Hissyfits

Time Bomb

2011-11-13T08:42:00.001-08:00

Not characteristic of me to be serious on this blog, but I felt the need to present the world with the mother of all rants, so bear with me. Perhaps taking it out on my keyboard is what I need to get back to being Little Miss Glib again.

I'm in one of those all-too-frequent (as of late) situations where I just might kill someone any minute, or start googling for nice noose designs. If one is feeling suicidal, the least one can do is go fashionably, noh?

Thing is, I have issues. (do I hear a loud and resounding 'duh'?)

Daddy issues, to be more precise. A few close friends in my tight little circle know what I'm on about, but I thought it was high time I proclaimed my problems to the world. As if you hadn't heard enough of them already.

Alright, I'll get to the point.

My parents give me a hard time about my boyfriend.

I can almost hear you sniggering about how this is not an uncommon problem. Shut up for a moment and listen, before you scoff your way to timbuktoo.

I'm 32. This has been going on for 8 years. It has driven me to want to take my life.

Ah. See? Not laughing any more, are you?

I don't know how they became this monsterous. I can't remember how, when or WHY it happened. They're both what you might call the 'cool' sort with their own dubious relationship history that warrants an entire book which Spielberg would consider worthy of cinematizing.

Somehow, when it comes to my love life and in particular the current man in my life, it's like we're suddenly living in Saudi Arabia.

It's one thing to strop on the Asian daughter shackles onto a teenage girl who doesn't know better than to lust after a career in porn. It's a complete other to go Mullah on a 32-year old professional woman with a superior feminist complex. I mean... do I LOOK like an impressionable twat?

For those of you who haven't seen me, the answer is- no, I do not. I'm quite prude and scary in a fair, fat way.

The good fellow I'm dating is one of the nicest, most down to earth, sensitive blokes I know. All my friends, in fact, feel sorry for him, having found him latched onto me. Compared to the imbeciles I've been with in the past, this one is a complete jackpot in the chivalrous, respectful and sweet department. So you can imagine how maddening it is when my Father takes it upon himself to spew utter rubbish about the poor man to anyone and everyone he meets. In the last 8 years, this wonderful, wonderful, long suffering bloke has been subjected to the vilest harrasment possible, with rumours about his character being spread to the far ends of the earth by none other than my precious parents. They've managed to concoct filth about him being a shady drug pusher, an addict, a two-bit unemployable johnny who is apparently sponging off me, a criminal and a whole host of lovely labels that I do not care to detail out here.

I put up with it through the first two years of dating, assuming it was the natural order of things with Sri Lankan parents. But when the two years stretched to 8 and in the interim they started pulling out all stops in the nasty department for no known reason, it started to get on my last nerve. And it's a very fragile nerve, that one.

I can deal with them nagging at me about the state of my room, my hair and my hemline. What I cannot stand is them taking liberties to play with another person's life and reputation when they have no right to. It can be my boyfriend or someone else's next door neighbour, I don't care; there are some levels to which one does not stoop. They put this poor chap through hell for just existing. Not only have they created absurdities about him, but also blame him for every thing I do that has nothing to do with him, too. Every single action of mine is directly co-related to his evil influence on me.

For fuck's sake.

Two years back dearly beloved's mother passed away after a battle with cancer. You'd think the decent thing to do would be to at least put aside your prejudices for a single day and attend your daughter's boyfriend's mother's funeral. But no, they chose to bastardize that too, spreading ugly stories about his family and getting pissy at members of my extended family who chose to attend the funeral. So much for me expecting them to come around in times of tragedy.

Before you impart advice on how to deal with this situation, trust me, I have. I have done everything possible, from trying to speak with my parents (letters, e-mails, direct conversations both nice and not-so-nice) to seeking intervention from the family priest in the hopes that my dad would at least listen to a man of the Lord. But apparently, even the Lord's servant has been adversely influenced by the demon that is my boyfriend. The Boyfriend's tried addressing the issue with my parents himself too, but to no avail. Not only have they point blank refused to meet with him even ONCE in the last 8 years to at least see what his face looks like before they form opinions about his character, but every other attempt he and his family have made to break the ice have been met with nothing but the most cruel responses.

I just do not get it.

To add insult to injury, my parents go out of their way to rub it into me as to how this treatment is specially saved just for my relationship and no other. My brother, for example, has recently procured himself a girlfriend who they can't get enough of. Myyyyy... you should see the way they fall over themselves cooking dinners for her and going to tea parties with her family. It's great that the poor child has not been subjected to any hassle, but I just cannot find it in myself to sit comfortably and play happy families when any of this unbelievable fawning goes on. It will take some time for me to adjust to how my mother, who after years of prudely opining that a girl going to boy's house is the next best thing to a cheap Thai hooker (in reference to me visiting my boyfriend in broad daylight), is suddenly beside herself with joy when my brother's girlfriend pops over at night and stays long after dinner up in HIS BEDROOM.

Look, I know this all sounds like your typical girly rant about daddy-Vs.-darling issues, but the thing is, come on, noh? I'm 32, goddamit. At some point of time you have to trust me with making my own goddamn decisions in this world. It's not like I'm even close to the TYPE of woman who'd fall for a drug-pushing spongebob. Nothing about me or my history indicates that I can't make a responsible (if not overtly paranoid) decision. Furthermore, the boyfriend himself has been nothing but an absolute showcase of ethics and maturity throughout all these years, not once putting a foot wrong and proving my father correct in any of his accusations. He's even been unrealistically patient with all this, when he has had enough reason to lodge a complaint against my parents for harassment and causing emotional harm. in fact, I've advised him several times to do just that- take my dad to courts for the vicious slander, but he refuses, sitting in the hopes that they will like him someday. Not happening, dude.

If you, like many others have, are thinking of advising me to move out of home and start controlling my own life, then I'm sorry but I've been there and bought the t-shirt already. four years ago I did take my life into my own hands and found a nice little place almost two doors down from my parent's home. And like all good, decent, broad-minded fathers do, mine decided to have chest pains and be rushed to the hospital as a result of the 'stress I was causing him by slapping him the face with my move'. My mother, the doctor and the rest of the world accused me of trying to kill my father.

And so ended the move, as well as the part of me that thus far thought I could ever be independant.

Sigh. So now what do I do? Every day just gets harder to cope. Boy is very nice to have stuck around this long after all this shit being meted out to him, but there's just so much he can do without causing further drama. He sits and twiddles his thumbs as we speak.

I, on the other hand, will explode any moment now. Can you hear the ticking?

HOO!

2011-10-10T00:01:00.000-07:00

My DAHLINGS! How how?

Yes I know. I have been MIA for yonks now and I don't mean that nasty-mouthed rapper girl.Though I can be nasty mouthed too. I can't rap, though.

Admit it, you missed me and my digressing.

Aiyo I have so much to tell you... so much to pontificate on... so much to bitch about. Vhere to start, ja? Shall I just blabber at random? Yes, I think I will. Sorting out thoughts and news into different blogposts will take too much time and you know how often I blog.

1.

So I started a new job and all. Methinks it was high time a change happened (I don't think anyone should be surprised, going by the 'woe-is-me' references to my work in the past), but strangely this new shift was not propogated by me. You see dearies, the COO (Chief Operations Oxbrain) of the last office- a baby-faced snake whom I never really liked to begin with - pulled a fast one and made off with the agency network and the utterly fartly client who made up 80% of our business. There are lots of different versions of the story circulating in the ad industry, but those of us who worked in the place know just exactly how the conniving lowlife and his conniving arse-buddy the client manipulated things to suit their purpose. It was quite a trying time for most of us, but one we all saw coming. Wonderfully enough though, 95% of the staff refused to jump ship with him and basically left him hanging with only three groupies that he'd brought in. The rest of us found work elsewhere and moved on after a few tears and the office we worked in closed down. It wasn't all sad, though. Most of us have come to the realisation that things really worked out for the best, given that we're all pretty happy in our new jobs and we no longer have to service that awful, awful client anymore. I also hear that ex-COO was recently almost beaten up by the husband of a woman he'd been having a fling with. Muahahahaha. Karma at its best.

I was fortunate enough to be retained by the old group and transferred to a sister agency, along with a charismatic LD and a couple of other chums. So far, so good. Although I am no longer working in the creative division, the new stint is good fun and I am loving the energy and good vibes going around. It's quite a pleasant change to have actual HUMANS to work for and with. I've realized I've been decidedly happier with the world since I made the switch, so it must be a good thing. Tralala and all that for now. Wish me luck, sweethearts.

2.

I have, out of a the classic glutton-for-punishment-itch, also taken on two new side jobs. It has nothing to do with money and everything to do with the fact that I am in denial about my ageing energy levels. One afore-mentioned side job is actually a bit of a dream come true - I've been commissioned to host my very own travel show on TV! Cue fanfare and general cheers for life's little ups. It's a budget travel show where I get to traipse aimlessly around Sri Lanka and get my hands dirty off the beaten track. Very very exciting stuff. At the mo it's all in planning and production phase, but by God it's thrilling. To top things off I am presenting the show with a long-time buddy which makes it funner, if there be such a word. So far we've shot the pilot episode which was a bit of a sorry disaster but one for the memories nevertheless. I am hoping the actual episodes to come will be slightly more colourful. Once we are officially public about it I will let you all know which channel to watch and when. :D

Side job no.2 is my dibs on grandmotherhood- I have started... wait for it...(drumroll)...baking cakes. This is my small contribution to the health ministry's efforts in population control. It all started off with my very first cake of all time that I baked for my dad's b'day. On realizing it didn't look half bad (actually cake-like),I went and did that whole boastful, gloaty thing of posting up pictures on FB. That made things skyrocket to a whole new level and people started placing orders. Thinking I was cat's whiskers and quite pleased with the new-found skill, I took on the orders to finance what became a hobby of sorts and have now come to a point where I have to turn most of the orders down because I just can't handle the load. One of these days I promise you I will die of exhaustion, but for now I spend my nights and weekends raping my mother's oven. I even managed to attract a magazine review out of it. Martha Stewart will be proud, before she tastes my cakes and dies of food poisoning.

3.

My animal welfare activities are on a new high. I have taken advocacy to near-extremes and can be often seeing parading the streets or abusing social networks priviledges to save the planet. People have stopped talking to me as a result, like most ignorant and stupid humans are wont to do when they're informed that they are not the most important thing in the world. Happily enough, I don't care. I have even attempted to become vegetarian, much to my carnivore boyfriend's dismay. But he is being a good soul about it and even occasionally supports my lunacy by foregoing meat on dinner dates without my telling him to. Bless him. The new diet is working so far, though I have to admit to the odd slip-up here and there. 'Tis a difficult business, getting certain habits out of one's systems, but a meat-less meal certainly has the benefits of a drama-free conscience and I actually sleep easier now.

I am extremely supposrtive of the organised effort to ban ritual animal slaughter at the Munneswaram Temple in Chilaw. Google it if you're not aware of the stories. It is beyond me how fucked up some people can be when it comes to interpretations of religious dictates. Good on Mervyn Silva, as much of an idiot as he is, for creating enough of a public spectacle by barging in there and confiscating those poor animals lined up for merciless hacking up. Religious tolerance and respect is one thing, but choosing to turn your head and spout nonsense about 'to each his own' when there's a life at stake is another. What's fucked up is fucked up and intervention in such circumstances is ok in my books, as unpopular a view as that may be. I can deal with the PROPERLY carried out sacrifices at religious events, such at the Islamic haj rituals. I say 'proper' because according to the laws of Islam, the slaughter is supposed to be carried out with minimum harm or distress to the animal, whereby no trauma has been inflicted. The problem is that more often than not, these mandates are rarely followed due to sheer incompetency or disegard in the name of human convenience. I wish there were more control methods put in place at these rituals, where proper supervision ensures that, if you MUST please your God by killing something, then at least the animal is kept comfortable and knows/feels little to nothing. Munneswaram is a whole different story and I'm not sorry to say I have absolutly no regard for foolish buffoons who think they can invoke luck and prosperity by violently murdering a life in the most callous way imaginable. I pray for a day when I am empowered enough to mete out the same treatment to said violators. May they rot alive.

Now you know why people avoid me.

4.

I have added yet another child to my already festering brood- a puppy named Smurfette. She is overtly active, destructive and consistently happy, which stresses the cats out no end. Smurfette was left in a box at my doorstep by someone who obviously had a bigger heart than the monsters who usually drown or throw away baby animals. After a few weeks of unsuccessfully trying to re-home her, she ended up as a permanent installation and now drives everyone batty. Neighbours are witness to the number of my bras and panties that she insists on dragging out into the garden for exhibition and I am constantly smelling of puppy drool. This is the life.

5.

The good things in life still mingle with the not-so-great. but I am too happy today to get into all that. Maybe someday you'll find out.

And just like that my boredom threshold has been reached and I am lazy to write anymore. Sorry. I have a few more thoughts up my sleeve which I will share with you shortly, but for now I have a Facebook storm to start.

Watch this space.

Making Babies

2011-03-23T23:54:00.000-07:00

Just the other day, an aunt was pestering me for the umpteenth time, in that way that Sri Lankans who have no other business to poke their noses into but yours do, to marry and have children. Not even eventually, mind you. QUICKLY. Because my biological clock is ticking its way to its death, said she. Because she needed to see me rocking a child in my arms or she would DIE.

I’ve reached a point where demands of this nature have ceased to get under my skin. You come to a point where you become immune to people’s silly notions that one must live by ridiculous norms.

But, like every woman is wont to do, this lady wouldn’t shoosh. For the sake of some quiet, I dabbled with my font of excuses that I usually mete out to annoying, uninvited personal advisors. Then I decided not to go down the tried and tested route of laughing at the thought of a piece of paper validating your commitment to someone, or putting on a superficial pageant for the sake of relatives who want to show off their latest sari acquisitions. All in favour of giving up your identity and independence in order to breed and run behind a whining, hairless HUMAN who does nothing but poop and opinionate.

I decided instead to present some hard-core facts to this clearly ignorant female.

“Look, aunty...” said I, trying very hard to mask my annoyance, “I refuse to drop babies on order because –

Elephants in this country have no space to live anymore. To make room for the planet, we need to drastically reduce the number of humans. I advocate mass sterilization of women, therefore, and not impregnation.

There are plenty of children who are brought onto this earth and neglected or thrown away. Why not just parent them instead?

Neither my body nor I are willing to undergo mind-fucking pain to squeeze something the size of a large watermelon out and thereafter suffer the saggy aftermath for the rest of my life. God knows I’m flabulous enough.

Global temperatures are in an accelerated rise. The best of scientists have reported that in the next 15 years, the ice caps will melt and raise ocean levels by as much as 20 feet. Much of the world as we know it will drown.

Have you seen the news? Everybody’s fighting with everybody else. The Gadaffis and Rajapakses of this world are here to stay. If the planet doesn’t destroy itself, then these buggers surely will.

According to reliable sources, we won’t have enough drinking water by 2020. That’s just 9 years from now.

The money I earn should be used towards justice for suffering animals, not pampers and exorbitant school fees.

I’d like to see the world and make a difference before I die and I can’t do it dragging a carry cot around.

Ragging in schools is the fad of the day. Crimes against children are at an all-time high. Perverts, paedophiles and rapists are commonality in today’s society.

Drugs and alcohol have a thumbs up from the younger generation everywhere. Already Marijuana usage laws are being passed, it’s only a matter of time before Coke has its day. Have you been to a rave party with teens? If you’re not getting high then you’re weird. Can you imagine how kiddie’s parties will be in a couple of years?

The arts are dead. Lady GAGA is what kids define as a role model these days.

And you want me to have babies? You must be fucking kidding me.”

I was satisfied that I’d finally given her enough reasons to realize her own foolishness.

That was until she opened her mouth again and replied, “But you can have such CUTE babies!”

It's only a matter of time before I kill the next person who approaches this subject with me ever again. You have been warned.

I Decided to Like Women

2011-02-17T00:00:00.000-08:00

Let me give you pervs out there a second to wipe off the excited sweat before I proceed.

Calmed down? Ok.

As if my workload and commitments are not enough already, I went and got myself activated over a new obesession last weekend- Women.

Please stop grinning lecherously. I promise I will burst that bubble of yours very soon.

Whilst mulling over what dramatic onslaught to present to my long-suffering boyfriend with on that gloriously commercialized joke called Valentine's Day, it suddenly struck me that not every woman out there would be plotting and planning like I was, because not every woman out there had a boyfriend worthy of plotting about. Given that I anyway have a thing for ball busting, I'd been doing some recent reading on the issues of domestic violence in the country and was pretty horrified to learn that an estimated 60% of the country's females are victims of violence in their homes. I say 'estimated' because there is no national survey conducted yet to assess the real numbers. All they have to go by is the number of reports logged in to the police and charity organisations. So it's safe to say that the ACTUAL number is probably far higher.

60%. SIXTY percent. That's 3 out of every 5 women. Logically, that means it could very well be your own wife, mother,sister,daughter or aunt. Or more than just one of them.

You don't have to be female to be shocked by that statistic. You just have to be human.

What was worse still was finding out that in most cases of domestic violence, all that's done about it is diddly squat. Either the victim is too afraid of the consequences of speaking out or her family is too ashamed to air their dirty laundry. More often than not, reports to the police (those champions of justice and paragons of virtue who do fuck-all for the betterment of society) result in the cops asking the woman what she's done to piss hubby off, and then advice her to go home and sort it out. After that, nobody cares anymore and life goes on. It only creates a minor buzz when her body is found chopped to pieces in a village well, and that too only if anyone feels like they need to alert the media.

Apparently, the most the authorites have done towards punishing a perpetrator of domestic violence is fined him a pittance and 'tsk'ed at his naughtiness.

Needless to say, I was incensed. I may not have had acid thrown at me, but I know what a slap on my face from someone who claims to love me feels like. I know how it all starts with a few derogatory remarks and then propels into full-blown physical acts. I also know how no matter how many people advice a perpetrator or how many apologies he makes, he's going to go back to being the same sorry bastard he always was.

And now I'd found out that 3 out of 5 women in my country are going through the worst kind of hell imaginable at the hands of such insects. I wanted to go out there and crush every testicle in the land into a fine dust and then feed it to the fishes (I would, too, except I don't think the fish are interested). I have always thought of myself as not belonging to this pathetic race called humans, with their apathetic attitudes and selfish ways. I had to do something... anything. But what? If only I had some help in the matter.

And then it struck me. I would get help. I could put out the statistic to everyone I knew and gather up some like-minded souls, and then together we could possibly make a noise loud enough to get the lazy-ass retards in government to put some goddamn justice system into place.

Valentine's plans were speedily forgotten. The boyfriend would understand. I rocked to and fro like a maddened monkey trying to figure out how to get people interested until it hit me... of course... Valentine's Day! What better day on which to shock the public into realizing that, as they traipse about like blithering romantic fools buying roses and gifts, there are women out there who will receive bleeding noses and black eyes instead. Those were THEIR 'gifts of love' from their husbands. If enough people realized this, then maybe enough people would give a shit and speak up about it.

Highly excited about the fact that I coincidentally happened to work in an industry where it's all about communication to the world, I spoke to my superiors about my idea. Could we do some work on this and get it out to the world? Could we make people care? Could we make a difference in the status quo?

My boss thought we could. We gathered arms immediately and put together a cracking team to work out the nittygritties. We contacted an organisation that works in women's welfare and got them excited too. They came on board and gave us the support we needed to put the plan to work. We contacted venues that could host our message and danced in glee when they offered to do it for free. Then we rolled up our sleeves and tried to help women. I spent days and nights living, breathing, shitting and dreaming of any research I could get my hands on. Even though I had a few bumps on the road with certain people exploiting the cause to their advantage, others at office were nothing less than inspiring, with their positivity and kick-ass attitude. People like LD, who weren't involved at the beginning, jumped on board voluntarily and helped with whatever support and advice they could. That in itself was awesome.

Three days afterwards, on the morning of Valentine's Day, we launched. Displays went up in major malls in the city, showcasing the kind of 'gifts' 60% of Sri lankan women receive - knives, acid, iron chains, hammers, poles, etc. We handed out brochures on action that responsible civilians should take when witnessing domestic violence. We directed people to a facebook site that we'd set up with the objective of educating and inspiring more people to speak out against the issue. I stalked out some of the venues that day and nearly pee-ed with thrill when people starting taking notice of the displays and reading the brochures.

That was three days ago. Today, I've got over 300 followers on the FB page. And counting.

This morning, a friend's nephew called me. He wanted to tell me that his dad sometimes beats his mom and he always thought that was ok, because it's all he knew. After reading our brochure and educating himself on the FB page, last night during a particularly violent argument he'd called the police, his extended family, and then stood up to his dad. Although the police never came and his father wasn't taken away and punished, he had nevertheless backed off and for the first time had apologized to his mother. It was a start. The boy now wants to get more involved and be an endorser of the cause in his school.

I have to tell you.... hearing that felt... and still feels... fucking good.

Please do join the page and help us out. Follow 'His gift of love' on FB, or log on to www.facebook.com/hisgiftoflovethisvalentines

I don't have to be the only one bothered about this. You're a blogger... can YOU take it up too?

Daydreamin'

2011-01-25T02:45:00.000-08:00

It was a hot, sunny Tuesday down Dickman's Road. A crow perched up in leafy shade squinted up at the scorching sun and decided against wasting precious energy crowing. Below, a furiously panting dog drooled noodles of saliva in the hopes that a kind soul would pass him some water, or at the very least a magnanimous cat would offer it's blood. The grass shriveled in the heat as gusts of hot wind blew dust in the face of parked cars that could fry eggs on their windscreens.

Behind the closed doors of a centrally air-conditioned production house, within the arctic womb of an editing room, Dramaqueen had yet another hissyfit with the poor editor who had been punished into helping her put together a mundane AV presentation for a particularly snivelling client she loathed with passion. The editor had no choice but to piss in his underwear because that wretch DQ wouldn't let him so much as think of requesting a bathroom break until she had finished her presentation, which would only be well past midnight. He squirmed in shame as the smell of festered urine filled the room. Her ladyship's one good nostril that had survived sinusitis picked up on the wafting reek and screwed up on it's own accord. Rolling her eyes at the man in disgust she sighed a melodramatic sigh and finally permitted the crimson-faced minion to hastily escape to the bathroom. To while away her time in his absence and to avoid criticizing his clear inaptitude at bladder control, the glorious one decided to blog.

Alright. So the editor didn't really piss in his pant, or may have done so without telling me, but you have to admit it was a good read and you enjoyed the mental image of a male reduced to humiliation. You sadist you.

I don't even know WHY I recently professed to have missed the editing table. It must have been a lack of excuses to leave the office desk, because as dreamy as the memories of AV's gone by are, I am rudely reminded of the actual process that I went through time and time again with each one. Putting together an AV to a client's satisfaction is like taking the outer film of your eyeball off with a safety pin. No that I've tried, but I'm guessing its similar. Especially for the editor working with me. This must be his umpteenth AV with me and it can't be easy to hear my voice approaching his room for yet another go at the experience. Poor man. I will bake him a cake.

Speaking of, I baked my first fondant cake recently in honour of my father's birthday. Don't bother responding with 'aww' and 'you're such a great daughter' like those dimwits who commented on my FB page when I put up the pictures of said cake. I am not. I did it more for me than for him. One of this year's resolutions was to learn a new craft, and google images of whimsical cakes and sugar craft caught my eye. I wanted to try it out, having already explored every other possible craft hobby. Dad's birthday provided me with the ideal opportunity and guinea pig. The bakey types who show off on YouTube made it look easy enough, modeling creative figurines out of sugar without batting an eyelid. I'm not one of them, so the entire enterprise took me a good six and a half hours of spine-aching work, with another two to clean up after myself. Whoever invented buttercream must die painfully at my hands or I won't be happy. The end result however, was not at all bad, if you like clumsy fondant cakes that look like something heavy sat on them. pieces didn't fall off and the little fondant man I'd made to resemble Dad actually looked like a man instead of the baby amoeba I expected it to turn out into. It left me quite pleased with myself like one of those new mothers who talks about their baby for the next sixteen years until it becomes a sulky ungrateful teenager whom she can't wait to disown. Hence the proud FB pictures that got me some positive response from people who I know are not the sort to be nice for the sake of it, along with an actual order for a birthday cake. That got me rather excited. I spent two days in front of the mirror, wearing an apron and wondering if I could be the next Nigella of the cake world. Whether it was to humor me or to give me something to focus my attention on other than himself, my boyfriend fed me with tantalizing thoughts of taking up the culinary world as a profession. By the third day I had named my future cafe and designed it, floor tiles and all.

Then came Monday and here I am, getting on a video editor's last nerve. He's complained to me about the injustice of last-minute AV's so many times now that I am wont to tune out and go back to my sugar modeling dreams. I am seeing myself singing happy Disney songs as the woodland creatures and I dust baking powder at each other's faces and squeal with glee. I am mentally going through my repertoire and visualizing a menu of delicious gobbleables that I could whip up and serve to the world. I am thinking of the delightful t-shirts I could be fabric painting and selling off to gullible souls. There are a million things I could have been doing with myself and yet I chose advertising because it made me happy to let the creative juices flow free, but lately those juices have been canned and set aside and the tin is rusting fast. I am instead finding peace and passion in new creative outlets, culinary and otherwise that give me a bigger sense of satisfaction than producing a 30 second commercial ultimately directed by a client. The workaholic in me has turned into a lazy bitching bum akin to a government clerk, waiting for the clock to strike 6 so I can whiz speedily to my craft supplies. it makes me wonder what the purpose of my existence is.

This begs the question... are my AV days behind me?

Well, the video editor is, anyway... back from a bathroom stint that was suspiciously too long. I shall flog him.

Oh well... back to the rat race.

We're Gonna Die.

2011-01-13T04:28:00.000-08:00

Given that I've earned myself (through sheer hard non-work) a reputation for being elusive, I wasn't planning on blogging for some time. I like it when I make you yearn for me and then surprise you. Like a wife of 40 years who's lost some weight and discovered Victoria's Secret. However, as all unplanned things go, inspiration struck whilst digging my nose in a parked car, waiting for my boyfriend to come out of a Time Management seminar. He was half an hour late, which I think defeats the purpose.

Regardless, along with the booger came a sparkling new idea for an interesting post that you might want to plagiarize. Feel free.

What with the premenstrual weather patterns these day and Colombo reaching an all time low temparature and all that, I was contemplating on that popular Mayan notion of the end of the world peeking at us from around the corner and waving hello. Even the cynics amongst you have to admit that things are a looking a tad more interesting than pure coincidence, no? Floods, temperatures, droughts... I don't have to spell it out. Even though I think I just did. Oh well.

Anyhoo, that wasn't my point of this post. I'm not about to become yet another doomsday theorist. I was just pondering on the plight-to-be of the human race, should the planet decide on a massive spring cleaning session next year. (Not that it wouldn't be a good thing... we are the be all and end all of negative and useless life on the planet. I've always been of the thought that in order for the earth to have any joy, things need to start over and human existence needs to cease. The sooner the better. I am more than willing to wipe everyone off the face of the earth if Mother Nature wants the extra help.)

And so I wondered, as I dug deeper into the recesses of my nostrils in search of gold, what thoughts and achievements I as an individual would be leaving behind, should I die in 2012.

And that's how we now get on to the actual post of the day:

If I die in 2012, I will go....

...not having gotten the chance to move out and live on my own.
...hoping that only us humans die off and not every other form of life that actually matters
...happy in the knowledge that I saved a few deserving lives in my time.
...with the expectation of being reborn as a cat.
...without telling my parents what I really think.
...with no money to take with me.
...possibly having never cut my hair as short as I always wanted to, for fear of flogging.
...having experienced plenty of love and plenty of heartbreak.
...without having ever visited that psychiatrist.
...knowing I was right all along about 2012.

halfway through this post I suddenly wanted to also write down a bucket list. Thoughts of dying does that to you. Ok here goes...

Before I die, I want to...

Open up an animal shelter.
Get a tattoo
Visit the Lourve on more time
Move out
Have 9 cats, named after the planets in the solar system. Yes, yes I KNOW they defamed Pluto but I'm still rooting for it.
Master some supernatural trick and be famous for it. Mind reading or shit like that.
Find my passion
Experience a dramatic, off-the-charts romantic date
Perform (act) to an international audience
Be happy with myself

Ok I got a little snotty at the end there. time to dig the nose again. Au Revoir.

Annual Forecast

2011-01-03T03:17:00.000-08:00

Raise your hand if you managed to catch a glimpse of Christmas speeding past you like the Starship Enterprise on turbo mode, leaving your innards vibrating with the aftershock.

Me neither.

The sheer fact that it HAS passed and I'm back to procrastinating behind an office desk after an all-too-short annual leave stint is nothing short of depressing. I see no light at the end of my tunnel. I mean that metaphorically and am not referring to my anus. That's a different post.

This post, on the other hand, is nothing but one big complaint. Leave now if you're feeling happy today. Should you choose the masochistic option of sticking around, don't say I didn't warn you and don't you dare comment with glib attempts at motivation. It's a Monday and I'm entitled to my grouchiness.

I'm not too pleased with the yesteryear, to be honest. It just wasn't speckled with the cheerful madness that my life is usually full of. Sure, there was plenty of travelling around and the odd puppy picked up and rehomed successfully, but seeing the humour in living just seemed such a task. 2010 did not, for once in my life, feature any JOY worth reminiscing about.

I blame my parents. They are Sri Lankan, after all. So am I, and blaming parents is what we children of the soil do best when things are not satisfactory. Although, come to think of it, no one seems to be pointing any fingers at Mommy and Daddy Rajapakse, no? (I have a feeling Mervin's mum is thought about alot, however...).

My two were exceptionally active with the emotional blackmail last year. To say I’m going on 32 and need approval on how my hair looks is a testament to their insanity. Their skills have reached new levels in expertise and absurdity. Mother Dearest has mastered the Quivering Lower Lip to a tee and can now whip it out at the merest 'ahem'. Dad's speciality- Delusional Rants - peaked during the Christmas season and nearly drove me to homicide.

Yes, we're a nice, quiet little family, we are. So quiet, in fact, that when we dine out together you can hear the chef’s hat pin drop into the soup, way back in the kitchens.

If my family is ever at the same restaurant as you, do check your soup for signs of dropped pin.

My resident evil aside, not everything in 2010 has been a complete disaster. I did manage to rescue and rehome 24 furry four-leggeds (I can see RD sniggering at that one), visit two new countries and learn to bake a decent cupcake. The cons outweighed, though. The least of which was my car and I careening into a wall and causing both airbags to pop out. Ah, good times.

I suppose I must now join the merry bandwagon and do my bit of resolutioning, no? Not that it makes a difference. Last year’s list is still waiting. But for what it’s worth, this year, I PLAN to-

Find my runaway mojo
Change jobs – by workplace or career, whichever seems more lucrative and comes first
Outperform last year’s animal rescue stats
Move out of home
Get a tattoo – because really, it’s the fashionable way to rebel, innit?
Write a book
See a new country
Learn to cook 10 new dishes and achieve non-toxic rating for at least one of them

Watch this space.

Spa Spoof

2010-12-06T21:30:00.000-08:00

Due to popular demand (a.k.a mild interest by RD), I’ve decided to elaborate on my spa incident.

It amazes even me how I can manage to squeeze out utter self-humiliation at the inopportune moments. Doubtless you are dying to know what the latest fiasco was. Your wish is my command.

As you know, I turned older a few days ago. Not something I am proud of and a process that I promise I will have a chat with the Gods about on all middle aged women’s' behalf. Or should that be 'behalves'? Never did quite figure that one out.

My boyfriend, knowing quite well by now how much wrath would be unleashed on him if he didn't make me feel as pampered as possible on the momentous occasion of my birthday, did justice to his role of sensitive, considerate male and booked me a session at a leading spa in town for a full body massage. He's a perceptive fellow, my boy. Always knows what a woman wants, to the point that I should be worried about closet homosexuality. But I'm not. I've seen the way he pales and shrinks away when gay guys make passes at him. It's smirk-worthy, really. Even men like my boy. Hurrah.

Digression is a sign of the ageing mind. Bear with me.

So, armed to the teeth with enthusiasm, the boy and I took to the spa. I insisted he come and sit outside like a good chaperone, lest I was uncomfortable with any of the procedures. One never knows, especially when one has never HAD a full body massage before. Like the good chap he is, he didn't protest (it was my birthday, so he wasn't allowed to anyway) and came with a book that would help him look learned rather than bored out of his mind.

A charming young lady with a flower in her hair (all part of the spa look) escorted me to a room with a massage bed and closed the door, almost sinisterly. I began feeling nervous. What if she took a hot rock to my head?

She didn't.

She merely passed me a packeted face towel. One of those rolled up tissuey thingies wrapped in plastic that you get on planes. I whipped it out of the polythene wrapping and began dabbing my face with it, still rolled up. It was neither moist nor warm. Just tissue. Perhaps then, I mused, it was just a paper napkin to wipe off any excess oil on my face. I rubbed harden along the ridges of my nose. I noticed the girl staring at me so I stopped to inquire why.

"You need to wear that, ma’am" she said, ever so politely.

Wear? I inspected the roll in my hands. Ahhh... there it was... a little rubber hemline. It was a SHOWER CAP, I realized They must want me to cover my hair so as to protect it from any balms or oils they'd be using. Without giving much further thought to the matter, I quickly strapped the gathered opening of the cap around my head.

Now the woman was laughing at me. Was she insane? I frowned at her. Surely, spa people should behave better. In between sniggering hiccups she informed me, "ma'am... that's a panty. You wear it on your body."

I stared at her, feeling blood, pus and horror seeping into my face. I slowly took of the shower cap, and lo and behold, there was paper underwear in my hand.

I mustered up dignity and gave the girl a baleful look. In case she didn't realize, I coldly informed her, I was a decent person. I was already WEARING underwear. Really... did she think I walked around commando?

She didn't look apologetic enough. Rather, she explained to me that the paper-wear was a way to protect my actual underwear from the massage oils.

Oh.

I see.

To add insult to injured ego, she amusedly asked me if I had ever BEEN to a spa before. Godayata magic moment. I hoped my withering glare was enough to silence her. She left the room still giggling as I undressed, put on the wretched tissue over my under garments and hastily covered myself up in the large towel provided so that she couldn't catch a peek at my wobbly bits. After a certain age, you don't want to be showing your tum and bum off to anyone. Not even spa girls who snigger at you.

I poked my head into the convenient hole in the massage bed and pretended to be asleep when the woman returned.

To her credit, I must say the massage itself was heavenly. I couldn't help but forget my embarrassment with the panty episode and sink into the sheer bliss of the experience. That is, until I managed my next faux pa.

I'd eaten some birthday achcharu just before coming to the spa, you see (That's spicy pickle for you foreigners out there). By default achcharu gives me gas. Perhaps I should have thought twice before I ate a whole bowl. In my defense, how was I to KNOW this woman would start kneading my stomach and kidneys like dough??

Do I need to spell out what happened? I'm sure you would have figured it out by now.

Let’s just say that post tummy kneading moment, I was redder in the face than the burgundy towel she’d wrapped me in, and she was choking for fresh air. This situation needed PR. I did what any person of decent breeding would do. I continued to pretend I was sleeping, whilst calling my boyfriend all sorts of names in my mind for ever thinking of a spa voucher as a birthday gift. He should have known better. I silently swore to make him pay.

The girl didn’t touch my stomach after that. Every time I felt her fingers get close, they would hesitate and quickly scuttle back to my legs or arms. Half an hour later she was done and I was almost ready to forget the whole flatulence episode and give a good tip for such heavenly service when she carried in a tray of tea and pointed to the moist face towel rolled on it and said ‘THAT’s for your face’ with a bad attempt at hiding a snigger.

Hmph.

Bitch.

I left with my head held high and a snooty look on my face to let them know that I, their discerning customer, was not the least bit affected by all this.

Although I don’t know if they noticed, given that I was running too fast.

Grumble...

2010-12-06T20:56:00.000-08:00

OK... so not EVERY post of mine needs to entertain you. I'm having a low season, so please bear with me for wanting to take out my angst on this here little blog site. There's a reason I called it 'Hissyfits', after all.

According to those counsellor and therapist fellows who have nothing better to do than listen to other peoples' problems, writing down your issues apparently helps you release steam and gives your heart a chance at not going into cardiac arrest. Lets see if their theory works....

I have issues...

...with people not willing to accept that humans are NOT the masters of the universe. What goes around comes around. Each and every one of us will pay for our actions in some form or the other. The sooner the better.

...with the fact that I seem to be the only one who's seeing the direct co-relation between certain dire situations happening to people I know and some questionable decisions they've made in recent times. I'm not a conspiracy or paranormal theorist, but there are forces at work that humankind will never fathom and it pisses me off that no one can see or understand that.

...with people who see animals suffering or neglected and turn the other way, just because it's 'not their problem'. You wait until the day YOU suffer. I hope you all get eaten alive as the world passes by without giving a hoot.

...with three people with whom I work. I call them the 3 B's; the Bully, the Blonde and the complete Bitch. Usually I'm all up for a challenge, but these three just ruin the day for everyone in office.

... with complacency and laziness. Call it my Monica complex, but it peeves me to see people slacking off and not making any efforts to improve themselves.

... with people not willing to display affection towards those they supposedly love.

... with the government. But then again, who doesn't?

...with the fact that my life seems to be going nowhere. I once had plans and shitloads of dreams for where I'd be at this stage of my life. I should have been travelling the world by now. I should have been running my own company. I should have been managing an aninmal shelter. I should have been famous. What the fuck happened???

... with parents who just don't know when to let go.

... with trishaw drivers who think they're buse drivers, bus drivers who think they're trishaw drivers and motorcyclists who think they're God's gift to road systems.

... with people wanting more babies. For fuck's sake grow up and look at the bigger picture. This planet doesn't NEED any more humans! you're not doing anyone or anything a service by adding another one into the population problem.

... with China. They need to get their heads screwed on right.

Lemme check my heart rate...

Yep. Still ticking.

Thought for the d...rest of your life.

2010-12-06T03:46:00.000-08:00

To you who simpers about human suffering-

Look around you. Take stock of everything we, the humans, have done. We've spent the better part of every millennium of our existence destroying everything around us and causing the earth to suffer. We've made sure to place our dirty, corrupted, rotten thumbprint on every square inch of this beautiful planet and inflict pain and suffering on everything that breathes. We've done everything we can to push nature into utter devastation.

And you're COMPLAINING that the God and the universe are fighting back?

Fuck you.

An Ordinary Ramble

2010-12-06T03:40:00.000-08:00

I'm wet.

I could have meant that in many ways, but alas, much to your dismay, I meant soaked by rain. Stop getting so excited.

This weather is a right royal moody bastard and there's no telling what it wants to do next. Do you suppose the Gods get a sadistic pleasure out of watching me get drenched to the bone on the one day I wear my brand new jeans and classy high heels to work? I don't even know why I did that...just felt sex and the city-ish this morning and decided on turning some heads. Well, ok... it didn't turn any heads... but my dog looked mildly interested, but only because he wanted to chew on the shoes.

Either way, there's nothing left to look at, thanks to the heavenly watering can.

So much has happened since I wrote last and yet life remains the same. The more time goes by, the more I'm starting to hate my job. Not the actual work or the industry... just the place I work for and the systems therein. Certain cretins in management, blondes in control of the workflow, political finger-pointing and mediocre attitudes have all accumulated to making it one bad deal for me, so much so that I've given up heaps of my normal life (including updating this blog regularly) just to manage the ridiculous state of affairs. Next year, I'm going to get out of here if nothing's changed for the better.

That's your cue to offer me a paying job - you who runs an animal welfare organization or an advertising firm. You who runs a bank are also welcome to offer me lots of money.

In the meantime, let me give you the quickfire low-down on life as I know it. Just in case you're interested.

I had another birthday. Yay. Not. Amongst all the lovely things he did for me, my long-suffering boyfriend gifted me a posh spa voucher for a full body ritual. Big mistake. I can now proudly say that I have farted in the face of a perplexed masseuse as she pressed my stomach. Beware, all ye other spas I may enter in future.

Hopped over to Singapore for a workshop/festival thingamy. I love Singapore. I could live at the zoo. My mother would agree with me.

I went to India on work. Except for the work bit, it wasn't too bad, considering it was the better part of Mumbai and there was much shopping and good eating to be done. Needless to say I managed to make my presence felt and nearly got thrown out of my hotel for wanting to shelter street dogs from Diwali fireworks.

I visited Malaysia on an all-too-short holiday. Quite the adventure. Especially the bit where the hotel fire alarm went off at 2 am and I ran down the fire exit amongst a sea of shrieking Chinese schoolgirls who were sharing my floor (they can be EXTREMELY loud), only to be informed that the hotel was fogging for mozzies. Apart from that, it was two tiring-but-exhilarating days of theme park rides, ice skating, shopping, eating and learning to master the monorail system.

I kidnapped 8 puppies from a plot of serpent-infested land I found them in. Five of them went to excellent homes. Three of them continue to give my cats headaches. Want one?

I lost a few. Pounds as well as brain cells. La la la. Come Christmas, it'll all be back.

I know, I know.... this post ain't funny or interesting. I can do better.

You Live and You Learn

2010-09-01T23:58:00.001-07:00

It makes complete sense that the only time I want to talk to you again is when it's my birthday, doesn't it? (That's your cue to start posting birthday wishes. Money is also welcome.)

I am shameless that way.

Ironic, that my last post has a title well worthy of today. Do you suppose it's some accumulated psychic ability; to know that I would not be posting after the 29th July and the next one would be on my birthday, therefore the post would have a title directly reflecting the next post to come?

Of course I'm not making any sense, you twat. I'm OLD now. So I'm just going to say what everyone feels but no one has the balls to say when they reach any birthday beyond 25... FUCK the human body clock!

Phoo. That felt good. I've been depressed ever since I performed a massive bat-wing flap session at the mirror this morning. Even the cat was frightened.

Now, given that I am 31 and therefore old enough to pontificate at you, I thought I'd take this opportunity to pass on pearls of wisdom collected over the last 31 years, just in case you're stupider than I am and could learn a few things from my advice.

Thus, without further ado (what exactly IS 'ado'??), I give you my list of

31 Lessons in Life.

Thought that was a grand title. Not too pompous sounding and not to poety... just right to get the general gist across.

Ok. Over the last 31 years I have learned that....

Every moment of your life is precious, in that it will bring you sufficient popularity as the village retard when you reminisce at dinner parties later on.
Cellulite will come. If you are over 30 and possess that unbelievably hot, toned body that hasn't even heard of flab ("fla-who??"), then it's because some plastic surgeon out there helped you. Don't think I don't know.
You cannot put your hand into your pants intending to pull out an ant on your inner thigh, without being seen and thereafter labeled as a pervert.
Fairy tales don't and won't exist unless you nag them to.
If you're born a female in South Asia, then your whole life will be a lost cause.
You aren't as sexy as you or your pets think you are. The skin-tight pants are a mistake.
The perfect man is, in fact, quite gay. There's a close second but he's taken. By me. Smirk.
You should NEVER eat your own poop. Even if you're just 2.
That bull your mother fed you in your tweens about sex being the gateway to hell is nothing but a tactical covert mission to give you and future partners a serious complex for life.
You will become your mother sooner than you think.
There is no life worth living without animals.
No matter how much and for how long you assert your femininity to the world, someone will always send you an email begging you to buy Viagra.
The Viagra they sell online is fake.
People don't like women with a mind of their own. But who cares?
No matter how much you love your job or how good you are doing it, there's someone out there who wants to screw you over.
If you build it, they will come. Never mind that it's a bunch of termites.
Asking your hairdresser to decide will be your biggest mistake yet.
The grass IS, in fact, greener on the other side.
There are people out there who will actually read your blog.
Industrial glue is not to be toyed with and should never be used as a facial product.
Farts tend to announce themselves at the most inopportune times. Often in front of top-calibre people you're trying to impress.
Somewhere out there is someone who is sniggering at your sorry ass.
Diamonds are not a girl's best friend. A cat is.
I am not normal by social definition and that's ok.
Puke green is no-one's colour.
When you try to think of 31 lessons you've learnt in life, you will struggle by the time you hit 25 and realize you've learnt nothing.
The best way to mask you rage or sorrow is with a joke, a sarcastic comment or murder.
Women really CAN'T be understood. Who'd have thunk.
The toilet roll will always be over only when you go to the loo.
Green hair dye is for the mentally challenged.
The dog understands you more than most people do.

I hope you've learnt something.

Ageing Ungracefully

2010-06-29T02:52:00.000-07:00

Yesterday my hair went grey.

Now there are plenty of reasons why my tresses would whiten, given the way of the world around me. It could have been caused by a number of things, ranging from my mother's latest snoop session in my room to the sight of Duminda Silva. I have also been known to drop a few strands every time I receive a new brief from a particularly shitty client of mine.

But yesterday was entirely different.

It all began with the phone ringing a few days ago. I received a call last Tuesday from a guy I'd worked with way back when he was a youngster with a handycam, looking for cheap work in video editing. I vaguely recall having given him headaches over an AV edit five years ago, and I honestly thought he'd never speak to me again. It turned out he's now a young director of sorts and had an acting job for me. How worms turn.

"Hi", he says with the typically glib I've-made-it-in-life-and-you're-not-my-client-anymore tone of voice. "I'm doing a short film for a really big, important client and we've thought of you as our lead actress.”

At this point I'm preening like a poodle on the other end of the phone. I love it when directors grovel at my feet, begging for my talent and participation in their work. This call would count for a total of two times that such a thing has happened. The last one was for my 12-year old cousin's class project. Next step, Hollywood.

"Ummm... I'm not sure... I need to check my schedule...", I say, careful not to give away my eagerness and play it cool. Like Nicole Kidman would. I’ll bet you anything she doesn’t have a schedule either. He begs a little, which pleases me immensely. I ho and hum through the praise he is showering on me and then make little modest giggly sounds when he claims I would be perfect for the role. Giggly sounds are good when trying to act uninterested but still keeping the carrot dangling.

I decide to be magnanimous." Alright. For you, ok. I'll be in your film." I consent like a queen. Nicole would have done it that way. "What's the film about?" By now I'm seeing myself draped in finery, smokily swaying into a room full of adoring men who stop and stare at my entrance. One might even drop a glass of whiskey out of sheer admiration. I can visualize the drama and aplomb with which I will deliver my lines and render my audience speechless with my magnificent screen presence. I am so blown away by my excellence in the day dream that I take almost two minutes of silence to digest what Director boy has just said in the meantime.

"It's about ageing" he explains. "We need a woman who can be an old granny."

If he hadn't continued to beg, I'd have slammed the phone down so hard it would have rendered him deaf for at least three years. I could have sworn I heard him wrong.

"I BEG your pardon??!?" Temperature rising. Palpitations. Sweat. Nostrils flaring. Was I having a stroke?

The director formerly known as my friend chirped on happily. "You need to age on film. We're looking for a good Aachchi." Noticing my silence and realizing he may have just lost the deal he hurriedly added, "And they'll pay you. Plus can we use your boyfriend too? He could play your husband."

Ok. That's different. There's money in it and I'm broke enough to be old for a buck. Having the Doc around to suffer the same humiliation was also a plus point. I could also then cross out June on my ‘weird couple things to do’ calendar. I took a pause. A pregnant one, because that's what we actresses do at times like this, and then said 'ok' in a not-so-pleased way. I let the irritation linger in my voice so that he knew just exactly how much I liked the idea of being told I suited the character of an 80 year old. I quoted my fee and he rang off, happy that he’d clinched the deal.

A day later he called back to tell me that his client felt that my boyfriend didn’t seem right for the aged husband, so could he play the role of a young photographer instead.

I spluttered, frothed and took a good day before revealing that point to Doc. Luckily for Doc’s well--being, he’s been around for long enough to know that hooting in victory and jeering at me would have cost him dearly. So he stayed quiet and supportive, occasionally coughing politely while I ranted and raved at him for looking younger. He’ll make an excellent diplomat, that boy. I think G.L. Peiris should step down and hand things over to Doc.

And that’s how I ended up at a production studio last evening with my hair grayed. In retrospect, it wasn’t as bad as I’d foreseen. I even found myself enjoying the whole shenanigan. The make-up artist was a real wizard, and by the time he’d finished with me even I couldn’t recognize the face in the mirror. He used wax plastic and texture to create bags and wrinkles. I looked a typical kooky old bat – the kind you find squatting and muttering to themselves on street corners in Fort. He’d even aged my TEETH, dammit. Some odd tasting varnish made it look like I had a load of gunky plaque on severely yellowed aging teeth. My hair was whitened from root to tip and parted in the middle into a granny bun. It was kinda sorta beautiful, if you consider butt-ugly wrinkled old women beautiful. By the time they'd dressed me in an ancient Kandyan Sari costume, I’d thrown myself into the role completely and had a whale of a time hobbling around the studio and wheezing at the production crew, who couldn’t stop laughing at the transformation.

They’d made Doc up to look older too, since the script called for the ‘photographer’ to grow old alongside his model (me). Unlike my new look, his actually SUITED him. If there’s anything that can piss a girl off more than being told she fits the role of a geriatric, it’s that her boyfriend can actually end up hotter in old-person make up while she just reeks of Quasimodo. I put it down to the chauvinist in the make-up guy…. Doc looked far too good.

And so we shot the film. I put on my best attempt at walking with a hunch and arthritic difficulty. I squinted through the enormous glasses they made me wear and gave my hands a shiver. I guess I must have been a natural, coz someone’s kid who turned up in the room started referring to me as ‘that aachchi’. Aside from making mental notes to kill the kid on my way out, it was fun.

Somewhere towards the 14th hour of shooting, I was struck with an epiphany. Whilst watching a playback of a take of us - me the horrible wrinkly witch and Doc looking like a sexy French aristocrat – I was suddenly overwhelmed with emotion. I think it happens when you get that old. The scene in front of me was disconcertingly, dare I say it, nice. Watching ourselves standing side by side, old and feeble as hell, smiling at each other. At one point I witnessed myself touching his face fondly and him nodding sagely at me with an adorable smile. We looked comfortable. We looked old and demented, but super cute together. An ‘awe’ moment.

I fleetingly wondered what it would be like if we REALLY did end up together at that age. It didn’t seem as frightening a thought as I’ve previously considered being. Heck, the man even looked GOOD in white hair. I could tap that. Suddenly I felt the fierce need for us to grow old together. I wanted to be with him at the stage when I’m sagging everywhere. I smiled at Doc who was watching the monitor beside me and I took a deep breath, pushed my inner feminist aside and choked out, “will you still love me when I’m that old?”

He looked momentarily startled. It's rare for me to so openly endorse the idea of a lifetime commitment. He took a sharp breath in, undoubtedly moved. “Hell no!” he shuddered. “Yuck!”

And that’s why I love Doc. Coz I know he meant the exact the opposite, even though he did refuse to kiss me goodnight on account of my yellow plaque-filled teeth.

Now I can’t wait till my hair turns grey again. This time for real.

Looking for a Baby Mama

2010-06-22T23:07:00.000-07:00

Alright. Let's see if this blog can do something worthwhile for a change.

Look. Look at this.

This is what some heartless demon dumped into a drain on the street. No, it's not a couple of rats. It's kittens. Of the soon-to-be-fluffy-and-cute kind. They must be about a week old, because they haven't even opened their eyes yet.

I hope... no, I PRAY and WILL that whoever threw them into the muddy ditch I found them in last night, lives the rest of his/her life in horrible and continuous agony and when it finally kills the bastard, he goes straight to hell for some more torture. It's what I wish on every fucker out there who can't make the slightest effort to find humane solutions to help babies that they can't care for.

Meanwhile, back at my place, I am trying to keep my dog off them as well as convince the excited resident house cats that no, Mommy has NOT brought them live rats for supper. So far, I've been a little successful by feeding the kittens infant formula through a syringe. I figure if God intended for these two to die of starvation, cold or a passing street dog, then I would have never found them and you would not be reading this. But I have neither the time, space nor resources to care for these two angels, given they're still of suckling age and need full-time attention to help them survive the next three weeks.

I am HOPING someone who sees this post will take enough notice and have the heart to be a hero, or at the very least pass the SOS on to someone else who can help.

So... what's it gonna be? Read and forget, or help them find a home? Your choice.

The kittens and I thank you for your time and hope to hear from you soon.

P.S. - Think of all those karma points you score if you do decide to take a moment to care and make some calls. Please?

Personae Dramatis

2010-06-15T04:50:00.001-07:00

I'm wet.

I could have meant that in many ways, but alas, much to your dismay, I meant soaked by rain. Stop getting so excited.

This weather is a right royal moody bastard and there's no telling what it wants to do next. Do you suppose the Gods get a sadistic pleasure out of watching me get drenched to the bone on the one day I wear my brand new jeans and classy high heels to work? I don't even know why I did that...just felt sex and the city-ish this morning and decided on turning some heads. Well, ok... I didn't turn any heads... but my dog looked mildly interested. It doesn't matter that it was only because he wanted to chew on the shoes.

Either way, there's nothing left to look at anymore, thanks to God and the heavenly watering can.

Oh well... life is damp anyway, so I might as well appreciate the irony of it all. I'm this close to handing in my resignation at work. The only thing keeping me from doing it is that I have still to come up with a dramatic enough way of doing it. Letters of notice and meek discussions with the management is not my style, you see. If I'm leaving, then I must leave them trembling and afraid to hire anyone else. I did that once before. I kid you not.

My first job at a financial company (Yes, reader, this bimbo can number-crunch) ended a few months into the stint with me marching up to the departmental manager and loudly claiming 'I quit' for reasons unknown to anyone (least of all me) and then before he could say anything, walking around the place saying good bye to everyone before packing my belongings and some extra office stationary into a box and sweeping out in grand style. It's how they did it on Ally McBeal and the show was all I had as a point of reference. In hindsight perhaps I should have followed the normal process, considering that the Company later threatened to take me to courts if I didn't. I also had to return the stationery. To this day they haven't noticed that when it was handed back, there was a stapler missing. Muahahaha.

In my defense, how was I to KNOW that dramatic exits weren't normal? My life would be meaningless if not for the paranormal behaviour. If I didn't have an episode on a daily basis, I'd be dead of boredom by now.

Just the other day I managed to outdo myself with the mother of all embarrassing moments. All because of an ant.

It had gotten into my denims, you see. Something to do with the chocolate wrapper that'd been resting on my clothes rack. Anyway, the ant had managed to wiggle it's way in and be worn by me. On my way to office, it started to express its alarm. I've encountered these things before and sometimes I like to test my ability to bear pain and itchiness so I ignored the stingy bites on my inner thigh until I got into the office elevator. At that point it got to me, and figuring that the ancient contraption they call a lift usually takes a good 5 minutes to get up to my floor, I decided to shove my hand into the front of my jeans and take the little guy out.

If I had been male, that last sentence would have landed me in prison.

As luck would have it, my bracelet managed to snag itself into the inner lining of my pants, rendering my hand un-extractable. And because the universe and I have that special understanding going, the elevator stopped and the door started opening. I tugged and pulled with all my might, but to no avail.

I had never gone red over any of my situations before this one. What was even redder was the face of the man standing on the other side of the lift, taking in the vision of me standing in front of him with my hand down my pants, jiggling it up and down. He coughed nervously, wondering whether to step in or not. I, in my supreme ability to react at lightening speed, turned around slowly and faced the wall and continued trying to pull my hand out. We continued upwards.
Once we reached my floor, he turned and looked at me strangely and said "There are easier ways to keep your job, you know."

"Thanks", I muttered, as my boss stepped off the elevator in fits of laughter.

Why is why I have to be extra explosive with my resignation, you see.

Party Poop

2010-05-02T09:37:00.000-07:00

So your boyfriend's got a milestone birthday coming up and you want to do something spectacular. Not only because you're a true girl and you want to guilt him into doing something spectacular for YOUR birthday in return, but also because you love him somewhere beneath all that self-servitude. Welcome, one and all, to the girlfriend's guide to surprise parties. I have a gem of wisdom to share with anyone out there planning to plan a party for anyone else- Don't.
You will thank me later.

Should you still feel the need to ignore my well-meant advice and proceed to go ahead and do it anyway, here are some golden rules to abide by:

Rule No.1 - Choose your Wingman Wisely.

Because your boss just might deliver you with the news that he's sending you abroad on the same day that your man turns a year older, and because you just might not be able to pull off that awesome spectacle you're planning in your head all by yourself, you will need assistance and representation. Someone to man the do in your absence. Make sure you go through the list of possible servants - there are his closest friends and there is his family. His friends are all men without a clue, whose idea of a good party is a crate of beer and a cheap stripper. This makes the choice of delegating party responsibility seem all the more easier, whereby you will be moved to choose his Sister-in-law.
Please note, excited sisters-in-law (S.I.L for ease's sake) have a knack for calling you at the most inopportune moments in the day. And because it is a revered member of his family, you will be under obligation to be nice and listen to it all, despite your Board of Directors coughing politely in front of you, waiting for you to finish your presentation. Yes, you want enthusiasm and proactive contribution, but a S.I.L can have too much of both, lovely as she is. Be prepared to occassionally see merit in that crate of beers and stripper at times like this.

Rule No.2 - Don't Guess the Guestlist

Try to be good about remembering who this party is meant for when inviting people. You will toy with the idea of having all your own homies there, mainly to show off what a cool girlfriend you are and thereafter guilt your man into showing you his gratitude and making you look good. It's all about you, you see. But do pause for a second in between fantasy and realize that you are not dating Chandler from Friends and your other half will not love a party full of intellectual girls and closeted gay men, much as you wish he would. Besides, you're not rich enough to call everyone over. Once this revelation has hit you, you will then proceed to sort, sift and carefully pinch out only his closest compadres and very immediate family. You will nicely work out your budget, cast the guest list in stone and then, BAM... S.I.L will invite others. Rest assured, you will thereafter gnash your teeth to a pulp as she calls you the very next day to solemnly inform you that she sat up all night calling someone ELSE in the family, extended and otherwise, because really, you just CAN'T have a party without inviting them. You'd hurt their feelings, you see. SO now you have Aunty A, Aunty B, C, D and Cousins E- L being added onto the guest list.
At this point, it is your prerogative to tell nicety and obligation to go and take a hike where the sun don't shine and put your foot down. Eager as she is, the lovely S.I.L. must be told to IMMEDIATELY retract the invitations, because you cannot afford to pay or have to explain it to your dearly beloved. Be warned - she will be hurt. There will be moments of accusatory silence on the other end of the phone. Stay the course. Tell her you will NOT include anyone he isn't intoxicated by, and that is a decision you are taking as executive planner and owner of the idea. Eventually, she will understand, or at the very least Brother-in-law will step in and make her understand. Yes, ladies... some men do have their strong points.

When inviting his closest friends for the party, you will suddenly discover that in the last 5 years of your relationship, you've never even met some of them. Don't bother wondering why this is and questioning his interest in seriously making you a part of his life. The simple truth is that had he introduced you to them, he'd have lost them.

Rule no.3 - Go Lean

Once you've settled on the invitees and the date, your next step would be to think of decor. How does one come up with a suitable theme for an adult male's birthday? Check your list of ideas. Reconsider the 'fairyland' idea sprouting in your oestrogen-filled mind. Consider that he just might not like to wear that tutu with wings, cute as you think he'd look in it. If you are still keen on creating wonderland, call his best friend and ask him what he thinks of a purple butterfly cake with pink fairy lights and listen to what he has to say. You may not understand some of the words he uses because your mother raised you proper, but that's alright. You'll get his drift. Feel free to spend a few moments questioning men in general and wondering WHY they don't like fluffy bunny rabbits dressed in ribbons. It would have looked AWESOME. Take some time to sigh to yourself and try thinking like a man. You will become very bored very fast, but at least this will help you settle on the fact that men have no sense of art or imagination and therefore the best theme would be no theme. Decide to keep it simple and no nonsense, because that's what your Cosmo magazine says men like. I agree... the tutu would have really been a nice touch, but you might be single afterward.

Now that you've decided on minimal decoration, call your assistant and let her know. Remember that at this juncture, she needs you. She'd been harboring all sorts of magic hopes and dreams about the most fabulous extravaganza ever, and you just dashed her hopes. Give each other solace and move on. Pat yourself on the back for understanding your boyfriend's needs and be satisfied that you are doing the right thing. Don't dwell on your high too much though, because S.I.L WILL call you within the day in a state of glee because she's 'bought the balloons'. There's no point in wondering if she heard your point about no decor at all... she didn't.

Rule No. 4 - Be sure of your Venue & Menu

By now you have begun to think leaving it all to S.I.L could end badly. This is why, despite her best efforts to convince you of the way to go, YOU must be the sole decider of where the hallowed event should take place and what you will serve. A winner would be the boyfriend's favourite haunt, you think. Like the seedy beach cafe he frequents with his buddies, to guzzle down beer and think of strippers. Fight S.I.L tooth and nail until she gives in to your location and informs her friend at a five-star hotel that you will not be having the party there after all. More pouts will ensue. Ignore them. You will THINK you won the battle this time, until the place you chose screws you over big time when the party's over, and you end up eating humble pie. Lots of it. You should have listened to S.I.L.

Speaking of eating, selecting a menu for a boy's birthday ain't that hot either. You will be torn over whether to choose the asparagus rolls or the teacakes. That is, until you remind yourself once more about whom this party is for and end up going for something as crude as a Kottu. You will snarl to yourself that this party is not turning out to your liking at all, so he had better appreciate it and treat you big time afterwards.

Rule No. 5 - Forget the Surprise

Understand that men just have a knack for ruining your plans. So do Sisters-in-law. There is absolutely no point in spending hours at drawing up conniving schemes to get him to the venue without a clue, because your assistant who is meant to casually invite him to dinner so that he comes unawares, will make that dinner into such a huge deal and call him at LEAST three times, WEEKS before the 'casual' dinner to make sure he comes on 'time' and not before. So much so that he will smell not only a rat but what that rat's eaten for breakfast too. On the big day, feel proud that you, on the other hand, managed to keep the secret this long and not look like you were sucking lemons in an attempt to keep a nonchalant face every time you met him. We're girls, dahling. Everyone know that us keeping a secret for more than 2 minutes is a feat worthy of a Nobel prize. Feel free to take the whole covert operation overboard by doing things to conivnce him that you AREN'T throwing him a surprise party, even though he hasn't asked. Park outside his house and set up camp till the clock strikes 12 so that you can wish him. That way, whatever S.I.L has done to give the game away, he'll never know you were in on it. To further disguise that you're cooking up something grand, gift him something as gross as socks and be apologetic about it. Be prepared to feel perplexed for a while as he claims in absolute sincere delight when he sees said socks and tells you he's really needed them. After 5 years you still do not know this man. The socks actually excite him. Perhaps you should have thought of socks as your party theme.
Pretend to know nothing about S.I.L's casual dinner invitation and hmm and haw enough to fool him into thinking that perhaps there's nothing going on after all.

All this effort to cover things up, you will soon find out, is a complete waste of your time. Remember to take your heart medication along with you for the party, because you will receive calls on your way to the venue from your boyfriend's friends, who will ask you 'why there are f***ing balloons eveywhere'. Don't bother explaining things to them or to yourself. You will also discreetly sms S.I.L (who is at the location) and ask her to kindly request everyone to hide their cars, lest the birthday boy sees them. Of course this means that when you DO get to the venue, the most conspicuous of family vehicles will be parked RIGHT in the center of the car park because that's the best hiding place they could think of. Also, when you step out of the vehicle trying hard to keep boyfriend from questioning it too much, the security guard will come up and tell him there's a birthday party going on.

Just be glad that he's sweet enough to act surprised when they all jump out an scream. At this point, also wonder why you jumped when they shouted, and peed a little in your pants from the shock.

Rule No. 6 - Prepare to be wrong.

So it didn't turn out as planned. At all. But once you're at the party, you'll be surprised yourself at how much work S.I.L has put into making the place look nice. You'll need some serious repenting at this point... while you had put her down as a nightmare, she turned out something rather decent and ended up being your saviour for the night. The balloons actually look quite good. So do the creative little table pieces she's whipped up. And really, when you think about it, she's actually been a total sweetheart throughout the process. Here's where you eat your first slice of humble pie and thank the gods for S.I.L. Your second slice is swallowed whole when the seedy beach bar hands you a bill twice as much as what you previously agreed on, and you spend the rest of the night arguing loudly over who ate what.
Ah well... at least you had the party.

Rule. No. 7 - Try not to throw a party ever again.

That is, unless it's to celebrate how cool a person YOU are.

Snakes in the Grass

2010-04-17T00:16:00.001-07:00

Someone told me recently that they miss my posts and I really should blog more. I find that ironic, considering that every other time I open my mouth to share an opinion in the real world, I’m invariably asked to shut up.

Like the other day, when one half of the top management tried to teach me a lesson for sharing my views. I’d gotten a tad fed up with a particularly tiresome client who, for the last month, has insisted that we develop umpteen visual artwork options in every pose, angle, colour and whim imaginable, just because they couldn’t make up their minds as to what they wanted. It went to the extent of doing artworks that were so, so wrong, cheap looking and an embarrassment to any good art director. We’d been complaining about it for weeks to our Client Servicing guys, asking them to kindly educate the client on their obvious mistakes and save the project from bombing in the market. But to no avail. We were asked to be Nike about it - ‘just do it’, despite our misgivings.

In the spirit of good creativity and an attempt to stop the Art Directors from walking out on the job, I lodged in an official complaint to the management on behalf of my creative team. I’ve done this plenty of times before when things have become exasperating (and they do very often with this same client), in the hopes it might have a positive outcome in the kind of work we output. I sent an internal mail addressing the problems and what we thought was wrong with the latest directions (or should I say dictates) on the project, ending by explaining my frustrations with the client’s attitude and disregard for professional service. I questioned the client’s motives in giving us art direction, when it clearly wasn’t their forte. My work and team’s talent is something I take great pride in, and it gets my royal goat when we are expected to put aside our skill for the sake of imbecilic requests. This wasn’t about egos… it was about doing what’s right for the job at hand.

As always, this rattled the Client Servicing Management. He doesn’t like it when the creative team fusses (We fuss a lot, but often because the nature of the system is such that we have plenty of justifiable cause for fuss). To him, client is more than just king- he is God and the universe combined. Much like the Sri Lankan government’s motto, no ruler should ever be questioned or called out on blatantly wrong decisions. How DARE I have a problem with slavery and unnecessary work load.

Because every other trick in his book had not worked thus far in stopping me from pointing out the flaws, he did what every good, understanding superior does to solve employee grievances. He sent my internal complaint, strong wording and all, directly to the Managing Director of the Client Company. You cannot imagine the fireworks that ensued thereafter and the spate of reactions it caused. I had dared to question them. I had the gall and nerve to NOT lick their anus on demand. I must fired at once. FIRED.

He’s lovely that way, the top management. A real joy.

But guess what… I don’t regret a thing. In fact, I was QUITE proud of myself for sticking to my guns and calling it as I saw it. As far as I’m concerned, the snake at the top can suck it.

Speaking of snakes, I met another one this morning. A real one this time, legless and all. I was taking my new found joy- a kitten I’d recently adopted off the street for a walk in the garden when we noticed the grass rustling. I’d have put it down to a dung beetle if kitty had not shot up onto my shoulder faster than the Road Runner, hissing and spitting like bacon fat on the fire. On closer inspection I discovered a slithery trespasser, as shocked by my intrusion as much as I was with his. No doubt he’d come out on holiday to nap and take in some sun, only to be rudely jostled out of his spa baking by a large woman and her cat.

I could take this into a ream of jokes about pussies and snakes, but I won’t. There are probably children reading. Or childish minds, at least.

Back to the snake, who was still looking quite surprised and uncertain as to what his next move should be. One thing was for sure… he didn’t want us staring at him. Couldn’t he be left alone even for a second?

I decided to get rid of him tactfully. One can’t experiment with serpents in the garden, after all.

“Hello there”, I said, with as big an accommodating smile as I could manage under the circumstances. “ I don’t mean to be rude, but this is, you know, MY garden, and…er… I really do need to let the cat down for a poo. I’d be ever so grateful if you could… you know… step…uh… slink away for a few so I can let her do her thing without scratching my eyeballs out? Would you mind terribly? She’s about to piss on my blouse in terror.”

“Hiss” said the snake, and stuck out his tongue just in case I didn’t get that.

He looked at me warily. Clearly he hadn’t expected hospitality. Was I perhaps hiding a sickle behind the cat, that I would maim him with once he’d let down his guard? That’s all people do with snakes, after all. They’re born into a life of torture and uninvited violence.

“Hiss”, he stated again.

“Alright look, I know I disturbed you and all that, for which I AM sorry. Just go away and I won’t do anything to you, ok?” I begged him. The kitten’s claws were starting to dig to China on my shoulder.

I think he understood. Emitting what I suppose was a serpentine grumble, he slithered away – albeit slowly because he wanted to seem nonchalant and unaffected – under the gate and away from the house. Given what would invariably happen to him when someone saw him on the road, I’d have preferred if he’d gone the other way and found a nice permanent rat hole to nest in, rather than getting all suicidal about it, but it was his call.

Another fifteen minutes of coaxing and reassuring and the kitten was satisfied the ground was, indeed, all clear. She sniffed around for a bit just to make sure and then had a nice poo.

Morale of the story? Not everything unfamiliar needs to be addressed with violence. Just be careful of which snakes you choose to hang out with.

Aney Mata BAAAAA.

2010-03-08T10:10:00.000-08:00

It must be the heat. Everywhere I turn, somebody's complaining about something or the other. Sucky home life, sucky work life, sucky love life.

Reality check, people. My life sucks too. On so many different levels it's not even funny. Sitting there and chewing the cud about it ain't gonna make it any less sucky, hokay? Trust me on this one. You gotta adopt a strategy. I, in my infinite wisdom, do hereby offer you a list of options as to how to un-suck your world.

Get a psychiatrist. Especially those of you dealing with home parental issues. If you're Sri Lankan, then give up hope for change now, unless you're willing to commit a murder of sorts. Or suicide, which is favoured by the greater populace. If death is not something that appeals to you, then go find a greedy shrink who will spend as much time as you want listening to you whine. It will be costly, yes. But you get to complain your depressed little heart out until you've drained yourself of your negativity.

Run away. Always a good thing. Perhaps the whole problem is that you're way too cacooned in your little comfort zone that everything seems bigger than it really is. Run away and pretend you're the host of a Lonely Planet show, travelling off the beaten path. The street life can give you a little perspective. Of course, none of your problems will be solved, but at least you have something new to complain about instead of the same old shit.

Fight. Maybe that's why it's the bitches who make it in office (case in point). Big mouths can sometimes make a big difference. Don't like the way things are done around the workplace? Badger the management into submitting to your whims. You have nothing to lose except a job you didn't like anyway.

Live in denial. Some of us are experts at this. Ignore the issue in the conviction that when you wake up, it will have gone away. At the very least, you'll be oodles of entertainment for the rest of us looking to feel sorry for someone.

Get thee to a nunnery. Or at the very least, a church or temple and start praying. You'll figure out soon enough that with all the time you dedicated so passionately towards focusing on your problems, you forgot how to put your palms together and invoke higher authority. Don't worry. God's not gonna tell on you.

Get yourself some perspective. Global warming is at an all time high. The tiger and blue whale are almost extinct. Another earthquake just added itself to the growing list of natural disasters performing live this week. Three little puppies were born down my street in a garbage dump and are dying of the heat. All we've got to show for politicians are a bunch of thugs and imbeciles. And you think YOU'VE got problems.

Internalize. Don't bother talking about your issues. Keep them to yourself, convince yourself that they're THAT bad and obsess over them daily to the point of them throwing you off the deep end. Once you're mental, everything will be nice and happy again.

Drink. Always a treat, except for the guy who's taking you home with his lap full of your puke. For best results, become so friggin' alcoholic that your problems never get a word in edgewise coz you're permanently too drunk to give a shit.

Suck it up. Understand that shit happens, and not just to you. Part and parcel of the process, coz if shit never happened, you'd never appreciate the good times. So shut up and put up.

Get yourself an outlet. Write. Sing. Draw. Dance. Poo. Whatever relaxes you and takes your mind off your shit long enough to charge your batteries and give you the sanity to deal better. Just do it.

Or here's a crazy idea....

Change your mind. The only person your life is sucky to is you. How can sucky be sucky if you don't think it's sucky? I know I made sense in that statement, somewhere.

This morning I hit one of my all time lowest on the depression scale. (The last time that happened I went to Sumithrayo and spread my misery to the befrienders there.) A combination of heat, hormones, frustration at work and irritation at home sent me swinging off the charts on stress and pressure levels to the point where I seriously considered jumping off the six-storey building I work in.

So I did the next best thing. I went into the ladies' loo and sang 'Little Peter Rabbit'. WIth the actions. Then I came out and took my shitty day by the horns and threw it off the roof instead, with a little help from some awesome choc-biscuit pudding drowned in brandy.

With that one move I discovered that my life doesn't, won't and can't suck as long as I'm in control.
As of now, guess who's much happier than you are? Ngyah ngyah ngyah.

Some Mothers Do Have 'Em

2010-03-02T06:46:00.000-08:00

As cliché as it sounds, I remember the first meeting like it was yesterday.

The Doc and I were doing that sad thing that newly-formed Sri Lankan couples do... holding hands and loitering around a shopping mall like lovesick puppies. The height of cheesy.
Suddenly he turned to me and dropped the bomb.

"My mum might come here now with my sister-in-law. You wanna meet her?"

WTF? We'd been dating for, what, a few weeks? Where did the 'meet-my-mum' come from? Why was she coming to THIS mall? Was she stalking us? As far as I was concerned, I didn't DO socializing with parents. But how to tell our man that? He'd leave me and all. From my previous fling with a typical momma's boy, I knew enough to realize that good stead with mothers meant good stead with their sons. So I'd have to bite the bullet and meet this one if I wanted the relationship to last a while more.

Crap.

I wasn't even dressed for the occasion. I hadn't rehearsed any 'hello aunty, I'm the best thing that's happened to your son' speech. My hair was a mess. My shoes were not classy enough.I had holes in my undies. I knew nothing of her. What did she know about me?

Crap. Crap.

This wasn't happening. No. Really. I wasn't going to let this happen. He'd pulled a fast one on me. It wasn't fair. I was not prepared to meet his mother. There was no way in hell I was going to stand around and let him do that to me. With as much affronted dignity as possibly, I responded to his insensitivity with fire.

"Yeah I'd love to meet her! Wow, I can't wait!"

Crap.

After that, I kept shooting dirty looks at his back when he wasn't looking.

I can't remember what happened after that, except that my ticky-ticker kept palpitating every time he looked like he recognized someone in the mall crowd. Suddenly he got a call.

"They're here." He said, eyes shining with joy (at least I think it was joy) at the prospect of my inevitable demise.

Bastard.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, opening them to see him go up to two women across the lobby and greet them. One was a tall, bouncy, bubbly hug-lover with a mass of dark curls framing her cheerful face. The other one was his mother.

Oh. My. Lord. She was stunning. NOT what I expected a boyfriend's mother to look like. I had set myself up to face a stern, sari clad elderly female glaring at me through rimmed spectacles. You'd expect that from boyfriend's mums. They're scary as hell to look it. It's, like, the LAW. This one, however, was anything but.

Dressed in a pair of blue denims and a chic blouse, fair, slim and elegant with a cloud of thick, glossy, red-bronze hair and a face that should have ideally been on the cover of some society magazine, she had an air about her that was almost ethereal.

Great. Made me feel that much more of an unkempt slob. If this female representation was what the Doc had grown up with, I was as good as a cooked goose. And at that particular juncture, I looked like one too, nervous sweat glands working overtime and all.

"Mama, meet DQ", introduced the traitor to girlfriends. If I was Mahinda, I'd have had him taken away in a white van for that one.

"Hello" was her reply, with an obligatory kiss on the two cheeks, true Sri Lankan style. A voice as sweet, silvery and tiny as she looked. Barely a whisper. An evil whisper, perhaps?

In between my stammered greeting, I noticed that she didn't look at me much. Could it be? Was she actually SHY? SERIOUSLY?? Or was she a total snob? She was good looking enough to be one.

No way. I was convinced that this was her composed way of rejecting her son's choice at first glance. I knew it. She'd figured me out in a millisecond like all mothers do, and that was it.... she wasn't approving. It was quite obvious from the way she looked everywhere else except at me.
The sister-in-law on the other hand, was the complete opposite, and I got enough of a hug to keep me warm for the rest of the year, accompanied by giggles and compliments galore. Through it all, 'Aunty' never said a word. Not a single word. How dare she not say words to me.

Of course, the day I'd introduced doc to MY family, my dad didn't say a word either. He didn't even come downstairs. Stayed up the whole time and pretended to be a blind, deaf paraplegic. He's still up there, 5 years later.
But that's doc. Boys are meant to be given a hard time. How could a mother not love ME? (very easily, my mother might interject. It's a good thing she doesn't read this.) I was dumbstruck.

In between the bouts of mental claustrophobia and humiliation I was now entertaining, I heard someone mention lunch. No, no, no, no. I'd barely gotten through the first introduction. I had to EAT with them now? Or was I the one to be eaten? Yes, that was it. They were going to take me to their high-class cavern and rip me into shreds. Aunty, in particular, was going to savour the strips she'd cut out of me with some marvelous sauce that would make me slightly more delectable to her refined palate.

Silently I followed, my head low enough to trick her into assuming I was being girlish and submissive, but all the while plotting attempts to make mad dashes for the exit.

At lunch, I met Doc's dad and his brother. Both affable chaps who could be easily mistaken for being German- bald, white and cheerful. Around the lunch table everyone make noise, discussing the day and cracking loud jokes with each other. But every time I opened my mouth to join in the fray, I could feel HER eyes bore into my soul. She sat opposite my seat and ate neatly, without so much as a tweet, offering polite, one-worded answers to her husband's and sons' questions.

Boy. This lady REALLY hated me, hot as she was. I was sure of it.

Of course, this upset my system quite a bit. I could not have the mother of my boyfriend not liking me, now could I? For many days following that ill-fated lunch, I harassed the poor guy to tell me what she'd said about me. Spill, I would order. I wanted to know everything. Every dirty word she'd used to describe me.

"She didn't say anything."

What? Nothing? After all that staring and internalizing, she hadn't said ANYTHING?

"Nothing. She thinks you look sweet."

This woman was becoming less of a nightmare and more of a mystery. So... that WASN'T exploding rage that caused her to stay silent, then?

"That's the way she is. She's quiet."

A woman? A mother? Quiet? This was too much. I had to laugh cynically. No, I was sure. She hated me.

A few more months into the relationship (yes, it did last beyond that day, whoopeedoo), I discovered that she WAS, actually, quite gobsmackingly, the silent type. Unbelievable. This was a first for me. I am not used to reserved, conservative people, having been brought up all my life in an environment akin to the San Diego Zoo. She turned out to be everything I was not- sweet, well mannered, soft spoken. Not only was she quiet and shy, but she was also quite surprising. She started buying me gifts from her travels abroad, and speaking more than a few mandatory words whenever we met. I still had no idea if she actually LIKED me or not, but she was tolerating me in the nicest way.

What's even more shocking that I had started to like HER. Not in that way, you perverse imbecile. I mean, actually find her a treat for a boyfriend's mum. A mysterious one, at that. I'm sure she had her reservations about me. Let's face it, any mother of a darling boy like him would. But she never uttered a word. Every time we met she was the model of hospitality and charm.
Through the next four years of meeting her at family gatherings, my perception pf her transformed from that of a seething monster to an incredibly lovely lady. Watching her relationship with her youngest son, my victim, opened my eyes to the fact that some mums can actually be cool without being fictitious characters in Hallmark movies.

I recall one particular incident of seeing an sms she'd sent Doc, implying that he'd soon settle down. I also recall having a hissyfit and wanting to jump out of the balcony, because as her luck would have it, I was not the marrying type. For weeks after that I nibbled at fingernails waiting to hear an 'off with her head' when Doc told her I wasn't interested. Not a peep, men. I don't know what he'd told her or how he'd told her, but she'd not gone into raging bull mode. She'd actually ACCEPTED it. Even when he announced that he was moving out to a place of his own- a tragedy that most local mothers would commit suicide over after committing sonnycide- she consented with only a little disapproval and incredible amounts of support. It was a revelation to behold.

It wasn't just her personality either. The good woman turned out to be bloody talented, to the point of my inner green monster coming out to 'shaaah' every time I met her. She'd sew and cook like Martha Stewart never could and I could only drool with insane jealousy. Creative crafts were her specialty, and family lunches and special occasions would be decorated to the hilt with themes and dazzling pieces of art. Watching her deal with her husband, I picked up a thing or two on being a loving and supportive partner. Then I threw them away, but they were nice lessons to have picked up in the first place.

I discovered over the years that I'd struck it rich when it came to picking mothers-of-boyfriends. Smoking hot, dutiful wife, supportive mum and the sweetest personality. Mum-of-doc had become my version of superwoman. A superwoman who still made me wonder about her opinion of me with all those silent moments and nonchalant attitude, but a superwoman nevertheless.

But, as all things go, good things rarely last too long. As cruel fate would have it, she became ill. Fatally ill, with a cancer that grew with such speed in such a short time that the family barely had time to breathe in the news. A news that shattered me more than I expected it to. I began visiting her regularly with the Doc, because as worried and frightened as he was for her, I was terrified. Without us ever having shared a single bonding moment together, she was suddenly too precious to me to lose. For months, I stood by doc's side and watched her bear the physical pain of the disease with as much dignity as she had approached anything else. As I watched her struggle, I began looking back on how my opinion of her had changed so dramatically over five years since that first meeting at a mall from sheer fright to sheer admiration. I had started out by wondering if she hated my guts and moved on to absorbing her goodness like a sponge. Now here I was, holding her hand, praying my heart out and trying to offer her my strength. This woman whom I'd not even wanted to meet that first day, so many years ago. And through all these years, I still didn't know if she liked me or not.

One day, when she was feeling her lowest, she called on her family to say her goodbyes. Doc took me along for the ride, though I was a nervous wreck. I wasn't family. I had not once given her an indication that I was even willing to BE family anytime in the future. Would she really want me there? Was this appropriate of me? I entered the house with every ounce of reverence I could muster. The lady was sick and I didn't need to piss her off by being an unwelcome presence. And, in her state of mind, what if she told me exactly what she thought of me? Sticky situ.

I went up to her and gave her an obligatory and nervous kiss. I was sad for her, and sad for me... I'd never made the attempt to know her well enough to have the kind of heart-to-heart that I knew we should have had by now. If she wasn't at peace, then I was sure to be one of the causes. She looked at me with those searching eyes and held my hand- for the first time without my initiating the move. And then, in a soft voice, still as sweet through all that pain, whispered to me, "You'll take good care of him, won't you?"

That was it. No other promises. No questions of marriage or obligations of any other commitment beyond looking out for the man she knew I loved. Even at this point, she was respecting me! It was the easiest 'yes of course' I have ever uttered, without the slightest doubt or a single crossed finger. At that very moment, I vowed I'd not let him rest for a second without checking up on him for the rest of his life, the poor sod.

Then she indicated to something in her lap. It was a shiny glass bead rosary - one I'd bought for her while on a trip to Belgium. At the time, it was bought with the intention of it being an appropriate and sensitive gift for sucking up to boyfriends' mums. I needed to impress her into thinking of me as spiritual and pure, despite all logic and facts demonstrating otherwise.
"I want to be buried with it. That's all I'm going to take with me when I go" she whispered.

If there's anything that can bring the walls of Jericho in your heart down, it's a statement as simple as that. I was floored. For five years I'd been convinced she'd put me last in her importance list, right next to 'cockroach'. How wrong I'd been.

I began to cry. So did she. And that was it...the moment I'd been waiting to enjoy with her all those years, of that one, intimate exchange that would bond us. It lasted only a second, but it was enough. Quickly regaining my composure, I wiped away her tears and jovially chided her for making me cry. Then I kissed once more and took my leave in a no-nonsense fashion. I cried all the way home. In all of two seconds, she had become my family and I a part of hers.

A week later she succumbed to her illness and moved on to her new state of being. No doubt to take her place as one of the hottest angels in heaven. I was there when it happened, though I felt I didn't deserve to be. Amongst all the tears flowing at that hospital, I wept none. She had made peace with the inevitability of her death, and so had I. We'd become friends, finally. She was ok with me and I with her and I know that will carry us both through this never ending universal cycle we travel in. I am still convinced she's somewhere around, contemplating me with the same silence that she had when she was in her human form. Next time we meet, I wont be nervous at all.

Happy birthday for the 6th of March, Aunty S.

When The Cat's Away....

2010-02-16T00:47:00.000-08:00

I retire for a few day... er... wee... um...you know, and look at what's happened. You buggers just went on with your lives, didn't you? Tsk.

It's not just you, either. It's the whole damn country. I mean, REALLY. Talk about hyping up the drama just to get my attention. Fine. I'm here now. Happy?

Christmas came and went like last night's baked beans and I don't think even the guy who played baby Jesus in this time's nativity had time to complete a single 'wah' before the baubles were being packed back up into boxes. Which is a shame, because I'm sure he practiced diligently for the part.

Then New Year traipsed in with as much aplomb as my father's morning farts, only to fizzle miserably at the alcohol ban courtesy of the full moon, who still has no idea why she got the finger so many times on 31st night.

And how to forget the circus coming to town and all that. What with all the death-defying tight-rope walking and the superb clown acts. I love the theme of the event too... 'elections'. Brilliant. It's a shame that the dancing swan item didn't go that well, though... the organizers should really think twice before training a swan to sing along to a choral backup of elephants. After all, look at what happened to the bird... choked on that maggot-ridden betel leaf it tried to chew on in the midst of song. Swany must learn that one NEVER bites into rotten greens... especially those grown in Mervin's back yard, calling themsleves sons of the dung and all.

Did you know Mervin is also an anagram for vermin? I figured that one out recently, whilst preparing for a poo on the throne. By which I meant shit on the toilet seat, and not the moustached guy in the red scarf. But you're forgiven... everyone else thinks I'm referring to him too.

But I digress. No... actually... I don't. I was talking about His Majesty the poo-head. How the razzmatazz on in-deep-end-ance day? Did anyone watch the show? I didn't either. Was too busy de-fleaing the dog.

If things weren't pathetic enough, that cupid bugger just had to come and join in the fray too. Must have felt lonely, aney... all that love going around without his involvement and so many politicos trying to outdo the pain in the arse his arrows cause. So he swooped down with the finesse of a stampeding rhino and shot at a few buttocks, sending Sri Lankan maledom into a flurry of emotional guilt trips. My own victim and I decided to forego the usual palarva and perform a home-made BBQ. Surprisingly, it went quite well. Even the neighbourhood cat joined in and took off with a couple of chicken bones. Love must have been in the air, because Docca boy never shows any love to that cat. Which is why it has been christened 'Houdini Bitch'. Houdinin because of the many close encounters he's suffered at the hands of a wrathed boyfriend, and Bitch because that's what he's lovingly referred to at times of said encounters. However, this Valentines day, he was a happy Houdini.

You're right. The post is sounding a little too snarky and jaded. This is not like me. Vut to dhoo... sign of the times and all.

I blame poo head.

It's not that I'm even into politics. hell, I do everything in within my means to stay well away from that bunch of ingrates, but they always find a way to come back and cling to that last nerve and rub it raw. Aubergines, all of them.

Give me a few more days and I'll be back with a bang that's not in the least bit pornographic, unless you're naturally filthy minded.

Now Go. Get off this blog and go read the Daily News. Much more entertaining, I assure you.

Dear Me.

2009-11-24T01:52:00.001-08:00

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!

Who Knew Men Could Be So Cool?

2009-11-09T21:59:00.000-08:00

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.

Because She Said So

2009-11-08T22:04:00.000-08:00

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.

Love Is...

2009-09-07T01:48:00.000-07:00

...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

Hell Hath No Fury Like Venus Rejected

2009-09-06T22:35:00.000-07:00

"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 ting. 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.

The One About Ageing

2009-09-03T05:10:00.000-07:00

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.

When the Wild Met the WIlderness

2009-08-18T03:14:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-08-18T00:55:00.000-07:00

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.

Hoo

2009-08-03T08:28:00.000-07:00

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.

Dear Neanderthaal

2009-04-07T21:34:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-07T03:54:00.000-07:00

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.

Mobile Misery

2009-04-02T02:37:00.000-07:00

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.

Anal Adventures

2009-04-01T23:15:00.000-07:00

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.

I am still...cough... here,

2009-03-30T04:31:00.000-07:00

Dear monthly… bi-monthly… someday blog,

For that is what you have become, darling. Unceremoniously relegated to a mere e- page I pull out during times of boredom or stress, only to be exiled again for lengthy periods of time. Lady D once complained that she hadn’t blogged for a week because of workloads. Ha. I can’t even remember the last time I put fingertip to keyboard for personal gratification. It’s true what Gutterflower says; it’s damn near impossible to enjoy writing anymore, when it’s all you do as a day-job. Add to it a day job that permits you time to breathe only when you fall asleep in the wee hours for a wee time, and you stop recalling that you ever maintained a blog in the first place.
As you have by now gathered (and if you haven’t, then you are truly simple minded and I sympathize), I have been busy. Admit it… you missed me. Awww. You did? Get used to it.

I know RD did. He even sent me a wise word on the matter, bless him.

I’ve been up to so much lately that I’m starting to feel little Kali-ish. You know… many hands, perform miracles… that sort of thing. One of these days my clients are going to taste my toe jam as I lose all sense of propriety and kick their teeth well into the depths of their gizzards.

Pissed, you ask? Nay. What makes you say that? I love my clients… to the point of wanting to strangle them with over-enthusiastic hugs. I’m training people in the art of conflict resolution by moving them to intervene on my ‘talks’ with the client. One of the more memorable battles revolved around, of all things, a door. Now if you thought ‘revolving door’ and snickered at your own wit, then please leave this page now, for I have nothing more to say to you.

I will write on the door issue later. Or maybe I won’t. I’m undecided like that.

For now, let me bring you up to speed on what‘s been happening.

Let us begin with the fact that I am sick, and this time I mean LITERALLY. I have the mother of all sicknesses guest starring some rather vile mountains of grey-green phlegm. I’m SO sick that even the thought of said vile green phlegm can’t possibly make me feel sicker.

My sickness gives thanks to the new office we shifted to a week ago. I have to admit, I was hopping with excitement on the thought of shifting here, given that the new place has a supermarket, bank, gym, home-ware shop and ODEL in the building. Not to mention the orgasmic 360 degree view from the rooftop that gives me a sneek peek at Adam’s Peak on a clear day, a bookstore and food court soon to arrive. But I am now convinced it was all a part of the evil scheme to entice me to agree to the move. No one told me about the resident ocean of cement dust and noxious paint fumes inside a dark, depressing room sans ventilation. I have been suffering since day 1. So much so, that 75% of the employees have taken to wearing surgical masks to work, making us look like the Ragama hospital ward. For further authenticity, we’re coughing and wheezing in pain quite convincingly too.

My one source of comfort lies in the fact that my desk directly faces the men’s loo, which conveniently features a door that closes ever so slowly thanks to a hinge system that understands my perversions. I’m sure the dust and I will settle in quite well soon.

I have plenty more to write about, but neither my sinus problem nor the urgent need to be somewhere else allows me the luxury of time, so you’re gonna have to wait it out a bit more.

Await.

The Best Things In Life Are Me.

2009-01-20T21:33:00.000-08:00

It almost hurts when one starts something that has the potential for a tagging explosion, and yet one chooses NOT to tag anyone and leave it all hanging uselessly like jellyfish tentacles. How annoying.

But Lady D did leave it open for interpretation, and seeing as how several others have grabbed at a chance to tag themselves, I’m going to do the same.

Let’s first pretend you know nothing about me.

1. What time did you get up this morning?
Too early for my comfort. Or the cat’s. She didn’t appreciate being thrown hastily off her warm perch on my stomach. I have a claw mark to prove her ire.

2. Diamonds or pearls?
Depends on what I’m wearing, really. I have a schizophrenic thing going on, so I think I’ll take both, sil vous plait.

3. What was the last film you saw at the cinema?
Madagascar 2. King Julian gets me horny.

4. What is your favourite TV show?
Who’s Line Is It Anyway and Oprah. There… I’ve said it. I am not ashamed.

5. What do you usually have for breakfast?
It used to be one particular employee, but since I moved jobs it’s been muesli. Both taste the same.

6. What is your middle name?
I find that very politically incorrect. Why, I ask, should a name be imparted rank? Do not all names deserve equality?

7. What food do you dislike?
Shit. I had it once and didn’t much take to it. Brain and tongue come in a close second. Something about the concept of eating those parts of an animal really put me off.

8. What is your favourite album at the moment?
The one my mother shows off to everyone who dares to stop by for a visit. It has all my baby nudey pictures in it.

9. What kind of car do you drive?
Darling, she’s not a car. Don’t make me shudder. She is Camilla Parker the Toyota Cami, with individualistic scratches to boot.

10. Favorite sandwich?
I’d love to say man, but I’d tick a few people off. I will settle for Marmite, pol sambol and cheese. Have you tried it??

11. What characteristics do you despise?
Complacency and arrogance. I am the only one allowed.

12. Favorite item of clothing?
Bras. It’s my new-found girly love. Then there’s also my collection of denims that I literally live in. They know me well.

13. If you could go anywhere in the world on vacation, where would you go?Disneyland. Over and over again, if I could.

14. Favourite brand of clothing?
I hate clothing brands. I really don’t see the point. Perhaps it’s my career in advertising that’s gone and bogged the show. I refuse to let some other name besides my own define me.

15. Where would you retire to?
If it’s not to an early grave, my little log cabin way up in the misty mountains, along with my pet goats (I will have three) and gotukola patches.

16. What was your most memorable birthday?
No.17. My first/last/only real mixed party, where I got all dressed up and acted posh whilst my dad and his camera tailed me like the paparazzi all evening. We later found out that there was never any film in that damn camera, and he was merely spying on my every activity to make sure no boys kissed me.

17. Favourite sport to watch?
Rugby, for that glorious sea of muscular thighs and figure-skating because I have a gay streak in me.

18. When is your birthday?
If I tell you I’ll have to kill you.

19. Are you a morning person or a night person?
Depends on what time of the day you plan to meet me.

20. What is your shoe size?
I don’t have a penis, so it shouldn’t matter. Unless you plan to buy me shoes, in which case I’ll gladly tell.

21. Pets?
Redundant question. But wait… you’re not supposed to know me, neyda. Yes. Two snooty cats, one species-confused dog and a sibling.

22. Any new and exciting news you'd like to share with us?
A mosquito bit my ass last night and now I have a boil.

23. What did you want to be when you were little?
Big.

24. How are you today?
Still the same height. A little underweight because I haven’t had lunch.

25. What is your favourite candy?
Caramel toffee bananas

26. What kind of flowers do you like?
Jasmine and frangipani for their smell, and lilies because they look like they know it all.

27. What day on the calendar are you looking forward to?
All those hypothetical days I’ve marked out for when I get to leave home.

28. What is your full name?
Dunnam Kaala Kaala Duwannam. I’ve waited so long to say that online!

29. What are you listening to right now?
The boring natter of a client service executive.

30. What was the last thing you ate?
A toenail. It was delicious.

31. Do you wish on stars?
I’m usually under them.

32. If you were a crayon, what color would you be?
One of those collections of shaven bits put together in a gooey bunch.

33. What is the weather like right now?
The one outside or the one hovering above my head at this very moment?

34. First person you spoke to on the phone today?
My mother. She called me in a panic about a cow who'd been knocked down on the road.

35. Favourite soft drink?
Portello.

36. Favourite restaurant?
Taprobane at the Cinnamon Grand. Once you’ve delved into their buffets, there’s no turning back.

37. Real hair color?
All my hair is still real. It’s black, with bits of brown and speckles of reddy bronze.

38. Favorite toy as a child?
A gun. Ironic, that

39. Summer or winter?
Summer.

40. Hugs or kisses?
Hugs. Lots of them. Kisses put me to sleep.

41. Chocolate or vanilla?
I’m female. Why ask silly questions?

42. Coffee or tea?
Coffee. It becomes obvious when you meet me.

43. When was the last time you cried?
Last night, as I strained to exile a particularly defiant poo.

44. What is under your bed?
My mother keeps asking me the same thing. I still don’t know, although it does tend to smell a bit now and then… I have a feeling the cat knows, though.

45. What did you do last night?
Wouldn’t you love to know…

46. What are you afraid of?
The sea and dependence.

47. Salty or sweet?
Both

48. How many keys on your key ring?
I have keys??

49. Favourite day of the week?
Saturday

50. How many towns you lived in?
4

51. Do you make friends easily?
Yes....

...and then they get to know me.

Poses and Promotions

2009-01-17T04:54:00.000-08:00

You know how you get that urge to smoke after having had some really good sex? I’ve never felt that. Interpret it any which way you like, but I was referring to the cigarette action. However, I am feeling a similar satisfaction much like the one felt after a good romp.

Not that I’ve romped. Stop hyperventilating, mother… I know you’re reading this. Go back to marthastewart.com, please. I am merely trying, in a creative fashion, to open this post by telling you all that I’ve had some very good days lately and now I want to lie back and breathe it all in with the hopes that my recent lucky streak won’t wake up and not remember my name because it was under some universal alcoholic influence when we first met.

God, I can even confuse myself with the way I write.

Back to the story.

Two things happened in the last three days. The first, and by far the most important, was that someone out in the blogosphere thought I had a sense of humor good enough to save the tomatoes for a rainy day. I won the coveted ‘funniest post’ award in RD’s line-up for 2008. George Bush judged it, too. I’d like to take this opportunity to thank God, RD and George for bestowing this incredible, humbling honour upon me. I also want to thank the Doc, without whose unending tortured soul the winning post could never have been. I dedicate this award to my cats and John Cleese.

The second event that took place was to do with work. So I let the cat out of the bag in my last post about a little career upgrade that I’d been informed about by the powers that be. Last evening, the rest of the office was informed too. I guess that makes it official and I can safely blab out more details to those of you who aren’t yawning at my self-obsessed natter. Yet. I was appointed as a group head within our creative department, which means I now have the power to veto the opinions of any cat-haters. All hail me. They also say I now have the authority to call the shots, though this may come at the risk of getting shot at. Not everyone in the team is dancing the jig of joy at the announcement – I am, of course, a newbie in comparison to some of the other stalwarts and institutions, and sometimes taking direction from a loudmouthed woman can be an icky experience to say the least. I didn’t expect it to be hunky dory and I am fully geared for the onslaught of ‘how-she-got-the-job’ assumptions that are bound to scatter far and wide in the coming days. Nevertheless, it still feels good to have made a mark with my work and be recognized for it. Yes, Ms. Gaynor…. I will survive.

Besides the two most recent causes for joy, I had some rather good fun two days ago too. Remember how I mentioned my clients wanting me to model in their campaigns? Note how I assume you’re an avid fan of this blog to remember such things? Even if you don’t, now you do.

Thursday saw me posing and pouting at a full-day photo shoot for a spa catalogue, in which yours truly was the creature feature. If I ever thought modeling was a glamorous job, I don’t now. It is something akin to ranching, where you are the cattle and the photographer, agency, make-up artist and light boxes are four very mean cowboys. I was pulled, pushed, poked, prodded and pummeled in every direction humanly and bovinely possible, all in the name of a good shot. Along the way, a good many adventures took place, as is usually the way with the universe and I.

Make-up was the biggest adventure of all. I had been granted, by virtue of a stingy client, a make-up lady who was still learning to differentiate a powder from a glue. A mousy little thing, so fragile that I felt her pain every time she bravely wielded the weight of the blusher brush, wondering whether it was meant for my face or a wall. Had I been cruel enough to growl in her direction, she’d have had to undergo trauma counseling, she was that timid.

She had with her a platter of colours and creams of all sorts that she presented with pride. The instruction was to:

a) Cover my spots (because this was a glamourous brochure and not a connect-the-dots playbook)

b) Make me look simple and sublime.

Simple, right? Wrong.

First, she took out the one foundation stick she’d brought (about ten shades darker than my skin) and painted my spots until she’d actually created more than I already had on my face. Chicken pox would have been jealous. I diplomatically asked her if she’d like to blend, and blend she did. She took that thumb of hers and with an alarming force that kept throwing me off my chair, rubbed my face so hard until I was sure I’d end up doing a pet commercial for pugs.

Next came the colour. Out swished the brush and the electric blue shadow. Sweep, sweep, and I was instantly contesting for Drag Queen of the Year. I waited patiently till she turned away to load her evil brush and then hastily rubbed off as much as I could with my fingers. Should we apply some rouge, I asked her. Sure, she said, and gave me a Coco the Clown. More rubbing off. She next walked around me in circles, periodically clucking to herself while she examined my head and wondered aloud what to do with my hair. Enter abject pain, as she took out Satan’s trident in the guise of a comb and managed to skewer my scalp from every angle before hauling at my hair like a fisherman’s net while blasting my increasingly reddening scalp with heat. It was meant to straighten the tresses, she excitedly informed a weeping me. I now know that by ‘straighten’ she meant knock the last ounce of gayness out of my darling locks till I could pull off a convincing struck-by-lightning look. I hear it’s the rage in deepest darkest Africa.

Why we spent so long attending to every strand of hair, I will never know… the second I sat on my perch in front of the camera they switched on two massive industrial fans directed at me and all that painstakingly tortured hair just exploded everywhere, including into my nose, mouth and eyes. “Wow! Yes! Hold that!” the photographer instructed as I beautifully choked on a particularly large bunch of hair socializing with my larynx. “Love it!” he shouted when more hair went up my nose and made me tear. “Give me sexy!’ he barked, whereby the poltergeist on my head dutifully throttled me. If the shots that resulted are not used for this brochure, I’m sure I can make a mint selling them to Amnesty International for their next campaign.

One hour and much hair later I was done with the ‘hair care’ shots. Next came ‘skin care’. “Lets do the splash images’ I heard someone calling. Splash? As in, water? What the devil did that entail? While I mused and panicked, Make-up Mouse doused me in a new coat of colours – oranges and greens this time- till I looked like a carrot. My apprehension mounted when I saw someone bringing me a bathrobe. “Wear this over your clothes”, she muttered conspiratorially, not daring to look at me lest she felt my emotion and ratted on their secret plans. My thoughts went insane when they brought out a large basin filled to the brim with water and placed it on a stand in font of me. By this time Mouse was grabbing fistfuls of my hair and clenching them tight to create curls. She being a good two feet shorter than I meant that every time she grabbed, I got whiplash.

The photographer appeared again. Lights were adjusted. One last blob of orange dust was showered onto my face for an extra splotchy effect. “All right DQ… throw water on yourself.”

WTF? What did he mean throw water on myself?? The basin, I was politely told, was for my use. I was to use my hands to splash water on my face. With my eyes closed. With that lovely smile I always get when I throw cold water on my face with my eyes closed and thereby aim so well that it actually goes up my nose. Could I also please open the neck of the bathrobe to make it look like my shoulders were bare? Smile, DQ… don’t wince or scowl at the water. It is your friend. No spluttering, please… the camera needs you and the water to remain still, please. That’s it… open your mouth bit in a happy declaration… no don’t gag on the water like that, it doesn’t make a good shot. Come on now… LOVE IT. Yes…yes…that’s it…splash!..splash more! More! More water….hold it there… what’s that? No swearing, please.

60 shots later, I was drenched from head to toe – clothes and all- and not looking pleased. Mouse pursed her lips disapprovingly at me for daring to let the water get the better of her skillful artistry and leave me looking like a deranged panda with a badly done fake tan. It was time for the ‘aromatherapy’ shots and she’d have to start all over again. My hair was wet, she reported. She’d have to blow dry. Dear God, help.

Because ever millimeter of cloth on me was as wet as sin, someone’s convenient shawl was taken and wrapped around me. They wanted the ‘Sigirya effect’, I was told. I wasn’t sure if they meant the paintings of the maidens or the actual rock, which was what I was looking like at that point. Once they’d bathed me in purples and pinks this time around, I was instructed to clutch onto a bunch of lotus flowers and smell them, smiling serenely and the enthralling scent that supposedly wafted my way. Here’s the thing… lotuses smell god-damn awful. Especially the ones with the little flying bugs in them. Within the hour I was a grandmaster of serenely smelling stinky flowers while insects flew up my nostrils.

That evening, I went back to office with my face caked up like a cheap prostitute’s and a wealth of experience that teaches me never to agree to modeling assignments that involve water or lotus flowers. Or a make-up artist who looks like a mouse.

I hope that damn spa makes a sale or two.

Lady Luck

2009-01-13T02:52:00.000-08:00

Dudes, January is SO my month. Way up there in the big ol’ universe there’s a soccer game in full swing and my planets are scoring some awesome goals. Beckham, eat your heart out.

2009 has started off with a bang for me and I am hoping and praying this is meant to last the whole year, unlike a politician’s promise. Allow me to take a moment to kick modesty in the rear end and tell you what’s been going on since I last blogged.

On the career front it’s been good. Very good. I’ve been told that Big Brother is pleased with me and my leadership skills are going to be put into use soon. Let’s see how that goes. If it happens as it has been foretold, I will divulge more. All my scripts have gotten approval without so much as the blink of an eye, which is disconcertingly uncharacteristic of my clients. They usually like to play diva, but this time around they actually went for everything I presented. EVERYTHING. Including all optional in-case-you-hated-the-last-one scripts. The world’s biggest misers are actually considering investing in more than one campaign. Weird, in a good way.

Not only have they approved my work, but my clients want ME to be in the commercials too! In the last week they fought with each other over who gets to have me, coz doing all of them would compromise on the believability of the character I’d play in each. In the middle of the fights I get calls from two other production houses calling me for screen tests coz THEIR clients want me in some commercials. And I’m not even a bloomin’ model. Considering that I am a good ton fatter and zittier than the last time TV saw me, it’s like the twilight zone, man.

I had a two-day shoot this weekend and as all shoots go, something or someone is always bound to screw things up big time. It’s a time-tested, proven theory in the ad industry that no shoot ever goes unfazed. This one, in the evillest way, did. Nothing happened. Everything went FINE. We even finished at decent hours with surprisingly few takes. Not even the models were bitchy or difficult. I even got a marriage proposal out of it, courtesy of a 95-year old toothless onlooker off the street who claimed to be Gamini Fonseka’s brother. He’d just buried his wife (showed me her photograph to prove it) and was looking to take another.

Ok, so the planets were probably pulling my leg that time, but it happened and I lived to tell the tale. The old guy, on the other hand, probably went home and drank poison to rid him of the heartbroken misery borne out of my rejection of his courtship. Sorry uncle…seeya…. I’m taken, and I ‘d like to kiss someone with more teeth, anyway. A brushed set, preferably.

On the home front, there is abnormal peace. I don’t know how long THAT will last, but the going is good and greatly appreciated while it does. The house is also abundant with luscious fruit, all obtained FOC from the afore-mentioned shoot. We had to set up a fruit stall, you see. There were tons and tons of the freshest produce brought in and no where to take it to afterwards. Hence yours truly filled up her car (which, by the way also starred in the commercial and was given the star treatment of a good wash by not one, but FOUR sets of hands) with the stuff. Free fruit is not easy to find these days, especially water melons, apples, oranges, chinese guavas, king coconut, nectarines, humongous papayas and entire branches of bananas. If bought, the stuff would have cost me a good 5 thousand at least. With my recent bout of luck, I got it for nothing.

To top it all off, last morning I received an email informing me that I’d won a shopping spree worth Rs. 50,000/- at ODEL. Naturally, I thought it was a hoax. But the contact numbers and addresses cited seemed real enough, so I called with much trepidation. Turns out it was hoax-free and 100% fact. I nearly died. But didn’t. Instead, I screamed like a mad banshee into the phone and then danced wildly in circles inside the office. I can outshine an audience member on an episode of ‘Oprah’s Favourite Things’ with my expressions of glee. My grand prize was awarded to me an hour back, with a photo shoot to boot. I tried my best to look half decent and prize-winnerish, much like an aunty who would visit Dubai for the first time. I was so excited that my vibes transcended towards the branded banner above me and it fell on my head just as the cameras clicked.

And now, half faint with excitement at my recent rush of luck, I have boasted to everyone in the blogosphere and probably jinxed it all. Ah well… at least it’s good while it lasts.

A toast to my stars….GOOOOAAAAAAL!

New Year, New Tag

2009-01-01T09:25:00.000-08:00

My first tag for 2009. Goody. All thanks to that Doc fella of mine. :) Utter bloody sweetheart, he is.

Yes, I am feeling gooey. Deal with it.

Right. Here are my resolutions for this brand spanking shiny new year, in no particular order. Please note that I am also making up resolutions as I type, coz I really didn't have time to think on it before:

Get back into shape. And I don't mean round. There used to be a time when yours truly could make a few hearts skip in her sparkly little salsa outfits. They barely fit my thigh now. I promise you, I WILL wear them again, even at the cost of being called the vulgar old aunty who can't act her age.

Fight harder for my freedom. Bring it on, mother.

Make bigger, louder and less debatable points on animal rights and welfare.

Learn something new. Anything. Even how to play guitar with my teeth.

Save up cash for my next big adventure. I'm not telling you what it is because I don't want to jinx it. But I plan to have it within the next two years.

Dance again.

Visit some place I never have before.

Try to be a little less of a spoilt bitch. (I am being a realist. I said TRY.)

Get closer to figuring out what it is that I really want out of this soddin' life.

Be better friends with God. I think he's feeling a little left out these days, the poor darling.

Change someone's life for the better. That someone may or may not be human.

Enough, no?

Oh yeah... I tag RD, DeeCee and TheMissingSandwich.

Another One Bit The Dust

2009-01-01T04:18:00.001-08:00

Another year, that is.

Cue superficial sobs and wails as I wave goodbye to the exiting 2008 with the one clean handkerchief I own. The minute it’s out of sight (2008, not my handkerchief), I turn to 2009 with a cunning smile on my seasonally pimpled face. Christmas food does that to the skin.

“It’s gone.” I whisper conspiratorially to the year ahead, referring to the one I left behind. “Done. Finished. Kaput. Just you and me now…. let’s party.” My seductive purring is meant to get 2009 excited by the unspoken potential of what is to come.

How’s THAT for a blog-post opener, huh? HUH?? Read it and WEEP.

OK. Back to normalcy. If ever there was any.

The crumbly leftover bits of 2008 since I last blogged were pretty hectic, hence the long silence. It’s not easy for me to silent for too long- ask the Doc or LD if you don’t believe me- so it obviously was a VERY stressful couple of weeks.

First there was the Christmas Woof. For those of you who are uncool and not in the know, The Christmas Woof is a wicked device that the boyfr… sorry… MANfriend (you’re welcome, hunny) and I thought up to feed the more intelligent species during the season. Yes, dolphins and chimps are quite the smartasses, but dogs and cats come in a close second in my opinion. Slightly over 15 species ahead of man. Ptishh.

Anyway. That’s another post.

So we wanted to feed street & shelter dogs and cats for Christmas and we figured that by selling some home-made brownies, chutneys and hand-painted mugs, we’d make the money we needed for the mass furry almsgiving. We went into it with fervour and no idea of what we were getting ourselves into. Man oh man. We tried to be posh IT-savvy pundits and went to the lengths of designing a website to take orders on. We’d planned to let the orders roll in for a month and then, hoping that there would be at least 25 orders from gullible friends whose arms we could twist, we’d go into making and delivering the goods. Geez what a couple of schmucks we were. In a matter of days the orders reached about the same level as our panic when we saw the numbers. So much so that we shut the site down in a week and sold our souls to the banks to fund our ingredient shopping. Thus ensued a mad rush of baking, burns, cuts, ants, rotten pineapples, wrapping, labelling and cussing loudly at the crumbs on the carpet floor. Poor Doc. Having selected his place as the holy shrine of brownie baking and chutney making, I singlehandedly managed to turn the place upside down in a matter of two days. He still can’t walk on his floor without wincing at the sticky feel of chocolate blobs or fermented pineapple juice on his toes. And it’s been three weeks since we had the sale.

We managed to bake, bottle and paint everything up and deliver by the 22nd of December. Considering our full-time jobs, that gave us about two hours to remember we had to do our Christmas shopping. I swear, as of Christmas 2008, I’ve broken the record for fastest completion of gift-buying-and-wrapping for an army of greedy relatives. One hour, two Xmas sales and a mall. Even Santa would be impressed.

The next week was spent visiting said relatives, or as the Doc puts it ‘The generation of vipers’ and having my cheek and ass pinched by aunties and uncles respectively. Morning, noon and night. Whoever said Christmas is holiday season needs to be shot. In the balls, because no woman would ever say something that stupid.

By the time I finally got the chance to sit the damn down and put my feet up, it was the 31st. It was all I could do to keep my eyes open beyond 8pm to see the dawn of the New Year. Thank goodness for the Doc and his innovative ways of keeping me awake. *Wink wink* A movie, a Jap meal and two packets of sparklers later, here I am… on the first day of 2009.

So you see, I didn’t have time to blog.

So This Is Christmas

2008-12-09T07:52:00.000-08:00

It really is.

Saw his post this morning and had a cunning plan to plagiarize the idea, but bloody RD beat me to it by tagging me anyway. Blast. Foiled. But I have been noticed by the almighty Rythmic, despite him still not having figured out what identity I actually go by -bless his pooing heart- so I will not grumble.

Okay. Back to the point of post. It is Christmas, and what have I done:

(Let me take a moment here to ponder on whether this post should be serious and braggy, or just entertain..... hmmm... .)

Saw Egypt. Land of my dreams, etc. It was absofuckinglutely brilliant.

Rode a camel. It spat at me.

Got myself selected to represent the country in the 'Young Lotus' competition at Adfest in Thailand. Made an arse of myself there, yes... but had a blast doing it.

Saw infamous Thai prositutes and strippers up close on Walking Street, Pattaya. Listen... before you ask me why that's such a big deal, consider the fact that I'm nearing 30 and I live with my mother. The closest I've got to taboo is the board game.

Moved out of home. Moved back in a day. Because of afore-mentioned mother.

Played Maria in the Sound of Music. No, that was not a lesbian statement. I performed the role. I also managed to hold a note and I'm quite chuffed at myself.

Grew about 4 inches more. Sideways.

Lost about a million hairs.

Got myself a 4-wheel drive. Named Camilla Parker. All puns intended.

Learned to bake brownies. I am now doing it for profitable gains. La la la for me.

Cleaned my room. You have to know me to understand how important that is.

Costumed 56 children in a musical production. I will never do that again, I promise.

Made meatloaf.

Saw a ghost. Long story. I'm not sure who was scared of whom, though.

Witnessed my paraplegic grandad start to walk again.

Contemplated marriage and suicide.

Visited Hikka. Hooray.

Developed a gynormous crush on Steve Carrell.

Hmmm..... the list is fairly short in comparison to past years. I'm losing my touch. Gasp.
2009, watch out.

I do hereby tag Lady Divine, Thé Doc and Gutterflower.

How to Annoy a Man

2008-12-08T06:05:00.000-08:00

A.k.a. ‘How to Clean a Bachelor Pad and Live to Tell the Tale.’

Greetings and welcome to the precocious girlfriend’s guide to relationships. Our expert panel of … an expert… has spent the last four years researching, experimenting and mastering the art of zen and not-so-zen in managing a relationship with a boy. And now, for a one-time only fee of a few minutes of interest, this valuable knowledge can be yours!

Ready to kick start your love life? And by that I mean literally kick? Then click now!
(Thing to click on that doesn’t really work)

...

...

Let’s assume you clicked.

Congratulations on your first step towards memorable girlfriendhood!

Our first chapter deals with an important method to understanding the male way and irritating it to bits. I like to call it ‘The Bulldozer’system. What easier way to dive happily into his little world unannounced than to conquer the one territory that you should never tread – His Personal Space?

In this chapter you will learn the cool ninja-like steps to using stealth, cunning and a broom to clean out your man’s private living space (I said LIVING space, perv…) and come out maintaining your girlfriend status.

Step 1 –Prepare.

Getting access to a guy’s living quarters can be something akin to preparing for guerrilla warfare. One must understand that one is not easily invited in, unless one comes with offerings of food that please his highness. Cleaning equipment and a mission to blitz dirt does not fall into the ‘friendly offerings’ category. It doesn’t even fall into an ‘offering’ segment, so you can forget about him jumping up with an enthusiastic ‘YES’ when you ask if you can rearrange his stuff.
You must, therefore:

Stalk the subject. Attune yourself to his whereabouts and calculate your date of attack carefully.

Wait for an opportune moment to move in for the kill. Say, when he’s out of town or on an errand and you’ve conned your way into gaining access to his abode.

Gather resources and formulate a good enough alibi that will convince him that you are not doing exactly what you are doing.

Bring a costume – something that is tolerant of dust balls and you can look comfortably fat in. After all, he won’t be around to see you in your dusty splendour.

Purchase a broom. Because his doesn’t understand your needs.

Sneak into the area and survey your environment. Decide on how you plan to proceed… target and position your detergent onslaught.

Step 2 – Clean that Mother!

By which I don’t mean his mother, which would be politically incorrect. She is probably very clean anyway. And besides, if she’s nice, don’t mess up your future chances by offering to wash her face.

Nay. I refer to the area in consideration. And because I can’t keep thinking up various creative ways to name His Personal Space (of the ARCHITECTURAL kind, perv), we will henceforth call it HPS.

Once you have given yourself enough time to decide how you will clean HPS, get cracking. But do remember the ground rules, because your life and relationship depends on it:

Trashing the dust and dirt is ok. Trashing his collection of little metal parts, used batteries and rusted nails are not. To a man, these are objects of entertainment and infinite possibility. They will NOT be taken to the dustbin.

Wipe and arrange, but do NOT re-arrange. Keep in mind he has a system he blindly follows, like the lab rat to the cheese at the end of the maze. Displacement of objects will only confuse and irritate, and no one wants the poor rat to die wondering who moved his cheese.

Maintain your cool when you come across the occasional cockroach fossil. It is dead and you are bigger than it. Try not to scream, please. Unless the boy is saving it for scientific analysis, the roach cadaver can go into the trash too.

Holy Scriptures such as FHM and other such girly magazines are not to be touched, opened or wept over. If you can secretly lust after Brad Pitt’s buttocks, then he is certainly within his rights to ogle at what’s-her-face with the enormous boobies. They’re plastic, anyway.

Try not to waste any time in front of his mirror wondering why your boobs aren’t as big as what’s-her-face.

When folding his clothes, think male and not sissy. Unless he’s got issues, he won’t stack them by ‘cute’ and ‘naughty’. T-shirts go with t-shirts, shirts with shirts, and socks with socks. You get the drift. Keeps the stacking simple and easy to access… seeing as how he found it easier to pick up off the floor than from the cupboard?

You are not allowed to snoop around his cupboard or drawers. I know, I know… it’s tempting. But it’s also what your mother does in your room, and you hate that.

PC monitors, keyboards, and all the wiggly wiry things in between (and all over) them should be left alone. God forbid you short circuit something when you don’t even know how to switch the damn things on.

Absolutely no re-arranging furniture, even though Oprah’s episode on feng-shui tells you to.

Step 3 – The Verdict

Once you have spent every ounce of energy and passion going through HPS like an electric eel with your broom and duster, make yourself scarce before his lordship returns. You don’t wanna be around to face the wrath, given that you just messed with his stuff. And men can be rather protective of their territories.

Rush home, think of what food offering you can next make to appeal to his good senses, and sulk childishly when your mother asks you to clean your room. You like your space the way it is just fine, thanks.

Wait anxiously for the phone call that will either scream obscenities at you for daring to jostle the calm of his dust collection, or thank you profusely in appreciation of your astounding womanly ways.

Start to cry like a baby maggot when the phone call never happens, because he’s too annoyed at you to speak. Call him things in your head – insensitive lout and ungrateful child are just a few names of choice.

Let slow realization dawn that he is allowed to be annoyed. You have just invaded HPS and corrupted its sleeping mounds of dust with your unwelcome hygiene. You deserve to die.

Call him and apologize. Promise furtively to never touch his belongings (the INANIMATE ONES, perv) again. Let him know that regardless of your disobedient, inconsiderate attempt to clean HPS, he is the master of his domain. It was the broom, you lie. It has hypnotic power and made you do its bidding.

Cheer up that he is annoyed but slightly appreciative nevertheless. Not thrilled… because that will only encourage you, but he is obliged to be thankful that he can breathe clean air once more.

Step 4 – Proceed to think up other new and exciting ways to irritate him.

Soon available at a blogpost near you.

I have been Diaspora-ed

2008-12-03T10:28:00.000-08:00

Adoh I'm rather chuffed men. What a nice way to end a ridiculously long day wasting time on making someone's defunct product look like the next best thing to Michael Bublé.

The all-witty Rhythmic Diaspora has chosen me for his blog recommendation list. Aney now that just makes a gurl want to cry in joy, meyah. Just think... ME. Little ol' me is a LISTED blogger (or bogger as mum insists - in all seriousness too).

Yes, ye who knoweth me, I'm not so little. It's called a metaphor. Look it up. Can we get back to my accolades now please?

So RD is by far my favourite read (I'm not just saying that coz I've made his list, either). That makes the honour ten times grander. Tra la la and skippety doo dah day. Even the cat is meowing in admiration. The dog tried too, but he gave up and ate a celebration biscuit instead.

Thank you RD. You have made the right choice. I will make you proud.

Whee.

Budget Spa

2008-11-23T22:00:00.002-08:00

Consider that feeling of utter relaxation you get when you visit a spa and have all your worldly cares whisked away for a few gorgeous hours. Or the sensations of pure peace and sanctity that come with the ambience and dead silence that a spa affords. Now consider the possibility of having all that stress-free bliss for free. Yes you heard me. FREE. No breaking the bank to feel good.

What if I told you that there is such a thing as the ‘spa experience’ that doesn’t cost a cent? What if I also told you that it’s just two minutes (or less) away from where you’re seated right now?

Didn’t think there’d ever be such a thing eh? Hah, I say.

Ladies and Gentlegerms, I give to you my very own domestic version of the ultimate relaxation hotspot (CUE DRUMROLL)– The Bathroom.

La toilette, to be precise and posh if you must.

Oh for heaven’s sake stop gasping like an asphyxiating chicken. What, you don’t think the toilet could ever measure up to the luxuries of the spa? You’re such a snob.

I, for one, proudly maintain that no spa in the world can give me a better feeling than my loo does. The absolute silence of no other presence in the room other than yourself and your thoughts, the sheer privacy and fact that no one will dare disturb you while you’re in there are just the surface of the spa-features that a solid toilet offers. And then there’s the release…

I dare you to tell me that the act of peeing or pooing doesn’t give you a sense of utopian satisfaction. Especially when you’ve had a particularly busy day with little time for visiting the john, and therefore have had to hold up for a whole. It doesn’t matter, really, whether you have day-old urine fermenting in your bladder or whether it’s a sudden urge that’s developed… the fabulous feeling of letting it go in the comfort of a secluded little toilet can match no other. I swear I could write a poem about it.

I usually like to take care of my physical business and then instead of rushing out like so many others do, I sit and dwell. Dwell in the serenity and privacy. Dwell in the few stolen moments I have to only myself, where I know I am safe from eyes or ears for as long as I like while I just steep myself in the meditational calm of it all. Of course I’d flush first, given that poo smell is anything but aromatherapy, unless you’re into that kind of thing. Sometimes if I feel like an extra bit of self-TLC I’ll sniff at a bar of soap that’s conveniently resting by the sink or spritz some jasmine air freshener around. Instant transcendence.

I know quite a few acquaintances in the ad industry who swear by the toilet when it comes to their work. No, I did not mean it as a witty metaphor to explain how shitty creative ideas can be, although come to think of it, I could have. But not right now. I meant the toilet being our best friend during brainstorming. It’s either to do with the fact that most of us are generally on our way to early mental retardation, or we’ve just hit on a secret that no one else knows about. I kid you not…some of my best ideas come when I’m sitting on the throne. I don’t know why that is… I’m guessing it’s the total, utter calm of the place that allows my thoughts to focus rather than stray to a number of distractions like how many paperclips I have in my desk drawer.

Ask anyone I work with who knows me well enough. LD can give you a clue about that. She knows that when she sees me whizzing past her towards the office loo, I’ll usually come out having had an epiphany in there. She’s usually the first person to hear my bathroom brainwaves, and she’ll tell you they’re good. Sometimes bordering on genius. And all because I took the time to pee on it.

I would go on, but I won’t, seeing as how I’m sure I’ve aroused your curiosity about this remarkable concept. I would suggest you give it a try, when you next feel stressed out with life and just need to give yourself a break – no pun intended. Go… find yourself a commoded cubicle. Close the door and in doing so, everything else out. Sit in it. Close your eyes. Let go. Breaaaathe. In no time you’ll forget you ever had a headache, or pain wherever else. You’ll smile. You will find yourself.
The best thing is… you didn’t have to open your wallet for the experience.

I need to take your leave now. I have a spa appointment. Await a happier me.

WOOF!!

2008-11-19T21:08:00.000-08:00

So, this is a project I'm doing in partnership with the boyfwend, who's been sweet enough to pamper my whims. Why not give it a go?

Or visit this website.

So Have I.

2008-11-15T21:40:00.000-08:00

Here, I also have done things, ah. Just because nobody officially asked me to share, doesn't mean I'm not going to.

Cue trumpet fanfare.

Have I ever...

Eaten shit. I was too small to know, but I did. It was mine, which I suppose makes it slightly more justifiable. I am told that I looked fairly pleased too.

Had a pet monkey. By the name of 'Kiri', thanks to her albino persona i.e. fully white fur. (Not captured or ever caged, please note. She turned up one day and ended up sticking around till she died of old but satisfied age) She hated my guts coz I got tasty treats and all she had were the same old fruits. She'd wait for mum to leave the room before stealing my food and pulling my hair on her way back to unreachable heights with her loot.

Had the flesh of my back bitten off by my (then small) brother and had that followed by the flesh on my foot being chomped off by his pet deranged demon dog ten years later. Both times because I changed the channel while sibling was watching TV. We're a one-of-a-kind family.

Written letters to the tooth fairy and Santa, begging for enough money to help me rule the world, and flying powder to escape the hands of the CID and my parents.

Had my leotard rip and expose my (then wrinkle-free) ass to the audience while performing on public stage.

Had the zip of a very tight skirt rip open and expose my thonged bottom as I bent down to pick up a fallen phone card in the middle of Pettah, and then had the same thing happen as I demonstrated the incident to my colleagues back in the office lunchroom. Much mirth was shared, except by me. Both at Pettah and in office.

Got piss drunk at a company cocktail and told the Chairman of a large conglomerate that I love him and I'm sleepy, whilst clinging onto his coat sleeve.

Farted loud and long in front of a Chairman of a large bank in the middle of photographing him for the bank's Annual Report. To smartly cover it up, I looked out of a nearby window at the Colombo harbour and serenely said " Oh look... ships." The only other person in the room was the photographer who managed, in between shaking himself and his tripod in fits of laughter, to capture the Chairman's facial reaction to my flatulence.

Had the two previous incidents happen with two brothers who happened to be the Chairmen in question. It must have been the luck of their family.

Farted loud and long in the middle of an intimate moment with my boyfriend. My innards are the stuff of legends, I tell you.

Been dumped and left on a roadside, crying my heart out and then having hailed a trishaw to take me home, wailed and aired my grievances to the poor trishaw guy without telling him where home was. We rode around the streets of Colombo for quite some time, with me bawling piteously and asking Trishaw Dude why all men are scum, and poor TD looking perplexed at not being able to get a word in edgewise and ask for venue instructions or what 'scum' was.

Performed a comic impersonation of my grandmother's celebrity neighbour outside my grandparents house, only to realize that my family was not laughing at my fine display of talent and wit, but at the fact that the neighbour was actually standing right behind me with a stony expression on her face. Ahem.

Haughtily delivered an hour-long presentation, showing off my business sense to a board of leering men who I presumed were chauvinists and thought I was not up to the task, only to sit down snootily at the end of the presentation and have a Director shyly lean over and inform me that my trouser zip was down through the entire thing.

Not been able to control my bladder and peed in the middle of performance on public stage and had little rivulets of urine run merrily down my stockinged legs. But apparently nobody had seen it, so SHHHH...

Found a bunch of boys throwing stones at a poor little calf who was tied to a fence, and stoned the boys back until their mothers came out to scream at me. I, of course, did the ladylike thing and screamed back and threw stones at them too. And then ran away from an approaching police officer.

Fallen into an 8-foot manhole in the night during a power-cut, not been discovered for a while till I waved my credit card in the air (or the street above me, as the case would seem), been hauled out by some passing trishaw men and needed 12 stitches to sew back my exposed chin and jaw that I hit on the way down the hole.

Had a bad allergic reaction to some food during a wedding, been rushed to the Durdens ER and been drunk enough to hit on the doctor while he injected me with medication and then thrown up on him.

Had a talking cat. She'd say 'aiyyo', 'aney', 'no', 'me' and 'mummy'.

Had too many 'have I ever' stories to put down here. But I have to do the considerate thing and stop for the sake of preserving my readership and my good name.... if I have one left.

If you haven't already been a part of this, then I tag YOU.

Nevah Evah

2008-11-13T21:40:00.002-08:00

I’ve tagged myself. Pathetic, yes, but Lady D was feeling magnanimous and diplomatic, so she went and put up an ‘open tag ‘ policy, so here goes.

I have never :

Told my parents I love them without squirming in embarrassment and wanting to heave afterwards. It’s also pretty darn strange AND comforting to know I’m not the only one on the blogosphere to have never done this.

Had surgery, which I find highly unfair because I think lying on bed for weeks and having people wait on you and bring you flowers is kinda cool.

Maintained my calm at an animal’s death. I can outdo Shakespearean tragedy with my wails and weeps when it happens.

Been really, truly, couldn’t-wish-for-more happy. Bloody elusive bugger, this Joy fellow….

Thought I was normal. Or even close to it.

Been able to figure out which one of my many faces and personas is the real me. And my loved ones think THEY’RE confused…

Stuck to one thing. I think that has something to do with the previous point.

Found my true passion. I envy those who know what they were meant to do and go on to make it the career of a lifetime. I haven’t quite clinched that one yet….

Done drugs. But maybe that’s because I’m naturally quite high.

Believed in the governments of Sri Lanka.

Mastered the art of keeping my mouth shut. You probably already know this. It’s a painful experience.

Liked my neck. It looks like the kind you find on a plucked chicken, all wrinkly and thin. You didn’t need to know this.

Cheated on or dumped anyone. Wait… no… there was that one time that I broke off with my first boyfriend when I was 14 coz he tried to kiss me and I thought that was sick. Does that count?

Gone through a week without a dramatic event worth telling my future grandchildren about. If I have future grandchildren.

Eaten dragon-fruit. But I’m tempted.

Been able to control my bladder at the most inconvenient times.

Been able to tread water. You should see me…. like a drowning rat, huffing and puffing to keep my head above water without sinking like the Titanic.

Understood women.

Okay, okay. I’ll stop before you change sites. Jeez.
I am tagging The Doc and Gutterflower. And anyone else who wants to give it a go.

A Friendly Blog

2008-11-13T20:54:00.002-08:00

I haven’t been blogging for a while. I suppose you’ve noticed. Or am I just not that important enough… sniff?

Anyhoos, hallo hallo. Been some time no? Sorry child. I have been so busy no meya…. with the show and all. (Sound of Music… did you watch it? You didn’t? Bastard.) Now that it’s over, I am suffering the most heinous case of withdrawal syndrome. Didn’t think I would, given that the whole experience involved…dare I say it… children. But I have to admit they grew on me. Shockingly. As did the wonderfully quirky bunch of girls I had the pleasure of sharing a dressing room with. Aiyo I miss the excited babble and drama in that room, men. I’ve never been in a production that has had this much unity and camaraderie across the entire cast… there’s always been the ‘clique’ factor happening… until now. It was quite nice to get along with everyone for a change and have nothing but laughs with each other. Look ma, I made new friends.

Which brings me to the post of the day. The Pal Factor. And this one's gonna be long, so brace yourselves darlings.

Everybody and their next door neighbour has one. Big ones, small ones, clingy ones, weird ones, ones who live to please you, ones you live to please… what’s life without a friend? They know you at your very worst and they still believe in you.

Me…. I’ve never been one for having many friends. Never did. In school I was always the odd nut job who skulked around in the recesses of a classroom while the others compared boyfriends and nail polish colours. I didn’t see the point, and preferred the company of my multiple personalities to the superficial ninny-talk I often eavesdropped into. I still can’t do the socialite thing and smooch every face I see and bump hips like I see it done around me. I’m not into that kind of friendship… the shallow variety that competes for the best outfit and shrieks ‘hey gurlfriend’ one second and ‘bitch’ the next. I prefer the brand of friend that I can share whatever silly notion of the day I have with, and the kind that I can not see for a decade and still be able to pick up where we left off without any signs of awkwardness. I like the kind of people who don’t balk when I speak my mind, and who appreciate me for who I am. Obviously, that means I don’t have that big a bunch of homies. Just a choice few, each more eccentric than the other, but who I’d happily give my life for should they ever need me. I can count them with my ten fingers, but each of them makes up for a whole army of people. I'm dedicating this post to the human pals in my life. The four-legged ones deserve an entire post to themselves, which I will save for later.

I’ve learnt along the way by clique-watching that a true friend is a rare thing to find. Everyone bonds for reasons beyond just liking each other’s personalities and the value they add to yours. Think about it… if you were to lose your job, you house, your family and be sent to jail, which one of your ‘friends’ would come bail you out or even come visit? Would YOU go visit a chum who’s been convicted of murder? It’s tough innit… suddenly the person we thought was good for us and complimented our social status no longer plays by the same rules, and is automatically a good candidate for the almighty boot. More often than not we tend to keep friends for more convenient purposes, such as getting something out of them. Don’t ‘tsk’ at me… you know you do it too. We’re all quite excited to have the odd contact in our lives that we go out of our way to get close to, just because later on, should we ever need their pull, we play the ‘connections’ trump card. If they can be of no help or emotional support to us, then they’re not worth our time, and they belong to the ‘acquaintance’ category and not the friend one. I hate that.

Honestly. It feels like I’m taking advantage of someone and for that reason even when I do need help, I don’t like asking my friends for it. Not that they wouldn’t come rushing to my aid if I ever called for it, but I usually like to take the hard route and call up general suppliers off the yellow pages and follow the rules instead of use someone I know and care for. It’s not pride or anything, so don’t get me wrong. I appreciate help just as much as the beggar on the street does when you give him your wallet, but I don’t like requesting it from people I call my friends, unless it comes voluntarily. I have the same issues with family too. Lord knows my family is pretty much like the mafia – everybody is someone and the connections I have could humble a politician, but I categorically refuse to ever go to them for assistance on things I should be doing myself. Call it obstinacy, but I just don’t, can’t and won’t go to the people I care about for anything more than their company.

And what company it is. The tiny bunch of people I am honoured to call my true pals are individually some of the craziest, most intriguing people you could ever meet, with life-stories that could inspire the next Harry Potter collection. They’re scattered all over the place, so there’re very few times in an year that we do meet each other, but when we do…. boy oh boy… All it takes is a coffee and a chair and I end up having the time of my life.

It’s not always fun and games either. There’s something inexplicably amazing about the emotional connections you feel with true friends, that can propel you sky high when you feel at your lowest. It’s a nice feeling… to know someone truly cares and you don’t have to feel obligated in return. I’ve had the luck of experiencing it first hand, when I bawled my brains out over a break-up to a male friend I’m especially fond of, and within minutes an entire troupe of guy buddies had arrived from far and wide on his call just to hold my hand and watch me cry. They even drove me around town endlessly with no venue goal until I’d calmed down enough to go home and rest. These are the very friends who now live all over the world and who I know I’ll get a call at 3 am from if I so much as change my FaceBook status message, just to find out what’s up. That sort of attention and concern is rather nice, to say the least.

I have another extension to that bunch, who is my sounding board at any given time. The intellectual genius that she is (and I know she’s reading this because she said she likes my blog. :P), she always makes me feel like I make splendid sense, even when I know I don’t. She’s heard the worst confessions and shared the most horrible thoughts back, and we still manage to understand each other and giggle over it. To her special magic I add another two females who make it their duty to speak their minds, no matter how harsh the opinion. They won’t so much as blink between tongue lashings when they feel I am deserving of it. Only true friends would be that honest and not make me hate them for it.

Then there’s my retarded group of compatriots from the old office. A more united, crazier, lovelier bunch I have yet to meet. We knew nothing about each other when we first met, and it’s only been a couple of years at most but it seems like a lifetime… like we were there at each other’s birth. Granted, they’re closer to each other than they are to me since I was their ‘boss’, but it didn’t stop us from sharing the wildest times with each other and laughing together till we peed. So much so that I have become oddly, even possessively, fond of that crowd… almost feeling maternal and responsible for their lives. I need to see them happy, or I feel I’ve failed them. Even with the age differences, designation differences and professional relationships, I know I’d swim the seven seas for them and they for me should the time come. I managed to bring one of them over to the current office too (and I know SHE’S reading this as well. ;))… if I hadn’t I’d have died by now in the doldrums of the present office culture. I do enjoy the opportunity to often articulate the most horrible thoughts out to her and have her do the same, and not be judged for it. It’s a nice thing to know someone has your back through thick and thin. Even though you’re a first class weirdo.

Last but never the least there is the ultimate top spot in the friend’s list – the best friend. The usual norm is to have a bestie who’s been with you from the school ages and who’s giggled with you over sharing knickers and handbags. I do have one or two of those (close friends from school, not mutual panties and bags), but I took them out of the best friend section some time ago. Not that they’re not the coolest girls around and the comfort factor with them is glorious, ESPECIALLY when we giggle over common undies, but the definition of a TRUE best friend has changed drastically as of late. It’s an entirely different thing altogether from the usual close friend. It’s a mate you share more than common interests and war stories with, or even a history for that matter. To me, a best friend has become someone you just cannot imagine life without, and someone who’s become such an integral part of your life that without that person, you feel incomplete and useless. Someone you can feel elated about simply breathing at.

As my luck may have it, the one person I now do class as my best friend also happens to be the guy I date. I don’t know if that complicates things because if one fails, then the other surely will too. I know, I know… true love and friendship are both unconditional, but you have to accept the fact that one affects the other, however much you deny it. He has seen me at my very worst, and allowed himself to be used and taken for granted when any other man would have told me to go fly that kite that ol’ uncle Charlie built.… and he has held my hand through it all without flinching. He knows me at times that I don’t know myself and can read my thoughts long before I think them. In the few years I’ve known him he has willingly become my rock, my comfort zone, my punching bag, my comic relief, my point of pleasure, both my cause for nightmare as well as my dream and my hope.

I’m so gooey today. But that’s what friends do to you. Real friends.

And there it is, if you’ve managed to read this far. A snapshot of the nutters I am proud to call my one constant and link to sanity in this disastrous world we live in.

Friends are such a good thing, no?

In Memory of my Ugly Duckling

2008-09-22T04:09:00.000-07:00

This rather (extremely) long post is dedicated to a very special life that touched every other one that crossed its path.

People who know me well enough are also as familiar with my grandmother’s dog Soththi; better known by her full name – Soththi Upalilaage Monalisa Katuballi. Don’t laugh. Both she and my grandmother took the name very seriously.

My very first meeting with Soththi was quite accidental and completely unceremonious. I was on my way to school when I saw a van in front go over a tiny shivering brown blob on the road. The blob was so small and still that it managed to escape the van’s tyres by being fortunately positioned right in the centre of the lane. I would have dismissed it for a piece of cloth, had not I suddenly spied two ears peeking up from somewhere on its moving surface.

Needless to say I had to shriek, stop the car and cause the panicked squealing of several tyres behind me. Just inches away from the quivering mass on the road, that turned out to be some sort of enlarged rat. On closer inspection, the mass turned out to be an actual DOG… still in puppy mode, albeit a rather ugly one. It was a bit uncomfortable to behold. Puppies are by default cute furry lumps of happy tails and drooly pink tongues. This one was…well…

The first thing you saw was its ribcage, which was causing all the shaking and shivering. With each feeble breath heaved, those ribs would stick out to allow counting. The rest of it was just as emaciated and covered in mange. Like a CSR advertisement for Somalia. A gnarly rat-like tail stuck out of one end of this little bag of bones, whilst on the other end panted the most hideous face you ever saw on any creature, let alone a pup. Sunken cheeks, sunken eyes and a black raisin nose. But the one feature that took the cake (or put you off the cake, as the case seemed) was its pair of ears. Huge cavernous bat ears that stuck straight up out of the top of a nearly-bald thimble head, invoking thoughts of vampires and demons.

See what I mean? Ugly as sin. But ugly never deters me, especially (no…wait… ONLY) when it comes to animals. A pup is a pup, and one that had just narrowly escaped death warranted my concern. There was no way I was going to leave this blob to die. I had to pick it up.
Picking up a half-dead, really horrible looking, diseased animal off the streets is one thing. Taking it to school is a complete other, because there was no where else I COULD take it at that point. I had to stuff the creature into my schoolbag to sneak it past the old but always-suspicious security guard at the gate, and then figure out where to PUT it for an entire school day. Keeping it in the bag wouldn’t do at all, given how piss smell never completely leaves books and a dog never stays still. My solution came in the form of my classroom desk. Quite conveniently, school desks are produced with a circular hole on their top-left surface… no doubt an innovation designed to provide ventilation to puppies being kept inside. I lined the cavity of my desk with sheets of paper and gingerly placed the now whimpering pup inside. It immediately blessed the desk with a puddle of pee before curling up and sleeping on the piss. Lovely.

The other students were enthralled. In the history of their schooling, no one had put a dog into a desk before. I was an instant hit as the weird kid. They kept lifting the lid of the desk every two seconds to gape and say ‘anaaaa’ in those hateful shrieky voices that only girls are capable of, and to feed the animal a host of goodies, including highland packeted chocolate milk. Puppy and I were both rather overwhelmed, but happy that we were getting sufficient attention. A few hours into the day and my Biology teacher decided to give us a test. This meant total silence, save the droning whir of the ceiling fan as we all bit our lips and tried not to cheat. Suddenly in the midst of the almost meditational calm of the exam, a long, high-pitched howl emanated from somewhere at the back of the classroom. My desk, to be exact. My feeble attempts to convince the Bio teacher that I was the howler were useless. She swept up to me and demanded I open the desk and show her its contents. Her admonishing glare turned into a stare, which then turned into something akin of a coronary attack. Puppy and I were immediately banished, despite the cacophony of ‘aney miss… pau miss’ coming from all the other desks around me. She told me I could only come back once I’d gotten rid of ‘that disgusting thing’. And so we trudged off into the horizon of the school complex, slighted… me struggling not to retort loudly on animal rights and the puppy struggling to piss out the overdose of chocolate milk.

I’ve always been proud of my PR skills and now I’m convinced that my schooling days honed that talent. Never more so than that afternoon when I debated, beseeched and extorted my way into getting the school’s hostel mistress to allow me the temporary use of her facilities for the pup. She was a cat-mad lady, and housed several of her pregnant and newly-birthed rescuees in a row of wooden kennels she’d built behind one of the hostel buildings as a ‘feline maternity ward’ of sorts. If there’s one place a weakened dog should never be kept, it’s in the immediate vicinity of a group of hormonal female cats. But the place would have to do for the time being, and puppy was successfully installed in a vacant cage, under the promise that it would be taken away by end of day. That whole day, I spent my time in class like a panicked mother on her kid’s first day in school. Every yelp, howl and whine sent me running back to the cage in distress, convinced that the fellow was about to meet its maker at the claws of a fellow patient. I soon learnt that puppy had cunningly figured this out and was using its vocal skills to its advantage.
By end of day I still hadn’t figured out what to do with the dog. No one in class or in any other was willing to take it home. My mother, I knew, would kick me out of the house if I took it back with me. I HAD to find it a home. Luckily, at the very last second before absolute helplessness set in, a younger student said she’d gladly take it home, but only if I gave her a ride. I gladly agreed, and we put puppy in a box and proceeded to her house.

One hour later Puppy and I were on our way back, with the girl having been grounded by her mother for even THINKING of bringing a creature that ugly into the house. Even I got a shout for putting nonsense into her daughter’s head. We now truly had nowhere to go. In absolute desperation we turned to the one couple I figured we’d stand a chance with – my grandparents. I knew they didn’t have the heart to say no to something like this.
…

“No”, bellowed my grandfather. “Absolutely NOT”. He was as black as thunder and refusing to consider any of my pleas. “What IS that? Is that a DOG?” asked a bewildered grandmother. It took me a good few hours to convince them to house the pup temporarily… until I find it a permanent home. After some time they reluctantly agreed. “Only for three days. You can please take it away then”, said the thunder.

Three days later, like a prayer, there was a furious voice on my phone receiver that had to be kept a foot away from my ear lest I go deaf. The dog would be OUT on the streets if it wasn’t collected immediately. A foster family had been found, I lied. They would be able to accommodate doggy only in a week’s time because they were in the middle of shifting, I said. Man, I thought…. I should go into writing fiction. In a week, the dog and its stinky poo would be out of my grandparents’ hair, I promised.

I avoided them like the plague for the next three weeks. The phone calls and verbal abuse became less and less frequent, progressively replaced by daily chats on what funny little canine stunt had been performed that day. It was a she, I found out. She now had a name. Soththi Upalilaage Monalisa Katubelli a.k.a Soththi. The more ironic thing was that she’d been christened so by my grandfather, who was also suddenly waking up at 6 am every morning to warm her milk and boil her breakfast beef.

A few weeks hence and Soththi had been securely (and victoriously) installed in the household and one couldn’t dare to even think of taking her away. It had been discovered that she had black birthmarks on her tongue and inside the padding of her paws. According to local belief, they were signs of luck; and you couldn’t find a luckier pup than Soththi. The constant cooing and cuddling she got at the hands of my animal-mad grandmother resulted in quite a spoilt pup. She was fed the best cuts of meat… ice creams for dessert… biscuits and milk at the smallest of whimpers. She had a ‘magic carpet’- the rubber mat in front of the kitchen fridge, where she’d sit and woof out snack orders. As if by magic, these would instantly appear at her paws. All of a sudden, the floor was no place for such a pweshuss darling, and my grandfather’s side of the bed was hastily evacuated for her sake. He’d have to sleep elsewhere or learn to share the pillow. In no time she’d fattened out considerably and her ratty-bat looks were soon replaced by quite a good looking silky golden coat, gentle warm brown eyes and a constant smile. That tail of hers couldn’t stop wagging. By all rights, with the kind of upbringing she had, Soththi should have grown into one of those Colombo 7 pampered pooches that did nothing but sigh all day. By all rights. But she wasn’t one of those dogs. She was mad.

By mad I mean completely, utterly, totally batty to the bone… a nutcase of a dog on a permanent sugar high. This was a dog to which one never merely threw a ball. Rather, the ball would be thrown up in the air, and she’d jump beside it… the game was to see who could go higher- dog or ball. She also had a routine demonstration of lunacy. Visitors to the house were treated to about fifteen minutes of being pounced on from every angle by a ridiculously thrilled dog, followed by another 15 minute display of ‘running in circles’ around the living room. Then she’d leap onto EVERY SINGLE PIECE OF FURNITURE in the hall like a computer game and end up on the one nearest to you, before offering her stomach for scratching. Woe betide he who scratcheth Soththi… he’d be stuck doing it until the end of the visit, with a bit of rump scratching added as bonus. When she was sterilized, the vet advised my grandparents to be gentle when handling her and to allow her the comfortable rest she needed, for she would be in too much pain to be moved for a couple of days. An hour after they’d brought her home and ever-so carefully laid her out on pillows to sleep on, they found her scaling the garden walls trying to catch squirrels. That was Soththi.

Her madness never receded one bit through the 12 years that she lit up that household. She hadn’t a care in the world and she made damn sure you didn’t either when you were with her. The gloomiest of days would brighten up instantly with one goofy smile and a pounce-hug from her. That dog knew just how lucky she was, and she made sure she showed her gratitude to us every single moment. She was more than a dog – she was a child. She had her own bed custom made, her collection of collars – one for every occasion and a myriad of treats at any given time. She was referred to as ‘my little Kella’ by my grandfather, the very man who objected to her existence at the beginning. He’d submit to her every whim at the drop of a hat, or a paw as the case would seem. He spent the last two years travelling to and from veterinary clinics, having Soththi treated for cataracts and lumps. But that still didn’t deter her from going happy-berserk whenever someone so much as smiled in her direction. No family gathering would end without at least half an hour’s reports on the dog’s latest activity. Through the years, she’d almost as good as become my grandparents’ reason to live.

A week ago, Soththi pounced across the universe to doggy heaven, leaving heavy hearts and an empty miniature bed behind. It will be some time before her foster parents get over her demise… I doubt they ever actually will. You couldn’t, if you knew the wonderful, funny little ugly duckling that was Soththi Upalilaage Monalisa Katubelli.

I shall miss her.

Afraid? Me?

2008-09-06T05:50:00.000-07:00

Aney now see what that Divine woman has gone and done...inspired me with a post subject and made me feel all guilty for stealing her original idea. Never mind... I'm Sri Lankan and I watch Sirasa. Plagiarism is in my blood. But for what its worth:

Disclaimer - the topic of this post was somebody else's idea.

And now, on to all those little things that spook me out. I'm afraid...

... of being boring.

... of the high possibility of never being completely independent and free of obligation.

... of waking up one morning and realizing I made a mistake. A big one.

... of never feeling truly happy.

... of material poverty.

... of my own paranoia.

... of the ocean. (Bet ya didn't know that, eh?)

... of losing my ability to dance.

... of the dark.

... to trust.

... of not finding my passion in life.

... of losing my passion FOR life.

... of facing this judgmental world as the real me.

... of turning into my mother.

... of dying before the world sees me or I see the world.

One More and Counting....

2008-09-01T09:01:00.000-07:00

Yah, it's been a while. Three weeks of non-blog living, four eye-opening work experiences, two lumps of dog poo on my bedroom floor and one massive case of upper respiratory tract infection long, in fact.

And now I'm suddenly one year older. Whoop de doo.

Suddenly, singing happy birthday just seems redundant, y'know? After 29 years of it, it starts to get a bit depressing. No more toys for birthday presents (unless someone has a big enough heart to get me a dildo or something), no more theme party ware, no more musical chairs and passing the cushion. The only music-chair combination nowadays is when I fart after dinner and the only cushion passed around is that kind with the hole in the middle. 29, man.... I'm one year away from officially becoming an 'auntie' in my own head. Sucky.
I voiced my misery on Sunday at rehearsals to a fellow cast member and she laughed, calling me silly. She's 19. She does not understand my ire and deserves to die because her stomach area still looks like a friggin' unused skating rink. My stomach, on the other hand, has a name of its own thanks to its growing personality. The rest of me is too darn ugly to name at all. 'Cept my boobs. Those are still looking good, thank god. I think they want to wait till I hit 40 before falling apart like the rest of my... um... Rubenesque self.

SO yeah. I'm havin' a birthday. To mark it, here's a list of 29 things about me being 29 that you probably had no idea about. Lucky for you, I'm suddenly in the mood to share...

I still live with my mother. Despite several attempts to claim my right to absolute independence, I still come home to someone else's house and am still fighting over what I wear, how I speak, what time I come home and how I keep the room I sleep in. You'd think that after 29 years they'd give up on things like that. But no. Apparently mothers can sustain their ways for far longer. I had hoped that by this birthday at least I'd be enjoying solitude in my own place, but it looks like I have to wait till I die for that.
I think I've found the 'one'. My best friend and happy drug. Yay. I love him, and he's the only man on this entire planet who's made me rethink my policies on marriage. Someday, perhaps I'll get off my high horse and ensnare the poor sod into a lifetime commitment before he knows what's happening and has a chance to flee. Maybe after I've hit mid-life crisis, if I haven't already.
My hair's falling out. I'm putting it down to an age thing.
I still haven't found my calling. When I do find it (and the finances for it), I have the perfect bunch of people I want to work with. I hope my Imps stick around that long.
I can no longer gobble down infinite quantities of achcharu without succumbing to a bad tummy. This is depressing.
I am increasingly aware of how unnecessarily petty, judgemental and completely wrong my parents can be on many things. That's a very sad thing for any child to figure out at any age, but for all their best intentions, I've realized they are pretty flawed. I don't know if my observations give me strength to control my own life more or just weaken it further, given the faith I previously had in them.
I am no longer cool. I can't hang at nightclubs without yawning by 10pm, and I don't see the point in head banging. Help.
For the absolute first time in my entire life, I actually hate some people. I mean really, really, wish-you-were-dead kinda hate. Eek.
From a tomboy who couldn't fathom the virtues of lipstick, I'm suddenly this silly bimbo who actually understands the importance of shoes and handbags and I can't stop buying them. It is both worrying and exhilarating. I used to have just a few blacks and browns that would go with everything, but now I have pinks and greens in an assortment of heels and strap patterns. I still don't know why, though. This I'll figure out by 30.
I have mastered the art of talking to my cat. We understand each other purrfectly now.
I am becoming increasingly bad with punning on words.
My memory takes a trip now and then. There are the mildly amusing times when I can't remember a name or number. Then there are the alarming occasions when that name and number are my own.
I've started disapproving of the youth and their wild ways. Its bad enough that I call them youth. Lately, I've caught myself 'tsk tsk'ing at many a radical behaviour (considered normal behaviour nowadays) quite a number of times before hitting my head into a wall to keep myself from becoming like one of those archaic old ladies who serve you in school canteens.
My ass is a thing of the past. Oh wait... I already covered that subject. See what I meant about memory?
I used to have the time, patience and frame of mind to get through a good book in two days. Now I take a whole month to leaf through the Hi! magazine.
I read the Hi! magazine. If that's not a sign of aging, then I don't know what is.
I still adore cartoons and teen flicks. I can sit through an entire Disney marathon, and still fantasize about the prince in the Little Mermaid. He's pretty damn cute. It's nice to know that some immaturities will always remain unchanged.
My waist size is no longer worth my pride and I am still in denial about it. I used to be a 23-inch. If I told you what it is now, I'd have to kill you. I promise myself that I will return to my young, slim self someday soon, as soon as I managed to complete that climb up the stairs to the gym after contemplating it with a mars bar. Meanwhile, I buy kurtas and kaftans to keep my body comfortable.
I just admitted to wearing kaftans. That is the epitome of old-aunty clothing and I had no qualms about telling the entire blogosphere. Egads. Time to panic.
I have attempted suicide twice in my lifetime and lived to tell about it. One thing good about this ageing thing.... I'm now old enough to know better.
Buying furniture and linen suddenly makes sense.
My performing arts skills have come along nicely, all on their own. I am finding out at age 29 that I can actually now sing pleasantly enough to not empty a room at the speed of light thanks to my voice growing deeper and stronger over time. Shah. And whether it's a good thing or not, my increasing mental detachment from reality (they call it senility, do they?) has helped my acting skills by leaps and bounds.
Its becoming more and more pathetic to say I lived in the eighties and set a bunch of kids off into a fit of sniggers.
Everyone I know is married, divorced, has kids, an alcohol addiction or is dead.
One of the afore-mentioned divorcées came to me recently and squeaked " How are you Miss? Remember me, Miss? You taught me English in grade 6!" Then I realized how old I was.
I can actually diagnose my own illnesses and say the names of various medicines without mis-pronunciation. Only the aged are that capable and this worries me.
People come to me for advice. Me. For advice. They listen, too.
I think I used to be a girl worth looking at, judging from the number of school boys who'd pay my brother off to get some info on me. I used to get a few stares, whistles and phone calls from fellows who'd send my father flying towards his air-gun and heart medication. Now when I eyeball cute guys, I have to slap myself for acting like a pedophile and stop them running away from the creepy old lady. And only the rotting wooden handle of the air gun remains... with spiders hatching eggs inside it.
When I try to skip rope, I piss myself.

There you go. Happy birthday to me.

Mental Things

2008-08-08T04:44:00.000-07:00

I've been wondering and pondering alot today, and I thought I'd share some of those musings with whoever is bored enough to read my blog.

To demonstrate just how wickedly expert my mind can be at branching out into a hundred million directions in the space of a moment -

India is going to encourage people to start eating rat meat, says the Island paper. Given the rising cost of basic food in SL, maybe Mr. Chinthanaya can add that into his list of 'things to make my people do' too. But that would mean we'd have to catch 99% of parliament and eat them. I don't think Mervin Silva would taste that good.

I love a good poo. It's like exercise. There's something so... so... SATISFYING is dispersing of that nice big roll of faeces and having your stomach relax the warm empty sensations it leaves behind. I wonder if they couldn't turn that entire process into a form of meditation. In fact, some of my most peaceful and happy moments have been on the throne in my loo.

Heard some folklore in passing which suggested that Ravana (depicted in the Ramayana as the 'demon' king of ancient Lanka) is buried in the forests behind the Sgirya rock. Apparently disturbing the forest in any way will waken him and the battle between Hanuman and he will re-ignite once more. Hmmm... a war between a demon and a monkey... Has the Ramayana's author HEARD of Prabhakaran and Mahinda?

WHO out of you in this blogworld actually believes anything printed in the Daily News? You do? Dumb schmuck.

I'm learning to love myself and my body more. Obsessing over a pot belly that doesn't seem to care about my depression is a waste of my time. So in a bid to accept it, I have named it Wilbur, like the pig in Charlotte's Web. Wilbur and I are in therapy these days and learning to get along better.

If I was born male, would I be gay? I hope so, for the sake of my dress sense.

Why is Mervin Silva being let off the hook so obviously, and no one saying anything about it? His punishment is to be meted out by the Gods now???

I wish women in this country could move out on their own without having a husband first. I'm dying to have my own place and I can't because of my mother's failing heart at the respectability issues that will arise. 'Moral' society sucks.

Someone please advice me on how to go about setting up my own business. I'm at a point where work is starting to feel like work, and that's always a bad thing. I've already got a ready crew of people who've agreed to join me if I do go into biz on my own... but I'd need to buy machines and pay salaries.... and legalize stuff.

Sometimes I like to hold my piss in, just to see how strong my bladder and my willpower are. Now is one of those times.

Everyone should have a song. Something that speak for you and of you. Mine is an entire collection remix.

I had more thoughts to share, but work just landed on my desk, so they'll have to wait. You're free to go.

'Hic'ka

2008-08-04T04:28:00.001-07:00

It's Thursday. Our nation's glorious leader has decided to shut down Colombo city and host a 5-day gathering for the boys from the SAARC, where he and his fellow nincompoops will spin fictitious tales for the ignorant. There's no point in sticking around to witness it - mainly because, apart from the fact that His Lowness's shenanigans interest me not, I'm not allowed anywhere near the summit movements. The glorious leader must be savvy to my cunning plot to stand on the newly-vacated Glennie Street and throw rotten tomatoes at his passing bullet proof vehicle. Dang. My plans will have to wait for another opportune moment, and for now I think I will ensconce myself elsewhere.

Perhaps I'll traipse over to the Hikkaduwa Beach Fest. The boys at the Tourist Board have been raising their sarongs about it for about a month now, via the Real FM people. It sounds very exciting. Fleeing Colombites have been promised a week's worth of sun, sand and festivities that are costing just as much as the SAARC... of course I simply must attend and join in the party. And because I am cool and new-age, I shall henceforth refer to the place as 'Hikka' in the hopes that I fit in with the more initiated.

I've never been to Hikka. No I'm not ashamed of the fact, so stop gasping like they've announced another petrol hike. Yes, of course I'm excited about going. That is why I've bought myself a whole new wardrobe for my two-night expedition. Seven outfits in all because, really, you never know when you might need them. Batik shorts to look suitably Hikka Hippy-ish and some of those flowy dresses that will make me look like a romantic music video, where nubile beauties skip merrily in the shallow waters of the ocean in their wet flowy dresses and cavort about like easter bunnies. I can be an easter bunny. Most importantly, I should not forget a swimsuit. I have been told it's a MUST when on the beach. Two hours at Beverly Street and my mid-region convinces me that I can't wear a bikini, unless I want to drain the marijuana out of everyone's heads in Hikka. Woe is me. I shall have to resort to my faithful one-piece suit, practice sucking my tummy in and pray.

Fast forward to Thursday evening. I have driven to Hikka. Is this actually the acclaimed party central of Sri Lanka? It looks like a ghost town at Christmas time. Fairy lights everywhere but not a dog in sight. Oh wait... there's a dog. Where is everyone? Oh look... cops, telling me I can't park on the side of the road. I thought I'd left all that behind in Colombo. My hotel cannot accommodate my vehicle in its already full car-park, mutters the ancient security officer who is guarding it. I will have to park at the police station a couple of feet away and lug my bags in.

I am now in my hotel room (the one I spent the last three weeks fighting for, because everything in Hikka was booked up for the beachfest). What are those marks on the bed sheets? Oh lord, there are pubes on my pillow. Is that a pee stain on the toilet seat? And WHAT is that brown streak on the towel? Ew. This is not how I planned it. I do, however, have to applaud the Hotel for their honesty... at least they've kept everything white so I can actually SEE the smut marks left behind by the patrons of the past. Almost a show of pride, this. 'Look... see how many people have slept on this bed and pissed in this toilet. We are a truly popular enterprise.'

Joy.

An hour later and I am dressed in the first of my seven Hikka outfits and sitting at the Red Lobster in the hopes of having dinner. The table cloths here outdo my hotel bed sheets. I am curious to know if this is a Hikka tradition. Why is the waitress/proprietress carrying a child and serving food? It's a cute child, but his fingers are dirty... the ones he just dug his nose with.
My devilled beef and fried rice is quite good. I can eat all of it, if I don't think of the state of the kitchen I see below the stairs. I am full, and ready to hit the Drum festival.

Oh My Hikka Gawd. This drum festival is fabulous! Ravibandu, Jananath, Elephant's Foot, Vibrations, etc., etc. Just my cup if tea and I can't stop gyrating. Wonder why there are not many people here... except for that drunk fellow in front, jumping around like a rhesus monkey on LSD.
A femal rhesus impersonator has now joined... her little belt-cum-skirt leaves nothing to anyone's imagination, but she's too stoned to notice. Oh dear... please don't bend forward, honey. Wince. Never mind... the awesome drumming is worth this ludicrous exhibition of bad dancing and pink undies.

Time has lapsed once more and I have just woken up in my stained bed, four hours since I fell
asleep. I am suddenly bonding with this room... the whiteness of it all appeals to my lack-of-sleep-drugged mind. I don't mind the stains anymore... they have become familiar patches worth pondering over. The view of the ocean outside ain't half bad...

A quick wash in hot water that isn't hot, and into outfit no.2. Breakfast is being cleared so I grab at the last of the boiled eggs and sausages. Should I try the kiribath, I wonder. Nah... perhaps tomorrow. An hour hence and I am at the much-publicized Beach Market.

Er... where's the market? Oh... you mean that tent selling plastic toys... ok then. I feel like grumbling that the 2000 rupees I painfully handed over in exchange for a beach fest ticket is starting to look like a rip-off. Sigh... might as well trudge back to the hotel and sleep some m... oh heyyy... look at all those lovely bumpy bodies playing beach rugby... hmmm... hello there....

Gah. They're all barely fifteen. With bumpy faces. I am a Hikkaduwa paedophile. Gah.

More slodging in the sand, and I am now at the back entrance of my hotel that overlooks the sea. There is a group of kids playing about in the water and making loud screechy noises. By the looks of it and the sound of the sri-american accents, they are from one of those international schools... what other mothers would let their pre-teen daughters wear such scandalous bikinis that barely cover anything up? Look at them smoking and rubbing themselves up on those pre-pubescent boys like they've seen it done on VH1 and MTV. Tsk. But that water they're in looks inviting. If only I didn't have a phobia when it comes to the ocean.

But it's Hikka... and Hikka is said to be the beach of opportunity. I will dare the sea water. With the help and patience from a strong arm to cling onto like a drowning rat, my one-piece bathing suit and I are soon waist-deep in the waves and strangely enjoying the terrifying thrill of it. I can see those darned international school kids laughing at me... or are they laughing at my old-aunty swim suit and the paunch it fails to hide? I don't know, and I care little... I'm too busy being proud of myself for having stepped into the sea after 20 years. I'm even so bold as to reach into the sand and pick up pieces of dead coral that have washed up from the deep. Are those actualy pretty little fish swimming around my knees? Wow...

Another two hours and an outfit have passed. There is no better way to satisfy the hunger pangs developed from a sea bath than the Mama's buffet down the road. The spectacular spiciness is making me sweat and feel faint. Has there ever been a yummier rice and curry meal? Mmmm.... Mama, whoever she is, deserves a culinary medal.

A quick nap later and I am back at the beach market, where they are now showcasing the sand castle competitions and kite flying festivals. 6 kites in all. For some strange reason, alot of sand sculptures depict women with their bums up. Must be a Hikka beach boy thing. Again, nothing much to look at...except for that dog who is coolly raising its leg to one of the sandcastles. Back to the hotel room to change for dinner and the Beach Rave.

Dinner is delicious. I hope everyone knows about the superb food this Blue Shadow place has to offer... I have never tasted devilled crab this good and this meaty. The panic-ridden-ant-like waiter deserves a hefty tip, as does the cook. I could get used to the food in Hikka. On to the rave.

I have never been to a rave. I looked forward to this so much, and now I'm wondering why. I almost feel foolish for having dressed up in outfit number 5. Yes, it does make me fit in better with the other girls around, who all look like they've stepped out of a magazine. (the same magazine, by the way... since all of them seem to be wearing the same thing, like little clone-dolls). What is this terrible sound, ah? Is this what they call trance music? Where's the music part of it? Thump thump thump thud. Repeat twenty gazillion times over. I don't see how it's making everyone wiggle up and down the way they are. This time at least the beach is packed... and you can always tell who's from Colombo and who's not. The Colombites will be the plastic-looking ones wearing too much make-up, trying to imitate popstars and speaking in ridiculous boru accents. Kiss-kissing the air, holding cigarettes and downing drinks just to look fashionable. The others would be the Hikka beach bums who've crashed the party and are now pulling unnecessary stirs with the Colombo boys. Almost makes those security checks and the special wrist bands at the entrance redundant. I have had my ass grabbed and my last nerve stepped on too many times and it's only 11 o'clock.

I am about to turn away in boredom when they bring on the dancing girls. 6 blonde hotties all the way from the UK in their gold bikinis, who are shaking their sumptuous booties at the herd of salivating men migrating rapidly towards the stage with jaws and eyeballs dragging behind them in the sand. Not bad for the tourist board, to brings these ones down. Very progressive, I must say... especially allowing them to show off those bums and what-nots to that extent. Wish I could shake like that... I would too, if not for the danger of my flying flab knocking someone out. Maybe that old lady sitting over there in the Nilkamal chair and covering her mouth in distaste. WHO decided to bring Granny to the Beach rave anyway??

My feet are aching after having stood at the rave for five hours, doing little else than disapproving of the silly behaviour around me. I have yet not seen the point of a rave, nor why I was so excited about going to one. Give me tribal beats and latino dance any day over this techno muck. I want my room... my lovely, lovely white, stained room. Skip to next day.

Ahh... that sleep was fabulous. It is Sunday now, and the breakfast is good. I have eaten too much, but it doesn't stop me from stuffing my face at a Mama's lunch one last time. Outfit number 6 covers up the sin of gluttony. The party aspect of this Hikka place is too overrated in my opinion, but the food certainly lives up to expectation. Reminds me of Pattaya- dotted with wayside cafés and cheap eateries with excellent food. A quick stopover at a rather nice little place called Drifters where I meet a few friends, and I'm convinced I should have looked into other accomodation options before selecting my hotel room... Drifters, for instance, is quite nice with all those little snoozable beach hutty beddy thingies. And I hear the rooms are clean, too. I must stay here next time... and those foot massages for 300 bucks seem a worthy investment.

Two days later and the SAARC boys have flown (or fled) back to their homelands. I am seated in office, reminiscing my trip via blogpost. Hikka didn't rock like it was supposed to, but many parts of it did turn out to be rather special in an odd way. Perhaps, just perhaps, I might go back for a second look... once the throng of Colombites have left it and it has detoxed into it's natural, calm self once more. I shall take less outfits next time around and possibly stay away from the raves. But for now, it's back to the real life and all its stress.

By the way, the more I read my own writing, the more alarmed I am that I am turning into my mother. Ew.

I'm A Copycat

2008-07-28T10:13:00.001-07:00

I was inspired by DeeCee, who was inspired by Gutterflower, who is quite inspired to begin with.
It's supposed to stimulate my creativity. Lets see how it goes:

I remember everything that hurt in my childhood.

I don't understand humans sometimes.

I want to know what I want.

I hate being told who to be.

I wonder if I'll ever be truly happy.

I have this weird ability to KNOW what you're really like inside.

I know this world and our lives are just a smidgen in the greater scheme of things.

And because I'd like to stimulate my creativity even further:

I wish human beings would open their eyes

I love animals

I won't ever let anyone change me again.

I think I'm capable of far more in every way.

R.I.P. Conscience

2008-07-25T05:00:00.000-07:00

Today started out awful. The fact that I didn't get any sleep last night didn't help to control my reactions to the morning's happenings either.

So there I was, yawning and dilly-dallying on my office PC whilst trying to look busy and important when commotion struck. The entire department started shrieking and running around like hell had suddenly opened up at their feet. I craned my neck over my short cubicle wall to see what the Kraeken looked like (because that's what they sounded like they'd just seen) when I realized through snatched bits of scream that they were running from none other than a rat. "Eeeyah! Meeyek! Meeyek!" they cacophonied, in keys that would make any 1st soprano green with envy.

'Oh jeez', I thought. Typical uneducated, pathetic response towards something that ideally should be running away from THEM. I began to roll my eyes in amusement, but stopped halfway when I saw one of my colleagues carrying a waste paper basket that was setting everyone else off. I swear if people could have jumped out of the window to get away from that basket, they would have. I understood that this basket did indeed house that ungodly creature that was making people act like a bomb had gone off. I wanted to reach in and congratulate it for this unbelievable power it had - to strike that much fear into mortal human souls by just a twitch of its whisker.
But then, as I was getting closer for a look, I heard something else that stopped my heart cold.
'Yuck... it's half dead. Eeyah look at it trying to move."

At that point, my nostrils flared and I saw red. For weeks I'd been debating and opinionating with colleagues on the injustice of having rat poison strewn around office. There was this box of poison that I tried many a time to destroy, simply because I am of the view that of all the ways to kill a rat (if you must), poison is by far the cruellest and vilest way to do it. Why? Because what those cute little pink and blue pellets do are act as blood thinners that make the little creatures bleed internally till they burst. Their organs will deteriorate bit by painful bit while they still remain alive to feel every milisecond of that agony, and the poison will also parch them. With time and water drunk out of thirst, they die. In the most horrible, painful way. It is a far more humane thing to kill them with a severe blow to the head or let a trap sever their neck, or even knock them out with cyanide than to give them this stuff. And that has been my argument point for along time now.... not that anyone cared for it.

With smoke coming out of my ears I peeked into the basket, and then nearly screamed myself. Not out of fear, but pure indignation at what I saw. This wasn't the large, viscious, ugly pestilence that everyone was shouting about. It was a beautiful baby mouse, a palm-sized ball of soft brown fur and enormous eyes with a pastel pink nose, delicate ears and tiny paws, suffering and dying.
As I stared at it, it stared back at me, immobilized out of both fear and pain. I swear I saw tears in its eyes.

There was a moment where time stopped and I ceased to hear anything around me. The baby mouse and I held each others' gazes and I could almost hear its dying gasps and failing hearbeat in my mind. Then reality swept in and I saw my colleague swinging the basket towards the window, from where he intended to drop the dying animal down two floors.

I don't know how it happened, but that basket ended up in my hands almost instantly, and I heard myself shouting obscenities at the shrieking harpies around me. I could see some of them itching to laugh out loud at my anguish, but I didn't care. They were too dumb to fathom that rat or no rat, diseased or not, this was a life. Like any other life. It was a living, breathing, feeling soul that was now writhing in an agony that only I seemed to empathize with at that point. "Drown it!" they kept shrieking. "Make it drink water and it'll die quicker" yet others adviced, softening a bit at the sight of my purple face. I rushed the mouse, basket and all, out of the office to a large canal-like drain outside.

Once outside, I stepped into the drain, reached into the basket and took the little baby into my hands. It could hardly move, and I could see its little chest palpitating in an effort to breath. I stroked it's pretty baby head to calm it down and let it know it was in hands that cared, and not those that hated. It kept looking at me trustingly, willing me to ease its pain. I didn't know what to do, except start bawling and crying like a newborn in the middle of that damned drain. That must have been some sight for the passers by. In the midst of the sobbing, I offered it some water but it refused. So I found a shady, cool patch under some growing weeds on the side of the drain, and laid it down to die in as much peace as I could offer it. But when I tried to take my hands away, one perfect pink paw reached out and held on to my pinky, not wanting me to go. You wouldn't believe it unless you'd been there. Cue more uncontrollable sobbing, that had by now collected a sizeable audience of curious trishaw drivers and amused workmen from across the street. Not wanting to watch its suffering anymore and not knowing what else I could do, I left it there and went back upstairs, to spend some time in the office bathroom using up an entire tissue box on my snot and tears. Soon after, two colleagues who thought me strange but were concerned for my mental state nevertheless, made me sit in the kitchen with them for about an hour and talk my sorrows out to them. We discussed the value of life - any life-, and how cruel humans can be. After about an hour, when I had composed myself enough to not look like a batty woman crying over a rodent, I went down with one sympathetic friend to find my (yes... I had claimed ownership by then) baby mouse dead. The water in the drain had risen upto his nose, and in his immobile state, he had drowned in it's mud. I took it's broken and stiff little body back into my hands and buried it in the office carpark. Then I went back to my seat and cried some more.

But why should you care about this entire spiel, you ask. It's a damned rat. That's what you do to rats, you argue. They carry disease, you explain.

All true... but do you go around killing humans who are infectious too? Shall we poison the next case of leprosy we see? Have all those millions of Indians who feed and worship rats in their temples died of rat disease? Did this baby mouse even HAVE disease in him? And what gives us the right to use a device like poison and kill so inhumanely anyway?

Don't be a hypocrite, you say. You eat meat, don't you Dramaqueen? Aren't you endorsing murder then?

I wish I knew why I can't convert to vegetarianism, I answer. I will, one day. But killing for food is not quite the same as killing for sport or for hate. Or were you going to eat the baby mouse?

Which book of rules sorts out lives into the categories of valuable and disposable? Why are animals less deserving of the right to live, or quality of life, than humans? Why must we respect one death and not the other?

You can call me a raving loony, but you know... as much as you don't understand me right now, I don't understand you. I wish I could open your eyes and make you see yourself the way I see you.

You'd be disgusted too.

My only solace is that someday, every soul that has caused unjust suffering, be it towards a rat or a person, will suffer equally if not more. I have that much trust in God and the universe.

And right now, in my ridiculous state of mind, I am willing that baby mouse to reincarnate into the next generation's animal rights activist.

Go Po!!

2008-07-22T21:24:00.000-07:00

Panda powerrrr!!!! I'm still chuckling.

The boyhalf and I have this thing we've developed, for attending every movie premiere that hits town. That's not alot, seeing as how we have only three viable cinemas screening non-sexual English content, but nevertheless it's become a cool date thing to do.

I'd been waiting since Jan for KungFu Panda to come to SL, so it was no wonder that I was e-ticket's very first customer on the day they finally put them tix up for sale online. We both like the 'I' row.... 13 and 14 - best seats in the room. I ruined anyone else's chances of booking those hallowed bum-rests almost two weeks before the show was scheduled to start.

Aney it was awesome and beyond cute men. I'm SO glad I listened to my lust for all things animated , rather than the dunderheads who kept trying to discourage me from seeing the movie. "It's not that hot', they said. "It disappoints", they pontificated.

Pandashit. It rocked. Despite the anti-climatic ending.

I absolutely loved all the little moments laden with subtle jokes - the witty references to Chinese customs; like using pigs, ducks and rabbits as the townsfolk in the movie, the 'Peking Duck' for a noodle-shop dad (did anyone get that? I laughed my head of when I saw him), the 1000 year old tortoise, the acupuncture....

And what about those few touches that added that much more magic to the who animation? The slight geriatric shivering of the old tortoise, the expressions brought out through the characters' eyes, etc. Very sweetly done.

Watching the movie took me back to my days as a bumbling newbie at my Tae-Kwon-Do class. No one thought the skinny white girl could last as long as she did - which wasn't that long, but it was longer than expected for sure. I went through pretty much the same self-realization process as Po did, painfully hobbling out of that class, more adept at punching people and managing more that five push ups, whilst understanding what my purpose in the universe was; that of someone who wasn't meant to learn Karate.

I do hope the take-off from this movie is that actual Panda conservation efforts benefit that much more, and the creature's value goes up amongst the international community. This is an ideal opportunity for the Chinese govenrment to showcase as well as understand the importance of its dwindling Panda population.

So good on ya, Dreamworks! Keep it up. I can't wait to watch the next venture....

Have You Seen Her?

2008-07-14T08:51:00.000-07:00

Lost :
Missing spirit. Wild and carefree, full of smiles and sincere laughter. Last seen wearing a laid-back attitude to life and an enviable sense of self-satisfaction. Known to be the life of the party and the most understanding nature around. Oozing with the appeal of a confident, independent woman with no qualms about fighting for what she wants in life. Rarely cries. Never confused. Easily thrilled by excitement, glamour and surprise. Can dance away any care with ease and is a joy to be with. Enjoys every second of existence to the fullest.

Answers to none, except my name.

Finders will be rewarded handsomely with a lifetime of gratitude and a month's supply of some smashing chocolate brownies.