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.


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.


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.


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

Wednesday, April 1, 2009

Anal Adventures

A long post, just two days after the last one. You have to admit that’s a record for this lil’ blogger. I decided to throw caution and my e-unsociable image to the wind. It must be the phlegm.

Speaking of illness, I’ve had an eerie lot of it lately. Me, the pride of welldom… the girl who never gets sick, except occasionally in the head. Before this latest onslaught of germ-ridden-ness I could have counted the total number of flus had with my ten fingers. I wonder if it has something to do with the universe, who’s acting rather like a menopausal woman these days; cheerful one day and a bloody wretch the next. And trust me to have nothing short of the most dramatic circumstances too.

My last major illness worth writing about happened about a month back. ‘Twas a moonless night and the crickets were too busy drowning their sorrows to chirp due to a sever lack of rain. As a part of a larger sinister scheme to kill me slowly, some people in office gave me their illnesses by way of a sore throat. It started off with a slight irritation that turned into an inability to swallow. I will not entertain any perverse remarks, please. Naturally, I ignored said throat irritation, because whatever germs I have picked up in the past have usually been too disgusted to stick around for long, and leave grumbling in search of greener pastures. I didn’t see the need for immediate medication, especially because a sore throat also makes me sound rather sexy. All husky and sultry in that deep, raspy way instead of my usual banshee screech. I expected to turn men on with my vocals for about three days and then return to normal.

But this germ had other plans and took up residence instead of leave. It even invited family over for visits, who being Sri Lankan germs, also took up residence. Husky turned into grating which eventually turned into a completely mute attempt at whisper. The only person thrilled was my boyfriend, who could only dream of these moments where earplugs weren’t a daily necessity in life.

Then, on a similar moonless night a few days later, my ear began to sing to me. No, seriously. I was at the PC playing ‘Pet Shop Hop’ (free download on yahoo games- I swear it’s addictive) when I distinctly heard aliens trying to communicate with me. Either that or I figured it was my inner voice giving me some divine intervention. Contrary to my opinion, it turned out to be that damned germ dynasty nesting snugly inside me. My singing ear tried to make itself heard by starting to ache. Again, the self-medicator in me decided to wait it out, enjoy the pain and see it through. But the germs had other ideas. By 2 am I was twisting and turning in bed, unable to sleep or even close my eyes for that matter thanks to the by-now excruciating stabs of pain in my ear canal.

Not able to take it anymore and fearful of being rendered deaf for life (that’s my boyfriend’s dream, not mine) I woke my slumbering mother up and insisted we go to hospital. Ever the concerned parent, Mother asked me if I couldn’t wait till morning. Of course I could, I replied. That’s exactly why I woke her up at 2 am… to tell her I could wait. I think she got my point. But she fought back, taking way too long perfecting her hair before we left.

I decided to drive because Mother’s driving at that time of the night can give me other ailments and I wasn’t about to entertain anything else. Being the bonded pair that we are, we fought and argued for a good fifteen minutes outside the house on which hospital we should go to. Sorry to digress, but you know… I just don’t get how that happens. My mother is the creature who claims I have cancer if I sneeze. And it is this same creature who decided that a blinding, unbearable earache that moves her doctor-intolerant daughter to actually WANT to drive to hospital at ungodly hours was no cause for alarm. Really. I tell you.

Anyway, back to my moving drama.

So after the initial argument over hospitals, my ear and I decided to go with Mum’s vehement choice and speed off to the nearest one- Asiri. Driving with one’s head lopsided in pain gives you a rather skewed view of the street and driving with one’s mother in the passenger seat is nothing short of a horror, making the whole experience quite theme park ride-like.

We made it to Asiri and I swooped into the Emergency section. In true efficient professionalism, the attendant was snoring happily in a wheelchair meant for ER patients. Next to him was the security guard, cuddled up to said attendant and snoozing like a content lover. Apparently my urgent car honking had excited them to the point of letting out an extra snore. I didn’t have the heart or the blood pressure level to wake them up, and rushed in to the emergency ward with mother waddling at my side.

In the ward we found two night-duty nurses also asleep because of course, that was part of their night- duty. They didn’t appreciate being woken up and glared at me with as much bedside manner as a couple of crocodiles. The doctor, I was curtly informed, was with another patient. I would have to wait. I pointed out that to my knowledge, there WEREN’T any other patients, seeing as how every bed around me was empty. This got me more glares and one nurse went off ungraciously to summon this popular doctor.

About an eternity and some more ear pain later a lady doctor arrived, bleary-eyed and yawning. Her hair was a holy mess and her white coat crumpled. She had been with another patient, she mumbled, while rubbing fresh eye-crispies off her face. Of course she had.
I wailed out my auditory woes in my husky croak. The doctor and the nurse listened in the same way that I do to a particularly boring lecturer during the 8th hour of a full-day revision class.

“Erm”, mumbles the good doctor. “ I think you have a sore throat”.

She was pure genius, this one. From the corner of my eye I could see Mother nodding earnestly at the great discovery. I asked her why my ear was killing me and the doctor looked at me quizzically.

“Oh, your ear is paining too?”

No. Of course not. How silly. I was just cupping it and whining about ear pain all this time with a lopsided head because I was born that way.

She asked one of the nurses to get her that ear-inspecting gadget that has never ceased to amaze me. The nurse, still annoyed at being woken up, took her time locating it. Doc took some long looks in my ear before announcing there was nothing wrong with my ear.

So, then, the pain was actually the work of aliens?

I was at screaming point by now. Unsuccessful, of course, since the loudest I could shout with my hoarse throat was a decibel above silence. Even mother had ceased to look enamoured by Doctor Quack. On my insisting, the sighing so-called medical expert asked the nurse to get her a second ear gadget, just in case the fault was with the lens of the first. Again she checked, pinching my ear lobe in the process and pulling it out like she wanted to model Dumbo out of my skin. I had to remind myself several times that crying in front of a doctor is the ultimate proof of sissyhood.

“No… nothing wrong. I can’t see anything.” She informs. The nurses are all looking victoriously at me. I’d woken them up for NOTHING and now they could sue me.

“But there’s PAIN. Pain beyond even my super-human tolerance! And what about my throat???? How do I get rid of all this unbearable hurting???!?”

She looked at me long and hard as if I was THE most difficult and intolerable patient she’d ever come across. Then she took another good ten minutes to study her blank prescription pad in deep thought. From out of her vast, expansive medical knowledge she pulled out a sure-fire cure for a writhing me.

“ Nurse… give her some Panadol.”

Ten minutes later I was back in my driver’s seat, panting from the exertion of having told the doctor in the most verbose way exactly where she could put her Panadol and stomping out of the ER room in a fury, leaving Mother to apologize for my miscreant behaviour. Another five minutes later Mother was panting beside me, having finally understood the frustration I was going through. Apparently, when she’d gone over to the cashier to pay (I refused, obviously) for the quack’s sagely advice, she’d been unable to wake the man up. The sight of him swaddled up in a sarong had, I think, pinched Mother’s last nerve and finally brought out the beast within. Even the security guard and ER attendant were sung a special lullaby on her way to the car, and they were both now sitting up, wide awake in alarm at hearing such obscenities from a fat little lady.

Now it was my turn to choose a hospital. Whispering curses at Asiri, the Doctor, the nurses and the street dogs on their nightly jaunts, we whisked ourselves to Apollo. I was almost surprised to find everyone awake, fully alert and even attending to patients. I hardly had time to park my car near emergency before TWO, not one, attendants rushed out earnestly and directed me to the emergency ward where a bevvy of nurses and doctors milled about. I was immediately taken to a room and made to sit on the bed, while a nurse checked my temperature and pressure. Then came my special treat for the night.

My earache almost vanished in delight when a tall good-looking Indian doctor sauntered up to me and asked me what was up. I was speechless for a moment there, and it wasn’t because of the sore throat. I could see mother making goo goo eyes at him and stepping forward to give him the lowdown and take the attention away from me, so I quickly found what was left of my voice and spoke up. Suppressing my urge to tell him lies about ailments I didn’t have just to get his sympathy and maybe a body-check out of it, I dutifully croaked to him all about my ear that I had suddenly begun to ignore. Dr. Cute-stuff nodded wisely and listened to every word, asking me some valid questions and interrogating every possibility. I swear this man could have been a marketing tactic by Apollo to ensure it has a steady stream of emergency patients every night. I certainly would come down with something just to get the chance to have him inspect me. I have no idea of his name, but shall call him Rahul, because that sounds Indiany and cute.

He called for an ear gadget that was promptly placed in his hands by the nurse. The guy only flashed it at me once and he immediately saw the infection within. So much for the Asiri quack’s laborious search. Rahul asked me to open my mouth and I gladly gaped. He shone a torch and affirmed that everything was badly infected. The throat infection had travelled to my ear canal, he told me. He had two solutions for me.

1. A painkiller injection that would take away the hurt immediately.

2. Pills that would take about two hours to act.

I opted for the injection because I couldn’t handle the pain for any longer. He asked me how I’d come and I said I drove. (I said this in a very proud, accomplished way, just to let him know I was of a legal age. You never know where these bits of info can get you)

“Uh oh. Then you can’t have the painkiller”, said Rahul. Or should we call him Akshay? Ok... Akshay. “ The injection will make you drowsy and you won’t be able to drive back”

But I couldn’t bear to stay this way for another two hours till pills kicked in. I pleaded with him for a different option. He looked at me for a long while (I’d like to think for reasons other than that he was trying to think of a solution) and then confirmed that yes, there WAS another way.

“We can give you a suppository.”

Freeze scene. Cue horror music. A WHAT?

Ok… here’s the thing. I was willing to let this guy look down my tonsils, sure… but there was no way in HELL he was poking anything up my rear end. This relationship was just not ready enough for that level of intimacy.

I had a conniption. Choking on my own phlegm I asked him to kindly repeat himself.

“ A suppository.” He calmly repeats, with a smile that’s not cute anymore. “The pain will go away immediately.”

My mother, by now, has begun to giggle. So has the nurse. I think it had something to do with the look on my face. Doctor Dreamy stood there looking quizzically at my dumbfounded-ness, patiently waiting for an answer.

“ No. No way. No. No, no, no, no. Uh-uh. Nope. NO.” I kept shaking my head furiously to emphasise my point. As this juncture, Mother jumped up in delight. “I’LL give it to you!” she squeaks in excitement.

That was it. That was all I needed. I looked at Akshay, who had now ceased to be appealing to me. I asked him to allow me to take the suppository home, that I’d administer it myself. I could manage the pain for long enough to NOT have a room full of people surround me while I shoved a pill up my bottom. He smiled, agreed, and we were off. By the way, this cashier was wide awake too, so all payments happened with ease. I drove home in a daze, not looking forward to taking the suppository and thinking up all sorts of things about how the experience would be. I also had to keep giving my hurt Mother reasons as to why exactly I didn’t want HER doing the deed. Honestly. MOTHERS.

Back at home, having managed to painstakingly coax mother into going to her room and sleep instead of watching me (she’d have taken photos given half the chance), I took a long look at the enormous pill they’d given me. Looked a bit disgusting, really. Like a miniature rocket that was bound to make me feel worse than the ear did. But Mother had told me it would dissolve instantaneously. It was too late at night and I was in too much pain to not believe her.

I know you’re gnawing at your fingernails, waiting eagerly for the gory details of what happened next. You’re gonna have to be creative and imagine it yourself sonny, because as forthcoming as I am, there are some things I just won’t share with a whole blogosphere. I’ll just say it was an ‘interesting’ experience that didn’t live up to the horror stories and fantasies that presided. So there you go. My first ‘pukay peththa’, as a colleague put it. Yuck.

Next time when my throat starts to hurt, I’m going to be the first person at the doctor’s clinic.