Stop and Smell the Gandapaana

 Published in LMD Living - May 2016

“I can’t remember when I last had the luxury of time to read more than a page of a book, and that too, only on the toilet seat” a colleague recently shuddered. A valid and ponder-worthy insight to life today.  The rising cost of living has also raised blood pressures considerably in what was once a lazy little island that could teach the Mexicans a thing or two on the art of the 24-hour siesta. The urban jungles of Sri Lanka have in recent times turned into something of a mental asylum for bees. We are yet to reach the suicidal stress levels of the Indians or Chinese, but it certainly looks like we’re on our way there.  Conversations between aunties that were previously centred on the price of pumpkins have now evolved into the lack of time to go and buy said pumpkins. Uncles are becoming more and more frequent visitors at the cardiologist’s clinic because the source of their coronaries are no longer only their daughters, but also the stresses of keeping up with the day-to-day pace of life.  Given the booming business of self-help books and stress therapy Youtube videos out there, it seems the whole world is suffering a massive existential crisis and needs all the motivation it can get.  

Where did we go so wrong? The insipid inspirational memes are quite right – we’re all slaving away to earn the ability to afford a life we have no time to lead. If you think about it (providing you actually have the time to think about it)… at some point of our lives, we forgot the point of life. We sit at our monochromatic cubicles, slurping up copious amounts of coffee designed to keep us positive until it’s time to clock off, wishing for the utopian day when we could be living the Pinterest life. We cower to the system that breathes over our shoulders like a disapproving grandmother and before too long, ‘someday’ becomes a mere catchphrase that never sees the light of reality and you’re left wheezing on your deathbed, wondering where the time went.

It may be too much of an ask to completely rehash life just like that and go on that world tour like you’ve always wanted, but perhaps it’s time we considered listening to the Deepak Chopras of the universe, and adopted a few tiny changes to our daily ritual, that could in turn make our day slightly more interesting than the pimple on our management’s backside that we hate to kiss but still do, for the sake of that monthly pay packet.  Maybe if we actively seek to de-stress even for a few minutes as a mandatory chore for the day, it could eventually lead to a semblance of much-needed bliss that doesn’t cost an overworked arm and leg. To make the transition easier, here are three tried and tested tricks you could take up:

1.       Spend an extra five minutes on the loo. Admit it, unless you’ve got serious infections in your underparts, you’ve never felt more serene than when seated on your own private throne. Just increase the time limit, ignore whoever is banging on the door, and sing ‘Let it Go’ while you’re at it.

2.       Stop and smell the Gandapaana. Gardens are a beautiful thing. If you don’t have one, break into your neighbour’s or find a random patch of green and imagine you’re Maria in the Sound of Music. Fresh grass feels amazing, when not riddled with dog poo, and can give you just the peace you need.

3.       Get a pet. Dogs, cats, hamsters, chickens… whatever works for you. Cuddling an animal, providing it’s not a scorpion, has an uncanny knack for making you feel more relaxed than your spouse ever did.

There you go; your DIY starter kit to less stress and hopefully more reasons to smile through the rat race. You’re welcome.

Plates, Pubs and Pigs.

It irks me that Belgian food is not given its due hallelujah in this country. I assume it’s because not enough Belgians want to leave the motherland and bring recipes here, since they’re too busy with their national sport - eating. If there’s one thing the Belgians do right, its cuisine. The land that invented the French fry (did you know?) manages to serve up a ménage à trois of French, German and Italian flavours melded together into a distinctly fabulous taste of its own.  

As always, my interaction with food comes packaged with drama and I have memories attached to every meal I had during my stay in Belgium. Once, I was starving at lunchtime after a very long day, when my hostess announced she would be serving Endives (pronounces ‘ondeev’). ‘Endives!’ I thought excitedly. What a gloriously exotic name for a dish I imagined would be filled with sizzling goodness. She held up a large plate and my tummy groaned in anticipation. She set it down and my mouth groaned instead.

An onion.  

A single, large, penile-shaped, lettuce-y onion. 

I looked up at her in askance; perhaps she had missed something? She beamed back, interpreting my stare for amazement.  Sighing, I ate my onion, which, by the way, tasted better than I’d expected. 

If lunch was a dismal start then dinner was overkill. I showed off my complete incompetency in French by ordering something pronounced ‘Jhombone’ off the menu at a pub.  The waiter did a double take and looked at me suspiciously. “Pour vous, mademoiselle?” Was that a tinge of surprise I noted in his voice? “Oui” I sniffed, for it was the only word I knew. Minutes later he pushed out a slab of wood atop which sat an entire leg of pork larger than my barstool. My heart sank at the fact that I would now have to eat this monstrosity, since in Belgium leaving food on your plate is considered an insult. given that it all happened  quite a few years before my conscience high-kicked me into the struggling vegetarian I am today, I channelled my inner Obelix and set about eating what, frightening dimensions aside, was truly and utterly delicious. Amazingly, I managed to eat every bit, even if it did take me two hours and left me looking like the enormous pig whose leg I’d just consumed.  

One occasion had me trapped in a loo for over an hour, a trauma which the highly apologetic hostess tried to placate with a dish of frogs legs and snail that just sent me back to the toilet once I’d found out what it was. Another time I was served a fantastic lobster whose claw, thanks to my limited cutlery skills, ended up on my hostess’s head. A visit to a brewery had me, the ignorant, tasting a rackful of 15 beer varieties and singing bawdy limericks at the top of my voice on the streets of Brussels. Thank heaven the lyrics were in my mother tongue and not theirs, else I'd have been propositioned.

From meats to mussels and cheeses to chips, Belgian food is designed to turn you into a glutton. Try it out.  Just make sure you know French first.

One Foot in the Grave and other in Jimmy Choo

 Published in LMD Living - February 2016

Flip through any women’s’ publication today and you can’t help but be regaled with advertisements on the latest fad in cosmetology. Nose lifts, facelifts, tucks, implants… the thin line between enhancement and absurd is being surgically erased. At the rate the business is increasing in Sri Lanka, you’d think the country was teeming with the ugliest women in world.  If you shamelessly scrutinize the photographs in those high-society mags, half of Colombo seems to be using cosmetic surgery. Especially the rich over-40 ladies in denial. Almost every single one of them looks pinched and puckered to resemble a Picasso, or should that be Pollack, all with the identical lemon-sucking expression on their frozen faces, their waistlines tweaked like Barbie dolls and chests fluffed up like chickens in corsets. Those who cannot afford the nips ‘n’ tucks opt for an armoury of make-up instead, to unsuccessfully hide the flaws with enough facepaint to overwhelm a mime artist.

It isn’t even to impress the boys (naaki uncles still insist on referring to themselves as boys, you see). No no  no… all this superficial preening is purely to have one up on the fellow aunties. The minute Mrs. Social Butterfly sees an invitation to her school re-union, she’s scuttling at breakneck speed to the Zumba class, followed by a visit to her favourite salon, for a makeover and ego-massage courtesy of the dramaqueen that is her stylist. She will have her eyebrows plucked until she looks permanently surprised, her flabulous body scrubbed, waxed and stuffed into a dress 5 sizes too tight and her carbuncled feet squeezed into branded shoes. It doesn’t matter that she falls flat on her face with every step, as long as her batchmates recognize the brand.

If you walk into a Colombo nightclub, you might as well take a pair of dark glasses with you, to shield your eyes from the dazzling display of denial on the dance-floor. If the over-plumped lips and ‘bruise’ eye make-up is not disturbing enough, then the fake hair extensions certainly will be. Dear God, there is even a show of cleavage, dangling just above the knees. Have you seen an aged aunty dance to a rave beat?  That ‘booty’ will jerk scandalously in different directions, trying to keep up with the young nubile teenage ones around it, right up to the point where aunty suffers a heart attack from exertion, around the second verse of the song. And yet, she will go on, determined not to be seen as older and weaker.  

In all reality, the weakness doesn’t come with age, but with the fundamentalist approach towards reducing weight. The GM diet, paleo diets, liquid diets, breatharian diets… there is no end to the madness and she will try it all as she chases after the waistline that ran away years ago. The Michelin tyre that’s nicely settled around her mid region does not stop her from putting on her sexiest pair of leopard tights (shield your eyes, people) and posing around like Beyoncé’s great grandmother. Those tights are often paired with elongated talons, painted red on wrinkled fingers sporting the largest bling ring she can find.  A gift from the latest toy boy old enough to be her son,  that her husband doesn’t know about.

She certainly cuts the memorable figure, this modern, hybrid female representation of the privileged mid-life crisis.  Where did that lovely, radiant and homely aunty with rosy cheeks and a freshly baked pie in her arms go, and who is this human blue cheese in her stead?  

You have to hand it to her … Grandma Barbie displays an admirable zest for life and the confidence of a gorilla in heat. In a country that frowns on a woman’s right to be whom she wants to be, these superficial ladies are taking up arms in the form of fake designer handbags and making a statement. Never surrender, never retreat, never be age-appropriate. Who can argue with her search for eternal youth?  Certainly not the plastic surgeons.

Those guys are making a killing.

HOO!

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

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.