...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
Monday, September 7, 2009
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Hell Hath No Fury Like Venus Rejected
"We found one!"
Mars's eyes are shining. Probably. Because this is all over chat and there's no direct visual of him. For a moment, Venus is pleasantly surprised at the other end. So they've finally found one... that was quicker than expected.
Mars and his bosom buddy have been house-hunting for a while now, opting for sharing a pad as opposed to wallowing in the financial burdens of living alone. Venus was rather pleased by that, after having done extensive background checks on the buddy to ascertain he won't be bringing home drugs any time soon... Mars shouldn't have to sleep alone at night. Someone needs to be there to call an ambulance the day he suffers a heart attack in his sleep, or if the roof caves in. And moving house is such an exciting thing to do.
This is a good thing. Mars needed the distraction from his recent disappointments.
Naturally, Venus is thrilled to bits about the prospect of helping Mars with the move. Within seconds she is envisioning happy couple moments- bonding over boxing, laughing over loo-cleaning, distractions while decorating. She sets herself up to be the most supportive girlfriend ever. She'll even let HIM make decisions this time. It's his place, after all. She'll be the model of cool, being there for him every step of the way to do whatever it is that Martians need Venusians to do at times like this. Should she get herself a pair of overalls, she wonders. It'll help her look cute while she packs his glasses and transports brooms.
The new place itself holds much promise of intimate dinners, cuddling up for movies and combined cooking. Venus can't wait to cater to the two boys like she has the past three years for Mars. She will make herself the bosom buddy's friend with good food and a super attitude, so that he needn't fear her femdom or think her an intrusion. This should be fun.
Fast forward to a couple of days before the move. Mars is frantically packing his things and taking care of details. Having researched and prepared weeks ahead for making his life easier, Venus hops in to help.
"Shall I come over and help you pack?"
"No it's cool, I've got it."
"Yeah but maybe I can put away some books or something"
"No. Thanks. Under control"
Frown. This was not the way it's supposed to go. They're supposed to be bonding over boxes. Surely, Mars understands this.
"You can have my car to transport the stuff!"
"No need. We've organized vehicles."
Bigger frown, slowly morphing to deep scowl. The car was her trump card. She'd figured he'd need wheels to take stuff to and fro. She'd already designated herself for duty, dammit. But she can't make a scene now. She must be understanding and amiable. She is the model of cool, after all. After offering the car a good many more times to the point of nagging, she gives up and tries to offer her hands-on services instead, each met with a shrug of rejection and the by-now thoroughly exasperating "Naah" from the insensitive being from another planet.
"So you need anything for the milk boiling ceremony? Hey I can bring you some food!" She's planning menus in her head now. They'll want some kiribath and curry. She can buy the bananas from Keells. Oh, it'll be super.
"It's OK" Mars says, in another world of his own. "My family will bring food."
Alright. This is going astray. Thus far, she has not been able to demonstrate her super-girlfriend-hood even a smidgen. Who IS this man???
"Well, let me know what you need and I'll bring it over on the big day." Her heart's beating fast. She's almost expecting his next words.
"Don't worry you don't need to come for the ceremony. The house will be too full of people anyway. You can drop in later on if you're free"
She swears she must have heard that wrong. Did he actually tell her he doesn't WANT her there???? Of course, not in so many words, but he's read enough gender psychology books to know how she's going to interpret that!
Venus moves to the ultimate tactic - pathetic desperation for inclusion.
"You don't want me there?" Said with a pout and girly big eyes for effect. " Ah fine fine... don't invite us..." She is confident that the coy clinginess will reverse what he just said.
"The house will be too full. It's too early in the morning anyway." he says, not even seeing the carefully pouted pout.
Martians have thick-ass skulls, and deserve to die.
Two days later the official move happens. Venus sits at home,tapping her fingers and staring at her phone, willing the damn thing to ring, or at least carry an sms asking her to come over and help. She cunningly posts both an FB status update as well as an sms, informing Mars that she is bored at home, with nothing to do. Any Martian should understand this as "I am ready to help you".
But apparently this one outdid them all. Not a peep. Not a single 'why don't you come be a part of it'.
Venus's mind plays tricks on her. He was out there enjoying the move with someone else. The bosom buddy was getting to be his box mate, and not she. Her mood darkens considerably. Perhaps she will poison the buddy when she cooks for them, and then she'd have Mars back.
Alarmed at the intensity of her jealousy, she slaps herself into getting over it. It's his shift, she reminds herself. The last thing two Martians starting off on a journey together need is a Venusian to put things out of balance. They must be given their space, she decides.
So she convinces herself not to care too much. Bonding over boxes is overrated, anyway. She'll make her presence felt when she goes over for a visit.He can't cuddle up to the bosom buddy, after all.
The big day. Venus is up at 5am, visualizing all the cool things and feelings Mars is experiencing with the new home. She visualizes the milk boiling over, hoping that it's a special moment for him. She says a small prayer, Asking God to protect the two men in their new home. Lord knows two bachelors sharing a house would be needing protection, if not their neighbours. Venus would have liked to be considered important enough for an invite, but hey... revenge is always possible. She'll tell him to stay home when she moves. Muahahaha.
The day turns into evening and suddenly, Mar's antennae finally start working and figuring out that all is not well over at the other planet. He generously extends an invitation for Venus to come by for dinner, which, after a few moments of contemplation, she decides to accept, deciding to put aside her qualms. Perhaps he'll let her help now, with the finer details and putting away of things. That'll be cool.
But something's different when she does hop over. The house is still the same... and Mars is still the same, but there's been a universal shift. It's no longer HIS place, like she's been used to for so many years now. There's nothing left of her previous touches in sight. The trinkets that she brought him for his first place... the proof that she was a part of his life... none of it visible. Even the kitchen is arranged. It's THEIR place now- his and his buddy's. She realizes with a shock that her days of taking liberties are over, and she n longer has the right to interfere. Humbled, sad and slightly perplexed, she cannot help but feel a total alien. Mars doesn't belong to her anymore. There's someone else in the picture... even if it is another Martian.
Even sitting down feels awkward, as she comes to the realization that even cuddling will need to be minimized and practiced at discretion. She's certainly not going to give Bosom Buddy the benefit of any PDA. She shoots a glance over to the other guy, swathed all over what was previously Mars's couch, and reels in shock when she sees him hugging a soft toy that she'd gotten for Mars some years ago. She wants to grab it... take it away from the newcomer and hand it back to Mars. It was for HIM after all. But Mars doesn't seem to notice, or be even the slightest bit perturbed by the fact that the toy is being squooshed by another man. Do Martians never care about these things?
She's dying for a hug.... she wants him to tell her it's OK. That things haven't changed. But there's no hug coming and she feels asking for one is just going to make her look vulnerable. She will NOT be vulnerable. She is too cool for that.
When the evening comes to an end, Venus can't help but feel a bit irritable. This was NOT how it was supposed to go. For a second, she wishes Mars never moved. She will exact sweet revenge by messing up his bedroom or rearranging the kitchen when he's not looking.
She can't help it. She's Venusian, after all.
Mars's eyes are shining. Probably. Because this is all over chat and there's no direct visual of him. For a moment, Venus is pleasantly surprised at the other end. So they've finally found one... that was quicker than expected.
Mars and his bosom buddy have been house-hunting for a while now, opting for sharing a pad as opposed to wallowing in the financial burdens of living alone. Venus was rather pleased by that, after having done extensive background checks on the buddy to ascertain he won't be bringing home drugs any time soon... Mars shouldn't have to sleep alone at night. Someone needs to be there to call an ambulance the day he suffers a heart attack in his sleep, or if the roof caves in. And moving house is such an exciting thing to do.
This is a good thing. Mars needed the distraction from his recent disappointments.
Naturally, Venus is thrilled to bits about the prospect of helping Mars with the move. Within seconds she is envisioning happy couple moments- bonding over boxing, laughing over loo-cleaning, distractions while decorating. She sets herself up to be the most supportive girlfriend ever. She'll even let HIM make decisions this time. It's his place, after all. She'll be the model of cool, being there for him every step of the way to do whatever it is that Martians need Venusians to do at times like this. Should she get herself a pair of overalls, she wonders. It'll help her look cute while she packs his glasses and transports brooms.
The new place itself holds much promise of intimate dinners, cuddling up for movies and combined cooking. Venus can't wait to cater to the two boys like she has the past three years for Mars. She will make herself the bosom buddy's friend with good food and a super attitude, so that he needn't fear her femdom or think her an intrusion. This should be fun.
Fast forward to a couple of days before the move. Mars is frantically packing his things and taking care of details. Having researched and prepared weeks ahead for making his life easier, Venus hops in to help.
"Shall I come over and help you pack?"
"No it's cool, I've got it."
"Yeah but maybe I can put away some books or something"
"No. Thanks. Under control"
Frown. This was not the way it's supposed to go. They're supposed to be bonding over boxes. Surely, Mars understands this.
"You can have my car to transport the stuff!"
"No need. We've organized vehicles."
Bigger frown, slowly morphing to deep scowl. The car was her trump card. She'd figured he'd need wheels to take stuff to and fro. She'd already designated herself for duty, dammit. But she can't make a scene now. She must be understanding and amiable. She is the model of cool, after all. After offering the car a good many more times to the point of nagging, she gives up and tries to offer her hands-on services instead, each met with a shrug of rejection and the by-now thoroughly exasperating "Naah" from the insensitive being from another planet.
"So you need anything for the milk boiling ceremony? Hey I can bring you some food!" She's planning menus in her head now. They'll want some kiribath and curry. She can buy the bananas from Keells. Oh, it'll be super.
"It's OK" Mars says, in another world of his own. "My family will bring food."
Alright. This is going astray. Thus far, she has not been able to demonstrate her super-girlfriend-hood even a smidgen. Who IS this man???
"Well, let me know what you need and I'll bring it over on the big day." Her heart's beating fast. She's almost expecting his next words.
"Don't worry you don't need to come for the ceremony. The house will be too full of people anyway. You can drop in later on if you're free"
She swears she must have heard that wrong. Did he actually tell her he doesn't WANT her there???? Of course, not in so many words, but he's read enough gender psychology books to know how she's going to interpret that!
Venus moves to the ultimate tactic - pathetic desperation for inclusion.
"You don't want me there?" Said with a pout and girly big eyes for effect. " Ah fine fine... don't invite us..." She is confident that the coy clinginess will reverse what he just said.
"The house will be too full. It's too early in the morning anyway." he says, not even seeing the carefully pouted pout.
Martians have thick-ass skulls, and deserve to die.
Two days later the official move happens. Venus sits at home,tapping her fingers and staring at her phone, willing the damn thing to ring, or at least carry an sms asking her to come over and help. She cunningly posts both an FB status update as well as an sms, informing Mars that she is bored at home, with nothing to do. Any Martian should understand this as "I am ready to help you".
But apparently this one outdid them all. Not a peep. Not a single 'why don't you come be a part of it'.
Venus's mind plays tricks on her. He was out there enjoying the move with someone else. The bosom buddy was getting to be his box mate, and not she. Her mood darkens considerably. Perhaps she will poison the buddy when she cooks for them, and then she'd have Mars back.
Alarmed at the intensity of her jealousy, she slaps herself into getting over it. It's his shift, she reminds herself. The last thing two Martians starting off on a journey together need is a Venusian to put things out of balance. They must be given their space, she decides.
So she convinces herself not to care too much. Bonding over boxes is overrated, anyway. She'll make her presence felt when she goes over for a visit.He can't cuddle up to the bosom buddy, after all.
The big day. Venus is up at 5am, visualizing all the cool things and feelings Mars is experiencing with the new home. She visualizes the milk boiling over, hoping that it's a special moment for him. She says a small prayer, Asking God to protect the two men in their new home. Lord knows two bachelors sharing a house would be needing protection, if not their neighbours. Venus would have liked to be considered important enough for an invite, but hey... revenge is always possible. She'll tell him to stay home when she moves. Muahahaha.
The day turns into evening and suddenly, Mar's antennae finally start working and figuring out that all is not well over at the other planet. He generously extends an invitation for Venus to come by for dinner, which, after a few moments of contemplation, she decides to accept, deciding to put aside her qualms. Perhaps he'll let her help now, with the finer details and putting away of things. That'll be cool.
But something's different when she does hop over. The house is still the same... and Mars is still the same, but there's been a universal shift. It's no longer HIS place, like she's been used to for so many years now. There's nothing left of her previous touches in sight. The trinkets that she brought him for his first place... the proof that she was a part of his life... none of it visible. Even the kitchen is arranged. It's THEIR place now- his and his buddy's. She realizes with a shock that her days of taking liberties are over, and she n longer has the right to interfere. Humbled, sad and slightly perplexed, she cannot help but feel a total alien. Mars doesn't belong to her anymore. There's someone else in the picture... even if it is another Martian.
Even sitting down feels awkward, as she comes to the realization that even cuddling will need to be minimized and practiced at discretion. She's certainly not going to give Bosom Buddy the benefit of any PDA. She shoots a glance over to the other guy, swathed all over what was previously Mars's couch, and reels in shock when she sees him hugging a soft toy that she'd gotten for Mars some years ago. She wants to grab it... take it away from the newcomer and hand it back to Mars. It was for HIM after all. But Mars doesn't seem to notice, or be even the slightest bit perturbed by the fact that the toy is being squooshed by another man. Do Martians never care about these things?
She's dying for a hug.... she wants him to tell her it's OK. That things haven't changed. But there's no hug coming and she feels asking for one is just going to make her look vulnerable. She will NOT be vulnerable. She is too cool for that.
When the evening comes to an end, Venus can't help but feel a bit irritable. This was NOT how it was supposed to go. For a second, she wishes Mars never moved. She will exact sweet revenge by messing up his bedroom or rearranging the kitchen when he's not looking.
She can't help it. She's Venusian, after all.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
The One About Ageing
It's happened again. Too soon for my liking. Another birthday... another step towards senility, if I haven't reached it already.
Oh bugger, I'm as old as my aunts were, back when I pitied them. I even feel like them now, but that may be due to my most recent disaster.
Gasp. Haven't I told you about my fall? You're kidding. Right so here's the story-
There I was, the day before I became offically geriatric, yawning at office way too early for my comfort on account of a presentation I had. There was a sheet of paper I'd previously stuck high up on a wall in our board room, that I wanted to take down. The closest thing to a stool was a nearby chair of the wheeled, swivelly kind.
But what kind of idiot stands on a swivelling chair? Why, one like me of course. Was there ever any doubt. I wheeled the chair into place and got onto it. IN my shoes, too, because sometimes I think I'm the cheerleader in Heroes.
As predicted by everyone and their grandmother, the chair decided to roll away, leaving me in mid air for a brief second before crashing down on my spine onto the concrete floor. Not satisfied with the impact, fate determined that I would also snap and bang my head onto said floor. And if you thought fate is a bitch, then get a hold of what luck decided to come up with next. The chair rolled all the way into a large metal flipchart easel- those three legged whiteboards (and this one coincidentally not of csound balance)- that toppled allll the way down onto me. Sideways, for maximum effect.The next thing I knew, Lady D and another colleage were lifting the thing off me and anxiously peering to see if I was alive. I was. I even cracked a few jokes to prove it. EVeryone except me was not amused.
The first thing that popped into my head at point of head bang was that would be turning 30 the next day and I wanted to do it standing on my feet and not in a wheelchair. To think I came out of that without a scratch is nothing short of a miracle. I spent the rest of the day with a splitting headache, though.
It was the ideal way to start my journey downhill.
Not that the actualy birthday part of it was too bad, though.Perhaps not as loud and glam as I'd previously envisioned my 30th birthday, but it was rather nice, in an interesting, quiet kind of way.
His Docness thought he'd surprise me with flowers at office. Naturally, I had to ruin all that for the poor sod, happening to be outside the office building when he turned up and seeing him with said flowers before he had a chance to come upstairs and do whatever he'd carefully planned out. I have a knack for ruining his best moments like that. But the flowers were fabulous... thirty red roses and a card that made me sniff in pleasure. Then there was that gooey poem he'd written to me on FB that produced some emotional snot. I like it when a man's not too embarrassed to proclaim to the world that he's an utter, simpering romantic, at the risk of losing his ball value amongst his fellow men. I know you ladies agree with me. He's quite lovely that way, our Doc.... fussed over me the whole day with unwavering adoration which, as you know, can be the biggest turn on for us girls.
I was treated to a delicious dinner in the evening at one of my favourite restaurants by the sea, complete with low intimate lighting to make me look better (Again, another thing I love the man for... he undertsands female insecurities like no other man i know does) and strains of some relaxing acoustic music by one of my favourite local bands. Followed by a romantic walk on the beach in the moonlight. Yes. I am as corny and cheesy as hell. Deal with it.
That was the nice part of the day. The drama (for there HAD to be drama) happened somewhere in between.
In the spirit of turning 30 I decided to take my first steps towards midlife crisis and do the most rebellious thing I could think of. Give myself a haircut.
Please don't snigger. When you're 30 these things become quite exciting and dangerous. It was either the hair or a tattoo and I'm too chicken shit and broke for the second. The rebel in me wants to carve a cartoon cat on my skin and the thirty year old in me just keeps thinking about the pain, financial downfall and blood poisoning I risk. Perhaps I will leave it for 31, when I lose all hope.
Back to my hair. Given the occasion and the sudden need to defy the norm, I bravely handed over all control to the hairstylist, informing her that she could do what she liked with my head, and to prove my faith in her I would even sit turned AWAY from the mirror till she was done. I don't know what my 30-year old braincells were up to at that point. Something to do with all those makeover moments you see in movies where the heroine swivels to face the mirror and you gasp at the captivating transformation.
The stylist was ecstatic. Nobody had ever put so much trust in her, she sobbed. Well, she didn't sob, exactly.... she kinda sneezed it out...but sob sounds better. For a moment I worried that the girl might have been a tad too eager to experiment on my balding head, but I shook it off with the conviction that you really can't live your whole life playing it safe. At some point, you HAVE to give a stylist her artistic freedom.
And so I swivelled out of mirror's way and sat back while she went at me with her scissors and combs. In retrospect, perhaps I should have questioned her when she suddenly snipped off a good chunk. But I didn't, and it turned out to be my achille's hair of a mistake.
I think the whole of nugegoda heard my version of 'WTF' when I did finally swivel towards that mirror. For those of you who haven't seen me yet, let's just say I look like the animé version of the Dulux dog.
The Doc, in all his supportive-boyfriendness did n't say a single word when he saw me, and still hasn't as of date. THAT'S how much liberty the damned stylist took. A few other people did comment, though. My mother, for one. She became a tad suicidal about it too.Then there was my grandmother, who just screeched 'eeeeyah' for a good while before checking to see if I was having her on and weaing a wig. Even my debut at office was met with a sympathetic 'Don't worry, it'll grow back' as the first response to the sight.
AH well. One lives only once and 30 IS the age to do something stupid so that you can feel sufficiently mature at 40.
And here I sit now, a day later, with all the good memories of the last two days and a rather bad haircut on my mind. If the last thirty years have taught me anything (My mother will attest that it hasn't taught me much), it's that age gives you the ablity to ponder, contemplate, theorize and pontificate about... well... age.
I hope my self-inspired list helps all you fledglings out there who live in age denial to get yourself a reality check.
You know you're 30...
... when the wildest thing you do is have a haircut and grant artistic licence to the person with the scissors.
... when lecherous old men start giving you the eye at supermarkets.
... when you start finding lecherous old men at supermarkets attractive.
... when the height of social activity is visitng the supermarket.
... When you stress and bitch over pictures of a hot, 20-something little tramp upto the point where you realize it's actually your own picture, ten years ago.
... When you visit relatives and they glare at you for wating to go watch TV upstairs with the kids instead of socialize.
... When small talk with relatives is an enjoyable experience.
... when you doll up and go to a nightclub, and feel sleepy within the first five minutes.
... when you feel sleepy within the first five minutes of thinking of dolling up and going to a nightclub.
... when the cute guys at nigthclubs call you 'aunty' and think the nubile young teenage thing next to you is your daughter.
... when you agree with your mother's views on your attire.
... when crotchet needles become THE thing to shop for.
... When the only response to your boyfriend's whispered sweet nothings is 'Speak louder, I can't hear!'
... When your boyfriend starts referring to your tummy as a 'cute pillow' and eyes you warily as you put on a sexy pose.
... When everyone else you know calls your stomach anything but cute.
... When you break into a sweat just thinking of a sit-up.
... When considerate kindred spirits like TheMissingSandwich ask you if it's ok to wish you on your birthday.
Oh bugger, I'm as old as my aunts were, back when I pitied them. I even feel like them now, but that may be due to my most recent disaster.
Gasp. Haven't I told you about my fall? You're kidding. Right so here's the story-
There I was, the day before I became offically geriatric, yawning at office way too early for my comfort on account of a presentation I had. There was a sheet of paper I'd previously stuck high up on a wall in our board room, that I wanted to take down. The closest thing to a stool was a nearby chair of the wheeled, swivelly kind.
But what kind of idiot stands on a swivelling chair? Why, one like me of course. Was there ever any doubt. I wheeled the chair into place and got onto it. IN my shoes, too, because sometimes I think I'm the cheerleader in Heroes.
As predicted by everyone and their grandmother, the chair decided to roll away, leaving me in mid air for a brief second before crashing down on my spine onto the concrete floor. Not satisfied with the impact, fate determined that I would also snap and bang my head onto said floor. And if you thought fate is a bitch, then get a hold of what luck decided to come up with next. The chair rolled all the way into a large metal flipchart easel- those three legged whiteboards (and this one coincidentally not of csound balance)- that toppled allll the way down onto me. Sideways, for maximum effect.The next thing I knew, Lady D and another colleage were lifting the thing off me and anxiously peering to see if I was alive. I was. I even cracked a few jokes to prove it. EVeryone except me was not amused.
The first thing that popped into my head at point of head bang was that would be turning 30 the next day and I wanted to do it standing on my feet and not in a wheelchair. To think I came out of that without a scratch is nothing short of a miracle. I spent the rest of the day with a splitting headache, though.
It was the ideal way to start my journey downhill.
Not that the actualy birthday part of it was too bad, though.Perhaps not as loud and glam as I'd previously envisioned my 30th birthday, but it was rather nice, in an interesting, quiet kind of way.
His Docness thought he'd surprise me with flowers at office. Naturally, I had to ruin all that for the poor sod, happening to be outside the office building when he turned up and seeing him with said flowers before he had a chance to come upstairs and do whatever he'd carefully planned out. I have a knack for ruining his best moments like that. But the flowers were fabulous... thirty red roses and a card that made me sniff in pleasure. Then there was that gooey poem he'd written to me on FB that produced some emotional snot. I like it when a man's not too embarrassed to proclaim to the world that he's an utter, simpering romantic, at the risk of losing his ball value amongst his fellow men. I know you ladies agree with me. He's quite lovely that way, our Doc.... fussed over me the whole day with unwavering adoration which, as you know, can be the biggest turn on for us girls.
I was treated to a delicious dinner in the evening at one of my favourite restaurants by the sea, complete with low intimate lighting to make me look better (Again, another thing I love the man for... he undertsands female insecurities like no other man i know does) and strains of some relaxing acoustic music by one of my favourite local bands. Followed by a romantic walk on the beach in the moonlight. Yes. I am as corny and cheesy as hell. Deal with it.
That was the nice part of the day. The drama (for there HAD to be drama) happened somewhere in between.
In the spirit of turning 30 I decided to take my first steps towards midlife crisis and do the most rebellious thing I could think of. Give myself a haircut.
Please don't snigger. When you're 30 these things become quite exciting and dangerous. It was either the hair or a tattoo and I'm too chicken shit and broke for the second. The rebel in me wants to carve a cartoon cat on my skin and the thirty year old in me just keeps thinking about the pain, financial downfall and blood poisoning I risk. Perhaps I will leave it for 31, when I lose all hope.
Back to my hair. Given the occasion and the sudden need to defy the norm, I bravely handed over all control to the hairstylist, informing her that she could do what she liked with my head, and to prove my faith in her I would even sit turned AWAY from the mirror till she was done. I don't know what my 30-year old braincells were up to at that point. Something to do with all those makeover moments you see in movies where the heroine swivels to face the mirror and you gasp at the captivating transformation.
The stylist was ecstatic. Nobody had ever put so much trust in her, she sobbed. Well, she didn't sob, exactly.... she kinda sneezed it out...but sob sounds better. For a moment I worried that the girl might have been a tad too eager to experiment on my balding head, but I shook it off with the conviction that you really can't live your whole life playing it safe. At some point, you HAVE to give a stylist her artistic freedom.
And so I swivelled out of mirror's way and sat back while she went at me with her scissors and combs. In retrospect, perhaps I should have questioned her when she suddenly snipped off a good chunk. But I didn't, and it turned out to be my achille's hair of a mistake.
I think the whole of nugegoda heard my version of 'WTF' when I did finally swivel towards that mirror. For those of you who haven't seen me yet, let's just say I look like the animé version of the Dulux dog.
The Doc, in all his supportive-boyfriendness did n't say a single word when he saw me, and still hasn't as of date. THAT'S how much liberty the damned stylist took. A few other people did comment, though. My mother, for one. She became a tad suicidal about it too.Then there was my grandmother, who just screeched 'eeeeyah' for a good while before checking to see if I was having her on and weaing a wig. Even my debut at office was met with a sympathetic 'Don't worry, it'll grow back' as the first response to the sight.
AH well. One lives only once and 30 IS the age to do something stupid so that you can feel sufficiently mature at 40.
And here I sit now, a day later, with all the good memories of the last two days and a rather bad haircut on my mind. If the last thirty years have taught me anything (My mother will attest that it hasn't taught me much), it's that age gives you the ablity to ponder, contemplate, theorize and pontificate about... well... age.
I hope my self-inspired list helps all you fledglings out there who live in age denial to get yourself a reality check.
You know you're 30...
... when the wildest thing you do is have a haircut and grant artistic licence to the person with the scissors.
... when lecherous old men start giving you the eye at supermarkets.
... when you start finding lecherous old men at supermarkets attractive.
... when the height of social activity is visitng the supermarket.
... When you stress and bitch over pictures of a hot, 20-something little tramp upto the point where you realize it's actually your own picture, ten years ago.
... When you visit relatives and they glare at you for wating to go watch TV upstairs with the kids instead of socialize.
... When small talk with relatives is an enjoyable experience.
... when you doll up and go to a nightclub, and feel sleepy within the first five minutes.
... when you feel sleepy within the first five minutes of thinking of dolling up and going to a nightclub.
... when the cute guys at nigthclubs call you 'aunty' and think the nubile young teenage thing next to you is your daughter.
... when you agree with your mother's views on your attire.
... when crotchet needles become THE thing to shop for.
... When the only response to your boyfriend's whispered sweet nothings is 'Speak louder, I can't hear!'
... When your boyfriend starts referring to your tummy as a 'cute pillow' and eyes you warily as you put on a sexy pose.
... When everyone else you know calls your stomach anything but cute.
... When you break into a sweat just thinking of a sit-up.
... When considerate kindred spirits like TheMissingSandwich ask you if it's ok to wish you on your birthday.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
When the Wild Met the WIlderness
After much blathering and de-roping over the course of three whole years, the bunch of monkeys from the old office finally managed to get their acts together and loiter over to Yala on a trip this weekend. As if the drought and tourist season wasn’t giving enough pain to those poor animals, we decided to add to their misery too.
As head honcho, I took on the role of overall instigator of Project Trip-To-Yala (creative, think you not). I swear I will never make that mistake again.
I never realized that organizing a trip could be more stressful than running America. Not only did I have to battle it out with ten ninnies for weeks in order to convince them all to come, but I also had the pleasure of playing headmistress and chaperone in talking to their parents and assuring a few wrought mums that I’d return their precious angels in one sober piece. Mind you, these are mostly adult males we’re talking about. One even as ancient as I am. I had to make vows of responsibility and sobriety, even going into the extent of sending out group mails listing out rules of conduct to the lot. I felt like one of those parents promising to babysit a slumber party. I spent sleepless nights budgeting out the cheapest options for travel and accommodation, with some of the bunch kindly volunteering to do much of the dirty work of calling around for quotes and securing deals.
But in the end, we did finally go, and none the sooner. It was wild, it was whacky and it was, in every sense of the word, a trip.
For cost and adventure purposes, we settled on taking a train to Matara and then finding a way to get to yala from there. The drama began in the wee hours of the morning when the cab we’d hired to pick us all up and take us to the railway station turned up minus four seats. A moment of panic, and it was decided that some of them would go ahead to the station on their own. A good decision on their part, because those of in the cab spent two hours pulling our hair out every time the gears flunked and we got caught to checkpoints, fearing we’d miss the train. But all turned out well, and we did catch it on time, thanks to the brave souls who went ahead of us and purchased tickets.
The train journey itself was eventful too. To begin with, none of us knew where the 2nd class compartments were, and ended up getting in late and not having seats. Most of the gang stood for a whole three hours right next to a rather gruesome cabin toilet until people got off and seats became available. I, being the queen that I am, secured myself a nice plush seat next to a snoring passenger and rode in comfort. The weather decided to be an arse and kept raining now and then, which meant the train windows had to be opened and closes at least eight times during the journey. I could see Lady Divine’s face turning very, very sour every time she ended up wet. The train also featured quite a number of entrepreneurs who passed the cabin selling different versions of vadey, kadaley, and pitiful stories in order to make a buck. Five hours hence, I’d almost emptied my pockets and we arrived in Matara.
From Matara we hired a cab to take us to Yala. This one actually had enough seats. We stopped on the way to buy food provisions and ended up alarming the employees of Cargills. The boys spied the liquor section and there went my no-drinking policies. En route to Yala, yours truly had the pleasure of treating everyone to a delightful bout of travel sickness. Luckily, that was as dramatic as it got, and we slept the rest of the way to our lodgings.
As our accommodation of choice, we chose the Panthera Lodge – a charming bungalow on the fringes of the Yala park. Never realizing whom they were handing their premises to, the lodge owner gave us a very cool deal that included the services of their fabulous cook, Liyanage, who could whip up gourmet fantasies out of rocks if we let him. The lodge itself is basic in architecture, but quite well built, with a novel ‘outdoor’ feel to it. All the beds were lined up on this massive verandah so that we could sleep under the stars.
Even the bathroom was open-aired and lacked a ceiling in a very ‘designer’ way, giving passing birds a shock of their lives. We even had the pleasure of the company of the lodge’s delightful little watchdog, who did anything but be a watchdog. We called her Soma.
But even Soma’s farts could not stop us from enjoying ourselves. In the midst of the hilarious moments of Mafia, poker, word games, sing-a-longs and home-made movies, I can’t remember a single second that I wasn’t laughing. If the daytime wasn’t crazy enough, the night was even better. Open air sleeping arrangements meant a lot of Yala bugs visited us out of curiosity, necessitating the use of convenient mosquito nets – one per every two beds. Securing them was enough of an adventure. We spent hours not sleeping on that row of beds and methinks we kept the whole of Yala awake with the screeches, guffaws and giggles throughout the night. The boys shared beds with each other and left nothing to the imagination of what was happening under those nets.
The next morning we slouched off to the park for our Safari. An early start meant an eventful waking up ceremony at 4 am that warranted another episode of hilarity and drama, with everyone trying to find ways of keeping the others awake. However, all drowsiness was forgotten when we entered the park at 5.
Now I’ve been to Yala before, and it’s always been the same old same old. A dabbling of elephants, a few lazy crocodiles and a couple of deer. But this time around was excellent. Whether it was the drought luring the animals out of their hiding or pure luck, we managed to have an excellent experience. We even saw two leopards! One was an exceptional large, lazy one walking on the road just in front of the jeeps and the other was a cub who shot out of view the minute he heard us coming. Because the universe is highly unfair, I didn’t manage to photograph either. Bummer. But the park encounter was worth every cent, given that we saw a huge number of creatures in all sorts of positions. Here are a few photos that aren’t my own, simply because the other guy had a better camera than I did.
If there was anything that outshone the eventful safari, it was the cook. His meals were beyond fabulous, especially the scrumptious barbeque he whipped up on our last night. BBQ-ed chicken, sausages, grilled whole fish, garlic bread, potato salad and cheesy pasta. We ate copious amounts of it, not wanting to stop.
With that BBQ came the end of the trip, and we all got back into a van at midnight and took off for the Matara station. The train ride back was far more comfortable than our original, though I don’t remember much of it, given that I slept for all five hours of the way home.
And now here I am, pondering and pining to go back there. Just for two glorious days I had my mad lunatics back together and the world was good again. I went back to a time, two years ago, when I worked in a place I could call home with a super group I could call my family. It's little trips like this that makes all those good memories come back to life again. Makes you wonder if everything else in life has a point.
Where to next, peeps??
A Long One That Isn't My Boyfriend's Schlong.
With apologies to said boyfriend for mentioning his long schlong.
I’m back.
Really couldn’t be bothered with thinking up a more creative opening statement.
The days are quite literally a blur. Mostly because I broke my spectacles over three months ago and haven’t replaced them, but also because things seem to be passing by at a speed faster than peoples’ memory of Duminda Silva's negative public image. I am both supremely busy and supremely bored with life.
Gutterflower was right. It isn’t fun to blog when writing is your job. God knows I don’t want to WORK off-time too. But clearly you haven’t missed me as much as I’d like you to.
Anyhoo, let me give you a quick rundown of what moi has been getting moi’s itchy fingers into lately, a’ight?
That sounded vulgar, didn’t it?
To start with, back when I had less grey hairs on my head, almost four months ago, I was involved in putting together this year’s Chillies. Yes… that same ill-fated event that’s been given a good blog beating several times already. I had the luck (debatable) of being a part of the organizing committee by virtue of nomination. Given my inclination towards the theatrical, the rest of the committee decided that my chief (and only- because when it’s convenient, I can look like a bimbo who can’t do much else) responsibility would be to put together the entertainment for the event. I thought I was being very economical and smart when I suggested we ask a well-known theatre director to train people from within the industry to put on a musical act. The director thought HE was being smart in deciding to make that act a drag scene from ‘Cabaret’.
It is safe to say that when it comes to the ad industry, Liza Minnellis we are not.
It all went downhill from there.
Note to self and all at large: you will NOT, I repeat NOT, secure yourself any popular reputation amongst local men once you have harassed them to wear women’s' lingerie on a public stage. Let me elaborate with a prime example of what my phone conversations with random straight men went like:
(Ring ring)- which is actually a phone ringing and not a piece of schizophrenic jewellery…
Straight man : Hello?
Me : Hi. This is (dramaqueen). You don't know me, but I'm in the organising committee for the Chillies, and we have this performance that I'd think you'd be PERFECT for. (flirtatious voice to appeal to red-blooded male brain cell)
SM : (clearly flattered brain cell) oh? Wow... ok... what do you need me to do?
Me : Well, we need you to dance in drag. It's a musical number, you see, and the lingerie you’ll be wearing…
(Cue click of phone)
...
(Second set of ‘ring ring’)
SM : (Not flattered anymore) Yes?
Me : Sorry I think you got cut off. So like I was saying, it's a really cute drag number, and...
(Phone slams)
(Ring Ri..)
SM: WHAT? (braincell is now shouting)
Me : Er... are you interested?
At this point I am subjected to a lot of Greek. Or at least I think it's Greek because 13 years in a private girls’ school taught me nothing.
Of course, to be fair, I have to admit there was the odd (no pun intended) straight man with a slightly more open mind and sense of fun who DID surprisingly agreed to wear the skimpy outfit and heels and wiggle his bottom in front of a thousand people. There were also a handful of brave girls who volunteered (after some initial pleading on my part) to take on the role of the men in the act. I sat up for several evenings pasting sequins on bras and sewing black lace negligees and garters, much to my poor mother’s distress. She is now convinced that advertising is pure lechery. A few days were spent in shoe shops around the city, asking for high-heeled shoes in impossibly large sizes. My explanation to the questioning looks from shopkeepers was that they were for ‘tall foreign women’. ‘Drag queens’ would not have got me those shoes, except for on the head whilst being flung.
I won’t tell you how the show went. There are reviews in both English and Greek you can get someone else who was sober enough to witness it all that night.
Lah Land
The Chillies were followed by a trip to Singapore on a work assignment with a disgruntled co-worker who’d never been on a plane in his life. This meant a lot of nanny duty on my part, with much running after the bloke to stop him from going the wrong way at the airport.
I’ve been to good old ‘pore before, back when my hair was thicker. I didn’t have the slightest clue to how much things had changed since. The first night there, my workmate and I decided to grab a bite from a food court outside our hotel, because the food bills at 5-star hotel restaurants in Singapore make you puke out everything that’s eaten, rendering the whole experience a worthless one.
We asked the bellboy to recommend a good food court nearby that we could hop over to at that time of night (it was a bit late in the night given that our flight landed well past people’s bedtime). Perhaps we should have specified that we meant to eat and nothing but, because the guy gave us a suspicious snigger and pointed towards Orchard towers, a few blocks away from our hotel.
Oblivious to the meaning behind Singaporean sniggers, we skipped over to the Towers. The last time I’d visited Orchard Road, it was the place for the elite to stroll casually by on whilst determining which designer store to throw their money at next. This time around was a little different. There were quite a few questionably dressed girls draping themselves on walls of buildings and under streetlamps, wearing enough make-up to render said streetlamp redundant. I, being the dud that I am, put this down to the fact that Singaporeans must love to dress up at night and have bad stylists. Going into Orchard Towers, we found more and more of these disillusioned fashionistas gyrating to the loud thumping music blaring out of several nightclubs dotting the basement floor into which we had descended. Having manoeuvred the alarmingly seedy corridors, we found our food court and looked around, gulping nervously by now. One hour later we ran back to the hotel at lightning speed, not even surprised by now at the food looking very suspicious, tasting odd, or the fact that we got played out by the vendor. The next morning I found out that Orchard Towers is also famously known as the ‘Four Floors of Whores’.
I hope you’ve caught on by now that the bellboy didn’t get a tip from me.
The rest of the week was spent in between work sessions, slightly more respectable food joints and the zillion shops. One cannot go to ‘Pore and not shop, dahling! Ever the stingy Grinch, my firm favourite has been and will always be the infamous Mustafas. Hours upon hours of loading the cart in greedy haste like there’s no tomorrow. Designer was never my thing, anyway. The food was better than I remembered, especially the chillie crab at Jumbo’s!
There was that one other place that I’d have died if I didn’t get the chance to go back to, and that was the zoo. When you’re a nutter like me you’ll understand why the Singapore zoo is the god of all Asian zoos. I once even tried scoring a job there as an animal show presenter, but was sadly rejected. I think it had something to do with the height of professionalism I demonstrated by writing them a letter to the effect of ‘Hi. I love animals. Could I please have a job there?’.
What? I bet the animals would’ve said yes.
My work mate couldn’t really get his mind around to the fact that when I suggested visiting the zoo, I meant staying there and never going back to SL. He tried to drag me away from the zebras quite a few times once he’d realized my intentions. But I stood my ground and the poor man spent his entire day watching me cooing at the wary creatures like an escaped lunatic. The only beings appreciative of my attentions were the snakes, who’d thus far never received any cooing and thought it a delightful novelty.
I would have felt sorry for my colleague’s plight had he not taken sweet revenge on our last day. We’d decided to visit Chinatown and discussed the merits of splitting up, doing our thing and then meeting at the metro point at a given time. I kept my end of the bargain but he did not. It could have had something to do with the fact that he’d lost his way and didn’t speak fluent English or Mandarin, but I didn’t care. I spent a good three hours standing near the metro entrance, to the point that one particular Chinese man thought I was a hooker and asked me if I wanted to go away with him and show him what brown girls can do. He may have gotten my point when I hit him with a large wooden souvenir fan and called him a bastard, because he left speedily. Seething with rage, I decided to leave my workmate to his fate and went back to our lodgings, only to find him fast asleep there. I hit him with the fan too.
Since Singapore, nothing much else has happened that’s exciting enough to share. I did agree to be conscripted into another play that I’m currently suffering rehearsals for. It stars a few good friends, and that is about the only thing I’m motivated by, given that my work schedule makes everything else an inconvenience. The production is in itself quite a good concept and it’s bound to thrill a few people. We shall see.
Apart from the play, my latest bouts of angst are directed towards Nilanga Dela Bandara a.k.a the Diyawadana Nilame, Minister Gamini Lokuge and the Asgiriya chapter. If you’ve been following the recent outrage of the media and general public, then you’ll know why I want all of the above mentioned bastards dead, or at least hung by their clearly-lacking balls. I am devising way in which to make this happen as we speak.
If you are not savvy to the goings on, then Google their names and you’ll come across a hundred article reporting the demonic way in which they abducted two suckling tusker calves from their mothers in Pinnawela and ‘offered’ them to the temple. To this day the babies remain chained, injured and traumatized inside Dela Bandara’s garage, whilst the mother elephants lie injured and pining for their calves. True Buddhists, these pigs are… to heap portions of abuse onto animals and expect karma points out of it. It astounds me how greedy fat arses like this are actually put into positions of power by us, the people. We are clearly dumber than I thought we were.
And that, my little donkeys, is what has happened so far, with the exception of work, work and nothing but work that keeps me grimacing every time I think of sitting down at the PC, even if it IS for personal gain. I did have a few outstanding moments like that time I saw another workmate standing near the office elevator and slapped his ass in the jovial fashion I always do, only to have the man turn around and reveal himself to NOT be the workmate in question but an absolute stranger. I ditched the elevator ride for five flights of stairs, just to avoid dying of shame.
Like a coincidental bitch of an irony, someone in office just called for me. This means you need to wait to hear from me again.
Over and out.
I’m back.
Really couldn’t be bothered with thinking up a more creative opening statement.
The days are quite literally a blur. Mostly because I broke my spectacles over three months ago and haven’t replaced them, but also because things seem to be passing by at a speed faster than peoples’ memory of Duminda Silva's negative public image. I am both supremely busy and supremely bored with life.
Gutterflower was right. It isn’t fun to blog when writing is your job. God knows I don’t want to WORK off-time too. But clearly you haven’t missed me as much as I’d like you to.
Anyhoo, let me give you a quick rundown of what moi has been getting moi’s itchy fingers into lately, a’ight?
That sounded vulgar, didn’t it?
To start with, back when I had less grey hairs on my head, almost four months ago, I was involved in putting together this year’s Chillies. Yes… that same ill-fated event that’s been given a good blog beating several times already. I had the luck (debatable) of being a part of the organizing committee by virtue of nomination. Given my inclination towards the theatrical, the rest of the committee decided that my chief (and only- because when it’s convenient, I can look like a bimbo who can’t do much else) responsibility would be to put together the entertainment for the event. I thought I was being very economical and smart when I suggested we ask a well-known theatre director to train people from within the industry to put on a musical act. The director thought HE was being smart in deciding to make that act a drag scene from ‘Cabaret’.
It is safe to say that when it comes to the ad industry, Liza Minnellis we are not.
It all went downhill from there.
Note to self and all at large: you will NOT, I repeat NOT, secure yourself any popular reputation amongst local men once you have harassed them to wear women’s' lingerie on a public stage. Let me elaborate with a prime example of what my phone conversations with random straight men went like:
(Ring ring)- which is actually a phone ringing and not a piece of schizophrenic jewellery…
Straight man : Hello?
Me : Hi. This is (dramaqueen). You don't know me, but I'm in the organising committee for the Chillies, and we have this performance that I'd think you'd be PERFECT for. (flirtatious voice to appeal to red-blooded male brain cell)
SM : (clearly flattered brain cell) oh? Wow... ok... what do you need me to do?
Me : Well, we need you to dance in drag. It's a musical number, you see, and the lingerie you’ll be wearing…
(Cue click of phone)
...
(Second set of ‘ring ring’)
SM : (Not flattered anymore) Yes?
Me : Sorry I think you got cut off. So like I was saying, it's a really cute drag number, and...
(Phone slams)
(Ring Ri..)
SM: WHAT? (braincell is now shouting)
Me : Er... are you interested?
At this point I am subjected to a lot of Greek. Or at least I think it's Greek because 13 years in a private girls’ school taught me nothing.
Of course, to be fair, I have to admit there was the odd (no pun intended) straight man with a slightly more open mind and sense of fun who DID surprisingly agreed to wear the skimpy outfit and heels and wiggle his bottom in front of a thousand people. There were also a handful of brave girls who volunteered (after some initial pleading on my part) to take on the role of the men in the act. I sat up for several evenings pasting sequins on bras and sewing black lace negligees and garters, much to my poor mother’s distress. She is now convinced that advertising is pure lechery. A few days were spent in shoe shops around the city, asking for high-heeled shoes in impossibly large sizes. My explanation to the questioning looks from shopkeepers was that they were for ‘tall foreign women’. ‘Drag queens’ would not have got me those shoes, except for on the head whilst being flung.
I won’t tell you how the show went. There are reviews in both English and Greek you can get someone else who was sober enough to witness it all that night.
Lah Land
The Chillies were followed by a trip to Singapore on a work assignment with a disgruntled co-worker who’d never been on a plane in his life. This meant a lot of nanny duty on my part, with much running after the bloke to stop him from going the wrong way at the airport.
I’ve been to good old ‘pore before, back when my hair was thicker. I didn’t have the slightest clue to how much things had changed since. The first night there, my workmate and I decided to grab a bite from a food court outside our hotel, because the food bills at 5-star hotel restaurants in Singapore make you puke out everything that’s eaten, rendering the whole experience a worthless one.
We asked the bellboy to recommend a good food court nearby that we could hop over to at that time of night (it was a bit late in the night given that our flight landed well past people’s bedtime). Perhaps we should have specified that we meant to eat and nothing but, because the guy gave us a suspicious snigger and pointed towards Orchard towers, a few blocks away from our hotel.
Oblivious to the meaning behind Singaporean sniggers, we skipped over to the Towers. The last time I’d visited Orchard Road, it was the place for the elite to stroll casually by on whilst determining which designer store to throw their money at next. This time around was a little different. There were quite a few questionably dressed girls draping themselves on walls of buildings and under streetlamps, wearing enough make-up to render said streetlamp redundant. I, being the dud that I am, put this down to the fact that Singaporeans must love to dress up at night and have bad stylists. Going into Orchard Towers, we found more and more of these disillusioned fashionistas gyrating to the loud thumping music blaring out of several nightclubs dotting the basement floor into which we had descended. Having manoeuvred the alarmingly seedy corridors, we found our food court and looked around, gulping nervously by now. One hour later we ran back to the hotel at lightning speed, not even surprised by now at the food looking very suspicious, tasting odd, or the fact that we got played out by the vendor. The next morning I found out that Orchard Towers is also famously known as the ‘Four Floors of Whores’.
I hope you’ve caught on by now that the bellboy didn’t get a tip from me.
The rest of the week was spent in between work sessions, slightly more respectable food joints and the zillion shops. One cannot go to ‘Pore and not shop, dahling! Ever the stingy Grinch, my firm favourite has been and will always be the infamous Mustafas. Hours upon hours of loading the cart in greedy haste like there’s no tomorrow. Designer was never my thing, anyway. The food was better than I remembered, especially the chillie crab at Jumbo’s!
There was that one other place that I’d have died if I didn’t get the chance to go back to, and that was the zoo. When you’re a nutter like me you’ll understand why the Singapore zoo is the god of all Asian zoos. I once even tried scoring a job there as an animal show presenter, but was sadly rejected. I think it had something to do with the height of professionalism I demonstrated by writing them a letter to the effect of ‘Hi. I love animals. Could I please have a job there?’.
What? I bet the animals would’ve said yes.
My work mate couldn’t really get his mind around to the fact that when I suggested visiting the zoo, I meant staying there and never going back to SL. He tried to drag me away from the zebras quite a few times once he’d realized my intentions. But I stood my ground and the poor man spent his entire day watching me cooing at the wary creatures like an escaped lunatic. The only beings appreciative of my attentions were the snakes, who’d thus far never received any cooing and thought it a delightful novelty.
I would have felt sorry for my colleague’s plight had he not taken sweet revenge on our last day. We’d decided to visit Chinatown and discussed the merits of splitting up, doing our thing and then meeting at the metro point at a given time. I kept my end of the bargain but he did not. It could have had something to do with the fact that he’d lost his way and didn’t speak fluent English or Mandarin, but I didn’t care. I spent a good three hours standing near the metro entrance, to the point that one particular Chinese man thought I was a hooker and asked me if I wanted to go away with him and show him what brown girls can do. He may have gotten my point when I hit him with a large wooden souvenir fan and called him a bastard, because he left speedily. Seething with rage, I decided to leave my workmate to his fate and went back to our lodgings, only to find him fast asleep there. I hit him with the fan too.
Since Singapore, nothing much else has happened that’s exciting enough to share. I did agree to be conscripted into another play that I’m currently suffering rehearsals for. It stars a few good friends, and that is about the only thing I’m motivated by, given that my work schedule makes everything else an inconvenience. The production is in itself quite a good concept and it’s bound to thrill a few people. We shall see.
Apart from the play, my latest bouts of angst are directed towards Nilanga Dela Bandara a.k.a the Diyawadana Nilame, Minister Gamini Lokuge and the Asgiriya chapter. If you’ve been following the recent outrage of the media and general public, then you’ll know why I want all of the above mentioned bastards dead, or at least hung by their clearly-lacking balls. I am devising way in which to make this happen as we speak.
If you are not savvy to the goings on, then Google their names and you’ll come across a hundred article reporting the demonic way in which they abducted two suckling tusker calves from their mothers in Pinnawela and ‘offered’ them to the temple. To this day the babies remain chained, injured and traumatized inside Dela Bandara’s garage, whilst the mother elephants lie injured and pining for their calves. True Buddhists, these pigs are… to heap portions of abuse onto animals and expect karma points out of it. It astounds me how greedy fat arses like this are actually put into positions of power by us, the people. We are clearly dumber than I thought we were.
And that, my little donkeys, is what has happened so far, with the exception of work, work and nothing but work that keeps me grimacing every time I think of sitting down at the PC, even if it IS for personal gain. I did have a few outstanding moments like that time I saw another workmate standing near the office elevator and slapped his ass in the jovial fashion I always do, only to have the man turn around and reveal himself to NOT be the workmate in question but an absolute stranger. I ditched the elevator ride for five flights of stairs, just to avoid dying of shame.
Like a coincidental bitch of an irony, someone in office just called for me. This means you need to wait to hear from me again.
Over and out.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Hoo
I swear to you, I'm not dead.
Yet.
A longer post is on its way, I promise. I just need to find that little jewel called time. Between fighting the President on animal rights issues, my mother's suspicions, my client's brainwaves, my boss's sudden itches and all the voices in my head, I really haven't had the chance to talk to you.
Sorry. There's lot to tell.
Await.
Yet.
A longer post is on its way, I promise. I just need to find that little jewel called time. Between fighting the President on animal rights issues, my mother's suspicions, my client's brainwaves, my boss's sudden itches and all the voices in my head, I really haven't had the chance to talk to you.
Sorry. There's lot to tell.
Await.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Dear Neanderthaal
Let me see if I can contribute to the publicity you're already giving yourself.Because I'm feeling generous. You know who called you a booruwa? It was me. Tadaa.
You know why? Because I thought you WERE being a neanderthaal with your archaic views on my gender and because part of the fun in blogging is to have the opportunity to express your views in the form of a comment. But you know what? You proved me right. You could have just moved on from that day like every other blogger who's been criticized (Goodness knows I have many, many time with FAR worse name-calling) and we could have all just forgotten about you and your neighbour. Instead, you took it upon your sacred self to attack everyone who crossed you in the dirtiest, lowest (and many might say criminal) way possible. You also made a fine show of your so-called righteous sense of justice by accusing poor DeeCee with full force when she'd done nothing to you in the first place. And now, you have an entire blogger community baying for your blood and calling you a psycho who deserves jail. Are you proud? I've heard of people making mistakes in life, but you just dug your own grave, darling. If I may quote you, I pity.
What is your next course of action, I wonder. To take the higher ground, apologize to DeeCee and accept that you are, in fact, human like the rest of us or to damage my name too? You don't need to do it the illegal way, though. Just ask and I'll tell you whatever you want to know.
NB, my apologies to you. I shouldn't have wasted my time commenting in the first place. You're just another opinion in this vast world and there are bigger, better things that deserve my attention. I can't change your thinking, so I shouldn't have even tried.
My first instinct was to turn a blind eye to your latest rant that victimized RD and DeeCee, because that would have been the mature thing to do. But I just couldn't let my conscience know that someone else was being wrongfully blamed for my action. So this post is actually for DeeCee's sake more than yours. Dee, I'm sorry.
So How's everyone else doing today?
You know why? Because I thought you WERE being a neanderthaal with your archaic views on my gender and because part of the fun in blogging is to have the opportunity to express your views in the form of a comment. But you know what? You proved me right. You could have just moved on from that day like every other blogger who's been criticized (Goodness knows I have many, many time with FAR worse name-calling) and we could have all just forgotten about you and your neighbour. Instead, you took it upon your sacred self to attack everyone who crossed you in the dirtiest, lowest (and many might say criminal) way possible. You also made a fine show of your so-called righteous sense of justice by accusing poor DeeCee with full force when she'd done nothing to you in the first place. And now, you have an entire blogger community baying for your blood and calling you a psycho who deserves jail. Are you proud? I've heard of people making mistakes in life, but you just dug your own grave, darling. If I may quote you, I pity.
What is your next course of action, I wonder. To take the higher ground, apologize to DeeCee and accept that you are, in fact, human like the rest of us or to damage my name too? You don't need to do it the illegal way, though. Just ask and I'll tell you whatever you want to know.
NB, my apologies to you. I shouldn't have wasted my time commenting in the first place. You're just another opinion in this vast world and there are bigger, better things that deserve my attention. I can't change your thinking, so I shouldn't have even tried.
My first instinct was to turn a blind eye to your latest rant that victimized RD and DeeCee, because that would have been the mature thing to do. But I just couldn't let my conscience know that someone else was being wrongfully blamed for my action. So this post is actually for DeeCee's sake more than yours. Dee, I'm sorry.
So How's everyone else doing today?
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