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.