Tuesday, December 9, 2008

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.

Monday, December 8, 2008

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.

Wednesday, December 3, 2008

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.