Tuesday, November 24, 2009

Dear Me.

Glee! I've been tagged! Thank you, thank you, TMS!

Suddenly I feel loved. Was beginnning to sulk a bit at the thought that I wouldn't get in on this tagging thing and would waste away forever scarred as the untagged blogger. That would have been awful, no? But TMS understands my neediness.

The last two sentences were typed a week ago. Then came all sorts of other distractions like work, Lady D's buttocks and Mars bars and the pending tag post was slowly forgotten. Last morning, with tears in my eyes, I received news that RD was waiting to read me. Tears because I'd just sneezed a thousand times, but the timing seemed opportune. Perhaps I sneezed because I was being thought of, all the way from the infamous tower. I am humbled. I am ashamed. Therefore, I blog once more.


Dear 16-year old DramaQueen,

Hello, you little bitch. You disillusioned loser. You have no idea how uncool you are. I, unfortunately, do, having suffered 14 years more of your tiresome little life. When you tried to hang yourself from the karapincha tree that other day, why the hell didn't you go through with it? We could have reincarnated as a nice fat housecat or something then and lived a life of utter indulgence surrounded by choice cuts of rat. Instead, you chose to live a little more, didn't you, you pathetic ingrate?

What do you MEAN the boy next door wasn't watching out from his balcony and therefore couldn't come to rescue you from committing suicide and ask you to marry him? He was never worth the vying for attention from in the first place. Leave him alone, men. You'll find out soon enough that he's not interested and thinks you're a bit of a loon. What... you thought those are REAL excuses he keeps giving you every time you ask him if he wants to come over and see your barbies?

Btw, think it's about time you threw the barbies out. Outside that silly little bubble in your head, 16 year olds don't play with dolls anymore. You sad, sad thing. No wonder I had to write to you... to set your funny head straight and give us a chance at being normal in the eyes of society. But I know you.... no amount of ranting and advising will change a damn thing; we've always been pig-headed that way. It'll get you into a damn load of trouble in the future, but you still won't care. Nevertheless, I might as well try my luck and see.
Lets categorize the lecture, shall we?


Being 16.

Act it, for heaven's sake. Like, in a relatively normal, Sri Lankan girl kind of way, please. It will save you and your mother a lot of embarrassment along the way (trust me on this one).
No dear, life is not a Disney movie, so stop making Disney princess expressions and gestures with everything you say. You don't look pretty and alluring, you look a downright nutter.
No, your hair doesn't look like Ariel from The Little Mermaid. Backcombing it won't help, though you won't realize it until you start balding at 25. The birdy on the tree is not talking to you and neither are your dolls. The cat, perhaps. Cats have been having conversations with us for years. Quite intelligent ones too. Just today, I discussed the merits of sawdust litter trays with Socksy, who you'll meet in 11 years. You'll love her. She's cool.
Back to you, though.

Despite your convictions, the socks in your bra don't make you look like you have boobs. Besides, everyone knows you've got stuffing in there, your technique is horrible enough to make it obvious. I know you hate to admit it, but Mum is right. We're late developers, darling. There will come a time when you'll finally grow a pair (though it might not be the pair you wish several times in your life that you'd been born with) and won't want to stop displaying them. That'll give your mother headaches much worse than the migraines your causing now. Chillax. If you wait it out, boobs will come. I am sorry, however, to inform you that the good news ends there, because along with the boobs comes a heap shitload of flab and fat that become your gripe subject of choice as you age. Good luck. Ms. Sri Lanka you ain't. Get that into your head and stop parading up and down in front of your mirror in your mother's kaftan.

Try not to harbour too many dreams of that veterinarian job. We end up in advertising. Different kind of zoo, though for some strange reason it accepts us wholeheartedly and makes us feel good about ourselves. And we know how much we like ego massages.


Family

Your dad will be fine. You don't need that coffin, even though the doctors told mum to get it ready. Believe it or not, you'll witness your first miracle long before you're enough of a religious nut to imagine it. In fact, it's your growing atheism that convinces you that it IS indeed, a miracle. The sheer fact that you don't believe in them and it happens to you will turn you into a religious nut for a few years. Good luck when that happens. Anyways, Dad will be back and bouncing in no times, and give you plenty of reasons to wonder why. There will be drama with him for the rest of YOUR life, if not his. Where did you think you got eccentricity from? Yes, you'll want to kill him more than a few times, but hang on... don't do anything rash. He'll leave the country on work and you'll have some peace for a while. Mum, on the other hand, I can't help you with. You think she's a pain NOW? Hahahaha. Honey, don't for a second be fooled into thinking that age is gonna bring you any benefits. It gets worse and worse the older you get. To the point where you'll comtemplate suicide once more, this time because you cannot get away from her. yeah, she'll be cool and all... but she will never know who you are, nor understand you completely. In about 8 years, you'll watch a TV series about a guy named Raymond. Watch closely. His parents? Those are yours. Ten times better than yours, in fact. Might I suggest you start plotting a strategy right now, coz otherwise when you're 30, you'll be still under her roof, as neurotic as she is.
Our brother will remain the bane of your life. In fact, this year he's gonna start selling your information to the older guys at school for toffees and hot dogs from the tuck shop, earning you a marvelous reputation that will haunt you for the rest of your life. When you're 30, you'll meet some of these guys and they'll have amused looks on their faces while you struggle not to dig a hole for yourself close by.

Stop avoiding family gatherings. You're missing out on the food and pressies and your brother's scoring points. We don't want that little turd to end up being everyone's favourite. Stop avoiding visiting your grandparents. There will come a day when you wish you could do it more often and when they'll be the only people on your side.
Having said that, do tell your grandmother where to get off when she proposes that you join the Carmalite Convent this year after your O'levels. Once you're done with the 'evil dead nun' anonymous calls to her at midnight, don't you dare start contemplating on life in the nunnery. They won't take you in, anyway.... not after you tell Mother Superior where to put her rosary, when Grandma takes you there for a Christmas visit next month.


Friends

That's right. You have none. But it has nothing to do with your presumption that you're too mature and cool to hang with silly girls. It's coz they all think you're weird. I think your animal rights motion of climbing on the canteen roof and staging a hartaal has something to do with it. Also because you stick up for the underdogs and occasionally burst into Disney songs in the middle of exams cos you don't know the answers. It might also be because they know you stuff your bra and the primary school students think you're amazing for knowing all the Disney songs. They also hate your guts coz you get all the plum roles in the school plays and you manage outshine everyone in extracurricular stuff despite that lose screw in your head and your inability to get good grades. Girls can be cruel like that. But hey... don't worry... we're never gonna relate to any of those bimbos anyway. Down the line you're going to meet some people just as weird as you and make some pretty solid friends. Much better than the school variety. In ten years you're also going to be pretty successful and a wee bit better known than your classmates, so you can shove it down their pretentious throats at school reunions. Muahahahaha. High five.

Note to self, though - that girl you hate? Don't punch her in the bathroom next year. You break her nose and get suspended for a week. It's not cool to pretend you're the Karate kid.


Boys

Oh please. Stop puking all over the place, they're not that bad. The guy next door is a wuss and you know it and for your information, other boys in general are NOT piles of poo. Some of them are pretty nice and yes, you ARE capable of being turned on by a man, when not trying to turn INTO one at several points of your life (that will give Mummy a few reasons for acute alcoholism too). You're gonna make some pretty heavy mistakes, though. That guy you just met at the inter-school play thing? Avoid him at all costs. Yeah he's the lead actor and yeah he's cute, but mark my words young lady, he's a cocky, chauvinistic son of a bitch and when you start dating him next year, you're going to be sorry. He'll unknowingly make mincemeat of you and make you so ashamed of yourself that it'll take you 8 whole years to pluck up some balls and figure out he's not right for you, by which time we will have lost a great deal more than our self respect. But hey... par for the course I suppose. You'll be friends with the guy whatever the outcome, and the experiences with him will turn you into the kick-ass sistah you are today. I particularly love the way you give him an actual, physical boot the day you wake up and smell the toe jam. Wait for it- it's a moment to treasure, i promise you.

The player you meet after that ain't interested in you and I think you need to remember that when you meet him. Falling for him after an initial hardcore 'I hate him' campaign will be your biggest mistake yet. You turn into such a needy little pig after the wretched man turns his tricks and leave you wailing. Well, at least we find out that we've got emotions. But really... hon... we know better. By all means stay well away from the Romeo because that face... that's all make-up. All part of the great actor in the man. Don't be an idiot, DQ.

You know what though... if you don't have those last two flings with demons, then you probably won't recognize the angel we meet next. It'll take you some time to see it, of course, cos you have your head wrapped up in your god-awful 'perfect man' checklist as tight as a virgin leech's asshole, but you'll eventually open your eyes. He's a real sweetheart. Says nice things to you and does nice things for you. We gush about him and all that. Did you ever guess we'd gush about a guy? We do. We become real simpering sissies who want to take care of him and shit. Not bad for us, if I do say so myself. So I suppose the whole 'kiss a few frogs' strategy does work, eh?


Life

If you keep continuing to be you, we'll do ok, in between psychotic depressive episodes, long periods of alcohol abuse followed by abject teetotaler-hood, unending drama with family, work and friends, at least two embarrassing situations per day and some rather exciting successes. I guess we're one of the lucky ones, albeit one of the more-than-slightly off ones. People will laugh, wherever we go. Some will pee and their pants just thanking God they're not you. At least we don't make them cry. Except for Mother. Mother cries.

Alot.

Stick to the drama, stick to the cats, and for God's sake never stick to the plan. It doesn't work for us that way and you'll find that out soon enough.

Good luck. You're a right royal pain in the arse, but enjoy being one. At least you grow up to be way cooler than you are now. I think.

Big hugs! (Oh shut up, you forget I know you secretly like them).

An older, fatter, sluttier you.

P.S. - My boobs are bigger than yours and my boyfriend is better. Ngyah!


I hereby dutifully tag the Doc and Flash of Pink. Go for it, peeps!

Monday, November 9, 2009

Who Knew Men Could Be So Cool?

If you don't stand up and clap at the end of this, you're a moose with no taste.

I love these guys. I have for four years now. It's about time they dropped in to see me and thank me for my unwavering adoration.

I wanna be them.

Sunday, November 8, 2009

Because She Said So


Ah. Hallo. Didn't see you there.

I'm zoned out today and its not because of weed or anything cool like that. It's because it's a Monday morning and I shouldn't be in front of a PC at office on a Monday morning. Nobody should. Not that office on a Tuesday is any better, but you wouldn't have to hear me bitching about it. For the first time in a very long time I have diddly squat to do at office and it's upsetting my system. I've been staring at an empty desk for several hours now wondering if I'm actually awake. Not that my desk is ever empty... it looks like a Sri Lankan parliamentary session in progress - a bloody mess. I was being metaphorical.

Anyway.

The days suck more than a porn star with a PHD in fellatio. Either I'm too busy to piss and end up with my bladder bursting open at the most opportune moments (client meetings, for example) or I have fuck all to do. Either way it frustrates the shit out of me. Again, I meant that metaphorically. Frustration ending in actual faecal matter would be cool too, I bet.

But this post isn't about me detesting the day or feeling too sleepy to go into further lengths on detailing just how much I detest it. It's a post about something far, FAR more irksome - My Mother. Mothers in general, in fact. Mothers I know about but especially mine.


Yes, I love her and all that...I've even written odes to her on this blog. But what is it about mums? What exactly is it about nature and society that turns perfectly ordinary, cool women into maternal menaces that make their offspring want to tear their hair out at every given turn? The tearing of hair concept was not a metaphor, either. I literally do that sometimes when my mother is anywhere close by. I have a nice big bald patch for proof.

On Saturday I took her for the HSBC World spice food festival. Only because she couldn't shut up about it all day and wanted to go. I didn't mind... I wanted to try it out too, but with a different date for company. But she was excited, so I figured I'd enjoy a girl's night out with her. She spent about 2 hours getting dressed, to start with. I kept reminding her that we were going to Galle Face green, but she needed to look good, in case the Hi! magazine was taking photographs. We got to the venue and took another half hour trying to get parking. The guy at the entrance told us that parking was available at the Taj, but she didn't want to walk so 'far'. Neither did she want to let me drop her at the entrance and park in case people thought she was a fat hooker. Because only hookers dress like mums and go to Galle Face Green. So we had to use charm and beseeching looks to curdle the hearts of the Nana's vendor to get him to give us the spot his food cart was perched on, right outside the grounds. And just when I began to chill out she turned into my mother. It was a disaster.
She walked in and had a heart attack when she saw the stage set up and the entertainment acts. It was too loud for her. Why wasn't there soft soothing music being played? Why were there so many people? Why is that girl with that boy? Why are the tables made of plastic? only 30 odd stalls? Why not more?

After traipsing through stall with food from just about every country imaginable, she whined that there wasn't enough variety to select from. All the women around... they were hookers for sure. The mere fact that there was a rock band playing on stage meant this was a loud, vulgar place that was giving her a headache.

We ended up eating at the Crescat food court. Incidentally, just before we left Galle Face, a Hi! magazine photographer captured me snarling at her in frustration.

If its not one thing, it's another. Like another recent dinner date with her, for instance. A Japanese dinner date. Not that the date was Japanese...that would be awkward.

Mother has a recently-developed penchant for Japanese food, you see. Something to do with the wasabi hit unblocking her sinuses that have been barricaded for 20 odd years. I've tried telling her that perhaps she could get herself some medication for a change, but she insists wasabi is the mother of boons to all congested noses.

So we went to a Japanese restaurant and sat down at an ordinary table after 15 minutes of Mum explaining to me why she didn't want to kneel on the matted floors. The waitress brought us two moist face napkins to refresh ourselves with. I'd have enjoyed the experience if it hadn't been for the fact that I dropped mine when I saw mother carefully picking her rolled up napkin out of it's basket and proceeding to pop it into her mouth.

"WHAT are you doing???" gasps I. Gasps, hyperventilates, wheezes, screeches.... whatever way you want to have it.

She stops half way from closing her teeth on the soggy cloth and looks at me quizzically.

"I'm eating the spring roll" she patiently explains. Like I'm one of the 3 year old children she teaches for a living.

"That's not a spring roll. That's for your face." I can barely breathe in the humiliation. Apparently 3 year old minds are something she can relate to sometimes. The waitress is watching her with eyebrows at her hairline.

You'd think that would be that, but it wasn't.

"Why would I use a spring roll on my face?"

It takes me five whole minutes to stop asphyxiating long enough to demonstrate the finer details of a face napkin and its virtues without digging a hole in the floor and dying. We are now the entire service staff's entertainment for the evening.

She's not even embarrassed. She just says 'oh', and wipes her face, leaving me to smile apologetically at the waitress in the hopes that I wont be talked about in the kitchen. If I get jagged sashimi, I'll know it was because the chef was laughing uncontrollably whilst cutting the fish.

The waitress, evil gossiping bitch that she's bound to be in ten seconds, smiles back benignly. We went straight into ordering. It was like a choral performance. Every time I requested a dish, Mother would follow it up with '...and extra wasabi, please.' you'd expect the waitress to have got it down after repeating the sentence 8 times, but mum still managed to slip in the 'don't forget the wasabi' when we finished off the order.

If that wasn't enough, the minute the waitress turned her back on us to leave, mum leaned over the table and whispered loud engouh for the whole restaurant to hear, "These waitresses are not like the normal vulgar ones, no."

Retreating waitress has heard this, I know. There's definite interest being shown on her retreating face. I ask mother what on earth she's on about.

"Oh you know... normally they're 'vul' ones who offer 'other services' no..." there's definite dramatic emphasis on 'other services'.

I didn't have any food in my mouth, but I choked anyway. Not only because I didn't know where she got that from, but because the waitress had stopped retreating altogether and was practically falling backwards trying to lean in on the conversation. Apparently, mother confidently informed me, kimono-clad women are almost always tarts, as seen on ancient re-runs of Oshin on ITN and Memoirs of a Geisha. But these girls at the restaurant seemed to be innocent enough, and therefore she would eat here.

I didn't know how to respond, so I just refrained. It's a tactic I've acquired over the years. When she's on a roll with her convictions, there's little you can do to sway Mother's views. If letting her think that kimonos are slut-wear kept the rest of dinner eventless, then I was happy to keep my mouth shut.

And that's exactly my point with this post. My mother, as well as some other friends' mums I know of, have this unbelievable knack for harvesting the most absurd of opinions on matters and then pontificating them like the gospel truth. If it was the mere ranting of the elderly, I'd understand. But it isn't. They make it a point to shove it continuously down our throats and make us one of them. WHY? Its like a mental virus that takes over their brains and re-wires it to be ridiculous and prepared to drag us down with it. God forbid I should ever try to shake my mother out of her silly whims... I'd be under house arrest for years. Wait... I'm already under house arrest for the rest of my life. But you know what I mean. At least I know Lady Divine does. We've had mutual feelings about our mothers for quite some time.

To explain further just how retarded her notions can get, here are some other gems of wisdom my mother clings on to and will continue to do so all the days of her life:

  • Shopping malls are vulgar dens of sin. Only the desperate and the lonely go there, seeking lustful ventures.
  • Basement carparks are a hive of murderers, waiting to pounce on you and rape you before cubing you with their hacksaws.
  • A cough means you have TB. A sneeze can mean nothing but pneumonia. An itch instantly screams skin cancer.
  • My bald spot is a sign of a blood clot in my head.
  • My pot tummy means I am either pregnant or I'm growing tumors in there. Malignant ones, of course.
  • Respectable girls don't have boyfriends.
  • The frog swimming in the dog's water bowl is my re-incarnated great grandmother.
  • My need to escape from her is a sure sign of mental psychosis teamed with third-level depression. Therefore I must be counseled. Consistently.
  • A nightmare or the inability to sleep is a sign that a demon has possessed you.
  • Every man that walks down our lane wearing a sarong is a suspicious character with connections to the LTTE
  • Trishaw men who drop you home are criminals and thieves who are marking a map to the house so they can rape and rob you at night.
  • Office-hired van drivers who drop you home are criminals and thieves who are marking a map to the house so they can rape and rob you at night.
  • Movie cinemas are the hangout joints of non-respectable girls of ill repute.
  • Hair colour is a sign of mental retardation.
  • Tattoos are the work of Satan. Anyone with a tattoo is into drugs. Heavily.
  • The dog is the only person who understands her. (This might actually be true.)
  • All actors are gay.
  • The next Tsunami WILL happen the day I go to the beach, whenever that is.
  • Only drug lords go to Hikkaduwa. Anyone else who goes there is in cahoots with a drug lord.
  • Respectable girls don't go to Hikkaduwa.
  • Men who make you laugh are silly and desperate attention seekers. Men who don't are fools.
  • If you have not had bread or rice with every meal, then you have not eaten and are on your way towards malnourishment.
  • Respectable girls have long hair. The only reason I cut my hair is because I hate her and want to kill her with my rebellion.
  • My brother, the bad-tempered, foul-mouthed, manic-depressive psycho arsonist, is an angel.
  • Computers are evil.
  • My grandfather's adult pampers, sold by Loraine in Thimbirigasyaya, are better because she's Catholic.

I could go on. When you thought I needed help, did you ever figure it could be because of whom I live with?

Ooh look... this is my 100th post. To think I actually dedicated it to my mother without realizing is a testament to the irony of things and that God likes a good joke now and then.

Happy birthday, blog.

Monday, September 7, 2009

Love Is...

...apparently something Sigma wants me to explain, by virtue of tagging.

Firstly, love is over-rated. There are far too many romance novels and Hallmark movies lying to us poor imbeciles, leaving us jaded when reality doesn't quite measure up. Love is a victim of our own interpretations.

But if i must be mushy about it-

Love is the expression in a homeless animal's eyes when you give it some scraps of food, or take a moment to pat it on it's head instead of throwing stones or kicking.

Love is opting to continue living with your parents because you don't want to hurt them, despite the fact that you can't stand every second you're there and you've been dreaming of getting out for a good many years now.

Love is wanting to slowly slaughter the man who hit your dog or called it names.

Love is a happy cat curled up into a furry apostrophe, purring contentedly on your tummy on a cold night.

Love is saving the last bit of dessert or the best portion of food for that special someone, even though your greed has a reputation of its own.

Love is listening. ACTUALLY listening, and demonstrating little gestures years later that prove you actually listened.

Love is being honest enough to tell her she IS fat, but that you wouldn't have it any other way.

Love is sticking around long after she's hit you for calling her fat.

Love is choosing to believe in a relationship and clinging on to it like a bloody leech, even though she's a real handful and her dad's been a monster to you for years.

Love is an adoration of bald spots on someone's head.

Love is trying your best to be supportive, when you don't really believe in the plan.

Love is patiently smiling through months and months of rejection of intimacy.

Love is learning to jive because SHE likes to dance, even though you've torn a ligament in your foot and jiving makes you feel like a drunken grasshopper.

Love is agreeing to sit through chick flicks and disney cartoons, at the risk of your balls being in question.

Love is the unwillingness to trade in your man for a combination of Brad Pitt, Gerard Butler, Sean Connery and that guy who plays Captain Kirk in Star Trek.

Love is still wanting to do each other when all you have are wrinkles and gums.


Your turn, Gutterflower, Doc, TMS and Shades of Jade

Sunday, September 6, 2009

Hell Hath No Fury Like Venus Rejected

"We found one!"

Mars's eyes are shining. Probably. Because this is all over chat and there's no direct visual of him. For a moment, Venus is pleasantly surprised at the other end. So they've finally found one... that was quicker than expected.

Mars and his bosom buddy have been house-hunting for a while now, opting for sharing a pad as opposed to wallowing in the financial burdens of living alone. Venus was rather pleased by that, after having done extensive background checks on the buddy to ascertain he won't be bringing home drugs any time soon... Mars shouldn't have to sleep alone at night. Someone needs to be there to call an ambulance the day he suffers a heart attack in his sleep, or if the roof caves in. And moving house is such an exciting thing to do.
This is a good thing. Mars needed the distraction from his recent disappointments.

Naturally, Venus is thrilled to bits about the prospect of helping Mars with the move. Within seconds she is envisioning happy couple moments- bonding over boxing, laughing over loo-cleaning, distractions while decorating. She sets herself up to be the most supportive girlfriend ever. She'll even let HIM make decisions this time. It's his place, after all. She'll be the model of cool, being there for him every step of the way to do whatever it is that Martians need Venusians to do at times like this. Should she get herself a pair of overalls, she wonders. It'll help her look cute while she packs his glasses and transports brooms.

The new place itself holds much promise of intimate dinners, cuddling up for movies and combined cooking. Venus can't wait to cater to the two boys like she has the past three years for Mars. She will make herself the bosom buddy's friend with good food and a super attitude, so that he needn't fear her femdom or think her an intrusion. This should be fun.

Fast forward to a couple of days before the move. Mars is frantically packing his things and taking care of details. Having researched and prepared weeks ahead for making his life easier, Venus hops in to help.

"Shall I come over and help you pack?"

"No it's cool, I've got it."

"Yeah but maybe I can put away some books or something"

"No. Thanks. Under control"

Frown. This was not the way it's supposed to go. They're supposed to be bonding over boxes. Surely, Mars understands this.

"You can have my car to transport the stuff!"

"No need. We've organized vehicles."

Bigger frown, slowly morphing to deep scowl. The car was her trump card. She'd figured he'd need wheels to take stuff to and fro. She'd already designated herself for duty, dammit. But she can't make a scene now. She must be understanding and amiable. She is the model of cool, after all. After offering the car a good many more times to the point of nagging, she gives up and tries to offer her hands-on services instead, each met with a shrug of rejection and the by-now thoroughly exasperating "Naah" from the insensitive being from another planet.

"So you need anything for the milk boiling ceremony? Hey I can bring you some food!" She's planning menus in her head now. They'll want some kiribath and curry. She can buy the bananas from Keells. Oh, it'll be super.

"It's OK" Mars says, in another world of his own. "My family will bring food."

Alright. This is going astray. Thus far, she has not been able to demonstrate her super-girlfriend-hood even a smidgen. Who IS this man???

"Well, let me know what you need and I'll bring it over on the big day." Her heart's beating fast. She's almost expecting his next words.

"Don't worry you don't need to come for the ceremony. The house will be too full of people anyway. You can drop in later on if you're free"

She swears she must have heard that wrong. Did he actually tell her he doesn't WANT her there???? Of course, not in so many words, but he's read enough gender psychology books to know how she's going to interpret that!

Venus moves to the ultimate tactic - pathetic desperation for inclusion.

"You don't want me there?" Said with a pout and girly big eyes for effect. " Ah fine fine... don't invite us..." She is confident that the coy clinginess will reverse what he just said.

"The house will be too full. It's too early in the morning anyway." he says, not even seeing the carefully pouted pout.

Martians have thick-ass skulls, and deserve to die.

Two days later the official move happens. Venus sits at home,tapping her fingers and staring at her phone, willing the damn thing to ring, or at least carry an sms asking her to come over and help. She cunningly posts both an FB status update as well as an sms, informing Mars that she is bored at home, with nothing to do. Any Martian should understand this as "I am ready to help you".

But apparently this one outdid them all. Not a peep. Not a single 'why don't you come be a part of it'.

Venus's mind plays tricks on her. He was out there enjoying the move with someone else. The bosom buddy was getting to be his box mate, and not she. Her mood darkens considerably. Perhaps she will poison the buddy when she cooks for them, and then she'd have Mars back.
Alarmed at the intensity of her jealousy, she slaps herself into getting over it. It's his shift, she reminds herself. The last thing two Martians starting off on a journey together need is a Venusian to put things out of balance. They must be given their space, she decides.

So she convinces herself not to care too much. Bonding over boxes is overrated, anyway. She'll make her presence felt when she goes over for a visit.He can't cuddle up to the bosom buddy, after all.

The big day. Venus is up at 5am, visualizing all the cool things and feelings Mars is experiencing with the new home. She visualizes the milk boiling over, hoping that it's a special moment for him. She says a small prayer, Asking God to protect the two men in their new home. Lord knows two bachelors sharing a house would be needing protection, if not their neighbours. Venus would have liked to be considered important enough for an invite, but hey... revenge is always possible. She'll tell him to stay home when she moves. Muahahaha.

The day turns into evening and suddenly, Mar's antennae finally start working and figuring out that all is not well over at the other planet. He generously extends an invitation for Venus to come by for dinner, which, after a few moments of contemplation, she decides to accept, deciding to put aside her qualms. Perhaps he'll let her help now, with the finer details and putting away of things. That'll be cool.

But something's different when she does hop over. The house is still the same... and Mars is still the same, but there's been a universal shift. It's no longer HIS place, like she's been used to for so many years now. There's nothing left of her previous touches in sight. The trinkets that she brought him for his first place... the proof that she was a part of his life... none of it visible. Even the kitchen is arranged. It's THEIR place now- his and his buddy's. She realizes with a shock that her days of taking liberties are over, and she n longer has the right to interfere. Humbled, sad and slightly perplexed, she cannot help but feel a total alien. Mars doesn't belong to her anymore. There's someone else in the picture... even if it is another Martian.

Even sitting down feels awkward, as she comes to the realization that even cuddling will need to be minimized and practiced at discretion. She's certainly not going to give Bosom Buddy the benefit of any PDA. She shoots a glance over to the other guy, swathed all over what was previously Mars's couch, and reels in shock when she sees him hugging a soft toy that she'd gotten for Mars some years ago. She wants to grab it... take it away from the newcomer and hand it back to Mars. It was for HIM after all. But Mars doesn't seem to notice, or be even the slightest bit perturbed by the fact that the toy is being squooshed by another man. Do Martians never care about these things?

She's dying for a hug.... she wants him to tell her it's OK. That things haven't changed. But there's no hug coming and she feels asking for one is just going to make her look vulnerable. She will NOT be vulnerable. She is too cool for that.

When the evening comes to an end, Venus can't help but feel a bit irritable. This was NOT how it was supposed to go. For a second, she wishes Mars never moved. She will exact sweet revenge by messing up his bedroom or rearranging the kitchen when he's not looking.

She can't help it. She's Venusian, after all.

Thursday, September 3, 2009

The One About Ageing

It's happened again. Too soon for my liking. Another birthday... another step towards senility, if I haven't reached it already.

Oh bugger, I'm as old as my aunts were, back when I pitied them. I even feel like them now, but that may be due to my most recent disaster.

Gasp. Haven't I told you about my fall? You're kidding. Right so here's the story-

There I was, the day before I became offically geriatric, yawning at office way too early for my comfort on account of a presentation I had. There was a sheet of paper I'd previously stuck high up on a wall in our board room, that I wanted to take down. The closest thing to a stool was a nearby chair of the wheeled, swivelly kind.
But what kind of idiot stands on a swivelling chair? Why, one like me of course. Was there ever any doubt. I wheeled the chair into place and got onto it. IN my shoes, too, because sometimes I think I'm the cheerleader in Heroes.

As predicted by everyone and their grandmother, the chair decided to roll away, leaving me in mid air for a brief second before crashing down on my spine onto the concrete floor. Not satisfied with the impact, fate determined that I would also snap and bang my head onto said floor. And if you thought fate is a bitch, then get a hold of what luck decided to come up with next. The chair rolled all the way into a large metal flipchart easel- those three legged whiteboards (and this one coincidentally not of csound balance)- that toppled allll the way down onto me. Sideways, for maximum effect.The next thing I knew, Lady D and another colleage were lifting the thing off me and anxiously peering to see if I was alive. I was. I even cracked a few jokes to prove it. EVeryone except me was not amused.
The first thing that popped into my head at point of head bang was that would be turning 30 the next day and I wanted to do it standing on my feet and not in a wheelchair. To think I came out of that without a scratch is nothing short of a miracle. I spent the rest of the day with a splitting headache, though.

It was the ideal way to start my journey downhill.

Not that the actualy birthday part of it was too bad, though.Perhaps not as loud and glam as I'd previously envisioned my 30th birthday, but it was rather nice, in an interesting, quiet kind of way.

His Docness thought he'd surprise me with flowers at office. Naturally, I had to ruin all that for the poor sod, happening to be outside the office building when he turned up and seeing him with said flowers before he had a chance to come upstairs and do whatever he'd carefully planned out. I have a knack for ruining his best moments like that. But the flowers were fabulous... thirty red roses and a card that made me sniff in pleasure. Then there was that gooey poem he'd written to me on FB that produced some emotional snot. I like it when a man's not too embarrassed to proclaim to the world that he's an utter, simpering romantic, at the risk of losing his ball value amongst his fellow men. I know you ladies agree with me. He's quite lovely that way, our Doc.... fussed over me the whole day with unwavering adoration which, as you know, can be the biggest turn on for us girls.
I was treated to a delicious dinner in the evening at one of my favourite restaurants by the sea, complete with low intimate lighting to make me look better (Again, another thing I love the man for... he undertsands female insecurities like no other man i know does) and strains of some relaxing acoustic music by one of my favourite local bands. Followed by a romantic walk on the beach in the moonlight. Yes. I am as corny and cheesy as hell. Deal with it.

That was the nice part of the day. The drama (for there HAD to be drama) happened somewhere in between.

In the spirit of turning 30 I decided to take my first steps towards midlife crisis and do the most rebellious thing I could think of. Give myself a haircut.

Please don't snigger. When you're 30 these things become quite exciting and dangerous. It was either the hair or a tattoo and I'm too chicken shit and broke for the second. The rebel in me wants to carve a cartoon cat on my skin and the thirty year old in me just keeps thinking about the pain, financial downfall and blood poisoning I risk. Perhaps I will leave it for 31, when I lose all hope.

Back to my hair. Given the occasion and the sudden need to defy the norm, I bravely handed over all control to the hairstylist, informing her that she could do what she liked with my head, and to prove my faith in her I would even sit turned AWAY from the mirror till she was done. I don't know what my 30-year old braincells were up to at that point. Something to do with all those makeover moments you see in movies where the heroine swivels to face the mirror and you gasp at the captivating transformation.
The stylist was ecstatic. Nobody had ever put so much trust in her, she sobbed. Well, she didn't sob, exactly.... she kinda sneezed it out...but sob sounds better. For a moment I worried that the girl might have been a tad too eager to experiment on my balding head, but I shook it off with the conviction that you really can't live your whole life playing it safe. At some point, you HAVE to give a stylist her artistic freedom.

And so I swivelled out of mirror's way and sat back while she went at me with her scissors and combs. In retrospect, perhaps I should have questioned her when she suddenly snipped off a good chunk. But I didn't, and it turned out to be my achille's hair of a mistake.

I think the whole of nugegoda heard my version of 'WTF' when I did finally swivel towards that mirror. For those of you who haven't seen me yet, let's just say I look like the animé version of the Dulux dog.

The Doc, in all his supportive-boyfriendness did n't say a single word when he saw me, and still hasn't as of date. THAT'S how much liberty the damned stylist took. A few other people did comment, though. My mother, for one. She became a tad suicidal about it too.Then there was my grandmother, who just screeched 'eeeeyah' for a good while before checking to see if I was having her on and weaing a wig. Even my debut at office was met with a sympathetic 'Don't worry, it'll grow back' as the first response to the sight.

AH well. One lives only once and 30 IS the age to do something stupid so that you can feel sufficiently mature at 40.

And here I sit now, a day later, with all the good memories of the last two days and a rather bad haircut on my mind. If the last thirty years have taught me anything (My mother will attest that it hasn't taught me much), it's that age gives you the ablity to ponder, contemplate, theorize and pontificate about... well... age.

I hope my self-inspired list helps all you fledglings out there who live in age denial to get yourself a reality check.


You know you're 30...

... when the wildest thing you do is have a haircut and grant artistic licence to the person with the scissors.

... when lecherous old men start giving you the eye at supermarkets.

... when you start finding lecherous old men at supermarkets attractive.

... when the height of social activity is visitng the supermarket.

... When you stress and bitch over pictures of a hot, 20-something little tramp upto the point where you realize it's actually your own picture, ten years ago.

... When you visit relatives and they glare at you for wating to go watch TV upstairs with the kids instead of socialize.

... When small talk with relatives is an enjoyable experience.

... when you doll up and go to a nightclub, and feel sleepy within the first five minutes.

... when you feel sleepy within the first five minutes of thinking of dolling up and going to a nightclub.

... when the cute guys at nigthclubs call you 'aunty' and think the nubile young teenage thing next to you is your daughter.

... when you agree with your mother's views on your attire.

... when crotchet needles become THE thing to shop for.

... When the only response to your boyfriend's whispered sweet nothings is 'Speak louder, I can't hear!'

... When your boyfriend starts referring to your tummy as a 'cute pillow' and eyes you warily as you put on a sexy pose.

... When everyone else you know calls your stomach anything but cute.

... When you break into a sweat just thinking of a sit-up.

... When considerate kindred spirits like TheMissingSandwich ask you if it's ok to wish you on your birthday.

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

When the Wild Met the WIlderness



We rule. Seriously.

After much blathering and de-roping over the course of three whole years, the bunch of monkeys from the old office finally managed to get their acts together and loiter over to Yala on a trip this weekend. As if the drought and tourist season wasn’t giving enough pain to those poor animals, we decided to add to their misery too.

As head honcho, I took on the role of overall instigator of Project Trip-To-Yala (creative, think you not). I swear I will never make that mistake again.

I never realized that organizing a trip could be more stressful than running America. Not only did I have to battle it out with ten ninnies for weeks in order to convince them all to come, but I also had the pleasure of playing headmistress and chaperone in talking to their parents and assuring a few wrought mums that I’d return their precious angels in one sober piece. Mind you, these are mostly adult males we’re talking about. One even as ancient as I am. I had to make vows of responsibility and sobriety, even going into the extent of sending out group mails listing out rules of conduct to the lot. I felt like one of those parents promising to babysit a slumber party. I spent sleepless nights budgeting out the cheapest options for travel and accommodation, with some of the bunch kindly volunteering to do much of the dirty work of calling around for quotes and securing deals.

But in the end, we did finally go, and none the sooner. It was wild, it was whacky and it was, in every sense of the word, a trip.

For cost and adventure purposes, we settled on taking a train to Matara and then finding a way to get to yala from there. The drama began in the wee hours of the morning when the cab we’d hired to pick us all up and take us to the railway station turned up minus four seats. A moment of panic, and it was decided that some of them would go ahead to the station on their own. A good decision on their part, because those of in the cab spent two hours pulling our hair out every time the gears flunked and we got caught to checkpoints, fearing we’d miss the train. But all turned out well, and we did catch it on time, thanks to the brave souls who went ahead of us and purchased tickets.

The train journey itself was eventful too. To begin with, none of us knew where the 2nd class compartments were, and ended up getting in late and not having seats. Most of the gang stood for a whole three hours right next to a rather gruesome cabin toilet until people got off and seats became available. I, being the queen that I am, secured myself a nice plush seat next to a snoring passenger and rode in comfort. The weather decided to be an arse and kept raining now and then, which meant the train windows had to be opened and closes at least eight times during the journey. I could see Lady Divine’s face turning very, very sour every time she ended up wet. The train also featured quite a number of entrepreneurs who passed the cabin selling different versions of vadey, kadaley, and pitiful stories in order to make a buck. Five hours hence, I’d almost emptied my pockets and we arrived in Matara.

From Matara we hired a cab to take us to Yala. This one actually had enough seats. We stopped on the way to buy food provisions and ended up alarming the employees of Cargills. The boys spied the liquor section and there went my no-drinking policies. En route to Yala, yours truly had the pleasure of treating everyone to a delightful bout of travel sickness. Luckily, that was as dramatic as it got, and we slept the rest of the way to our lodgings.

As our accommodation of choice, we chose the Panthera Lodge – a charming bungalow on the fringes of the Yala park. Never realizing whom they were handing their premises to, the lodge owner gave us a very cool deal that included the services of their fabulous cook, Liyanage, who could whip up gourmet fantasies out of rocks if we let him. The lodge itself is basic in architecture, but quite well built, with a novel ‘outdoor’ feel to it. All the beds were lined up on this massive verandah so that we could sleep under the stars.



Even the bathroom was open-aired and lacked a ceiling in a very ‘designer’ way, giving passing birds a shock of their lives. We even had the pleasure of the company of the lodge’s delightful little watchdog, who did anything but be a watchdog. We called her Soma.



She actually responded to it, too, giving us full view of her tummy and plenty of access to the scratchable areas behind her ears and neck whenever she was called. Soma’s speciality was her inclination to fart out the world’s smelliest dog farts, rendering everyone green in the face for hours.

But even Soma’s farts could not stop us from enjoying ourselves. In the midst of the hilarious moments of Mafia, poker, word games, sing-a-longs and home-made movies, I can’t remember a single second that I wasn’t laughing. If the daytime wasn’t crazy enough, the night was even better. Open air sleeping arrangements meant a lot of Yala bugs visited us out of curiosity, necessitating the use of convenient mosquito nets – one per every two beds. Securing them was enough of an adventure. We spent hours not sleeping on that row of beds and methinks we kept the whole of Yala awake with the screeches, guffaws and giggles throughout the night. The boys shared beds with each other and left nothing to the imagination of what was happening under those nets.

The next morning we slouched off to the park for our Safari. An early start meant an eventful waking up ceremony at 4 am that warranted another episode of hilarity and drama, with everyone trying to find ways of keeping the others awake. However, all drowsiness was forgotten when we entered the park at 5.

Now I’ve been to Yala before, and it’s always been the same old same old. A dabbling of elephants, a few lazy crocodiles and a couple of deer. But this time around was excellent. Whether it was the drought luring the animals out of their hiding or pure luck, we managed to have an excellent experience. We even saw two leopards! One was an exceptional large, lazy one walking on the road just in front of the jeeps and the other was a cub who shot out of view the minute he heard us coming. Because the universe is highly unfair, I didn’t manage to photograph either. Bummer. But the park encounter was worth every cent, given that we saw a huge number of creatures in all sorts of positions. Here are a few photos that aren’t my own, simply because the other guy had a better camera than I did.



If there was anything that outshone the eventful safari, it was the cook. His meals were beyond fabulous, especially the scrumptious barbeque he whipped up on our last night. BBQ-ed chicken, sausages, grilled whole fish, garlic bread, potato salad and cheesy pasta. We ate copious amounts of it, not wanting to stop.



With that BBQ came the end of the trip, and we all got back into a van at midnight and took off for the Matara station. The train ride back was far more comfortable than our original, though I don’t remember much of it, given that I slept for all five hours of the way home.

And now here I am, pondering and pining to go back there. Just for two glorious days I had my mad lunatics back together and the world was good again. I went back to a time, two years ago, when I worked in a place I could call home with a super group I could call my family. It's little trips like this that makes all those good memories come back to life again. Makes you wonder if everything else in life has a point.

Where to next, peeps??

A Long One That Isn't My Boyfriend's Schlong.

With apologies to said boyfriend for mentioning his long schlong.

I’m back.

Really couldn’t be bothered with thinking up a more creative opening statement.

The days are quite literally a blur. Mostly because I broke my spectacles over three months ago and haven’t replaced them, but also because things seem to be passing by at a speed faster than peoples’ memory of Duminda Silva's negative public image. I am both supremely busy and supremely bored with life.

Gutterflower was right. It isn’t fun to blog when writing is your job. God knows I don’t want to WORK off-time too. But clearly you haven’t missed me as much as I’d like you to.

Anyhoo, let me give you a quick rundown of what moi has been getting moi’s itchy fingers into lately, a’ight?

That sounded vulgar, didn’t it?

To start with, back when I had less grey hairs on my head, almost four months ago, I was involved in putting together this year’s Chillies. Yes… that same ill-fated event that’s been given a good blog beating several times already. I had the luck (debatable) of being a part of the organizing committee by virtue of nomination. Given my inclination towards the theatrical, the rest of the committee decided that my chief (and only- because when it’s convenient, I can look like a bimbo who can’t do much else) responsibility would be to put together the entertainment for the event. I thought I was being very economical and smart when I suggested we ask a well-known theatre director to train people from within the industry to put on a musical act. The director thought HE was being smart in deciding to make that act a drag scene from ‘Cabaret’.

It is safe to say that when it comes to the ad industry, Liza Minnellis we are not.

It all went downhill from there.

Note to self and all at large: you will NOT, I repeat NOT, secure yourself any popular reputation amongst local men once you have harassed them to wear women’s' lingerie on a public stage. Let me elaborate with a prime example of what my phone conversations with random straight men went like:

(Ring ring)- which is actually a phone ringing and not a piece of schizophrenic jewellery…

Straight man : Hello?

Me : Hi. This is (dramaqueen). You don't know me, but I'm in the organising committee for the Chillies, and we have this performance that I'd think you'd be PERFECT for. (flirtatious voice to appeal to red-blooded male brain cell)

SM : (clearly flattered brain cell) oh? Wow... ok... what do you need me to do?

Me : Well, we need you to dance in drag. It's a musical number, you see, and the lingerie you’ll be wearing…

(Cue click of phone)
...
(Second set of ‘ring ring’)

SM : (Not flattered anymore) Yes?

Me : Sorry I think you got cut off. So like I was saying, it's a really cute drag number, and...

(Phone slams)

(Ring Ri..)

SM: WHAT? (braincell is now shouting)

Me : Er... are you interested?

At this point I am subjected to a lot of Greek. Or at least I think it's Greek because 13 years in a private girls’ school taught me nothing.

Of course, to be fair, I have to admit there was the odd (no pun intended) straight man with a slightly more open mind and sense of fun who DID surprisingly agreed to wear the skimpy outfit and heels and wiggle his bottom in front of a thousand people. There were also a handful of brave girls who volunteered (after some initial pleading on my part) to take on the role of the men in the act. I sat up for several evenings pasting sequins on bras and sewing black lace negligees and garters, much to my poor mother’s distress. She is now convinced that advertising is pure lechery. A few days were spent in shoe shops around the city, asking for high-heeled shoes in impossibly large sizes. My explanation to the questioning looks from shopkeepers was that they were for ‘tall foreign women’. ‘Drag queens’ would not have got me those shoes, except for on the head whilst being flung.

I won’t tell you how the show went. There are reviews in both English and Greek you can get someone else who was sober enough to witness it all that night.

Lah Land

The Chillies were followed by a trip to Singapore on a work assignment with a disgruntled co-worker who’d never been on a plane in his life. This meant a lot of nanny duty on my part, with much running after the bloke to stop him from going the wrong way at the airport.

I’ve been to good old ‘pore before, back when my hair was thicker. I didn’t have the slightest clue to how much things had changed since. The first night there, my workmate and I decided to grab a bite from a food court outside our hotel, because the food bills at 5-star hotel restaurants in Singapore make you puke out everything that’s eaten, rendering the whole experience a worthless one.

We asked the bellboy to recommend a good food court nearby that we could hop over to at that time of night (it was a bit late in the night given that our flight landed well past people’s bedtime). Perhaps we should have specified that we meant to eat and nothing but, because the guy gave us a suspicious snigger and pointed towards Orchard towers, a few blocks away from our hotel.

Oblivious to the meaning behind Singaporean sniggers, we skipped over to the Towers. The last time I’d visited Orchard Road, it was the place for the elite to stroll casually by on whilst determining which designer store to throw their money at next. This time around was a little different. There were quite a few questionably dressed girls draping themselves on walls of buildings and under streetlamps, wearing enough make-up to render said streetlamp redundant. I, being the dud that I am, put this down to the fact that Singaporeans must love to dress up at night and have bad stylists. Going into Orchard Towers, we found more and more of these disillusioned fashionistas gyrating to the loud thumping music blaring out of several nightclubs dotting the basement floor into which we had descended. Having manoeuvred the alarmingly seedy corridors, we found our food court and looked around, gulping nervously by now. One hour later we ran back to the hotel at lightning speed, not even surprised by now at the food looking very suspicious, tasting odd, or the fact that we got played out by the vendor. The next morning I found out that Orchard Towers is also famously known as the ‘Four Floors of Whores’.

I hope you’ve caught on by now that the bellboy didn’t get a tip from me.

The rest of the week was spent in between work sessions, slightly more respectable food joints and the zillion shops. One cannot go to ‘Pore and not shop, dahling! Ever the stingy Grinch, my firm favourite has been and will always be the infamous Mustafas. Hours upon hours of loading the cart in greedy haste like there’s no tomorrow. Designer was never my thing, anyway. The food was better than I remembered, especially the chillie crab at Jumbo’s!

There was that one other place that I’d have died if I didn’t get the chance to go back to, and that was the zoo. When you’re a nutter like me you’ll understand why the Singapore zoo is the god of all Asian zoos. I once even tried scoring a job there as an animal show presenter, but was sadly rejected. I think it had something to do with the height of professionalism I demonstrated by writing them a letter to the effect of ‘Hi. I love animals. Could I please have a job there?’.

What? I bet the animals would’ve said yes.

My work mate couldn’t really get his mind around to the fact that when I suggested visiting the zoo, I meant staying there and never going back to SL. He tried to drag me away from the zebras quite a few times once he’d realized my intentions. But I stood my ground and the poor man spent his entire day watching me cooing at the wary creatures like an escaped lunatic. The only beings appreciative of my attentions were the snakes, who’d thus far never received any cooing and thought it a delightful novelty.

I would have felt sorry for my colleague’s plight had he not taken sweet revenge on our last day. We’d decided to visit Chinatown and discussed the merits of splitting up, doing our thing and then meeting at the metro point at a given time. I kept my end of the bargain but he did not. It could have had something to do with the fact that he’d lost his way and didn’t speak fluent English or Mandarin, but I didn’t care. I spent a good three hours standing near the metro entrance, to the point that one particular Chinese man thought I was a hooker and asked me if I wanted to go away with him and show him what brown girls can do. He may have gotten my point when I hit him with a large wooden souvenir fan and called him a bastard, because he left speedily. Seething with rage, I decided to leave my workmate to his fate and went back to our lodgings, only to find him fast asleep there. I hit him with the fan too.

Since Singapore, nothing much else has happened that’s exciting enough to share. I did agree to be conscripted into another play that I’m currently suffering rehearsals for. It stars a few good friends, and that is about the only thing I’m motivated by, given that my work schedule makes everything else an inconvenience. The production is in itself quite a good concept and it’s bound to thrill a few people. We shall see.

Apart from the play, my latest bouts of angst are directed towards Nilanga Dela Bandara a.k.a the Diyawadana Nilame, Minister Gamini Lokuge and the Asgiriya chapter. If you’ve been following the recent outrage of the media and general public, then you’ll know why I want all of the above mentioned bastards dead, or at least hung by their clearly-lacking balls. I am devising way in which to make this happen as we speak.

If you are not savvy to the goings on, then Google their names and you’ll come across a hundred article reporting the demonic way in which they abducted two suckling tusker calves from their mothers in Pinnawela and ‘offered’ them to the temple. To this day the babies remain chained, injured and traumatized inside Dela Bandara’s garage, whilst the mother elephants lie injured and pining for their calves. True Buddhists, these pigs are… to heap portions of abuse onto animals and expect karma points out of it. It astounds me how greedy fat arses like this are actually put into positions of power by us, the people. We are clearly dumber than I thought we were.

And that, my little donkeys, is what has happened so far, with the exception of work, work and nothing but work that keeps me grimacing every time I think of sitting down at the PC, even if it IS for personal gain. I did have a few outstanding moments like that time I saw another workmate standing near the office elevator and slapped his ass in the jovial fashion I always do, only to have the man turn around and reveal himself to NOT be the workmate in question but an absolute stranger. I ditched the elevator ride for five flights of stairs, just to avoid dying of shame.

Like a coincidental bitch of an irony, someone in office just called for me. This means you need to wait to hear from me again.

Over and out.

Monday, August 3, 2009

Hoo

I swear to you, I'm not dead.

Yet.

A longer post is on its way, I promise. I just need to find that little jewel called time. Between fighting the President on animal rights issues, my mother's suspicions, my client's brainwaves, my boss's sudden itches and all the voices in my head, I really haven't had the chance to talk to you.

Sorry. There's lot to tell.

Await.

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

Dear Neanderthaal

Let me see if I can contribute to the publicity you're already giving yourself.Because I'm feeling generous. You know who called you a booruwa? It was me. Tadaa.

You know why? Because I thought you WERE being a neanderthaal with your archaic views on my gender and because part of the fun in blogging is to have the opportunity to express your views in the form of a comment. But you know what? You proved me right. You could have just moved on from that day like every other blogger who's been criticized (Goodness knows I have many, many time with FAR worse name-calling) and we could have all just forgotten about you and your neighbour. Instead, you took it upon your sacred self to attack everyone who crossed you in the dirtiest, lowest (and many might say criminal) way possible. You also made a fine show of your so-called righteous sense of justice by accusing poor DeeCee with full force when she'd done nothing to you in the first place. And now, you have an entire blogger community baying for your blood and calling you a psycho who deserves jail. Are you proud? I've heard of people making mistakes in life, but you just dug your own grave, darling. If I may quote you, I pity.

What is your next course of action, I wonder. To take the higher ground, apologize to DeeCee and accept that you are, in fact, human like the rest of us or to damage my name too? You don't need to do it the illegal way, though. Just ask and I'll tell you whatever you want to know.

NB, my apologies to you. I shouldn't have wasted my time commenting in the first place. You're just another opinion in this vast world and there are bigger, better things that deserve my attention. I can't change your thinking, so I shouldn't have even tried.

My first instinct was to turn a blind eye to your latest rant that victimized RD and DeeCee, because that would have been the mature thing to do. But I just couldn't let my conscience know that someone else was being wrongfully blamed for my action. So this post is actually for DeeCee's sake more than yours. Dee, I'm sorry.

So How's everyone else doing today?

Cat Medication for Dummies


I wish I had, but I actually didn't write this one. It was sent to me from my boss, who clearly has less work than I do. Thought it true enough and worthy of sharing. Enjoy.

HOW TO GIVE A PILL TO A CAT

1. Pick cat up and cradle it in the crook of your left arm as if holding a baby. Position right forefinger and thumb on either side of cat's mouth and gently apply pressure to cheeks while holding pill in right hand. As cat opens mouth, pop pill into mouth. Allow cat to close mouth and swallow.

2. Retrieve pill from floor and cat from behind sofa. Cradle cat in left arm and repeat process.

3. Retrieve cat from bedroom, and throw soggy pill away.

4. Take new pill from foil wrap, cradle cat in left arm holding rear paws tightly with left hand. FORCE jaws open and PUSH pill to back of mouth with right forefinger. Hold mouth shut for a count of ten.

5. Retrieve pill from goldfish bowl and cat from top of wardrobe. Call spouse from yard.

6. Keel on floor with cat wedged firmly between knees, hold front and rear paws, ignoring low growls emitted by cat. Get spouse to hold head firmly with one hand while forcing wooden ruler into mouth. Drop pill down ruler and rub cat's throat vigorously.

7. Retrieve cat from curtain rail, get another pill from foil wrap. Make note to buy new ruler and repair curtains. Carefully sweep shattered figurines and vases from hearth and set to one side for gluing later.

8. Wrap cat in large towel and get spouse to lie on cat with head just visible from below armpit. Put pill in end of drinking straw, FORCE mouth open with pencil and blow pill down drinking straw.

9. Check label to make sure pill not harmful to humans, drink 1 beer to take taste away. Apply Band-Aid to spouse's forearm and remove blood from carpet with cold water and soap.

10. Retrieve cat from roof of neighbor's shed. Get another pill. Open another beer. Place cat in cupboard and close door onto cat's neck to leave head showing. Force mouth open with dessertspoon. Flick pill down throat with rubber band, close cat's mouth and hold shut to the count of 30.

11. Fetch screwdriver from garage and put cupboard door back on hinges. Drink beer. Fetch bottle of scotch. Pour shot, drink. Apply cold compress to cheek and check records for date of last tetanus shot. Apply whiskey compress to cheek to disinfect. Toss back another shot.

12. Call fire department to retrieve the cat from tree across the road. Apologize to neighbor who crashed into fence while swerving to avoid cat. Take last pill from foil wrap.

13. Tie the cat's front paws to rear paws with twine and bind tightly to leg of dining room table, find heavy duty pruning gloves from shed. Push pill into mouth followed by piece of steak. Hold cat's head vertically and pour 2 pints of water down throat to wash pill down.

14. Consume remainder of Scotch. Get spouse to drive you to emergency room, sit quietly while doctor stitches fingers and forearm and removes pill remnants from right eye.

15. Arrange for Humane Society to collect mutant cat and call local pet shop to see if they have any hamsters.


HOW TO GIVE A DOG A PILL

1. Wrap it in bacon.

Thursday, April 2, 2009

Mobile Misery


Woe is me. I’ve lost my second best friend in all the world, a.k.a. my phone. Don’t ‘pfft’ at me… that phone was the next best thing to RD’s sliced wheel. ‘Twas a super sexy birthday gift from the Doc, and one that I’d been lusting after for quite a while. I still remember how he duped me into selecting it, without realising it was for me. He took me out for a special birthday dinner and kept it wrapped beside our table the whole night, not letting me touch the gift. I had to be patient till we finished dinner and got back into the car to be allowed the chance to eagerly rip off the paper and squeal in glee. I’d been wanting that phone for yonks, and he’d gotten it for me.
Aiyo. Aiyo. I feel all helpless and cry baby now.

Eric (Short for Sony Ericsson) was cruelly plucked from my ownership the day before yesterday. I still have no clue how it happened. Granted, I am the world’s biggest klutz and absent minded owner who would normally be the first person to lose a phone by leaving it somewhere and forgetting about it. Historically, I’ve already left one phone on a trishaw seat and another in a public restroom. However, this time around I did absolutely nothing. The last I remember, I put Eric in my handbag and hopped off to meet Doc for lunch. It was after lunch, when searching for the phone, I discovered it missing. Impossible, right? I mean, I never took it out to make any calls, nor did I go anywhere other than the lunch spot to have dropped/lost it. We looked everywhere. I even searched my car inside out, just in case I’d dropped it into a crack in between seats. Nada.

We tried calling it and found it had been switched off, which can only mean one thing… someone had Eric. In the midst of blaming myself for being stupid enough to lose it I called up the service provider and terminated the connection.

And now I’m miserable.

Why the dickens am I telling you all this and why the dickens do you care? Because, paduan, in the middle of my grieving process, I suddenly had a bit of a corny revelation and wanted to share.

Those of you out there who have lost phones will know what I’m talking about. When you lose something as tiny and inconspicuous in the greater scheme of things as a phone, suddenly life as you know it is turned upside down. It’s like losing a part of you… like a limb or something. You realise with a nasty jolt that the phone was actually a vital chunk of your daily survival and not having it even for a second puts you into heap big doggy doo doo.

Think about it. It’s like breaking up with someone, innit? A phone is something that goes through life with you. It’s there during times of wonderful memories and even helps out by photographing or videoing the precious moment. It’s the catalyst between you and your loved ones, every time you communicate from remote locations. For me, Eric was the go-between to a lot of things. Every morning as I woke up it would show me a sms reminding me that someone loved me. Through the day, people I wanted and didn’t want to talk to would connect with me through Eric. A single loud bleep could put a smile on my face in an instant on the worst of days, because it was a signal to say someone was thinking of me. Every night, the phone would sit patiently next to my ear, helping me tell someone that I loved them and hear them say it back. If it wasn’t for my phone’s access to the web, Facebook wouldn’t have been a possibility during office hours. All my information was in that phone- from bank account details, important dates to remember, favourite songs, personal photos, special smses I’d saved….

And now someone else has access to all that. Someone else is laughing over pictures of my pets’ cutest poses and the Doc’s silly faces, pulled especially to make me laugh whenever I needed a pick-me-up via keypad. Someone else now knows my friends’ names and numbers. Someone else is surfing my saved Facebook page.

Someone else has my exciting birthday gift. Dammit.

And here’s the revelation…. If I can get so darned attached to something as materialistic as a mobile phone and put so much sentimental value into this gift, just imagine what would happen if I ever lost the GIVER.

Whoa.

Food for thought. You’re probably not getting me right now, but I think you will eventually. Especially if you lose your phone.