So This Is Christmas

It really is.

Saw his post this morning and had a cunning plan to plagiarize the idea, but bloody RD beat me to it by tagging me anyway. Blast. Foiled. But I have been noticed by the almighty Rythmic, despite him still not having figured out what identity I actually go by -bless his pooing heart- so I will not grumble.

Okay. Back to the point of post. It is Christmas, and what have I done:

(Let me take a moment here to ponder on whether this post should be serious and braggy, or just entertain..... hmmm... .)

• Saw Egypt. Land of my dreams, etc. It was absofuckinglutely brilliant.
  

• Rode a camel. It spat at me.
  

• Got myself selected to represent the country in the 'Young Lotus' competition at Adfest in Thailand. Made an arse of myself there, yes... but had a blast doing it.

• Saw infamous Thai prositutes and strippers up close on Walking Street, Pattaya. Listen... before you ask me why that's such a big deal, consider the fact that I'm nearing 30 and I live with my mother. The closest I've got to taboo is the board game.
  

• Moved out of home. Moved back in a day. Because of afore-mentioned mother.

• Played Maria in the Sound of Music. No, that was not a lesbian statement. I performed the role. I also managed to hold a note and I'm quite chuffed at myself.
  

• Grew about 4 inches more. Sideways.

• Lost about a million hairs.
  

• Got myself a 4-wheel drive. Named Camilla Parker. All puns intended.
  

• Learned to bake brownies. I am now doing it for profitable gains. La la la for me.

• Cleaned my room. You have to know me to understand how important that is.

• Costumed 56 children in a musical production. I will never do that again, I promise.

• Made meatloaf.
  

• Saw a ghost. Long story. I'm not sure who was scared of whom, though.

• Witnessed my paraplegic grandad start to walk again.

• Contemplated marriage and suicide.
  

• Visited Hikka. Hooray.

• Developed a gynormous crush on Steve Carrell.

Hmmm..... the list is fairly short in comparison to past years. I'm losing my touch. Gasp.
2009, watch out.

I do hereby tag Lady Divine, Thé Doc and Gutterflower.

How to Annoy a Man

A.k.a. ‘How to Clean a Bachelor Pad and Live to Tell the Tale.’

Greetings and welcome to the precocious girlfriend’s guide to relationships. Our expert panel of … an expert… has spent the last four years researching, experimenting and mastering the art of zen and not-so-zen in managing a relationship with a boy. And now, for a one-time only fee of a few minutes of interest, this valuable knowledge can be yours!

Ready to kick start your love life? And by that I mean literally kick? Then click now!
(Thing to click on that doesn’t really work)

...

...

Let’s assume you clicked.

Congratulations on your first step towards memorable girlfriendhood!

Our first chapter deals with an important method to understanding the male way and irritating it to bits. I like to call it ‘The Bulldozer’system. What easier way to dive happily into his little world unannounced than to conquer the one territory that you should never tread – His Personal Space?

In this chapter you will learn the cool ninja-like steps to using stealth, cunning and a broom to clean out your man’s private living space (I said LIVING space, perv…) and come out maintaining your girlfriend status.

Step 1 –Prepare.

Getting access to a guy’s living quarters can be something akin to preparing for guerrilla warfare. One must understand that one is not easily invited in, unless one comes with offerings of food that please his highness. Cleaning equipment and a mission to blitz dirt does not fall into the ‘friendly offerings’ category. It doesn’t even fall into an ‘offering’ segment, so you can forget about him jumping up with an enthusiastic ‘YES’ when you ask if you can rearrange his stuff.
You must, therefore:

• Stalk the subject. Attune yourself to his whereabouts and calculate your date of attack carefully.

• Wait for an opportune moment to move in for the kill. Say, when he’s out of town or on an errand and you’ve conned your way into gaining access to his abode.

• Gather resources and formulate a good enough alibi that will convince him that you are not doing exactly what you are doing.

• Bring a costume – something that is tolerant of dust balls and you can look comfortably fat in. After all, he won’t be around to see you in your dusty splendour.

• Purchase a broom. Because his doesn’t understand your needs.

• Sneak into the area and survey your environment. Decide on how you plan to proceed… target and position your detergent onslaught.

Step 2 – Clean that Mother!

By which I don’t mean his mother, which would be politically incorrect. She is probably very clean anyway. And besides, if she’s nice, don’t mess up your future chances by offering to wash her face.

Nay. I refer to the area in consideration. And because I can’t keep thinking up various creative ways to name His Personal Space (of the ARCHITECTURAL kind, perv), we will henceforth call it HPS.

Once you have given yourself enough time to decide how you will clean HPS, get cracking. But do remember the ground rules, because your life and relationship depends on it:

• Trashing the dust and dirt is ok. Trashing his collection of little metal parts, used batteries and rusted nails are not. To a man, these are objects of entertainment and infinite possibility. They will NOT be taken to the dustbin.

• Wipe and arrange, but do NOT re-arrange. Keep in mind he has a system he blindly follows, like the lab rat to the cheese at the end of the maze. Displacement of objects will only confuse and irritate, and no one wants the poor rat to die wondering who moved his cheese.

• Maintain your cool when you come across the occasional cockroach fossil. It is dead and you are bigger than it. Try not to scream, please. Unless the boy is saving it for scientific analysis, the roach cadaver can go into the trash too.

• Holy Scriptures such as FHM and other such girly magazines are not to be touched, opened or wept over. If you can secretly lust after Brad Pitt’s buttocks, then he is certainly within his rights to ogle at what’s-her-face with the enormous boobies. They’re plastic, anyway.

• Try not to waste any time in front of his mirror wondering why your boobs aren’t as big as what’s-her-face.

• When folding his clothes, think male and not sissy. Unless he’s got issues, he won’t stack them by ‘cute’ and ‘naughty’. T-shirts go with t-shirts, shirts with shirts, and socks with socks. You get the drift. Keeps the stacking simple and easy to access… seeing as how he found it easier to pick up off the floor than from the cupboard?

• You are not allowed to snoop around his cupboard or drawers. I know, I know… it’s tempting. But it’s also what your mother does in your room, and you hate that.
  

• PC monitors, keyboards, and all the wiggly wiry things in between (and all over) them should be left alone. God forbid you short circuit something when you don’t even know how to switch the damn things on.

• Absolutely no re-arranging furniture, even though Oprah’s episode on feng-shui tells you to.

Step 3 – The Verdict

Once you have spent every ounce of energy and passion going through HPS like an electric eel with your broom and duster, make yourself scarce before his lordship returns. You don’t wanna be around to face the wrath, given that you just messed with his stuff. And men can be rather protective of their territories.

• Rush home, think of what food offering you can next make to appeal to his good senses, and sulk childishly when your mother asks you to clean your room. You like your space the way it is just fine, thanks.

• Wait anxiously for the phone call that will either scream obscenities at you for daring to jostle the calm of his dust collection, or thank you profusely in appreciation of your astounding womanly ways.

• Start to cry like a baby maggot when the phone call never happens, because he’s too annoyed at you to speak. Call him things in your head – insensitive lout and ungrateful child are just a few names of choice.

• Let slow realization dawn that he is allowed to be annoyed. You have just invaded HPS and corrupted its sleeping mounds of dust with your unwelcome hygiene. You deserve to die.

• Call him and apologize. Promise furtively to never touch his belongings (the INANIMATE ONES, perv) again. Let him know that regardless of your disobedient, inconsiderate attempt to clean HPS, he is the master of his domain. It was the broom, you lie. It has hypnotic power and made you do its bidding.

• Cheer up that he is annoyed but slightly appreciative nevertheless. Not thrilled… because that will only encourage you, but he is obliged to be thankful that he can breathe clean air once more.

Step 4 – Proceed to think up other new and exciting ways to irritate him.

Soon available at a blogpost near you.

I have been Diaspora-ed

Adoh I'm rather chuffed men. What a nice way to end a ridiculously long day wasting time on making someone's defunct product look like the next best thing to Michael Bublé.

The all-witty Rhythmic Diaspora has chosen me for his blog recommendation list. Aney now that just makes a gurl want to cry in joy, meyah. Just think... ME. Little ol' me is a LISTED blogger (or bogger as mum insists - in all seriousness too).

Yes, ye who knoweth me, I'm not so little. It's called a metaphor. Look it up. Can we get back to my accolades now please?

So RD is by far my favourite read (I'm not just saying that coz I've made his list, either). That makes the honour ten times grander. Tra la la and skippety doo dah day. Even the cat is meowing in admiration. The dog tried too, but he gave up and ate a celebration biscuit instead.

Thank you RD. You have made the right choice. I will make you proud.

Whee.

Budget Spa

Consider that feeling of utter relaxation you get when you visit a spa and have all your worldly cares whisked away for a few gorgeous hours. Or the sensations of pure peace and sanctity that come with the ambience and dead silence that a spa affords. Now consider the possibility of having all that stress-free bliss for free. Yes you heard me. FREE. No breaking the bank to feel good.

What if I told you that there is such a thing as the ‘spa experience’ that doesn’t cost a cent? What if I also told you that it’s just two minutes (or less) away from where you’re seated right now?

Didn’t think there’d ever be such a thing eh? Hah, I say.

Ladies and Gentlegerms, I give to you my very own domestic version of the ultimate relaxation hotspot (CUE DRUMROLL)– The Bathroom.

La toilette, to be precise and posh if you must.

Oh for heaven’s sake stop gasping like an asphyxiating chicken. What, you don’t think the toilet could ever measure up to the luxuries of the spa? You’re such a snob.

I, for one, proudly maintain that no spa in the world can give me a better feeling than my loo does. The absolute silence of no other presence in the room other than yourself and your thoughts, the sheer privacy and fact that no one will dare disturb you while you’re in there are just the surface of the spa-features that a solid toilet offers. And then there’s the release…

I dare you to tell me that the act of peeing or pooing doesn’t give you a sense of utopian satisfaction. Especially when you’ve had a particularly busy day with little time for visiting the john, and therefore have had to hold up for a whole. It doesn’t matter, really, whether you have day-old urine fermenting in your bladder or whether it’s a sudden urge that’s developed… the fabulous feeling of letting it go in the comfort of a secluded little toilet can match no other. I swear I could write a poem about it.

I usually like to take care of my physical business and then instead of rushing out like so many others do, I sit and dwell. Dwell in the serenity and privacy. Dwell in the few stolen moments I have to only myself, where I know I am safe from eyes or ears for as long as I like while I just steep myself in the meditational calm of it all. Of course I’d flush first, given that poo smell is anything but aromatherapy, unless you’re into that kind of thing. Sometimes if I feel like an extra bit of self-TLC I’ll sniff at a bar of soap that’s conveniently resting by the sink or spritz some jasmine air freshener around. Instant transcendence.

I know quite a few acquaintances in the ad industry who swear by the toilet when it comes to their work. No, I did not mean it as a witty metaphor to explain how shitty creative ideas can be, although come to think of it, I could have. But not right now. I meant the toilet being our best friend during brainstorming. It’s either to do with the fact that most of us are generally on our way to early mental retardation, or we’ve just hit on a secret that no one else knows about. I kid you not…some of my best ideas come when I’m sitting on the throne. I don’t know why that is… I’m guessing it’s the total, utter calm of the place that allows my thoughts to focus rather than stray to a number of distractions like how many paperclips I have in my desk drawer.

Ask anyone I work with who knows me well enough. LD can give you a clue about that. She knows that when she sees me whizzing past her towards the office loo, I’ll usually come out having had an epiphany in there. She’s usually the first person to hear my bathroom brainwaves, and she’ll tell you they’re good. Sometimes bordering on genius. And all because I took the time to pee on it.

I would go on, but I won’t, seeing as how I’m sure I’ve aroused your curiosity about this remarkable concept. I would suggest you give it a try, when you next feel stressed out with life and just need to give yourself a break – no pun intended. Go… find yourself a commoded cubicle. Close the door and in doing so, everything else out. Sit in it. Close your eyes. Let go. Breaaaathe. In no time you’ll forget you ever had a headache, or pain wherever else. You’ll smile. You will find yourself.
The best thing is… you didn’t have to open your wallet for the experience.

I need to take your leave now. I have a spa appointment. Await a happier me.

WOOF!!

So, this is a project I'm doing in partnership with the boyfwend, who's been sweet enough to pamper my whims. Why not give it a go?

Or visit this website.

So Have I.

Here, I also have done things, ah. Just because nobody officially asked me to share, doesn't mean I'm not going to.

Cue trumpet fanfare.

Have I ever...

• Eaten shit. I was too small to know, but I did. It was mine, which I suppose makes it slightly more justifiable. I am told that I looked fairly pleased too.

• Had a pet monkey. By the name of 'Kiri', thanks to her albino persona i.e. fully white fur. (Not captured or ever caged, please note. She turned up one day and ended up sticking around till she died of old but satisfied age) She hated my guts coz I got tasty treats and all she had were the same old fruits. She'd wait for mum to leave the room before stealing my food and pulling my hair on her way back to unreachable heights with her loot.

• Had the flesh of my back bitten off by my (then small) brother and had that followed by the flesh on my foot being chomped off by his pet deranged demon dog ten years later. Both times because I changed the channel while sibling was watching TV. We're a one-of-a-kind family.

• Written letters to the tooth fairy and Santa, begging for enough money to help me rule the world, and flying powder to escape the hands of the CID and my parents.

• Had my leotard rip and expose my (then wrinkle-free) ass to the audience while performing on public stage.

• Had the zip of a very tight skirt rip open and expose my thonged bottom as I bent down to pick up a fallen phone card in the middle of Pettah, and then had the same thing happen as I demonstrated the incident to my colleagues back in the office lunchroom. Much mirth was shared, except by me. Both at Pettah and in office.
  

• Got piss drunk at a company cocktail and told the Chairman of a large conglomerate that I love him and I'm sleepy, whilst clinging onto his coat sleeve.

• Farted loud and long in front of a Chairman of a large bank in the middle of photographing him for the bank's Annual Report. To smartly cover it up, I looked out of a nearby window at the Colombo harbour and serenely said " Oh look... ships." The only other person in the room was the photographer who managed, in between shaking himself and his tripod in fits of laughter, to capture the Chairman's facial reaction to my flatulence.
  

• Had the two previous incidents happen with two brothers who happened to be the Chairmen in question. It must have been the luck of their family.

• Farted loud and long in the middle of an intimate moment with my boyfriend. My innards are the stuff of legends, I tell you.
  

• Been dumped and left on a roadside, crying my heart out and then having hailed a trishaw to take me home, wailed and aired my grievances to the poor trishaw guy without telling him where home was. We rode around the streets of Colombo for quite some time, with me bawling piteously and asking Trishaw Dude why all men are scum, and poor TD looking perplexed at not being able to get a word in edgewise and ask for venue instructions or what 'scum' was.

• Performed a comic impersonation of my grandmother's celebrity neighbour outside my grandparents house, only to realize that my family was not laughing at my fine display of talent and wit, but at the fact that the neighbour was actually standing right behind me with a stony expression on her face. Ahem.

• Haughtily delivered an hour-long presentation, showing off my business sense to a board of leering men who I presumed were chauvinists and thought I was not up to the task, only to sit down snootily at the end of the presentation and have a Director shyly lean over and inform me that my trouser zip was down through the entire thing.
  

• Not been able to control my bladder and peed in the middle of performance on public stage and had little rivulets of urine run merrily down my stockinged legs. But apparently nobody had seen it, so SHHHH...

• Found a bunch of boys throwing stones at a poor little calf who was tied to a fence, and stoned the boys back until their mothers came out to scream at me. I, of course, did the ladylike thing and screamed back and threw stones at them too. And then ran away from an approaching police officer.

• Fallen into an 8-foot manhole in the night during a power-cut, not been discovered for a while till I waved my credit card in the air (or the street above me, as the case would seem), been hauled out by some passing trishaw men and needed 12 stitches to sew back my exposed chin and jaw that I hit on the way down the hole.

• Had a bad allergic reaction to some food during a wedding, been rushed to the Durdens ER and been drunk enough to hit on the doctor while he injected me with medication and then thrown up on him.

• Had a talking cat. She'd say 'aiyyo', 'aney', 'no', 'me' and 'mummy'.

• Had too many 'have I ever' stories to put down here. But I have to do the considerate thing and stop for the sake of preserving my readership and my good name.... if I have one left.

If you haven't already been a part of this, then I tag YOU.

Nevah Evah

I’ve tagged myself. Pathetic, yes, but Lady D was feeling magnanimous and diplomatic, so she went and put up an ‘open tag ‘ policy, so here goes.

I have never :

Told my parents I love them without squirming in embarrassment and wanting to heave afterwards. It’s also pretty darn strange AND comforting to know I’m not the only one on the blogosphere to have never done this.

Had surgery, which I find highly unfair because I think lying on bed for weeks and having people wait on you and bring you flowers is kinda cool.

Maintained my calm at an animal’s death. I can outdo Shakespearean tragedy with my wails and weeps when it happens.

Been really, truly, couldn’t-wish-for-more happy. Bloody elusive bugger, this Joy fellow….

Thought I was normal. Or even close to it.

Been able to figure out which one of my many faces and personas is the real me. And my loved ones think THEY’RE confused…

Stuck to one thing. I think that has something to do with the previous point.

Found my true passion. I envy those who know what they were meant to do and go on to make it the career of a lifetime. I haven’t quite clinched that one yet….

Done drugs. But maybe that’s because I’m naturally quite high.

Believed in the governments of Sri Lanka.

Mastered the art of keeping my mouth shut. You probably already know this. It’s a painful experience.

Liked my neck. It looks like the kind you find on a plucked chicken, all wrinkly and thin. You didn’t need to know this.

Cheated on or dumped anyone. Wait… no… there was that one time that I broke off with my first boyfriend when I was 14 coz he tried to kiss me and I thought that was sick. Does that count?

Gone through a week without a dramatic event worth telling my future grandchildren about. If I have future grandchildren.

Eaten dragon-fruit. But I’m tempted.

Been able to control my bladder at the most inconvenient times.

Been able to tread water. You should see me…. like a drowning rat, huffing and puffing to keep my head above water without sinking like the Titanic.

Understood women.

Okay, okay. I’ll stop before you change sites. Jeez.
I am tagging The Doc and Gutterflower. And anyone else who wants to give it a go.

A Friendly Blog

I haven’t been blogging for a while. I suppose you’ve noticed. Or am I just not that important enough… sniff?

Anyhoos, hallo hallo. Been some time no? Sorry child. I have been so busy no meya…. with the show and all. (Sound of Music… did you watch it? You didn’t? Bastard.) Now that it’s over, I am suffering the most heinous case of withdrawal syndrome. Didn’t think I would, given that the whole experience involved…dare I say it… children. But I have to admit they grew on me. Shockingly. As did the wonderfully quirky bunch of girls I had the pleasure of sharing a dressing room with. Aiyo I miss the excited babble and drama in that room, men. I’ve never been in a production that has had this much unity and camaraderie across the entire cast… there’s always been the ‘clique’ factor happening… until now. It was quite nice to get along with everyone for a change and have nothing but laughs with each other. Look ma, I made new friends.

Which brings me to the post of the day. The Pal Factor. And this one's gonna be long, so brace yourselves darlings.

Everybody and their next door neighbour has one. Big ones, small ones, clingy ones, weird ones, ones who live to please you, ones you live to please… what’s life without a friend? They know you at your very worst and they still believe in you.

Me…. I’ve never been one for having many friends. Never did. In school I was always the odd nut job who skulked around in the recesses of a classroom while the others compared boyfriends and nail polish colours. I didn’t see the point, and preferred the company of my multiple personalities to the superficial ninny-talk I often eavesdropped into. I still can’t do the socialite thing and smooch every face I see and bump hips like I see it done around me. I’m not into that kind of friendship… the shallow variety that competes for the best outfit and shrieks ‘hey gurlfriend’ one second and ‘bitch’ the next. I prefer the brand of friend that I can share whatever silly notion of the day I have with, and the kind that I can not see for a decade and still be able to pick up where we left off without any signs of awkwardness. I like the kind of people who don’t balk when I speak my mind, and who appreciate me for who I am. Obviously, that means I don’t have that big a bunch of homies. Just a choice few, each more eccentric than the other, but who I’d happily give my life for should they ever need me. I can count them with my ten fingers, but each of them makes up for a whole army of people. I'm dedicating this post to the human pals in my life. The four-legged ones deserve an entire post to themselves, which I will save for later.

I’ve learnt along the way by clique-watching that a true friend is a rare thing to find. Everyone bonds for reasons beyond just liking each other’s personalities and the value they add to yours. Think about it… if you were to lose your job, you house, your family and be sent to jail, which one of your ‘friends’ would come bail you out or even come visit? Would YOU go visit a chum who’s been convicted of murder? It’s tough innit… suddenly the person we thought was good for us and complimented our social status no longer plays by the same rules, and is automatically a good candidate for the almighty boot. More often than not we tend to keep friends for more convenient purposes, such as getting something out of them. Don’t ‘tsk’ at me… you know you do it too. We’re all quite excited to have the odd contact in our lives that we go out of our way to get close to, just because later on, should we ever need their pull, we play the ‘connections’ trump card. If they can be of no help or emotional support to us, then they’re not worth our time, and they belong to the ‘acquaintance’ category and not the friend one. I hate that.

Honestly. It feels like I’m taking advantage of someone and for that reason even when I do need help, I don’t like asking my friends for it. Not that they wouldn’t come rushing to my aid if I ever called for it, but I usually like to take the hard route and call up general suppliers off the yellow pages and follow the rules instead of use someone I know and care for. It’s not pride or anything, so don’t get me wrong. I appreciate help just as much as the beggar on the street does when you give him your wallet, but I don’t like requesting it from people I call my friends, unless it comes voluntarily. I have the same issues with family too. Lord knows my family is pretty much like the mafia – everybody is someone and the connections I have could humble a politician, but I categorically refuse to ever go to them for assistance on things I should be doing myself. Call it obstinacy, but I just don’t, can’t and won’t go to the people I care about for anything more than their company.

And what company it is. The tiny bunch of people I am honoured to call my true pals are individually some of the craziest, most intriguing people you could ever meet, with life-stories that could inspire the next Harry Potter collection. They’re scattered all over the place, so there’re very few times in an year that we do meet each other, but when we do…. boy oh boy… All it takes is a coffee and a chair and I end up having the time of my life.

It’s not always fun and games either. There’s something inexplicably amazing about the emotional connections you feel with true friends, that can propel you sky high when you feel at your lowest. It’s a nice feeling… to know someone truly cares and you don’t have to feel obligated in return. I’ve had the luck of experiencing it first hand, when I bawled my brains out over a break-up to a male friend I’m especially fond of, and within minutes an entire troupe of guy buddies had arrived from far and wide on his call just to hold my hand and watch me cry. They even drove me around town endlessly with no venue goal until I’d calmed down enough to go home and rest. These are the very friends who now live all over the world and who I know I’ll get a call at 3 am from if I so much as change my FaceBook status message, just to find out what’s up. That sort of attention and concern is rather nice, to say the least.

I have another extension to that bunch, who is my sounding board at any given time. The intellectual genius that she is (and I know she’s reading this because she said she likes my blog. :P), she always makes me feel like I make splendid sense, even when I know I don’t. She’s heard the worst confessions and shared the most horrible thoughts back, and we still manage to understand each other and giggle over it. To her special magic I add another two females who make it their duty to speak their minds, no matter how harsh the opinion. They won’t so much as blink between tongue lashings when they feel I am deserving of it. Only true friends would be that honest and not make me hate them for it.

Then there’s my retarded group of compatriots from the old office. A more united, crazier, lovelier bunch I have yet to meet. We knew nothing about each other when we first met, and it’s only been a couple of years at most but it seems like a lifetime… like we were there at each other’s birth. Granted, they’re closer to each other than they are to me since I was their ‘boss’, but it didn’t stop us from sharing the wildest times with each other and laughing together till we peed. So much so that I have become oddly, even possessively, fond of that crowd… almost feeling maternal and responsible for their lives. I need to see them happy, or I feel I’ve failed them. Even with the age differences, designation differences and professional relationships, I know I’d swim the seven seas for them and they for me should the time come. I managed to bring one of them over to the current office too (and I know SHE’S reading this as well. ;))… if I hadn’t I’d have died by now in the doldrums of the present office culture. I do enjoy the opportunity to often articulate the most horrible thoughts out to her and have her do the same, and not be judged for it. It’s a nice thing to know someone has your back through thick and thin. Even though you’re a first class weirdo.

Last but never the least there is the ultimate top spot in the friend’s list – the best friend. The usual norm is to have a bestie who’s been with you from the school ages and who’s giggled with you over sharing knickers and handbags. I do have one or two of those (close friends from school, not mutual panties and bags), but I took them out of the best friend section some time ago. Not that they’re not the coolest girls around and the comfort factor with them is glorious, ESPECIALLY when we giggle over common undies, but the definition of a TRUE best friend has changed drastically as of late. It’s an entirely different thing altogether from the usual close friend. It’s a mate you share more than common interests and war stories with, or even a history for that matter. To me, a best friend has become someone you just cannot imagine life without, and someone who’s become such an integral part of your life that without that person, you feel incomplete and useless. Someone you can feel elated about simply breathing at.

As my luck may have it, the one person I now do class as my best friend also happens to be the guy I date. I don’t know if that complicates things because if one fails, then the other surely will too. I know, I know… true love and friendship are both unconditional, but you have to accept the fact that one affects the other, however much you deny it. He has seen me at my very worst, and allowed himself to be used and taken for granted when any other man would have told me to go fly that kite that ol’ uncle Charlie built.… and he has held my hand through it all without flinching. He knows me at times that I don’t know myself and can read my thoughts long before I think them. In the few years I’ve known him he has willingly become my rock, my comfort zone, my punching bag, my comic relief, my point of pleasure, both my cause for nightmare as well as my dream and my hope.

I’m so gooey today. But that’s what friends do to you. Real friends.

And there it is, if you’ve managed to read this far. A snapshot of the nutters I am proud to call my one constant and link to sanity in this disastrous world we live in.

Friends are such a good thing, no?

In Memory of my Ugly Duckling

This rather (extremely) long post is dedicated to a very special life that touched every other one that crossed its path.

People who know me well enough are also as familiar with my grandmother’s dog Soththi; better known by her full name – Soththi Upalilaage Monalisa Katuballi. Don’t laugh. Both she and my grandmother took the name very seriously.

My very first meeting with Soththi was quite accidental and completely unceremonious. I was on my way to school when I saw a van in front go over a tiny shivering brown blob on the road. The blob was so small and still that it managed to escape the van’s tyres by being fortunately positioned right in the centre of the lane. I would have dismissed it for a piece of cloth, had not I suddenly spied two ears peeking up from somewhere on its moving surface.

Needless to say I had to shriek, stop the car and cause the panicked squealing of several tyres behind me. Just inches away from the quivering mass on the road, that turned out to be some sort of enlarged rat. On closer inspection, the mass turned out to be an actual DOG… still in puppy mode, albeit a rather ugly one. It was a bit uncomfortable to behold. Puppies are by default cute furry lumps of happy tails and drooly pink tongues. This one was…well…

The first thing you saw was its ribcage, which was causing all the shaking and shivering. With each feeble breath heaved, those ribs would stick out to allow counting. The rest of it was just as emaciated and covered in mange. Like a CSR advertisement for Somalia. A gnarly rat-like tail stuck out of one end of this little bag of bones, whilst on the other end panted the most hideous face you ever saw on any creature, let alone a pup. Sunken cheeks, sunken eyes and a black raisin nose. But the one feature that took the cake (or put you off the cake, as the case seemed) was its pair of ears. Huge cavernous bat ears that stuck straight up out of the top of a nearly-bald thimble head, invoking thoughts of vampires and demons.

See what I mean? Ugly as sin. But ugly never deters me, especially (no…wait… ONLY) when it comes to animals. A pup is a pup, and one that had just narrowly escaped death warranted my concern. There was no way I was going to leave this blob to die. I had to pick it up.
Picking up a half-dead, really horrible looking, diseased animal off the streets is one thing. Taking it to school is a complete other, because there was no where else I COULD take it at that point. I had to stuff the creature into my schoolbag to sneak it past the old but always-suspicious security guard at the gate, and then figure out where to PUT it for an entire school day. Keeping it in the bag wouldn’t do at all, given how piss smell never completely leaves books and a dog never stays still. My solution came in the form of my classroom desk. Quite conveniently, school desks are produced with a circular hole on their top-left surface… no doubt an innovation designed to provide ventilation to puppies being kept inside. I lined the cavity of my desk with sheets of paper and gingerly placed the now whimpering pup inside. It immediately blessed the desk with a puddle of pee before curling up and sleeping on the piss. Lovely.

The other students were enthralled. In the history of their schooling, no one had put a dog into a desk before. I was an instant hit as the weird kid. They kept lifting the lid of the desk every two seconds to gape and say ‘anaaaa’ in those hateful shrieky voices that only girls are capable of, and to feed the animal a host of goodies, including highland packeted chocolate milk. Puppy and I were both rather overwhelmed, but happy that we were getting sufficient attention. A few hours into the day and my Biology teacher decided to give us a test. This meant total silence, save the droning whir of the ceiling fan as we all bit our lips and tried not to cheat. Suddenly in the midst of the almost meditational calm of the exam, a long, high-pitched howl emanated from somewhere at the back of the classroom. My desk, to be exact. My feeble attempts to convince the Bio teacher that I was the howler were useless. She swept up to me and demanded I open the desk and show her its contents. Her admonishing glare turned into a stare, which then turned into something akin of a coronary attack. Puppy and I were immediately banished, despite the cacophony of ‘aney miss… pau miss’ coming from all the other desks around me. She told me I could only come back once I’d gotten rid of ‘that disgusting thing’. And so we trudged off into the horizon of the school complex, slighted… me struggling not to retort loudly on animal rights and the puppy struggling to piss out the overdose of chocolate milk.

I’ve always been proud of my PR skills and now I’m convinced that my schooling days honed that talent. Never more so than that afternoon when I debated, beseeched and extorted my way into getting the school’s hostel mistress to allow me the temporary use of her facilities for the pup. She was a cat-mad lady, and housed several of her pregnant and newly-birthed rescuees in a row of wooden kennels she’d built behind one of the hostel buildings as a ‘feline maternity ward’ of sorts. If there’s one place a weakened dog should never be kept, it’s in the immediate vicinity of a group of hormonal female cats. But the place would have to do for the time being, and puppy was successfully installed in a vacant cage, under the promise that it would be taken away by end of day. That whole day, I spent my time in class like a panicked mother on her kid’s first day in school. Every yelp, howl and whine sent me running back to the cage in distress, convinced that the fellow was about to meet its maker at the claws of a fellow patient. I soon learnt that puppy had cunningly figured this out and was using its vocal skills to its advantage.
By end of day I still hadn’t figured out what to do with the dog. No one in class or in any other was willing to take it home. My mother, I knew, would kick me out of the house if I took it back with me. I HAD to find it a home. Luckily, at the very last second before absolute helplessness set in, a younger student said she’d gladly take it home, but only if I gave her a ride. I gladly agreed, and we put puppy in a box and proceeded to her house.

One hour later Puppy and I were on our way back, with the girl having been grounded by her mother for even THINKING of bringing a creature that ugly into the house. Even I got a shout for putting nonsense into her daughter’s head. We now truly had nowhere to go. In absolute desperation we turned to the one couple I figured we’d stand a chance with – my grandparents. I knew they didn’t have the heart to say no to something like this.
…

“No”, bellowed my grandfather. “Absolutely NOT”. He was as black as thunder and refusing to consider any of my pleas. “What IS that? Is that a DOG?” asked a bewildered grandmother. It took me a good few hours to convince them to house the pup temporarily… until I find it a permanent home. After some time they reluctantly agreed. “Only for three days. You can please take it away then”, said the thunder.

Three days later, like a prayer, there was a furious voice on my phone receiver that had to be kept a foot away from my ear lest I go deaf. The dog would be OUT on the streets if it wasn’t collected immediately. A foster family had been found, I lied. They would be able to accommodate doggy only in a week’s time because they were in the middle of shifting, I said. Man, I thought…. I should go into writing fiction. In a week, the dog and its stinky poo would be out of my grandparents’ hair, I promised.

I avoided them like the plague for the next three weeks. The phone calls and verbal abuse became less and less frequent, progressively replaced by daily chats on what funny little canine stunt had been performed that day. It was a she, I found out. She now had a name. Soththi Upalilaage Monalisa Katubelli a.k.a Soththi. The more ironic thing was that she’d been christened so by my grandfather, who was also suddenly waking up at 6 am every morning to warm her milk and boil her breakfast beef.

A few weeks hence and Soththi had been securely (and victoriously) installed in the household and one couldn’t dare to even think of taking her away. It had been discovered that she had black birthmarks on her tongue and inside the padding of her paws. According to local belief, they were signs of luck; and you couldn’t find a luckier pup than Soththi. The constant cooing and cuddling she got at the hands of my animal-mad grandmother resulted in quite a spoilt pup. She was fed the best cuts of meat… ice creams for dessert… biscuits and milk at the smallest of whimpers. She had a ‘magic carpet’- the rubber mat in front of the kitchen fridge, where she’d sit and woof out snack orders. As if by magic, these would instantly appear at her paws. All of a sudden, the floor was no place for such a pweshuss darling, and my grandfather’s side of the bed was hastily evacuated for her sake. He’d have to sleep elsewhere or learn to share the pillow. In no time she’d fattened out considerably and her ratty-bat looks were soon replaced by quite a good looking silky golden coat, gentle warm brown eyes and a constant smile. That tail of hers couldn’t stop wagging. By all rights, with the kind of upbringing she had, Soththi should have grown into one of those Colombo 7 pampered pooches that did nothing but sigh all day. By all rights. But she wasn’t one of those dogs. She was mad.

By mad I mean completely, utterly, totally batty to the bone… a nutcase of a dog on a permanent sugar high. This was a dog to which one never merely threw a ball. Rather, the ball would be thrown up in the air, and she’d jump beside it… the game was to see who could go higher- dog or ball. She also had a routine demonstration of lunacy. Visitors to the house were treated to about fifteen minutes of being pounced on from every angle by a ridiculously thrilled dog, followed by another 15 minute display of ‘running in circles’ around the living room. Then she’d leap onto EVERY SINGLE PIECE OF FURNITURE in the hall like a computer game and end up on the one nearest to you, before offering her stomach for scratching. Woe betide he who scratcheth Soththi… he’d be stuck doing it until the end of the visit, with a bit of rump scratching added as bonus. When she was sterilized, the vet advised my grandparents to be gentle when handling her and to allow her the comfortable rest she needed, for she would be in too much pain to be moved for a couple of days. An hour after they’d brought her home and ever-so carefully laid her out on pillows to sleep on, they found her scaling the garden walls trying to catch squirrels. That was Soththi.

Her madness never receded one bit through the 12 years that she lit up that household. She hadn’t a care in the world and she made damn sure you didn’t either when you were with her. The gloomiest of days would brighten up instantly with one goofy smile and a pounce-hug from her. That dog knew just how lucky she was, and she made sure she showed her gratitude to us every single moment. She was more than a dog – she was a child. She had her own bed custom made, her collection of collars – one for every occasion and a myriad of treats at any given time. She was referred to as ‘my little Kella’ by my grandfather, the very man who objected to her existence at the beginning. He’d submit to her every whim at the drop of a hat, or a paw as the case would seem. He spent the last two years travelling to and from veterinary clinics, having Soththi treated for cataracts and lumps. But that still didn’t deter her from going happy-berserk whenever someone so much as smiled in her direction. No family gathering would end without at least half an hour’s reports on the dog’s latest activity. Through the years, she’d almost as good as become my grandparents’ reason to live.

A week ago, Soththi pounced across the universe to doggy heaven, leaving heavy hearts and an empty miniature bed behind. It will be some time before her foster parents get over her demise… I doubt they ever actually will. You couldn’t, if you knew the wonderful, funny little ugly duckling that was Soththi Upalilaage Monalisa Katubelli.

I shall miss her.

Afraid? Me?

Aney now see what that Divine woman has gone and done...inspired me with a post subject and made me feel all guilty for stealing her original idea. Never mind... I'm Sri Lankan and I watch Sirasa. Plagiarism is in my blood. But for what its worth:

Disclaimer - the topic of this post was somebody else's idea.

And now, on to all those little things that spook me out. I'm afraid...

... of being boring.

... of the high possibility of never being completely independent and free of obligation.

... of waking up one morning and realizing I made a mistake. A big one.

... of never feeling truly happy.

... of material poverty.

... of my own paranoia.

... of the ocean. (Bet ya didn't know that, eh?)

... of losing my ability to dance.

... of the dark.

... to trust.

... of not finding my passion in life.

... of losing my passion FOR life.

... of facing this judgmental world as the real me.

... of turning into my mother.

... of dying before the world sees me or I see the world.

One More and Counting....

Yah, it's been a while. Three weeks of non-blog living, four eye-opening work experiences, two lumps of dog poo on my bedroom floor and one massive case of upper respiratory tract infection long, in fact.

And now I'm suddenly one year older. Whoop de doo.

Suddenly, singing happy birthday just seems redundant, y'know? After 29 years of it, it starts to get a bit depressing. No more toys for birthday presents (unless someone has a big enough heart to get me a dildo or something), no more theme party ware, no more musical chairs and passing the cushion. The only music-chair combination nowadays is when I fart after dinner and the only cushion passed around is that kind with the hole in the middle. 29, man.... I'm one year away from officially becoming an 'auntie' in my own head. Sucky.
I voiced my misery on Sunday at rehearsals to a fellow cast member and she laughed, calling me silly. She's 19. She does not understand my ire and deserves to die because her stomach area still looks like a friggin' unused skating rink. My stomach, on the other hand, has a name of its own thanks to its growing personality. The rest of me is too darn ugly to name at all. 'Cept my boobs. Those are still looking good, thank god. I think they want to wait till I hit 40 before falling apart like the rest of my... um... Rubenesque self.

SO yeah. I'm havin' a birthday. To mark it, here's a list of 29 things about me being 29 that you probably had no idea about. Lucky for you, I'm suddenly in the mood to share...

1. I still live with my mother. Despite several attempts to claim my right to absolute independence, I still come home to someone else's house and am still fighting over what I wear, how I speak, what time I come home and how I keep the room I sleep in. You'd think that after 29 years they'd give up on things like that. But no. Apparently mothers can sustain their ways for far longer. I had hoped that by this birthday at least I'd be enjoying solitude in my own place, but it looks like I have to wait till I die for that.
2. I think I've found the 'one'. My best friend and happy drug. Yay. I love him, and he's the only man on this entire planet who's made me rethink my policies on marriage. Someday, perhaps I'll get off my high horse and ensnare the poor sod into a lifetime commitment before he knows what's happening and has a chance to flee. Maybe after I've hit mid-life crisis, if I haven't already.
   
3. My hair's falling out. I'm putting it down to an age thing.
4. I still haven't found my calling. When I do find it (and the finances for it), I have the perfect bunch of people I want to work with. I hope my Imps stick around that long.
5. I can no longer gobble down infinite quantities of achcharu without succumbing to a bad tummy. This is depressing.
6. I am increasingly aware of how unnecessarily petty, judgemental and completely wrong my parents can be on many things. That's a very sad thing for any child to figure out at any age, but for all their best intentions, I've realized they are pretty flawed. I don't know if my observations give me strength to control my own life more or just weaken it further, given the faith I previously had in them.
   
7. I am no longer cool. I can't hang at nightclubs without yawning by 10pm, and I don't see the point in head banging. Help.
8. For the absolute first time in my entire life, I actually hate some people. I mean really, really, wish-you-were-dead kinda hate. Eek.
9. From a tomboy who couldn't fathom the virtues of lipstick, I'm suddenly this silly bimbo who actually understands the importance of shoes and handbags and I can't stop buying them. It is both worrying and exhilarating. I used to have just a few blacks and browns that would go with everything, but now I have pinks and greens in an assortment of heels and strap patterns. I still don't know why, though. This I'll figure out by 30.
   
10. I have mastered the art of talking to my cat. We understand each other purrfectly now.
11. I am becoming increasingly bad with punning on words.
12. My memory takes a trip now and then. There are the mildly amusing times when I can't remember a name or number. Then there are the alarming occasions when that name and number are my own.
    
13. I've started disapproving of the youth and their wild ways. Its bad enough that I call them youth. Lately, I've caught myself 'tsk tsk'ing at many a radical behaviour (considered normal behaviour nowadays) quite a number of times before hitting my head into a wall to keep myself from becoming like one of those archaic old ladies who serve you in school canteens.
    
14. My ass is a thing of the past. Oh wait... I already covered that subject. See what I meant about memory?
15. I used to have the time, patience and frame of mind to get through a good book in two days. Now I take a whole month to leaf through the Hi! magazine.
16. I read the Hi! magazine. If that's not a sign of aging, then I don't know what is.
17. I still adore cartoons and teen flicks. I can sit through an entire Disney marathon, and still fantasize about the prince in the Little Mermaid. He's pretty damn cute. It's nice to know that some immaturities will always remain unchanged.
18. My waist size is no longer worth my pride and I am still in denial about it. I used to be a 23-inch. If I told you what it is now, I'd have to kill you. I promise myself that I will return to my young, slim self someday soon, as soon as I managed to complete that climb up the stairs to the gym after contemplating it with a mars bar. Meanwhile, I buy kurtas and kaftans to keep my body comfortable.
    
19. I just admitted to wearing kaftans. That is the epitome of old-aunty clothing and I had no qualms about telling the entire blogosphere. Egads. Time to panic.
20. I have attempted suicide twice in my lifetime and lived to tell about it. One thing good about this ageing thing.... I'm now old enough to know better.
    
21. Buying furniture and linen suddenly makes sense.
    
22. My performing arts skills have come along nicely, all on their own. I am finding out at age 29 that I can actually now sing pleasantly enough to not empty a room at the speed of light thanks to my voice growing deeper and stronger over time. Shah. And whether it's a good thing or not, my increasing mental detachment from reality (they call it senility, do they?) has helped my acting skills by leaps and bounds.
    
23. Its becoming more and more pathetic to say I lived in the eighties and set a bunch of kids off into a fit of sniggers.
    
24. Everyone I know is married, divorced, has kids, an alcohol addiction or is dead.
    
25. One of the afore-mentioned divorcées came to me recently and squeaked " How are you Miss? Remember me, Miss? You taught me English in grade 6!" Then I realized how old I was.
26. I can actually diagnose my own illnesses and say the names of various medicines without mis-pronunciation. Only the aged are that capable and this worries me.
    
27. People come to me for advice. Me. For advice. They listen, too.
    
28. I think I used to be a girl worth looking at, judging from the number of school boys who'd pay my brother off to get some info on me. I used to get a few stares, whistles and phone calls from fellows who'd send my father flying towards his air-gun and heart medication. Now when I eyeball cute guys, I have to slap myself for acting like a pedophile and stop them running away from the creepy old lady. And only the rotting wooden handle of the air gun remains... with spiders hatching eggs inside it.
    
29. When I try to skip rope, I piss myself.

There you go. Happy birthday to me.

Mental Things

I've been wondering and pondering alot today, and I thought I'd share some of those musings with whoever is bored enough to read my blog.

To demonstrate just how wickedly expert my mind can be at branching out into a hundred million directions in the space of a moment -

• India is going to encourage people to start eating rat meat, says the Island paper. Given the rising cost of basic food in SL, maybe Mr. Chinthanaya can add that into his list of 'things to make my people do' too. But that would mean we'd have to catch 99% of parliament and eat them. I don't think Mervin Silva would taste that good.

• I love a good poo. It's like exercise. There's something so... so... SATISFYING is dispersing of that nice big roll of faeces and having your stomach relax the warm empty sensations it leaves behind. I wonder if they couldn't turn that entire process into a form of meditation. In fact, some of my most peaceful and happy moments have been on the throne in my loo.

• Heard some folklore in passing which suggested that Ravana (depicted in the Ramayana as the 'demon' king of ancient Lanka) is buried in the forests behind the Sgirya rock. Apparently disturbing the forest in any way will waken him and the battle between Hanuman and he will re-ignite once more. Hmmm... a war between a demon and a monkey... Has the Ramayana's author HEARD of Prabhakaran and Mahinda?

• WHO out of you in this blogworld actually believes anything printed in the Daily News? You do? Dumb schmuck.

• I'm learning to love myself and my body more. Obsessing over a pot belly that doesn't seem to care about my depression is a waste of my time. So in a bid to accept it, I have named it Wilbur, like the pig in Charlotte's Web. Wilbur and I are in therapy these days and learning to get along better.

• If I was born male, would I be gay? I hope so, for the sake of my dress sense.

• Why is Mervin Silva being let off the hook so obviously, and no one saying anything about it? His punishment is to be meted out by the Gods now???

• I wish women in this country could move out on their own without having a husband first. I'm dying to have my own place and I can't because of my mother's failing heart at the respectability issues that will arise. 'Moral' society sucks.

• Someone please advice me on how to go about setting up my own business. I'm at a point where work is starting to feel like work, and that's always a bad thing. I've already got a ready crew of people who've agreed to join me if I do go into biz on my own... but I'd need to buy machines and pay salaries.... and legalize stuff.

• Sometimes I like to hold my piss in, just to see how strong my bladder and my willpower are. Now is one of those times.

• Everyone should have a song. Something that speak for you and of you. Mine is an entire collection remix.
  

I had more thoughts to share, but work just landed on my desk, so they'll have to wait. You're free to go.

'Hic'ka

It's Thursday. Our nation's glorious leader has decided to shut down Colombo city and host a 5-day gathering for the boys from the SAARC, where he and his fellow nincompoops will spin fictitious tales for the ignorant. There's no point in sticking around to witness it - mainly because, apart from the fact that His Lowness's shenanigans interest me not, I'm not allowed anywhere near the summit movements. The glorious leader must be savvy to my cunning plot to stand on the newly-vacated Glennie Street and throw rotten tomatoes at his passing bullet proof vehicle. Dang. My plans will have to wait for another opportune moment, and for now I think I will ensconce myself elsewhere.

Perhaps I'll traipse over to the Hikkaduwa Beach Fest. The boys at the Tourist Board have been raising their sarongs about it for about a month now, via the Real FM people. It sounds very exciting. Fleeing Colombites have been promised a week's worth of sun, sand and festivities that are costing just as much as the SAARC... of course I simply must attend and join in the party. And because I am cool and new-age, I shall henceforth refer to the place as 'Hikka' in the hopes that I fit in with the more initiated.

I've never been to Hikka. No I'm not ashamed of the fact, so stop gasping like they've announced another petrol hike. Yes, of course I'm excited about going. That is why I've bought myself a whole new wardrobe for my two-night expedition. Seven outfits in all because, really, you never know when you might need them. Batik shorts to look suitably Hikka Hippy-ish and some of those flowy dresses that will make me look like a romantic music video, where nubile beauties skip merrily in the shallow waters of the ocean in their wet flowy dresses and cavort about like easter bunnies. I can be an easter bunny. Most importantly, I should not forget a swimsuit. I have been told it's a MUST when on the beach. Two hours at Beverly Street and my mid-region convinces me that I can't wear a bikini, unless I want to drain the marijuana out of everyone's heads in Hikka. Woe is me. I shall have to resort to my faithful one-piece suit, practice sucking my tummy in and pray.

Fast forward to Thursday evening. I have driven to Hikka. Is this actually the acclaimed party central of Sri Lanka? It looks like a ghost town at Christmas time. Fairy lights everywhere but not a dog in sight. Oh wait... there's a dog. Where is everyone? Oh look... cops, telling me I can't park on the side of the road. I thought I'd left all that behind in Colombo. My hotel cannot accommodate my vehicle in its already full car-park, mutters the ancient security officer who is guarding it. I will have to park at the police station a couple of feet away and lug my bags in.

I am now in my hotel room (the one I spent the last three weeks fighting for, because everything in Hikka was booked up for the beachfest). What are those marks on the bed sheets? Oh lord, there are pubes on my pillow. Is that a pee stain on the toilet seat? And WHAT is that brown streak on the towel? Ew. This is not how I planned it. I do, however, have to applaud the Hotel for their honesty... at least they've kept everything white so I can actually SEE the smut marks left behind by the patrons of the past. Almost a show of pride, this. 'Look... see how many people have slept on this bed and pissed in this toilet. We are a truly popular enterprise.'

Joy.

An hour later and I am dressed in the first of my seven Hikka outfits and sitting at the Red Lobster in the hopes of having dinner. The table cloths here outdo my hotel bed sheets. I am curious to know if this is a Hikka tradition. Why is the waitress/proprietress carrying a child and serving food? It's a cute child, but his fingers are dirty... the ones he just dug his nose with.
My devilled beef and fried rice is quite good. I can eat all of it, if I don't think of the state of the kitchen I see below the stairs. I am full, and ready to hit the Drum festival.

Oh My Hikka Gawd. This drum festival is fabulous! Ravibandu, Jananath, Elephant's Foot, Vibrations, etc., etc. Just my cup if tea and I can't stop gyrating. Wonder why there are not many people here... except for that drunk fellow in front, jumping around like a rhesus monkey on LSD.
A femal rhesus impersonator has now joined... her little belt-cum-skirt leaves nothing to anyone's imagination, but she's too stoned to notice. Oh dear... please don't bend forward, honey. Wince. Never mind... the awesome drumming is worth this ludicrous exhibition of bad dancing and pink undies.

Time has lapsed once more and I have just woken up in my stained bed, four hours since I fell
asleep. I am suddenly bonding with this room... the whiteness of it all appeals to my lack-of-sleep-drugged mind. I don't mind the stains anymore... they have become familiar patches worth pondering over. The view of the ocean outside ain't half bad...

A quick wash in hot water that isn't hot, and into outfit no.2. Breakfast is being cleared so I grab at the last of the boiled eggs and sausages. Should I try the kiribath, I wonder. Nah... perhaps tomorrow. An hour hence and I am at the much-publicized Beach Market.

Er... where's the market? Oh... you mean that tent selling plastic toys... ok then. I feel like grumbling that the 2000 rupees I painfully handed over in exchange for a beach fest ticket is starting to look like a rip-off. Sigh... might as well trudge back to the hotel and sleep some m... oh heyyy... look at all those lovely bumpy bodies playing beach rugby... hmmm... hello there....

Gah. They're all barely fifteen. With bumpy faces. I am a Hikkaduwa paedophile. Gah.

More slodging in the sand, and I am now at the back entrance of my hotel that overlooks the sea. There is a group of kids playing about in the water and making loud screechy noises. By the looks of it and the sound of the sri-american accents, they are from one of those international schools... what other mothers would let their pre-teen daughters wear such scandalous bikinis that barely cover anything up? Look at them smoking and rubbing themselves up on those pre-pubescent boys like they've seen it done on VH1 and MTV. Tsk. But that water they're in looks inviting. If only I didn't have a phobia when it comes to the ocean.

But it's Hikka... and Hikka is said to be the beach of opportunity. I will dare the sea water. With the help and patience from a strong arm to cling onto like a drowning rat, my one-piece bathing suit and I are soon waist-deep in the waves and strangely enjoying the terrifying thrill of it. I can see those darned international school kids laughing at me... or are they laughing at my old-aunty swim suit and the paunch it fails to hide? I don't know, and I care little... I'm too busy being proud of myself for having stepped into the sea after 20 years. I'm even so bold as to reach into the sand and pick up pieces of dead coral that have washed up from the deep. Are those actualy pretty little fish swimming around my knees? Wow...

Another two hours and an outfit have passed. There is no better way to satisfy the hunger pangs developed from a sea bath than the Mama's buffet down the road. The spectacular spiciness is making me sweat and feel faint. Has there ever been a yummier rice and curry meal? Mmmm.... Mama, whoever she is, deserves a culinary medal.

A quick nap later and I am back at the beach market, where they are now showcasing the sand castle competitions and kite flying festivals. 6 kites in all. For some strange reason, alot of sand sculptures depict women with their bums up. Must be a Hikka beach boy thing. Again, nothing much to look at...except for that dog who is coolly raising its leg to one of the sandcastles. Back to the hotel room to change for dinner and the Beach Rave.

Dinner is delicious. I hope everyone knows about the superb food this Blue Shadow place has to offer... I have never tasted devilled crab this good and this meaty. The panic-ridden-ant-like waiter deserves a hefty tip, as does the cook. I could get used to the food in Hikka. On to the rave.

I have never been to a rave. I looked forward to this so much, and now I'm wondering why. I almost feel foolish for having dressed up in outfit number 5. Yes, it does make me fit in better with the other girls around, who all look like they've stepped out of a magazine. (the same magazine, by the way... since all of them seem to be wearing the same thing, like little clone-dolls). What is this terrible sound, ah? Is this what they call trance music? Where's the music part of it? Thump thump thump thud. Repeat twenty gazillion times over. I don't see how it's making everyone wiggle up and down the way they are. This time at least the beach is packed... and you can always tell who's from Colombo and who's not. The Colombites will be the plastic-looking ones wearing too much make-up, trying to imitate popstars and speaking in ridiculous boru accents. Kiss-kissing the air, holding cigarettes and downing drinks just to look fashionable. The others would be the Hikka beach bums who've crashed the party and are now pulling unnecessary stirs with the Colombo boys. Almost makes those security checks and the special wrist bands at the entrance redundant. I have had my ass grabbed and my last nerve stepped on too many times and it's only 11 o'clock.

I am about to turn away in boredom when they bring on the dancing girls. 6 blonde hotties all the way from the UK in their gold bikinis, who are shaking their sumptuous booties at the herd of salivating men migrating rapidly towards the stage with jaws and eyeballs dragging behind them in the sand. Not bad for the tourist board, to brings these ones down. Very progressive, I must say... especially allowing them to show off those bums and what-nots to that extent. Wish I could shake like that... I would too, if not for the danger of my flying flab knocking someone out. Maybe that old lady sitting over there in the Nilkamal chair and covering her mouth in distaste. WHO decided to bring Granny to the Beach rave anyway??


My feet are aching after having stood at the rave for five hours, doing little else than disapproving of the silly behaviour around me. I have yet not seen the point of a rave, nor why I was so excited about going to one. Give me tribal beats and latino dance any day over this techno muck. I want my room... my lovely, lovely white, stained room. Skip to next day.

Ahh... that sleep was fabulous. It is Sunday now, and the breakfast is good. I have eaten too much, but it doesn't stop me from stuffing my face at a Mama's lunch one last time. Outfit number 6 covers up the sin of gluttony. The party aspect of this Hikka place is too overrated in my opinion, but the food certainly lives up to expectation. Reminds me of Pattaya- dotted with wayside cafés and cheap eateries with excellent food. A quick stopover at a rather nice little place called Drifters where I meet a few friends, and I'm convinced I should have looked into other accomodation options before selecting my hotel room... Drifters, for instance, is quite nice with all those little snoozable beach hutty beddy thingies. And I hear the rooms are clean, too. I must stay here next time... and those foot massages for 300 bucks seem a worthy investment.

Two days later and the SAARC boys have flown (or fled) back to their homelands. I am seated in office, reminiscing my trip via blogpost. Hikka didn't rock like it was supposed to, but many parts of it did turn out to be rather special in an odd way. Perhaps, just perhaps, I might go back for a second look... once the throng of Colombites have left it and it has detoxed into it's natural, calm self once more. I shall take less outfits next time around and possibly stay away from the raves. But for now, it's back to the real life and all its stress.

By the way, the more I read my own writing, the more alarmed I am that I am turning into my mother. Ew.

I'm A Copycat

I was inspired by DeeCee, who was inspired by Gutterflower, who is quite inspired to begin with.
It's supposed to stimulate my creativity. Lets see how it goes:

I remember everything that hurt in my childhood.

I don't understand humans sometimes.

I want to know what I want.

I hate being told who to be.

I wonder if I'll ever be truly happy.

I have this weird ability to KNOW what you're really like inside.

I know this world and our lives are just a smidgen in the greater scheme of things.


And because I'd like to stimulate my creativity even further:

I wish human beings would open their eyes

I love animals

I won't ever let anyone change me again.

I think I'm capable of far more in every way.

R.I.P. Conscience

Today started out awful. The fact that I didn't get any sleep last night didn't help to control my reactions to the morning's happenings either.

So there I was, yawning and dilly-dallying on my office PC whilst trying to look busy and important when commotion struck. The entire department started shrieking and running around like hell had suddenly opened up at their feet. I craned my neck over my short cubicle wall to see what the Kraeken looked like (because that's what they sounded like they'd just seen) when I realized through snatched bits of scream that they were running from none other than a rat. "Eeeyah! Meeyek! Meeyek!" they cacophonied, in keys that would make any 1st soprano green with envy.

'Oh jeez', I thought. Typical uneducated, pathetic response towards something that ideally should be running away from THEM. I began to roll my eyes in amusement, but stopped halfway when I saw one of my colleagues carrying a waste paper basket that was setting everyone else off. I swear if people could have jumped out of the window to get away from that basket, they would have. I understood that this basket did indeed house that ungodly creature that was making people act like a bomb had gone off. I wanted to reach in and congratulate it for this unbelievable power it had - to strike that much fear into mortal human souls by just a twitch of its whisker.
But then, as I was getting closer for a look, I heard something else that stopped my heart cold.
'Yuck... it's half dead. Eeyah look at it trying to move."

At that point, my nostrils flared and I saw red. For weeks I'd been debating and opinionating with colleagues on the injustice of having rat poison strewn around office. There was this box of poison that I tried many a time to destroy, simply because I am of the view that of all the ways to kill a rat (if you must), poison is by far the cruellest and vilest way to do it. Why? Because what those cute little pink and blue pellets do are act as blood thinners that make the little creatures bleed internally till they burst. Their organs will deteriorate bit by painful bit while they still remain alive to feel every milisecond of that agony, and the poison will also parch them. With time and water drunk out of thirst, they die. In the most horrible, painful way. It is a far more humane thing to kill them with a severe blow to the head or let a trap sever their neck, or even knock them out with cyanide than to give them this stuff. And that has been my argument point for along time now.... not that anyone cared for it.

With smoke coming out of my ears I peeked into the basket, and then nearly screamed myself. Not out of fear, but pure indignation at what I saw. This wasn't the large, viscious, ugly pestilence that everyone was shouting about. It was a beautiful baby mouse, a palm-sized ball of soft brown fur and enormous eyes with a pastel pink nose, delicate ears and tiny paws, suffering and dying.
As I stared at it, it stared back at me, immobilized out of both fear and pain. I swear I saw tears in its eyes.

There was a moment where time stopped and I ceased to hear anything around me. The baby mouse and I held each others' gazes and I could almost hear its dying gasps and failing hearbeat in my mind. Then reality swept in and I saw my colleague swinging the basket towards the window, from where he intended to drop the dying animal down two floors.

I don't know how it happened, but that basket ended up in my hands almost instantly, and I heard myself shouting obscenities at the shrieking harpies around me. I could see some of them itching to laugh out loud at my anguish, but I didn't care. They were too dumb to fathom that rat or no rat, diseased or not, this was a life. Like any other life. It was a living, breathing, feeling soul that was now writhing in an agony that only I seemed to empathize with at that point. "Drown it!" they kept shrieking. "Make it drink water and it'll die quicker" yet others adviced, softening a bit at the sight of my purple face. I rushed the mouse, basket and all, out of the office to a large canal-like drain outside.

Once outside, I stepped into the drain, reached into the basket and took the little baby into my hands. It could hardly move, and I could see its little chest palpitating in an effort to breath. I stroked it's pretty baby head to calm it down and let it know it was in hands that cared, and not those that hated. It kept looking at me trustingly, willing me to ease its pain. I didn't know what to do, except start bawling and crying like a newborn in the middle of that damned drain. That must have been some sight for the passers by. In the midst of the sobbing, I offered it some water but it refused. So I found a shady, cool patch under some growing weeds on the side of the drain, and laid it down to die in as much peace as I could offer it. But when I tried to take my hands away, one perfect pink paw reached out and held on to my pinky, not wanting me to go. You wouldn't believe it unless you'd been there. Cue more uncontrollable sobbing, that had by now collected a sizeable audience of curious trishaw drivers and amused workmen from across the street. Not wanting to watch its suffering anymore and not knowing what else I could do, I left it there and went back upstairs, to spend some time in the office bathroom using up an entire tissue box on my snot and tears. Soon after, two colleagues who thought me strange but were concerned for my mental state nevertheless, made me sit in the kitchen with them for about an hour and talk my sorrows out to them. We discussed the value of life - any life-, and how cruel humans can be. After about an hour, when I had composed myself enough to not look like a batty woman crying over a rodent, I went down with one sympathetic friend to find my (yes... I had claimed ownership by then) baby mouse dead. The water in the drain had risen upto his nose, and in his immobile state, he had drowned in it's mud. I took it's broken and stiff little body back into my hands and buried it in the office carpark. Then I went back to my seat and cried some more.

But why should you care about this entire spiel, you ask. It's a damned rat. That's what you do to rats, you argue. They carry disease, you explain.

All true... but do you go around killing humans who are infectious too? Shall we poison the next case of leprosy we see? Have all those millions of Indians who feed and worship rats in their temples died of rat disease? Did this baby mouse even HAVE disease in him? And what gives us the right to use a device like poison and kill so inhumanely anyway?

Don't be a hypocrite, you say. You eat meat, don't you Dramaqueen? Aren't you endorsing murder then?

I wish I knew why I can't convert to vegetarianism, I answer. I will, one day. But killing for food is not quite the same as killing for sport or for hate. Or were you going to eat the baby mouse?

Which book of rules sorts out lives into the categories of valuable and disposable? Why are animals less deserving of the right to live, or quality of life, than humans? Why must we respect one death and not the other?

You can call me a raving loony, but you know... as much as you don't understand me right now, I don't understand you. I wish I could open your eyes and make you see yourself the way I see you.

You'd be disgusted too.

My only solace is that someday, every soul that has caused unjust suffering, be it towards a rat or a person, will suffer equally if not more. I have that much trust in God and the universe.

And right now, in my ridiculous state of mind, I am willing that baby mouse to reincarnate into the next generation's animal rights activist.

Go Po!!

Panda powerrrr!!!! I'm still chuckling.

The boyhalf and I have this thing we've developed, for attending every movie premiere that hits town. That's not alot, seeing as how we have only three viable cinemas screening non-sexual English content, but nevertheless it's become a cool date thing to do.

I'd been waiting since Jan for KungFu Panda to come to SL, so it was no wonder that I was e-ticket's very first customer on the day they finally put them tix up for sale online. We both like the 'I' row.... 13 and 14 - best seats in the room. I ruined anyone else's chances of booking those hallowed bum-rests almost two weeks before the show was scheduled to start.

Aney it was awesome and beyond cute men. I'm SO glad I listened to my lust for all things animated , rather than the dunderheads who kept trying to discourage me from seeing the movie. "It's not that hot', they said. "It disappoints", they pontificated.

Pandashit. It rocked. Despite the anti-climatic ending.

I absolutely loved all the little moments laden with subtle jokes - the witty references to Chinese customs; like using pigs, ducks and rabbits as the townsfolk in the movie, the 'Peking Duck' for a noodle-shop dad (did anyone get that? I laughed my head of when I saw him), the 1000 year old tortoise, the acupuncture....

And what about those few touches that added that much more magic to the who animation? The slight geriatric shivering of the old tortoise, the expressions brought out through the characters' eyes, etc. Very sweetly done.

Watching the movie took me back to my days as a bumbling newbie at my Tae-Kwon-Do class. No one thought the skinny white girl could last as long as she did - which wasn't that long, but it was longer than expected for sure. I went through pretty much the same self-realization process as Po did, painfully hobbling out of that class, more adept at punching people and managing more that five push ups, whilst understanding what my purpose in the universe was; that of someone who wasn't meant to learn Karate.

I do hope the take-off from this movie is that actual Panda conservation efforts benefit that much more, and the creature's value goes up amongst the international community. This is an ideal opportunity for the Chinese govenrment to showcase as well as understand the importance of its dwindling Panda population.

So good on ya, Dreamworks! Keep it up. I can't wait to watch the next venture....

Have You Seen Her?

Lost :
Missing spirit. Wild and carefree, full of smiles and sincere laughter. Last seen wearing a laid-back attitude to life and an enviable sense of self-satisfaction. Known to be the life of the party and the most understanding nature around. Oozing with the appeal of a confident, independent woman with no qualms about fighting for what she wants in life. Rarely cries. Never confused. Easily thrilled by excitement, glamour and surprise. Can dance away any care with ease and is a joy to be with. Enjoys every second of existence to the fullest.

Answers to none, except my name.

Finders will be rewarded handsomely with a lifetime of gratitude and a month's supply of some smashing chocolate brownies.

Your Methods vs . My Methods

Watch me as I now proceed to become very unpopular with this righteous broom allegedly stuck up my nether region.

This post goes out to all the boozers, smokers, weedheads and druggies out there. Why do you do what you do? That's more of a question borne out of sheer curiosity than a snobbish remark. Is it an escape mechanism? A social necessity? An addiction?

I've been watching my world very closely for some time. The more I grow up, the more people I know who drink, smoke and do drugs. Hell, I've even been guilty of some of it myself, not so long ago. I used to be a heavy boozer by my own standards, so much so that at one point of life it was difficult to go by for a day without getting high. Not many know about that side of my life... and those who do, laugh in disbelief or mockery, not really convinced that my standards are as extensive as theirs. The fact of the matter remains that, from drinking socially while out with friends, I ended up having more than a few sips on a daily basis and ultimately hiding things from my loved ones whilst knowingly boozing when I shouldn't. Because as much as I hated the bitter taste of the stuff, I loved being high. My cares went away. I was an 'adult', doing adult things. I was witty... I was raunchy... I was friendly... I was free.

In retrospect, I was also pretty stupid.

I don't think I came to the point of an addiction (thankfully), because one fine day I told myself that getting high was just overrated and I managed to stop cold. This resulted in a few months of absolute inner hell that I am proud to have expertly covered up from the rest of the world, lest the gravity of my problem put the people I cared for off me. I suffered quite a number of withdrawal symptoms - mood swings, irritability, fevers, high levels of depression, etc. But eventually I kicked the want for liquor in my system. Sometimes I miss being high, and still desperately want to take that one sip that will satisfy me... but I don't allow myself to go that far, because I'm afraid of going back to being ashamed of myself and my lack of willpower.

What I went through is nothing compared to the thousands of recovering serious alcoholics... my drinking didn't even border on addiction, so I can just imagine how much harder it is for those who've gone further than I have to get back to soberdom.

What's really funny is that even the most addicted soul knows that what he/she is doing is bad. Much like we know that murder is bad, or rape is bad. Addiction is bad. The effects of tobacco, marijuana, alcohol or whatever else we use is bad- for our bodies, for our mind and for our lives in the long run. Even though we may not be heavily addicted to the stuff, we know we love it and couldn't possibly live without it. We know this, but we still go ahead and do it. Why? Why do we continuously lust after that delirous feeling of getting high, when we know it's not good for us? Honestly, tell me... can you really put your hand up and defend the stuff? Can you actually tell me that drugs, ciggies and drinks are the only ways to be happy or cool?

I don't know why the thought of people smoking up affects me as much as it does. I'm almost ashamed and embarrassed to confess that I'm not as cool a girl as I thought, to be so discombobulated over the fact that people smoke weed. What's so wrong with it, I ask myself a million times. I know so many others who do, and I never had this prude attitude about it before. Everyone and their grannies do it nowadays... and weed is not a hard drug... in fact, it's even medicinal! So why the devil doesn't it sit well with me? And why should I be such a fusspot about it... Do I really need to be such a case about it?

Why the gajeebers can't I let it go and chill? It's not my business, right?

Perhaps because I know that, of all forms of escape that a person can use, these are the worst? That alcohol, tobacco and weed have become adult society's mandatory and necessary evils, much like war? That as much pleasure it gives us now, it is slowly but surely fucking up our minds, lungs, kidneys, livers and hearts bit by gooey bit?

But who cares. We live for the day, right? And nothing comes close to the sensations of being well and truly high.

Doubtless this post will spark off quite a number of heated comments. Don't worry... these are only my personal thoughts, and I am not trying to shove them down your throats. I don't want to convert you into the boring lifeless sod that I am. I envy your fuck-all carefree attitude on this matter. It's a lot more fun than singing a song to relieve your mind. Everyone's entitled to their own choices in life.

But really... why do we do it? And again... that's curiosity speaking and inviting discussion.

Feet, Sand and Sleep

Mondays suck. They should outlaw Mondays.

Especially after rather nice weekends.

Saturday was a 'me day', with the BF out of town and no work commitments to stress over. It's been some time since I took a whole day to myself... 'twas bliss to say the least.

I started the day with an appointment for plucking. By this I mean that all-important monthly ritual women masochistically undergo to look and feel nice... that awful word that sends shivers down the spines of men who think they're all that but are really not- waxing. Yeah, baby. Legs and arms, that's the way to go. The one hour's experience of having your body hair ripped out unceremoniously after having doused hot wax over it first is an excruciating exercise that's totally worth the effort and gritting of teeth, in my books. There's a sense of accomplishment that I get every time I walk out of that salon with my skin feeling sexy and as smooth as a baby's bottom. "I survived waxing", I silently claim to the world as I sashay like a drunken cat to my car, nearly tripping over a grate on the way.

Please. Give me my little moments of heroism, ok?

So after de-furring myself I happily (and somewhat painfully) chugged off to 'Foot Comfort' at the Crescat Mall to enjoy a much-awaited-for foot massage. The boyfwend was a darling to have gifted me a voucher for the place, knowing full well how I adore every chance to get my toes pummelled. To all those who yearn a good foot massage but are not able to afford the likes of a posh spa that costs your (or your husband's) annual salary for a single session, I fully recommend 'Foot Comfort'. Granted, they are not cheap per say, with a 20-minute foot therapy session costing 850 bucks, but your feet will tell you afterwards that it's money well spent.

I love that place. Especially their large, ultra-comfy reclining leather bedseats, into which I gratefully sank and dozed off in while a soldier-like woman rubbed, kneaded and squeezed my feet to a peaceful trance. I hate the feeling of having a foot rub come to an end and having to walk away after it. The whole exercise of sending yourself into a massaged utopia just becomes redundant at that point.

But walk I did, feet looking clean and smelling like peppermint, because there's a limit to the hospitality that even Foot Comfort will shower you with once your session is over.

A lazy browse through the bookshop (I do love to park myself inside bookshops... don't you?) and a plate of sushi later, I went back home. This mostly because there really isn't a single place for a single female in SL to go to and just be, besides her bedroom. It's a sad state of affairs, and gave me the brainwave to someday open up a cosy little cafe just for women, with private meditative booths for girls who want to get away from it all for a couple of hours and read books or contemplate on girly things. I even thought of calling the place PMS.
Anyway, given that no current alternative was available ( I really WISH we had an inexpensive place to just go chill out in alone, away from people or noise.), I toddled off home and locked myself in my bedroom and settled down for a good read. Even the cat was not welcome.
It was lovely... within seconds of opening my new book I'd dozed off only to wake up that evening, hungry for dinner.

The alone time I gave myself put me in a good mood, so I magnanimously offered to take Mum and Slimy Sibling out to dinner. Decided to try out 'Loon Tao' on the Mount Lavinia beach, because I'd heard good things about the place.

To give you a quick personal review of Loon Tao :

Pros

1. The food is excellent (yummy, tasty, well presented, delicious, etc., etc.)
   
2. The food is very reasonably priced
   
3. The ambience is really nice
4. The waiters are friendly

Cons

1. The walk between the parking area and the restaurant is a bit of an exercise. (but that's alright, coz you obviously can't be expected to drive and park on the beach)
2. The security guard at the official carpark is an incompetent, rude, obnoxious arse who doesn't really give a damn about you or your vehicle's safety. (Yes... I had a run-in with the man)
3. The food takes a LOOOOONG time to come to you, once ordered. But that could have been circumstances on the night I went there.
4. If you choose a table on the sand, you will sink when your ass meets that chair.
   

But all in all a visit worth making, and one that I will definitely make again.

And thus ended my Saturday. I was very pleased with myself and day... I must remember to give myself some time off more often.

Now... if only there weren't any Mondays that follow....