Sunday, November 13, 2011

Time Bomb

Not characteristic of me to be serious on this blog, but I felt the need to present the world with the mother of all rants, so bear with me. Perhaps taking it out on my keyboard is what I need to get back to being Little Miss Glib again.

I'm in one of those all-too-frequent (as of late) situations where I just might kill someone any minute, or start googling for nice noose designs. If one is feeling suicidal, the least one can do is go fashionably, noh?

Thing is, I have issues. (do I hear a loud and resounding 'duh'?)

Daddy issues, to be more precise. A few close friends in my tight little circle know what I'm on about, but I thought it was high time I proclaimed my problems to the world. As if you hadn't heard enough of them already.

Alright, I'll get to the point.

My parents give me a hard time about my boyfriend.

I can almost hear you sniggering about how this is not an uncommon problem. Shut up for a moment and listen, before you scoff your way to timbuktoo.

I'm 32. This has been going on for 8 years. It has driven me to want to take my life.

Ah. See? Not laughing any more, are you?

I don't know how they became this monsterous. I can't remember how, when or WHY it happened. They're both what you might call the 'cool' sort with their own dubious relationship history that warrants an entire book which Spielberg would consider worthy of cinematizing.
Somehow, when it comes to my love life and in particular the current man in my life, it's like we're suddenly living in Saudi Arabia.

It's one thing to strop on the Asian daughter shackles onto a teenage girl who doesn't know better than to lust after a career in porn. It's a complete other to go Mullah on a 32-year old professional woman with a superior feminist complex. I mean... do I LOOK like an impressionable twat?

For those of you who haven't seen me, the answer is- no, I do not. I'm quite prude and scary in a fair, fat way.

The good fellow I'm dating is one of the nicest, most down to earth, sensitive blokes I know. All my friends, in fact, feel sorry for him, having found him latched onto me. Compared to the imbeciles I've been with in the past, this one is a complete jackpot in the chivalrous, respectful and sweet department. So you can imagine how maddening it is when my Father takes it upon himself to spew utter rubbish about the poor man to anyone and everyone he meets. In the last 8 years, this wonderful, wonderful, long suffering bloke has been subjected to the vilest harrasment possible, with rumours about his character being spread to the far ends of the earth by none other than my precious parents. They've managed to concoct filth about him being a shady drug pusher, an addict, a two-bit unemployable johnny who is apparently sponging off me, a criminal and a whole host of lovely labels that I do not care to detail out here.

I put up with it through the first two years of dating, assuming it was the natural order of things with Sri Lankan parents. But when the two years stretched to 8 and in the interim they started pulling out all stops in the nasty department for no known reason, it started to get on my last nerve. And it's a very fragile nerve, that one.

I can deal with them nagging at me about the state of my room, my hair and my hemline. What I cannot stand is them taking liberties to play with another person's life and reputation when they have no right to. It can be my boyfriend or someone else's next door neighbour, I don't care; there are some levels to which one does not stoop. They put this poor chap through hell for just existing. Not only have they created absurdities about him, but also blame him for every thing I do that has nothing to do with him, too. Every single action of mine is directly co-related to his evil influence on me.

For fuck's sake.

Two years back dearly beloved's mother passed away after a battle with cancer. You'd think the decent thing to do would be to at least put aside your prejudices for a single day and attend your daughter's boyfriend's mother's funeral. But no, they chose to bastardize that too, spreading ugly stories about his family and getting pissy at members of my extended family who chose to attend the funeral. So much for me expecting them to come around in times of tragedy.

Before you impart advice on how to deal with this situation, trust me, I have. I have done everything possible, from trying to speak with my parents (letters, e-mails, direct conversations both nice and not-so-nice) to seeking intervention from the family priest in the hopes that my dad would at least listen to a man of the Lord. But apparently, even the Lord's servant has been adversely influenced by the demon that is my boyfriend. The Boyfriend's tried addressing the issue with my parents himself too, but to no avail. Not only have they point blank refused to meet with him even ONCE in the last 8 years to at least see what his face looks like before they form opinions about his character, but every other attempt he and his family have made to break the ice have been met with nothing but the most cruel responses.

I just do not get it.

To add insult to injury, my parents go out of their way to rub it into me as to how this treatment is specially saved just for my relationship and no other. My brother, for example, has recently procured himself a girlfriend who they can't get enough of. Myyyyy... you should see the way they fall over themselves cooking dinners for her and going to tea parties with her family. It's great that the poor child has not been subjected to any hassle, but I just cannot find it in myself to sit comfortably and play happy families when any of this unbelievable fawning goes on. It will take some time for me to adjust to how my mother, who after years of prudely opining that a girl going to boy's house is the next best thing to a cheap Thai hooker (in reference to me visiting my boyfriend in broad daylight), is suddenly beside herself with joy when my brother's girlfriend pops over at night and stays long after dinner up in HIS BEDROOM.

Look, I know this all sounds like your typical girly rant about daddy-Vs.-darling issues, but the thing is, come on, noh? I'm 32, goddamit. At some point of time you have to trust me with making my own goddamn decisions in this world. It's not like I'm even close to the TYPE of woman who'd fall for a drug-pushing spongebob. Nothing about me or my history indicates that I can't make a responsible (if not overtly paranoid) decision. Furthermore, the boyfriend himself has been nothing but an absolute showcase of ethics and maturity throughout all these years, not once putting a foot wrong and proving my father correct in any of his accusations. He's even been unrealistically patient with all this, when he has had enough reason to lodge a complaint against my parents for harassment and causing emotional harm. in fact, I've advised him several times to do just that- take my dad to courts for the vicious slander, but he refuses, sitting in the hopes that they will like him someday. Not happening, dude.

If you, like many others have, are thinking of advising me to move out of home and start controlling my own life, then I'm sorry but I've been there and bought the t-shirt already. four years ago I did take my life into my own hands and found a nice little place almost two doors down from my parent's home. And like all good, decent, broad-minded fathers do, mine decided to have chest pains and be rushed to the hospital as a result of the 'stress I was causing him by slapping him the face with my move'. My mother, the doctor and the rest of the world accused me of trying to kill my father.

And so ended the move, as well as the part of me that thus far thought I could ever be independant.

Sigh. So now what do I do? Every day just gets harder to cope. Boy is very nice to have stuck around this long after all this shit being meted out to him, but there's just so much he can do without causing further drama. He sits and twiddles his thumbs as we speak.

I, on the other hand, will explode any moment now. Can you hear the ticking?







Monday, October 10, 2011

HOO!

My DAHLINGS! How how?

Yes I know. I have been MIA for yonks now and I don't mean that nasty-mouthed rapper girl.Though I can be nasty mouthed too. I can't rap, though.

Admit it, you missed me and my digressing.

Aiyo I have so much to tell you... so much to pontificate on... so much to bitch about. Vhere to start, ja? Shall I just blabber at random? Yes, I think I will. Sorting out thoughts and news into different blogposts will take too much time and you know how often I blog.


1.

So I started a new job and all. Methinks it was high time a change happened (I don't think anyone should be surprised, going by the 'woe-is-me' references to my work in the past), but strangely this new shift was not propogated by me. You see dearies, the COO (Chief Operations Oxbrain) of the last office- a baby-faced snake whom I never really liked to begin with - pulled a fast one and made off with the agency network and the utterly fartly client who made up 80% of our business. There are lots of different versions of the story circulating in the ad industry, but those of us who worked in the place know just exactly how the conniving lowlife and his conniving arse-buddy the client manipulated things to suit their purpose. It was quite a trying time for most of us, but one we all saw coming. Wonderfully enough though, 95% of the staff refused to jump ship with him and basically left him hanging with only three groupies that he'd brought in. The rest of us found work elsewhere and moved on after a few tears and the office we worked in closed down. It wasn't all sad, though. Most of us have come to the realisation that things really worked out for the best, given that we're all pretty happy in our new jobs and we no longer have to service that awful, awful client anymore. I also hear that ex-COO was recently almost beaten up by the husband of a woman he'd been having a fling with. Muahahahaha. Karma at its best.

I was fortunate enough to be retained by the old group and transferred to a sister agency, along with a charismatic LD and a couple of other chums. So far, so good. Although I am no longer working in the creative division, the new stint is good fun and I am loving the energy and good vibes going around. It's quite a pleasant change to have actual HUMANS to work for and with. I've realized I've been decidedly happier with the world since I made the switch, so it must be a good thing. Tralala and all that for now. Wish me luck, sweethearts.


2.

I have, out of a the classic glutton-for-punishment-itch, also taken on two new side jobs. It has nothing to do with money and everything to do with the fact that I am in denial about my ageing energy levels. One afore-mentioned side job is actually a bit of a dream come true - I've been commissioned to host my very own travel show on TV! Cue fanfare and general cheers for life's little ups. It's a budget travel show where I get to traipse aimlessly around Sri Lanka and get my hands dirty off the beaten track. Very very exciting stuff. At the mo it's all in planning and production phase, but by God it's thrilling. To top things off I am presenting the show with a long-time buddy which makes it funner, if there be such a word. So far we've shot the pilot episode which was a bit of a sorry disaster but one for the memories nevertheless. I am hoping the actual episodes to come will be slightly more colourful. Once we are officially public about it I will let you all know which channel to watch and when. :D

Side job no.2 is my dibs on grandmotherhood- I have started... wait for it...(drumroll)...baking cakes. This is my small contribution to the health ministry's efforts in population control. It all started off with my very first cake of all time that I baked for my dad's b'day. On realizing it didn't look half bad (actually cake-like),I went and did that whole boastful, gloaty thing of posting up pictures on FB. That made things skyrocket to a whole new level and people started placing orders. Thinking I was cat's whiskers and quite pleased with the new-found skill, I took on the orders to finance what became a hobby of sorts and have now come to a point where I have to turn most of the orders down because I just can't handle the load. One of these days I promise you I will die of exhaustion, but for now I spend my nights and weekends raping my mother's oven. I even managed to attract a magazine review out of it. Martha Stewart will be proud, before she tastes my cakes and dies of food poisoning.



3.

My animal welfare activities are on a new high. I have taken advocacy to near-extremes and can be often seeing parading the streets or abusing social networks priviledges to save the planet. People have stopped talking to me as a result, like most ignorant and stupid humans are wont to do when they're informed that they are not the most important thing in the world. Happily enough, I don't care. I have even attempted to become vegetarian, much to my carnivore boyfriend's dismay. But he is being a good soul about it and even occasionally supports my lunacy by foregoing meat on dinner dates without my telling him to. Bless him. The new diet is working so far, though I have to admit to the odd slip-up here and there. 'Tis a difficult business, getting certain habits out of one's systems, but a meat-less meal certainly has the benefits of a drama-free conscience and I actually sleep easier now.

I am extremely supposrtive of the organised effort to ban ritual animal slaughter at the Munneswaram Temple in Chilaw. Google it if you're not aware of the stories. It is beyond me how fucked up some people can be when it comes to interpretations of religious dictates. Good on Mervyn Silva, as much of an idiot as he is, for creating enough of a public spectacle by barging in there and confiscating those poor animals lined up for merciless hacking up. Religious tolerance and respect is one thing, but choosing to turn your head and spout nonsense about 'to each his own' when there's a life at stake is another. What's fucked up is fucked up and intervention in such circumstances is ok in my books, as unpopular a view as that may be. I can deal with the PROPERLY carried out sacrifices at religious events, such at the Islamic haj rituals. I say 'proper' because according to the laws of Islam, the slaughter is supposed to be carried out with minimum harm or distress to the animal, whereby no trauma has been inflicted. The problem is that more often than not, these mandates are rarely followed due to sheer incompetency or disegard in the name of human convenience. I wish there were more control methods put in place at these rituals, where proper supervision ensures that, if you MUST please your God by killing something, then at least the animal is kept comfortable and knows/feels little to nothing. Munneswaram is a whole different story and I'm not sorry to say I have absolutly no regard for foolish buffoons who think they can invoke luck and prosperity by violently murdering a life in the most callous way imaginable. I pray for a day when I am empowered enough to mete out the same treatment to said violators. May they rot alive.

Now you know why people avoid me.



4.

I have added yet another child to my already festering brood- a puppy named Smurfette. She is overtly active, destructive and consistently happy, which stresses the cats out no end. Smurfette was left in a box at my doorstep by someone who obviously had a bigger heart than the monsters who usually drown or throw away baby animals. After a few weeks of unsuccessfully trying to re-home her, she ended up as a permanent installation and now drives everyone batty. Neighbours are witness to the number of my bras and panties that she insists on dragging out into the garden for exhibition and I am constantly smelling of puppy drool. This is the life.


5.

The good things in life still mingle with the not-so-great. but I am too happy today to get into all that. Maybe someday you'll find out.


And just like that my boredom threshold has been reached and I am lazy to write anymore. Sorry. I have a few more thoughts up my sleeve which I will share with you shortly, but for now I have a Facebook storm to start.

Watch this space.

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Making Babies

Just the other day, an aunt was pestering me for the umpteenth time, in that way that Sri Lankans who have no other business to poke their noses into but yours do, to marry and have children. Not even eventually, mind you. QUICKLY. Because my biological clock is ticking its way to its death, said she. Because she needed to see me rocking a child in my arms or she would DIE.

I’ve reached a point where demands of this nature have ceased to get under my skin. You come to a point where you become immune to people’s silly notions that one must live by ridiculous norms.

But, like every woman is wont to do, this lady wouldn’t shoosh. For the sake of some quiet, I dabbled with my font of excuses that I usually mete out to annoying, uninvited personal advisors. Then I decided not to go down the tried and tested route of laughing at the thought of a piece of paper validating your commitment to someone, or putting on a superficial pageant for the sake of relatives who want to show off their latest sari acquisitions. All in favour of giving up your identity and independence in order to breed and run behind a whining, hairless HUMAN who does nothing but poop and opinionate.

I decided instead to present some hard-core facts to this clearly ignorant female.

“Look, aunty...” said I, trying very hard to mask my annoyance, “I refuse to drop babies on order because –

  • Elephants in this country have no space to live anymore. To make room for the planet, we need to drastically reduce the number of humans. I advocate mass sterilization of women, therefore, and not impregnation.
  • There are plenty of children who are brought onto this earth and neglected or thrown away. Why not just parent them instead?
  • Neither my body nor I are willing to undergo mind-fucking pain to squeeze something the size of a large watermelon out and thereafter suffer the saggy aftermath for the rest of my life. God knows I’m flabulous enough.
  • Global temperatures are in an accelerated rise. The best of scientists have reported that in the next 15 years, the ice caps will melt and raise ocean levels by as much as 20 feet. Much of the world as we know it will drown.
  • Have you seen the news? Everybody’s fighting with everybody else. The Gadaffis and Rajapakses of this world are here to stay. If the planet doesn’t destroy itself, then these buggers surely will.
  • According to reliable sources, we won’t have enough drinking water by 2020. That’s just 9 years from now.
  • The money I earn should be used towards justice for suffering animals, not pampers and exorbitant school fees.
  • I’d like to see the world and make a difference before I die and I can’t do it dragging a carry cot around.
  • Ragging in schools is the fad of the day. Crimes against children are at an all-time high. Perverts, paedophiles and rapists are commonality in today’s society.
  • Drugs and alcohol have a thumbs up from the younger generation everywhere. Already Marijuana usage laws are being passed, it’s only a matter of time before Coke has its day. Have you been to a rave party with teens? If you’re not getting high then you’re weird. Can you imagine how kiddie’s parties will be in a couple of years?
  • The arts are dead. Lady GAGA is what kids define as a role model these days.

And you want me to have babies? You must be fucking kidding me.”

I was satisfied that I’d finally given her enough reasons to realize her own foolishness.

That was until she opened her mouth again and replied, “But you can have such CUTE babies!”

It's only a matter of time before I kill the next person who approaches this subject with me ever again. You have been warned.

Thursday, February 17, 2011

I Decided to Like Women

Let me give you pervs out there a second to wipe off the excited sweat before I proceed.

Calmed down? Ok.

As if my workload and commitments are not enough already, I went and got myself activated over a new obesession last weekend- Women.

Please stop grinning lecherously. I promise I will burst that bubble of yours very soon.

Whilst mulling over what dramatic onslaught to present to my long-suffering boyfriend with on that gloriously commercialized joke called Valentine's Day, it suddenly struck me that not every woman out there would be plotting and planning like I was, because not every woman out there had a boyfriend worthy of plotting about. Given that I anyway have a thing for ball busting, I'd been doing some recent reading on the issues of domestic violence in the country and was pretty horrified to learn that an estimated 60% of the country's females are victims of violence in their homes. I say 'estimated' because there is no national survey conducted yet to assess the real numbers. All they have to go by is the number of reports logged in to the police and charity organisations. So it's safe to say that the ACTUAL number is probably far higher.

60%. SIXTY percent. That's 3 out of every 5 women. Logically, that means it could very well be your own wife, mother,sister,daughter or aunt. Or more than just one of them.

You don't have to be female to be shocked by that statistic. You just have to be human.

What was worse still was finding out that in most cases of domestic violence, all that's done about it is diddly squat. Either the victim is too afraid of the consequences of speaking out or her family is too ashamed to air their dirty laundry. More often than not, reports to the police (those champions of justice and paragons of virtue who do fuck-all for the betterment of society) result in the cops asking the woman what she's done to piss hubby off, and then advice her to go home and sort it out. After that, nobody cares anymore and life goes on. It only creates a minor buzz when her body is found chopped to pieces in a village well, and that too only if anyone feels like they need to alert the media.

Apparently, the most the authorites have done towards punishing a perpetrator of domestic violence is fined him a pittance and 'tsk'ed at his naughtiness.

Needless to say, I was incensed. I may not have had acid thrown at me, but I know what a slap on my face from someone who claims to love me feels like. I know how it all starts with a few derogatory remarks and then propels into full-blown physical acts. I also know how no matter how many people advice a perpetrator or how many apologies he makes, he's going to go back to being the same sorry bastard he always was.

And now I'd found out that 3 out of 5 women in my country are going through the worst kind of hell imaginable at the hands of such insects. I wanted to go out there and crush every testicle in the land into a fine dust and then feed it to the fishes (I would, too, except I don't think the fish are interested). I have always thought of myself as not belonging to this pathetic race called humans, with their apathetic attitudes and selfish ways. I had to do something... anything. But what? If only I had some help in the matter.

And then it struck me. I would get help. I could put out the statistic to everyone I knew and gather up some like-minded souls, and then together we could possibly make a noise loud enough to get the lazy-ass retards in government to put some goddamn justice system into place.

Valentine's plans were speedily forgotten. The boyfriend would understand. I rocked to and fro like a maddened monkey trying to figure out how to get people interested until it hit me... of course... Valentine's Day! What better day on which to shock the public into realizing that, as they traipse about like blithering romantic fools buying roses and gifts, there are women out there who will receive bleeding noses and black eyes instead. Those were THEIR 'gifts of love' from their husbands. If enough people realized this, then maybe enough people would give a shit and speak up about it.

Highly excited about the fact that I coincidentally happened to work in an industry where it's all about communication to the world, I spoke to my superiors about my idea. Could we do some work on this and get it out to the world? Could we make people care? Could we make a difference in the status quo?

My boss thought we could. We gathered arms immediately and put together a cracking team to work out the nittygritties. We contacted an organisation that works in women's welfare and got them excited too. They came on board and gave us the support we needed to put the plan to work. We contacted venues that could host our message and danced in glee when they offered to do it for free. Then we rolled up our sleeves and tried to help women. I spent days and nights living, breathing, shitting and dreaming of any research I could get my hands on. Even though I had a few bumps on the road with certain people exploiting the cause to their advantage, others at office were nothing less than inspiring, with their positivity and kick-ass attitude. People like LD, who weren't involved at the beginning, jumped on board voluntarily and helped with whatever support and advice they could. That in itself was awesome.

Three days afterwards, on the morning of Valentine's Day, we launched. Displays went up in major malls in the city, showcasing the kind of 'gifts' 60% of Sri lankan women receive - knives, acid, iron chains, hammers, poles, etc. We handed out brochures on action that responsible civilians should take when witnessing domestic violence. We directed people to a facebook site that we'd set up with the objective of educating and inspiring more people to speak out against the issue. I stalked out some of the venues that day and nearly pee-ed with thrill when people starting taking notice of the displays and reading the brochures.

That was three days ago. Today, I've got over 300 followers on the FB page. And counting.

This morning, a friend's nephew called me. He wanted to tell me that his dad sometimes beats his mom and he always thought that was ok, because it's all he knew. After reading our brochure and educating himself on the FB page, last night during a particularly violent argument he'd called the police, his extended family, and then stood up to his dad. Although the police never came and his father wasn't taken away and punished, he had nevertheless backed off and for the first time had apologized to his mother. It was a start. The boy now wants to get more involved and be an endorser of the cause in his school.

I have to tell you.... hearing that felt... and still feels... fucking good.

Please do join the page and help us out. Follow 'His gift of love' on FB, or log on to www.facebook.com/hisgiftoflovethisvalentines

I don't have to be the only one bothered about this. You're a blogger... can YOU take it up too?

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

Daydreamin'

It was a hot, sunny Tuesday down Dickman's Road. A crow perched up in leafy shade squinted up at the scorching sun and decided against wasting precious energy crowing. Below, a furiously panting dog drooled noodles of saliva in the hopes that a kind soul would pass him some water, or at the very least a magnanimous cat would offer it's blood. The grass shriveled in the heat as gusts of hot wind blew dust in the face of parked cars that could fry eggs on their windscreens.

Behind the closed doors of a centrally air-conditioned production house, within the arctic womb of an editing room, Dramaqueen had yet another hissyfit with the poor editor who had been punished into helping her put together a mundane AV presentation for a particularly snivelling client she loathed with passion. The editor had no choice but to piss in his underwear because that wretch DQ wouldn't let him so much as think of requesting a bathroom break until she had finished her presentation, which would only be well past midnight. He squirmed in shame as the smell of festered urine filled the room. Her ladyship's one good nostril that had survived sinusitis picked up on the wafting reek and screwed up on it's own accord. Rolling her eyes at the man in disgust she sighed a melodramatic sigh and finally permitted the crimson-faced minion to hastily escape to the bathroom. To while away her time in his absence and to avoid criticizing his clear inaptitude at bladder control, the glorious one decided to blog.

Alright. So the editor didn't really piss in his pant, or may have done so without telling me, but you have to admit it was a good read and you enjoyed the mental image of a male reduced to humiliation. You sadist you.

I don't even know WHY I recently professed to have missed the editing table. It must have been a lack of excuses to leave the office desk, because as dreamy as the memories of AV's gone by are, I am rudely reminded of the actual process that I went through time and time again with each one. Putting together an AV to a client's satisfaction is like taking the outer film of your eyeball off with a safety pin. No that I've tried, but I'm guessing its similar. Especially for the editor working with me. This must be his umpteenth AV with me and it can't be easy to hear my voice approaching his room for yet another go at the experience. Poor man. I will bake him a cake.

Speaking of, I baked my first fondant cake recently in honour of my father's birthday. Don't bother responding with 'aww' and 'you're such a great daughter' like those dimwits who commented on my FB page when I put up the pictures of said cake. I am not. I did it more for me than for him. One of this year's resolutions was to learn a new craft, and google images of whimsical cakes and sugar craft caught my eye. I wanted to try it out, having already explored every other possible craft hobby. Dad's birthday provided me with the ideal opportunity and guinea pig. The bakey types who show off on YouTube made it look easy enough, modeling creative figurines out of sugar without batting an eyelid. I'm not one of them, so the entire enterprise took me a good six and a half hours of spine-aching work, with another two to clean up after myself. Whoever invented buttercream must die painfully at my hands or I won't be happy. The end result however, was not at all bad, if you like clumsy fondant cakes that look like something heavy sat on them. pieces didn't fall off and the little fondant man I'd made to resemble Dad actually looked like a man instead of the baby amoeba I expected it to turn out into. It left me quite pleased with myself like one of those new mothers who talks about their baby for the next sixteen years until it becomes a sulky ungrateful teenager whom she can't wait to disown. Hence the proud FB pictures that got me some positive response from people who I know are not the sort to be nice for the sake of it, along with an actual order for a birthday cake. That got me rather excited. I spent two days in front of the mirror, wearing an apron and wondering if I could be the next Nigella of the cake world. Whether it was to humor me or to give me something to focus my attention on other than himself, my boyfriend fed me with tantalizing thoughts of taking up the culinary world as a profession. By the third day I had named my future cafe and designed it, floor tiles and all.

Then came Monday and here I am, getting on a video editor's last nerve. He's complained to me about the injustice of last-minute AV's so many times now that I am wont to tune out and go back to my sugar modeling dreams. I am seeing myself singing happy Disney songs as the woodland creatures and I dust baking powder at each other's faces and squeal with glee. I am mentally going through my repertoire and visualizing a menu of delicious gobbleables that I could whip up and serve to the world. I am thinking of the delightful t-shirts I could be fabric painting and selling off to gullible souls. There are a million things I could have been doing with myself and yet I chose advertising because it made me happy to let the creative juices flow free, but lately those juices have been canned and set aside and the tin is rusting fast. I am instead finding peace and passion in new creative outlets, culinary and otherwise that give me a bigger sense of satisfaction than producing a 30 second commercial ultimately directed by a client. The workaholic in me has turned into a lazy bitching bum akin to a government clerk, waiting for the clock to strike 6 so I can whiz speedily to my craft supplies. it makes me wonder what the purpose of my existence is.

This begs the question... are my AV days behind me?

Well, the video editor is, anyway... back from a bathroom stint that was suspiciously too long. I shall flog him.

Oh well... back to the rat race.




Thursday, January 13, 2011

We're Gonna Die.

Given that I've earned myself (through sheer hard non-work) a reputation for being elusive, I wasn't planning on blogging for some time. I like it when I make you yearn for me and then surprise you. Like a wife of 40 years who's lost some weight and discovered Victoria's Secret. However, as all unplanned things go, inspiration struck whilst digging my nose in a parked car, waiting for my boyfriend to come out of a Time Management seminar. He was half an hour late, which I think defeats the purpose.

Regardless, along with the booger came a sparkling new idea for an interesting post that you might want to plagiarize. Feel free.

What with the premenstrual weather patterns these day and Colombo reaching an all time low temparature and all that, I was contemplating on that popular Mayan notion of the end of the world peeking at us from around the corner and waving hello. Even the cynics amongst you have to admit that things are a looking a tad more interesting than pure coincidence, no? Floods, temperatures, droughts... I don't have to spell it out. Even though I think I just did. Oh well.

Anyhoo, that wasn't my point of this post. I'm not about to become yet another doomsday theorist. I was just pondering on the plight-to-be of the human race, should the planet decide on a massive spring cleaning session next year. (Not that it wouldn't be a good thing... we are the be all and end all of negative and useless life on the planet. I've always been of the thought that in order for the earth to have any joy, things need to start over and human existence needs to cease. The sooner the better. I am more than willing to wipe everyone off the face of the earth if Mother Nature wants the extra help.)

And so I wondered, as I dug deeper into the recesses of my nostrils in search of gold, what thoughts and achievements I as an individual would be leaving behind, should I die in 2012.

And that's how we now get on to the actual post of the day:

If I die in 2012, I will go....


...not having gotten the chance to move out and live on my own.
...hoping that only us humans die off and not every other form of life that actually matters
...happy in the knowledge that I saved a few deserving lives in my time.
...with the expectation of being reborn as a cat.
...without telling my parents what I really think.
...with no money to take with me.
...possibly having never cut my hair as short as I always wanted to, for fear of flogging.
...having experienced plenty of love and plenty of heartbreak.
...without having ever visited that psychiatrist.
...knowing I was right all along about 2012.

halfway through this post I suddenly wanted to also write down a bucket list. Thoughts of dying does that to you. Ok here goes...

Before I die, I want to...

  • Open up an animal shelter.
  • Get a tattoo
  • Visit the Lourve on more time
  • Move out
  • Have 9 cats, named after the planets in the solar system. Yes, yes I KNOW they defamed Pluto but I'm still rooting for it.
  • Master some supernatural trick and be famous for it. Mind reading or shit like that.
  • Find my passion
  • Experience a dramatic, off-the-charts romantic date
  • Perform (act) to an international audience
  • Be happy with myself

Ok I got a little snotty at the end there. time to dig the nose again. Au Revoir.

Monday, January 3, 2011

Annual Forecast

Raise your hand if you managed to catch a glimpse of Christmas speeding past you like the Starship Enterprise on turbo mode, leaving your innards vibrating with the aftershock.

Me neither.

The sheer fact that it HAS passed and I'm back to procrastinating behind an office desk after an all-too-short annual leave stint is nothing short of depressing. I see no light at the end of my tunnel. I mean that metaphorically and am not referring to my anus. That's a different post.

This post, on the other hand, is nothing but one big complaint. Leave now if you're feeling happy today. Should you choose the masochistic option of sticking around, don't say I didn't warn you and don't you dare comment with glib attempts at motivation. It's a Monday and I'm entitled to my grouchiness.

I'm not too pleased with the yesteryear, to be honest. It just wasn't speckled with the cheerful madness that my life is usually full of. Sure, there was plenty of travelling around and the odd puppy picked up and rehomed successfully, but seeing the humour in living just seemed such a task. 2010 did not, for once in my life, feature any JOY worth reminiscing about.

I blame my parents. They are Sri Lankan, after all. So am I, and blaming parents is what we children of the soil do best when things are not satisfactory. Although, come to think of it, no one seems to be pointing any fingers at Mommy and Daddy Rajapakse, no? (I have a feeling Mervin's mum is thought about alot, however...).

My two were exceptionally active with the emotional blackmail last year. To say I’m going on 32 and need approval on how my hair looks is a testament to their insanity. Their skills have reached new levels in expertise and absurdity. Mother Dearest has mastered the Quivering Lower Lip to a tee and can now whip it out at the merest 'ahem'. Dad's speciality- Delusional Rants - peaked during the Christmas season and nearly drove me to homicide.

Yes, we're a nice, quiet little family, we are. So quiet, in fact, that when we dine out together you can hear the chef’s hat pin drop into the soup, way back in the kitchens.

If my family is ever at the same restaurant as you, do check your soup for signs of dropped pin.

My resident evil aside, not everything in 2010 has been a complete disaster. I did manage to rescue and rehome 24 furry four-leggeds (I can see RD sniggering at that one), visit two new countries and learn to bake a decent cupcake. The cons outweighed, though. The least of which was my car and I careening into a wall and causing both airbags to pop out. Ah, good times.

I suppose I must now join the merry bandwagon and do my bit of resolutioning, no? Not that it makes a difference. Last year’s list is still waiting. But for what it’s worth, this year, I PLAN to-


  • Find my runaway mojo
  • Change jobs – by workplace or career, whichever seems more lucrative and comes first
  • Outperform last year’s animal rescue stats
  • Move out of home
  • Get a tattoo – because really, it’s the fashionable way to rebel, innit?
  • Write a book
  • See a new country
  • Learn to cook 10 new dishes and achieve non-toxic rating for at least one of them

Watch this space.