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.


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.


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.


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?


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.


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.


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.