KEEP IT IN THE PHAMLY

The other day, I was in Inala doing my weekly Phamly dinner grocery shop with Dad Pham when I saw a little African boy begging and pleading with his mum for a box of Yan Yan in the store. Now, Inala if you recall is the Brisbane suburb where Struggle Street was filmed - it’s not known for wealthy residents with money to burn. I could tell when his Mum repeatedly said no, the way Mum Pham used to tell us no, was because money is tight and she needed to make the most of what she had - not because she didn’t want him to have sweet, sweet sugar.

Watching his shoulder slump as he tried and failed to get his Dad to say yes reminded me of the time I had a full on tantrum - throwing myself on the floor, thrashing about because Mum wouldn’t get me a pink and white jewellery box that was super expensive - $18 - what a brat I was. Dad ended up going back to the shops to get it because I wouldn’t stop crying, but now I’m older I realise she could feed our family for half a week for the price of that dumb (though much beloved, I played with it for years) toy box.

It upset my tummy to see parents who love their child not being able to justify $1.50 for a biscuit and chocolate treat. So I paid the cashier for the tub the little boy was still gripping while his Dad was telling him to put it back, and got an extra one for his brother who was sitting in a pram outside. As I left the shop, I handed the second box to his Dad and told him I got them both for his cute little boys. His dad’s face lit up and when he told his son he could keep the Yan Yan the boy was so happy it nearly made my heart burst. Other people’s happiness, it’s the best.

When we first moved into our apartment a few years ago, Dad Pham told me under no circumstances was I to get plants because I’d kill anything dead and make a mess and fill the garden with weeds. Father knows best so I left it alone for two years. Then one day on the way back from Boxing Day shopping at Pacific Fair where I bought everything full priced and shamed Little Sissy Pham’s gay friends to the core, we stopped off at IKEA for more impulse shopping. But this time I bought a stack of self-watering planters on SALE. Finally!

This IKEA planter is perfect for the lazy gardener (i.e. me) because you water the top pot and it trickles all the way through. Minimal effort, maximum impact - that's my life motto.

Surprisingly, I've kept my herb garden alive for half a year. Though, if I’m real - there have been some unfortunate events and a couple of deaths. First, I let a bunch of insects obliterate most of the herbs. Then when I tried to remedy it I didn't know to spray the plants at night and sunburnt the heck out of the surviving leaves. But with some patience and care I was able to salvage most of the plants and they're thriving.

There's something therapeutic about caring for plants. It's rewarding seeing something flourish directly because you worked on it. It's also bloody delicious having fresh herbs to throw into your dishes. Still, it’s early days - I could well be writing an obituary for my plants soon. Dad does have a way of being right about things. Like that time he told me I was too stubborn a child he couldn’t raise me properly so had to let me do my own thing and learn life the hard way, and I refuse to believe that he didn't raise me because that’s absurd and I always know best. He can't tell me how he parented me!

In Asian culture it's pretty much mandatory that family gatherings are kicked off with the oldest generation of Asian women judging the younger generations. This is why Mum Pham used to introduce me to new friends and acquaintances as, "Ngoc (that means Jade) was the duck (she means dux) of her school. She could have done anything with her life, but she chose music and that's why her hair's like that."

A lot of the time you're judged on weight. "You're fat." "You need to tidy your waistline." "You need to diet." Which is immediately followed by massive plates of food and a stern, "Eat. Eat!" And once you're done with the first plate. "Eat more! I cooked so much food!" "You must eat dessert." "And second dessert." "And fruit."

Most of my life I've been a little or a lot overweight but the one time I lived with 9 dudes in a warehouse and never had food around the home, I was a tad underweight (this was when I had Bobble Head Syndrome). During my skinny phase, I got a, "Now that you're skinny, your nose looks too big." There's no winning with Asian elders.

At the latest big family gathering, the Aunts decided I am single because of the way I dress. It is unflattering - not demure, not elegant, not classy. This critique would be offensive if I thought I was any of those things, but I don't. I even agree with them for a change.

I dress like I let a 2 year old pick my outfit, after a unicorn ate too many rainbows and threw up on everything I own. Plus I finish off my looks with a pair of sneakers so I can stomp around like the ungraceful klutz a lifetime of not participating in sports has helped me to become. I look like a hot mess but that's ok, I would rather be myself and single than doll myself up for someone who'd date me based on my wardrobe.

I'm pretty in (unicorn) punk and I'm happy that way. If guys don't like that, then they can go and love themselves, right? Right.

I don't get the flu injection every year. I am totally pro vaccinations but with the flu jab I don't bother because I'm at low risk of exposure. Little Sissy Pham gets them free at work because government and also she crosses paths with the masses every day. I, on the other hand, don't particularly want to pay to be stuck with a needle, and expect my immune system to handle a solo drive to work and a tiny team.

That being said: Betadine Throat Gargle - Little Sissy Pham and I swear by this stuff. As soon as I feel a sore throat coming on, I head straight to the supermarket or pharmacy to stock up on the gargle and the Betadine Lozenges (lemon flavour is my fave). I am rarely exposed to confined public spaces like public transport, so I only get sick if someone in the office is kind enough to share their germs with work. But on those rare occasions I start waking up with a sore throat, my go-to best friend is Betadine Throat Gargle. 1-3 days of gargling usually gets rid of the sore throat.

Recently, I caught a bug from my desk buddy but I hung out with Betadine and bounced back after a few days in bed. In a feverish haze, I accidentally drank 5 ml of the stuff before I remembered it was a gargle and not cough medicine. The good news is I didn't die. The bad news is it tastes bloody awful going down. It burns! It burns!

My desk buddy was very sick for two weeks from the bug, and I got back to life in 3 days (1 day off, and a weekend). Sure, I wasn't 100% and I kept calling 'denim' 'dinner' for a couple of days, but I made it to work, and was somewhat functional and I swear it was thanks to Betadine reigning in the virus that was trying to infect my throat and life. Give it a shot (but don't swallow) next time you feel a sore throat coming on.

When we lived in the council flats, Dad Pham used me as his megaphone. I could be heard from blocks away when I yelled from the balcony so if I was home he'd use me to call my siblings. These days he has a mobile phone to do this, so instead I use my lung capacity to belt out tunes in my car on the commute to work. I don't sing in front of other people normally but I make an exception at red lights where they can probably hear me warbling since I have my windows open (air con dries out my eyeballs - they haven't been the same since laser surgery, but vision = worth it).

I treat myself to car karaoke in the mornings or on long solo drives up or down the Coasts. I sing from the belly - no gentle throat singing for this normally quiet one. I roar for 50-ish minutes to work because I need the extra oxygen to wake me up since I don't do daily coffees like most of my colleagues. Dad is always encouraging me to do breathing exercises every morning - sucking in air to yell at songs each morning is my version of breathing exercises. On the way home I don't sing, I prefer to destress from work by listening to the soothing voices of podcasters discussing true stories of murder, rape and torture.

I have two core playlists - old school (60s-70s) & less old school (90s rap & hip hop to modern pop) - that are always there so the songs come and go as I get bored of singing along or learn the hard way there are some notes that just hurt my throat and ears. Then I'll occasionally go through phases like Beyonce's Lemonade, Disney's Moana soundtrack. I wanted to go through a Dr. Dre 2001 but I really cannot rap - I barely remember lyrics to regular songs with many less words.

Car karaoke, guys - I highly recommend for your morning commute. Would not recommend for public transport though. You may get a punch in the throat if you do.

Believe it or not, despite my bright and colourful wardrobe and matching demeanour, I do think unhappy thoughts sometimes. I keep the dark scary off the Interwebs because there’s enough negativity on here - am I right? Sometimes, I think the happy, positive people in the world probably also have the worst thoughts because if you have the capacity to be extreme in one way, you have it in you to be the opposite extreme too.

There is no hiding when I’ve cried. My eyelids puff up like I’ve had an allergic reaction to life (which I suppose you could say I did), and my eyes become so bloodshot and dry it looks like I haven’t slept in days. The worst cries are when I run out of tears and burst the little blood vessels around my eye socket so I also have little red veins streaking everywhere. No amount of makeup can hide all three side-effects of bawling my eyes out because it changes the physical shape of my eyes, lips and nose - everything gets puffy.

I don’t cry too often. I feel like crying all the time - say, about once every month 4-6 days before I start bleeding - PMS, guys, it’s a bitch. But I only cry every now and then if I’m feeling bummed out about something specific. The trigger can be big or small and the cries accordingly.

My last small cry was after a nice lunch at RSPCA Wacol's Black Cat Cafe when I saw a kitty kat being adopted by a young boy and his mum. I was so darn ecstatic for the cat and her new family I burst into tears on the spot.

My last big cry was after my dating fail with No Fun - it brought on years of self-doubt and feeling unwanted for most of my life. And people often point out what’s wrong with me when it comes to reasons I am single (too intelligent, too weird, etc) and I usually disagree with them (too argumentative) because it's the dating pool that's wrong (too idealistic). I let myself be overwhelmed and weeped every night for nearly two weeks. Sometimes it's good to let it go, Queen Elsa is right.

There's no shame in crying whether it's over sad things or glad things. Everyone needs to let themselves feel their feelings every once in a while. All because society undervalues emotion, does not mean it has no value to us as people. It is good to feel your feelings. It's where art and music and creativity and beauty is born. It's how we relate to one another and make connections. So, dear people, let yourself feel all the things. Don't hold back! ...Unless your feelings are impulses to hurt yourself or others - in which case, please reach out to people at organisations like headspace and beyondblue who can help you process what you're feeling.

I kept handwritten journals from primary school through to university. In the past decade or so I’ve lost the good habit. I rarely sit down without technology - my laptop or my phone, so I decided to digitise my journal and see if that worked. It did. I created a Gmail account that I email every 1-3 days with my latest news, thoughts and meanderings. It mostly acts as a log of my mediocre life, but every now and then it’s good to vent privately about the state of something in my life or the world, or anything really.

Even though I have this blog - which is also like a weblog of my life, I still want to keep a diary of my (im)proper private thoughts because not everyone needs to know I ate breakfast in the courtyard so I could spend quality time with my plants…and the PokéStop next door. Or that I’m constipated from eating potato chips for dinner for half the week. No, really, I am that interesting I want to record every useless thought I have. But I know it’s not for everyone so I'm doing the internet a kindness and keeping a private journal.

The perks of a digital diary means I can easily search for things if I want to recall an event without manually trawling through a dozen thick A4 books to try and find a bit of information. It took me 30 minutes to figure out how old our cat was when the Vet asked her age - a quick Gmail search would have pulled it up in seconds. It’s also handy not traveling with a book. I used to write in my journal a lot when I went on holidays away - the quiet time at night not in my own home was perfect for focussed writing, but that required forethought and packing my diary in the first place. Now I can simply email my diary from my phone any time, anywhere.

For anyone wanting to keep a journal but never quite getting started or if you have a journal and dropped off because you never seem to have time to sit down and write your thoughts, I highly recommend digitising your entries. If you’re on the internet often, it makes sense to email your entries to/from an exclusive address instead of finding time to sit down with a notebook and handwriting the story of your life. You can also attach photos and videos to keep a visual diary of your memories too. I love it.