Pain & Agony

Let me tell you the feeling.

Your whole body is aching, your insides feel as if they’re clawing themselves out, your skin writhes on every touch. Your head weighs a tonne and is constantly buzzing, the back of your neck is strained and you feel the nerves of every inch of your anatomy clenched and stretched like a mechanism to endure utmost pain. Your throat is dry and the thought of food repulses your every core.

Every step you take feels like a knife forced into your skin. Every movement is agony. Your senses are amplified, the sound of singing birds are like thundering storms, the sight of lights of oncoming traffic feel like laser beams torched right into your soul. You even feel the strenuous effect of your body trying to breathe.

At this moment, you ceased caring. You don’t care whether there are terrorist attacks in London or Kedah is hit by another tsunami. You don’t care whether another building in Perak is on the verge of collapsing or that V.K.Lingam will be getting away scotch free. Heck, those are far too remote. Closer to home, you don’t care whether you will be home in time to play one round of Congkak with your kids or that they’re watching something on telly that they’re not supposed to be watching. Or that the maid had just scorched your linen lingerie and misplaced your favourite peddle-pushers. You just don’t care.

And hell raises when you’re blocked by a moron driving a grey MyV on the way home. The silly twit of a punkster driver who thinks he can swerve his way between a twelve-tyre container lorry and a Bas Persiaran. Come on, its 12 tyres for heavens sake! You’re a quarter of its length and you think you’re Rempit enough to wheeze through and be the first on the front line? I hate small-brained drivers. I hate it even more when they’re driving small cars and develop a low-esteem attitude of trying to prove to the world that they can be as fast and is as much of a bully-candidate as any other big car. Grow up, small car! Unless you can transform into a Megatron, to me and most road users, you’re a pesky pest, and should only be allowed on motorcycle lanes. That’s how much we think of you. (This applies only to drivers of small cars with character-misplacement issues).

And you curse under your breath and hold the horn down for two whole minutes, while negotiating maneuvering tactics around the punkster twit, and would have given him the finger if you hadn’t thought that it wasn’t quite a ladylike thing to do. And then you step on the gas and try to make it home in record time. And hell would have raised again if you were stopped by a petrol car for speeding.

And you reach home, a little worse for wear, and still in painstaking misery. And as you step out of the car, you missed a step and trip over your own foot and fall knee down on the rough pebblewash. And that had to hurt. It had to send a rippling stab right on your knee bone, passing through your thigh and landing in your stomach (it would be groin, if I had one), sending little gassy bubbles spreading in your tummy cells, exactly like little needle points on a wide open wound.

I would have torn my hair apart if I had the energy. I would have shouted and ranted and screamed at the top of my lungs and brought shame to my entire family if I wanted to. I told you I didn’t care, didn’t I.

But right at that moment, as by magic, it was decided that I had had enough of that I could take, and it was time to cut me some slack. It was decided that living three days of torture and being driven almost to the point of insanity was sufficient. I was forgiven and I have been spared.

I could feel liquid trickling down my thigh. And no more pain.

Ladies and gentlemen, my bubble has burst. Literally. The BOIL aka BISUL that had grown in the most unexpected of places, and Grow it did, and along the way, each growth spurt had rendered me less of a human being, had finally given up and exploded.

With a big chitty chitty bang bang, the volcano had erupted.

I am I once more. The reasonable, at most time pleasant person that I am is back. I can hear the birds singing sweet songs again, and I can see that the sky is a clear shade of blue.

But I still hate punkster twits driving small cars.

Flying High In The Sky

I had a dream last night. I dreamt that I was peering through a window, and looking into this majestic setting of a dining room, I could see a long table, precious stones encrusted, heavily laden with food, food, glorious food. There were cakes, éclairs, truffles, soufflés, macarons, scones filled with jam and cream, the prettiest cupcakes and all the bite-sized of everything chocolaty that you get at Shangri-La during Ramadhan. Notice I only mention dessert. I don’t know why. It could be that I just had something fishy for dinner and subconsciuosly pining for something sweet. But I’m a coffee person, not really much of a dessert freak, so why again is a big question. And why all the food was “England-mali Banyak sombong” – your guess is as good as mine.

But that’s not what this is about. The image of the food table obviously reminded me of Potter’s never-ending banquet dinners at Hogwarts, but what I remembered most about the dream was that I was peering into the window, and the window was 20 feet high. I was floating mid-air. I wasn’t horizontal or sideskirting, and I wasn’t flapping around with wings. I was fully upright, and my feet was squared on the floor of the air, just like it would be on solid land.

It was awesome. At least I think it was. Wait – was the floating part awesome, or salivating the food table awesome. Come to think about it, I honestly can’t remember. But I remembered something was awesome.

The thing is, I don’t dream. I don’t remember of any encounter of waking up in the middle of the night, jolted by a dream. Or waking up in the morning, all smiley faced, basking in the aftermath of a dream. If at all I do dream, then it’s all erased and gone ‘Poof’ by the time my eyes flicker open.

But this thing-of-a-dream lasted quite a while. The thought of me floating in mid-air gave me some sort of adrenalin rush, like a caffeine lift. Then my free-roaming mind would go on a minute detour, and all would be lost. No thanks to my slacking mind control, I could only hold that feeling for a measly few seconds. But even then… syiok ohh…

No wonder Superman, aliens, Puntianaks Sundal Malam and any other creature of nature or supernatural would choose to fly instead of any other mode of transportation. The weightlessness, breeze in your face, hands-free-carefree feeling is toxic.

And I just discovered something. I had fallen asleep watching the first episode of Heroes Season 2 yesterday. The last part was about a boy peering into the girl’s bedroom window. Second floor window, that is, and he was floating mid-air. And I was eating left over birthday cake while watching it.

So, my dream was cetak rompak. But the feeling was real. Maybe if I eat cake, and watch it again tonight, I could feel it again. It’s definitely cheaper than smoking, or injecting heroin or chasing the dragon, or doing whatever it is that people do to get high. Cake and Heroes’ the answer, man...

You fly... You fly high.

The Accident

I just came back from lunch with a colleague.

She drove, I happily sat next to her (oh the joy of being driven!), and as I’m such a penglipurlara, started to entertain her with weekend stories, and Bang! She hit the front car.

It was a horror of a car… and a monster of a driver. A white automobile, not exactly a car, but not quite a van. It had no H logo for Honda, or three stuck triangles for Mitsubishi… no logo, no name, no signature, so, do not expect me to know what make it was. I just know how to drive one… Schumacher style.

The vehicle was scratched and dented in more areas than one, left tail-light was broken, the back signal light was perpetually flashing, tyres were wobbling in a rather dangerous way, and it was terribly, awfully, filthy. And that was before the accident. After the accident - the vehicle remained the same. No extra dents or additional touch ups on existing scratches.

But the vehicle screeched to a stop and swung to the side - ala Police Story, the driver flung his door open with such force it could blow off a wig. He jumped off the seat and forced his way to the back of the car, with expressions so stormy – we would have frozen to death if we had dared to look in his eyes. But we didn’t dare. So we casted our eyes down, and stole little glances.

He was Huge. Monster truck huge. Big bulging muscles with tattoos on the right arm. I widened my eyes, just a teeny bit, to decipher the tattoos – a dragon could mean he belongs to the Ghee Hin / Hai San kongsi gelap tribe; little numbers and horizontal coordinates could mean he’s an international child adopter, like Angelina Jolie; a rose or heart could mean he’s a peace lover – (this one, easy… sap, sap, soi… we can cari makan…) But I can’t read this guy. Tattoos were symbols of Chinese characters – unintelligible. He was wearing a white T-shirt, sleeves rolled up, enhancing his die-hard muscles, baggy blue jeans and flip-flops. Hair was tightly cropped, with one earring in his right earlobe.

I glanced at my colleague. She was literally shaking. Her fingers were clenched so tight around the steering wheel, her knuckles turned white. She couldn’t say a word. Not a squeak even. I waited to see whether she wanted to say something, do something, scream, cry, whatever – No Response. The Tomb Raider warrior in me started to take over.

So I shook my head at my colleague asking her to stay in the car, and I stepped out. I went around our car to see the extent of the damage, but all I could see were tiny white scratches, which could even have been there before.

I took a deep breath and walked up to the driver. “I’m ready when you are, Mister… so let’s get on with it”. Of course I said that only in my heart.

He glared at me and swung open his boot in one forceful act. Why is everything about this guy forceful and fierce, so full of drama… So I said, “Macamana Towkay…?”

He looked up at me, stoic faced. Not a single smile.

“Hi yaa… Sikit punya cilita. Tila pa laa… Lu baik-baik jalan….” … And he proceeded with opening boxes filled with Sponge Bob soft toys….

What The??? What A Waste Of My All-Geared-Up-And-Ready–For-Action Emotions…..

Don’t judge a book by its cover.

Such a waste of my adventure-seeking time.

Pick-Em Up

I was in the basement of a parking lot, eyeing for the ticketing automachine. Once I saw it, I parked the car, got down and joined the 3-person queue. Another car (Beamer, nothing less…) zoomed by, and parked right behind my parked car. The owner of the Black Beamer stood behind me, rather close if I may say, and waited. Come on, what else was there to do? Just bear the slight inconvenience, and patiently wait your turn.

I guessed wrong. I felt a tap on my right shoulder, and I turned facing Black Beamer Owner. “Hi…”, he said. “Hi”.. I said, perplexed, not smiling. “Can I have the time, please?”, he said. I looked at my watch. “It’s 5 minutes past two”, I said. He smiled, extended his right hand and said, “Hi.. My name is Johan. I’m sorry, I’ve run out of cards at the moment, but I would like to get to know you. May I please have your card?”

For a split second, I went blank. Did that just happen? Was I being presented with a pick-up line way past my prime time, in a dark, stuffy, basement parking lot, while waiting in line to pay a ticket? Thoughts suddenly came rushing in my mind. When was the last time I heard a pick-up line? Not since the dating era, which seems so far back in time, that I couldn’t for the life of me remember. Even then, people would meet through friends, at after work social gatherings or business meetings, and you would just introduce each other, have a conversation, and if the need to continue the conversation arises, arrange for more business meetings, or more gatherings… in that order. Since you would by then have everybody’s business cards, then arranging meetings would just be a phone call or e-mail away.

So, when was the pick-up era then? School days, college days? I remember the wolf whistles while walking down the street on the way to Kedai Nyonya. Considering they could have come from contract workers, resting by the road side on their lunch break, I wouldn’t count that as a pick-up line. I remember a Hari Raya card with the words, “Pecah Kaca, Pecah Tong, Pecah Sudu… Sudah Baca, Harap Gantung, and I love You”. I could have been 11 years old, and since the sender of the card remained anonymous, I don’t think that would have passed for a pick-up line. You think? Another episode was a hand-written note, wrapped in clear plastic, left on the windshield of my car. It read, “Dear Lady Feroza, You and your car are parked in my heart for-evvuh…”. (Quick history tutorial, I was in 1999, driving a Daihatsu Feroza). Now, THAT, I would consider a pick-up line. At least it was original. Trouble is, sender was also anonymous.

What is it with these anonymous pick-uppers? How can we rate the success rates of pick-up lines if you don’t show your face? Unless they can read our facial expressions upon receiving the notes to indicate interest, proceed with caution, or a clear no-go sign, I would think it was a lost case attempt. Expecially when you have a solid stone for expressions… like me. Huh???

Anyway, point is, after raking my sleeping brains, I conclude that I’ve never been picked up. At least not the typical, corny “There must be something wrong with my eyes… I can’t take them off you” type. Either I’m not a pick-up candidate, or I scare them off so much so they have to remain anonymous.

So, the “Can I have the time” line from Black Beamer Owner is my grand, numero uno pick-up. Whoohoo! This calls for celebration! My reaction – Took my ticket, tossed my hair and said, “It’s okay… Maybe some other time…”. And strutted off to the car… After all, a Black Beamer, but no watch? Naaahh….

LV would have been so proud! (Err…I hope…)

Here’s some top liners. Maybe they ring a bell somewhere… in the far, far distance…

1. Do you believe in love at first sight, or should I walk by again?
2. If I could rewrite the alphabet, I would put U and I together.
3. If you were a new hamburger at McDonalds’s, you would be McGorgeous.
4. Are you a parking ticket? Cause you got fine-fine-fine written all over ya.
5. Baby, you must be a broom, coz you just swept me off my feet.
6. If I said you had a great body, would you hold it against me?
7. Girl, you must be tired coz you’ve been running through my mind all day!

Tales For Gloomy Weather

Preamble :

In order to avoid confusion, with due respect, He Who Can’t Be Named shall from hereinafter be referred to as “LV”. It could be Louis Vuitton, it could be Laling… ai Vely love you, or it could also be Lord Voldemort - suitability shall be in accordance to circumstances. The two Decepticons, in all their angelic deceptive con-artist selves, shall be termed as D1 and D2. Please be informed.


Today’s Wet and Gloomy. The rain in Spain falls noisily on my plain, and it ain’t look like its stoppin’…

Feeling wet, gloomy and mopy too. But 3 things spring to mind, and it brought out a tiny little smile…

On D2 : I fight with 4yr old D2 a minimum of 3 times a day. Everything is a negotiation, a blackmail or downright force measures, and nothing in between. I had just told her off for screaming at D1, and being a pleasant nice person that I am (LOL), I said in the most soothing of voices, “D2, you have to be good, ok. U have to speak nicely, you can’t scream or shout, and you must always, always listen to Mum and Dad and follow what they say all the time. I love you, and I know you can be such a good little girl, if you try. You’re my best little girl, u know that?” D2 looks at me and said, “Okay, you… you… You Big Scoldaholic!”… and ran off…. And she slammed the door. That got me going, so I rushed up, stared and glared at her and said, “What did you just do? You think you can get away with that?”… She looked up at me, tilted her head, and said, also in the soothest of voices, “Mama…. What big eyes you have….”. Enough said.

On a TV drama I happened to catch midway : The son is a super spoilt brat. The dad wants to ship him off to an uncle’s house in a far-away kampong. Son obviously refuses. Screaming match took place. Son says, “Papa, I promise I will change. But first, nak advance, Papa… ada sale kat kedai Fila…”. The dad blew his top. “Aku tak kigha. (Kedah slang)… Fila ka, Gila ka… Donna Karan ka, Minah Karan ka… DKNY ka, Dawai ka… The only thing you’re interested in changing are your girlfriends!!!”…. Desyum! Desyum! Kena penumbuk sebijik and the son got sent off…

On a statement LV said was given by a certain tollgate minister : (Must also say in slang…) “Saya amat berbangga dan rasa amat bersyukur, bahawa kita punya angkasawan sudah sapuloh hari meninggal dunia, dan saya amat suka, semalam dia sudah kebumi…”

Poor Dr. SMS… I feel for you. I truly do.

Hari Raya 2007

Its Saturday morning, the 8th day of Raya. One week after a whole month of preparations, anticipation and excitement of Ramadhan, and what transpired right after is a weekful of tummy stuffing and constipation. A glorious 30 days passed by, where greed and gluttony were suppressed, energy was at abundance and clothes were loose, but all was merely a passing dream come eve of Raya, when old habits return and you’re back to your old overfed, overstuffed, lack of energy self.

Hari Raya is not about ketupat, lemang, rendang, lodeh, kuah kacang and serunding. Its not about containers of rainbow coloured cookies or triple layer plates of kuih lapis, chocolate cakes or dodol. Its not about halwa masqat, kek suji or wajik. And neither is it about multiple channels of Raya musicals, movies and dramas featuring the crème of your local celebrities and sensational ‘artists-of-the-moment’. It should be about getting together with families and friends, asking and giving of forgiveness and the re-bonding of ties that were slightly severed in the mad busy world of everyday life. You want to meet more often, you want to ask about the new baby, the new job, the last taken holiday, which cousin married whose daughter, of course you do want to know, but like always, its just that the timing is never right.

So you make the compulsory drive balik kampung, on in my case, the overnight stays at the good ole parents’ house, since its only a 5-minute drive away. And you engage in the routine scurry for the best seat in front of the TV for Pengumuman Raya from the Penyimpan Mohor-Mohor Besar DiRaja, knowing fully well that it won’t be Raya, and you dash off for the last Terawikh and the day after, the last minute purchases of baking needs, Raya attire needs and the beginning of the cooking frenzy, both for the night Takbir men and the proper Raya festivities. And on Raya day itself, the men flock off to the mosque in full Malay regalia and the women get the table ready and laden with the fruits of yesterday’s labour. And when the men return, you’re well on your way to your old greedy and overfed self.

And long after the Maaf Zahir Batin and angpow sessions are over, which took perhaps only a few seconds, when THAT should have been what Raya is all about, all that’s left is the beautiful memory of the full table and the agonizing reality of sore tummies, diarrhea and constipation.

And I hate the fact that I’m always full of regret that I didn’t do it differently this time, yet never made an effort to change.

And what I had planned to do never materialised. Like teaching my kids the true meaning of Ramadhan and Shawal. Some things, like this and the new Astro 3-digit numbers, just take longer to understand. Other things, like getting constipated after all-you-can-eat rendang, doesn’t take that long…

Model Ambitions

I was running my fingers through my hair, looking at the ends and shafts, and as far as my eyes could see.

On a self-conducted analysis of my crowning glory, this is what I came out with :-

1. Texture : Softlike, drylike, still hair-like with a hint feeling of hay.
2. Length : 2 inches below the shoulder, but appears unbelievably sexy-long if styled at salons.
3. Thickness : Thick on the front and back, less on the sides, and may appear thin and limp if subject to abundance of conditioner.
4. Colour : This is where I’m at a loss for words. All shades of brown, auburn, blondish highlights, gold and absolutely no trace of black.

If I were a blue-eyed Caucasian, the colour description of my hair is next to normal. Pity, I’m not Caucasian, and neither am I normal.

When I was in primary school, leafing through my sister’s glossy Cosmopolitan magazines, I was always in awe of the leggy models, and the air of sophistication and grander-than-thou image that were projected. I assumed that it was every little girl’s dream to be a model, and was painfully ignorant most of the time of my physical limitations and less than generous gene-pool allocations. I obviously thought I had an advantage over ‘other’ girls - I was tall. Everybody knows that being tall is the prerequisite of any model-wannabe…Its just my luck that the advantage ended there.

Apart from being generously tall, I was generously endowed in other areas too. I wouldn’t mind if it was just the ‘booty n hootie’ parts, but no, it had to spread to all areas in between and all around, resulting into one glob of mass meat. Even if I were to cease eating for months, suck in my stomach and hold my breath till I turn grotesque blue, I will not be able to obtain the lithe, graceful figures of the cover girls. I know that and it’s not for lack of trying.

Since that was my major downfall, I couldn’t care less about the other ‘trivial’ matters… that you have to be stunningly attractive in person and sickeningly photogenic too. I had all the must-have attributes of a live model checked and crossed… (Cough! Cough! Ehem!) … crossed out, I mean. That leaves me with one final ace, which I know is definitely achievable.

I can at least have model hair. Peering through all the pages, most models if not all, had long, silky, bouncy, coloured hair. Black is not a colour. Neither is grey nor white. For me to achieve the status of having modelesque hair, it had to be of colour. There and then, I planted my ambition to grow and transform my hair to be in the running for the Next-Top-Model Hair. The first instant that I could, (it happened the time I completed secondary school) I had worked tirelessly to achieve that end – and I have yet to stop.

My hair has been bleached, dyed, coloured, permed (to drastic results), hot-air blasted, treated, twisted and tortured. The amount of stress that it had been subjected to, put it this way, if it had its own way, it would scramble off my head and chain itself to a tree with a giant banner “Stop Cruelty” plastered across.

Ekekekekekeke! But it can’t do that, can it? Kekekekekke! (Evil laugh, slanty eyes, sloppy sneer… oh what the hoot… eerie classical music, cold drafts, screams in the background…the works…)

“Where did you do your hair” (when it’s only been blown dried at home)
“Such nice colours, you must give me the number of your hairdresser” (maybe, if I think you’re nice)
“Your hair always looks like you’ve had it styled at the salon” (It hasn’t, but since you think it is, you’re now my BFF)
Added bonus, my father thinks I’m blessed with original brown hair from birth – the poor dear…

People, people, people… With all those kind remarks thrown at me again and again, you think I would stop and think how miserable my hair feels? Think again. I have however, detected some form of rebellion, bouncy slowly regressing to lifeless, strong strands turning brittle, shiny downgraded to dry and damaged. Poor unfortunate, tortured souls of my stresses (no pun intended) – I’m not done with you yet. If it’s a battle you want, a battle you shall get. Lets make it cold and bloody too.

Nothing gets between me and my perasan-model-wannabe hair. And if you think it’s a fraction of my freaky imagination, you haven’t caught a whiff of my passionfruit soaked and cranberry scented lightly oil-sprayed hair, sexily arranged against a white Damask pillow, the myriad of gold and brown hues of each strand offset against the white cotton…

U know what I mean…

Ekekekekekekekeke!!!!!!