Spa Spoof

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.

Ageing Ungracefully

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.

Some Mothers Do Have 'Em

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.

So This Is Christmas

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.

So Have I.

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.

In Memory of my Ugly Duckling

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.

A Really Nile Time

Salaam and Sabhar Noor! That's 'good morning' in Egyptian Arabic. :)

Have just returned from the most fabulous dream holiday EVAH - Egypt. What can I say? Gorgeous, gorgeous and gorgeous. The thought of coming back was almost too much to bear. Sigh... I still can't believe I actually went- it was too surreal for words. SO much to tell you all, but so little blog space. I shall try my best to do my memory justice.


The Good Stuff

• The history, culture and archeological sites are beyond amazing. I dont think I need to spell it out... anyone and everyone who's heard of Egypt knows of it's 4000 year story of sheer splendour and magnificence. I've been obsessed with the country ever since I could read, and I couldn't decide which site I was enraptured by more, from the unbelievable golden pyramids rising majestically out of the desert sands like silent sentinels of doorways to the past, the Cairo Museum showcasing 5000 stories of a glorious era, the Valley of the Kings housing peaceful mummies of pharaohs - gods of a time gone by- surrounded by inscriptions and hieroglyphs by artisans unmatched in skill, the numerous temple ruins filled with awe-inspiring art and mammoth sculptures, to the serenity of the Nile river with its lush banks teeming with life. It was all too much to take in. There are no words to describe how dumbstruck I was just TRYING to imagine what it must have all looked like all those centuries ago. We saw Cairo, Giza, Philae, Aswan, Luxor, Karnak, Edfu, Kom Ombo, the Valley of the Kings, Hatshepsut's Temple and Abu Simbel, to name a few. And to think I didn't even see half of Egypt's wonders.

The intelligence of the ancient Egyptians, clearly displayed through their art and architecture, is unimaginable. Hieroglyphs show medical tools that performed brain and heart surgery way back then, along with prescriptions for healing that are being now re-discovered, 4000 years later. Paintings depicting a birthing chair have been claimed by modern science to be the best method of delivering babies. No one still understands how the people of the past built those pyramids and temples without a single tool or technology. To this day we cannot recreate any of those structures to even one eighth of the sturdiness and quality that they did.

• Egyptian men are hot. Egyptian women are hotter. I saw a bellydance being performed and it left me sweating, whilst leaving a good few old men in the audience gasping for air. 'Nuff said.

• How the hell did they come up with papyrus in the first place? We visited a factory and learnt about the painstaking methods of making papyrus scrolls, where they strip the bark of the papyrus plant and soak it for days before weaving and pressing it into a paper format. The artwork that goes onto those scrolls is simlarly amazing. If you ever visit Egypt, don't come back without at least one scroll.

• The nile cruise was out of this world. I've never been on a boat, let alone a cruise ship. Ours was the biggest ship on the nile- The Crown Empress- and it was luxury to die for. The best part was opening my cabin window in the morning to find myself staring in wonder at the sunrise on the banks of Luxor, with hot air balloon flying above it. It was a truly breathtaking sight to behold. Apart from the fantastic views and the plush cruise features, I also enjoyed the weird egyptian humour, when every evening I walked in to my cabin to find that the housekeeping staff had fooled around with my linen and left creative towel origami animals on my bed. The first night was an elephant and the second a swan.
• I figured I look good as an Egyptian. The cruise had a fancy dress party on the final night and yours truly dressed up as Cleopatra. I didn't look too shabby, I must say, and it was a thrill being queen for the night.

• I discovered that Egypt is responsible for my favourite smells. Apparently, the base essences for the world's finest perfumes are created in Egypt and then shipped out to france, etc, for adding alcohol and bottling. We sat at a perfume factory and filled our nostrils with the heady sensations of many a designer brand.

• Egyptian Arabic is a beautiful language. There's a certain lilt to the way words are pronounced, that just sounds darn right silly when I try it. But it was nice to listen to the tour guide speaking his mother tongue and wishing I could speak it too.

• The Valley of the Kings was a creepy thrill. I panicked several times whilst climbing down 100-foot dark narrow shafts into the tombs of the Pharaohs, due to the lack of air and light. But it was so worth it in the end when I entered the chambers filled with magical art and a thousand stories. To realize that centuries ago some workmens' entire lives were spent down these desert wells as they painted and carved every milimetre in preparation for the pharaoh's re-birth, is something that leaves you gobsmacked.

• I never knew I could drink a flower till I visited Egypt. Everywhere we went we were served a welcome drink of chilled Hibiscus tea - that's shoeflower for the godayas like me. It tasted funny, but in a pleasant kinda way.
  

The Bad Stuff

• Egypt is HOT, and I don't mean that metaphorically. The heat is unbearable and ridiculous, soaring to almost 45 degrees. And it was still Winter! It was all I could do to stop myself from being burnt into a crisp whenever I stepped out of the tour bus, and watching fainted tourists being carried back to their motherships was only mildly amusing. Sunscreen is a must, as is the biggest rimmed hat you can find and the darkest sunglasses.

• Visiting Egypt with a tour group full of idiots like I did is something I would recommend you avoid at all costs. We had 20 people whose sole interest was the pyramids of Giza, and nothing else. They'd brought two-month old babies along into that sweltering heat and I had to force myself to not scream obscenities several times over everytime someone inconsiderately screeched out disrespectful jokes and dumbass comments during our tour. The tour guide told me it was the first time in his 10 years of professional experience that he had a group who weren't in the least bit interested in the sites.

• To be a single and female tourist in Egypt is a curse. I spent 9 days there and came back with 4 marriage proposals that didn't amuse me one bit. It's ludicrous how 60-year old shop vendors assume that your request for a discount on a product is actually your coy expression of interest in becoming their wife. I was told many a time that I'd be a 'very happy woman' if I marry the geriatrics. Bleaurhg.

• There is bargain shopping and haggling, and then there is shopping in Egypt. 'Hassle' is the Egyptian vendor's middle name, and they will not let you go without making a sale. They will follow you and hang on you until you show interest in their wares (of the sellable kind, you pervs).'Fixed Prices' of hundreds of Egyptian Pounds can come down to a mere 5 pounds instantly, just because you raise eyebrows at the price tag. You have to experience it to believe it. It is both funny and annoying at the same time.
• 
  rinking water is a health hazzard when you travel in Egypt. We had to be careful with our choice of bottled mineral water, because even the national brand is lased with magnesium, which is a laxative. Tread food outlets with care and be prepared to risk your life for the sake of a salad.

• If you have not spent at least 150 extra dollars on tips for every goddamn thing, then you're not in Egypt. I had to pay porters even though I carried my own luggage, and even asking for directions was an expensive exercise.

• The Egyptians have no regard for the well-being of animals, and for a nutter like me that's a huge problem. I had to keep averting my eyes every time I saw a poor donkey being beaten for not being able to lift the unreasonable load on its back, or the starving and negected carriage horses being made to pull fat tourists around all day long in the searing heat with no food, water or shelter. Only the camels seemed reasonably well looked after, but even they complained from time to time, and I could see the strain that constant bending and standing had on their knees everytime someone wanted a ride. My eyes watered at the sight of a couple of baby goats in a Nubian village with their ears chopped off, being prepared for a senseless slaughter, just so that their blood could be smeared on residential walls to keep spirits out. How one can make a life suffer without just cause and then expect to appease God is beyond me.
  

I wanted to stay, oh so badly. There is yet so much more that I am hungry to learn, and I had no time to bask in Egypt's wonders as much as I wanted to. Oh, to have been born Egyptian!

The fact that I went there at all is something I will keep giving thanks to God for the rest of my life. It's been almost 16 years of obsessive dreaming that came true, even if it was for 9 days.

But they were a magical 9 days. In the words of Howard Carter, I saw things... wonderful things.

Romancing 2008

Awww... it was wunnerful. Totally womantic.

What am I gushing about? The dawn of 2008 on my end of the stick.

Since end of year usually means we're completely broke thanks to heavy bouts of christmas shopping and the mismanaged economy of the country, 31st night partaing was gonna be an unwelcome expense for the BF and I. Thus we decided to change the routine this year and celebrate in a low-key fashion. However, nothing about this 31st night was boring for me by any means. Noisy and crowded it was not... but a fabulous time I did have. Er.. why do I sound like Yoda? Never mind. Onwards...

So I'm seated at my dressing table dolling myself up for the night when I get this sms from him, inviting me to a particular location for dinner (undisclosed, to preserve the special-ness of the night). I drive myself there, and he is waiting for me. Within the next few minutes, I am silently led to a table set for two, dressed with floating candles. It is the only table around. Next to it, a pretty and painstakingly decorated christmas tree sparkles, giving the whole thing a very magical touch. As you can guess, I'm already feeling gooey and girly, and can't stop grinning my ass off.

I was seated at my chair by a polite BF, who was also doubling as the waiter and chef for the night. Yup... he cooked for me! (don't we gurls just love a guy who does that?) I asked him what was on the menu, but he refused to tell me. Mind you, I've been begging him to do it for two years, so I was one happy puppy when I saw how much effort he'd put into the whole thing last night.

But I digress. Let me share the rest of the night with you.

My waiter first brought me sparkling wine (the non-alcoholic kind, coz I stopped drinking some time ago) and we toasted to the new year and it's possibilities. Then he brought out a mushroom soup that I thoroughly enjoyed, followed by a fabulous 100%-authentic-BF-made mixed grill! Yummyyyyy. The food was impressively flawless, and I know for a fact that he did not cheat. During dinner I found out he'd been cooking since 5.30 that evening, the poor darling. Gush gush. I stuffed myself to the brim with the meats, egg, mountain of mashed potato and vegs. Next came the simple yet ideal dessert of peaches and ice-cream, which again, I whacked.
Dinner was, in a word, delicious, and I couldn't stop telling him that.

We spent the rest of the night curled up watching a hilarious movie that made us laugh till we cried, and then went crazy and danced like idiots to some funky tunes all by ourselves. At midnight we became kids again, and lit sparklers and spinning wheels and watched them sizzle in the dark of the night. We revelled into the night till exhaustion caught up and I fell fast asleep against him, not even realizing it when he gently covered me up with a convenient quilt to keep me warm. The next thing I knew I was being nudged awake at 4 am, because it was time to go home. Neither of us really wanted to end the night and part, but we had to, because mothers (especially mine) don't understand and jump to unnecessary conclusions.

And so ended 2007. It was by far one of the best new year's eves I've ever had... and it didn't cost a cent. :)

Kingdom Memories

I can't remember the last time I got to do nothing and enjoy it as much as I did last weekend.

A recent client event in Kandy gave me the perfect opportunity to turn business into pleasure and make a holiday out of work. Not having any annual leave liike the rest of my office, since I've just started working here this was my chance to seize a bit of official R & R. Plus my mum was out of town, which meant I could avoid a good dose of nagging, interrogation and opposition to claiming some freedom and independant travel. And so, I figured that I'd book myself into a hotel in the area for three days, giving me time to work on the event as well as taking a break in between.

But all was not as easy as I expected. To start with, I never realized that that many people were interested in Kandy, cos every single hotel of repute and some safety standard that I called was completely booked up. At one point, I'd almost given up hope, when desperation led me to calling up Hotel Thilanka as a last resort. There was a bittersweet moment when they confirmed that they did have a room for me. For lack of options, I made the tentative reservation, but didn't exactly whoop for joy at the prospect of staying there.

Yes, admittedly, I sound snobbish, but dude... the name itself doesn't sound very grand or assuring, does it? I'm sure I'm not the only one who's assumed that a hotel named 'Thilanka' is probably a foster-sister of the ill-famed 'Janaki' or likewise. It conjured up visions of a sleazy run-down two-star motel in my head - one swarming with German pornographers and horny couples looking for a night of action. To give myself encouragement, I checked every review I could find online on the place. Quite surprisignly, all of them were positive, and written by families and 'respectable' people. And so, with less reservation but still a little seed of doubt, I packed my bags and drove myself to a three-day stint in the kingdom of Kandy.

Let me start out by saying that Hotel Thilanka was completely unexpected. It's a wonderful jewel of a place, beautifully situated atop a hill and extremely well maintained by a very professional and courteous staff. Except for it's name, the place far outshone alot of three star places I've been to in the past. The rooms were comfortable and quite posh, the view from my balcony breathtaking, the gardens gorgeously landscaped, the pool a real treat and the service exceptional. They also had a lovely ayurvedic spa set-up that was fashion in a village/rustic style, that promised alot of good things. And yours truly is one heck of a lover of massages, so this was an added bonus to my delight.

Over the next three days I managed to let go of every ounce of stress I've been whining about in the past year. For the first time in ages, I got to think of absolutely nothing... I slept and slept, enjoyed some quite reading time on my balcony whilst seated on the fabulously comfortable and sleep-inducing padded deck-chair that the rooms provided, guzzled down the food which was, in two words, unexpectedly delicious, happily abused the superb hot water shower and rested like I haven't rested for a long, long time. Not having alot of occupants, the hotel offered set menus for meals, especially lunch. Normally, I'd have been disappointed to have missed out on the choice afforded at a buffet, but Thilanka's chef is a wizard. The food was divine, rich and beautifully presented in courses, that it almost felt like 5-star gourmet. Needless to say, I gobbled and gained twice my weight in three days.
It's also been some time since I took a dip in a pool, and I thoroughly enjoyed myself in their's. The water was chilly from the climate, but oh-so refreshing, and I jumped in more than once.

Similar to Kandalama, the hotel also features a bevvy of wild and extremely cheeky monkeys, who'd take any given opprtunity to sneak into my room and steal things, if I had accidently left the balcony window open. Luckily, I only lost a hotel box of matches to the fellows, and enjoyed watching them piss other guests and the hotel staff off with their antics.

I need to spend a few minutes telling you about my massage. Maaaaaaan.... it was goooooooooooood. I almost fell asleep while getting a 30-minute foot massage that left the toes tingling for more. It didn't stop at the foot - they even massaged my calves to the point where my legs absolutely refused to get off the table and walk after they were done. To top it off, local occupants get a 25% discount on the already reasonable prices and that made me very very happy indeedy.

Amongst everything, I even managed to find time to do some sightseeing in Kandy, and went to the botanical gardens and the Temple of the Tooth for some culture and sightseeing. I've been to both these places before, but it seemed like a whole new experience nevertheless, and there was so much more that I learned and appreciated this time around. Perhaps it was because I went of my own accord and not someone else's... or perhaps it was because I'm able to understand more than I did the last time I went, which was in the dim distant past of my schooling years. I revelled in my visions of what ancient Kandy must have been like, from what I saw at the Maligawa museum... all that gold, gemwork, grandeur... how beautiful a sight to behold it must have been. Very often, we fail to think about the cultural past of this country, and appreciate the majesty of what was. Sifting through the history and the stories told at the museum and the temple made me wish I'd been born back then, to see the kings, courtiers and bejewelled women, and to live in the simple and uncomplicated beauty of the past. Sigh. Why can't we live by the same rules and principles, I wonder... you have to be a completely retarded madman to think we're better off now, judging by the disasterous results of our so-called development.

Peradeniya was treat too. I couldn't remember the flower garden section from my previous visits, and was totally taken aback with how fantastic it all was. The landscaping took my breath away, and it was almost magical... for a moment I completely forgot it was Sri Lanka. Once more, there was enjoyment to be had, courtesy of the screeching bats and a group of hyperactive monkeys.

Now here I am, back at work on a Monday morning, disgruntled and stressed to the core at having had to leave my brief period of utopia behind. Perhaps it's a good thing, in a way, that the holiday was short-lived, else complacency may have set in and I wouldn't have enjoyed it so much, neyda. (Yeah... that's me trying to fake a good reason for coming back to Colombo.)

Ah well, I can only look forward to more gems of opportunities to sneak my way into some other haven in the future. One thing's for sure - these trips are God's way of reminding me that life can certainly be worth living, if you just give yourself a break once in a while.

My Kid-dom Come.

Oh darn... its World Childrens' Day... yet another reason for those little imps to run around and scream like insatiable smurfs on Red Bull. Bah humbug and bugger it all.

I'm morose because I wish I was one of 'em... to think that back in the dim distant past I was actually yea high in height and voice and hadn't a care in the world.... not like the clinically depressed and cynical shrew I am today. I could skippety skip skip any which where I pleased, speak any obscenity I wanted to and still be entertained with an 'aww shucks how sweet'.

Thought it might be a good idea this World Childrens' Day to delve into my own childhood, and vomit back some of those dusty memories I'd banked in my mind. Heck, I was a kid once too... I deserve the celebration.

I was not the ordinary kid. Conventionalism and I have never been friends. There's always been that extra streak of inherited strangeness in me that kinda put me into a category of my own in the past, and still does today to a large extent. Born to a family that defines eccentricity, I grew up in plenty of drama, thereby learning to create it all on my own wherever I went.

To begin with, other little girs and I never got along too well. I didn't understand them, and they... well... they just thought I was wierdo. I'm putting it down to the fact that i was brought up with boys at home- lots of male cousins. And I preferred the latter to those prissy madams I was forced to deal with. For the longest time, I adored guns, cars, rough-n-tumble fighting and suchlike, and demonstrated a fair amount of disdain when it came to all those yicky sissy dolls and shit. But my mother's firm rules prevailed, and I was progressively made into a girl by hook or by crook. I eventually grew to like the barbie world... but that was more out of a competitiveness with the school mates than for the pure love of feminine ways.

But the tomboy days were the best, man! How I envied my brother and cousins when they'd dress up like ninjas and thrashed each other at rugby. I, on the other hand, got my ear twisted if I dared to climb a tree. But dare I did, and many a time too! I'd go behind these bamboo trees we had a one of the old homes, and pretend I was Darth Vader battling it out with imaginary Jedi. Many a time I'd sneak into the privacy of my room and dress up like a boy and talk in a deep voice at the mirror. I treasured the times I'd get to peddle like a maniac on my red BMX bike behind the boys in the neighbourhood, and play cricket with them. Mucking around and hurting myself was so much more fun that fussing about with toy teacups!

That's not to say I didn't enjoy my girl moments either. On the contrary, I quite enjoyed playing school and bossing around my tick of a brother in the capacity of teacher, and dressing up and stealing mother's make-up was always a blast.

But it wasn't always about the toys. My dearest childhood memories are those that cost absolutely nothing, but stayed with me forever.

• Spontaneous family picnics
• Dancing in the rain with my father
• Bathing in rivers and water spouts
• Building and flying kites on curfew days
• Plucking home-grown fruit to make delicious achcharu
• Dressing up in Mum's old flower girl outfits and pretending to be a dazzling princess on a white stallion (My dog)
• Collecting newly-laid eggs, with the compliments of our numerous pet chickens
• Gardening veggies in the back yard
• Exploring the eerie attic we once had
• Mutual head-butting with our pet calf Danny

More often than not, even though I did have my kid bro hanging around, the better part of my childhood I spent alone, enjoying the company of my imagination for the lack of friends of my gender. I KNEW alot of girls... just didn't go into too much trouble making friends with them, to the level they did with each other. I couldn't relate to the giggly holding-hands-and-whispering-about-boys thing, and preferred to be the wierd and overdramatic kid. I'd be the one to create some tall story or create some excitement and make them gasp and run away from me... like the time I chewed up brown paper into pulp, stuck it on my teeth and claimed I had leprosy of the gums. Or when I attempted to hang myself with my school tie in protest of the up-coming exams. Then there was the time I set my home-economics room on fire, trying to pass a girl guide cook's test, of all things.

My penchant for drama consistently got me into plenty of trouble as a child. Some of the strongest memories include getting pulled down from the roof of our school canteen while 'striking' about the food they served, being sent to the sickroom with regular fake-fainting episodes, staging protests outside my principal's office demanding the rights of the school cats, releasing frogs from the school lab, etc etc.

Oh there's so much more to talk of, and I wish I could, but sleep and blogspot limitations dictate otherwise. I wish i could go back in time and be that child again... the one who could live in her own little imaginary world and love it there, with little care for the woes of the world. But I can't. I'm supposedly adult now, with responsibilities and baggage.

Ah well... it was good while it lasted. I hope one of those insatiable smurfs gets to do half of what I've done, and lives to write about it someday.