There were several changes that I made to my daily life upon realizing that I was pregnant. Somewhere I read that cat urine/litter was harmful to the fetus so cleaning out the cats’ litter box was instantly off my list of chores. But to be honest, that was always a task that I had avoided as much as possible. Extreme thanks to my [then] boyfriend [now] husband.

In addition to that unappealing job, I also found out that acetone is harmful so yep, there went the act of painting my nails, as well. Being honest again, I could never sit still for enough time to paint my nails well- especially considering the fact that I would have to do it again within a few days. When I was younger, Mom would sit in her rocker and expertly paint her nails. I explain this process as “expertly” as she spent hours in that chair, fancying her nails, taking the time to do something that helped her feel beautiful. Of course, this whole process may just be what I had observed and felt, but right now, I can own those feelings. A quick note to fancying oneself, I remember Mom explaining to me a few times why she thought applying lotion to her hands and wrists was so important. She said that while women can cover their aging face wrinkles with foundation and concealers, it is nearly impossible for them to cover up the wrinkles and age spots on their hands. And I did not fully comprehend this idea until a few months ago when I noticed that my hands resembled hers in that “aging” way. Anyways, I feel like my memories of her painting her nails was actually therapeutic. Perhaps I can find a picture to record here but if not, no matter. Some memories will never leave my mind.

Ever heard of nesting? Of course you have. In this context of this post, it is the act of preparing a home and space for a baby, for what’s to come.

I am not pregnant but I can not stop cleaning my house today. From the baseboards to windows, I want it all clean and sparkly. Extra furniture and “stuff” needs to be donated this week. Extra organization is required in order for.. me to go back to work.

Before we moved back to America, I had this grand idea of picking up where I had left off. With my business, with the amazing community I had left behind, and overall, feeling important again. Like, that people would once again depend on what I was able to offer- in the way of my services, the support I can offer, and the friendships that I was capable of keeping. Feeling needed is such an important emotion that, without it, some people feel useless. I can not claim that I felt useless while living abroad, as my presence was certainly necessary for our home to function, and my support was so important in raising my children.

And the fact of the matter is that I have applied for several positions since moving here 15months ago. A barista position that most probably was offered to some wet behind the ears teenager who would welcome minimum wage. An admin position in a business segment that I have absolutely no experience in. A rewarding position that I had hoped would be created for me as there truly is a need for it, but alas, it was never created. Now, certainly I shouldn’t feel like poo about that one, right? Lastly, although I never applied, I thought for sure a local grocery store would hire me. Anybody can scan a loaf of bread and besides, who doesn’t know that the SQU#4011 is bananas? So I didn’t apply not because I didn’t think I would be hired BUT it sounded like a position I would keep for a few months and then jet, and frankly, the better part of me could not do that to management. High 5’s for community service.

As the position is open and a body necessary for the business to function properly, it is quite possible that I would start as early as next Monday. This means that I have only a few short days. And this whole idea feels like a loss to me. After 10-years of my days being my own, I would be giving my precious time to someone else. Thing is, the phone interview has not yet been scheduled.

As the rest of the world seemed to function best with every thing google-y, before moving abroad I decided to create a Gmail Account of my own. Keeping in the mind that Google (including my old harmless fitness website) was banned in China, I did it anyways. My old-school Microsoft email created in the mid 90’s will probably still be my choice of addresses. And now, 10-years after my first Gmail Account, I created a new one and am thrilled to announce that I have had ZERO spam emails thus far. Thanks Googles.

Before moving to China I had mentioned to my friends that I would start a blog. Of course, as good friends go (and fortunately my life is filled with lovely spirits), they were very supportive of my idea; some having never traveled internationally and would probably benefit greatly living through me. What an honor. What an opportunity. Bringing along my “people” on the most grandest adventure of my life! A sigh of relief; the idea that I would not be alone in the alone-ness on this Expat assignment felt warm to me like a gifted homemade crocheted blanket from a loved one. Besides sharing those in-the-moment moments with loved ones, a blog would help me to keep track of my International travels, in my words, not that of a library book of someone else’s experiences.

Welp, I bombed. I failed. Kaboom. Wah-wah. I let down my friends, my tribe. I failed myself. Sorry Mom.

If I am being honest here, and why the hell not, my body is not getting (or feeling) any younger. And my memory is fading me sooner than I had anticipated. Perhaps we give ourselves permission for our memory to fade when in our third act? Buy hot damn, I just can not accept the fact that I am forgetting even the details of my 30’s while in my 40’s! Dude, forgetting bits of my teen years is acceptable-ish, but forgetting the past decades is outright embarrassing and frustrating. But so it goes. Here I am. Having never taken the time to sit down to journal my life and experiences, I deserve to struggle through this next step in my life. Me being honest. This whole thing brings tears to my eyes but… I can not turn back the clock, and my goal is to live at least another 30 years so here I am. Having never taken the time to sit down… blah blah blah.

Let’s briefly rewind to Fall 2016. While talking to Lori, one of my dearest tribe members, about not following through with my blog, she simply and lovingly stated: “It’s ok. You are living in the moment.”

And there you have it, friends. She was on point. I was indeed in the moment; enjoying every boat ride, temple climb, curry dish, watching my children play in the sand…..

So here I am. Having never taking the time to sit down… until now. Why “Little Shrimpy Things” you ask? It is as complicated as it is not. In Asian markets are tall barrels of dried foods; one of which being little shrimpy things.

That was Jenny G’s question to our fitness group in Winter 2014. A fair question. And one that I asked myself nearly everyday of our Expat years living in Shanghai. From riding tandem a top the Xi’An wall to learning to play Mahjong with Dennis at his mommy and daddy’s Shanghai home during Chinese New Year 2015 or sprinkling my mother’s ashes among the flowers in the ***garden with flowers*** on Tiananmen Square (“Gate of Heavenly Peace”) in Beijing or eating roe from Dungeness Crab with Iris’ Grandma or traveling to Guangzhou to pick Oolong tea leaves. You get it now. Who the hell moves to China? Dang.. I think everybody should. Or at least visit a friend who lives there 🙂

So in total, during our three years living in Shanghai, we traveled to five cities in China along with eleven additional Asian countries. We have collected a lifetime of memories and with this blog, I intend to share with you as many as my little brain can recall. Following are some bits of those special memories in pictures below:

Spring Break 2014 Look-See Trip

Zhujiajiao, a 700-years old ancient water town in Qingpu District, just outside Shanghai

Xi’An, China

Shanghai, China – Chinese New Year 2015 celebration

Beijing, China – picture bits of National Holiday 2015

Longjing Village in Hangzhou, Zhejiang Province, China – pan roasted green tea produced mostly by hand and renowned for its high quality.

When we were younger, my Mom always made Christmas larger than life for us. From the coffee can and duct tape packaging, to the Sunday comics wrapping, the entire experience was surreal and memorable. As an adult now, I would classify our Christmases as magical and ever-changing; hard to duplicate. The woman who was proud of purchasing foods only if she had had a coupon and it was on sale, was never shy about spending money on each of us, equally. If I remember correctly, Christmas splendor was one of the reasons why she went back to work. Anyways, apparently the boys always wanted larger more expensive items and so to be sure she spent the same amount of money on me, she would always include some tchotchke items to even the score. Oh, and her thing was also the amount of presents, more on that at a later time. But yes, my mom wanted to give the best experience to my brothers and I, wanting us to enjoy all that Christmas had to offer.

To my Mother, decorating our home was a craft. She did not wait to decorate until the traditional 12-days before Christmas Day (or so I had always thought that was how “normal” families did it). Often times our Christmas-loving-Mother decorated while Dad took us around for Halloween Trick-Or-Treating. She was crazy. Crazy in love with the festive season and the sheer joy it brought to her. And her desire to share that joy with us, Sunday comics wrapping paper and all. (NOTE: I did this for my children for several years but it just wasn’t the same.) Mom loved the snowmen nestled in their beds for a long winter’s nap and quiet popcorn/movie nights with her children, not the cold brutal winters that I remember often experiencing in Michigan.

Anyways, Christmas-time was always made special by her and I am forever grateful for her planning and the great memories we made as a family. The comics? Who would have thought, so smart and thrifty, right? But so sad. See, sometimes duplication is so very hard when that thing to be duplicated can not be matched, like the hours and hours of wrapping that happened in her room all while she, Diana, Bing, and Helen harmonized perfectly for all in the house to hear. It was an event that involved countless rolls of Scotch and duct tape, and much joy. I loved those days and remember them fondly. So special that my brothers and I were able to experience that awesome-ness that she brought to us every December, I mean, October 31st.

“It will be like Christmas,” Sharon said to me on the phone a few days ago referring to my shipment delivery tomorrow morning. Yes, a big day ahead for me, it is 11:30pm and still working on my first post. Tomorrow I will open 120+ boxes from our much anticipated 2014 storage shipment and it will be like, a reunion, I guess. A reunion of me and the stuff that I obviously did not care enough about to bring with me and not keep in storage for what we had assumed would be a 10-year hiatus. We move away to China in 2014 and ten years later (however many countries thereafter) we move to Cleveland, where we had always assumed we would eventually call “home” once again. Yah, a Christmas, of sorts, like that box of chocolates, you never know what you’re gonna get.

According to Shirley’s manifest, there are boxes and boxes of what is listed as “Decorations.” No doubt those boxes and boxes are my overwhelming amount of Christmas decorations. Many of which I only now remember owning after looking through old photos last night to show my son his dresser that we also went into storage. Interesting how when I showed him the dresser he thought I was joking as it really is a tiny furniture piece. But, realistically, the last time he saw it was when he was 6-years old so makes sense it seemed much bigger. Ha. Also, Andrew is now 5’9″ and in High School, at 6-years old he was only 3′ something and barely in Elementary School. It’s all good. He will be glad to have it back in his room again, regardless of the fact that it is actually baby furniture.

Today while I had some extra time on my hands, I walked through the Home Goods store just to see what I might want to buy. Ha. Now, I wasn’t looking for anything in particular as I have more than enough “Decorations” on their way to my house in a short 10-hours. But rather I had no kids in tow so a little browsing wouldn’t do any harm providing I keep the credit cards in my wallet. So that 20-minutes in the store brought back fond memories of my many trips to Kohl’s, browsing (like window shopping, that word feels so empty and unfulfilling) through all the seasonal decorations. I would undoubtedly fall for the Kohls’ “For every $25 spent, get $5 in Kohls Cash” or something to that effect. Anyways, like Cathy, I would wait to purchase that stuff until it was 1) on sale and 2) I would receive some sort of rewards or Kohls Cash for it. Buy buy buy. I fell into the consumer trap.

And really, the fact that I don’t remember exactly (or nearly exactly) what is in that storage unit after 8-years of being stored away, un-loved, un-played with, and un-appreciated, I am saddened. After recent years of downsizing, clutter-free-ing my home, removing my attachment to so many items in my life, and trying to live more intentionally, tomorrow may just be a bust of a day for me. Who knows. Maybe I will find some treasures – actually, I just now remember the African Tribal masks I bought from TJ Maxx in, say, 2008. The tag said the masks were from Ghana but hmmmm were they really? I am so suspect of everything these days. Anyways, in 1998, when we spent 2-weeks in Zimbabwe with my brother (who had been serving in the Peace Corps) I had purchased a mask from a street vendor. Now THAT was authentic, and I have the proof, grainy assed pictures, y’all. Admittedly, they were top-knotch quality for the time. Alright, so these masks from TJ Maxx that I had purchased to create a full set of African masks, may or may not actually have been from Ghana, but they will do. No stories for me to tell from my US-mask purchases, but many a story can be told about that street vendor experience. Sadly, at this point, 8-years later, who’s to say exactly which one I purchased in Zimbabwe and those from the USA. Perhaps I will take a squint at my graining pictures from years ago.

Well, there you have it. Maybe I will open a bottle of wine after the truck leaves, or just pour a couple shots of Bailey’s in my all-day coffee. Either option would be quite enjoyable.

Another memory. My older brother and I both had a rocking chair. Cute, small, perfect seat for little butts. Those are both in storage, each of which I have rocking baby photos of my children. Also, my cedar chest filled with childhood memorabilia and Scott’s homemade chest which houses his great collection of glass Coke bottles. I won’t tell my son about that just yet. Let that be a “Christmas” moment for him. I am looking forward to that. Also those Christmas decorations, both of my children will LOVE my old decorations; my carefully chosen holly / pine garland will be hung up & down the handrail, and my 2′ Old Style Santa will be placed near the mantle. Dang, it will be like Christmas, huh?

My heart is singing.

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Beg February, 2022

In February 2022, while mindlessly scrolling through Facebook posts and groups, I clicked on the link “A Group That May Interest You” and as it turns out, it was indeed a group that interests me.

The link took me to Nano Flamenco.

As a high school kid in rural Michigan, sitting in my Spanish I class, I dreamed of spending a few days, or weeks, or even a whole summer experiencing Spain in more ways than just learning the language. The music, the dancing, the energy of the people and their culture is something I had hope to one day be part of. If even for one Sevillanas. It was my “take me there, universe!” that finally brought me to Antonio Vargas’ studio in Geylang, Singapore.

Hey, plop me into a Zumba® class and you can bet a polished penny that I will shine to my brightest capacity somewhere in the back row. But after having not taken a dance class in a near decade, this was basically virgin territory for me. First, my clothing choices were undesirable. After all, I had been a frugal Expat for close to 8-years and had nothing other than cute spaghetti strapped dresses and yoga pants. Second, my shoe choice was not acceptable; flip flops wouldn’t fly anywhere except the wet markets, even then, walking through the butcher aisle is unheard of even by the locals. Third, the dark sweat marks under my arms were more obvious than normal even considering I was wearing a white t-shirt. No matter. I followed through with my plan and I am so proud of myself. It takes a lot for a person to admit they are no longer the person (or capable of what) they once were. A place they had felt comfortable in and believed would never leave. That was me. No matter. That is how we grow personally and through experiences such as this.

Anyways, having been a dance teacher for many years, I understand the need for regular class attendance/instruction. This consistency allows/encourages students to keep the choreography fresh in the their minds and staying engaged in their new endeavor. Unfortunately, after my first class I was determined never to return! I remember lying on the couch, Xiao Li’s body under one hand, my face under the other. I cried and cried. Like crocodile tears when you tell your 4 yo that they can’t have dessert until they eat their broccoli, or until after dinner, or not at all. You get the idea. Again, having been a dance teacher (even longer ago a dance student) it was disappointing to me that I couldn’t do stuff like deal with emotions like this. As a 45yo woman, geez. “Wimpy Wimpy Wimpy” was really now where I wanted to go with this.

But in the end my new friends equipped me with the proper shoes and gave suggestions as to where to buy new clothing suitable for flamenco. They also gave me the encouragement to continue with flamenco and to me, that meant that I needed to continue with my dance student-ness. Looking back at it, stepping outside of my comfort zone (albeit, not so much as as if I had gone sky diving, but same-same) was so good for me not only for this aspect in my life but for other reasons as well.

Then came the performance. Ahhh, my love of performing was again coming to fruition! Teaching Zumba gave me a boost of energy that only fellow instructors would understand.

So apparently, at the end of the month, Nano Flamenco presents a student performance (aka Pena) at the end of each month. This was a great opportunity for students to experience being all-eyes-on-them and for a bit of a challenge to remember and present the choreography. The whole thing reminds me of the days at the studio when we would have same-time dance classes and walk to the other neighboring rooms’ to check out their recital choreography. A little performance, how fun.

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Saturday, April 2

Tonight is our Pena and I am so nervous. It wasn’t my intention to tell any of my family members (near or far) or even my Expat friends living on the island. I had only originally mentioned it to my son as my husband was traveling and my daughter had plans with her friends. Thankfully my son came with me as he kept me accountable for the performance. In general, humans do not strive to let others down or have them feel disappointed, but letting your family/loved ones down is an even lower low. Don’t get my wrong, I wanted to do it like something fierce but I felt so outmatched by all the talent; regardless of my past experience. See, the importance Andrew coming with me with huge. He doesn’t remember me teaching Zumba and that hurts my heart as that was such an important time in my life. He really only knows what he knows now. I cook and clean, tend to wounds and pets, and am a great listener. Sad.

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Monday, June 6

Well, our group performed very well, I felt good about my performance, and my husband and BOTH children attended! The whole show was a success and I am so thankful I was part of an amazing program. Let me share one of the professional photographs taken of me during our performance:

One morning last week our Singapore neighbor to the right called me over to the brick wall between our houses to present me with a jar of Cold Brew than her son had brewed for me. It was during the pandemic that I was spending a lot of time at our dining table on my sewing machine kick. Like so many other pandemic-experiencing persons around the world, with the help of various YouTube videos, I taught myself to make masks. Looking back. the measuring and cutting and sewing was not too difficult to understand but alas, I was a newbie!

So if you have never heard of Cold Brew on the double U double U dot, it is described like this:

“The drip coffee you’re used to is anywhere from 1 part coffee to 16 to 20 parts water. We also call this “strength”. Cold brew concentrate is often 1:4 to 1:8. It is literally a concentrated coffee drink and is much stronger – and has much more caffeine – than the same amount of drip coffee liquid.”

And strong coffee it is. Probably a smart decision to have a cup or two no closer to bedtime than 6-hrs. Anyways, now that I was aware of Cold Brew, when visiting a coffee shop (in Singapore, at least) you can find it.

So after explaining to Linda that it was the best coffee I had ever drank, she sent me a link for the cup that her son used, but yikes! it was a little bit more than I would like to spend!! This is the girl who had been enjoying her 50RMB (USD$7.50-ish) USED drip coffee maker for years so spending SGD$42 (USD$32-ish) dollars on a Cold Brew coffee “maker” was a no go. Anyways, a month or so before we left Singapore, I purchased a coffee dripper (not really same-same as her son’s Cold Brew coffee “maker” but it felt special none the less.

https://shopee.sg/-Bettr-Coffee-Co.-Clever-Coffee-Dripper-(18oz)-with-Filters-i.315858498.4759267500?sp_atk=3a44e33b-6011-493a-895f-373705b80d1d

Anyways, that process of learning about Cold Brew coffee will always be a fun memory for me and my time in Singapore. Admittedly, I still use my husband’s drip coffee maker for every day use but my Cold Brew coffee maker is for special times. Mostly for my afternoon pick-me-up or when I am out on the road running errands and want a warm drink – even in the summer. Living on a tropical island does that to you. The weather is a no matter when it comes to certain routines like morning/afternoon coffee or wearing socks during the day.

On another note and a special memory of mine, I will talk coffee mugs in a later post. Let me just say that Starbucks appreciates our purchases!!

There is nothing more endearing than the sound of a baby belly laugh. It is so refreshing and for whatever reason brings a feeling of comfort and calm. Those laughs make me believe there is hope and goodness in/for the next generation; and especially considering the hurt our world is in right now, we need a little hope and light at the end of our tunnel. Three cheers for buddha belly laughs around the horn!

Last weekend, while Scott and I were walking to our neighborhood grocery store, we heard the cutest little belly laughs made by a couple littles; both boys under 3yo. They were spraying each other with the water hose, on low stream so as not to totally blast the other brother into the neighbor’s fence. Anyways, whether learning that from an adult in their lives or just by trial and error, I am pleased to report that their sprays were gentle enough, preventing a punch or push or shove during or afterwards. Kudos to the Mama and Dada. It truly warmed our hearts, remembering fondly, moments of our own children playing in the side yard of our former home in America. Wow, I still remember the bathing suits they were wearing, the pictures I took back then, so many pictures. Not as many as moms these days, for sure, but memorable none the less. Below: 2011

After our nearly daily trip to the store – and not because I don’t meal plan, because I truly love to meal plan, but I prefer to pick up fresh vegetables as they are always available. Anyways, as Scott and I were returning home with our packs full, the little boys were still at it. I noticed that the Auntie was still looking on with that similar “joy” look as had been on my face. Although I am not quite sure how long they had been spraying each other before I had passed by, I do know that when we returned to that spot about 45min later. Yo, that’s a long time for belly laughs. Can you believe it? Admittedly, there have been times when I had heard those boys yell and scream at that house, but hey, you take the good times when they are to be had. Let us leave my snippet of the story on a positive note… faces filled with joy ’round the neighborhood, for sure. Many thanks for our neighbors for that moment.

In my house, a bit of the same joy.

Just six weeks ago my children entered 9th Grade. High School. Like other parents I have said to newer parents, “Enjoy every last minute because before you know it POOF they are grown adults!” I must say that with each new school year and stage of development, sometimes the feeling is POOF! and gosh, sometimes you want to speed up the clock. That feeling, my friends, it is necessary for us to resist.

After moving to Singapore in Summer 2017, I noticed many changes in my body; the texture of my skin, the increase in hair loss, overall lethargy and sluggish-ness. Not to mention the weight gain from eating all the delicious foods! Oh, the food. While Hong Kong has been the officially ranked food-crazed city in the world, Singapore is at the tippity top of my list. (Admittedly, Hong Kong Disney served some killer caramel popped corn!! In contrast, the soy sauce-d popped corn at Disney Sea in Tokyo, Japan – not so nummy.)

Yes, let us begin at the top; my hair. Obviously our hairstyle is part of our identity; boys or girls. So although I have only experienced this through a girl’s lens, I assume the identity issues are same-same. Bedhead or freshly laundered and styled, hairstyles say a lot about a person. I am not interested in being stereotypical so you can think to your own experiences. A person’s hairstyle speaks of their passion, their career (or lack there of), family and friend situations, and all that makes up our character. Raise your hand if at anytime you have said that you are having a bad hair day, to somehow manufacture your specific circumstance. And we all raise our hands – it’s ok.

Stay with me, your hair, for whatever reason, does not represent who you are (or want to be) that day or perhaps what exactly you are showing up for, ie. wearing a last minute messy ‘do to a formal. In fact, making this “bad hair day” statement gives you the excuse for the other downfalls in your day. Had you NOT spent an extra 10-min on your ‘do you would not have been stuck in the dreaded weekday morning traffic. Had you NOT spent an extra 10-min on your ‘do you would have had time for breakfast, if at least to grab a granola bar, except now it’s 9:30am and you have to wait for hours and hours before you can have some resemblance of a proper lunch you had hoped to have, all in preparation for your afternoon company-wide WebX presentation with the CEO. It’s a trickle down effect you see. “Sorry Mr. CEO, I must be having a “bad hair day.” 

Well, I am 43-year woman, mother of twin teenagers and although I no longer have WebXs/coworkers, or even a CEO, as I am self-employed, I too have bad hair days and make excuses. And I too sometimes get stuck in weekday morning traffic as I drive my children to school. Sometimes we forget water bottles. Sometimes we leave our shoes in the shoe rack. All because one of us forgot to brush our hair. Seriously, it has been used as an excuse. And why not, it’s fashionable?!

In November 2017, I remember the moment getting out of the shower, staring into my palm filled with what looked to be a million strands of hair and oh, right, that day was a day I took my kidlets to school, we were running late. Water bottles forgotten. Shoes left behind. Crying session in the shower. And an all around “bad hair day”. I wanted that excuse to go down the drain; without the million strands, of course. Let us try to keep them attached to our skull, Mel. 

On to the largest organ in our body; the skin. Besides my obsession with clean-as-possible teeth and telling my kids that the first thing you see of a person is their smile, hence one of the reasons for them to take the best care of teeth as possible, my (our) skin should be treated with gentle care. Except for our heels. Scrub the mess out of the them because I tell you what, living on an island where everybody and their Auntie wears sock-less sandals and flip flops, you can tell from a meter away who DOES and who does NOT scrubs those suckers.

Back to my (our) skin, other than from your ankle down. Like your pearly whites, folks do notice your skin. The wrinkles, freckles, blemishes, etc. You know it’s true, otherwise there would not be such a huge variety of products available to us. We apply oils, anti-wrinkle creams, foundation, powders, lotions, in no particular order, zit creams, cream to cover the black circles under our eyes, etc. Everybody has their own skin regime and they should as our skin is different, our lifestyles are different, our preferences are different. Good on those who take the extra time to tailor their routines as such. Well, up until this time my routine had been working. Something was wrong and I needed to change.. something.

On my 40th birthday, spending our Summer Home Leave back in America, I asked my daughter to take a picture of me with a “I’m 40-years old” mug while in the drug store (see photo below). Thinking I was cool I promptly posted it on my FB page for all to see and to celebrate my big transition to what could be 1/2 my lifetime. Bags under my eyes. Skin pasty white (more so than usual). Jet lag, perhaps. Probably. I was FORTY. Dang, I remember when my Mom was FORTY. That’s old. Lol. And the big ‘ol bags. Certainly, that picture made me think, and I was a bit disappointed in myself. And I don’t mind saying that regardless of who reads this. A bad hair day, perhaps? 

Realization. I needed to realize and come to terms with the fact that if I truly and unhappy and needed to make a change, be it big or small, drastic or minute. We never honestly know until we “give it a go,” says my Australian friends. “Give it a shot,” my American friends say. Either way you slice it, some sort of action needs to applied by my doing. To be successful in a quest like that, one needs to be determined to 1) win or 2) lose. Lack of determination gets us nowhere. If the later is the undesired consequence, a win with desired outcomes needs to be the determination. Otherwise, you fall back into giving it a “go” without any gas in the tank. Of course this is sometimes easier said than done. But what would my life have been worth if I hadn’t enjoy being me in this beautiful life. That was my realization and I needed to be in the game for the long haul.

This takes me to beginning June 2018 when I had searched a bit on Facebook for a pet sitter for Xiao Li. While Singapore is such a safe city I felt safe to ask around on one of the Expat sites. In late June 2018 a lovely Australian woman and her husband, newly fur-parented by a Singapore rescued German Shephard named Frankie, answered my plea for help. Our initial correspondence was about dogs this and dogs that. She and her husband were such a delight; young couple living their best life. Over the course of the next few months each of our families traveled here and there, leaving the pets at each other’s house as necessary. It was a lovely fur-parent relationship, one that I had never experienced before. While we love our dog, I realized that they loved Frankie more and so I learned from them several things. One being Frankie had her own dedicated drawer under the TV to keep her toys. Mathilde returned those toys to the drawer every night before bed and then the next day came. Out came the toys and the cycle repeats itself. Much like children. 

It wasn’t until beg Mar 2019 that I had realized that Mathilde was a Life Coach. At the time I had no clue what a life coach was. After doing some research (It was easy, apparently this sort of occupation was a “thing” as I found out later that other friends of mine held that same title. Behind the times much!?) I discovered that a Life Coach is “a wellness professional who helps people make progress in their lives in order to attain greater fulfillment. They aid their clients in improving their relationships, careers, and day-to-day lives.” according to verywellmind.com. Many thanks to Xiao Li and Frankie for bringing Mathilde into my life. She guided me to Dr. K. Thanks, friend. 

Dr. K. is a a Naturopathic Doctor. Never heard of one, neither had I. 

Naturopathic Doctors (ND) are trained at accredited residential naturopathic medical programs so yes, they are “real” doctors. Their approach to medicine is that of encouraging the patient to look after their own health and well-being and to understand what works and doesn’t for themselves. Far too often, specifically in America, the health professionals have the idea that their expertise is worth more than you how the patient feels pertaining to a certain situation, medication, illness, etc. My thought is that we are not encouraged to discover for ourselves what our body needs and desires. Anyways, I digress. A Naturopathic Doctor will provide support in helping the patient’s body the capacity to heal and to balance the body. 

So Dr. K. began my consultation with the usual introduction and then asking the reasons why I came to see her. We chatted for a bit; talking patient history and the like, all checklist items as normal. Then she wanted to know how I am doing and how Singapore is treating me. Having lived overseas for several years herself, she knew full well that there could be other contributing factors that lead to my office visit. 

Doctors sometimes know the truth without us having to admit anything. Like Moms. Anyways, looking back on that visit, I believe she saw me then as I saw myself in my 40th Birthday mug picture. To consider it desperation is a bit much, really, but I think it was obvious that I needed to be there at that moment. 

After our welcoming chat, Dr. K. asked me to sit on the table, checked my eyes and nose and reflexes then took a blood sample right then. Some people really have to psych themselves up for giving blood but not me. Don’t get me wrong… I too don’t enjoy setting the appointment, sweaty palms in the cold waiting room, and then the act of handing over my “good” arm and the final thoughts, “it will just be a pinch”. I don’t look forward to it but this process is all about the results. At that time I had the initial blood draw. A week or so after my first visit, I went to another office where the Doctor read my results.

Dr. K.’s recommendations adjusted my lifestyle as follows; 2-weeks dairy-free and gluten-free, a daily liquid iron supplement and a morning addition of collagen powder to a glass of water/juice immediately after breakfast. My family was not thrilled about this temporary lifestyle because I wanted them to do it with me. Safety in numbers. Exercise buddies. Study buddies. This did not go without struggle and so I gave in as this was my situation, for now. No milk in my coffee. No milk in my cereal. No milk with dinner (always a glass of milk with a meal, I remember my Dad saying). No garlic bread. No toast with jam. No more “pizza night” with my family. Oh, heavens. Taking away “pizza night” for any member of my family was unheard of. But I am proud to say that I did it on my own.

Yep, I survived to tell about it and man did I feel great. I substituted my homemade pizza dough recipe for a Gluten-Free pizza crust, store-bought after my attempt fell short. It didn’t go to waste, however, as I am not one to throw food away, especially when I needed to be strong and follow through with Dr.’s orders. Eating bleh food was not part of the paperwork but I had my pride to uphold. My coffee has never tasted the same with the substitute of coconut milk. I had always enjoyed coconut milk, say, in a foo-foo drink but had never enjoyed it on a regular basis. In Asia, coconut milk is used in my most favorite foods: curries, but cows milk was always used in coffee, or so we are told in the west. With regard to garlic bread, I just didn’t eat it. With regard to jam on bread, I frequented the local health food store and found an amazing Gluten-Free banana bread option and ate it like a mad man. I sometimes craved our local bakery’s sourdough bread but meh, the banana bread was pretty tasty and didn’t leave a wheat stalk in my belly. 

After a week of the iron-providing liquid, I developed some marks on my right chest near my shoulder blade. Dr. K said that it should go away in a few days. She explained that the marks are simply my body’s way of detoxifying but that I should lower my prescribed iron-providing liquid dose. As instructed, I lowered the dose and the marks went away. After the liquid ran out, I purchased vegetarian iron capsules at 150% DV but I haven’t seen a huge difference in how I look or feel. My husband grills and/or smokes meat every weekend so the fact that I am low in iron did not make much sense to me. Admittedly I do not always eat a large quantity of the meat at one sitting, but I do indulge on corned beef!! I had wondered if lacking a sufficient amount of iron may be hereditary? My mom was always low in iron although she indulged in a steak meal (including an ocean of butter on her baked potato) nearly every week.

Strange how our bodies work differently. Possibly I may pass this deficiency down to my children so eating up all their dad’s grillings is an important thing to stress.  Throughout this process I continued to take my multi-vitamins, afterall, I had been taking them for over a decade and I have always felt a difference in my energy level during the day. I admit that my eating habits have gone to the toilet since arriving in my new home with such a rich food culture. Living here are persons from all walks of life and with that comes their homelands foods and that rich food culture, one reason why people travel to Asia. 

A person’s journey, no matter how big or small is important to their life story. I need to write things down otherwise I forget some of the details. Bad hair day, perhaps? Or maybe just aging, hopefully gracefully. No matter. My last thought is this. If some of my problems struck a cord with you, or that you have felt a little-less-than-human lately, it is possible that a Dr. K should be in your future. 

My first visit was in March 2019. My final visit was June 2019. I am posting this five months following my initial visit. At times the office visits schedule is murky to me as there was so much information to digest.