having Eve, I stayed 34D for a long time.  Then I went to being a 36B, and now, I’m at 34AA.  Clearly, lingerie stores have had me to singularly support their existence these past few years, what with all that yo-yo movements of my cleavage (you’re welcomed). So, my bone of contention is that I do not crave more but I yearn to regain what I’ve lost through the years of weight fluctuations and intensive workouts.  I want to be a 34B again. No more, no less. I’ll be the very first one to admit that it IS a lot easier …

What Makes You, You?

Ya, boo. What makes you, you?   A simple prompt from the awesome Jodie, about the versatility of denim, gave rise to the question of what makes you, you.  Is it your external self with its specific composition of water, protein, connective tissue, fats, bones, carbohydrates and DNA?  Or, conversely, is it how that external facade is packaged namely dress style, trimmings (body art, ink, etc), hair colour? Or, as a third alternative. is it how we think and behave that dictates and makes us who we are?  Our moral guidelines, our moral code?  Our beliefs? Could it be all of the above? I rather think so. After all, at the end of the day, our physical selves take instructions from our minds, our emotions.  How we feel manifests itself into how we conduct ourselves, how we appear in the eyes of the world. As I explain myself, I am also reminded of an impromptu conversation with a friend, Michael, just a fortnight ago.  This oh so articulate and creative friend revealed how he’d often …

What’s In A Name

Truly, I ask you. What’s in a name these days?   Cosmetic brands have been concocting all sorts of names for their lippies since the longest time ever. And it makes sense too given how saturated the landscape has become. Everyone appears to be releasing make-up lines from established players kicking out new collections, to names you’d typically associate with garments, not beauty, looking to cash in on a woman’s (neverending) pursuit of that perfect pout. It’s practically a new lippie a day. Actually, more. From a business perspective, it makes perfect sense. I’m as commitment phobic as the next woman when it comes to beauty purchases. Afterall, how many nude shades can one wear at any given time? And you can’t really be walking out of the house with smokey eyes every day because, you know, we crave variety. As such, most of us are hesitant to commit to palettes of colour but think nothing of forking out anything from $5 to $50 for what promises to prime and plump, and take us from …

I Am Weak

Forgive me, shoe gods, I have (once again) sinned. 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.

The Asian Dumpling Goes Out & About

Living up to the nickname I bestowed upon myself (hey, thanks, Poshmark team), I took a gander and braved the -1 Degree Celcius weather on Thursday afternoon.  Here are a handful of the photos I took while out and about. 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.  …

My, Oh My, Morimoto-San

Although I did not get to meet you in person, Mr Iron Chef, I experienced the most sublime of culinary sensations at your Chelsea restaurant last night and it was quite the orgasmic nosh.  An affair I shall never forget.  Suffice to say, resistance was beyond futile, and we, my appetite and I,  succumbed rather happily to partaking of as many scintillating offerings as the waistline of my Cheetah print skinny jeans would allow.  Note to self: wear stretch pants the next time. 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 …