Rants & Raves of Jasmine’s Fiction

You all know about my closet cowering over the 14^th day of the 2^nd month. It really wasn’t all that bad I have to say.  After all, my closet is filled with nice clothes and all my lovely shoes and the lavender smells are all really nice and calming.

I crawled out for air recently to find that although I went into hiding, people still managed to find a way to remember me.  Here’s a quick list of thoughts I received:

-         4 cards

-         15 flowers

-         8 boxes of chocolates

-         2 teddy bears

-         1 dead mouse

-         1 death threat

-         2 rave reviews

-         1 hate mail

Not too bad I reckon!  My favourite has to be the dead mouse. It was hugged and squeezed and it was named George.  Don’t ask.  Just accept it.  I now have to open my anthrax filled hate mail.  Happy ValenSwine’s Day everyone!

FIRE IN THE HOLE!

It’s February.  That Dreaded Day is fast approaching.  If I could cower in the darkness of my closet till the day after I’d be a happy person.

Why?  Because I hate commercialism in all its money-grubbing glory.  Because I’m a cynical, cold hearted & callous bitch and I hate all that is mushy, fluffy and Hallmark-worthy.  Because every year I try my darn hardest to Ctrl-Alt-Del That Dreaded Day but inevitably some busybody will remind me by asking me if I have plans.  Because I think that bloody flipping Cherub should get its asexual genitals blown away by my Smith & Wesson 12-gauge shotgun.  Because I can feel nausea creeping up my oesophageal tube every time I see those little red hearts and roses.  Quick, someone give me a sick bag.

Oh don’t worry; I’m like that with anniversaries too.  I don’t see a point of making ONE day such a big issue.  I mean, what is ONE day out of 365?  EVERYDAY is special, or at the very least everyday should be special.  True it’s a lot effort but it shouldn’t matter if truly love a person right?

According to every posh restaurant, every florist and every gift shop out there, love is not enough.  You MUST spend the equivalent of your kidney, spleen and first born in order to ‘make the proper statement of love’.  This is commercialism at its zenith folks.

I saw bouquets of red roses (numbers ranging from 1 stem to 1 million) for sale when I was out at the shops recently.  I cannot sit at a restaurant without them pushing their special menu at me.  I cannot walk into a music shop or flip on my radio without getting my eardrums assaulted by gag worthy ‘love dedications’ and sappy love songs.  I can’t even roam the mall without being accosted to make public declaration of love to someone special, to buy a matchy-matchy couple t-shirts / watches / fragrances, or to sign up for the special package to take lovey-dovey couple pictures or get matching pedi-manis or even join a dating service! 

Yes a Dating Service!  God forbid that you are alone on That Dreaded Day. You will forever be reminded of much of a L-O-S-E-R you are.  But have no fear!  There are special events organised for single (and desperate) folks where you buy a ticket and they would computer match you up with another person and send both of you on a ‘mass date’ with about 60 other single, desperate & computer matched people.

AARRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHH!!!

I hate it.  I hate it all.  I’m having so much trouble trying to finish this blog it’s not even funny.  I’m not kidding.  This blog has taken me 2 days and counting.  It’s kinda hard to type while cowering in my closet. 

Dearest readers, I am not angry and bitter.  I’m all for the sentiment behind the day.  I just hate commercialism and the mass belief that we have to buy into all this materialistic bullshit to prove God-knows-what to God-knows-whom.

Love should not be about how much you can spend, how creative or outrageous you can get or how much sex you can have.  Love should be about cherishing every moment you spend, the memories you make and laughter you share, the care you give.  And why should love be only about the couples?  Love is universal whether you are single or attached, alone or surrounded by people, for friend & family alike.

With that being said, I’m signing off to continue my closet cowering.  Someone come get me when it’s all over.

I was looking through the gossip section of the MSN website and there’s a whole bunch of articles out there regarding celebrities and their offspring.  You know the usual – Brittney and her driving with her baby on her lap, Madonna with the controversy over her adopted daughter, Angelina allegedly saying that she loves her two adopted kids more than her birth child…  Oh and who can forget Whacko Jacko and the baby dangle?

It kinda got me thinking…  Do I really want kids???

With my big Three-Uh-Oh day looming closer and closer I will admit that I can hear my biological clock ticking away like a time bomb. Sure as the sun rises, I will also periodically get some busybody reminding me “you are not getting any younger, you’re too picky about men, settle down and make babies quick” or “the best age to have kids is at 22” or my favourite “your eggs will dry up when you hit 30!”

But you know what?  Ticking biological explosives aside, I’m actually in no hurry to ‘settle down and make babies.’  Kids are expen$ive!  Don’t believe me?  Diapers, baby formula, clothes that will be outgrown in months, toys, paediatric bills – and then when they grow older it gets worse!  There’s now more clothes, more food, music/swimming/dance lessons, Cub Scout contributions, Christmas concert costumes…  Oh lets not forget college education, insurance policies, allowances, cars… Its neverending!!!

Also we need to face facts.  There’s this thing called karma.  I was an AWFUL child: 

-         I was HORRIBLE at mealtimes – picky, throwing up, running around…

-         I jumped off the roof into the swimming pool

-         I tried to set my sister on fire (among other horrors)

-         I had the motivation of a sea slug when it came to homework & housework

-         I got sick frequently – chicken pox, measles, you name it

-         I got teeth knocked out - both mine and other people

-         I got into a million fights – and that number is not an exaggeration

-         I killed rabbits

-         I started a school mafia – many schoolmates & their lunch money will attest to this

-         I actually succeeded in setting the school science labs on fire - twice

-         I got thrown into lockup – don’t ask

-         etc

My mother went completely grey before she was 40 and she cannot look back at my childhood without downing at least 4 Tylenol tablets.  If I had kids, mine will be worse.  Karma will kick my arse.

Then there’s also the inherent belief that I will inevitably and irreparably fuck ‘em up.  I’m already doing that to my nephews and nieces and all my mates’ ankle biters:

-         I know it’s blasphemous but I insert Bigfoot & faeries into bible readings to make it more ‘interesting’.

-         I convinced my niece that her dad’s fart is the sound of the rare ‘barking spider’ they have infesting their house.

-         I implanted the idea that house lizards eat humans to my sister when she was a wee lassie.  You can read about that here.

-         My nephew still thinks that jellyfish are plastic bags come to life from nuclear radiation in the ocean; and he’s now terrified of swimming in the ocean because he truly believes that it will turn him into a sea monkey.

-         I got my mate’s son into trouble for fighting in school when I taught him how to throw a punch and do wrist and ankle locks.

-         I waited till we were deep on a forest trail before freaking out my Cub Scout troop when I casually mentioned that leeches will wriggle through their eyes, ears, noses & mouths to suck out their brains.  LOL.

-         I constantly let small children believe that Hamburgers come from Hamsters; that frog spawn taste like jello; that garden snails have chocolate fillings; and human hair has a flossing benefit when you add it liberally to your meals.

I don’t think I should continue.  The list of horrors is quite extensive.  My students constantly tell me I’m a freak.  Believe me; I will scar the little tykes for life.  There will be need for therapy.

Don’t get me wrong people.  I’m actually really good with children.  Honest.  I babysat constantly, I’m a schoolteacher & a Cub Scout leader and I used to run the childcare programme at church.  So despite the fact that I don’t really like them all that much, I can hold my own, even when they cry or have soiled their diapers.  I’m also relatively tolerant of the little midgets in public spaces.  I don’t subscribe to the “leave your kids at home” prissy self-centred school of thought.

HOWEVER…

I’m actually only really tolerant of the well behaved ones.  I don’t mind the crying and the wailing and I can even understand the tantrum throwing ones.  They don’t know any better.

It’s the rampaging, shrieking, food throwing, chair kicking, spawn of Satan behaviour that will drive me to sterilisation.  Actually, the thing that pisses me off more has to be the indifferent parent.  You know - the ones that feign ignorance; or don’t bother to exercise any parental control whatsoever; or the ones that are so blinded by the fact that just because it’s their own kids therefore they can do no wrong.

There is nothing I hate more than to have my airplane/theatre chair constantly being kicked by a petulant child who wouldn’t stop inappropriately asking questions at the top of their voices and their parents just pretend that they don’t know what’s going on.

Or at a posh restaurant where the child turns into Satan’s howling minion but the parents just let them froth at the mouth, too engrossed in their fillet mignon to care.  For crying out loud!  Take your child outside and perform whatever exorcism your religion or paediatrician say works best!

I think it was at the Star Wars exhibition where all the original models used in the actual films that were painstakingly shipped from George Lucas’ Skywalker Ranch were on display that I finally realised that I DON’T WANT KIDS.  Mind you non Star Wars fans, a lot of these displays are over 30 years old and are irreplaceable.  I watched in horror as a 2 year old itchy-fingered child climbed the barrier AND the display cases to pound her little fists on the 8 foot star destroyer while her parents SAT uncaring nearby.  GAH.

So after all that – I know for sure I don’t want kids.  I may change my mind eventually when I turn 40 or 45 but I have a feeling that I may end up adopting.  Besides, with all the pharmaceuticals I’ve consumed, procreating may result in glow-in-the-dark offspring.  And that is NOT cool.

I went for my martial art class over the weekend and we were talking about self defence.  I remember arguing with my brothers-in-arms that one of the best male disarming techniques a girl has against any man would be the Spear, Grab, Twist & Pull.  I’m sure I don’t need to elaborate on where said technique should be applied to.

After a lot of cringing and involuntary knee closures, the boys were telling me that as a female (regardless of the butch factor), one really has NO IDEA what it feels like to have two extremely sensitive appendages dangling rather precariously off one’s nether region AND how much it really fucking hurts to have your jewels get whacked.

I admit it.  I really have no idea.  I’ve seen a man vomit all over himself after I Jackie Chan-ed his dingle-dangles.  I’ve been to tournaments where inevitably someone would pass out from a bone-crushing kick to the crotch.  I watch World Cup football where people stop devastating goal kicks with their huevos.  But I really have no clue. 

I also don’t understand the male need to scratch that general area constantly!  Some of my mates tell me that it’s an unconscious tic of sorts.  Others tell me that they are just checking to make sure that their buddies are still there. (?!?!?)

Honestly though gentlemen, if you do need to readjust or give in to the primal urge to claw your baubles, do it in PRIVATE.  Private as in, alone behind closed doors.  Not IN YOUR PRIVATES!!!

There is nothing more repulsive than to [scritch] watch a guy hustle [scritch] his testicles [scritch] yeah [scritch] aahhh [scritch scritch] oh… yeah [scritch scritch scritch].  PLEASE!!!

So why the bally bits?  My friend who works at a country club, recently had the most odious task to write a very sensitive letter to 3 club members (no pun intended) who were caught on several occasions brazenly shaving their balls together in the steam room of the men’s locker, après golf.

My friend is currently in tears and in trauma over the matter over how to delicately write the letter without mentioning hairy balls yet making the point loud and clear.  I’ve opted to help her out but I’m not sure if she will actually use my letter as I may be a bit too… well… Ballsy.  Pun definitely intended.

—

Dear Harry, Dick & Tom:

It has recently come to the attention of the administrative staff that the three of you have, on several occasions been observed by other members to be shaving your arse cracks and ball sacs in the steam room of the men’s lockers.

Please be advised that ball shaving is NOT permitted in our public facilities.  We would like to firmly suggest that you gentlemen relocate the grooming of your nether regions to a more suitable locale. Unless of course the appeal of the public steam room is that you enjoy massively oversharing the camaraderie of your fellow ball-shavers and prefer to complete the act of baldifying your nuts in the company of others?

Is it that you need your friends to tell you if you missed a spot?  Perhaps your fellow members of the Smooth Testes Club can step in and get those hard to reach areas for you; like the perineum, which we understand can be difficult to see while you’re bending over at the waist with your left leg thrown up over your shoulder.

Please note that we, the administrative staff understand your plight.  None of us enjoy hairy goat testicles either.  We also understand that the three of you are fine, young heartthrobs whose entire reputations rest upon the immaculate hairlessness of your entire bodies. 

We are aware that you cannot be expected to be out in public with a hirsute pubic region because the moment you remove your designer denims for the first time in front of your chosen lady for the night she will be horrified at your ungroomed gonads and your reputations will be ruined forever.  Seriously.  We do get this.

However, dear sirs, we need to highlight that the complaints were made by members over the age of 70.  They were horrified to witness your activities in the steam room.  One of them is now in intensive care.

We urge you to please try to be sensitive and respectful to your elder members, as they come from a different generation where men not only did not assist in the shaving of their friends’ balls, they didn’t shave their own either.  It is unheard of to them and if any of you have watched retro porn flicks where all the stars sport massive bushes, you would know this to be true.

These elderly gentlemen do not know that times have changed since the days of tumbleweed pubes.  They do not understand this newfangled nonsense of metrosexuality and Brazilian wax jobs on either sex.

Please refrain from barging your way into our office to scream at us.  We already know what you young and hairless men have to put up with in that steam room and we apologise.  We feel your suffering at having to look at 70-80 year old men spread eagled, displaying their trinkets and practically tea-bagging the floor when they hobble arthritically from steam room to shower.

We also agree that it is extremely hypocritical for these elderly gentlemen - with decades worth of hair accumulation in an area that the unfortunate male pattern baldness does not affect, not to mention the fact that their sagging sacs are the size of grapefruits and strongly resemble an electrocuted dandelion gone to seed – to have a right to complain about you three just trying to clean things up.

We are really sorry but please, shave your damn balls at home so that we don’t have to listen to Sol Grundy and Ivan Kovacevic say the word ‘testicles’ to us ever again.

Yours Sincerely,

The Administrative Staff of Posh Country Club

P/S:  Why not try laser hair removal?  That will make ball shaving obsolete.

—

You know what?  I thank God everyday that my ovaries exactly where they are.  I relish in the fact that I can do leg splits and the catwalk and wear tight pants without needing to adjust what’s in my knickers every 2 seconds or go into a falsetto tone of voice.  I guess from now on I’ll take your fragile little lefties & righties into consideration before making any more spear-grab-twist-&-pull comments.  Or I’ll just flick ‘em really hard for you.  Or crack out the cold wax kit.  MUAhAHaHahAh!

I was on the flight from

Bangkok

to

Singapore

recently and I was very pleasantly surprised (I will apologise for my leftover mindset from living in Islamic countries) to find out that Singapore Airlines serves… PORK!!!

I swear.  The pretty flight attendant was staring at me very expectantly for a couple of minutes while I gaped at the choice of food. “Ma’am?  Would you like the chicken with noodles, the fish with rice or the pork with mashed potatoes?”

Note:  For those of you who do not know me please understand that I don’t eat chicken but I will however do backflips and cartwheels for mashed potatoes and pork. Mmmmm. Pork.

You might also like to note that on most occasions I would rather DIE than eat airline food but the choice of PORK! And MASHED POTATOES!  On the same plate!!!  OMG it was too good to pass up.  I think when I came to my senses I almost shouted in excitement that I wanted the pork.

Of course I HAD to be seated next to a Muslim man.

Before you people call me out for being a racist bitch, I’m gonna backtrack a bit and tell you about the massive eye roll I got from my neighbour when I rocked up with my headphones and hand luggage. He took one look at me, rolled his eyes to his mate at the window seat next to him and muttered something.  I ignored him and tried to stow my hand carry.

That’s when I realised that there was no space in the overhead compartments!  Those two bozos had hogged up not one, not two, but THREE luggage racks. How do I know this?  It was filled with identical plastic baggies, 2 of which were on my seat due to the lack of space above.

Great.

Long story short, I ended up having to stow my bag about 8 compartments away from my seat, and the two idiots did not like the fact that they had to sit next to a girl. I kept hearing snide comments in Indonesian no less.  Fortunately (or unfortunately) I happen to be relatively fluent in Indonesian and I caught quite a fair bit of bashing despite having the Pussycat Dolls purring in my earphones.  Sigh.

Anyway back to my pork and mashed potatoes. My neighbour had requested his halal (kosher) meal and when I did the “PORK” shout to the flight attendant, he was not happy.  First a girl, now she is going to eat pork?  (Not like he’s so virtuous, the dumb beer swilling bastard!)

I was half tempted to slurp as MESSILY as I could and wiping my mouth with my sleeve closest to him and very casually resting my pork laced limb on the arm rest.  I had been winning the Arm-Restling war but what’s not to like about a bit of piggy leverage eh? I didn’t do it of course.  Tolerance is a virtue after all.

Hah tolerance.  That’s another story but I shall save that for another day. Like, when pigs fly.  In the meantime, I shall think back to my pork and mashed potatoes and drool.

I just realised that I’ve been on a blogging spree.  Maybe because its 2007 and I’m feeling creative.  Maybe a lot of things have happened and I feel the need to share it with you folks.  Or maybe, my brain just needed to take a dump.  Who knows?

Today, I just wanted to share a movie review.  My mate John and I wanted to go watch Pathfinder (some Viking action movie starring mad Kiwi Karl Urban) but due to him and his “lets wing it” laid back-ness, showing up late and driving like a racing snail; we didn’t get the movie we wanted.

Aye, tickets were sold out.  It was 2 rows from the screen or nothing.  So we went with the other option which was The Guardian starring Kevin Costner and Ashton Kutcher.  I was a bit sceptical about the movie because (1) the trailer really didn’t seem all that exciting; (2) most Kevin Costner movies have a very bad habit of being really long and slow and (3) Ashton Kutcher makes me feel like a paedophile but hey, beggars can’t be choosers.

So I bought the tickets and armed with caramel popcorn *mmmmmm popcorn* and colas we went to the darkened theatre.  My favourite thing about movie days has to be the trailers. 

We caught 2 yesterday – The Good Shepard, a movie about the CIA with an all star cast of Matt Damon, Angelina Jolie, Robert De Niro, Billy Cruddup, Joe Pesci and etc; and Bridge to Terabithia from the makers of Narnia. 

Both look amazing and I’m now scouring the book racks at Borders for Bridge to Terabithia.  I’m a purist in the sense that I must read the book before I watch the movie.  I also just realised that I have a very large collection of children’s books…  Maybe I’m just a child at heart.  Maybe I like to keep up with what my ex-students read.  Or maybe I’m just really childish.  Who knows?

Wow this is turning to be a bit random.  Forgive me all, I’m firing on all cylinders and running on very little sleep.  I’m a wee bit wrecked.  And I’m still digressing.  GRRR.

And now back to the movie.  It’s about a famed Coast Guard Rescue Swimmer who, after the devastating death of his crew is re-assigned to teach at the legendary elite Coast Guard A-School.  Wrestling with the loss of his crew, he throws himself into teaching, turning the programme upside down with his unorthodox training methods and inspiring a cocky young rookie to greatness.

To be completely honest IMHO it was not a bad watch.  Just zone out, don’t questions too much and just take it at face value, all in all it was a good show.  Funny at some points, lots of eye candy (for me at least, Ashton is HOT), some very exciting rescue footage and it brought back a lot of memories of basic training…

My only problem with the movie was the fact that it was set up to be a giant recruitment drive.  Put down the popcorn, hand over the sign-up sheet and point the way to the nearest pool.  I’m ready to enlist.  Oh, that and the fact the last 15 minutes of the movie were very painfully and inexcusably cheesy.  When it was over, I had the distinct feeling of needing to stick my fingers through my eyeballs to scratch at my brains.  Ugh.  And the whole thing was as predicted, loooooooooong.

So.  I’m gonna leave you folks with this advice.  Go watch the movie, and then as they do the final rescue, LEAVE or switch off the DVD.  Spare yourself the corny bullshit.  I swear.  It was awful.

Till my next blog, enjoy the movie pictures.  Cheerios!

I’m beginning to get really tired of Merentha.  I know, I didn’t think it was possible either looking at how deeply enmeshed I am in the game.  But you know what?  I’m tired.  Tired of grinding (hack and slash gets old real quick), tired of the drama (you can a read previous post on Merentha drama ­here), and tired of everyone in the game taking everything too seriously.

How serious is serious?  Dear readers; Jasmine has been reduced to tears today.  When I say tears, I mean that I actually sobbed for a couple of minutes.

What happened?  People in the game taking everything too seriously.  This is more or less what happened:

Siol (HM):  Who wants 10K gold?  I’m giving away 10K gold.

Regret (HM):  Come to Haven and give it to me!

Siol (HM):  Haha no, you want the money you come to me.
Maharet (HM):  Hop my gate.

Siol (HM):  Haha.

Maharet (HM):  Nah, it’s not worth it, my gates cost 10K anyway.

Siol (HM):  Ok, 50K gold then.

Maharet (HM):  I’ll PK you for 50K 

Siol (HM): 

Ekom (HM):  Why would a sorc from Pax threaten PK to a lowbie?

Regret (HM):  Why would an assassin from Tri-Force care???

Maharet (HM):  Who’s threatening?  Mind your accusations.

Ekom (HM):  You just said that you’ll PK Siol and all he was doing was offering money.  People are too free with throwing around the PK word and PK-ing people for no reason and I don’t like to see that.

Maharet (HM):  I don’t see Siol complaining, why are you?

Siol (HM):  I know! 

Ekom (HM):  Yeah but still too many of you people think that just because you’re high leveled and powerful that you can just kill people for no reason.  You are a level 50 sorc Maharet, you could do some serious damage and I just don’t want to see anyone die over nothing.

Regret (HM):  Shut your mouth.

Kemenkel (HM):  Ekom watch what you say.

Beyak (HM):  Shut up Ekom.

Maharet (HM): Keep your nose in your own business before you lose it.

—

Before we continue here’s a little tutorial to some Merentha jargon.

HM = High Mortal.  All players from the levels of 20 to 49 are considered HM.  HM line is where all players above level 20 can speak in public for the whole MUD to see.

PK = Player Kill.  Players can kill other players (not just the monsters in the game) and although this is frowned upon in the game society, it does happen.

Gate = Gates are a magic transportation portals that allow players to move quickly from one place to another.  Only high leveled mages get this ability.

Sorc = Sorcerer.  Mage sub-class. 

Pax = Juris Pax.  Player run guild.  Juris Pax is strictly non-PK.

Tri-Force = Also a player run guild.  Their guildmaster has over 40+ PKs to his name.

Lowbie = Low leveled player.  We consider anything under level 23 to be lowbies.

*please note that Ekom has been known to spree (spree meaning to PK indiscriminately; in short, a mass murderer) and I, out of my 865 kills have only 3 PKs to my name – all in self defence, meaning they attacked me first.

**also note that after I said that I would PK Siol for the 50k I ended the sentence with a denoting that I was joking.  Siol and everyone else knows that I don’t PK, nor do I condone it.

—

So after all that drama, Kemenkel tells me today with his righteous and holier-than-thou manner (in more than the summarised amount of words) that I’m too free with my PK threats; that I offend people and that I should learn to be a nice person like him or I will pay for it with my life.

Those of you who know me IRL please laugh as loud as you can. 

I hate people telling me what to do, I hate it when they condescendingly tell me that it’s for my own good and that I need to take their advice because they are right and I am wrong.  I hate it when people assume things out of ignorance and I hate it when they judge me based on ONE conversation.

I don’t need to justify the amount of people I’ve helped IRL and in the game.  I don’t need to prove that I am “a nice person” (okay I have my bitchy days but deep down inside you all know that I’ll bend over backwards for anyone if the situation calls for it) and I don’t deserve to be made to feel that I am in the wrong for something a hypocritical asswipe took out of context.

I’m tired.  After today’s argument with Kemenkel, I had a little cry and I’m actually contemplating retiring Maharet from the game for a little while.  Sigh.  I guess its time to bring out my little paladin.

Stay tuned folks.  You might just hear about Alessa’s exploits.  And trust me; she’s got quite a lot of things going her way.  She’s only level 9 but she’s already been married twice.  Don’t change the channel.

I got rave reviews on my Christmas concert date rant, so by special (and multiple) request by many of you perverse people who enjoy listening to my tales of misery I shall regale you with yet another past horror. Oh and also for the interest of protecting the identity of the party involved, bad date #2 shall be known as Mr. Cambridge.  Enjoy: 

I met Mr. Cambridge when I was 16 and he was a friend of a friend.  He is tall, very cultured, well mannered and as per the name, a Cambridge Graduate.  For some unknown reason he fancied himself attached to me – according to him (bless him for the hopeless romantic he is) it was love at first sight.  I honestly have no idea what he’s going on about because at the age of 16 I was sporting braces, fight scars & a serious attitude.  Nothing says sexy like that eh?

There’s a bit of backstory to this tale so I’ll summarise quickly.  Mr. Cambridge has been endlessly pursuing me since that day.  It has been a very romantic journey honestly - flowers every other week, handmade cards, teddy bears, song dedications, 365 inspirational (and mushy) cards for each day of the year, travelling long distances to see me, elaborate gifts for my birthday and valentine’s day etc…  I suppose any girl would die for those things. 

UNFORTUNATELY I am not one of those girls.  I’m a cynical, cold hearted and callous bitch and although the sentiment behind the gifts is not lost on me, the gifts are.  I think flowers are a waste of money as it’ll die in a couple of days; teddy bears are for children and the rest, well…  I’ll leave it at that.  Needless to say that method of courtship didn’t work on me.  My mother thinks I made a big mistake but if it ain’t right, it AIN’T EVER gonna be right. 

Besides, I prefer my men to be a little bit less vanilla.

So back to the date!  I was back in KL during a school break and he was in town between semesters so he called me out for wine tasting and dinner so I agreed.  Showing up with flowers and a very nice tailored suit, we set out.

Wine tasting was relatively uneventful aside from us cracking up like buffoons at the back of the theatre over the freshly mowed lawn taste of a particular white wine.  We talked about everything from opera to politics to travelling and humanitarian efforts in third world countries.  (I did say he was very cultured.)  Dinner, while very nice was also uneventful.

I’m betting at this point you are wondering how this date could possibly be bad.  I’m getting there.  Patience, my young padawans.

So while driving me home (it was past midnight as we lingered over dessert) it started to rain so he slowed down.  About 6 kilometres from my house, we heard a very distinct *POP* sound and we both felt the car tilt rather alarmingly towards the front passenger wheel.  We, ladies and gentlemen; have a serious flat tyre.

Mr. Cambridge for all his manners, good breeding and intelligence I was about to discover; has about 0 street smarts.  Panicking, he grinds to a halt in the MIDDLE OF THE FREAKING ROAD.  Granted it was way past 1am and we were on a relatively empty suburban road but still, stoppage in the middle of that road is dangerous.  And I very firmly told him so.

Grudgingly, he started the engine and we literally L-I-M-P to the side of the road before he got out his umbrella and proceeded to pace about in the pouring rain next to his flat tyre and flapping his arms about like a chicken with its head cut off.

I was just wondering why he was making such a big deal out of the whole affair.  Cracking the window down, I yell for him to get back in the car.  When he got back in, he was babbling nonsense about us being stranded and how could this happen to him and how it’s raining and how we were never going to get out of this mess.  He was a wreck. 

Telling him to calm himself, I patiently explained to him that there was nothing to worry about because it was only a flat tyre and there was a service station about 900 metres up the road.  I told him to breathe (he was hyperventilating) and to drive normally.

What would have taken us less than 2 minutes at 40kmph took us TWENTY MINUTES.  To say it was a painful crawl would be an understatement.  I could have WALKED that distance in less time.  I kept telling him that if he drove normally it would hurt the rim and the car far less than if would to go so damn slowly.  He wouldn’t listen though.  The entire time, he was gripping the wheel till his knuckles were white; eyes squinted in concentration and mouth muttering a string of endless nonsense.

When we got to the station, it was closed and deserted.  He freaked out a 2^nd time and repeated the headless chicken dance.  He was about to whip out his cell phone to call for Roadside Assistance when I finally decided to take matters into my own hands.

Snatching his phone out of his hands, I demanded for his car keys.  Boggling in confusion he gave them to me without too much of a fight.  Thank God because I was about ready to punch his lights out.  I walk over to his car boot, pop the trunk and proceeded to extract all the necessary equipment – car jack, tyre iron, and spare tyre.

If I could show you a picture of his bug-eyed look of SHOCK at my conjuring ability of pulling rabbits out of the top hat, I would.  That was a priceless moment.  That also made me realise that he had no idea that his car came stock standard with those things.  OMG.

Still wearing the same look on his face he was now following me around like a lost puppy.  I decided that his fragile psyche was too unstable for me to give him instructions on how to change the tyre; I had no choice but to do it myself.

Needless to say, I was suitably pissed.  I was in 4 inch stiletto heels and a long evening dress.  Having to change a car tyre in that outfit is not recommended.

This is a lesson to you girls.  If my dearest daddy (bless that irritating man) didn’t have the foresight to make sure that all his girls (my mother & sister went through the same ‘training’) were equipped to do basic maintenance on our cars I wouldn’t have the knowledge in the first place.  I love you Daddy!

So for the benefit of you pampered folks I’m going to go through tyre change 101:

1. Place car jack under support frame of car, near the offending tyre.  If you bend over and looked at the bottom of your car, you will see two metal plates along the length of your car.  That’s it.

2. Remove hubcap by inserting screwdriver (it comes with the stock standard toolkit in your trunk) between rim and hubcap and giving it a good sharp kick.  Skip this part if your car has no hubcaps.

3. Use the correct sized side of your tyre iron and with a good kick loosen the bolt that is holding your tyre to the car.  Repeat until all 4 bolts are loose.

4. Jack the car up.  All car jack usage varies from manufacturer to manufacturer so please refer to your car manual.  BTW you only need about a 2 to 2½ inch clearance.

5. Unscrew the bolts, remove damaged tyre and replace with spare.

6. Screw back the bolts.

7. Lower the car using car jack.  Again, refer to manual for usage instructions.

8. Tighten the bolts.

9. Pack away toolkit and damaged tyre and make a note to make an appointment with your friendly service centre.

10. Drive car to air pump, follow instructions on your spare tyre and fill it with air.

So.

Twenty minutes later I’m washing my hands while he sat sheepishly in the car.  Five minutes after that I was home and I left the car with him in a pile of ashes, incinerated by my double barrelled death stare. 

It took me 4 years after that incident before I saw him face to face again.  And that time, I drove.

This morning as I was stepping into my shower I felt my foot contact crush something slightly crunchy, slightly squishy and very decidedly disgusting.  Immediately, a phrase from an Indiana Jones movie (which I’ve watched in the triple digits) came to mind.  It was when Dr. Jones and his sidekick ShortRound were checking out the tunnel and the little boy commented, “Feels like stepping on fortune cookie.”

Now to check out what kind of ‘fortune cookie’ would be in my shower so early in the morning.  Look down.  Eewwww.  Green fluid.  My guess is a roach.  Pick up foot.  Brown crunchy mess with sticky green fluid.  Well.  It WAS a roach.  Hmm, note to self.  Must call pest control.

Yes I remained calm.  I have no fear of roaches. I know they are disgusting and I HATE the ones that fly.  But y’know, I was on my way to shower and its dead so there was no real ickyness factor that soap and hot water couldn’t fix.  Then I thought of my friend Jamie who FREAKS out every time she sees one of these things scuttling across the ground at a dirty eatery.  LOL.

This brought me to think about everyone’s phobia of creepy crawlies.  I remember my days at Outward Bound School – its one of those character building, teamwork focused, outdoor summer camps for spoilt urban teenagers to get a chance to rough it in the jungle for a couple of weeks. 

I had a teammate who was one of those ‘princesses’ – completely and thoroughly pampered with flushing toilets, hot running water, air-conditioning, chauffeur-driven limousines and fully catered meals.  The shock of actually COOKING your own meals by campfire in the JUNGLE, sleeping on hard muddy ground and only a tiny, icy stream for washing up and literally needing to go bushwalking to answer your call of the wild with a hand spade and 4 bay leaves…  She was NOT prepared.  And she was NOT prepared for the INSECTS that one encounters in the wild.

Mosquitoes, flies, beetles, centipedes, snails, leeches, and the WORST of the lot: ANTS.  She was terrified of ants.  Might I now mention that the deeper into the jungle you go, the larger the insects get.  And as Murphy’s law goes; What Thou Fearest The Most Shalt Come Hither To Torment Thee.

So after a long trek through the wilderness with our brave & fearless trailblazer (i.e. me) hacking away at the overgrown jungle with her machete, we decided to camp for the evening.   Picking a clear(er) spot amongst the trees, we set up tents and gathered wood & water for campfire and cooking/cleaning.  Knowing that the princess would be too much in trauma after the 6 hour hike, we set her to lay out the food rations next to the campfire.

Then all of us were DEAFENED by her SCREAMING her fool head off.  Racing back to the campsite thinking maybe a herd of warthogs invaded – we arrived to find her…

Wait for it…

Dancing around with her shorts around her ankles, arms flailing about her like she was being attacked by killer bees and screaming at the top of her lungs like a banshee, “GET IT OFF! GET IT OFF!”  (And yes, she was wearing WHITE tennis shorts and heeled sandals to trek in the JUNGLE.  Brilliant I tell ya.)

My first though was “OMG, spirit possession.  We need an exorcist. ”

Then I realised that she was screaming because there was an ant on her thigh and she was too freaked out to touch it to brush it off BUT she did somehow managed to get her shorts off WITHOUT touching said insect.

WOW.  It took 3 of us to pin her down so we could get the damn ant off her leg.  After that, she cried for an hour straight, complaining about how mean her parents were to send her through such a horrible experience etc. 

Sigh.  Don’t even get me started on the incident with the leech.  Just don’t.  I haven’t the energy.

—

The other amusing person with a phobia I have to say is my sister and her indescribable fear of lizards.  She’s terrified of them reptiles beyond logic, beyond justification and beyond fear.  Honest.  And she blames me.  MUaHahAhAHAhahaAHAHA!

Story goes back to when she was a wee lassie and I told her that the lizards that hung out in the bathroom were going to eat her toes when she’s brushing her teeth or taking a shower and when she finally looks down at her feet she’ll find half a foot missing and she quite literally took that to heart.

She will very deliberately (at lightning speed mind you) move to the opposite end of the room if she were to spy a lizard crawling up the wall.  She would rather walk in the pouring rain in the middle of the road than to shelter in the awning covered pavement if she spies lizards crawling on said awning – lest the reptiles drops on her or something.  Her greatest fear is to put her feet in her shoes one fine morning only to find that lizards have taken shelter in her footwear and she has unceremoniously squished them with her bare toes.  I can see the years of therapy she’ll need to erase that.

I will never forget the time after a visit to our grandmother we hit a long traffic light.  My sister was driving.  We had the windows down and next to the road on the driver’s side was a giant monsoon drain.  Next thing we know…  An IGUANA (I fucking kid you not - it was a 4 foot iguana) crawls out of the drain and starts waddling towards the car.

I was naturally fascinated by the creature but that quickly turned into an exercise of retaining the use of my eardrums as my sister started shrieking as the massive reptile flicked it forked tongue out at her. 

Locking the doors, winding up the windows and unbuckling the seatbelt was done in that order before she started crawling onto my passenger seat (with me still in it) to put as much distance as she could between the iguana and herself.  Nevermind that she was encased in a metal vehicle, nevermind that the iguana could not possibly smash the windows with its tongue and swallow her whole like she believes, and nevermind that iguanas are vegetarian…

She likes to say that she doesn’t remember the episode as her brain has happily blocked that traumatising event.  I still make fun of her though.

As for me, well.  I’m fearless.  Especially when it’s a do or die situation that involves US$25,000.00.  I’ll eat just about any insect out there.  On a normal day however – you keep your damn spiders away from me.

Pink- its my new obsession
Pink its not even a question,
Pink, on the lips of your lover, cause
Pink is the love you discover

Pink as the bing on your cherry
Pink cause you are so very
Pink its the colour of passion
Cause today it just goes with the fashion

-Steven Tyler

Pink Alert people!  If you eyes have problems adjusting to the font colour for the day, I’d suggest that you suck it up and deal with it because I have to on a daily basis.

No I’m not talking about La Vie En Rose (looking at life through rose tinted glasses; meaning everything is perfect).  I’m talking about men in pink clothes.  From pink shirts to pink tights, I’m about ready to scream (or retch) at the next guy I see wearing said rosy hue.

So why the pink obsession today?  I was talking to my British/Swedish/Chinese mate James on MSN and I commented on his title.  “THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS METROSEXUAL!  THERE IS ONLY GAY!”

You know what? I agree with him.  I used to tell my ‘metrosexual’ mates who would primp for hours in front of the mirror (ever tried fighting for bathroom space with said girly-boys with more hair and facial products than I do?) that they aren’t metrosexual.  They are gay-but-doesn’t-know-it-yet. 

James just laughed and replied:

“Well I’m just fed up going out with friends who wear pink t-shirts.  They are not even in casual pink.  It’s the really bright IN YOUR FACE pink.  I’m like, dude.  You look gay.”

Jasz:

“They are British boys.  Most of them are closet homos anyway.”  (To Justin and crew, you know I love all you fags!  No matter how much in denial you girly-boys are!)

James:

“I KNOW!  AND I HATE EXPLAINING TO CHICKS THAT MY FRIENDS AREN’T GAY!”

Jasz:

“Eh don’t bother.  The more chicks think that your mates are gay means more for you to pick up.  I just usually tell my pink dressed mates ‘honey, it ain’t cool to walk around looking like you got run over by a truck with a load of Barbie dye.  I swear.  It’s faggy.’”

James:

“You should tell it to my friends, they reckon the pink gets them girls.  I say - New Year’s eve, there’s me at a table chatting up some girl and her sister, and there are my friends, getting kicked out by the bouncers!”

Jasz:

“Just tell your mates that they are fags that are so far in the closet, they are discovering Narnia.”

—

Okay, I just want to clear the fact that I have no problems with gay people.  I have a lot of close mates who are gay and I love them all.  I love the colour pink too. Just like Lost; he wants the bright pink PSP with the blinged out pink Hello Kitty wallpaper motif.  I’m not ranting about them.

I’m ranting about the pretentious Beckham wanker wannabes, with their pseudo Mohawks, their diamond earrings and their upturned collar pink shirts.  AARGHHHHH!  And don’t give me the argument that it takes a real man to wear pink. I know it does.  These real men are also very upfront about their sexual preferences as well. And these men, don’t like girls.  Get over yourself.

Okay.  I’m done.  Back to black now.

Happy New Year to one and all!