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Back From the Dead

The culprit is Netflix, as usual. This time it’s RuPaul’s Drag Race.

I don’t even know why it took me this long to discover the show (think ANTM but with drag queens: a million times more fabulous and a billion times less ~pretentious~) but I am now fully, fully invested - I binge-watched all nine seasons, plus All-stars, and then proceeded to watch all Untucked, Pit Stop, Fashion Photo RuView, and UHNhhh episodes, and now I don’t know what to do with my life because it’s off-season and Tracy Martel is off to shoot All-Stars 3.


P.S. It took me a solid month to get “Charisma Uniqueness Nerve and Talent”. My head is not fine.

Anyway.

I moved (yet again) a couple of months ago because, well, reasons. It’s never a fun activity, moving, but I find myself having to do it so frequently. Thankfully, rental prices are down in Singapore these days so I’m pretty chuffed with the flat that we ended up with.



Granted it’s not as nice as my Yokohama apartment, but seeing as I actually have to pay my own rent this time, I (literally) cannot afford to be nit-picky.



Of course once we’ve settled down after the hell that is moving day, I proceeded to spend all my free time just holed up inside my room (I prefer to call it “nesting”). However, today I decided it’s time to open the windows, air out the apartment, and refocus my energy on things non-drag race related. I’m back, bitches. At least until the next season :p.


The Makeup Edit

The moment I discovered makeup I pretty much went from zero to a hundred real quick. Between the fixation on finding an HG, limited edition releases (Hello Kitty x MAC omg), and access to designer labels that I could not afford otherwise (read: Chanel), I found myself filling up one Muji drawer after another.

These days I feel quite “set” in my preferences; after years of constant hoarding and experimentation I have (thankfully) figured out which looks I prefer on myself, which products work on my face, and which items are most likely to languish at the back of my makeup drawer. And while I’m not completely immune to marketing (who is?), I no longer feel the need to scurry off to Sephora with every new product release.

My makeup drawer has been subject to a number of edits over the last year or so, but recently I decided to do yet another round and document it for, err, science.




Iceland Diaries: Food

Despite being one of the most popular tourist destinations over the last couple of years, not much is being said about the food in Iceland. When I was doing my due diligence (read: trawling the interwebs) for the trip I barely found any information on what people eat in this country. This alarmed me, because more than half of my travel enjoyment comes from eating, and so in the interest of sanity we brought several giant bags of junk food with us.

This proved to be not as necessary as we thought (still finished everything though), because Icelandic food wasn’t as bad as the people of the internet made it out to be. Or maybe I’ll just happily eat anything. It’s one or the other. My husband’s a finicky eater, though, and he didn’t complain nor wrinkle his nose too much, so I suspect it’s the former.

Meat Soup

Icelanders are one of the world’s happiest people, and so are their sheep (incidentally, there are also more sheep in Iceland than people). Because of the absence of any natural predators in the island, they are free to graze and frolic about in the hills (by they I mean the sheep, although I guess it could apply to people, too). This combination of happy sheep + clean air + clean water make for really, really good lamb meat - the best in the world, according to our lovely tour guide. “New Zealanders might protest, but they are wrong.” Baa ram ewe.
The traditional Icelandic meat soup suffers from a fate not dissimilar to the Philippines’ very own sinigang: it photographs horribly (read: not instagram-worthy). Going off the descriptions - slow-cooked lamb with root vegetables - I thought it would be something like goulash (I swear like 85% of why I love Prague can be attributed to that one gorgeous bowl of goulash), but instead I get chunks of meat and vegetables floating about in a cloudy broth.



When I plopped the bowl down the table my husband looked at me with a face that said “yeah, you’re going to have to eat all of that”. Of course ten minutes later and he was practically licking the bowl clean. Don't judge a dish by it's plating (except in MasterChef, maybe).