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Malaysian Alien


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Friday, December 29, 2006
Post #222

A conversation is like a game of tennis and when you find someone who interests you in words, it is like you have found your perfect tennis partner - someone that you can slam the yellow ball to and someone who would return the ball hard. A good conversation, like tennis, keeps you running to the corners of your court, banging, smashing, slamming and swearing.

And I love good conversations. I like the fact that you can have conversations anywhere and it can spring up anytime with the most unlikely people. Conversations have the ability to lift dark clouds on grey sky days and add a little zing to your life when you are feeling dreary. I love unusual pieces of conversations and I keep them locked up in my mind, days, months and years after they have gone by.

When executed well, a conversation with a cheeky, cocky and suave man (think Daniel Craig in his Bond role) can be the turning point. The point when I begin to look at a man differently; from disinterest to hot pursuit. Maybe I have watched too many episodes of Sesame Street. I like men who know how to string their words right.

Trust me. Stringing words might be easy but striking a balance between being a bumbling fool trying to pass off as Casanova and an overconfident mouthy human catastrophe is one delicate act that not many are able to achieve. And for every fascinating piece of conversation I have had, I had equal amount of lousy, shitty tête-à-tête. Actually I think I have had more lousy, shitty conversations…

Some conversations throw you off court. They are the unexpected pieces of conversations that grabs your attention from the word “go”. In tennis terms, it is like Martina Hingis running to the extreme right of the court, screaming “ugh!” before sending the ball back to the other side of the court.

“We are friends…” I backed three steps before the wall stopped me. “… and friends…” Trapped in the corner. He leaned over and kissed my neck gently. His kisses were like tiny butterflies dancing along my skin. “... and friends don’t do this…” I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. My eyes, they fluttered. “… and friends don’t do this…” I said as I pushed him away. “… friends don’t do this…”

“I…” he said as he stepped three steps towards me again. “…never want you as my friend.” His kisses were wild and hurried, like lovers meeting for the first time under the full moon. His hands bundled my hair into a knot, until it was a mop in his right hand. “I want you…” His tongue traced the curvature of my neck. “… as my lover.”

Those were the words I had yearned to hear and when the words came, my fingers ran across his face. Little kisses as light as a drizzle rained on his lips.

Every now and then your partner in conversation underestimates your response. He anticipates a softer comeback but with a little wit and perhaps even a dash of cheekiness, you will soon make a mark in the person’s mind. You are the one in hot pursuit and you are the one who is banging the balls hard, back to the other side of the court, in the most unusual ways.

“Arent’ you afraid that I would drug you?” His tongue glided along the white cigarette paper. “… that one day, I might drug and rape you?” We were sat in the car on one of our usual drives around the city. He closed his eyes as he relaxed into his first puff. “After all, I bring you your drinks and I have all your things.”

It was true, what he said. Whatever you are searching for, ask AB and he will have it hidden somewhere in his sleeves. He was a DJ afterall and party drugs were as common as a bottle of beer on a weekend.

I leaned over and stretched my arms to embrace him into my arms. I moved towards him and whispered ever so lightly. “You would want…” I began, then moving a little closer towards him. “… to hear me call your name.” I sank back into my seats and I saw a bulge in his trousers. “Now be a good boy.”

Certain conversations accomplish simpler things in life. Some conversations exist for the sole purpose of bringing a smile to the recipient. These are random conversations with total strangers. Sometimes it is nice to do something good by lighting up the life of someone. It does not matter if it lasts a second or an hour as long as the person laughed and was lost with you for a moment.

The queue was long. There were three people ahead of me. Not too surprising though since it was lunch hour after all. The guy ahead of me had strange things in his trolley. Actually he had a strange thing in his trolley times maybe ten or twelve.

“Why do you need so much sugar?” I asked as the conveyor belt became burdened with many packs of icing sugar. “Aren’t you sweet enough?”

The dark haired stranger turned around. His eyes were searching for the female voice who spoke to him. Was he dreaming again? Did the oriental chick with the cliché Chinese silk dress just said what he thought she did?

“My mother's baking Christmas cakes,” he said, packing his things. It was my turn at the till. I smiled at the cashier. "Hello!" I said, trying to cheer the cashier up a little. Poor cashier must have bleeped thousands of items in Tesco today, I thought to myself when the stranger handed me a torn piece of his receipt. I unscrambled it and saw random numbers sitting next to each other.


There are however some conversations that are heartbreaking. These conversations loop in my head, like a migraine on a busy day at work. In their pasts, they burnt hearts and bled emotions, perhaps even tears for what could have been a different future.

“Please return the house keys to me,” he said. “You do not need them anymore.”

Tears were streaming down my cheeks as I shook my head. We were sat in a warm embrace in Arlanda Airport. It was the last summer I spent frolicking in the warm summer sunshine in bikinis, oblivious to everything around us. We flew everywhere together. We did everything together, with very few things being the exception. He was the love of my life and after the next sentence, he became a past tense in my life.

“No,” I cried. “I am coming back soon.” I swept the tears from my face. But I guess we both knew that it was the end. I was stubborn and I refused to let the person go. I refused to acknowledge that my heart had moved on to another and it was no longer in 19 Ynglinggatan, Odenplan. My heart has flown away and the only person who knew was the one who lost it.

“Alright,” he said, pacifying me a little with a little rub on the shoulders. He always rubbed my shoulders soothingly whenever I felt stressed. “You keep the keys and I will see you soon, flickkvan.”

“Ja. Jag vill se du snart. Jag älska dig, pojkvän.” I replied in Swedish.

I saw a stream of tears rolling down his cheeks as we kissed each other goodbye for the summer. There in Arlanda stood two stubborn lovers biding goodbye. They were not the first and they will never be the last.

Cheeky conversations. What can I say? Some men just have that naughty side and often these men endear themselves to me, for unknown reasons. Maybe I enjoy men who are self-assured and confident. I like my men strong and I like them especially when they have a way of making their desires known.

“You are naughty!” I exclaimed as we made drunken attempts to walk towards the bathroom. Seconds before that, he snaked his right arm around my waist, sneaking its five fingers under my blouse. I pushed him and giggled as he swung past me towards the door. His arms were fluttering about. He was trying to latch onto something to stop him from falling down.

For the convenience of this story, let’s assume his name is Johnny (after Johnny Depp). So Johnny caught hold of my right hand and we both tumbled into a heap of laughter. “Johnny is naughty… Johnny is naughty…” I sang, like how child would sing when a friend did something awfully wrong. My head nodded in tempo to the teasing song which I sang. “Johnny is naughty! Johnny is naughty!”

“Johnny might be horny,” he said, then swiftly repositioning himself on top of me. His slender nose was touching mine. “… but Johnny, naughty? NEVAR!” He kissed me and we rolled about the floor, wrestling and fighting. Fighting the fleeting emotions mixed to a heady concoction by the sweet taste of vodka. Wrestling to see if he could undress me faster than me dressing myself up again. There was pushing and shooving and lots of kissing. There were words exchanged, only to be reminded the next day.

“Do you remember what you told me last night?” I asked. His back was facing me.

“Every single word,” he said as he tapped his cigarette into the ashtray.

I believe that I have a romantic heart pumping blood through my veins and a pragmatic head sitting on my shoulders. Conversations - the good, bad, sad, mad – all embossed into my soul forever. Some are precious because they are secret conversations and others are replayed on days when I feel sad, so I would laugh and feel a little better.

Like the game of tennis, be sure you find the perfect partner to have your secret conversations with. Good conversations carry you far and give you an edge above your opponent. A bad conversation is like the tennis ball aiming for your eye. While black goes with almost everything, I doubt you'd like a black eye on New Year's Eve. Neither should you have a rotten conversation on the first day of the new year.

Wishing everyone a new year filled with hope and love. May all your desires be made known and granted in the coming 12 months!!!

With lots of love,

Related Links
  • A year ago Otto was... Over

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Wednesday, December 27, 2006
The Post Christmas Turkey Post

I flew to London two days after BestGuyFriend’s wedding. I figured that I needed at least two days to recover from the massive drinking binge undertaken on Saturday 6th December as one of the seven uber responsible bridesmaids. I have flashbacks of the different things we did that night and the twelve nights before that. I mean, with six boys and nine girls all above the legal age, what would one expect? Some stuff are so X-rated, that I shan’t share here less I get some grumpy parents write me an email reprimanding me for being a bad role model for young impressionable Malaysian teenagers.

(Warning: Noone drove on the nights the seven bridesmaids and four best men went out drinking with the bride and groom. Everything was within walking distance - condos, bungalow, 711 and the two swimming pools. Yes, we planned the wedding THAT well.)

What I am safe to tell you is that some of us swam in the pool after midnight, feeling as carefree as anyone would feel at Fat Boy Slim’s Live in Brighton concert. Some of us locked ourselves up in a room, giggling and laughing as we relaxed into a daze-like ambience. The philosophers among us gathered by the pool and discussed what seemed absolutely essential to humankind existence at 5 a.m. One or two tickled all the sleeping ones as punishment for sleeping before everyone else.

I remember drinking at least eight glasses of vodka and whiskey cocktails through the night and dancing like a mad gorilla learning sign language.

Oh god. I have sidetracked. Back to topic. Back to topic.

When I bought the ticket, I did it the same way I always do. In a great big, rush. And in my haste, I failed to realise what a miserable 28 hour journey it would turn out to be, with onboard transit in Muskat and a 5 hour transit in Bahrain, where women travelled only with male relatives (or husbands). Every group was either a group of men or women with their male companions. Or the three English girls that grouped together. I was so konked out from the earlier flight that I held my hand luggage as tightly as I could when I did a 5 hour freefall into slumber.

And just when I thought I could scream the loudest “HURRAH!” ever as we approached Heathrow, there came a man’s voice over the intercom with the crappiest news any traveler on a 28 hour flight journey would ever want to hear.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is the captain speaking. We are soon descending into London Heathrow where the visibility is at 150m. The minimum is 300m and therefore we cannot land at the moment. But don’t worry as we have two hour worth of fuel and if everything fails, we will land in an airport close by.”

I had more frown lines that a Shar Pei dog on heat. I looked over to my neighbour, a typical English bloke who travelled by working at different locations as a diving instructor. I complained about how I had travelled for 28 hours and only shut up when I realised he started two hours before me from Bangkok and he missed his flight from Muskat. Then again, he was silly to miss his leg of the flight from Muskat.

Thankfully I arrived on the day that I did because flights to Heathrow were cancelled for the next three days, causing a terrible backlog of hundred of thousands of travellers rushing back for their bit of the Christmas turkey (which by the way tastes every bit better with fresh cranberry sauce). Somehow London is swarmed by a neverending line of transportation chaos, from strikes to terrorist attacks to nerve wrecking security checks and severe weather conditions.

And four days after flying for 28 hours, Alex and I drove 10 hours to Scotland, just in time to hang up all the Christmas lights and decorations. A bunch of silver candles and a few dozens of baubles later, the whole house looked absolutely merry. And for the next three days, the house is filled with Alex’s relatives and cousins, including the star of the hour, little baby Samuel.

This Christmas is a little more reflective than the previous. No, I cannot reflect anymore than I do daily but perhaps I am cut off from the rest of the world (meaning work and crazy friends that skinny dip at 5 a.m.) and I look inward for entertainment. Perhaps a little wander through the recess of my mind, in search of the meaning of happiness and purpose in life.

I am not used to having twelve other relatives in the house for many days. My family is quite small and we do not have many relatives visiting and when they occasionally drop by, it’s usually for a meal and bed for the night. Surrounded by so many giggling cousins, uncles, aunts and brother of aunt, I find myself seeking refuge in my bedroom, resting with a book in hand.

I am yet to warm up to Zadie Smith’s “On Beauty”. It is supposed to be a good book with awards and that shit, but somehow it is not tickling me in the right places. I do notice that she is using a writer’s trick that I discovered quite by chance (while writing this blog) but she has taken the whole trick to a new height. The book just goes on and on and on without really getting anywhere. It just does not interest me, so I am reading it at the moment to analyse words, phrases and punctuations. How awfully strange.

Alex’s parents were generous in their gifts. I received a cashmere scarf to keep me warm during winter walks and a thermal blouse that looked so good that I could wear it as an outer blouse! Both were from Brora, if you happen to be one of ANNN's shopping freaks. They were rather surprised that I managed to bring sufficient winter attire (not the most glamorous but keeps me sufficiently warm) and were even more surprised when I said we had boutiques selling winter clothes just like they do on Oxford Circus.

“Why do you need the clothes when there isn’t a winter in Malaysia?”

“Many buy the clothes when they travel,” I said, sounding almost smug at the thought of Malaysians being cosmopolitan and chic.

December 26th passed without any untoward incidences. I am sure that Nikki breathed a sigh of great relief that there wasn’t a big bad tsunami visiting her on the 2nd anniversary while she suntanned her Scottish ass on Phi Phi Island. Honeymooners. On the other hand, Dumfries and Galloway (where I am staying at the moment) was hit by an earthquake measuring 3.2 on the ricther scale. Did. Not. Feel. A. Thing.

Sitting in the cold here in Scotland, I am plotting my next holiday plan. Do you think it is a little rush if I ran off to some deserted island or to Bangkok during the Chinese New Year holidays? By the way, when is the Chinese New Year? I crave for sunshine at the moment so much so that I imagine basking in the sun on some sandy beach in my red bikini. Now all I need to do is add Daniel Craig into the equation.

Daniel Craig makes the most delightful daydream, I am telling you. Especially on cold days such as the 27th. I think I will go off and dream a little more.

"Here is the change, chicken," I was buying yet another box of Strepsils, now that I had left one box in Malaysia and another box in London.

"Do you think we should have a rule against calling me "chicken" in public, Small Small?" Alex asked, tailing after me.

What names do you call your partners? Let's search for some novel ones before 2007 =)

From my bedroom window.

The Christmas tree, brought to you by the letters OTTO and ALEX.

Plunder for thy presents!

The star to guide you to your destiny.

The latest carpet look - fat cat casper.

Christmas present this year happens to be a trip to Italy starting January 4th.

Yay! Milan, here I come!

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Friday, December 22, 2006
December 22nd

It is December 22nd and I am sitting by the heater, where I am warm in three layers of clothes. A thought of whether what I am wearing is sexy but then again, I do not care much for sexy when I am freezing in the cold. It is my first Christmas in London and I am excited by the trickle of water from branches as the sun melts the ice.

It is December 22nd and I wished I knew more than I do now. I thought I knew everything at 13 but I realised that I do not know much more today than I did back then. The only difference is that I no longer stare at my parents as if I am a parentchomper monster from Roald Dahl’s BFG.

I still do not know if a man is sincere when he says what he does. Does he mean each word when he said he would save me when I drown? Will he scoop me into his arms and cuddle me tenderly when I had a terrible day? Am I truly the only one, when he said I was the only one under the red lattern? Or am I just one of the many ones he kissed goodnight?

It is December 22nd and I still do not understand what makes a woman happy. Sometimes I am happy but there are also times when I am sad. Will I feel happy if I worked everyday like there was no tomorrow? Will I feel happier if I had all the bags and shoes listed in all the branded stores? Will I feel like I have lost something if I do not lust after the car like the rest of my friends? Is doing what I am doing giving me pleasure or am I doing this because it is the only thing I know how to do well?

Am I living a fantastic life, as perceived by others? Or am I afraid of living to the fullest that I can? Am I a coward for not trying hard enough or am I being smart? Did I choose what I did because they were the best for me? Did I choose what I have because I was afraid of losing? Will I always be the winner when I wake up each day or will there come a day my tears will know no end?

Will Alex always bring me laughter and happiness? Will what I feel with him last until I cease to breathe? Am I blissful because it is his arms that I lay in each night or could I be just as blissful in another bed with another man? Will I lose Alex if I did not cling so tight? Will I ever find myself if Alex is not around? Will I giggle like a three year old or will I suddenly grow old?

It is December 22nd so why does my book remain unfinished? Is my life such a long journey that I do not know the end of my book’s character? Did I breathe so much life into Otto that Otto has become flesh and blood, a great part of me? Will the book’s ending be the same mine? Will Otto be happy or will she be lonely? Will she find the love that she craves for and will she be able to finally sleep?

When I was 12, my mother’s hair was thick, black and curly. Now she is a walking grey, like the long winter I feel today. She used to have such warm smiles but all she flashes now is anger and disappointment accumulated over thirty years. Will I be like my mother? Will I feel disappointed with what life had offered as I grow grey? Will my hair wither into shades of white like hers or will I remain as prim as a rose at 30? Will I lose myself completely and grow shabby? Or will I age gracefully?

I cried secret tears one evening when I sat and saw a few strands of white hair on my father. He was asleep so soundly, like a little baby without cares in the world. It feels strange growing up, when suddenly you feel like you are the adult in the relationship. You nag your parents for watching too much telly, the way they nagged you when you were 13, lusting after Jason Priestley on Beverly Hills 90210. You know that the dynamics of your relationship has changed when you reprimand your mother for not attending the line classes that you have arranged for her and she is behaving like the naughty child you were on first day of school.

One more week before a new year and I sit here thinking to myself, what have I achieved this year? What have I done that makes me swell up with pride? What have I not done that brings me great shame? Did I do everything that I needed to do? Could I have done more? Should I pressure myself a little more and grow? Or have I swallowed more than I could chew?

I have discovered two months shy of being 31 that I do not know any much more than I did when I am 30. I do not know if I should worry about this. If you ask me, I would say I have more happy days than sad. I am immensely thankful for this fact. I do not wish to worry and maybe I should not.

It is December 22nd and I am thankful for everything I have experienced. I am happy for every tear I have shed and every smile I have carved on my face. I would not do it any other way. I would not be me, if I did. I can only promise to walk on this earth to the best that I can. There are some things that I will never know and I guess life is rightly so.

Merry Christmas everyone!

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Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Getting Burnt In The Deepest Sea

Men can be the simplest creatures to understand, if you really understand them. And on most days, I understand men better than women.

By the account of my last post on BestGuyFriend’s wedding party, I am sure that you have noticed that:

  • We had lots to drink since Nikki’s friends arrived from Leeds.

  • The girls were out shopping for shoes and accessories like there was no tomorrow.

  • We had seven days of hang over before the actual wedding party on Saturday, which resulted on a collective and massive hang over on Sunday.

  • There were lots of sparks flying everywhere and we aren’t talking of just BestGuyFriend and Nikki’s.

  • Days and nights like these make me feel like that I could live forever.

There were seven of us bridesmaid that night. While Nikki’s friends squeezed themselves on the first table, eight people sat comfortably on the second table on the stage by the pool. The two spare chairs were used to store the excess beer, vodka and wine bottles.

I was feeling quite comfortable with Ain on my left, the two spare chairs with the bottles of alcohol buffering between us, and PY on my right. Sitting opposite of me that night was SL and his partner for the night, HL.

SL served as one of the four best men and last minute video cameraman when BestGuyFriend did not manage to hire someone to record the memorable day. A blonde lady, HL, whom we all knew from previous weekend outings together, accompanied SL that night.

When Nikki, Sarah and I did the table arrangement, we agreed that Ain would sit next to SL (because she has a baby crush on the 38 year old SL) and E would sit next to HL (because E has great social skills to make anyone feel comfortable). Translated into reality meant intermittent conversation with the blonde Scandinavian with awkward pauses between as she held private conversations with SL in Finnish.

“Can you speak Mandarin, Ain?” PY’s husband asked.

“All of us will speak in English tonight,” PY gently reminded her husband. Perhaps it was a subtle reminder to the blonde to speak only in English as we all came from various cultural and language backgrounds. But the blonde went on in Finnish.

This Finnish couple drew some attention because of a tricky situation. HL considered SL as her boyfriend of some sort; maybe not a full-fledge boyfriend but a lover nonetheless. SL however denies all relations to HL and refers to her as his “work colleague”. Knowing this creates a strange situation at the table, one, which the rest of us girls pretend, does not exist.

There was a point somewhere between the sea cucumber and fish dishes that the girls all adjourned to the ladies. Politely we invited HL to join us as we stood up and placed our napkins on our respective chairs. As we turned around and walked, all of us saw her leaning over to give SL a peck on his lips.

I am not sure what your office culture is but mine does not involve kissing a male colleague on the lips whenever I want to go to the toilet to steal 10 minutes of solitude.

To her credit, HL was lovely when we waited in line. We managed to strike a conversation on wedding traditions in Asia and in Finland. A shoal of busy koi fish was swimming between pots of water plants in a pond in front of us. The sound of trickling water was soothing and formed a sharp contrast from the “yum seng” cheers going around from table to table by the heated swimming pool about 50 meters from us.

As the night moved on, so did the bottles and glasses of every spirit. Sarah and I shared half a bottle of Smirnoff by 1 a.m. The boyfriend and husband were talking. SL politely invited every girl at the table to dance. Ain left us to join the bride and groom as they did their rounds. And when the dinner finally ended and the proper dance started, all the girls descended to the dance floor like fireflies to the fire.

There was Sarah with her smacking bottom dance. Nicky (the chief bridesmaid, not to be confused with the bride Nikki) was dancing from corner to corner of the dance floor to Cindy Lauper’s “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun”. PY, E and I were busy dancing around each other as we whispered all the stupid things we did when we were in highschool, when these songs were at the top of the charts.

Seeing SL was dancing at the edge of us girls, all by himself, PY pointed me towards him. I obliged, turned around to face SL and danced with him when suddenly HL walked up to him. I sensed that it was time for me to turn and join my girlfriends, which I swiftly did. We were sufficiently aware that she was not happy and she was making sure her unhappiness was understood on the dance floor in front of more than 150 guests.

The bridesmaids and PY moved away from the couple, to give them some privacy and perhaps to give SL some space. After some minutes of hearing HL speak of her unhappiness/uneasiness, they both walked back to the table, where they remained for five more songs or so. It was obvious despite all language barriers that they had a confrontation of some sort and it does not take a genius to realise that the reason was partly due to SL dancing with so many girls that night (and not dance with HL at all).

“You are back,” E’s boyfriend said, then raising a glass to toast SL.

PY, E, Ain and I were sat at the table, resting and fuelling up for the next retro high school song to play when SL walked back to join us. This time he was alone, with HL nowhere in sight.

“Where did you go?”

“I had an argument, so I had to get away to clear my head,” came the polite reply.

“With whom?” PY’s husband asked.

“Oh you shouldn’t ask such questions...” E’s boyfriend said, then raising a toast for everyone at the table. We drank merrily, thus avoided a rather embarrassing moment.

For ages his phone rang. He answered his mobile initially but after some attempts, he passed the Nokia and his keys to me. Three seconds later, he was pushed into the pool. Talk about timing, I thought to myself when the phone rang again.

“It’s your phone ringing, SL,” I said as he swam towards me.

“Oh don’t worry. It is just my work colleague...” came the usual reply.

I sat in my car at 8 a.m. with Ain asleep in the next seat. Twelve hours since the party started the night before. There I sat all on my own and thinking what had happened. Was she in love? Was she delusional? Was HL stupid to claim SL as her boyfriend when it was so obvious that he was not interested in her? At least not in the way that she had wanted him to be.

Was SL being a scum? Was he cruel? Did he lie to her? Was he a wretched soul for calling her “just my work colleague”?

Yeah, obviously I am not naïve to believe that they were just friends. Like Nikki and the rest of the girls, I frankly believe that they were shagging, which does not affect me in any way other than the fact that I write about relationship and men and this phenomenon of being workmates struck me as interesting.

As I drove home in my pink dress now creased with lines when I slept on the sofa after 8 glasses of vodka and 1 glass of whiskey neat, I think I realised the answer.

The girl was stupid and the man was just being unrepentantly a man.

What makes a man loves a woman, I have not a clue. But I do know that you can never cause him to love you. It is simply a choice he made for himself, for whatever reason he holds in his head. Unlike a woman who can be moved to love a man by a show of bravery, courage and sincerity, a man seems able to remain calm and composed, despite whatever acts of love a woman can make for him.

That is to say, men are not as emotional as women and thus, are not influenced to love or hate a woman based on any acts of love, kindness, gentleness or understanding.

Technically speaking, a woman can move mountains and swim in deepest oceans to prove her love for a man and he will never love her, if he had not loved her in the beginning. This includes sex, which many women associate as acts of ultimate love. A man is capable of having sex with you and yet not love you at all. You will end up as nothing more than his pleasure doll.

Perhaps that is why we only hear how men prove their love by different acts such as swimming in the deepest ocean and walking on hot coals but we never hear the same for women. This is because women can be influenced in her choice for a lover and she might consider a man (she previously had no interest in) when he proves his worth by acts of sincerity and love. Men on the other hand, may not be so easily touched by tokens of love and kindness.

So girls, save your feet from being burnt. You deserve so much better. Just remember, he is just not so into you. Not the end of the world, in my opinion. This is what girlfriends are for. Put on your dancing shoes, wear that killer dress and strut your bootie.

You are not so into him after all.

The girl was stupid and the man was just being unrepentantly a man.

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Sunday, December 17, 2006
The Thing Called Love
I remember the moment it happened. We sat by the roadside, maybe it was ten in the morning. Maybe it was eleven. It does not matter now what time it happened but for the fact that it happened.

“Do you think I should go and get her?”

Instead of answering his question, I asked yet another. “Do you love her?”

My best friend was washed away by a new wave in life on the day the tsunami washed Koh Phi Phi away. I queried him if it was truly what he wanted in life. I asked if he loved her. What he experienced that day was fresh and new. He was in love.

It was decided by lunch time that my BestGuyFriend should head to the islands in search of his love, which was lost. They met twice during very short meetings but he was certain that he loved her. Five days before the tsunami happened, she left him with a ticket and an invitation to Koh Phi Phi.

They planned to meet up at lunchtime on the day when the tsunami hit Asia and killed thousands and thousands of people. Whilst others were separated from their loved ones, it seemed utterly strange that love can blossom from such devastation. And yet it happened.

”What should we do?” he asked.

We rushed to the shopping mall and bought her some things that she might need that moment. I remember writing a card to her and wishing her good luck. I remember rushing around the shopping mall, trying to buy her some panties but I found those huge panties that covered the bottom totally disgusting. I could not possibly allow her to commit a fashion faux pas. Not even during such a terrible time. So true to my nature, I decide that she was better panty-less than walking around with what I deemed as grandma panties.

So off my BestGuyFriend went to Phuket with a small bag of clothes, daily necessities and a hope that he could find Nikki alive among the thousands of dead.

“Do you love her?” I asked him on the day that they were to solemnize their marriage. I searched for a quiet moment and I asked my BestGuyFriend the question again “Do you really love her?”

His answer was a firm yes each time.

Many might be inclined to believe that a person loves naturally, hence the term “falling in love”. Many might believe that they cannot control the moment when love happens. Romantics believe that love is almost random but I can tell you that there is an essence that is crucial for love to happen.

It is the element of sacrifice and work. Wait a minute - that would make two elements. But sacrifice and work are interrelated, so I shall lump them up as one. You see, in order for love to happen, the lovers must take the initiative to find the time to love. It requires work on their behalf.

Nothing happens so randomly and especially not love. Love is planned and steps are taken to create the opportunity to love and find love. The lovers might not realise this or might not want to admit to this but if you think of the moment when you found love, you would realise that you have done many things to find that opportunity to love.

The ultimate onscreen act of love happened in the movie called “The Road Home”. The village girl, enamoured by the newly appointed school teacher, decided one day to take a longer road to complete her daily task of fetching water from the well. The young teacher, noticed her walking to fetch water and hurried to carry a pail to do the same. They were both creating the opportunity to love.

The second when she poured away water from her already filled pail when she saw the teacher walk towards her with a pail, was the moment I am talking about - the moment love happened. It was a quest to capture the attention and perhaps love of someone you feel your heart skips a beat for.

You will only find love when there is an illusion of being lost in a world that is made up of just the two of you. All love has an element of escapism.

Alex and I spent hours swinging in his hammock by the sea in Perhentian. Marvin Gaye serenaded us as the waves lulled us into love dreams. I returned to work after a few days getting lost on the island with Alex (and E and two other boys). He joined me shortly and spent three extra months in a concrete city, so that he and I could meet and find love. We are lovers till today.

I met SwedishLove on the morning that he was bound for another city. He too, stayed back three months. I remember us sitting once in a Japanese restaurant, we were locked in a dreamy gaze, totally mesmerized by each other. His right index finger was gently caressing my right arm. We found love somewhere between his idle days as a backpacker and my busy work schedule.

And my BestGuyFriend went to Phuket in search of someone that he loved, nursed her better and helped her to recover from the ordeal. It has been two years since he first said he loved her and yesterday, 150 guests sat by the pool to celebrate their love.

I have to wait for the official photographer to wake up from his seven day hangover. Then wait another three weeks whilst he and everyone else tan their asses in some deserted Thailand island BEFORE I can get hold of the nicer photos. Till then, you will have to suffer through these.

Nikki and BestGuyFriend had so much fun getting married,
they are doing it all over again in Scotland.
(The seven bridesmaids are celebrating the opportunity
to have a crazy week of girlie pampering and shopping!)

Apparently us girls taking photos are setting in as an annual tradition.
Girlfriends for life, yo!

Me and my JLo ass. Plus I was slouching. Such sins.

Nikki is the best thing that has happened to BestGuyFriend and I can testify to that. There is this smile on his face that only Nikki can bring. I love them both to bits, so....

Congratulations, BestGuyFriend and Nikki.

I am flying to London on 18th December to join Alex and his family for a pigging out session over Christmas. Then to Italy for a nice holiday. So you guys hang in tight and write me some nice love notes.


Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Lost In Translation

I am not sure if the lost Italian has a problem expressing himself in English, so he writes something as patronizing as he did in his last email. Or is it just I, with my poor English, am unable to decipher through his email? After reading his email, I suspect that he had spiked it with chauvinism hairy balls bluek.

Don’t just believe what I say. You can read what he wrote me and you decide for yourself if this man is extremely full of himself.

Hi my dear,

Thanks a lot for your picture. At least they shorten the big distances that separate our different lifes!!

So what are you working so much on lately?!?

I don' really get the names you gave to your pics .. Nude?!? but unfortunatly there is no nude at all!!!!

Who is the ugly boy you are holding?!?

I try to encourage you once more with some -hopefully- interesting pics of me ...

Tell me your hidden feelings and send some more of you too… you have nothing to loose and a lot to gain…

i'll be awaiting!!!

PS. anyway, your girl friend is good looking too!

I am yet to meet a man who whores himself as much as the lost Italian Frans. He gives XiaXue a run for her money, with all the photos of him doing Capoeira by the Mediterranean Sea. Under normal circumstances, I am delighted to find new friends and would indulge myself in the occasional camwhore holiday photos. But this lost Italian is taking the whole concept to a new height. He sends me more photos than I have sent him. But enough of the photos and his boo boo over-confident self. The reason why I am writing this is because…

I mind him being patronizing but it does not irritate me so much that I have to take out my invisible sarcasm machine gun and start gunning him down until he runs to his mommy to cry. Which is the only reason why I had not run him down with a lorry or wished for a lorry laden with pizza run him down somewhere in Milan. The one eyesore that I absolutely detest and abhor is the bit where he called my guy friend ugly. Who on earth gives him the right to call this man, MY FRIEND, ugly?

I can go on and on defending my friend but I realised that there is nothing to defend. The lost Italian Frans had lost from the very beginning. He does not possess the sincerity and friendship that my friend possesses and quite rightly, I'd imagine Frans having the smallest of boy's wee wee if he ever stripped naked, hence his over inflated ego.

Now he is asking me to write him an email expressing my hidden feelings. I am tempted to let good old Frans know what I really think of him.

So my readers, how do you think I should reply in my next email??

Come on, I know you guys are creative....


Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Her Name Is Grace

It happened. As expected, the day came and past. And it happened. It was one of those usual busy days when I get up at half past 7 a.m. to the sound of my alarm. PY’s call at 8 a.m. is a reminder that I need to get my butt moving and hurry to our usual breakfast place. But the unusual happened. After PY’s call, I received a sms from MiniBoyFriend R. He was up and about and he asked me if I would have breakfast with him.

And since I am an anti-feminist feminist, I stuck to PY (who is my close girlfriend from highschool, to those who are new to my blog) and declined R’s offer. Technically I did not decline. I explained that my breakfast plan was fixed and he was welcomed to join two beautiful aunties for breakfast, knowing full well that R would decline. He declined my invitation three minutes later.

Off I went for sweet glorious breakfast with PY and as soon as I had forgotten R’s breakfast invite, I received another invite for dinner. It was 6 p.m. when I accepted the invitation and I was still in my office, slaving away for my next pair of Aldo shoes. So whatever resentment I had earlier in September is resolved and I absolutely loved having him around again. I miss MiniBoyFriend R. He came to watch me do some DIY stuff in my office. I am telling you, my office is getting rather swanky. I think I am going to move into that room and sleep there. It is definitely more comfortable that my college delinquent bedroom spread at the moment.

Between smoking in the balcony and reading some female magazine while waiting for me to finish up, we chatted for a bit. He asked if Ain was sad to leave for Indonesia on Sunday. I casually said “no”, which was a lie but I said it nonetheless. Some moments later, I asked, “Do you think it is cruel of me to tell her to shave her legs?”

“So you are the bitch that has turned Ain into a zombie,” came the reply.

Yes. Thank you very much, MiniBoyFriend R. You are definitely still fulfilling your role of being honest and straightforward with me. Okay, so I did not say that but I nearly did. Anyway I managed to wrap things up and we were in a Korean restaurant by 9 p.m. immediately after I ran home to shower while he played with his dogs. Thankfully MiniBoyFriend R stayed within 5 minutes drive away!

Dinner was spectacular! According to Otto’s tradition, I hardly ever bother to look into the menu to place an order. And according to Otto’s tradition, her friends did most of the decisions, from which restaurant to who is driving to what time do we get our asses there. We had a big plate of spicy glass noodles with octopus and another big bowl of spicy clam soup. I was smiling from ear to ear, picking at the 8 other small dishes that accompanied the two main courses we had ordered.

And we had the most wonderful Korean rice wine ever. I mean I am not a fan of wine but I was busy downing dainty cups of wine like an recovered alcoholic on rebound. I enjoyed the medicinal taste from the 12 herbs infused into the wine. Or whatever it was. I just loved it.

Pink lips. Even more pink cheeks and little slitty eyes. I was lips smacking and wine loving that night. We were talking about many things, just the way we used to talk about things. We talked about going away. He is going to Hong Kong and China and I would have gone too, if not for the fact that I shall be in London with Wouter! Wouter shall be my date for the winter week and we shall sit by Café Hong Kong, spying on pretty oriental girls and their skinny boyfriends.

“My treat,” I said. That was the least that I could do when MiniBoyFriend had patiently waited for me to finish my work before dinnertime at 9 p.m.

He refused and took out his card instead. The waitress left with his card between the black book. I smiled, kept my card and graciously thanked him for the meal.

Do you think that men are simple creatures? I think men are simple creatures. They want the simplest of things sometimes. Such as your smile and sincerely happiness for sharing a meal together. Most men find a woman who is a gracious and generous spirit pleasantly attractive.

Among other things, I am a reformed feminist. I used to enjoy the fact that I could buy anything my heart fancied and I still enjoy that fact that I actually buy my own things. I live in my own house and I drive my own car. At any given time, I can just walk into most restaurants and eat anything I want without looking at the menu nor worry about the cost. I could walk into boutiques and just buy whatever my heart desires.

Ah yes, such are the privileges that the modern day girl possess. Many a feminist would say that they had worked hard so girls like me could enjoy the freedom that I do enjoy now – freedom of movement, education, healthcare, financial independence and life decisions. Some feminists reacted passionately when I wrote that I would burn down some feminist placards. My act of boo-boo-ing the feminist movement was can be likened to someone who enjoyed all the perks of a club membership but refused to join the club formally after playing on the 18 holes. Or worse – I could have indirectly insulted the club.

The point that I want to make is that you can remain feminine and graceful whilst still being a feminist at heart. I am all for equality and freedom for women but I never want to highlight this issue at the expense of men. Many aggressive feminists failed to realize that they forgot what it was to be a woman. In their haste to achieve equality with the other gender, they have forgotten what made women special and what attracted a man to them.

Why should you need a man, if you can fix the light bulb faster than the man? What is the use of a man, if you are emotionally more stable, financially more secure, mentally more quick and you have a soaring career to boot?

If he can do ten laps at the pool, you would prove to yourself that you can do twenty. If he can bring in the bacon, you make sure you can bring in two slices extra. If he plays poker with the boys, you want to be equal and go clubbing with the girls too. Since he does not cook and does not iron the clothes, you resolve the problem by hiring a maid because you surely are not going to do it since you paid half of everything. After all, you are bringing home the dough too. If he can have it, so can you.

Where are you going to fit a man into your life when you are everything better than him? Do you enjoy losing all the time? If you don’t, what makes you think a man would?

If you are able to do everything so much better/faster/efficient/equal as a man, why do you need a man? You might as well have sex with yourself because trust me, you deserve only the best.

Feminism existed before the word became a word. It existed as long as time held women in this world. There will always be women and headstrong women. I would like to believe many of these earlier feminists never called themselves “feminists”. I read somewhere that Virginia Woolf, the poster woman for many feminists, refused the “feminist” label. There will always be women who believed something so passionately that they would take proactive steps to change the world. Not necessarily did they consider themselves as feminists. Neither are all feminists are of the female gender. The feminist movement and idea do attract a portion of men, who believe that women issues should be given more emphasis.

Generally I do not have any gripe against the feminist movement. Like I’ve said, I am a feminist at heart. I believe in education and information for women. I am passionate about women issues. Look, I am even writing about the ups and downs of being a young woman in this day and age. This whole blog promotes my ideas and my ideals, which are heavily laced with ideas of freedom of choice and thought for young girls.

I would like to think that I do it with grace and dignity. I celebrate all there is about being a woman. Being a woman is never about being better than the man or wanting to stand breast to chest with the man. It is about being the best that I can, the same way that you will wake up and be the best that you can. I do not want to be a Superwoman. I just want to be a smart woman and a smart woman knows that her original name is grace.

  • Grace to accept that she can do things to the best that she can, which might be different from which a man does things.

  • Grace to be thankful when a man holds the door for her. No, he does not think that she is weak and thus requires someone to hold the door for her. He did it for her because he wanted to do something good.

  • Grace to allow herself to be happy with a man - to be vulnerable and fragile and lovely, all at the same time. She does not need to live in DefCon One status every day of her life.

  • Grace to accept that man and woman can be equals without resorting to turn themselves into Mini Men or Great Men. Or any men for that matter.

  • Grace to be girlish and graceful and lovable - to embrace femininity and to giggle like a girl. So bring out the lipsticks, pastel eye colours, pink fluffy dresses, tulip skirts and high high heels!

I have seen way too many women who bicker more than they can swallow. With their newfound freedom and wings clearly spread, they are rude, harsh and of all thing, unfeminine. In order to secure the respect they think they will garner from men at work, they lost their womanly charms. They dropped the dresses and skirts and cute little girl shoes and instead dressed in power suits to gain more perceived power. At home, these women argue more because they have more leverage in the relationship. This in itself is not a bad thing but taken to the extreme, you get women who do not know how to respect their man.

I hate women who do not know how to respect a man as much as I hate men who bully women. There are really times when the best thing a woman can do is to just shut up. Be more pleasant and less naggy. Be a decorative flowerpot. Yes, woman, you read it right. You can be smart and yet be physically appealing to the senses.

At this juncture, some women might be tempted to complain, “But oh, the fucker won’t do anything unless I nag like a poodle on heat!”. Then I say unto you, you are not the smart woman that I am talking about. A smart woman knows who to choose as an ideal partner and since your partner does not acknowledge nor help you through your difficult moments, I can safely conclude that you struck a bad deal for yourself and yes, you are not too smart.

Perhaps I am a product of the feminist movement. Perhaps I might even make some good old feminist proud. I have choices and I have made mine. I choose gracious living. I choose to be with a man. I choose to be a smart woman instead of a superwoman. I choose to flash my winsome smile. I choose to be financially independent and yet dependent on another being for love and support.

And I most certain chose to be a rebellious feminist at heart.

It was midnight when we finally finished dinner. He teased my flushed cheeks and he asked for my car keys. R drove along the city's brightest lights. I watched as little pops of lights flashed. It is Christmas, I thought to myself as we got up an onramp. R arrived at his doorsteps when I was just about to doze off, feeling all warm and fuzzy. Bright city lights were always calming.

“Thank you for such a beautiful evening. I loved dinner and especially the wine.”

"It's my pleasure," R said, before walking off.

The next time I looked up as I adjusted my seat in the car, R was fidgeting like a little boy. It was a familiar sight. I heard him pee the very first time I met him. He peed in the back lane with my back facing him, just a meter away.

Some things do not change.

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Saturday, December 02, 2006
Goodnight My Angel

Good night my angel time to close you eyes
And save these questions for another day
I think I know what you've been asking me
I think you know what I've been trying to say

I promised I would never leave you
And you should always know
Where ever you may go
No matter where you are
I never will be far away

I walked into the old section of One Utama today. I was meant to be here today. I was meant to be here, waiting for someone to finish work and when he finished at 4 p.m., we were meant to walk hand in hand as the sun set far away. Perhaps we would have had something in Bakerzin. Maybe do our dirty laundry in Laundry. I could have sat next to him, like I used to sit in the DJ console so long ago. Maybe I would have walked and shopped all day, being the usual independent spirit that I am.

Instead I walked alone today, aimlessly among the crowd of people. I could not decide if the turn of fate was to my side. Or was fate just playing an evil game on me. Up and down the escalators, my little self just walked on by. There was always life in a crowd of people and if you hold out your hand long enough, you would feel life sweeping past you.

I imagined us dancing and laughing in Slippery Senorita. We would have been there and we would have been free. I imagined walking around the tiny Pearl of the Orient during the day, looking for pigeons nesting quietly in old houses while he was working. I imagined smelling spices and looking at an old drunk beggar sleeping by the ancient streets. Instead on Saturday I nursed myself in bed alone. I was too sick to protest what fate had offered me on a platter.

“I told you never to contact me unless I contact you first. My girlfriend read your message. She is watching us and now we cannot talk anymore.”

I imagine my last words were the very reasons why he has walked into my life for the past six years and why I kept him in mine for the equal amount of time – “I understand”.

It was the end.

Good night my angel now it's time to sleep
And still so many things I want to say
Remember all the songs you sang for me
When we went sailing on an emerald bay

And like a boat out on the ocean
I'm rocking you to sleep
The water's dark and deep
Inside this ancient heart
You'll always be a part of me

I was asked to join the Pantene search seven times today. I laughed and shook my head whenever they did. I reluctantly told some of them how old I was as some of them persistently walked with me as I walked away.

“How old can you be?”

“I am 30.”

“You sure or not?” they said with that suspicious look written all over their faces. I cannot decide whether that was a compliment or an insult.

I smiled thinking about this. Someone walked through the door some weeks ago and said that I should join the Pantene search too. Three seconds later, he said “Shit, you are too old to participate!” I had that disdained look that said “is that meant to be a compliment because I don’t think it is.” He laughed and patted me on the head, realising what he had said did not come out the way he intended it to be. He tried to explain as we walked towards the Japanese restaurant for dinner. I was enjoying the fact that he was fussing over me.

That was the last time I watched him fall gently into a deep slumber and that was also the last time while he was asleep, his hand instinctively searched for mine. He breathed a sigh of relief when he found what he searched for, when his hand was holding mine. It was 6:42 a.m. on 31st October.

I have watched him sleep many times. He looked like a child each time he closed his eyes. When he sleeps, these voyeuristic eyes of mine witness how all his defences melt away. All that he was left was this child that needed a cuddle. I wondered if she had watched him sleep and saw that he was a child inside too. I have drawn so near, so close to his ears and taken deep breathes so as to immortalise him in me. He will remain a part of me till the next time we meet again. It was the faint smell of baby powder or perhaps even a powdery Issay Miyake. I have gently touched his nose and studied every line and curve on his face. Sometimes he would wake. Each time this happened, he opened one eye, managed a slight smile and patted my head.

“Go to sleep.”

It was cocoon paradise.

Goodnight my angel now it's time to dream
And dream how wondeful your life will be
Someday your child will cry and if you sing this lullaby
Then in your heart there will always be a part of me

Someday we'll all be gone
But lullabies go on and on
They never die that's how you and I will be

I woke up this morning, with my mop chopped hair crowding my eyes. I dreamt. I remember that I did. I remember that I was preparing for BestGuyFriend’s wedding on the 16th. I remember that a lady helped me to prepare for the wedding. I was lying naked on the bed, in a pristine white room. The curtains swayed gently against the breeze at the foot my bed. The lady was standing next to me and her fingers were nimbly pressing acupuncture points. I moaned in ecstasy as I usually would during a massage. I am a very tactile person and even as a child, I have always enjoyed massages.

In this lucid dream, my love petals swelled to crimson red and my eyes fluttered. She leaned over and whispered into my ears. I shook my head as my body squirmed. I was fighting and a second later I was relenting. As I opened my eyes, I saw her burying her face between my legs and the dream felt so real that I thought I felt the sensation of a warm tongue gently threading down to my secret garden in this physical world.

I reached out and with a trembling right hand, I protested and pushed her away.

“Just relax,” she said as she drew near me again. She crept slowly like a serpent snaking up my legs. “I love you, Otto. You know I love you. Just relax.”

“I can’t relax. I will never be relaxed,” I said as my hands slid down. I sighed as I pleasured myself. She laid by my side as I said to her in my dream that there was only one man who could satisfy my soul and quench my sex. And as the waves of orgasm rushed to me, I called his name.

The dream was so distinct that I remember every little detail, even the sensation of a woman’s tongue on my scarlet bud. And I remember the name I had subconsciously mentioned in my first same-sex dream. I remember the name of the man who satisfied me so completely that I cannot have another, not even the sweet taste of a woman’s soft tongue.

I remember the name of the man who fulfilled my every need and the name did not belong to him. I caught a glimpse of him sitting on a makeshift box in a corner. His eyes were focused. It was always nice to watch him work, with his work-self being more reliable than he usually would be. It was the one time when he was sharp and disciplined. Instead of the usual me - running towards him and feeling all excited and happy - I turned around and walked away silently in my magenta tulip skirt.

“My chapters are written and my book’s complete. Goodnight, my angel. It’s time for me to go. Someday you and I will be gone but words will stay on and on. Words will never die and that’s how you and I will be.”

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