A long post, just two days after the last one. You have to admit that’s a record for this lil’ blogger. I decided to throw caution and my e-unsociable image to the wind. It must be the phlegm.
Speaking of illness, I’ve had an eerie lot of it lately. Me, the pride of welldom… the girl who never gets sick, except occasionally in the head. Before this latest onslaught of germ-ridden-ness I could have counted the total number of flus had with my ten fingers. I wonder if it has something to do with the universe, who’s acting rather like a menopausal woman these days; cheerful one day and a bloody wretch the next. And trust me to have nothing short of the most dramatic circumstances too.
My last major illness worth writing about happened about a month back. ‘Twas a moonless night and the crickets were too busy drowning their sorrows to chirp due to a sever lack of rain. As a part of a larger sinister scheme to kill me slowly, some people in office gave me their illnesses by way of a sore throat. It started off with a slight irritation that turned into an inability to swallow. I will not entertain any perverse remarks, please. Naturally, I ignored said throat irritation, because whatever germs I have picked up in the past have usually been too disgusted to stick around for long, and leave grumbling in search of greener pastures. I didn’t see the need for immediate medication, especially because a sore throat also makes me sound rather sexy. All husky and sultry in that deep, raspy way instead of my usual banshee screech. I expected to turn men on with my vocals for about three days and then return to normal.
But this germ had other plans and took up residence instead of leave. It even invited family over for visits, who being Sri Lankan germs, also took up residence. Husky turned into grating which eventually turned into a completely mute attempt at whisper. The only person thrilled was my boyfriend, who could only dream of these moments where earplugs weren’t a daily necessity in life.
Then, on a similar moonless night a few days later, my ear began to sing to me. No, seriously. I was at the PC playing ‘Pet Shop Hop’ (free download on yahoo games- I swear it’s addictive) when I distinctly heard aliens trying to communicate with me. Either that or I figured it was my inner voice giving me some divine intervention. Contrary to my opinion, it turned out to be that damned germ dynasty nesting snugly inside me. My singing ear tried to make itself heard by starting to ache. Again, the self-medicator in me decided to wait it out, enjoy the pain and see it through. But the germs had other ideas. By 2 am I was twisting and turning in bed, unable to sleep or even close my eyes for that matter thanks to the by-now excruciating stabs of pain in my ear canal.
Not able to take it anymore and fearful of being rendered deaf for life (that’s my boyfriend’s dream, not mine) I woke my slumbering mother up and insisted we go to hospital. Ever the concerned parent, Mother asked me if I couldn’t wait till morning. Of course I could, I replied. That’s exactly why I woke her up at 2 am… to tell her I could wait. I think she got my point. But she fought back, taking way too long perfecting her hair before we left.
I decided to drive because Mother’s driving at that time of the night can give me other ailments and I wasn’t about to entertain anything else. Being the bonded pair that we are, we fought and argued for a good fifteen minutes outside the house on which hospital we should go to. Sorry to digress, but you know… I just don’t get how that happens. My mother is the creature who claims I have cancer if I sneeze. And it is this same creature who decided that a blinding, unbearable earache that moves her doctor-intolerant daughter to actually WANT to drive to hospital at ungodly hours was no cause for alarm. Really. I tell you.
Anyway, back to my moving drama.
So after the initial argument over hospitals, my ear and I decided to go with Mum’s vehement choice and speed off to the nearest one- Asiri. Driving with one’s head lopsided in pain gives you a rather skewed view of the street and driving with one’s mother in the passenger seat is nothing short of a horror, making the whole experience quite theme park ride-like.
We made it to Asiri and I swooped into the Emergency section. In true efficient professionalism, the attendant was snoring happily in a wheelchair meant for ER patients. Next to him was the security guard, cuddled up to said attendant and snoozing like a content lover. Apparently my urgent car honking had excited them to the point of letting out an extra snore. I didn’t have the heart or the blood pressure level to wake them up, and rushed in to the emergency ward with mother waddling at my side.
In the ward we found two night-duty nurses also asleep because of course, that was part of their night- duty. They didn’t appreciate being woken up and glared at me with as much bedside manner as a couple of crocodiles. The doctor, I was curtly informed, was with another patient. I would have to wait. I pointed out that to my knowledge, there WEREN’T any other patients, seeing as how every bed around me was empty. This got me more glares and one nurse went off ungraciously to summon this popular doctor.
About an eternity and some more ear pain later a lady doctor arrived, bleary-eyed and yawning. Her hair was a holy mess and her white coat crumpled. She had been with another patient, she mumbled, while rubbing fresh eye-crispies off her face. Of course she had.
I wailed out my auditory woes in my husky croak. The doctor and the nurse listened in the same way that I do to a particularly boring lecturer during the 8th hour of a full-day revision class.
“Erm”, mumbles the good doctor. “ I think you have a sore throat”.
She was pure genius, this one. From the corner of my eye I could see Mother nodding earnestly at the great discovery. I asked her why my ear was killing me and the doctor looked at me quizzically.
“Oh, your ear is paining too?”
No. Of course not. How silly. I was just cupping it and whining about ear pain all this time with a lopsided head because I was born that way.
She asked one of the nurses to get her that ear-inspecting gadget that has never ceased to amaze me. The nurse, still annoyed at being woken up, took her time locating it. Doc took some long looks in my ear before announcing there was nothing wrong with my ear.
So, then, the pain was actually the work of aliens?
I was at screaming point by now. Unsuccessful, of course, since the loudest I could shout with my hoarse throat was a decibel above silence. Even mother had ceased to look enamoured by Doctor Quack. On my insisting, the sighing so-called medical expert asked the nurse to get her a second ear gadget, just in case the fault was with the lens of the first. Again she checked, pinching my ear lobe in the process and pulling it out like she wanted to model Dumbo out of my skin. I had to remind myself several times that crying in front of a doctor is the ultimate proof of sissyhood.
“No… nothing wrong. I can’t see anything.” She informs. The nurses are all looking victoriously at me. I’d woken them up for NOTHING and now they could sue me.
“But there’s PAIN. Pain beyond even my super-human tolerance! And what about my throat???? How do I get rid of all this unbearable hurting???!?”
She looked at me long and hard as if I was THE most difficult and intolerable patient she’d ever come across. Then she took another good ten minutes to study her blank prescription pad in deep thought. From out of her vast, expansive medical knowledge she pulled out a sure-fire cure for a writhing me.
“ Nurse… give her some Panadol.”
Ten minutes later I was back in my driver’s seat, panting from the exertion of having told the doctor in the most verbose way exactly where she could put her Panadol and stomping out of the ER room in a fury, leaving Mother to apologize for my miscreant behaviour. Another five minutes later Mother was panting beside me, having finally understood the frustration I was going through. Apparently, when she’d gone over to the cashier to pay (I refused, obviously) for the quack’s sagely advice, she’d been unable to wake the man up. The sight of him swaddled up in a sarong had, I think, pinched Mother’s last nerve and finally brought out the beast within. Even the security guard and ER attendant were sung a special lullaby on her way to the car, and they were both now sitting up, wide awake in alarm at hearing such obscenities from a fat little lady.
Now it was my turn to choose a hospital. Whispering curses at Asiri, the Doctor, the nurses and the street dogs on their nightly jaunts, we whisked ourselves to Apollo. I was almost surprised to find everyone awake, fully alert and even attending to patients. I hardly had time to park my car near emergency before TWO, not one, attendants rushed out earnestly and directed me to the emergency ward where a bevvy of nurses and doctors milled about. I was immediately taken to a room and made to sit on the bed, while a nurse checked my temperature and pressure. Then came my special treat for the night.
My earache almost vanished in delight when a tall good-looking Indian doctor sauntered up to me and asked me what was up. I was speechless for a moment there, and it wasn’t because of the sore throat. I could see mother making goo goo eyes at him and stepping forward to give him the lowdown and take the attention away from me, so I quickly found what was left of my voice and spoke up. Suppressing my urge to tell him lies about ailments I didn’t have just to get his sympathy and maybe a body-check out of it, I dutifully croaked to him all about my ear that I had suddenly begun to ignore. Dr. Cute-stuff nodded wisely and listened to every word, asking me some valid questions and interrogating every possibility. I swear this man could have been a marketing tactic by Apollo to ensure it has a steady stream of emergency patients every night. I certainly would come down with something just to get the chance to have him inspect me. I have no idea of his name, but shall call him Rahul, because that sounds Indiany and cute.
He called for an ear gadget that was promptly placed in his hands by the nurse. The guy only flashed it at me once and he immediately saw the infection within. So much for the Asiri quack’s laborious search. Rahul asked me to open my mouth and I gladly gaped. He shone a torch and affirmed that everything was badly infected. The throat infection had travelled to my ear canal, he told me. He had two solutions for me.
1. A painkiller injection that would take away the hurt immediately.
2. Pills that would take about two hours to act.
I opted for the injection because I couldn’t handle the pain for any longer. He asked me how I’d come and I said I drove. (I said this in a very proud, accomplished way, just to let him know I was of a legal age. You never know where these bits of info can get you)
“Uh oh. Then you can’t have the painkiller”, said Rahul. Or should we call him Akshay? Ok... Akshay. “ The injection will make you drowsy and you won’t be able to drive back”
But I couldn’t bear to stay this way for another two hours till pills kicked in. I pleaded with him for a different option. He looked at me for a long while (I’d like to think for reasons other than that he was trying to think of a solution) and then confirmed that yes, there WAS another way.
“We can give you a suppository.”
Freeze scene. Cue horror music. A WHAT?
Ok… here’s the thing. I was willing to let this guy look down my tonsils, sure… but there was no way in HELL he was poking anything up my rear end. This relationship was just not ready enough for that level of intimacy.
I had a conniption. Choking on my own phlegm I asked him to kindly repeat himself.
“ A suppository.” He calmly repeats, with a smile that’s not cute anymore. “The pain will go away immediately.”
My mother, by now, has begun to giggle. So has the nurse. I think it had something to do with the look on my face. Doctor Dreamy stood there looking quizzically at my dumbfounded-ness, patiently waiting for an answer.
“ No. No way. No. No, no, no, no. Uh-uh. Nope. NO.” I kept shaking my head furiously to emphasise my point. As this juncture, Mother jumped up in delight. “I’LL give it to you!” she squeaks in excitement.
That was it. That was all I needed. I looked at Akshay, who had now ceased to be appealing to me. I asked him to allow me to take the suppository home, that I’d administer it myself. I could manage the pain for long enough to NOT have a room full of people surround me while I shoved a pill up my bottom. He smiled, agreed, and we were off. By the way, this cashier was wide awake too, so all payments happened with ease. I drove home in a daze, not looking forward to taking the suppository and thinking up all sorts of things about how the experience would be. I also had to keep giving my hurt Mother reasons as to why exactly I didn’t want HER doing the deed. Honestly. MOTHERS.
Back at home, having managed to painstakingly coax mother into going to her room and sleep instead of watching me (she’d have taken photos given half the chance), I took a long look at the enormous pill they’d given me. Looked a bit disgusting, really. Like a miniature rocket that was bound to make me feel worse than the ear did. But Mother had told me it would dissolve instantaneously. It was too late at night and I was in too much pain to not believe her.
I know you’re gnawing at your fingernails, waiting eagerly for the gory details of what happened next. You’re gonna have to be creative and imagine it yourself sonny, because as forthcoming as I am, there are some things I just won’t share with a whole blogosphere. I’ll just say it was an ‘interesting’ experience that didn’t live up to the horror stories and fantasies that presided. So there you go. My first ‘pukay peththa’, as a colleague put it. Yuck.
Next time when my throat starts to hurt, I’m going to be the first person at the doctor’s clinic.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Monday, March 30, 2009
I am still...cough... here,
Dear monthly… bi-monthly… someday blog,
For that is what you have become, darling. Unceremoniously relegated to a mere e- page I pull out during times of boredom or stress, only to be exiled again for lengthy periods of time. Lady D once complained that she hadn’t blogged for a week because of workloads. Ha. I can’t even remember the last time I put fingertip to keyboard for personal gratification. It’s true what Gutterflower says; it’s damn near impossible to enjoy writing anymore, when it’s all you do as a day-job. Add to it a day job that permits you time to breathe only when you fall asleep in the wee hours for a wee time, and you stop recalling that you ever maintained a blog in the first place.
As you have by now gathered (and if you haven’t, then you are truly simple minded and I sympathize), I have been busy. Admit it… you missed me. Awww. You did? Get used to it.
I know RD did. He even sent me a wise word on the matter, bless him.
I’ve been up to so much lately that I’m starting to feel little Kali-ish. You know… many hands, perform miracles… that sort of thing. One of these days my clients are going to taste my toe jam as I lose all sense of propriety and kick their teeth well into the depths of their gizzards.
Pissed, you ask? Nay. What makes you say that? I love my clients… to the point of wanting to strangle them with over-enthusiastic hugs. I’m training people in the art of conflict resolution by moving them to intervene on my ‘talks’ with the client. One of the more memorable battles revolved around, of all things, a door. Now if you thought ‘revolving door’ and snickered at your own wit, then please leave this page now, for I have nothing more to say to you.
I will write on the door issue later. Or maybe I won’t. I’m undecided like that.
For now, let me bring you up to speed on what‘s been happening.
Let us begin with the fact that I am sick, and this time I mean LITERALLY. I have the mother of all sicknesses guest starring some rather vile mountains of grey-green phlegm. I’m SO sick that even the thought of said vile green phlegm can’t possibly make me feel sicker.
My sickness gives thanks to the new office we shifted to a week ago. I have to admit, I was hopping with excitement on the thought of shifting here, given that the new place has a supermarket, bank, gym, home-ware shop and ODEL in the building. Not to mention the orgasmic 360 degree view from the rooftop that gives me a sneek peek at Adam’s Peak on a clear day, a bookstore and food court soon to arrive. But I am now convinced it was all a part of the evil scheme to entice me to agree to the move. No one told me about the resident ocean of cement dust and noxious paint fumes inside a dark, depressing room sans ventilation. I have been suffering since day 1. So much so, that 75% of the employees have taken to wearing surgical masks to work, making us look like the Ragama hospital ward. For further authenticity, we’re coughing and wheezing in pain quite convincingly too.
My one source of comfort lies in the fact that my desk directly faces the men’s loo, which conveniently features a door that closes ever so slowly thanks to a hinge system that understands my perversions. I’m sure the dust and I will settle in quite well soon.
I have plenty more to write about, but neither my sinus problem nor the urgent need to be somewhere else allows me the luxury of time, so you’re gonna have to wait it out a bit more.
Await.
For that is what you have become, darling. Unceremoniously relegated to a mere e- page I pull out during times of boredom or stress, only to be exiled again for lengthy periods of time. Lady D once complained that she hadn’t blogged for a week because of workloads. Ha. I can’t even remember the last time I put fingertip to keyboard for personal gratification. It’s true what Gutterflower says; it’s damn near impossible to enjoy writing anymore, when it’s all you do as a day-job. Add to it a day job that permits you time to breathe only when you fall asleep in the wee hours for a wee time, and you stop recalling that you ever maintained a blog in the first place.
As you have by now gathered (and if you haven’t, then you are truly simple minded and I sympathize), I have been busy. Admit it… you missed me. Awww. You did? Get used to it.
I know RD did. He even sent me a wise word on the matter, bless him.
I’ve been up to so much lately that I’m starting to feel little Kali-ish. You know… many hands, perform miracles… that sort of thing. One of these days my clients are going to taste my toe jam as I lose all sense of propriety and kick their teeth well into the depths of their gizzards.
Pissed, you ask? Nay. What makes you say that? I love my clients… to the point of wanting to strangle them with over-enthusiastic hugs. I’m training people in the art of conflict resolution by moving them to intervene on my ‘talks’ with the client. One of the more memorable battles revolved around, of all things, a door. Now if you thought ‘revolving door’ and snickered at your own wit, then please leave this page now, for I have nothing more to say to you.
I will write on the door issue later. Or maybe I won’t. I’m undecided like that.
For now, let me bring you up to speed on what‘s been happening.
Let us begin with the fact that I am sick, and this time I mean LITERALLY. I have the mother of all sicknesses guest starring some rather vile mountains of grey-green phlegm. I’m SO sick that even the thought of said vile green phlegm can’t possibly make me feel sicker.
My sickness gives thanks to the new office we shifted to a week ago. I have to admit, I was hopping with excitement on the thought of shifting here, given that the new place has a supermarket, bank, gym, home-ware shop and ODEL in the building. Not to mention the orgasmic 360 degree view from the rooftop that gives me a sneek peek at Adam’s Peak on a clear day, a bookstore and food court soon to arrive. But I am now convinced it was all a part of the evil scheme to entice me to agree to the move. No one told me about the resident ocean of cement dust and noxious paint fumes inside a dark, depressing room sans ventilation. I have been suffering since day 1. So much so, that 75% of the employees have taken to wearing surgical masks to work, making us look like the Ragama hospital ward. For further authenticity, we’re coughing and wheezing in pain quite convincingly too.
My one source of comfort lies in the fact that my desk directly faces the men’s loo, which conveniently features a door that closes ever so slowly thanks to a hinge system that understands my perversions. I’m sure the dust and I will settle in quite well soon.
I have plenty more to write about, but neither my sinus problem nor the urgent need to be somewhere else allows me the luxury of time, so you’re gonna have to wait it out a bit more.
Await.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
The Best Things In Life Are Me.
It almost hurts when one starts something that has the potential for a tagging explosion, and yet one chooses NOT to tag anyone and leave it all hanging uselessly like jellyfish tentacles. How annoying.
But Lady D did leave it open for interpretation, and seeing as how several others have grabbed at a chance to tag themselves, I’m going to do the same.
Let’s first pretend you know nothing about me.
1. What time did you get up this morning?
Too early for my comfort. Or the cat’s. She didn’t appreciate being thrown hastily off her warm perch on my stomach. I have a claw mark to prove her ire.
2. Diamonds or pearls?
Depends on what I’m wearing, really. I have a schizophrenic thing going on, so I think I’ll take both, sil vous plait.
3. What was the last film you saw at the cinema?
Madagascar 2. King Julian gets me horny.
4. What is your favourite TV show?
Who’s Line Is It Anyway and Oprah. There… I’ve said it. I am not ashamed.
5. What do you usually have for breakfast?
It used to be one particular employee, but since I moved jobs it’s been muesli. Both taste the same.
6. What is your middle name?
I find that very politically incorrect. Why, I ask, should a name be imparted rank? Do not all names deserve equality?
7. What food do you dislike?
Shit. I had it once and didn’t much take to it. Brain and tongue come in a close second. Something about the concept of eating those parts of an animal really put me off.
8. What is your favourite album at the moment?
The one my mother shows off to everyone who dares to stop by for a visit. It has all my baby nudey pictures in it.
9. What kind of car do you drive?
Darling, she’s not a car. Don’t make me shudder. She is Camilla Parker the Toyota Cami, with individualistic scratches to boot.
10. Favorite sandwich?
I’d love to say man, but I’d tick a few people off. I will settle for Marmite, pol sambol and cheese. Have you tried it??
11. What characteristics do you despise?
Complacency and arrogance. I am the only one allowed.
12. Favorite item of clothing?
Bras. It’s my new-found girly love. Then there’s also my collection of denims that I literally live in. They know me well.
13. If you could go anywhere in the world on vacation, where would you go?Disneyland. Over and over again, if I could.
14. Favourite brand of clothing?
I hate clothing brands. I really don’t see the point. Perhaps it’s my career in advertising that’s gone and bogged the show. I refuse to let some other name besides my own define me.
15. Where would you retire to?
If it’s not to an early grave, my little log cabin way up in the misty mountains, along with my pet goats (I will have three) and gotukola patches.
16. What was your most memorable birthday?
No.17. My first/last/only real mixed party, where I got all dressed up and acted posh whilst my dad and his camera tailed me like the paparazzi all evening. We later found out that there was never any film in that damn camera, and he was merely spying on my every activity to make sure no boys kissed me.
17. Favourite sport to watch?
Rugby, for that glorious sea of muscular thighs and figure-skating because I have a gay streak in me.
18. When is your birthday?
If I tell you I’ll have to kill you.
19. Are you a morning person or a night person?
Depends on what time of the day you plan to meet me.
20. What is your shoe size?
I don’t have a penis, so it shouldn’t matter. Unless you plan to buy me shoes, in which case I’ll gladly tell.
21. Pets?
Redundant question. But wait… you’re not supposed to know me, neyda. Yes. Two snooty cats, one species-confused dog and a sibling.
22. Any new and exciting news you'd like to share with us?
A mosquito bit my ass last night and now I have a boil.
23. What did you want to be when you were little?
Big.
24. How are you today?
Still the same height. A little underweight because I haven’t had lunch.
25. What is your favourite candy?
Caramel toffee bananas
26. What kind of flowers do you like?
Jasmine and frangipani for their smell, and lilies because they look like they know it all.
27. What day on the calendar are you looking forward to?
All those hypothetical days I’ve marked out for when I get to leave home.
28. What is your full name?
Dunnam Kaala Kaala Duwannam. I’ve waited so long to say that online!
29. What are you listening to right now?
The boring natter of a client service executive.
30. What was the last thing you ate?
A toenail. It was delicious.
31. Do you wish on stars?
I’m usually under them.
32. If you were a crayon, what color would you be?
One of those collections of shaven bits put together in a gooey bunch.
33. What is the weather like right now?
The one outside or the one hovering above my head at this very moment?
34. First person you spoke to on the phone today?
My mother. She called me in a panic about a cow who'd been knocked down on the road.
35. Favourite soft drink?
Portello.
36. Favourite restaurant?
Taprobane at the Cinnamon Grand. Once you’ve delved into their buffets, there’s no turning back.
37. Real hair color?
All my hair is still real. It’s black, with bits of brown and speckles of reddy bronze.
38. Favorite toy as a child?
A gun. Ironic, that
39. Summer or winter?
Summer.
40. Hugs or kisses?
Hugs. Lots of them. Kisses put me to sleep.
41. Chocolate or vanilla?
I’m female. Why ask silly questions?
42. Coffee or tea?
Coffee. It becomes obvious when you meet me.
43. When was the last time you cried?
Last night, as I strained to exile a particularly defiant poo.
44. What is under your bed?
My mother keeps asking me the same thing. I still don’t know, although it does tend to smell a bit now and then… I have a feeling the cat knows, though.
45. What did you do last night?
Wouldn’t you love to know…
46. What are you afraid of?
The sea and dependence.
47. Salty or sweet?
Both
48. How many keys on your key ring?
I have keys??
49. Favourite day of the week?
Saturday
50. How many towns you lived in?
4
51. Do you make friends easily?
Yes....
...and then they get to know me.
But Lady D did leave it open for interpretation, and seeing as how several others have grabbed at a chance to tag themselves, I’m going to do the same.
Let’s first pretend you know nothing about me.
1. What time did you get up this morning?
Too early for my comfort. Or the cat’s. She didn’t appreciate being thrown hastily off her warm perch on my stomach. I have a claw mark to prove her ire.
2. Diamonds or pearls?
Depends on what I’m wearing, really. I have a schizophrenic thing going on, so I think I’ll take both, sil vous plait.
3. What was the last film you saw at the cinema?
Madagascar 2. King Julian gets me horny.
4. What is your favourite TV show?
Who’s Line Is It Anyway and Oprah. There… I’ve said it. I am not ashamed.
5. What do you usually have for breakfast?
It used to be one particular employee, but since I moved jobs it’s been muesli. Both taste the same.
6. What is your middle name?
I find that very politically incorrect. Why, I ask, should a name be imparted rank? Do not all names deserve equality?
7. What food do you dislike?
Shit. I had it once and didn’t much take to it. Brain and tongue come in a close second. Something about the concept of eating those parts of an animal really put me off.
8. What is your favourite album at the moment?
The one my mother shows off to everyone who dares to stop by for a visit. It has all my baby nudey pictures in it.
9. What kind of car do you drive?
Darling, she’s not a car. Don’t make me shudder. She is Camilla Parker the Toyota Cami, with individualistic scratches to boot.
10. Favorite sandwich?
I’d love to say man, but I’d tick a few people off. I will settle for Marmite, pol sambol and cheese. Have you tried it??
11. What characteristics do you despise?
Complacency and arrogance. I am the only one allowed.
12. Favorite item of clothing?
Bras. It’s my new-found girly love. Then there’s also my collection of denims that I literally live in. They know me well.
13. If you could go anywhere in the world on vacation, where would you go?Disneyland. Over and over again, if I could.
14. Favourite brand of clothing?
I hate clothing brands. I really don’t see the point. Perhaps it’s my career in advertising that’s gone and bogged the show. I refuse to let some other name besides my own define me.
15. Where would you retire to?
If it’s not to an early grave, my little log cabin way up in the misty mountains, along with my pet goats (I will have three) and gotukola patches.
16. What was your most memorable birthday?
No.17. My first/last/only real mixed party, where I got all dressed up and acted posh whilst my dad and his camera tailed me like the paparazzi all evening. We later found out that there was never any film in that damn camera, and he was merely spying on my every activity to make sure no boys kissed me.
17. Favourite sport to watch?
Rugby, for that glorious sea of muscular thighs and figure-skating because I have a gay streak in me.
18. When is your birthday?
If I tell you I’ll have to kill you.
19. Are you a morning person or a night person?
Depends on what time of the day you plan to meet me.
20. What is your shoe size?
I don’t have a penis, so it shouldn’t matter. Unless you plan to buy me shoes, in which case I’ll gladly tell.
21. Pets?
Redundant question. But wait… you’re not supposed to know me, neyda. Yes. Two snooty cats, one species-confused dog and a sibling.
22. Any new and exciting news you'd like to share with us?
A mosquito bit my ass last night and now I have a boil.
23. What did you want to be when you were little?
Big.
24. How are you today?
Still the same height. A little underweight because I haven’t had lunch.
25. What is your favourite candy?
Caramel toffee bananas
26. What kind of flowers do you like?
Jasmine and frangipani for their smell, and lilies because they look like they know it all.
27. What day on the calendar are you looking forward to?
All those hypothetical days I’ve marked out for when I get to leave home.
28. What is your full name?
Dunnam Kaala Kaala Duwannam. I’ve waited so long to say that online!
29. What are you listening to right now?
The boring natter of a client service executive.
30. What was the last thing you ate?
A toenail. It was delicious.
31. Do you wish on stars?
I’m usually under them.
32. If you were a crayon, what color would you be?
One of those collections of shaven bits put together in a gooey bunch.
33. What is the weather like right now?
The one outside or the one hovering above my head at this very moment?
34. First person you spoke to on the phone today?
My mother. She called me in a panic about a cow who'd been knocked down on the road.
35. Favourite soft drink?
Portello.
36. Favourite restaurant?
Taprobane at the Cinnamon Grand. Once you’ve delved into their buffets, there’s no turning back.
37. Real hair color?
All my hair is still real. It’s black, with bits of brown and speckles of reddy bronze.
38. Favorite toy as a child?
A gun. Ironic, that
39. Summer or winter?
Summer.
40. Hugs or kisses?
Hugs. Lots of them. Kisses put me to sleep.
41. Chocolate or vanilla?
I’m female. Why ask silly questions?
42. Coffee or tea?
Coffee. It becomes obvious when you meet me.
43. When was the last time you cried?
Last night, as I strained to exile a particularly defiant poo.
44. What is under your bed?
My mother keeps asking me the same thing. I still don’t know, although it does tend to smell a bit now and then… I have a feeling the cat knows, though.
45. What did you do last night?
Wouldn’t you love to know…
46. What are you afraid of?
The sea and dependence.
47. Salty or sweet?
Both
48. How many keys on your key ring?
I have keys??
49. Favourite day of the week?
Saturday
50. How many towns you lived in?
4
51. Do you make friends easily?
Yes....
...and then they get to know me.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Poses and Promotions
You know how you get that urge to smoke after having had some really good sex? I’ve never felt that. Interpret it any which way you like, but I was referring to the cigarette action. However, I am feeling a similar satisfaction much like the one felt after a good romp.
God, I can even confuse myself with the way I write.
Back to the story.
The second event that took place was to do with work. So I let the cat out of the bag in my last post about a little career upgrade that I’d been informed about by the powers that be. Last evening, the rest of the office was informed too. I guess that makes it official and I can safely blab out more details to those of you who aren’t yawning at my self-obsessed natter. Yet. I was appointed as a group head within our creative department, which means I now have the power to veto the opinions of any cat-haters. All hail me. They also say I now have the authority to call the shots, though this may come at the risk of getting shot at. Not everyone in the team is dancing the jig of joy at the announcement – I am, of course, a newbie in comparison to some of the other stalwarts and institutions, and sometimes taking direction from a loudmouthed woman can be an icky experience to say the least. I didn’t expect it to be hunky dory and I am fully geared for the onslaught of ‘how-she-got-the-job’ assumptions that are bound to scatter far and wide in the coming days. Nevertheless, it still feels good to have made a mark with my work and be recognized for it. Yes, Ms. Gaynor…. I will survive.
Besides the two most recent causes for joy, I had some rather good fun two days ago too. Remember how I mentioned my clients wanting me to model in their campaigns? Note how I assume you’re an avid fan of this blog to remember such things? Even if you don’t, now you do.
Thursday saw me posing and pouting at a full-day photo shoot for a spa catalogue, in which yours truly was the creature feature. If I ever thought modeling was a glamorous job, I don’t now. It is something akin to ranching, where you are the cattle and the photographer, agency, make-up artist and light boxes are four very mean cowboys. I was pulled, pushed, poked, prodded and pummeled in every direction humanly and bovinely possible, all in the name of a good shot. Along the way, a good many adventures took place, as is usually the way with the universe and I.
Make-up was the biggest adventure of all. I had been granted, by virtue of a stingy client, a make-up lady who was still learning to differentiate a powder from a glue. A mousy little thing, so fragile that I felt her pain every time she bravely wielded the weight of the blusher brush, wondering whether it was meant for my face or a wall. Had I been cruel enough to growl in her direction, she’d have had to undergo trauma counseling, she was that timid.
She had with her a platter of colours and creams of all sorts that she presented with pride. The instruction was to:
a) Cover my spots (because this was a glamourous brochure and not a connect-the-dots playbook)
b) Make me look simple and sublime.
Next came the colour. Out swished the brush and the electric blue shadow. Sweep, sweep, and I was instantly contesting for Drag Queen of the Year. I waited patiently till she turned away to load her evil brush and then hastily rubbed off as much as I could with my fingers. Should we apply some rouge, I asked her. Sure, she said, and gave me a
Why we spent so long attending to every strand of hair, I will never know… the second I sat on my perch in front of the camera they switched on two massive industrial fans directed at me and all that painstakingly tortured hair just exploded everywhere, including into my nose, mouth and eyes. “Wow! Yes! Hold that!” the photographer instructed as I beautifully choked on a particularly large bunch of hair socializing with my larynx. “Love it!” he shouted when more hair went up my nose and made me tear. “Give me sexy!’ he barked, whereby the poltergeist on my head dutifully throttled me. If the shots that resulted are not used for this brochure, I’m sure I can make a mint selling them to Amnesty International for their next campaign.
One hour and much hair later I was done with the ‘hair care’ shots. Next came ‘skin care’. “Lets do the splash images’ I heard someone calling. Splash? As in, water? What the devil did that entail? While I mused and panicked, Make-up Mouse doused me in a new coat of colours – oranges and greens this time- till I looked like a carrot. My apprehension mounted when I saw someone bringing me a bathrobe. “Wear this over your clothes”, she muttered conspiratorially, not daring to look at me lest she felt my emotion and ratted on their secret plans. My thoughts went insane when they brought out a large basin filled to the brim with water and placed it on a stand in font of me. By this time Mouse was grabbing fistfuls of my hair and clenching them tight to create curls. She being a good two feet shorter than I meant that every time she grabbed, I got whiplash.
The photographer appeared again. Lights were adjusted. One last blob of orange dust was showered onto my face for an extra splotchy effect. “All right DQ… throw water on yourself.”
WTF? What did he mean throw water on myself?? The basin, I was politely told, was for my use. I was to use my hands to splash water on my face. With my eyes closed. With that lovely smile I always get when I throw cold water on my face with my eyes closed and thereby aim so well that it actually goes up my nose. Could I also please open the neck of the bathrobe to make it look like my shoulders were bare? Smile, DQ… don’t wince or scowl at the water. It is your friend. No spluttering, please… the camera needs you and the water to remain still, please. That’s it… open your mouth bit in a happy declaration… no don’t gag on the water like that, it doesn’t make a good shot. Come on now… LOVE IT. Yes…yes…that’s it…splash!..splash more! More! More water….hold it there… what’s that? No swearing, please.
60 shots later, I was drenched from head to toe – clothes and all- and not looking pleased. Mouse pursed her lips disapprovingly at me for daring to let the water get the better of her skillful artistry and leave me looking like a deranged panda with a badly done fake tan. It was time for the ‘aromatherapy’ shots and she’d have to start all over again. My hair was wet, she reported. She’d have to blow dry. Dear God, help.
Because ever millimeter of cloth on me was as wet as sin, someone’s convenient shawl was taken and wrapped around me. They wanted the ‘Sigirya effect’, I was told. I wasn’t sure if they meant the paintings of the maidens or the actual rock, which was what I was looking like at that point. Once they’d bathed me in purples and pinks this time around, I was instructed to clutch onto a bunch of lotus flowers and smell them, smiling serenely and the enthralling scent that supposedly wafted my way. Here’s the thing… lotuses smell god-damn awful. Especially the ones with the little flying bugs in them. Within the hour I was a grandmaster of serenely smelling stinky flowers while insects flew up my nostrils.
That evening, I went back to office with my face caked up like a cheap prostitute’s and a wealth of experience that teaches me never to agree to modeling assignments that involve water or lotus flowers. Or a make-up artist who looks like a mouse.
I hope that damn spa makes a sale or two.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Lady Luck
Dudes, January is SO my month. Way up there in the big ol’ universe there’s a soccer game in full swing and my planets are scoring some awesome goals. Beckham, eat your heart out.
2009 has started off with a bang for me and I am hoping and praying this is meant to last the whole year, unlike a politician’s promise. Allow me to take a moment to kick modesty in the rear end and tell you what’s been going on since I last blogged.
On the career front it’s been good. Very good. I’ve been told that Big Brother is pleased with me and my leadership skills are going to be put into use soon. Let’s see how that goes. If it happens as it has been foretold, I will divulge more. All my scripts have gotten approval without so much as the blink of an eye, which is disconcertingly uncharacteristic of my clients. They usually like to play diva, but this time around they actually went for everything I presented. EVERYTHING. Including all optional in-case-you-hated-the-last-one scripts. The world’s biggest misers are actually considering investing in more than one campaign. Weird, in a good way.
Not only have they approved my work, but my clients want ME to be in the commercials too! In the last week they fought with each other over who gets to have me, coz doing all of them would compromise on the believability of the character I’d play in each. In the middle of the fights I get calls from two other production houses calling me for screen tests coz THEIR clients want me in some commercials. And I’m not even a bloomin’ model. Considering that I am a good ton fatter and zittier than the last time TV saw me, it’s like the twilight zone, man.
I had a two-day shoot this weekend and as all shoots go, something or someone is always bound to screw things up big time. It’s a time-tested, proven theory in the ad industry that no shoot ever goes unfazed. This one, in the evillest way, did. Nothing happened. Everything went FINE. We even finished at decent hours with surprisingly few takes. Not even the models were bitchy or difficult. I even got a marriage proposal out of it, courtesy of a 95-year old toothless onlooker off the street who claimed to be Gamini Fonseka’s brother. He’d just buried his wife (showed me her photograph to prove it) and was looking to take another.
Ok, so the planets were probably pulling my leg that time, but it happened and I lived to tell the tale. The old guy, on the other hand, probably went home and drank poison to rid him of the heartbroken misery borne out of my rejection of his courtship. Sorry uncle…seeya…. I’m taken, and I ‘d like to kiss someone with more teeth, anyway. A brushed set, preferably.
On the home front, there is abnormal peace. I don’t know how long THAT will last, but the going is good and greatly appreciated while it does. The house is also abundant with luscious fruit, all obtained FOC from the afore-mentioned shoot. We had to set up a fruit stall, you see. There were tons and tons of the freshest produce brought in and no where to take it to afterwards. Hence yours truly filled up her car (which, by the way also starred in the commercial and was given the star treatment of a good wash by not one, but FOUR sets of hands) with the stuff. Free fruit is not easy to find these days, especially water melons, apples, oranges, chinese guavas, king coconut, nectarines, humongous papayas and entire branches of bananas. If bought, the stuff would have cost me a good 5 thousand at least. With my recent bout of luck, I got it for nothing.
To top it all off, last morning I received an email informing me that I’d won a shopping spree worth Rs. 50,000/- at ODEL. Naturally, I thought it was a hoax. But the contact numbers and addresses cited seemed real enough, so I called with much trepidation. Turns out it was hoax-free and 100% fact. I nearly died. But didn’t. Instead, I screamed like a mad banshee into the phone and then danced wildly in circles inside the office. I can outshine an audience member on an episode of ‘Oprah’s Favourite Things’ with my expressions of glee. My grand prize was awarded to me an hour back, with a photo shoot to boot. I tried my best to look half decent and prize-winnerish, much like an aunty who would visit Dubai for the first time. I was so excited that my vibes transcended towards the branded banner above me and it fell on my head just as the cameras clicked.
And now, half faint with excitement at my recent rush of luck, I have boasted to everyone in the blogosphere and probably jinxed it all. Ah well… at least it’s good while it lasts.
A toast to my stars….GOOOOAAAAAAL!
Thursday, January 1, 2009
New Year, New Tag
My first tag for 2009. Goody. All thanks to that Doc fella of mine. :) Utter bloody sweetheart, he is.
Yes, I am feeling gooey. Deal with it.
Right. Here are my resolutions for this brand spanking shiny new year, in no particular order. Please note that I am also making up resolutions as I type, coz I really didn't have time to think on it before:
Enough, no?
Oh yeah... I tag RD, DeeCee and TheMissingSandwich.
Yes, I am feeling gooey. Deal with it.
Right. Here are my resolutions for this brand spanking shiny new year, in no particular order. Please note that I am also making up resolutions as I type, coz I really didn't have time to think on it before:
- Get back into shape. And I don't mean round. There used to be a time when yours truly could make a few hearts skip in her sparkly little salsa outfits. They barely fit my thigh now. I promise you, I WILL wear them again, even at the cost of being called the vulgar old aunty who can't act her age.
- Fight harder for my freedom. Bring it on, mother.
- Make bigger, louder and less debatable points on animal rights and welfare.
- Learn something new. Anything. Even how to play guitar with my teeth.
- Save up cash for my next big adventure. I'm not telling you what it is because I don't want to jinx it. But I plan to have it within the next two years.
- Dance again.
- Visit some place I never have before.
- Try to be a little less of a spoilt bitch. (I am being a realist. I said TRY.)
- Get closer to figuring out what it is that I really want out of this soddin' life.
- Be better friends with God. I think he's feeling a little left out these days, the poor darling.
- Change someone's life for the better. That someone may or may not be human.
Enough, no?
Oh yeah... I tag RD, DeeCee and TheMissingSandwich.
Another One Bit The Dust
Another year, that is.
Cue superficial sobs and wails as I wave goodbye to the exiting 2008 with the one clean handkerchief I own. The minute it’s out of sight (2008, not my handkerchief), I turn to 2009 with a cunning smile on my seasonally pimpled face. Christmas food does that to the skin.
“It’s gone.” I whisper conspiratorially to the year ahead, referring to the one I left behind. “Done. Finished. Kaput. Just you and me now…. let’s party.” My seductive purring is meant to get 2009 excited by the unspoken potential of what is to come.
How’s THAT for a blog-post opener, huh? HUH?? Read it and WEEP.
OK. Back to normalcy. If ever there was any.
The crumbly leftover bits of 2008 since I last blogged were pretty hectic, hence the long silence. It’s not easy for me to silent for too long- ask the Doc or LD if you don’t believe me- so it obviously was a VERY stressful couple of weeks.
First there was the Christmas Woof. For those of you who are uncool and not in the know, The Christmas Woof is a wicked device that the boyfr… sorry… MANfriend (you’re welcome, hunny) and I thought up to feed the more intelligent species during the season. Yes, dolphins and chimps are quite the smartasses, but dogs and cats come in a close second in my opinion. Slightly over 15 species ahead of man. Ptishh.
Anyway. That’s another post.
So we wanted to feed street & shelter dogs and cats for Christmas and we figured that by selling some home-made brownies, chutneys and hand-painted mugs, we’d make the money we needed for the mass furry almsgiving. We went into it with fervour and no idea of what we were getting ourselves into. Man oh man. We tried to be posh IT-savvy pundits and went to the lengths of designing a website to take orders on. We’d planned to let the orders roll in for a month and then, hoping that there would be at least 25 orders from gullible friends whose arms we could twist, we’d go into making and delivering the goods. Geez what a couple of schmucks we were. In a matter of days the orders reached about the same level as our panic when we saw the numbers. So much so that we shut the site down in a week and sold our souls to the banks to fund our ingredient shopping. Thus ensued a mad rush of baking, burns, cuts, ants, rotten pineapples, wrapping, labelling and cussing loudly at the crumbs on the carpet floor. Poor Doc. Having selected his place as the holy shrine of brownie baking and chutney making, I singlehandedly managed to turn the place upside down in a matter of two days. He still can’t walk on his floor without wincing at the sticky feel of chocolate blobs or fermented pineapple juice on his toes. And it’s been three weeks since we had the sale.
We managed to bake, bottle and paint everything up and deliver by the 22nd of December. Considering our full-time jobs, that gave us about two hours to remember we had to do our Christmas shopping. I swear, as of Christmas 2008, I’ve broken the record for fastest completion of gift-buying-and-wrapping for an army of greedy relatives. One hour, two Xmas sales and a mall. Even Santa would be impressed.
The next week was spent visiting said relatives, or as the Doc puts it ‘The generation of vipers’ and having my cheek and ass pinched by aunties and uncles respectively. Morning, noon and night. Whoever said Christmas is holiday season needs to be shot. In the balls, because no woman would ever say something that stupid.
By the time I finally got the chance to sit the damn down and put my feet up, it was the 31st. It was all I could do to keep my eyes open beyond 8pm to see the dawn of the New Year. Thank goodness for the Doc and his innovative ways of keeping me awake. *Wink wink* A movie, a Jap meal and two packets of sparklers later, here I am… on the first day of 2009.
So you see, I didn’t have time to blog.
Cue superficial sobs and wails as I wave goodbye to the exiting 2008 with the one clean handkerchief I own. The minute it’s out of sight (2008, not my handkerchief), I turn to 2009 with a cunning smile on my seasonally pimpled face. Christmas food does that to the skin.
“It’s gone.” I whisper conspiratorially to the year ahead, referring to the one I left behind. “Done. Finished. Kaput. Just you and me now…. let’s party.” My seductive purring is meant to get 2009 excited by the unspoken potential of what is to come.
How’s THAT for a blog-post opener, huh? HUH?? Read it and WEEP.
OK. Back to normalcy. If ever there was any.
The crumbly leftover bits of 2008 since I last blogged were pretty hectic, hence the long silence. It’s not easy for me to silent for too long- ask the Doc or LD if you don’t believe me- so it obviously was a VERY stressful couple of weeks.
First there was the Christmas Woof. For those of you who are uncool and not in the know, The Christmas Woof is a wicked device that the boyfr… sorry… MANfriend (you’re welcome, hunny) and I thought up to feed the more intelligent species during the season. Yes, dolphins and chimps are quite the smartasses, but dogs and cats come in a close second in my opinion. Slightly over 15 species ahead of man. Ptishh.
Anyway. That’s another post.
So we wanted to feed street & shelter dogs and cats for Christmas and we figured that by selling some home-made brownies, chutneys and hand-painted mugs, we’d make the money we needed for the mass furry almsgiving. We went into it with fervour and no idea of what we were getting ourselves into. Man oh man. We tried to be posh IT-savvy pundits and went to the lengths of designing a website to take orders on. We’d planned to let the orders roll in for a month and then, hoping that there would be at least 25 orders from gullible friends whose arms we could twist, we’d go into making and delivering the goods. Geez what a couple of schmucks we were. In a matter of days the orders reached about the same level as our panic when we saw the numbers. So much so that we shut the site down in a week and sold our souls to the banks to fund our ingredient shopping. Thus ensued a mad rush of baking, burns, cuts, ants, rotten pineapples, wrapping, labelling and cussing loudly at the crumbs on the carpet floor. Poor Doc. Having selected his place as the holy shrine of brownie baking and chutney making, I singlehandedly managed to turn the place upside down in a matter of two days. He still can’t walk on his floor without wincing at the sticky feel of chocolate blobs or fermented pineapple juice on his toes. And it’s been three weeks since we had the sale.
We managed to bake, bottle and paint everything up and deliver by the 22nd of December. Considering our full-time jobs, that gave us about two hours to remember we had to do our Christmas shopping. I swear, as of Christmas 2008, I’ve broken the record for fastest completion of gift-buying-and-wrapping for an army of greedy relatives. One hour, two Xmas sales and a mall. Even Santa would be impressed.
The next week was spent visiting said relatives, or as the Doc puts it ‘The generation of vipers’ and having my cheek and ass pinched by aunties and uncles respectively. Morning, noon and night. Whoever said Christmas is holiday season needs to be shot. In the balls, because no woman would ever say something that stupid.
By the time I finally got the chance to sit the damn down and put my feet up, it was the 31st. It was all I could do to keep my eyes open beyond 8pm to see the dawn of the New Year. Thank goodness for the Doc and his innovative ways of keeping me awake. *Wink wink* A movie, a Jap meal and two packets of sparklers later, here I am… on the first day of 2009.
So you see, I didn’t have time to blog.
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