Glides and Glimmer

I am a small fry

Smaller that you think I think of my self

You can see me clear sometimes, this invisible me

Disappearing in the background of stories onto walls and gardens

Hijacking the breeze, the scents, the touch

Glides and glimmer of feel and observation

If only you know how I really feel

If only I can tell you

But words themselves disappear with me, for I can only

Glides and Glimmer



My heart is in the colour of opaque today. No clarity.

This daddy issue. Not that he hasn’t provided me. He has provided and still is providing shelter for me and the kids. Most of the time he will treat them good food when he’s around. But when he isn’t around, I can breathe better. Just because our communication is broken.

He is absent. But when he is present, he demands coaxing from all of us. Rudely demanding for attention and unconditional loyalty to serve. Bantering for his type of food and juices. Just pacing across the house like he owns it when he doesn’t attempt to own it. I sincerely stopped caring.

The one-liner communication he would speak of when seeing me EVERY TIME would be, “Have you got ice cream?” And I’d be, “No,” and retreat back to safety, my bedroom.

At this point of time, I know that I have no respect for him. He is my dad and I should respect him as my dad, but I don’t. I have lost it over the years. And to keep my heart from hurt, I keep forgiving him for his mistakes.

He is a travelling philandering man who is still married to my mom. When DH asked for my hand in marriage for the second time, my dad told him that it’s okay to date other women, just don’t promise them marriage. DH also told me not to share with others.

Yes, we are of no value to him. All his children are all of no value to him. But he wants to valued.

It is only my chatty Cancer-Leo cusp sister who can coax him easily. But he cannot get through to me. I have risen my hands above all hoarding, all pretenses, all face-value things and seriously, I don’t talk much. I’m like this sulking gnome sitting in the corner of the room just condensing everything but I would completely reject these chaotic auras.

I know I’m different. I was carried in my mother’s belly in a different condition. She went through depression but still would deny that she did. I speak when I feel I ought to. I will help you if you sincerely need me to. I need you to be sincere with me.

You just cannot try to control other people if you are doing it just because of guilt. That’s unfair.

So last night, as usual for the past 2 weeks, he came home late nearing midnight. This would usually happen when he has girlfriends who are usually younger than his own children, to entertain. And so because he was late, his car was out the farthest. We park in 3 layers, 2 cars in each row. There are 4 cars in the household. So he was a jerk this morning when I asked him for his keys – his car was blocking the pickup to get to school. He eventually tells me, his car should be in the 1st layer so that means, we would have to line up 1 wagon, 1 pickup and 1 4-wheeler in one line just to make space for him. I told him I’ll park my car outside on the street and left.

I’m just so sourful. I know. Each time we talk about something to change in the house to make it nicer, he’d say to wait for him to die first. Even to drive his car, to wait for him to die first. Well, he didn’t die this morning, did he? Such menial dramas that are so exhausting for me to even walk by.

Truthfully, I have guilt for feeling this way, this resentment towards him. He made half of me anyways. He has provided a roof. But resents it when my mom spends more time to bake and cater to accommodate expenses for the house since he doesn’t provide much monetary because she isn’t able to serve him like a king. He has to foot own likings, right? Also because of my reaction or any of the others are with him, it spills onto my mom. At least gone are the days when he would lock my mom out of the bedroom just because someone said a one-liner of something that hit him in the face.

Writing this has helped some clarity. It is a confession of the heart. That somehow I feel bad about writing because it is about my own flesh and blood, the man that my mother taught never to hate. But I suppose it is okay to be hurt then?

Perhaps this could be light to someone else reading.

Hugs to all of you as I hug mine.


Three Little Trinkets

I have decided to name my kids in here, although the names are changed for more reason that I don’t want them to find out about this blog (and how selfish is that) hahahahaha.

Harris is my eldest and turning 14 this year. He is petite and still boyish that I feel good about because truthfully I still can’t come to terms of him having darkening upper lip hair and slowly deepening voice. I was telling a friend that I keep catching him scratching his crotch with me half yelling asking him to wash it properly. But he’s so Libra. He doesn’t f*cking care. “I wash them… they just itch!” and continues scratching in front of me with the odour of smelly armpits swimming at me.

She said, “Maybe his pubic hair is growing?” | NOOOOOO!!!! >>> Me – Panic attack!

Then Elliot is the most sensitive to my feelings. He’s Mr Leo turning 11 in August. Sometimes when he sees me zoned out, he’d come and put his arms over my shoulders with asking me to chin up to him, “Mommy, are you stressed out/sad? It’s okay. I’m here,” and gently pats my shoulder.

Just a few days ago, I caught him staring at me from the side. “Oh Mommy, you’re skin is looking beautiful right now,” he said. Like, are you kidding me son, coz my face is semi pimpled with freckles and hair. I went blurry with a, “What?” “You look beautiful Mom. Why, don’t you believe me?” “My face is full of spots hun. Nothing pretty about that.” “It’s beautiful now, then what term should I use then when the fact is it’s beautiful?” (Awwwww…)

So then there’s Tallulah, my still 8 years old cheeky Scorpion.  She’s the binder for all of us. Also my time manager. She bosses me when I’m late in the most diplomatic way, “Mommy, maybe you don’t have to put on makeup. We’re only going there for a short while right? A bit of lipstick will do just fine.” Or, “Mom, you’ll be late for work if you don’t shower now. Go go.” Or she will plan my travel route when my brain is a half baked potato.

And I suddenly miss them all writing this. Hmm. I’m so PMS-y.

Three Little Trinkets

Day 9: Period

I love this.

So I think I’m going to start documenting my weight and exercise to encourage myself losing weight. This petite woman shall try to lose 14 kg (136.687 lbs) in 6 months. And I do hope my period will come once a month from this whole process – not 2 or 3 times a month while breaking my lower abdominal organs while bleeding.

But… let’s just really begin counting from Labour Day, okay?

50 x 36


I didn’t sleep well last night, and was tired all day today. A few irritating things happened prior to work and at the office that made my day a little more of a hassle than it needed to be, but overall I managed not to let it upset me too much. To be honest, I think I’ve just been too low in energy for anything to make that much of an impression, one way or the other. All day long, I kind of shuffled along, doing the things I needed to do, not thinking too deeply about much else. I just didn’t have it in me, and I didn’t even have the energy to think about why that might be, until I had a jolt of inspiration: oh yeah, my period started this morning.

I’m incredibly lucky to typically not suffer any terrible side effects from the monthly shedding…

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Day 9: Period

Pancakes That Won


She made pancakes this morning.

It’s her second attempt to do it from scratch. As the batter came to become, she served periodically to the breakfast plate. Sweating as she goes, enjoying the process.

She serves the second batch to the table.

“Why so many?” he asked condescendingly.

Some morning jolt she had springing harmful innocent curses muttered underneath her breath.

“Just go on and finish up your granola cereal,” she said within her. “Just because you don’t like it, that doesn’t mean others don’t like it either.” Plus the recipe said to use that much of batter and she knew it would finish anyhow.

He should know by now that she doesn’t enjoy cereal.

She then finds Elliot looking for a container. He fell quiet when their son comes to the table with a container to pack himself two pancakes, maple syrup and a fork for school. She smiles and smirks inwardly with satisfaction that she wins. Even more so knowing that her effort didn’t go to waste.

Pancakes That Won