Party Poop

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

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


Rule No.1 - Choose your Wingman Wisely.

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

Rule No.2 - Don't Guess the Guestlist

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

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

Rule no.3 - Go Lean

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

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


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

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

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


Rule No. 5 - Forget the Surprise

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

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

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


Rule No. 6 - Prepare to be wrong.

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


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

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

Aney Mata BAAAAA.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or here's a crazy idea....

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

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

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

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

Some Mothers Do Have 'Em

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.

Dear Me.

Glee! I've been tagged! Thank you, thank you, TMS!

Suddenly I feel loved. Was beginnning to sulk a bit at the thought that I wouldn't get in on this tagging thing and would waste away forever scarred as the untagged blogger. That would have been awful, no? But TMS understands my neediness.

The last two sentences were typed a week ago. Then came all sorts of other distractions like work, Lady D's buttocks and Mars bars and the pending tag post was slowly forgotten. Last morning, with tears in my eyes, I received news that RD was waiting to read me. Tears because I'd just sneezed a thousand times, but the timing seemed opportune. Perhaps I sneezed because I was being thought of, all the way from the infamous tower. I am humbled. I am ashamed. Therefore, I blog once more.


Dear 16-year old DramaQueen,

Hello, you little bitch. You disillusioned loser. You have no idea how uncool you are. I, unfortunately, do, having suffered 14 years more of your tiresome little life. When you tried to hang yourself from the karapincha tree that other day, why the hell didn't you go through with it? We could have reincarnated as a nice fat housecat or something then and lived a life of utter indulgence surrounded by choice cuts of rat. Instead, you chose to live a little more, didn't you, you pathetic ingrate?

What do you MEAN the boy next door wasn't watching out from his balcony and therefore couldn't come to rescue you from committing suicide and ask you to marry him? He was never worth the vying for attention from in the first place. Leave him alone, men. You'll find out soon enough that he's not interested and thinks you're a bit of a loon. What... you thought those are REAL excuses he keeps giving you every time you ask him if he wants to come over and see your barbies?

Btw, think it's about time you threw the barbies out. Outside that silly little bubble in your head, 16 year olds don't play with dolls anymore. You sad, sad thing. No wonder I had to write to you... to set your funny head straight and give us a chance at being normal in the eyes of society. But I know you.... no amount of ranting and advising will change a damn thing; we've always been pig-headed that way. It'll get you into a damn load of trouble in the future, but you still won't care. Nevertheless, I might as well try my luck and see.
Lets categorize the lecture, shall we?


Being 16.

Act it, for heaven's sake. Like, in a relatively normal, Sri Lankan girl kind of way, please. It will save you and your mother a lot of embarrassment along the way (trust me on this one).
No dear, life is not a Disney movie, so stop making Disney princess expressions and gestures with everything you say. You don't look pretty and alluring, you look a downright nutter.
No, your hair doesn't look like Ariel from The Little Mermaid. Backcombing it won't help, though you won't realize it until you start balding at 25. The birdy on the tree is not talking to you and neither are your dolls. The cat, perhaps. Cats have been having conversations with us for years. Quite intelligent ones too. Just today, I discussed the merits of sawdust litter trays with Socksy, who you'll meet in 11 years. You'll love her. She's cool.
Back to you, though.

Despite your convictions, the socks in your bra don't make you look like you have boobs. Besides, everyone knows you've got stuffing in there, your technique is horrible enough to make it obvious. I know you hate to admit it, but Mum is right. We're late developers, darling. There will come a time when you'll finally grow a pair (though it might not be the pair you wish several times in your life that you'd been born with) and won't want to stop displaying them. That'll give your mother headaches much worse than the migraines your causing now. Chillax. If you wait it out, boobs will come. I am sorry, however, to inform you that the good news ends there, because along with the boobs comes a heap shitload of flab and fat that become your gripe subject of choice as you age. Good luck. Ms. Sri Lanka you ain't. Get that into your head and stop parading up and down in front of your mirror in your mother's kaftan.

Try not to harbour too many dreams of that veterinarian job. We end up in advertising. Different kind of zoo, though for some strange reason it accepts us wholeheartedly and makes us feel good about ourselves. And we know how much we like ego massages.


Family

Your dad will be fine. You don't need that coffin, even though the doctors told mum to get it ready. Believe it or not, you'll witness your first miracle long before you're enough of a religious nut to imagine it. In fact, it's your growing atheism that convinces you that it IS indeed, a miracle. The sheer fact that you don't believe in them and it happens to you will turn you into a religious nut for a few years. Good luck when that happens. Anyways, Dad will be back and bouncing in no times, and give you plenty of reasons to wonder why. There will be drama with him for the rest of YOUR life, if not his. Where did you think you got eccentricity from? Yes, you'll want to kill him more than a few times, but hang on... don't do anything rash. He'll leave the country on work and you'll have some peace for a while. Mum, on the other hand, I can't help you with. You think she's a pain NOW? Hahahaha. Honey, don't for a second be fooled into thinking that age is gonna bring you any benefits. It gets worse and worse the older you get. To the point where you'll comtemplate suicide once more, this time because you cannot get away from her. yeah, she'll be cool and all... but she will never know who you are, nor understand you completely. In about 8 years, you'll watch a TV series about a guy named Raymond. Watch closely. His parents? Those are yours. Ten times better than yours, in fact. Might I suggest you start plotting a strategy right now, coz otherwise when you're 30, you'll be still under her roof, as neurotic as she is.
Our brother will remain the bane of your life. In fact, this year he's gonna start selling your information to the older guys at school for toffees and hot dogs from the tuck shop, earning you a marvelous reputation that will haunt you for the rest of your life. When you're 30, you'll meet some of these guys and they'll have amused looks on their faces while you struggle not to dig a hole for yourself close by.

Stop avoiding family gatherings. You're missing out on the food and pressies and your brother's scoring points. We don't want that little turd to end up being everyone's favourite. Stop avoiding visiting your grandparents. There will come a day when you wish you could do it more often and when they'll be the only people on your side.
Having said that, do tell your grandmother where to get off when she proposes that you join the Carmalite Convent this year after your O'levels. Once you're done with the 'evil dead nun' anonymous calls to her at midnight, don't you dare start contemplating on life in the nunnery. They won't take you in, anyway.... not after you tell Mother Superior where to put her rosary, when Grandma takes you there for a Christmas visit next month.


Friends

That's right. You have none. But it has nothing to do with your presumption that you're too mature and cool to hang with silly girls. It's coz they all think you're weird. I think your animal rights motion of climbing on the canteen roof and staging a hartaal has something to do with it. Also because you stick up for the underdogs and occasionally burst into Disney songs in the middle of exams cos you don't know the answers. It might also be because they know you stuff your bra and the primary school students think you're amazing for knowing all the Disney songs. They also hate your guts coz you get all the plum roles in the school plays and you manage outshine everyone in extracurricular stuff despite that lose screw in your head and your inability to get good grades. Girls can be cruel like that. But hey... don't worry... we're never gonna relate to any of those bimbos anyway. Down the line you're going to meet some people just as weird as you and make some pretty solid friends. Much better than the school variety. In ten years you're also going to be pretty successful and a wee bit better known than your classmates, so you can shove it down their pretentious throats at school reunions. Muahahahaha. High five.

Note to self, though - that girl you hate? Don't punch her in the bathroom next year. You break her nose and get suspended for a week. It's not cool to pretend you're the Karate kid.


Boys

Oh please. Stop puking all over the place, they're not that bad. The guy next door is a wuss and you know it and for your information, other boys in general are NOT piles of poo. Some of them are pretty nice and yes, you ARE capable of being turned on by a man, when not trying to turn INTO one at several points of your life (that will give Mummy a few reasons for acute alcoholism too). You're gonna make some pretty heavy mistakes, though. That guy you just met at the inter-school play thing? Avoid him at all costs. Yeah he's the lead actor and yeah he's cute, but mark my words young lady, he's a cocky, chauvinistic son of a bitch and when you start dating him next year, you're going to be sorry. He'll unknowingly make mincemeat of you and make you so ashamed of yourself that it'll take you 8 whole years to pluck up some balls and figure out he's not right for you, by which time we will have lost a great deal more than our self respect. But hey... par for the course I suppose. You'll be friends with the guy whatever the outcome, and the experiences with him will turn you into the kick-ass sistah you are today. I particularly love the way you give him an actual, physical boot the day you wake up and smell the toe jam. Wait for it- it's a moment to treasure, i promise you.

The player you meet after that ain't interested in you and I think you need to remember that when you meet him. Falling for him after an initial hardcore 'I hate him' campaign will be your biggest mistake yet. You turn into such a needy little pig after the wretched man turns his tricks and leave you wailing. Well, at least we find out that we've got emotions. But really... hon... we know better. By all means stay well away from the Romeo because that face... that's all make-up. All part of the great actor in the man. Don't be an idiot, DQ.

You know what though... if you don't have those last two flings with demons, then you probably won't recognize the angel we meet next. It'll take you some time to see it, of course, cos you have your head wrapped up in your god-awful 'perfect man' checklist as tight as a virgin leech's asshole, but you'll eventually open your eyes. He's a real sweetheart. Says nice things to you and does nice things for you. We gush about him and all that. Did you ever guess we'd gush about a guy? We do. We become real simpering sissies who want to take care of him and shit. Not bad for us, if I do say so myself. So I suppose the whole 'kiss a few frogs' strategy does work, eh?


Life

If you keep continuing to be you, we'll do ok, in between psychotic depressive episodes, long periods of alcohol abuse followed by abject teetotaler-hood, unending drama with family, work and friends, at least two embarrassing situations per day and some rather exciting successes. I guess we're one of the lucky ones, albeit one of the more-than-slightly off ones. People will laugh, wherever we go. Some will pee and their pants just thanking God they're not you. At least we don't make them cry. Except for Mother. Mother cries.

Alot.

Stick to the drama, stick to the cats, and for God's sake never stick to the plan. It doesn't work for us that way and you'll find that out soon enough.

Good luck. You're a right royal pain in the arse, but enjoy being one. At least you grow up to be way cooler than you are now. I think.

Big hugs! (Oh shut up, you forget I know you secretly like them).

An older, fatter, sluttier you.

P.S. - My boobs are bigger than yours and my boyfriend is better. Ngyah!


I hereby dutifully tag the Doc and Flash of Pink. Go for it, peeps!

Who Knew Men Could Be So Cool?

If you don't stand up and clap at the end of this, you're a moose with no taste.

I love these guys. I have for four years now. It's about time they dropped in to see me and thank me for my unwavering adoration.

I wanna be them.

Because She Said So

Ah. Hallo. Didn't see you there.

I'm zoned out today and its not because of weed or anything cool like that. It's because it's a Monday morning and I shouldn't be in front of a PC at office on a Monday morning. Nobody should. Not that office on a Tuesday is any better, but you wouldn't have to hear me bitching about it. For the first time in a very long time I have diddly squat to do at office and it's upsetting my system. I've been staring at an empty desk for several hours now wondering if I'm actually awake. Not that my desk is ever empty... it looks like a Sri Lankan parliamentary session in progress - a bloody mess. I was being metaphorical.

Anyway.

The days suck more than a porn star with a PHD in fellatio. Either I'm too busy to piss and end up with my bladder bursting open at the most opportune moments (client meetings, for example) or I have fuck all to do. Either way it frustrates the shit out of me. Again, I meant that metaphorically. Frustration ending in actual faecal matter would be cool too, I bet.

But this post isn't about me detesting the day or feeling too sleepy to go into further lengths on detailing just how much I detest it. It's a post about something far, FAR more irksome - My Mother. Mothers in general, in fact. Mothers I know about but especially mine.


Yes, I love her and all that...I've even written odes to her on this blog. But what is it about mums? What exactly is it about nature and society that turns perfectly ordinary, cool women into maternal menaces that make their offspring want to tear their hair out at every given turn? The tearing of hair concept was not a metaphor, either. I literally do that sometimes when my mother is anywhere close by. I have a nice big bald patch for proof.

On Saturday I took her for the HSBC World spice food festival. Only because she couldn't shut up about it all day and wanted to go. I didn't mind... I wanted to try it out too, but with a different date for company. But she was excited, so I figured I'd enjoy a girl's night out with her. She spent about 2 hours getting dressed, to start with. I kept reminding her that we were going to Galle Face green, but she needed to look good, in case the Hi! magazine was taking photographs. We got to the venue and took another half hour trying to get parking. The guy at the entrance told us that parking was available at the Taj, but she didn't want to walk so 'far'. Neither did she want to let me drop her at the entrance and park in case people thought she was a fat hooker. Because only hookers dress like mums and go to Galle Face Green. So we had to use charm and beseeching looks to curdle the hearts of the Nana's vendor to get him to give us the spot his food cart was perched on, right outside the grounds. And just when I began to chill out she turned into my mother. It was a disaster.
She walked in and had a heart attack when she saw the stage set up and the entertainment acts. It was too loud for her. Why wasn't there soft soothing music being played? Why were there so many people? Why is that girl with that boy? Why are the tables made of plastic? only 30 odd stalls? Why not more?

After traipsing through stall with food from just about every country imaginable, she whined that there wasn't enough variety to select from. All the women around... they were hookers for sure. The mere fact that there was a rock band playing on stage meant this was a loud, vulgar place that was giving her a headache.

We ended up eating at the Crescat food court. Incidentally, just before we left Galle Face, a Hi! magazine photographer captured me snarling at her in frustration.

If its not one thing, it's another. Like another recent dinner date with her, for instance. A Japanese dinner date. Not that the date was Japanese...that would be awkward.

Mother has a recently-developed penchant for Japanese food, you see. Something to do with the wasabi hit unblocking her sinuses that have been barricaded for 20 odd years. I've tried telling her that perhaps she could get herself some medication for a change, but she insists wasabi is the mother of boons to all congested noses.

So we went to a Japanese restaurant and sat down at an ordinary table after 15 minutes of Mum explaining to me why she didn't want to kneel on the matted floors. The waitress brought us two moist face napkins to refresh ourselves with. I'd have enjoyed the experience if it hadn't been for the fact that I dropped mine when I saw mother carefully picking her rolled up napkin out of it's basket and proceeding to pop it into her mouth.

"WHAT are you doing???" gasps I. Gasps, hyperventilates, wheezes, screeches.... whatever way you want to have it.

She stops half way from closing her teeth on the soggy cloth and looks at me quizzically.

"I'm eating the spring roll" she patiently explains. Like I'm one of the 3 year old children she teaches for a living.

"That's not a spring roll. That's for your face." I can barely breathe in the humiliation. Apparently 3 year old minds are something she can relate to sometimes. The waitress is watching her with eyebrows at her hairline.

You'd think that would be that, but it wasn't.

"Why would I use a spring roll on my face?"

It takes me five whole minutes to stop asphyxiating long enough to demonstrate the finer details of a face napkin and its virtues without digging a hole in the floor and dying. We are now the entire service staff's entertainment for the evening.

She's not even embarrassed. She just says 'oh', and wipes her face, leaving me to smile apologetically at the waitress in the hopes that I wont be talked about in the kitchen. If I get jagged sashimi, I'll know it was because the chef was laughing uncontrollably whilst cutting the fish.

The waitress, evil gossiping bitch that she's bound to be in ten seconds, smiles back benignly. We went straight into ordering. It was like a choral performance. Every time I requested a dish, Mother would follow it up with '...and extra wasabi, please.' you'd expect the waitress to have got it down after repeating the sentence 8 times, but mum still managed to slip in the 'don't forget the wasabi' when we finished off the order.

If that wasn't enough, the minute the waitress turned her back on us to leave, mum leaned over the table and whispered loud engouh for the whole restaurant to hear, "These waitresses are not like the normal vulgar ones, no."

Retreating waitress has heard this, I know. There's definite interest being shown on her retreating face. I ask mother what on earth she's on about.

"Oh you know... normally they're 'vul' ones who offer 'other services' no..." there's definite dramatic emphasis on 'other services'.

I didn't have any food in my mouth, but I choked anyway. Not only because I didn't know where she got that from, but because the waitress had stopped retreating altogether and was practically falling backwards trying to lean in on the conversation. Apparently, mother confidently informed me, kimono-clad women are almost always tarts, as seen on ancient re-runs of Oshin on ITN and Memoirs of a Geisha. But these girls at the restaurant seemed to be innocent enough, and therefore she would eat here.

I didn't know how to respond, so I just refrained. It's a tactic I've acquired over the years. When she's on a roll with her convictions, there's little you can do to sway Mother's views. If letting her think that kimonos are slut-wear kept the rest of dinner eventless, then I was happy to keep my mouth shut.

And that's exactly my point with this post. My mother, as well as some other friends' mums I know of, have this unbelievable knack for harvesting the most absurd of opinions on matters and then pontificating them like the gospel truth. If it was the mere ranting of the elderly, I'd understand. But it isn't. They make it a point to shove it continuously down our throats and make us one of them. WHY? Its like a mental virus that takes over their brains and re-wires it to be ridiculous and prepared to drag us down with it. God forbid I should ever try to shake my mother out of her silly whims... I'd be under house arrest for years. Wait... I'm already under house arrest for the rest of my life. But you know what I mean. At least I know Lady Divine does. We've had mutual feelings about our mothers for quite some time.

To explain further just how retarded her notions can get, here are some other gems of wisdom my mother clings on to and will continue to do so all the days of her life:

• Shopping malls are vulgar dens of sin. Only the desperate and the lonely go there, seeking lustful ventures.

• Basement carparks are a hive of murderers, waiting to pounce on you and rape you before cubing you with their hacksaws.

• A cough means you have TB. A sneeze can mean nothing but pneumonia. An itch instantly screams skin cancer.

• My bald spot is a sign of a blood clot in my head.

• My pot tummy means I am either pregnant or I'm growing tumors in there. Malignant ones, of course.

• Respectable girls don't have boyfriends.

• The frog swimming in the dog's water bowl is my re-incarnated great grandmother.

• My need to escape from her is a sure sign of mental psychosis teamed with third-level depression. Therefore I must be counseled. Consistently.

• A nightmare or the inability to sleep is a sign that a demon has possessed you.

• Every man that walks down our lane wearing a sarong is a suspicious character with connections to the LTTE

• Trishaw men who drop you home are criminals and thieves who are marking a map to the house so they can rape and rob you at night.

• Office-hired van drivers who drop you home are criminals and thieves who are marking a map to the house so they can rape and rob you at night.

• Movie cinemas are the hangout joints of non-respectable girls of ill repute.

• Hair colour is a sign of mental retardation.

• Tattoos are the work of Satan. Anyone with a tattoo is into drugs. Heavily.

• The dog is the only person who understands her. (This might actually be true.)

• All actors are gay.

• The next Tsunami WILL happen the day I go to the beach, whenever that is.

• Only drug lords go to Hikkaduwa. Anyone else who goes there is in cahoots with a drug lord.

• Respectable girls don't go to Hikkaduwa.

• Men who make you laugh are silly and desperate attention seekers. Men who don't are fools.

• If you have not had bread or rice with every meal, then you have not eaten and are on your way towards malnourishment.

• Respectable girls have long hair. The only reason I cut my hair is because I hate her and want to kill her with my rebellion.

• My brother, the bad-tempered, foul-mouthed, manic-depressive psycho arsonist, is an angel.

• Computers are evil.

• My grandfather's adult pampers, sold by Loraine in Thimbirigasyaya, are better because she's Catholic.

I could go on. When you thought I needed help, did you ever figure it could be because of whom I live with?

Ooh look... this is my 100th post. To think I actually dedicated it to my mother without realizing is a testament to the irony of things and that God likes a good joke now and then.

Happy birthday, blog.

Love Is...

...apparently something Sigma wants me to explain, by virtue of tagging.

Firstly, love is over-rated. There are far too many romance novels and Hallmark movies lying to us poor imbeciles, leaving us jaded when reality doesn't quite measure up. Love is a victim of our own interpretations.

But if i must be mushy about it-

Love is the expression in a homeless animal's eyes when you give it some scraps of food, or take a moment to pat it on it's head instead of throwing stones or kicking.

Love is opting to continue living with your parents because you don't want to hurt them, despite the fact that you can't stand every second you're there and you've been dreaming of getting out for a good many years now.

Love is wanting to slowly slaughter the man who hit your dog or called it names.

Love is a happy cat curled up into a furry apostrophe, purring contentedly on your tummy on a cold night.

Love is saving the last bit of dessert or the best portion of food for that special someone, even though your greed has a reputation of its own.

Love is listening. ACTUALLY listening, and demonstrating little gestures years later that prove you actually listened.

Love is being honest enough to tell her she IS fat, but that you wouldn't have it any other way.

Love is sticking around long after she's hit you for calling her fat.

Love is choosing to believe in a relationship and clinging on to it like a bloody leech, even though she's a real handful and her dad's been a monster to you for years.

Love is an adoration of bald spots on someone's head.

Love is trying your best to be supportive, when you don't really believe in the plan.

Love is patiently smiling through months and months of rejection of intimacy.

Love is learning to jive because SHE likes to dance, even though you've torn a ligament in your foot and jiving makes you feel like a drunken grasshopper.

Love is agreeing to sit through chick flicks and disney cartoons, at the risk of your balls being in question.

Love is the unwillingness to trade in your man for a combination of Brad Pitt, Gerard Butler, Sean Connery and that guy who plays Captain Kirk in Star Trek.

Love is still wanting to do each other when all you have are wrinkles and gums.


Your turn, Gutterflower, Doc, TMS and Shades of Jade