Baby's First Day

AAAARGHH!! I'm starting to shit bricks now. Hey themissingsandwich, if you're reading this, I hear ya, babe. I'm going through exactly the same mental motions and it's freaking me out.

D day is here... I'm starting work at the new place tomorrow, and it's come around way too fast for comfort. I was just starting to settle down into my 'pre-new job' leave, and before you know it, it's time to start waking up early again.

A million... no.. zillion things have addled my mind today. (Well... just a few things, actually, but a zillion sounds much more dramatic and apt for an interesting read, don't you think?)
What if I hate it? What if they hate me? What if I screw up on my first day? What if I don't belong there? Will I be happy? Will leaving my previous job/life be worth it? Will I like being under someone's control? Can I manage to get through 6 months of probation? Did I make the right decision when taking this job? What if I made a mistake? What do I wear? What do I say? Will I get my period as a result of all this self-induced stress?

I can't stop feeling paranoid about this. It's been four years since I last started a new job... I'm out of my comfort zone here and am feeling far too vulnerable for my liking. What if I don't make a good first impression on these people? I don't know them... they might eat me alive. They weren't a very friendly looking bunch, the last time I saw them.

I took at least a good three hours deciding what to wear, and settled on a fairly smart pant-and-shirt combo. Not too creative and not overdressed either. I wouldn't want to look desperate to please (although I am, but they don't have to know that), so I'm keeping it simple.
Since this is kinda sorta a new journey in life that I'm starting tomorrow, I figured I'd also try the whole 'something old, something new' crap that brides do, for superstition's sake. A new pair of pants for luck, old earrings, a book for the 'something borrowed', and my mood to round off the 'something blue'. I'm also taking the comfort of friends along with me, to keep me psychologically secure throughout the day. A necklace from BF, a lilac (my favourite colour) shirt from my good galpal Dil, a bracelet from an office teammate and my mom's hairclip.

I don't want tomorrow to come.... wah... but I guess I have to face it. I'm gonna either make it, or break it with this new job, and I HATE not knowing which end result it's gonna be.

Gah. Argh.

Here goes nothing.

EEK-quus

I find the abuse of animals in anyway distasteful, regardless of circumstance or reason. So yeah... I gasped and groaned through gritted teeth when Alan Strang first got off on and then blinded six horses in last night's performance of Equus. That's because the production (on a whole) was so damn good, it made me forget that it was a bloody stage play, and I got way too worked up over the story rather than watching the actors itself. And that rarely happens to me when watching a play, because my little experience in drama usually makes me immediately watch out for the technical glitches and individual performances from a critic's point of view, rather than letting the magic of it all take over me like it's supposed to.

So a standing ovation goes from me to His Lordship Steve for giving me my money's worth of entertainment and thought-provoking theatre. I've been reading the criticisms and comments from fellow audience members on other sites, and I have to say, I didn't care about the lack of originality in the local production. There were plenty of little things, in retrospect, that I have critical opinions on, but I was blown away by what I saw in the totality of the production, regardless of all that.

And now onto my OTHER not-so-positive personal opinions about the nuts and bolts of the Equus machine. By the way, I'm no expert... and these are only my viewpoints, and I do not, in any way, represent the mass audience or expert critics.

The Venue

SUCH a pain to go to. The show started at 7.30, and I was there from 6.45 trying to find parking, which wasn't available. The auditorium itself is marvellous, and ideal for this kind of intimate theatre experience, but I wish they'd done something on the logistics front, because it was annoyingly inconvenient.

The Organisers

Rude and inhospitable, from the point of ticket purchase to sitting down at the show. It's a good thing the show was good, because they certainly didn't do much for my enjoyment. There's professional efficiency, and then there's downright obnoxious.

The Script

Aiyo. For the average theatre-goer like me, the script had little to offer, save big words I didn't know the meaning of, and an ending that left me grappling for explantation. I'm used to the 'beginning, middle and end' concept in storylines, and this play made me question the point of it. It was one of those scripts that was so blatantly 'avante-garde' to me, that I figured I had to be an abstract artlover type to see sense in it. OK, so we figured out why this kid did what he did... er... so what? We question 'what is normal'... so what? What is this play supposed to DO for me, as an audience? The script left me unsatisfied.

The Set, Lights and Sound

Nice. It worked for me. minimalism focused on the intensity of the story rather than distracting the eye. The lights didn't shock my system, though, and I've heard some experts say they were predictable... but then again, do you go to watch the lighting, or do you go to watch the play? I did, however, wish they used more reds to bring out the passion and dangerous mental conflicts in certain scenes. But that's just me trying to be stereotypical.

The Acting

Ok.... THIS area I have plenty of things to speak on. But before I do, I also have to respect this cast for holding an audience captive for 2 and a half hours, despite the shortcomings. This is just me nit picking, but from an overall perspective, this cast outshone any other I've seen on the local stage.

I have never seen Rohan Ponniah act, but throughout my life have been told some marvellous things about him, so I went to see this play with great expectations. And... I'm sorry to say, I was bloody disappointed. The souvenir informed me of his many acting credits, but I failed to see the glory as many others did. To me, all he did was articulate and say everything in the same way. It was an ACT, and his portayal of Dysart lacked sincerety. Just too affected for me, and I say this without any bias, because I was so sure the man was the God of stage acting before watching Equus. It was tedious, and I personally felt he could have delivered some of those lines in better ways, but props to the man for having learned all of them! And his over-emphatic articulation did get my attention when it came to every single detail of the story.

Tracy shook her head around too much that it often distracted me from what she was saying. I don't know if she did that on purpose, to give a mild eccentricity and epileptic personality to Mrs. Strang, but it didn't work for me. Again, I felt there was too much 'playing', and less truth in her performance. Even Shanaka's acting was not really upto what I've seen him do in the past. I felt he could have done much more with his role, and I know this guy is a damn good actor. All in all, the parents were lack-lustre to me.

Subha wasn't seductive enough for me. A little too subtle. Ranmali was too wooden in her delivery. Not quite convincing enough for me. Janice, I thought, was awesome as the nurse. She needs to be on stage more... I would love to see some future peformances. Dominic came and went, but made his mark. As always.

The horses weren't all that, I afraid. At least not for me. I thought the visual representation was beautiful, but I didn't see the grace and power coming out of their movements, and they walked like they were blind before actually being blinded. Knowing full well of Shannon's ability as a dancer, I'd have expected so much more in the leg work and body movement to bring out the sexual elegance of a horse, but sadly I didn't see it last night.

And last but not least, Hiran as Alan Strang..... he stole the show. There is not one thing I found wrong in the guy's performance, except maybe for his gorgeous body which I found positively sinful. My hat is off to Hiran, for outshining and completely outdoing all the 'seasoned' actors on that stage last night. There was such truth and beauty in his portrayal of Strang, that I almost wept in sympathy by the end of the show. Enough said.

So there it is... my take on Equus. Negative nit-picking aside, it was a brilliant production on the whole, and one that justified my love for theatre. Would I watch it again? No. It was memorable enough to last.

Sayonara, Dignity.

The best way to come back down to earth a notch is to make a complete arse of oneself in front of the very society you try to pretentiously emulate. Interestingly, the gods decided to favour (or torture) me with the experience last night. Lets just put it this way... it'll be some time before I show my face in Colombo 7 public again.

The BF and I decided to hit El Cinnamon Grande last evening to try out the Japanese food promo going on, which is part of the bigger World Spice Festival taking place in Colombo. For about the past year now, I've developed myself a nice little craving for Jap cuisine, and poor BF has been my guinea pig for experimenting by visiting restaurants and trying out the stuff with. With Jap food being quite an expensive dining experience in Sri Lanka, I was more than excited when I learnt of the Cinnamon Grand having this 'all-you-can-eat' promo for a reasonable price. And so, the guinea pig and I took a chance on it.

The promotion itself was very well executed, with Jap chefs flown in from... well... Japan... and a delectable array of authentic fare on offer. The hotel had taken it one step further and gone to the lengths of creating the ambience to match the food, and it all came together to create quite the experience.

But that's not what this blog is about. This blog is dedicated to one of the many things fate and my addle-minded body is cuelly capable of when it comes to me.

Before I go on, please note that I took great pains to dress 'Japanesey' last night... sifting through my wardrobe clutter to find the perfect cherry blossom (well, they LOOKED like cherry blossoms) outfit and wrestle my hair into a style worthy of high-society dining. Had I known what I was in for, I might as well have worn my oldest pyjamas.

Anyways, we go to the Cinnamon Grand, me feeling posh and hoity toity and all, and went into the promo area. Spying a couple of local celebrities and posher relatives around, I immediately did that detestable female thing and started to strut around and be 'in' with the crowd. You know... stupid things like flicking my hair all over the place, strutting on heels that were hurting my hamstring and pouting like Marylin Monroe. BF couldn't care less, of course... being the completely unpretentious creature that he is. He was more interested in making faces at the octopus balls on display.

So there I was, preening and parading like a cherry blossom peacock, getting BF to serve hold my plates so that I could serve even more stuff and overload our table, since it would be SO not done to and 'goday' to keep going back to the buffet too many times. I took just about everything there was, with the exception of the octopus and boiled algae (yuck), wagged my ass back to our table and laid it all out in the most fashionable way, all the while giving snooty looks at the rest of the diners.

And then...

And then I tipped the table on myself.

Yes. Exactly. I stepped on some goddamn shaky table base, held on to the edge of the table to sit my heeled and unbalanced (in many ways) self down, and brought the entire table down at myself, Japanese cuisine and all.

The next thing I knew, there was boiling hot Miso soup drenching my pants, and pieces of raw tuna splattered all over my cherry blossoms, with some wasabi and soy sauce for added effect. Not only that, I had also managed to fling the crockery onto the floor, and a loud crash and smash confirmed that I'd shattered some.

All this at the table for two situated next to the entrance of the place, which meant EVERYBODY saw me. Nice going, Dramaqueen.

There was quite a long bit of stunned silence from the diners and I swear the Colombo 7 ladies were dying to snigger fashionably. it wasn't just a few pieces of food... the ENTIRE TABLE was all over the floor, and more entertainingly, all over me.

I must say BF should be given an award for his ability to move into action with Road Runner reflexes. Why shouldn't he have... he's been through this plenty of times before, and is an old pro at girlfriend disaster recovery. While I stood there looking a wide-eyed and complete mess, he calmly helped the waiters to start cleaning up and transferred the remains to another table whilst instructing me to go to the washroom and clean myself up, without so much as batting an eyelid or sighing like he used to do back when my clumsiness was still new to him. I know he was dying to laugh out loud, because it was almost expected to, and COULD only have happened to me.

The restaurant manager pointed the way to the washrooms. True to myself, I just HAD to rush into the wrong one, and end up staring at a man who'd (thankfully) just concluded peeing. For a moment, both of us wondered what the fuck the other was doing in that toilet, until he came out of his shock and indignantly informed me that the ladies was next door.

Try guessing how loud, long and repetitive my scream of "F***!!!?!!!?!?!" was, once I found my way to the right bathroom.

I tried to use a wet face towel and wash off the soup and fish combo that had by now trailed right down my outfit, making it look like I'd purged beancurd. However, all I did was make it ten times worse, because I ended up with patches of wet trouser that gave out the 'just-peed-alot' look. SO, yours truly used her creative skill, and decided to wet the WHOLE outfit, in the hopes that a uniform wetness would trick the viewing eye. Dumbass.

BF raised a questioning eyebrow at me when I walked back to the table, red-faced and drenched from head to toe in my new wet-look, but didn't say a word. Neither did anyone else, but that was sheer fear of making too much noise with their laughter. Not a sound was uttered by my tolerant better half about the catastrophe, right through the rest of the evening... not even when I mentioned that my new look was soaking the plush Cinnamon Grand chair I was sitting on. He was extremely gentlemanly, and even went back to the buffet four times over on my behalf (self-inflicted disasters make me hungry), so as to save me further embarrasement. I apologized profusely to the hotel management, and offered to pay for the dishes I'd broken, but they were very nice about it all, and even offered me a t-shirt to wear (which I declined, because, of course, it didn't look Japanesey).

The rest of the evening was fairly non-destructive, and we polished off quite a bit of food. We even felt adventurous enough to try out stuff I used to balk at before, and I have to admit, it wasn't half bad. BF even succeeded putting a smile on my humiliated face by making a smiley face out of the dessert he served for me.

Oh... and Anarkali was there.

But this blog isn't about her either.

Prima Taste-less?

Wednesday night saw the family and I trying out a new restaurant in Colombo. We occasionally get into this sudden fit to experiment at the risk of disappointing our wallets and stomachs. This time's venue of choice was the new Singaporean place in Rajagiriya, named 'Prima Taste'. Decisions were made based on the rave reviews I'd seen in some city magazines, as well as personal recommendations from friends who'd tried it out. So off we went, salivating at the thought of some authentic S'porean goodies. The last time I went to Singapore in 2005, I ate so much good food that I still haven't gotten the tastes out of my memory, so you can imagine how hyped I was about the chance to experience it all over again.

The Venue

The restaurant itself is quite spanky (Probably because it's still new...local eateries have a tendency to lose interest in their interior upkeep after a few years), and is very much Singaaporean in atmosphere. Pristinely sanitary looking white dining areas, with minimalistic decor and furnishing, finished off with some flourescent blue lighting accents and a large black & white mural of metropolitan Singapore adoring one whole wall in each dining section. The finishing touches of large single-glass window panes with dark wood square latices brings it all together to make the diner forget that Sri Lanka is out there. No doubt there has been Singaporean involvement in designing this interior.

The Menu

I feel I must make mention of the menus too. This was the first time I'd seen menus that made me so hungry. Classy and international in look and feel, they carry full-page pictures of succulent dishes, and look very much like those gorgeous recipe books that we buy off the shelf and use for eye candy alone. Plus, it is worthy to note that every single dish listed on the menu was authentic to Singapore, which is a very pleasant surprise to a diner like myself, who, through previous experience, expects the same old local-chinese fare to be presented. My excitement mounted when going through the menu here, and the mouth began to water at quite a speedy rate.

But that's about as far as the positive element of the night went.

The Rest

When you've got the winning combination of a fabulous looking restaurant teamed up with a menu that can drive the patron crazy with desire, then the worst thing you could do is kill all that expectation you've built up with a lacking end delivery. Unfortunately, this is what Prima Taste did to me.

For starters (pun intended), nothing I ordered was available. I went through around six different dishes (when, mind you, the list isn't all that extensive either) before we came to one that was actually available. And it was quite ridiculous too. For instance, we ordered the black pepper crab (signature dish, as boldly displayed on the menu), were informed that it wasn't available, but we could try the chillie crab instead. How on earth could a restaurant have the crab available, but not the pepper?? Then they said they could serve me laksa noodles, and not fried noodles, as I ordered. EH?!? It's the same noodle, man! With the same preparation, except for a soup being added to one... the one you COULD serve me! A giggly, blushing and highly embarrassed looking waiter informed me that my incredulous looks were nothing compared to what he'd gotten from other diners for the last month of operation. It almost made me feel sorry for the man.

At one point, everything became quite hysterical. During his stammering explanations as to why they could serve only 25% of the menu, the waiter revealed that everything was still in Singapore. That included the chef and the manager, in addition to the pepper crab. Not able to hold it in any longer, my entire family just burst into teary fits of giggles. When asked why they gave us such a glorious display on the menu, we were told that the menu's came from Singapore too. The laughter just got worse.

Then there was the incident with the oysters.

The menu presented a dish of oysters with chillie prawns. Dad asked the waiter if this was available, and we were promptly informed that it, in fact, was. He was quite proud about it too. The conversation went something like this-

Dad - "Do you have the oyster dish?"

Waiter- " Yes sir. Oyster is available"

Dad - "You're sure no?"

Waiter- " Yes sir. We have the oyster dish"

Dad - " Are they good oysters?"

Waiter- "Very good, sir."

Dad - " You're sure they're fresh, right?"

Waiter- "fresh oyster, sir. Oyster hondai (good)."

Dad - "Ok. Bring us one portion of it."

Fifteen minutes later, he brought us a fancy presentation of six chillie prawns. We dug around looking for oysters, but found only a weak-looking salad leaf underneath.

Dad - " Ko oysters??" (Where are the oysters?)

Waiter - " Why sir... oyster sauce, no, sir?"

Guess how much sniggering erupted at THAT point.

All in all, the fare served last night was, to me, a disappointment. We had the laksa noodles that tasted very much like packeted soup noodles, Singapore fried rice that hadn't any salt, chicken satays that were far too sweet, oysters with chillie prawns that you now know about, and Singapore Chillie Crab that... well... didn't have any chillie in it.

It all made sense when, on our exit, we spied a counter selling ready-to-cook packs of Prima spice mixes for each of the dishes lined up on the menu. As expected, the black pepper crab mix, amongst some others, was missing. I have to admit to some indignation. When I choose to pay a restaurant, I would prefer if some chef used his skills and made me the food from scratch rather than done what I could easily do at home for a pittance of the cost. And what then, I ask, is the point of having the Singaporean chef in the first place?!?

I should also warn any future patrons of the place that their costs exceed their service, and we ended up with a bill that gave us more pain than the ache that all the laughing left in our tummies.

And so, in a nutshell, Prima Taste ended up being the dining experience that is definitely not authentic to Singapore, even though several other elements would have been. If you feel like trying it out for yourself, I would advice you to call first, and make sure the chef is around.

Feelin' Pawsh

Ho hum. Have just come home after a very upmarket day, and feel extremely Beverly Hills-ish. Watch me strut.

Not that i could or did afford any of today's happenings... luck just brought me opportunities that I put into use, and it all rounded up to a day of living the celebrity lifestyle. You see, I received a couple of vouchers from the BF and relatives in the last few months for various things - professional massages and a five-star meal to be precise. Then, on my birthday, my mum gave me a Macbook (The most expensive gift I've ever received in my life!). I also do radio voicings and occasionally model for commercials because of friends in the ad industry who drag me into them. (And because I'm jobless and broke enough to do it)

So, today was one of those rare days when it all came together. Woke up today to a fabulous looking head of hair, thanks to me having cut it a couple of days back. slipped on a pair of jeans, drove myself to a commercial voicing in my Peugeot (the one I haven't returned to my old office yet), went and met the Apple guys about my Spanky Macbook, sashayed my way into the massage parlour where I was treated to half an hour of pure bliss by way of the world's best head massage (which, btw, left my hair looking even fuller and better!), spent another half an hour trying on shoes and clothes at a shopping hotspot, and finished it off with a grand lunch at the Cinnamon Grand, alongside a very well-groomed boyfriend who looked particularly smashing today.

Shah, no?

I am now going to lounge in bed and try to get my brother to feed me grapes.

Age and a Highly-Strung Ham.

Ouch.
Remind me of them good old days when hamstrings felt normal, please.

Ouch.

So, yours truly decided to give unnecessary risk a whole new meaning when I attempted to demonstrate a 'split' while dancing at a mini-performance this weekend. The last time I did a split was around twelve years ago, at some absurd school show. Two dozen years later, you'd think wisdom would have set in along with age by now, but nooo... I just had to go and try it again, didn't I...

I blame senility. And his sister denial.

BUT, on a positive note (abject pain aside), I did manage to split quite successfully during the performance. Not once, but twice. At least I know it's still possible, and I don't need to do Anlene shots just yet.

The reason for all this pain and misery? A cast trip.

Having recently concluded our run of 'Blood Brothers', the WSP committee got together and organized a cast trip for all thoe involved in the production. This year's venue of choice was Hotel Mermaid in Kalutara. (I was pleasantly surprised by the place, btw... I fully expected some two-star sleazy joint, and instead enjoyed some fabulous comforts worthy of a four-star hotel) We went with a massive to-do list in hand, complete with numerous group activities and what not. Everyone was on an all-time energy high, singing boozing and dancing at the drop of a hat all the way there.... everyone, that is, except me. All I did was curl up in the back of the chaotic bus and want to nap. I figured it was because I'd had a late night the previous evening, and told myself that once we'd gotten to the hotel and started on our activities, I'd be up and hopping like an energizer bunny.

Once at the hotel, we got our keys and made our way to our quite plush rooms. Assuming that it would take the gang a few minutes to settle themselves in, I plopped on the bed and turned on the tv. Before I knew it, I was snoring like a bulldog with sinus trouble.

And that's all I did, and can remember from the rest of the trip.

Of course, it was interspersed with short moments of awareness, when we rehearsed for and participated in the evening's performance (we held a grand 'oscar' style awards night to honour individual efforts during the production),where my thigh so rudely gave out in the middle of a 'cats' dance number. Then there were the few times I descended on the hotel restaurant to stuff myself with whatever food was available. But apart from that, I saw more of my bed than I did of anyone or anything else related to the cast trip. I still have no idea what happened on that trip with the rest of the cast, because I was far too busy dreaming absurdities under my very nice white bedsheet for two whole days.

Gah. I remember when cast outings were nothing but 42-hour raves, with sleep finding us only once we'd gotten back home. High intensity vacations filled with water polo, volleyball, dance competitions and spirited jam sessions. But now.... now all I do is fart in my sleep right through the whole trip. Next stop, menopause.

Sigh. Ouch.

missmanagement

Nope... that's not a typo on my title.... read on.

So it's over. Another chapter of my life closed today, when I bid farewell to the office I had practically lived in for the last four and a half years, and the small but wonderful group of people I came to love as my extended family. I've always prided myself on being a somewhat hard-hearted bitch who can move on quite easily from one phase to another without much icky nostalgia and sentiment, but maaan.... today......God, it was so friggin' tough to leave that room, and I, miss cool clown, so lost my bearings and broke down in tears. I wasn't the only one... everyone else took my cue and started bawling too, and it was a nice little puddle we created in that department today.

I know what you're thinking. "Get a life, woman... it's just an office. Not like you died or anything."

But you know... I think I did die a bit today. I gave up more than 'just an office'... I gave up part of me.

When I first started the company off, I was a clueless bit of fluff, struggling to figure out how to set up a business and figuring out what to do with it after that. Ever since then, it's been one long roller-coaster ride of trials and triumphs alike, and I not only molded the organisation, but also myself into the professional I am today. From sitting alone on the floor of a large room with a PC next to me (the only thing we could afford at the time), to a fully fledged (and fully equipped!) place full of highly dynamic people, this baby of mine grew up fast to become quite a worthy contender in it's industry. And I am DAMN proud to say I was a part of all that, and moreover, that I actually led the way.

Leading a team of people was something I knew nothing about. I didn't know what to do, or how to do it. But through the years of making mistakes, I worked out quite a successful formula of management techniques that helped us to achieve. Forget Kotler, Drucker or any other guru that the marketing notes adulate. This formula was bourne out of sheer ignorance of the so-called 'laws of leadership', and created through a long process of falling down until I learned to stand in my own individual style.

So, if there's anyone out there who's gotten the opportunity to manage an operation, but as a result of inexperience is deathly afraid like I was, here are my tried-and-true management mantras-

• Those on your team are people first, and employees second. Once you figure that out and get off your management high-horse, you'll understand what makes each person tick, so that you will then figure out how to motivate each individual to work to his or her maximum potential.

• The simplest rewards can be the most rewarding. I never did have sufficient money in the company to hand out bonuses and increments like nobody's business. But that didn't mean that my employees weren't shown appreciation at every given opportunity. Personal letters, plenty of one-on-one chat time, ownership for our every success and occasional in-house funtime brought me a whole lot more productivity and loyalty than most other companies.

• They won't love it if you don't. Who on earth wants to deal with a morose manager on a daily basis? My team knew I adored every minute I spent at office, and I made sure they got my drift through example, when I said passion for your work is the key ingredient to success. Result? I inform them of far better employment prospects in other companies and I get glares and outright (and often loud) rejection in return.

• Trust them with your life. I don't have to spell this one out. My guys would've died for me, and I for them. It was this mutual understanding that helped us gel and develop brilliant teamwork.

• You're not GOD. Nothing's worse than a manager who thinks he/she is above everyone else, and gives out the message that he/she can do no wrong. It just makes things worse when you mess up in front of your team. I made no bones about the fact that I was human too, and that sometimes I didn't know what i was doing. The strangest thing is, when you're honest about your stupidity, people respect you that much more.

• Never stop learning. Never stop teaching. My company grew because we strived together to maintain a constant flow of knowledge. Anything we learned was passed around, and that ensured a well-rounded unit. Teaching people what you know makes you redundant in your job, which to me is a very good thing, because then, when you do leave, you're ensured that the company will survive and carry on.
  

If you've noticed, all of my points talk about what to do with a team, and don't talk about the other functions of management. This is because, without a team, you'd have nothing to manage. You take care of this one thing, and it in turn will take care of the rest. Guaranteed.

Alas, I am no longer managing the team... I'm moving on to try my hand at something new.

I feel sad and dreary, and yet, quite accomplished for all that I have learned from my experience here. I will miss my guys sorely... they made my job worthwhile. But whilst I am leaving behind a team of employees, I am taking with me a fantastic bunch of best friends.

Farewell, baby. Kiss.

Raindrops are Falling in My Head

It's one of those days.

Bleurgh.... the weather's reflecting my mood to perfection. Gloomy, dark, depressive and utterly unproductive.

I'm still at office, though everyone else has buggered off home. Got nothing to do for an hour, until it's time to shove off for a rehearsal at a friend's house. I've had a bad day... not bad things happening, but generally a really bad mood that's twisted me around its little finger and made the last 10 hours mondo crappio.

I suppose it boils down to me being female... we're prone to this sort of thing now and then. No, it's not PMS, dumbass... just another one of those days when everything ticks you off so much it borders on absurd.

It started off with a silent argument I had in my head with the better half... when he announced this morning that he was going to the gym with some work buddies in the evening. I totally over-reacted and made a scene out of it, even to the extent of ranting at him on email this afternoon. You see, I've been dying to go to the gym with him for the last year, but recently gave up the constant pleading and nagging because he really didn't seem interested, and always had a bunch of excuses each time I asked. Then suddenly, someone else suggests it, and he's packed and hopping along. Am I THAT much of a pain to go with, that all my wailing for the past year can be ousted with a single invitation from another person?

I know what you're going to say... Im being stupid and it's a 'guy thing'. Bullshit. We went to the gym together some time ago, and we both enjoyed it. But lately, enjoyment happens in two different corners of the world.

Anyway, long story short, I had a somewhat irrational female viewpoint to make, and I stretched it in my head to its dramatic best, so much so that I got worked up over nothing, and ended up simmering over every other relationship issue I've had in the past. All the naggy little doubts and concerns came flooding back and cooked itself to be one enormous lump of distasteful crap.

So much so that now, I'm seated here, 10 hour after the whole thing started, still obsessing.

I've come to the conclusion that my present state of mind and mood has nothing to do with a petty tiff about a gym. There's been plenty of stuff going on in my head for months now, and it's festered to a point where even the tiniest absurdity is setting off an eruption of irritability and depression. I am starting to become complacent and unhappy with my life, and it in turn is changing me into a person I don't like and never wanted to become.

Either that, or it's just one of those days.

Feeling Green

It's blog action day, and I'm doing my bit to save a tree or two. Hopefully, there's someone out there jobless enough to read my musings and take note, and POSSIBLY be affected in some form or manner.
So. I am a tree hugger. Not so much a kaftan-toting, unshaven flower child picketing over the rights of leaves, but someone who demonstrates a considerable amount of angst towards the likes of mismanaged deforestation. Simply put, if you kill the trees, I'll want to kill you.

I can be sensible enough to understand the needs of man and the necessity to utilise trees for various purposes. I do, in fact, sit in chairs and eat at tables myself. And life wouldn't be the same without paper. However, I am also learned enough to know that several environmentally conscious organisations and nations have adopted strategies to ensure the sustainability of the eco-environment, whilst at the same time felling trees for whatever end goal. What I detest is lethargic entities that know of this, but don't follow suit. It's quite apparent that no amount of public outcry or well-meaning pleas from environmentalists are going to change man's ways, given the state of our planet today. If people listened, Al Gore wouldn't have had to do anything worthy of a nobel prize. I think it's high time a more nazi-like approach was taken to sort out this whole issue, and violators of nature were taken severely to task without question.

I look around me today and am saddened by the way this country and more so this world has 'developed'. Gone are the days where I can sit under a tree and listen to a happy bird sing, or smile at a naughty squirrel while enjoying the cool fresh breeze swirling around me. Ha. Nowadays, just FINDING said tree is called a vacation, and requires extensive travel. I am quite amused with so-called contractors and real estate developers who harp on about their grand plans to ruin a perfectly good scenery. I am even more amused by the sheer idiocy that compels some people to buy into that crap. If the city life was all that hot and happening, then why the dickens do city dwellers pay out of their nose to 'get away' on weekends? For god's sake, you have to buy TICKETS to see the squirrels now!

There's no point in me repeating what everyone else says about the state of affairs today - how illness is spreading, animals are suffering extinction, the air is poisonous, etc. etc. blah blah. I think it's come to a point where saying it is not even necessary, simply because we're all living in a hellhole anyway, and not knowing it puts you in the comatose category.

There's no two words about it. The world is fading fast, and unless we want to end up withered slivers of diseased corpse, then we need to do something about it, WITHOUT waiting for someone else to start and win a Nobel prize along the way.

If not for the sake of the trees, do it for your own damn sake.

Clogged

Another Sunday. The days are flying by too fast, and then again, not fast enough. I'm dreading the inevitable move out of the office at the end of this coming week, but also quite eagerly looking forward to 10days of doing nothing before starting at the new place.
A lot's been going on in this muddled mind of mine, besides the work-related stuff. Life's little variables are starting to become a royal pain in the ass, and I'm suddenly feeling very sick of it all.
Not like you want to know, but my sinusitis made a comeback last week and hasn't had the decency to leave, which means the ol' head feels like ton of bricks, and the nose hasn't enjoyed air for sometime. My brother the newly-graduated quack says that the case is severe, and calls for a draining of the inner mush, which requires me to stick a tube-needle up my nostril and break the bone to suck out the hardened pus.

Enjoy your meal after reading THAT.

I have still to decide whether I want to put myself through all that nonsense, or wait till it clears on its own. Meanwhile, the condition it's in at the moment is making me drowsy and irritable, and life is certainly not cheerful.

Similar to the clogged sinus, several other elements in my life are giving me reasons to ponder on their longevity and feasibility. (Ooh look I used big words.... good girl.) Feels like life is changing in many ways, and I don't really know what to do about it. A classic case of heart Vs. head Vs.gut. What do you do when you know that certain decisions you make will hurt other people that you don't want to hurt? Like, for a long time? And how do you know it's the right decision to make?

Adulthood sucks.

Spidey-itis

You know how Spiderman claims that 'with power come responsibility'? Well, I've got the Spiderman Flu. Symptoms consist of mixed emotions and feelings of annoyance, despair, confusion, alarm, rage and immense stress.

Things are NOT happening the way I planned, and it's pissing me off big time. Let me explain -

Remember how I mentioned in a previous post about making a difficult decision to leave my current workplace and superteam? Well, my present office is something that I created and built up, and am so damn proud of. I mean, I don't own it, but I started it off from scratch and put it together without a single dog in my group helping me out (and I clearly needed the help at the time too!). Over the years, the number of employees have grown and developed with me, and we're quite a competitive entity now, and I can't help but feel quite bucked about the strides we've made and the way we've transformed from a bunch of clueless beginners to a well-oiled professional agency.

I've nurtured so many dreams for this place, and many a wish for where it would go in the years to come. Through the years, the place and the team have become so much more to me than just a company with colleagues. This is, and will always be MY baby. When I made the half-hearted choice to take up a new job offer that came my way, I immediately set about making plans for how my baby would manage in my absence. I'd gotten together a hard working team with plenty of passion, who were by now trained enough to run the show irrespective of my existence in the company. Even now they've taken on the task of making things happen without me, and that's exactly how I want it to be.

BUT, I didn't take into consideration that evil little thing called 'Management'. My company belongs to a larger corporate entity, run by a coven of slime-balls who work for themselves and no other. Up until now, I'd managed to fend them and their greedy hands off the company, and dashed alot of dreams bourne by personal ulterior motives. When I made the official announcement of my resignation, they pounced on the opportunity, and have begun work on taking control of the place. These people have little or no regard for my team, nor an understanding of how we work. It just so happens that this operation can offer several benefits to certain snakes in the group, and my going away makes their mission a lot easier.

And that's where the Spidey-itis comes in. This decision for me to move out was not one that could be made lightly, given that, as a manager and a leader, I was responsible for more than just MY career. I have a whole company full of other individuals, whose careers and job satisfaction rests on my shoulders. I'd made promises to my team, and I'd brought them to believe in me, and now, thanks to my choices and the demons around us, those beliefs will be torn apart.

Frankly, it SUCKS. I wish I could take a bazooka to the top management and blow all of them apart for being the conniving wolves that they are, but I can't. If it was a case of them doing something to benefit the company and the team, I'd be fine. But I know that's not the case. They have vested interest in this operation that could very well compromise all that I've worked so hard to achieve.

I can't help but feel so guilty for putting my guys into this rut. Here I am, floating away to a new job and a clean slate, whilst leaving them behind to fend off the rabid dogs. How dare I.

And now, it's too late for me to do anything about it. I've already given my word to the new office, and officially resigned from this one. I've invested money and time in replacing my post here, and there's no way in hell the group would take me back now, since it bogs up their agendas.

I can only be there for my guys, and hope that they'll stand up for themselves and my baby as much as I would have, were I here. I guess it's up to them now....

I feel like I'm letting so many people down, especially myself. I was given powers and I didn't use them wisely, and now so many others have to bear the result of it.

I hate Spidey-itis. Antidote, anyone?

Long Live Mother Nature!

There's this nifty little concept that's buzzing around the blogsphere that i think you should get involved in.
Apparently, Oct 15th has been declared "Blog Action Day', and bloggers around the world can unite and publish posts on nature on the same day. Hopefully, this will make a statement, and communicate a single universal message to the millions who visit our blogs.

Check out the link for info and sign up! I did.

http://blogactionday.org/

Cats in My Cradle

So last week we celebrated World Animal Day and all…

Colombopetrescue’s recent blogpost on her late dog Picky inspired me to write this tribute to some of the dearest friends I’ve had in my life- my legendary cats of the past. I say legendary because each has a story of it’s own, slathered with highly interesting personalities, that has provided much dinnertime conversation amongst human friends and family. Thus I felt the most fitting thing would be to pay tribute by way of immortalizing them on the internet.

If you’re a cat person, then you’ll know what I mean when I say that they are a delightful species of pet to own. Independent, beautiful, full of energy and riveting to look at, a cat can be the best possible companion for a like-minded person.

Me being the sort of girl who really goes for the chilled out attitude of a cat, I’ve housed more than my fair share of them in the past, earning me various labels from the amused society that surrounds me (As if my blog URL didn’t give you enough of a clue…)
In 28 years I have enjoyed the company of 15 cats consecutively, plus a myriad of others who drop in from the neighbourhood. Mine were Pulun, Sooky, Booshie, Twinky, Simon, Martin, Dudley, ‘Feet’, Stevie, Lonely Bat, Nangi, Tigger, and more recently Socksy, Hades and Isis. Each could not be more different from the other, and each has left their pawprint firmly embedded in my font of pleasant memories.
Pls note that the supportive images are not those of my cats (I didn’t have any softcopies to upload,) but are some I found online, that have remarkable- even twinlike- resemblances to my own fellows.

Pulun

Meaning ‘cottonwool’ in Sinhala, Pulun was, in one word, beautiful. Pure white with gorgeous blue eyes, she was the cat who commanded respect, with her ladylike qualitites and breathless looks. I don’t remember much of Pulun’s antics, save that she had a way with the boys, and as a result mothered a fair amount of squirmy half-blood kittens in her time, more often than not in one of my mother’s kitchen cupboards, inside shelved cooking pans. The photogenic one of the bunch, she’d sit serenely for any camera, knowing full well that every side of her was a ‘good side’. Tragically, Pulun was kidnapped, and if memory recalls, murdered by some insane neighbours, although I have little recollection of this, owing to it being my early years.

Sooky

Sooky was a ball of silver Persian fur, and the star attracting after Pulun’s untimely demise. She spent a good long life in our household, birthing litter after litter and becoming one of my mother’s favourites. One could call Sooky the ‘Grand duchess’ of the household cats, a role she played with much grace. That said, with all her finery, Sooky did have the inbuilt evil streak in her, and treated us to many a dismembered rat, squirrel and bird in her day.

Booshie

Sooky’s first born and my favourite, owing to the fact that he was MINE and not merely the household feline, so much so that he was my topic of speech in a grade 2 effective speaking examination. Booshie grew up with me, and became my best friend in those dim distant days of being the ‘weird kid’ who didn’t make many human pals. He was silvery grey just like his mother, but short furred and chubby. His emerald green eyes would stare at you and set your mind blank with awe. His colour wasn’t the only thing Sooky’d passed on to him, because Booshie could be lethal with any other smaller creature fated to cross his path. Booshie loved dressing up, and had quite the collection of outfits tailored by mother, that he’d wear before going to sleep in his very own customized cot. He’d follow me around wherever I went, and was never far from me at night. More often than not, I found myself being rudely pushed off my pillow because Booshie felt it to be more politically that he slept on it instead. Needless to say, I was heartbroken for years after Booshie died as a result of a snakebite.

Twinkie

My goodness. This one is a living legend amongst the archive of stories about my cats, due to her very unusual name. Or should I say names, because there were not one, not two, but THIRTEEN of them. Anne Mary Jennifer Sandra Sally Senorita Fredericka Booshina Silvia Twinkerbell Esmerelda Agatha Edith was she. I can still say it all in one breath. For practicality’s sake, we called her Twinkie.
Twinkie was sliver of a cat, sexy in her slim glossy black-and-white coat, and commanded the attention of all the perverted tomcats in our neighbourhood. SO much so that she was quite pregnant, quite often. She lived a good long attitude-filled life, until she decided one fine day to run away from home and never return. To this day, I don’t where she went.

Simon, Martin & Dudley

The musketeers three. Born of Twinkie, each couldn’t have been more different than the other.

Simon was the eldest, as one of a previous litter. The thug of the pack, he was big-made, rough looking and always wounded in battle. Bill Sikes of Oliver Twist comes to mind with Simon, even down to his raspy gruff voice that would rather wheeze than mew. This cat had the guts of a Doberman, which he showed off with pride when it came to the family dogs.

Martin, on the other hand, was the quiet guy, often found cowering behind a curtain from Simon’s eyes. One could not help but feel sorry for Martin, watching the sibling abuse he went through, and how he took it all with silent dignity, right up to the day he couldn’t take it anymore, and took up permanent residency with our neighbours instead.

And Dudley…. Dudley was a different kettle of fish altogether, and has gone down in the family history as the cat who will never be forgotten.

Because… Dudley was gay.

I kid you not. I had a homosexual cat, who knew it, and was proud of it. How did I know he was gay? Because apart from the long hours he’d spend on grooming his gorgeous bushy tail (when his siblings, mother and father were all short-haired strays), and the many times he’d cower on his toes on the kitchen cupboard with a petulant mew at the sight of a cockroach, Dudley would, at any given opportunity, try to mate with his brothers, much to their disgust. Even the neighbourhood thugs gave up their fight for his territory, simply because his ogling attentions scared them. ‘Dudders’, as I fondly referred to him, lived a long and sexually unsatisfied life, until the cat flu got the better of him.

Stevie

Shortly after we lost Dudleykins, a completely new personality entered our lives. A little black ball of fur we found on the street on rainy evening, whose tiny eyes had tragically been pecked out by crows. We rushed her to the vet, expecting a decision to put her to sleep, but were told she was healthy enough to live a full life minus her eyes. And so we took her home and promptly named her Stevie Wonder, given her colour and physical limitations.
Stevie grew up to amaze us and all those who witnessed her will to live a full and happy life. With her heightened sense of smell and hearing, she was often better than a cat who could see, because of her sense of focus and sheer determination. At kitten stage she’d bump into walls and chairs when trying to find her way around, but soon developed a map in her mind, bourne of the many accidents. This map and extra sensory perception allowed her to streak around effortlessly in a few months, and even climb the trees in our garden. She even started making very human like sounds, and had ‘words’ to express what she wanted, as that was her only understanding of communication.
Sadly, Stevie was mauled one afternoon by a neighbouring dog, on the one strange occasion that she dared to venture out of familiar territory. In the four years that she did live, she taught us many a lesson – one being that no obstacle was beyond overcoming.

Feet, Tigger & Nangi

Three kittens whose tenure with us was short-lived as a result of our fosterparenting schemes, but who left their mark nevertheless. Feet was christened simply because of his questionable attraction to…well… feet. You couldn’t walk by without being startled by a bundle of fur and claws shooting out from under a table and securing itself to your toes with razor-sharp teeth.
Tigger and Nangi were from a litter and were by far the cutest things we’d housed in a while. Tigger got his name from his bouncy, bossy personality and stripes, whilst Nangi was a typical little sister… pretty, demure and painfully shy.
All three came and went, but remained forever.

Lonely Bat

A brother to Tigger and Nangi, and the one that got left behind because of his obvious lack in the looks department. Initially named Bat due to his large cavernous ears and vampire features, the ‘Lonely’ stuck after he lost his siblings to other parents. If having a crooked face wasn’t bad enough, LB also had to deal with a crooked tail end, resulting in quite a bit of amused laughter from the rest of the cat neighbourhood.
With all his ugliness, LB was quite the poser. Take out your camera and he’d be there, giving it his all for the sake of a portrait shot. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that the lens couldn’t bear it.

Hades

Another one of my all-time favourites. Black and beautiful, Hades had an attitude to kill. Despite the fact that he lost his family jewels thanks to my mother’s no-breeding motion, Hades ruled the roost with an iron paw. We’d often be greeted by loud complaints, should we have dared to ever leave him alone for too long, or delayed his meals. The two female cats in the house were subject to his bidding, and could be found cleaning him from head to toe right through the day, as he glowered at anyone who so much as smiled at the sight.
With all his gas, Hades was a pushover when it came to me. He couldn’t survive a day without being cuddled and cooed over, and loved hearing what a wonderful puddytat he was. He’s follow me around like a leech, never leaving my side unless there was a mouse or cat biscuits involved. By night, my stomach became his bed, and I was rarely allowed the luxury of movement until His Lordship decided it was fitting.
His attachment to me made Hades insanely jealous of any other humans getting too close…especially my boyfriend, and any time spent on the phone was promptly cut short with a protesting paw sneakily pushing on the phone buttons. Visitors were treated to threats and scoldings, right upto the time they’d leave.
Hades met his untimely demise at the hands of a bastard who drove his van over my baby’s head one fine day, when he went out for a walk down the lane. I hope that man rots in hell after a long and painful death.

Socksy

One of the two left with me at present. Socksy, silver in colour and sporting white socks and twitchy whiskers, was gifted to us by an aunt who found her lost on the street. From a loud-mouthed adolescent, she’s grown into a dignified grande dame, and spends her days ratting on the rooftop or scaring birds away. Socksy’s a bit of a scaredy-cat, and will never speak out of turn. Once in a while, when mood permits, she’ll become a pain in the neck unless you spend the whole day cuddling her and pampering her with massages.

Isis

The last feline member to have taken up permanent residency in our household. Isis was brought home by my parents while I was abroad, and I first met her when she’s been ours for almost a month. So much so that she found my presence obtrusive, and has treated me like a guest ever since. She’s tri-coloured with the most beautiful eyes, lined in black like an ancient Egyptian princess, thereby earning her the name.
Looks aside, Isis is a little druggie, addicted to Whiskas biscuits. There is much wailing and pleading to behold whenever we visit our kitchen, and she will not rest until a sufficient portion of the snack is dished out. The rest of her time is spent flirting with the line of interested tomcats next door.


There you go. My exceptionally long and arduous ode to the cats in my life. If you’ve lasted long enough to read upto the end, you, my friend, are a kindred spirit with as much affection for felis domestica as I am. I purr to you.

My Kid-dom Come.

Oh darn... its World Childrens' Day... yet another reason for those little imps to run around and scream like insatiable smurfs on Red Bull. Bah humbug and bugger it all.

I'm morose because I wish I was one of 'em... to think that back in the dim distant past I was actually yea high in height and voice and hadn't a care in the world.... not like the clinically depressed and cynical shrew I am today. I could skippety skip skip any which where I pleased, speak any obscenity I wanted to and still be entertained with an 'aww shucks how sweet'.

Thought it might be a good idea this World Childrens' Day to delve into my own childhood, and vomit back some of those dusty memories I'd banked in my mind. Heck, I was a kid once too... I deserve the celebration.

I was not the ordinary kid. Conventionalism and I have never been friends. There's always been that extra streak of inherited strangeness in me that kinda put me into a category of my own in the past, and still does today to a large extent. Born to a family that defines eccentricity, I grew up in plenty of drama, thereby learning to create it all on my own wherever I went.

To begin with, other little girs and I never got along too well. I didn't understand them, and they... well... they just thought I was wierdo. I'm putting it down to the fact that i was brought up with boys at home- lots of male cousins. And I preferred the latter to those prissy madams I was forced to deal with. For the longest time, I adored guns, cars, rough-n-tumble fighting and suchlike, and demonstrated a fair amount of disdain when it came to all those yicky sissy dolls and shit. But my mother's firm rules prevailed, and I was progressively made into a girl by hook or by crook. I eventually grew to like the barbie world... but that was more out of a competitiveness with the school mates than for the pure love of feminine ways.

But the tomboy days were the best, man! How I envied my brother and cousins when they'd dress up like ninjas and thrashed each other at rugby. I, on the other hand, got my ear twisted if I dared to climb a tree. But dare I did, and many a time too! I'd go behind these bamboo trees we had a one of the old homes, and pretend I was Darth Vader battling it out with imaginary Jedi. Many a time I'd sneak into the privacy of my room and dress up like a boy and talk in a deep voice at the mirror. I treasured the times I'd get to peddle like a maniac on my red BMX bike behind the boys in the neighbourhood, and play cricket with them. Mucking around and hurting myself was so much more fun that fussing about with toy teacups!

That's not to say I didn't enjoy my girl moments either. On the contrary, I quite enjoyed playing school and bossing around my tick of a brother in the capacity of teacher, and dressing up and stealing mother's make-up was always a blast.

But it wasn't always about the toys. My dearest childhood memories are those that cost absolutely nothing, but stayed with me forever.

• Spontaneous family picnics
• Dancing in the rain with my father
• Bathing in rivers and water spouts
• Building and flying kites on curfew days
• Plucking home-grown fruit to make delicious achcharu
• Dressing up in Mum's old flower girl outfits and pretending to be a dazzling princess on a white stallion (My dog)
• Collecting newly-laid eggs, with the compliments of our numerous pet chickens
• Gardening veggies in the back yard
• Exploring the eerie attic we once had
• Mutual head-butting with our pet calf Danny

More often than not, even though I did have my kid bro hanging around, the better part of my childhood I spent alone, enjoying the company of my imagination for the lack of friends of my gender. I KNEW alot of girls... just didn't go into too much trouble making friends with them, to the level they did with each other. I couldn't relate to the giggly holding-hands-and-whispering-about-boys thing, and preferred to be the wierd and overdramatic kid. I'd be the one to create some tall story or create some excitement and make them gasp and run away from me... like the time I chewed up brown paper into pulp, stuck it on my teeth and claimed I had leprosy of the gums. Or when I attempted to hang myself with my school tie in protest of the up-coming exams. Then there was the time I set my home-economics room on fire, trying to pass a girl guide cook's test, of all things.

My penchant for drama consistently got me into plenty of trouble as a child. Some of the strongest memories include getting pulled down from the roof of our school canteen while 'striking' about the food they served, being sent to the sickroom with regular fake-fainting episodes, staging protests outside my principal's office demanding the rights of the school cats, releasing frogs from the school lab, etc etc.

Oh there's so much more to talk of, and I wish I could, but sleep and blogspot limitations dictate otherwise. I wish i could go back in time and be that child again... the one who could live in her own little imaginary world and love it there, with little care for the woes of the world. But I can't. I'm supposedly adult now, with responsibilities and baggage.

Ah well... it was good while it lasted. I hope one of those insatiable smurfs gets to do half of what I've done, and lives to write about it someday.