Goddess, I Am.

I read about Ichigo Shoes through Fashionista Fortune Cookie’s contest (it’s still on, by the way), and when I poked around their Multiply site, I was immediately blown away by their awesome collection of Oxfords. It’s Oxford heaven, I tell you, and I wanted them all right there and then!

To my dismay, however, it seemed that everyone else was lusting after the designs I really wanted, so there was a very good chance that I was going to end up empty-handed. But I went ahead and texted them anyway because, hey, never say never, right?

I decided to try my luck and get the navy/white Kenny first, just to see how my feet will fare in ‘em. Well, to make a long story short, they didn’t have it in any other size but mine! Imagine that! And so it seems that it does pay to have midget feet, after all!

My new babies finally came today. Aren’t they to-die-for?

Of course, I had to take ‘em out for a spin pronto!

They’re a perfect fit with nary a millimeter to spare, so it’s impossible to wiggle my toes. It’s a tad uncomfortable for the moment, but I’m expecting the leather to stretch with time. I think I’m going to have to wear them constantly until they give, which, as you can guess, I shall do so with pleasure.

I’ve also put in an order for my second pair, the gorgeous floral Jacky. I wanted the Ivy, too, but I didn’t get as lucky there. And, oh God, the gray Madox is calling out my name . . .

The Husband is so going to kill me! I better start thinking of a good argument to justify this compulsion to start a new shoe collection. After all, it’s not like I’m getting expensive matouk linens, or $500 purses, or anything remotely ridiculous like that, right? Yes, that should work.

I am on the hunt for the perfect pair of Oxfords. You know, the shoes.

Unfortunately, the ones I’ve found in these ‘ere parts apparently do not fit midget feet. And this, in a country predominantly populated by midgets.

So I’ve taken to trawling the shops online, but I’ve been very disappointed with the ones most Philippine sellers are selling. They’re a freakin’ dime a dozen, and I really do not fancy running into people wearing the same stuff as I am. My days of shopping for Korean pre-orders are over, thank you very much!

Right now I’ve broadened my search a bit more to include US and Canada shops. And it’s been very disappointing, too. But I guess shouldn’t expect too much from the land of non-midgets with non-midget feet. I did, however, find 14K white gold diamond stud earrings on buy.com for $180, but I can’t seem to muster the same amount of enthusiasm for jewelry as I have for Oxfords.

Why couldn’t my feet be a size – just ONE size – larger?

These days, I find myself more aware of how quickly time is passing us by. It’s already the start of another weekend, which is weird because wasn’t it just the weekend a few moments ago?

I was even more shocked to realize that Mum’s been in Canada for two months now. Two months! Now where did all those days and weeks go?

And how weird is it that Mum’s asked us to start writing our Christmas lists? But considering it’ll be September in a few days, it’s really not weird at all, now that i think about it. But good heavens, is it really nearly Christmas already?

The thought of spending our first Christmas without Mum here is choking me up a little. (Okay, a lot.) I would rather she comes home, of course, instead of sending presents. But right now that’s out of the question. There really isn’t much that I want right now, not even Orlando vacation packages, so I’m going to have to think about it, believe it or not.

Methinks I better think quickly, though. With this strange, newfound awareness of how quickly time is moving, I might suddenly find myself in December with nary a present!

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Chin once told me that she envied my portable life. That was back in 2007 when I packed up and left for Thailand.

Everything I owned could fit in a single suitcase. I was free to come and go whenever I pleased. Those were among the best days of my life, and like Chin then, I envy my portable life now.

These days, I’m feeling that all too familiar restlessness again, that itch go someplace far and exotic – not for a few days’ holiday, but to stay for a while, to stay indefinitely. And in theory, I could. After all, that’s the beauty of working online. I don’t have to worry about how I’m going to feed and shelter myself in some exciting foreign land.

But a theory is all it is for me now, now that I’m married and can never think solely for myself ever again. My life is still fairly portable (or I can make it so in a heartbeat because I don’t exactly go crazy on wholesale appliances). Why, I can give away most of my clothing and my shoes and my books and I won’t even bat an eyelash. All I need are a few t-shirts, some underwear, a few pairs of pants, my laptop, my iPad, and my camera, and I’m a happy camper. The Husband, however, is another story.

You see, he gets very attached to things, like his huge-ass TV and home theater system, his hundreds of Blu-Ray movies, his electric couch, and even the goddamned refrigerator. Most of these things traveled all the way from England to Thailand when he moved to Bangkok in 2006, and again from Thailand to the Philippines in 2008. When we do move again, he’s going to insist on taking all of these with us, plus everything else we’ve bought since.

And if you’ve ever had to go through the ordeal of moving furniture and appliances from one country to another, you’ll know it’s not a walk in the park. So it goes without saying that moving from one country to another on a whim is out of the question, and when we do move again, it’ll have to be a big one (read: for good) to make the most out of the time, money, and gargantuan effort that transporting his stuff will demand.

Heavens, why do material things have to make life so complicated?

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I figured out a long time ago that I want to write for the rest of my life. And that’s exactly what I’ve been doing. I earn a very good living out of it, too, so I really can’t complain.

But writing hundreds – if not, thousands – of online content for subjects you really do not care a thing about . . . well, it just gets to you. Every once in a while, I find myself wondering what the hell I’m doing writing about constipation (among others) when I ought to be writing a novel, or a memoir, or something that may very well win a Pulitzer (who knows?), or at least something that would reach out and touch people, bowel problems notwithstanding. Then I go through the whole litany of reasons why I’m settling for what I am doing, and I end up forcing myself to be grateful for the chance to even write at all and get paid for it to boot!

Still, this doesn’t stop me from wishing I was a more ‘serious’ writer. I would love to be respected, to be revered, to have a cult following. I would love to see my name in print, preferably under the words “#1 New York Times Bestseller.” It’s all fanciful thinking, I know. But does it really have to be?

Every day, I’m getting to know myself more. I’m starting to figure out what I want out of life beyond the next 6 months. And I’m starting to make the plans that would make me the person – and by extension, the writer – that I want to be.

First thing’s first – I need formal training in writing. I don’t have one, you know, not even a humble certificate from a writing workshop. I’d like to go back to school and get an MA in Creative Writing. And I’m not talking about an Online College, either. I’ve found that there are universities and colleges in London and the U.S. and Canada that would take on post-graduate students for their writing programs, even without a writing-related undergraduate degree. Of course, one will have to prove one’s aptitude in writing in a 5000-word essay to be considered, and even then, one will have to be prepared to spend thousands of dollars (or even pounds sterling!) to take the course. Unless, of course, one somehow lands a scholarship, which is already the most fanciful of all fanciful thinking.

Well, I don’t think I’ll be landing a scholarship anywhere anytime soon (or even ever), nor do I have thousands of dollars (or pounds) to spare. But I will write that 5000-word essay, anyway, in between constipation [articles]. Just in case.

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