Tuesday, October 30, 2012

Wet And Salty

Maybe it is age but I realize that as I grow older, I've become much, much more emotional in the movies. Yes, I belong to a special breed of men who cries in the movies. At first it was just a case of the misty eyes and a heavy feeling in the chest. But lately, it has been full on drama. I literally, sometimes whimper in the cinema, mucous flowing freely.

Maybe as I grow older, and I have experienced more and more deaths, breakups, hardships and the likes, to see it being picturised on celluloid is a visceral experience for me and the emotions come naturally, and in abundance too.

I remembered watching this Bollywood movie (it is ALWAYS the Bollywood movies) a couple of years back, which was a remake of the movie Stepmom (I know, absolute tearjerker material). A couple of months before the Bollywood remake was showing in cinemas, my aunt had passed away leaving four young children; three boys and a baby girl.

She had leukemia. It was a pretty painful and deeply moving time for us because my family was very close to hers.

So anyways, as we know it, the movie is about a divorced mother who is dying from cancer and she comes to terms and learns to accept her ex-husbands new girlfriend as a mother for her children. I personally have not watched the original Hollywood version so my expectations were close to none.

And boy was I unprepared to the amount of repressed emotions that poured out of me during the climax of the movie. Luckily enough, or should I say, unluckily enough, I was alone so there wasn't anyone beside me to keep my emotions in check. Or pinch my thighs to stop me from crying.

I was a total mess, and I didn't even bring any tissues along. The climax of the movie was a Diwali scene where the dying mother is on a wheelchair and she was being shown a montage of various important and momentous events in their lives as a family. The eldest daughter started to break down, and then the younger siblings, and then the mother and then the husband and in thirty seconds, everyone was crouched around the wheelchair just bawling their eyes out.

I was sitting alone in the packed cinema literally wheezing; I kid you not. My whole body was shaking with emotions because of the memories of my own late aunt and her children was streaming in. I kept muttering, "Oh god, get me out of here. I cannot watch this," over and over again for about forty five seconds before realizing that shit, I'm all alone and I am actually talking to myself in the cinema.

The lady beside me looked (stared actually) at me and went, "Tsk! Shh!"

I was being a nuisance to other movie goers and I didn't even realize it.

"Heartless cold woman," I said in my heart.

I rummaged through my bag to find any tissues or cloth to wipe my entire face which was wet and salty with tears and mucous. Nothing.

So there I was, wiping my face with my shirt sleeve and still bawling at the scene playing in front of me. The lady beside me started shifting uncomfortably, thinking I was this loopy kid crying like someone died in front of me, and could you blame her?

I went back from the movie with a heavy feeling in my chest that lasted for three days.

I recounted this story to my brother back at home and he started laughing hysterically. He started banging the table and kept on saying, "Pussy" in between breaths.

Fourteen Dollars Late

There is something really infuriating about people who have a tendency to come late, especially if you're living in Singapore. This is possibly one of the smallest country in the entire world so it is baffling as to why people still come late to meet up. It takes less than an hour to commute from one end of the island to the other so if anything else, it really shows the lack of discipline and honestly, respect for the other person who is on time and waiting; patiently or otherwise.

Melanie shares my exact same sentiment albeit more unforgivingly. Melanie has been known to just walk away and leave to head elsewhere and not pick up the phone call from the person who is late when they had arrived. Her mantra in life is: To be early is to be on time, to be on time is to be late, to be late is well, too fucking bad then. It is a habit that she is very passionate about and she makes no qualms about forcefully asserting it to everyone that she knows.

"There is no way you can be late in Singapore. yes, we have a rather screwed up public transportation system lately and I understand that. But it's not like the train system breaks down everyday!" she reasoned over coffee this morning.

"Actually...it kinda breaks down every other day this past year," I answered.

"Tsk! What I am trying to say is, I don't have the luxury or the patience in me to wait for more than fifteen minutes for anybody, irregardless of how important you are or you think you are. I can spend the time waiting to do other better things, like pray!" Melanie said.

"I doubt God recognizes you anymore Mel," Steven joked.

"For someone with lots of money, you sure do have very little sense of humour," Melanie smiled sweetly, sipping her coffee.

"My money doesn't buy me humour, but it sure did help you achieve your dreams didn't it Mel...vin?" Steven retorted.

"Oi! Did they lace the coffee with bitchy water or what? And where is Star? She said she would be here in twenty minutes. That was forty five minutes ago!" I sighed.

"You give her too much face," Melanie shook her head.

Melanie was right. I do give Star too much face when it comes to being tardy and fashionably late. The longest duration of time I waited for Star was three hours. yup, I even had the time to grab a coffee, watch a banal romantic comedy in the cinema and I circled Paragon thrice. Every. Single. Level. Three hours later, Star came and all she said was, "I'm hungry. Where are we going to have dinner?"

I didn't talk to her for a week after that. I relented when she texted me saying that from then on, for every minute that she is late, she will pay a fifty cents fine. I have about four hundred dollars worth of "late tardy money". If she keeps this up, I can go on a holiday by the end of the year. Oh don't worry, Star willingly gives the money to me. "It's not like I pay for dinner when I go out anyways," she says.

"That is not helping her control her lack of time management, you know that right Harry?" Melanie did say one time. I just nodded my head. Free holiday was all that was in my head then.

"Hello guys! Sorry I am late! Traffic" Star said, sitting down and fanning her face with both of her hands.

"You're 28 minutes late. Fourteen dollars," I said, stretching out my right palm.

Star took out a ten and a five dollar note from her wallet and asked me to keep the change. She didn't even sigh, let alone bat an eyelid.

"I wonder how you keep your job. The only way you are still keeping your job with this kind of irresponsible tardy attitude is if you're sleeping with your boss!" Melanie chided.

The whole table went silent. We all know the truth now don't we?

Monday, October 29, 2012

A Sword and Barbwire

Halloween is an important event in Star's yearly calendar. Back in the States where she spent all of her childhood and half of her young adult life, Halloween is a national event and the entire nation partake in the event. So Star treats Halloween as important than say, a pap smear. In the last four years that I have known Star, she has become Morticia Addams, a sexy nurse, Amy Winehouse and a nun (the irony).

This year, Star has decided to be Pamela Anderson in Barbwire. That would mean a lot of latex, spandex and leather. Lots of tit show too, which is basically the essence of who Star is. Oh, not forgetting a fake tattoo, a gun and a blonde wig. So yesterday, Steven, Melanie, me and Star went to a costume store downtown to search for her desired costume, otherwise known as "The Filthy Slut Getup" according to Melanie.

"That is deep, coming from a transexual social escort," Star snapped.

"So what are you dressing up as Mel? I have a friend who is a special effects makeup artist and he makes the most sick and believable slash wounds," Steven recommended.

"In the three years that I transited from man to woman, I have gone through countless surgeries on every single part of my body. I have a wound, a bruise, a cut, an incision of every part of my body at any given point of time so no Steven, I am not interested to get a fake slash wound on Halloween," Melanie sighed.

"Oh god what is with the bitchiness Mel? And you don't get menses so don't give me the PMS reason," I said.

"I just have no mood to celebrate Halloween this year," Melanie replied.

"Why?" Steve asked.

"Because it was originally my idea to be Pam Anderson in Barbwire. Star stole my idea!" Melanie said, raising her voice and pointed her fingers at Star who was putting on a blonde wig.

"I DID NOT!" Star screamed.

"Girls! Stop it, everybody is looking at us and they are judging us. And why can't both of you dress up as Pam Anderson in Barbwire?" I said.

"You guys wouldn't understand, it is a girl thing," Melanie complained, playing with the fake hammer she picked up from the shelves.

Steven chuckled. Melanie threw the hammer at his face.

"Ow! This face is worth millions!" Steve yelped, rubbing his cheeks.

"Well I spent a fortune on my face too so screw you," Melanie retorted.

"You know what, if you want to be Pam Anderson in Barbwire, go ahead. I will just be her in Baywatch and wear a red one piece swimsuit," Star said.

"Star, you want to wear a bikini in a club celebrating Halloween?" I asked.

"Harry, I have cumulatively worn clothes lesser than a bikini on some days," Star smiled, raising her eyebrows.

Well that is true. Star, on days when she complains that "It's so warm out there!", have worn clothes too revealing that even Bai Ling would go, "Girl, that's too much."

"Really? Oh Star, you're the best!" Melanie said, hugging Star from behind.

"One minute ago, you wanted to kill her and now you're hugging her. That is why girls have menses. The blood that comes out of your pussy is a liquid made up of fakery," Steve rolled his eyes.

"I'm sorry Steve, I don't menstruate," Melanie said.

"Cunt," Steve muttered under his breath.

"What is Harold dressing up? It has been ages since I saw him," Melanie asked me.

"I don't know, he said he wanted to be James Dean," I replied.

"Nice, he is very good-looking, thank god that is the only thing you two share. How old is he again?" Melanie asked.

"He just turned 21 two months ago. You bought him 21 packs of condoms on his birthday remember?" I said sarcastically. Melanie did and my mum was livid. She thought Harold is sleeping with the entire college population. And I had to spend two hours convincing my mum that it was Melanie's idea of a joke.

"Ooooh, legal," Melanie cooed.

"I don't like the way you said that," I said.

"He can be my James Deen, with a E, not an A," Mel licked her lips.

"James Deen is a pornstar and you are disgusting. That is my brother," I said.

Melanie picked up a plastic sword and thrusted it in and out from under her skirt. Star said, "Oh, and I'm the slut around here?"

Friday, October 26, 2012

A Weighty Issue

Do you have a friend who just eats and eats and never seem to put on any weight whatsoever? At every meal, they are the ones stuffing their goddamn faces with everything and anything like a competitive eater and yet can still fit into their jeans weeks after weeks, months after months, years after years. The most infuriating part about this is they don't exercise. They don't. It's like a gift from god. "Eat as much as you want, I'll take the weight elsewhere, or turn in to smugness."

Oh yes, this very group of people are amongst the most smug. When faced with the question, "How come you don't put on any weight?" the answer will always be, "I don't know. It's genes," and with a shrug on their shoulders. Meanwhile you are at the other end of the table trying to calculate the amount of calories in every dish and for me, always stopping halfway to give my brain time to do the math (I can't, I'm sorry).

"Why are you mumbling to yourself like an idiot? Are you praying or are you playing black magic on the food?" my mum would always say whenever she catches me mumbling to myself trying to calculate the amount of calories that there is in the spread in front of me.

"Just eat, you only live once," my mother would always say.

"You also die once," would be my answer.

"Can, you want to die now? Steak knife is just within my reach," my mum would retort.

At this very instance, my brother would mutter under his breath the same phrase every single time: I'm living with psychos.

"I'll kill you too Harold. Now eat!" my mum would point the steak knife at Harold.

I am pretty concerned about my weight because I have spent my entire childhood plagued with obesity and I have tried my very best (and successfully) to lose all of the weight. At every given chance my mind would work in a frenzy; being fat again is not an option. I gain weight as easily as I lose them so I really have to be careful in order to maintain my desired frame.

Star on the other hand, is one of those smug-never-going-to-be-fat friends that I have. Oh you should see Star at a buffet. Once Melanie actually got scared seeing how much food Star has eaten and is still eating two hours into the meal that she scolded Star in the middle of the buffet queue, "What are you feeding inside? Are you keeping a spirit inside or what?!"

"You should have seen the look on the lady in front of me. She gave me this dirty look, like I gave her herpes or something!" Star complained when she is back at our table.

"Star, that was the sixth time you queued. You mean you're not full?" I asked.

"I will stop if I'm full," Star looked down, gobbling the mountain of sashimi on the plate in front of her.

"I'm about to puke just looking at you eat. And you won't even gain any weight. Why? And how? You don't even exercise. Your idea of a marathon is one that involves DVDs. This is not fair," I said.

"It's genes," Star smugly shrugged.

"Does that mean your mum is a slut too?" Melanie said.

"And your mother was a man before. You're adopted from the slums," Star snapped.

Women and weight, always bitchy.

Snake Goddess

Anyone who has an obsession (good or, let's face it, most of the time bad), would understand the kind of euphoria that one would feel when he or she is indulging in it. I want you to imagine Lindsay's face when she sees a stash of crack (allegedly). That, my dear readers is the look of euphoria. I reserve the kind of look when I'm standing in front of a DVD shop that sells Bollywood movies.

Yes, my obsession is Bollywood. And like every other obsession, it has cost me lots of money, time and effort. It has also affected my social and personal life, to be honest.

It all started when I was nine years old, and this was the earliest memory that I have whenever I talk about the start of my Bollywood obsession. As a routine, at every four o'clock in the afternoon, you would find me lying down beside my late grandmother, watching re-runs of old Bollywood movies on television. My late grandmother was a masseuse and she always smelt of massage oil and lavender baby talcum. I can never forget that smell.

So one fine afternoon, as I was lying down beside my late grandmother, sniffing the faint scent of massage oil and lavender baby talcum at every inhale, suddenly the whole house was filled with a mysterious flute music. On the screen was this old Bollywood movie, and the scene on the screen was this evil priest trying to call out a lady who is also the Snake Goddess.

Yes, go ahead, laugh. At nine years old, this was singlehandedly the definitive moment for me and my obsession. The Snake Goddess was embodied beautifully by the inimitable Sridevi (google that shit up), and at that very point in time, I was completely absorbed in Indian Cinema. For years after that, I would be the kind of teenager that saves every single cent of what I have, and head down to Little India and scour the entire stretch of road finding the latest Bollywood movies that just got released on disc. I knew every nook and cranny of the place and I would brave the sun, the rain and the crowd just to get hold of the desired title.

Once acquired, the disc player, if it had a mouth, would be begging to be switched off. I would replay the movie over and over again. Press pause, rewind, replay. Fast forward to the good scenes, fast forward the bad scenes, replay the songs over and over again. And if you must know, yes I am quite proficient in Hindi. This obsession is initially received with much chagrin from my mother. This was only because the living room would be strewn with a mountain of discs covers and for a neat clean freak like my mother, I am better off taking the dumpster and emptying its contents in the living room.

But when I myself have taken her sick, socially awkward standard of cleanliness, she has nothing left to say. Two shelves, filled to the brim, neatly of course, with all the titles that you can think of.

I knew every gossips, every breakup, every hook ups, who is doing what movie, who fell out with who, the whole shebang. My mum always tell my friends that if I spend as much time studying, I would be a doctor by now. She obviously is saying that because then I can prescribe her slimming pills regularly. Melanie shares the same sentiment too. Like three days ago when she visited my place to send a tray of freshly baked brownies.

"Aren't you too old to be obsessed with all of these?" she said, scanning my DVD collection.

"Coming from a person who has her drug dealer on speed dial, that's judgmental, isn't it Mel?" I answered.

"I only take drugs recreationally. And keep your voice down! Your mum might hear," she hushed.

"You indulge in recreational activities on a daily basis Mel. And what makes you think my mum doesn't know?"

"She knows?!" Mel gasped.

Well, truth is, my mum saw the pictures of us on the dance floor in my Facebook while I was browsing and the first thing she said when she saw Melanie was, "Aren't you afraid that there might be a raid and you all will get arrested?"

I kept quiet and she continued, "You don't have to lie or keep anything. I know a crackhead when I see one. I spent my entire youth working as clinic assistant. I can tell the druggies apart from the rest."

"Is that why you also smuggle slimming pills whenever you're at work then?"

I felt a sharp smack of my head. But thank god it's not any of my DVDs.

Wednesday, October 24, 2012

It's All There

I can stand tardiness. But I cannot stand rudeness. And I bring to you the hard truth and the truth is: Singaporean sale assistants are a bunch of rude tardy people. I am saying this because I myself have been a service provider (that sounds ambiguously dirty) for a good portion of my teenage and young adult life, but I have never been rude to any of my customers (again, I sound like a slut). Tardy, yes. Rude, never.

Oh, but the pain to experience it on my end. See I am a believer of effort. Now you can lie to me and tell me that yes, the cardigan doesn't come in a size S, but my dear sales assistant, I want to see an effort. Even if it takes you to go inside your store room, check your Facebook news feed for three minutes and come out and tell me, "Oh sorry, I've checked, there is no more size S", I'll take it. I want to believe that you have made an effort to find the cardigan in size S for me. I will and would always buy this delusion.

"It's all there" is not the answer I am looking for when I am asking for a new size. I know it's all there, I've checked. Thrice. And the size that I want is not there. That's what we go to school for love, to understand that S stands for Small, M stands for Medium, L stands for large and XL stands for fatties.

"It's all there", on good days, is a slap to my face. "It's all there", on a bad day, is a slap on my face, when I am having a bad day.

I normally go out shopping with Star, who happens to be one of the most patient person I know when it comes to shopping. She takes in the rude glances (because half of her tits are usually on display), the sniggering (a friend of a guy she slept with talking about her), the tardy attitude (It's all there, if don't have means don't have) and the rudeness (I don't know! *rolls eyes). And me, being me, I don't tolerate this kind of nonsense even if I just struck lottery. There isn't a feeling so euphoric that I can downplay the rudeness that some of these sales assistants give me. But boy was I wrong about Star.

We were at this three story store that sells the latest fashionable clothes in affordable prices (duh, don't make me spell it out) two days ago because Star needs to find a dress for a date she is going later in the evening.

"Because this is a first time I'm meeting someone, and I want to be wearing something new too. But I'm not wearing a dress that costs more than dinner on a first date. What if he is a bad fuck?", was her excuse when I asked her why there is even a need to go shopping for a dress in the first place.

So after forty minutes of browsing around the rather quiet store (weekday, before lunch), she decided to get herself a peplum dress in cream.

"Didn't you just got a peplum dress from MaxMara the other day?" I asked.

"Why can't I have two peplum dress? And this is in white, if he is the right man for me, I can go straight to the altar," Star flipped her hair.

"Stop showing your boobs. Why are you always wearing low cut tops?"

"Are you my father? Hey they don't have this in size 4," Star said, skimming the row of hangers.

"Ask a staff, maybe they have a size 4 in the storeroom. Big brands like these always stock up on more than 10 pieces for every size," I said.

So Star approached this young girl, with pink streaks in her hair who was folding sweaters beside us and asked for a size 4 and yes, it was the ever annoying, "It's all there."

"There isn't a size 4, maybe you could check for me in your storeroom?" Star asked.

"It's all there. If don't have means don't have!" the sales assistant raised her voice, face turning sour and disinterested.

"Do you have a storeroom?" Star asked.

"Urm...yes," the sales assistant answered, a tad confused.

"Where is it?" Star asked again.


"Where is your storeroom?" Star asked again, raising her voice slightly.

"Why ma'am?" the sales assistant asked, slightly afraid now.

"No since you're lazy to check for me I thought I would go to the storeroom and find the dress myself. I mean, you obviously don't want to help me and looking at your dirty pink hair is making me queasy so I need to do something to get my mind off from wanting to barf in your ugly face," Star replied.

AWKWARD SILENCE. (I actually was sitting down and covering my mouth laughing)

"I'm not trying to be mean, or call you ugly, even though you are, but I just need this dress in a size 4 if there is any. If there isn't I will get out of here and finding something else. I just need you to tell me if there is any or there isn't, nicely. Fuck you," Star finished, and tossed the dress on the floor.

Shit, even I thought she was bit too much.

Tuesday, October 23, 2012

Two Times A Charm

FIve years ago when my parents got divorced, everyone around me was so concerned about my well-being. I found it thoroughly amusing. My parents got a divorce when I was 19 years old. By then, I don't think anybody around my age would feel any sort of emotional vulnerability or experience any kind of loss whatsoever. I understood that divorce happens for a myriad of reasons. My parents just grew out of the marriage after 20 years. That's normal right?

I had a friend, who upon hearing the news about my parent's divorce, repeatedly asked me, "Oh dear, that is terrible news. Are you okay?" Shouldn't you ask my parents instead? And why wouldn't I be okay? I have potentially two extra weddings to go to in case both of my parents decides to get married again; it's a win-win situation. Oh grow up, people fall in and out of love all the time and at any age, and as long as my parents are happy, I am happy.

As luck would have it, I received a call from my dad yesterday and guess what? My old man is getting married again at a grand age of 45 (my parents are really young by even normal standards and it would be another blog post if I ever try to explain from the very beginning).

"Do I have your permission to get married again for the second time?" my dad asked over the phone.

"Why are you asking me? Aren't you the one getting married?" I answered.

"I just want your consent that is all," he said softly, trying to mask some emotional outburst of some sort.

"You're not marrying one of those Vietnamese brides right?" I joked to lighten things up.

"Haha, no. I have known her for three years, I'll let you guys meet her one day sometime next week, when you and Harold are both free," he said.

"Should I ask along your ex-wife?" I teased again.

"Well if you must know, I have met your mum, with my future wife, two days ago," my dad confessed.

"How progressive. Did mum scratch her eyes out, or did she spit in her coffee?" I laughed.

"Your mum was pretty...nice. She even said she would love to come to the wedding, when it happens," he shared.

"You do know that she is lying right?"

"Yup," was my dad's reply, matter of factly.

"Have you told Harold about this?" I asked again.

"Yesterday. Harold's pretty cool about it. I am lucky to have two understanding and mature sons, you boys never give me any problems," he spoke again softly.

"Stop this trophy dad talk okay? You want to get married, go get married, don't go all telenovela on me aye señor?"

He laughed.

Just then my mum came out of her room. I told my dad that I will call him later and put down the receiver and stared at my mum. She is in a little black dress, hair wash and blown, pearl ear studs, red lips and fake eyelashes on. She looks like Kim Basinger, in a very desperate housewives kind of way.

"What the hell is this?" I asked.

"I am going on a date," my mum said.

"With who? And since when did you own a pair of fake eyelashes?" I asked again.

"With someone," she winked.

"Ew! Why are you suddenly going out on a date? You have never went out with a man the past five years and now this?"

"The question is, why can't I?"

"Oh. My. God. Your ex husband is getting married and so you are trying to validate your worth by finding a man! This is not going to be a race of who gets married first right? Please tell me no, or I would feel I am in some weird French comedy movie," I said.

"You're so dramatic. It is none of those things," she replied.

"It is!" I reaffirmed.

"It is not!" my mum rolled her eyes.

"It so is. Oh my god. I know you!"

As if on cue, my brother went out of his room and stopped in his tracks. "Why are you dressed like that?"

"Like what?" my mum asked.

"Like a divorcee trying to get her groove back," he joked.

My mum slammed the door on the way out.

Monday, October 22, 2012

Mrs Lee And A Sofia

Stevieboy had invited us over to his place last weekend so Star, Melanie and I put on our best brunch outfits and the three of us came over for a free meal (screw shyness). Apparently Steve parents (mum actually) wanted to see us and was very excited about having guests over; a rarity considering that his parents are almost never in Singapore all year round. Steve have been regaling to his parents about the insanity that is our company and his parents are very happy apparently that Stevieboy's closest friends is made up of a transexual, a slut and a full grown man who has a compulsive disorder.

"Wait, you have three million houses around the world. But you are now staying in the penthouse at that condominium at Orchard Road right?" Melanie reconfirmed with Steve over a group chat in Skype the night before.

"No Mel, I've rented that one out. I am staying with my parents now in Bukit Timah. One of the houses there," Steve typed.

"You own a colony of houses there, which one are we talking about here love?" Star joked.

"Call me when you guys are all at Mel's place tomorrow. I'll pick you guys up from there," Steve confirmed.

So here we are, sitting down in the living room, well I really don't know what it is or how to describe it; I am basically sitting in a room that is half the size of a football field. There is a giant chandelier and the sofa we are all siting on feels like, I don't know how to describe it again; it feels expensive. Oh screw Steve. Why must some people be so rich?

"Does this entire mansion have its own postal code?" Star whispered.

"What do you think?" I whispered back.

"Hello all!" a friendly voice echoed through the room. And there she was, Mrs Lee, standing at the top of the staircase right smack in the middle of the living room. She was wearing a knee length printed dress with cap sleeves and her hair was tied in a bun, diamond stud earrings competed her look.

"That dress is a Cavalli. And isn't she supposed to be in her fifties? She doesn't look a day above 45! I want her surgeon!" Star whispered.

"If she is a bitch, oh, the things I would say later on," Melanie muttered under her breath.

"Mum this is Star (Star? What a lovely sexy name!), Harry (Is this your boyfriend Steve?), and Melanie (Oh my god. You used to be so handsome! ). Guys, meet my mum," Steve introduced.

"You haven't answered my question Steve. Is Harry your boyfriend? Are you Harry?" his mother asked holding my right arm and slightly swaying it. Star and Melanie laughed, Steven was clearly embarrassed, his red cheeks giving it away.

"No mum, he is not and stop harassing him," Steve finally said.

"Oh what a shame. Don't worry Harry he is still single and he has never brought any guys home yet. At least not that I know of. There was this one time though, about three years ago when I accidentally opened his room door and I..."

"Mum! Stop!" Steven hushed. We have the same mother apparently.

"Are you guys hungry? Let's have something to eat. And no, I can't be one of those mother who cooks for my son's friends, I don't have the time. What are domestic helpers for right? Is Italian okay?" Mrs Lee joked. We nodded our heads in unison, like dumb a-holes.

Apparently lunch is not ready yet and will only be so in about another twenty minutes so Mrs Lee invited us to sit in her walk-in wardrobe because "It is the only place I feel safe, and it smells of mandarin and cloves and all of you can sprawl on my floor. Screw formalities."

The moment we entered her walk-in wardrobe (which is another room altogether, about the size of a one room HDB flat), Star accidentally said, "Oh my god fuck me."

Mrs Lee laughed, "It's okay, I say that whenever I walk in here too."

The wardrobe was, wel, it was like a mini shopping centre. There is an entire shelf filled with shoes, easily over a hundred, and three wardrobes filled to the brim with all the clothes you can think off. there is two small shelfs filled with all her accessories and a giant closet which she describes as "Bags In Heaven". And when she opened the closet door, what greeted us was rows and rows of all the designer bags you can think off, literally from every single brand. Melanie and Star just stood there, mouths open. Star said, "You have the pink Celine tote? Mrs Lee I have been wanting to buy it for months but couldn't get it!"

"You like it? Take it then," Mrs Lee smiled, taking the bag from the closet and handing it over to Star.

"What?" Star said, eyes widened.

"I have way too many bags, you can have it. Take a couple if you want to, I have a lot and I don't think I would stop buying, much to Steve's father discontent. But screw him, I buy these with my own money. Melanie, do you like anything you see? Tell me, take two or three bags you both! I am serious," Mrs Lee continued.

"Oh my god Mrs Lee, thanks! Oh my god! Oh my god! Oh my god! You're like a mother I never had!" Star shrieked. I rolled my eyes.

Melanie was pretty calm though but you know she was screaming inside. She confidently said, "If you insist Mrs Lee, I want the Bottega Roma and the Ferragamo Sofia."

"Good choice, take, take. I don't know where to keep it anyways. I have never worn the Sofia though. So it is as good as new. Take it. Harry you want anything? Are you into women bags too?" Mrs Lee laughed.

I look at Steve and back at her and just smiled and shook my head.

"You can ransack Steve's closet though. He has came out of it so there is enough space for his designer clothes to be fitted in. Haha!"

"Mum, not funny," Steve said.

A helper went inside the room (sorry, walk in closet) and told us that lunch is ready. But I don't think, the girls are that hungry anymore.

Pinky Nightmare

I just got back from possibly the worst birthday party I have ever been in my life. It was weird and tacky and it made me really uncomfortable. It was a cousin's birthday party and I went with my younger brother. The theme of the party was "Princess". The birthday girl is 23 years old.

I'm not saying it is wrong to have a "Princess" theme for a birthday party. But come on, any girl above the age of 10 that has a "Princess" birthday theme should be shot dead. You are 23 motherfucking years old. Why do you still want a "Princess" themed birthday party? You're a princess of what? Obviously you have not spared a thought for your guests and their mental well-being. It is tacky as hell and it is ridiculously obnoxious if you ask me. Talk about not growing up.

The birthday girl (woman, really) is Emma and she is one of those act cutesy type who has a perpetual duck face in every photo and listens to Demi Lovato and Taylor Swift at ear bleeding levels. We got her Facebook invite and since it was a "Princess" theme, the dress colour code was, Verbatim, "My favourite colour: PINK!!!"

"I am not wearing pink. Even though I spent my entire childhood with her, that is just pushing it too far," my brother said upon reading the invite.

"There is a bossy, annoying 8 year old girl trapped in her body," I concurred.

When we arrived at her place, the birthday girl greeted us at the door and she was exactly how we imagined her to be; tack to the point of making us nauseous with disgust. She was wearing this cheap ass pink princess gown with cheap satin at the bodice, miles and miles of cheap organza at the bottom and puffed up sleeves even Joan Collins wouldn't wear. She had a tiara (a motherfucking tiara, TIARA) and went all the way across the island to rent a bedazzled wand.

"Isn't she supposed to be a Princess? Why is she dressing like a fucking Fairy Godmother? Is this girl okay?" my brother whispered as we walk towards the gate.

"Hello boys. Today my name is Princess Em. Welcome to my castle and I hope you enjoy the party! Welcome!" she said, complete with a baby voice, waving the damn wand in our faces while at it.

"What the fuck Em?" my brother raised his eyebrows.

I laughed hysterically, a) to distract Em from what Harold just said and b) this is some hilarious delusion shit happening right here. But the worse has yet to come. I entered her house, well technically my aunt's house and I thought I was having a pink nightmare. Everything was pink. And I mean EVERYTHING.

Birthday cake, cupcakes, fruit punch, gallons, party hats, plastic utensils, banner, plastic plates, door gifts, presents, candies; everything was pink, and in all the shades available.

"I'm going to barf," Harold said.

"Hold your shit together. We are going to grab a bit, eat the cake and get the hell out of here before you can even say Fifty Shades Of Pink!" I whispered.

Harold giggles and ribbed me, "Look at her friends. Oh god, why?"

Across us were a group of six girls and they are wearing EXACTLY the same get up as Emma. "Meet the six Princesses!" Emma shrieked from behind.

"Ow!" Harold mouth, clasping his left ear.

As if on cue, the entire living room was filled with "A Whole New World". The group of six girls covered their mouths and started to get all excited, "You're so playing Disney princess songs aren't you Emma? Oh my this is epic!"

No fucking way. "Emma!" I called out to her.

"Princess Em Harry, and yes how can I help you?" she said, in that damn baby voice again.

"Cut the music. Anything other than this piece of shit. Demi Lovato for all I care. But not this. Please."

Emma just updated her Facebook Status: Love me or hate me. If you don't love me at my worst, then you sure don't deserve me at my best.

So Princess Em is the worst version of yourself right bitch?

Sunday, October 21, 2012

Just Doing It

The male species is often burdened by the need to provide a satisfactory answer to this trickiest and challenging question from the opposite sex, and I am speaking on behalf of men from all over the world. The question can vary according to circumstances but they are always intrinsically, about the same issue.

"Do I look fat in this dress?"

Sometimes it is "Does this make me look fat?" But whatever the variations that the question come in, it is always involving the F word. The failure to provide an appropriate (let's face it, the correct answer) reply may result  in the denial of sex for the next two weeks, sometimes a pout that lasts for two days, sometimes a breakdown, sometimes a breakup and in some cases, divorce.

There is no greater challenge than the above mentioned question and this is further made impossible on instances when the preceding statement to the question involves putting our honesty at stake.

"Do I look fat in this dress? Be honest."

And then the male species would start to squirm and provide answers that would range from real honesty (Don't lie! Just tell me I am fat! I'm fat in this dress right?) to blatant lies (Don't lie! Just tell me I am fat! I'm fat in this dress right?)

Luckily for me, my two best girlfriends belong to the incredibly rare species of women who doesn't ask banal, vapid and let's face it, unnecessary questions when it comes to buying a dress. Or so I thought.

The three of us are at MaxMara yesterday because Star needed to find a dress for a cocktail party thrown by her boss. She went out of the dressing room wearing this teal peplum dress (the rage nowadays apparently), hands on her hips and she asked, "Do I look fat in this dress? Be honest."

"If you want honesty, ask a weighing machine," Melanie stared back, batting her eyelashes.

"Star, if you can fit in a dress, then you're not fat. Fat people don't wear dresses. they wear jeans and a giant Nike shirt with a giant tick across their chest that screams, "Yes I am fat and obese and this tick is an approval for the sorry state that I am in.""

The sales assistant serving Star giggled.

"Isn't it too early for fat jokes Harry?" Melanie smiled.

"It's true. Think about it. I love fat people. Without fat people, where would Popeye's be?" I replied.

The sales assistant laughed harder this time. She quickly recomposed herself and said, "Sorry."

"Hello, I am still here," Star raised her voice.

"Why are you suddenly asking these questions. I thought you're better off than those "Am I fat?" girls. You're turning into one of them aren't you?" Melanie said.

"It's not that. I just, I just feel like I have been pigging out for the past week rather crazily. I feel fat. I feel heavy. And my menses is coming, I feel bloated and uncomfortable. My nipples are swollen beyond hope. Oh you wouldn't understand!" Star sighed.

"You look great honey," Melanie assured her.

"Yeah. For every seven days of pigging, you have sex twice as much. That's a lot of cardio. Consider your weight unchanged. You might even have lost some. See, it helps to be a slut sometimes," I added.

"That weirdly made me feel better. Thanks asshole," Star said.

"Isn't it ironic that fat people wear oversized Nike shirts?" Melanie texted me that night.

I replied, "Buffet spread. Just do it."

A Medical Problem

My mum is a hoarder. There I said it. And there is no way she can possibly read this very damaging blog post either so we are good. The only time she uses the computer is to watch movies online and that too with my help. On shitty connection day, she would smack the computer screen repeatedly shouting, "It's spoilt! It stopped!"; the video was merely buffering. The world wide web according to my mother is only two things: Google and porn. Can you blame her?

Wait, where was I? Yes, my mum is a hoarder.

A week ago, while at home, my mum had asked me to take ten dollars from her wallet and go to the wet market across the street to buy carrots and mushrooms. She screamed from the kitchen actually, busy cutting her onions to make chicken soup when she realized that she had forgotten to buy carrots and mushrooms earlier on during her ritual grocery shopping.

"Take ten bucks from my wallet! It's on top of my cabinet where I put my shoes and underwear! Buy carrots about three to four pieces and a packet of shiitake mushrooms! Now quick! I am making chicken soup!"

"Why are you shouting? I am right behind you," I said.

"God! Stop creeping up behind me! Harry, you're going to give me a heart attack!" she dramatically shouted, kitchen knife in hand.

"I was about to get a glass of orange juice. Don't be dramatic can?" I rolled my eyes.

I went to her room and searched for her wallet. it was perched on top of the cabinet as mentioned and I opened the familiar looking Ganchino clasp and I...well, I don't know what to say. In her wallet, was a stock of receipts, easily fifty different receipts in all shapes and colors. I couldn't find her notes, the entire note slot was almost bursting with her receipts.

AXS, Cold Storage ($200 worth of groceries), breads and pastries from bakeries all over Singapore, Louis Vuitto (a $2700 bag that I never knew existed!), salons (wash and blow with treatment), Standard Chartered Bank, Lancome (lipstick? she never wore any lipstick), and this is the only the first few that I managed to quickly glance through.

Some of the receipts are dated as far as 2008; that is four years ago. For a neurotic neat freak like my mother, this is unprecedented. Suddenly it hit me. I opened my mother's cabinet and boy was I right. In the first drawer of her cabinet is a collection of wedding favours that she has amassed over the years. Pens, mugs, plastic cupcakes (tack as hell), refrigerator magnets, more mugs, brooches and what have you. It is all neatly arranged in the cabinet. I have never opened my mum's cabinet before so this is a revelation.

One of the refrigerator magnets was in a shape of a rose with a caption that read Lisa and Lance, 23rd May 1997.

My mum keeps wedding favours from fifteen years ago.

I feel like I am in a reality programme where the children call a psychologist to do an intervention on their compulsive hoarding mother and to burn all the receipts and wedding favours that we can get our hands on.

"What are you doing?" my mum suddenly popped at the door, hands on her waist.

"You're a hoarder. Oh my god. You need help," I replied in mock horror.

"Why is my cabinet drawer open?" my mum asked again, this time more tense.

"You're totally clamming up. Why do you keep receipts from four years ago. And Uncle lance got married fifteen years ago. And he is divorced, but you still keep his wedding favour, why may I ask?"

"Why can't I? It's memories. And I'm just lazy to throw away my receipts. I have way too many things to do, " my mum explained.

"You're showing early signs of compulsive hoarding. It's a medical problem," I teased.

"You watch too much of The Kardashians. That's a medical problem too!" my mum snapped back.

Defensive much?

Wednesday, October 17, 2012

Broken Plates

I read somewhere that obsessive compulsive disorder, or OCD, is inherited from generation to generation. Lately, I am starting to feel that I may be suffering from an acute case of OCD, and that too, inherited from my mother. My mum is what I would describe as Martha Stewart on acid. Being in the same space with her during her routine cleaning is akin to venturing out in the safari in Africa, on foot. My mum has not only a photographic memory but she also sets the standard of hygiene and chronic tidiness to a whole new level. She knows where things exactly should be at in the house and would know if there is even the slightest modification in placement, quantity and angle.

Once, as a test, I took out one of the lilies from the vase in the living room. There were exactly 16 stalks. When my mum went back home from grocery shopping and walked beside the vase, stopped and said, "Why do I feel like there is less lilies in this vase suddenly?"

My brother chocked on his lemon tea.

"She is damn freaky I tell you. Once I caught her walking around the house mumbling to herself. She said she was calculating the number of steps needed to cross the house from one place to another. Who does that?!" my brother said to me when she went into the kitchen.

"I know and am aware of every single atom in this room. Sometimes when you boys are not at home, I will count the number of petals there are in total at every vase I can find in this house," she said later on during dinner that day.

There was an awkward silence. Out of fear mostly. If there is a murder involving a woman who stabbed a neighbor because she accidentally smashed a vase in the corridor, it would be my mum. Fiercely protective and manically defensive too.

Living with my mum over the years have somehow made me equally meticulous about cleanliness and tidiness too. And her excessive need for things to be squeaky clean have I believed been passed down to me. This realization came into form yesterday during dinner. My mum was not at home, in Bangkok actually with her secondary school friends, to unwind and spend my money. So I was being tasked to be the cook at home, considering that my younger brother does not eat outside because a) he has been trained since young to not spend money on disgusting food that people serve nowadays and b) he has been trained by my mother.

My brother was busy eating the Shepherd's Pie I made in the afternoon. I told him to wash his plate when he is done, because I need to go and find a gift for a friend's birthday. When I came back and went into the kitchen, there it was. In the sink, was a spoon, a cup and a plate, soiled beyond words; my brother didn't even bother to wash the dishes as I had instructed him to.

I could feel my whole body shaking. The entire kitchen was spotless. Spotless. I spent the entire afternoon cleaning it, wiping, mopping, washing, drying, arranging and there is a pile of dirty cutleries in the sink. I must have been possessed by the spirit of my mother; I screamed at the top of my lungs at 11 in the night and smashed the plate on the floor. Yes, I smashed a plate just because it was soiled.

My brother came out of his room and looked at the mess and said, "What the fuck?! Why did you do that for? I was about to clean it later!"

My mum called me just now from Bangkok and laughed on the phone, "That's exactly what I would do too Harry. Living with pigs, things need to be broken once in a while to make them scamper for help. Your brother was so scared out of his wits he called me yesterday night thinking that you have been possessed!"

I didn't know whether that was pride or a joke. My brother looks at me differently since yesterday. He said, "You're bat shit crazy."

"You're filthy," I replied.

Monday, October 15, 2012

Marry This

The entire morning, my mum was sniffing the wedding invitation card she got from Aunt Sally's eldest son Rick, who is marrying his girlfriend of four years Liz. This is my mum's first wedding invitation of the year and she was very excited, and critical about it. She is sniffing the card harder than a K9 raiding Lindsay Lohan's home.

"This smells so familiar. It smells of Enchanted body talcum, but it also smells of my vaginal wash," my mum said after smelling the wedding invitation card for what seemed like hours.

"Mummy, can you stop being so disgusting?" my brother shook his head.

"What is so disgusting about vaginal hygiene and vaginal wash? You want to lick a lady and taste rotten oysters is it?"

"MUM!!" my brother and I screamed in unison.

"And look, they even have an emblem on the card, like they are royalty of some sort. It's a garden wedding apparently boys, and the dress code is smart casual," my mum continued, scanning the wedding card intently.

I strongly advise everyone who is getting married to be explicit about the dress code on your wedding day, complete with a footnote saying: "Failure to turn up at this wedding in adherence to the dress code will result in, well, you can't attend my wedding." I have seen assholes wearing slippers to attend a wedding. That is firstly, not respecting the bride and groom on their joyous day, and secondly, in what parallel universe do you live in where it is acceptable to look like a homeless person at someone's wedding? Does it hurt to wear a shoe for a couple of hours? And I have seen girls wearing jeans to weddings. Jeans. JEANS.

I don't think a lack of fashion sense is a good enough reason to dress like an asshole at someone's wedding. It is not about being fashionable. It is about being proper and respectful. You wouldn't want someone to wear a two piece bikini to your father's funeral do you? What is so wrong about wearing a shirt and pants combo, even if it is ill fitting? Or a dress/skirt and blouse? Even if the print is like someone's tablecloth in 1978?

"I wonder who their caterer is?" my mum asked.

"Why are you so critical? I thought you and Aunt Sally are very close? Why the sudden bitchiness?" my brother Harold asked back.

"I'm not being bitchy. Hello, I am too old to be bitchy. I am just concerned that's all!"

My brother laughed. My mum stared at him. "What?" my brother asked.

"When are you going to get married?" my mum asked me, eyes still staring at my brother who is not even paying attention to her, reading his comic book.

"Are you asking me?" I answered.

"Duh, you're the eldest."


"Don't you have a girlfriend?" my mum enquired further.



"Can you stop it? I am not going to get married just because your nephew is getting married," I answered, annoyed.

"You haven't been looking for a girlfriend?"

"And where do you suggest I find one?" I asked.

"I don't know. A bar? Or are you interested in that Steve? Melanie told me that he likes you. I don't mind, marry that rich dude, I want all the Pradas that I can get," my mum said.


"Don't you want a garden wedding?" My brother laughed, harder this time. My mum pinched him so hard he fell off the chair.

There are so many things I want to tell her. But I just kept quiet. From the sanctity of marriage becoming a joke to many people, and the amount of money used, I don't know where to start. Marriage, is not for me. I can't seem to find the idea of marriage appealing too. Ask me again in five years, maybe my outlook on it will change, but as of right now? I am more interested to find the getup for my cousin's garden wedding beyond anything else. Yes, I enjoy going to weddings of other people but don't even spare a minute to ponder and think about my own.

And for what? If all else fails, I only need fifty bucks and I can have a wedding with that budget. Right Amy?

Sunday, October 14, 2012

Kinecting Lives

Dancing, I truly believe, is a skill that you are either born with or you don't. It is not something that you can harness over time. If you're a bad dancer, no amount of training can help you look less of an idiot on the dance floor. It's not like say, cooking. WIth practice, over time one can grow from being a busy cook to a fantastic one. This is because it is a soil that we harness using an external factor i.e. the ingredients. Dancing, on the other hand is just about you and your body. I have had friends, whose names I shall not disclose, that go to clubs and dance on the dance floor to steps similar to someone having an epileptic seizure or someone going through an exorcism.

There are three types of people when it comes to dancing:

1) The Pros: We are taking about people who makes a living out of dancing. This group of people have dancing genes coursing inside their body. Give them any music, a space, and they will dance. 5% of the human race belong in this group.

2) The Groovers: This group of people are not dancers, but they have a sense of rhythm nonetheless. We can give them a piece of music and they can groove naturally to it without looking stupid. 94% of the human race belong in this group.

3) The Apes: This group cannot dance to save their lives and is often the subject of ridicule and laughter on the dance floor. According to the Darwin Theory of Evolution, this group of people have not evolved much from their ape ancestors, and they dance like one too.

I personally would kill myself if I have friends who are cruel enough to NOT tell me that I am a horrible dancer and who would let me be the dude that everyone would talk about days after the party, and not good things either. Thankfully, with the company that I keep, such life damaging traits are immediately outed, bluntly no less and in your face. Having said that, I would like to believe that I am safe in the dancing department.

Two days ago, my newly wed cousin Sarah invited me over to her newly bought condominium for a housewarming party. "Bring Star and Melanie along! let's play Dance Again on my XBox 360 Kinect! It'll be fun!" I knew it was a bad idea from the start because Star and Melanie as we know it, are the type of people who would laugh out loud at something first, and then regretting it much later. But an invite is an invite and I took that risk and asked them along. They obviously were more than happy, partly also because Sarah's pilot husband is sex on a stick. Star's words, not mine.

The party was great, the food was really good and by six in the evening, most of Sarah and Jason's (Sarah sex on a stick pilot husband) relatives and colleagues have left. The only people remaining were Star, Melanie, Alex (Jason's best friend), Mira (Alex's wife), Sheila (Sarah's BFF), Martin (Sheila's husband), Steven/Stevieboy (who has graciously deigned the condo for a third of the price), Sarah , Jason and myself.

"Let's all play Kinect now!" Sarah excitedly said, setting up the console.

"So who's gonna start first?" Jason asked, smiling.

"I wanna go last! Save the best dance for last!" Sheila said.

Star rolled her eyes. I pinched her thighs and whispered a quick "Tsk! Stop it!". Sheila is one of those girls who has a tendency to make everything revolve around her. She has a knack of making everybody around her uncomfortable with her excessive confidence. She is also one of those few girls who would buy a cheap ass Coach bag and Facebook, Instagram and Tweet the photo. "Cheap ass" were Melanie's words. The only reason why we put up with her is because she is Sarah's close friend.

This I can tell you, the Kinect is one hell of an addictive game. And it makes you sweat, so at the same time, you're burning calories too. A great way to lose weight for those of you who hates eating salads, or low fat milk for that matter. Genius way to make people exercise. Sarah and Jason were of course, topping the game because they play it every single day after work and they know all the steps. Melanie is obviously a fantastic dancer and she improvises the steps according to her own way. That's like a lot of tit tugging. Star on the other hand is a closet breakdancer. Yes, breakdancer.

We were all laughing really hard and thoroughly enjoying the whole experience, singing along to I Know You Want Me, Maneater, Poker Face, Evacuate The Dancefloor loudly and Melanie was dancing for the third time, to Move Your Body when Sheila started her nonsense.

"Oh my god you guys are so terrible! Haha, my ten year old niece can dance better than you guys!", she rolled her eyes. She doesn't have a ten year old niece, but this is Sheila and Sheila can own a nuclear plant if she wants to be the centre of attention. "Let me close the ceremony and show you guys how it is done!", she added.

I looked down. Star tugged at my shirt and whispered, "The circus is coming to town. Embrace yourselves."

She chose Pon De Replay because it "would showcase my dancing prowess and it's a good mix of hip hop and sexiness". Melanie coughed.

All I can say is that when Sheila danced, Star laughed so hard she spilled her champagne on her dress and covered her eyes screaming, "My eyes can't take this fuckery!" and Melanie covered her face with her palms just shaking her head and her body is literally shaking, trying to contain her laughter. I didn't know what possessed me but I became really bitchy and pointed to the clown and said, "Hahahahaha, Don't Pon De Replay the dance thanks! You look like you have a squirrel in your underwear."

Martin wasn't too amused. I could see from his face but we didn't care. Steven, who has had a lot to drink suddenly said, "Honey, it is cause of girls like you that I choose to become gay. Bless your soul Martin, you're marrying an epileptic paraplegic!"

And just like that, the party ended.

Taxi-ing Out

I'm not trying to say that I am a quiet person. Actually I am far from being labelled as a quiet person. With alcohol, I talk twice as much and twice as fast. Once, Star slapped across the face because I couldn't stop jabbering away. "Shut up! There is just so much drunken talk I can afford to withstand in a night!" I didn't wince. I just stopped talking for a while. But by the next "Screwdriver", I was at it again. Without alcohol, I would like to think that I am friendly enough without being too cloying. I excel in group discussions and ask anybody who has met me for the first time, I think the adjective that is most probably going to be used to describe me is "chatty".

There are times however, when I just don't wish to engage in a conversation. Like everybody else, with the exception of someone who would describe themselves as a morning person (I hate those people), I don't really like to talk in the morning. As a kid, the incessant questions asked by my mother before school would always be answered by grunts and sighs. Sometimes a nod, sometimes a head shake. But never once would I answer my mum with a spoken word, even if it's just a one syllable "yes". The idea of talking at 6am in the morning is tiresome, senseless and is looked upon with much detest. What topic of conversation could possibly be so exciting that people are willing to talk about it first thing in the morning?

So imagine my horror when this morning, I boarded a taxi that was driven by possibly the most chirpy and talkative taxi driver in Singapore. I am not talking about good chirpy, I am talking about boisterous talking in volumes that resonates from the front and back of the cab in ear splitting decibels. An alpha morning person. Maybe I could do with a little bit of positivity and cheerfulness, but this is just a case of wrong time, wrong place.

Trying to recollect the experience and conversation alone is enough to give me a headache right now.

"Good morning young man!" he wished (shouted) to me when I boarded the taxi. I was honestly quite taken aback. Time check: 6:47am. Not good. I need to get used to his booming voice, and quickly, or this trip will end up at a poise station when I tried to shut his mouth by trying to cover his lips with my belt from the back. I'm THAT cranky in the morning.

" What can I do for you young man?" he asked.

"Speak softly for a start...", I muttered under my breath.

"I'm sorry. Where?!" he enquired again.

"Raffles Place."

"Alright young man. Raffles Place it is! Buckle up! Let's go!" he chirped.

I feel like I'm in The Magic Schoolbus. Except of course there is no magical destination and there is nothing to learn at the end of the journey. What I am getting is a ringing noise in my ears and a taxi fare with a surcharge.

I read somewhere that one of the best and effective ways to avoid a conversation with a taxi driver is by plugging in your MP3. So I started scouring my bag for my headphones to plug into my iPhone, fervently praying inside that the taxi driver wouldn't start and broach a conversation with me until the headphones are in my ears.

"Did you watch the Man U match last night?" he suddenly asked.

Shit. Because a) a conversation has been broached and b) I don't watch soccer. I belong to the 1% of the male species who don't watch soccer. I don't hate it, I just don't watch it. And I finally got hold of my earphones but it is so tangled, it is messier than Lindsay Lohan's affinity with cocaine; allegedly.

"Nope", I replied.

"Shame! Yesterday got more than five offsides! Terrible game. Line of defense was not that good either, no focus!"

"Mhmmm", I grunted. I have no bleeding idea what the hell he is talking about. I just kept looking down, trying my level best to untangle the headphones.

"Now house prices really getting ridiculous isn't it young man?", he asked a second after, obviously not reading my body language. I nodded. The damn headphones, still tangled beyond help.

"Are you married young man?"

I feel like he is about to break out into the YMCA song any moment now. I shook my head.

"Good! You will live longer! Haha!", he joked. I offered a weak smile. By this time I was highly irritated and just chucked the tangled mess that is my headphones back into my bag. I sat back and closed my eyes.

"You're not feeling well young man?" he asked.

"I am okay", I amswered curtly, eyes still closed. Later on in the day I will have the time to regret my actions but as of right now, I have a splitting headache. Moments after he spoke, the sound still lingered inside the cab like a fart. It's that bad and no, I am not exaggerating.

"Must take care of yourself. Nowadays living in Singapore is very stressful", he advised.

"Sitting in this cab is stressful", I said inside my heart.

"Nevermind! You go sleep! When we have reached, I will wake you up!", he said. And then the cab got silent. Eyes closed, all I could hear is the faint sound of the engine and soft music playing from the radio. Richard Marx started singing on the radio, his lilting voice almost lulling me to sleep. This is how cab rides should be in the morning.

Suddenly I hear humming. Ten seconds into it, Mr Cab Driver started singing along to the song. Softly at first, and then the chorus came:


I opened my eyes. This is turning into a nightmare. I'm feeling mildly sociopathic. He glanced at the rearview mirror and smiled, "Did I wake you up young man?"

"Uncle, drop me after the traffic light", I said sharply.

"I thought you want to go to Raffles Place?"

"I want to get something from here."


I took out twenty bucks from my wallet and asked him to keep the change. I alighted the taxi and started walking to Raffles place...by foot.

"You mean to tell me that you waked all the way from City Hall to Raffles Place because of an annoying cab driver?" Star laughed at me when I finally reached her workplace to hand her the Macbook Air she forgot to bring along with her from last night, doing her presentations at my place.

"I didn't say he was annoying", I replied, annoyed.

"But you think he was didn't you?" Star raised her eyebrows condescendingly.

"For someone who sleeps around on a daily basis you sure do have the nerve to talk about patience don't you?" I replied.

"You're never seeing me again!" Star said, snatching her Macbook from my hand and angrily walked away, a familiar pair of red soles punctuating every step of hers.

Tuesday, October 9, 2012

A Bash-ful Affair (Part 3)

Steven really knows how to throw a birthday bash. The party is filled with magnates and socialites (friends of mummy and daddy) but mostly gorgeous looking people, some ex classmates, primary, secondary, college, interior design school, but mostly from his expanse circle of model friends, and their model friends, and everybody is dressed to kill.

I am sitting down drinking my fifth (sixth?) glass of champagne and just enjoying myself she Melanie came and sat beside me and held my hands while whispering in my ear, "Harry, three o'clock, six feet tall, slightly scruffy, standing to the left of the girl in green." I nodded, eyes fixed. "Stop staring! God you're such a high school girl!" Melanie pinched my right thigh. "Ow! What about him?"

"We were talking just now. And we were laughing t that old socialite there wearing something even Bjork wouldn't wear. We were totally hitting it off and then he told me, "I saw you came with your guy friend sitting over there, he's cute.""

I stared at melanie and asked, "And?"

"Harry, he is talking about you! He likes you, not me! I am showing him half of my tits and I keep flicking my hair and all he wants is someone with a dick. When I used to have a dick, everyone wanted a pussy. And now when I have one, all the guys want someone with a dick!"

"Melanie, are you high? Are you gonna flash yourself again like last time?"

At that very moment Star came rushing to our table. "Oh my god, guess who I saw? Bernard!"

"Who the fuck is Bernard?" Melanie spat, obviously pissed about her lack of proper genitals at the right time.

"I was 15 years old when Bernard took my virginity. Don't you guys remember? Apparently Stevieboy used to design his house back in the states, when Stevieboy was based there for a year two years ago!"

To which Melanie asked, "And this is news to us because...?"

"Because he just gave me his room number and we are going to possibly recreate 2003 all over again." Star smiled. "He is staying at the room right above ours, four floors up. And he is waiting for me so may I..."

"Go Star. But I will always remember this night; when you choose a lousy screw over us." I said.

"Harry, I have shoved my tits into this, do you know how painful it is for me to walk around in this? I want to take it off..."

"In front of Bernard. Where is Steven?" Melanie asked.

Steven, as we are talking is on the dance floor dancing to a remix of Rihanna's Where Have You Been. Let's just say, money can't buy you dancing skills. But hey, I have a Tom Ford tux. Yay to me.

A Bash-ful Affair (Part Two)

"I think I am going to pass out any moment now", Star gasped. She looks gorgeous; hair in a messy bun, diamond drop earrings, silver crystal encrusted clutch and her favourite nude YSL tribute sandals complemented her Oscar worthy look.

"You just got into the dress less than an hour ago. Star, I can't have you pass out in your Valentino grown anytime tonight!" Melanie said, hands holding Star forearms and slightly massaging it.

"The corset inside is literally blocking my respratory system!" Star complained.

"I told you to wear something less fussy!" Melanie scolded. Melanie looks every inch a movie star. Her long hair tied up in a severe ponytail, cream BV knot clutch and deep brown peep toe pumps with her gold Gucci number; with a plunging neckline no less.

The four of us are in the lift going down to the 2nd floor, where the grand ballroom is. I look at my reflection on the glass wall of the lift. "You look really dapper. The Tom Ford fits you like a dream", Steven said, him looking like he just got out of a GQ photoshoot in his Dolce & Gabbana tux. "Thanks", I smiled weakly, getting slightly uncomfortable. From the corner of my eye I could see Melanie trying to hold her laughter.

"Stop flirting the two of you! I'm about to die here!" Star shouted. Steven let out a chuckle and then said, "Guys there is going to be a mini red carpet event outside the ballroom. I invited a couple of my photographer friends. It is going to be fun!"

"How many is "a couple" Stevie boy?" Melanie asks, deadpan.

"About fifteen? A couple of media friends are also going to be there."

"Fifteen? Okay now not am I going to die from the lack of oxygen, I am also going to get an epileptic seizure from all those flashlights!" Star cried.

"Star, you're such a drama queen. Are you going to have a fake meltdown as well?" I shook my head. Before she could answer, the lift door opened and we were greeted with a blinding array of flashlights going off. Now I know how George Clooney feels like every award season, standing in front of a room full of photographers; naked, nervous, uneasy and a million insecure questions running inside the head going all at once.

Star on the other hand is totally working it in front of the photogs. She looks like she has been doing it for years. Pose after pose, pout after pout, even managed to blow an imaginary flying kiss, thinking she is Marilyn "Fucking" Monroe.

Melanie, who is standing beside me started to whisper in between smiles and teeth showing, "Oh, no more breathing difficulties? I feel like going to her and really knocking the wind out of her chest."

A Bash-ful Affair (Part One)

Star, Melanie and I are sitting at Starbucks discussing on what to wear for an upcoming birthday party organized by Steven. Steven is Melanie's best friend from secondary school they were in the National Cadet Corps together back in school, when you know, Melanie was still melvin. Surprisingly, Steven fully accepts the transformation of his best buddy from man, to woah-man. He even paid for a couple of Melanie's surgery procedures.

Ah, Steven, before I forget, is rich. Like really, really rich. We are talking about a mini empire here. His father owns 46 branches of upscale Italian restaurants around the world and 7 nightclubs in both L.A. and Amsterdam. Mother owns a chain of spas in Asia Pacific. Last count? 14 branches. Steven is an interior designer by profession, so basically he is the one responsible for making daddy and mummy's shops look pretty and chic. They say luck and nepotism go hand in hand and boy is Steven a prime example of that.

He is the only son. A supremely eligible bachelor even by the highest standards. But here's the catch; He likes men. So basically there won't be any ground wedding, and a custom made Vera Wang wedding dress. Steven, or Stevieboy as we call him, has a lot of money to spend, but obviously not on diamonds for a random money grabbing tramp.

So since there is no wedding party, Steven puts it upon himself to throw one of the biggest birthday parties in Singapore. he books a ballroom at a 5 star hotel and invites everybody he knows. There's booze, music, more booze, spa vouchers (courtesy of mummy) as door gifts and food is always posh nosh Italian (daddy's obviously). And for the past four years, we have been regularly attending his birthday party, VIP seats no less. Melanie says it is because Steven has a crush on me and I...sort of love it. I know, the lines of morality can always be blurred, at least when I feel like it. This year's birthday party theme is "The Oscars". Steven emailed Melanie yesterday saying that he will buy a gown for each of them, any label, because "You are the only two girls who deserve it."

Right now Star is deciding between a plum Zac Posen empire cut dress or a white one shouldered tulle gown from Valentino. Melanie, in all her tranny fabulousness, have decided on Gucci, lamé gold with a plunging neckline and a little dramatic train. Can you blame her?

"Harry, Steven also said that he has custom made a Tom Ford suit for you. It's arriving tomorrow!" Melanie gushed.

"How does he know my measurements?" I asked, suspicious.

"I...gave it to him", Melanie whispered, looking away.

"Mel! You could have asked me first!" I fumed.

"Honey, you're getting a Tom Ford suit for free, so shut it. Aww...how sweet. You should just date him  Harry. All the Armani and Zegna in the world. Think!" Star interrupted.

I glared at her. I can well afford my own Armani and Zegna, but then again, what is wrong about getting a free tux right? Blurred morals, so I kept quiet.

Star finally decided to opt for the white Valentino because she wants to be Anne Hathaway and "we will come into the ballroom in black, gold and white and blow off everyone's head, no pun intended."

"Oh Steven has also booked a suite for the three of us at St. Regis, where the party is going to be at. Well four cause Steven is going to overnight together with us in the room the night before. Star and I have forked out money to get him a Dunhill cigarette case. That man has everything but he keeps his cigarettes all over. And yes before you ask, you are going to be sharing the master bedroom with him and give him a priceless birthday gift while you're at it." Melanie winked.

The Tranny Tyrant

My Facebook page news feed is not filled with a cacophony of statuses dripping with anger, disappointment, resentment and dare I say it, self-righteousness. The Lady of The Hour is non other than Miss Amy Cheong. I shan't elaborate further on what she said and before anything else, let me just say that I am not angry at Miss Amy. If anything else, I am thoroughly amused at the whole saga.

So no, this post is not going to be filled with even the slightest once of negativity. My blog is far too fun to be filled with self-righteousness and pearls of wisdom. The friends that I have is a testament to the lack of class and elegance and that is the very backbone of the way I live my life.

I have been living in this multi racial country close to a quarter of a century and if there is one thing I've learnt about racist folks, the best way to deal with it is to laugh it off. And after the initial laughter, what else is there left to stand up for? Ignorance is bliss. Ignorance to ignorant people; more bliss.

Honesyly, upon reading the comment made my Miss Amy for the very first time, I actually chuckled. There wasn't any wave of anger, not even the slightest bit. I don't think the Malays in Singapore should feel victimized by her comments at all.

"It's a joke right? I mean, 50 bucks for a wedding? How can people with common sense not just laugh it off? You can't book Hotel 81 or Fragrance even for a night with 50 bucks!" Star said on Skype last night. I am not the very least surprised that Star knows the room rates of various budget hotels in Singapore. "I'm not bringing him to my place and have him stain my sheets. And there is no way in hell that I am going over to his place and be assaulted by the stench of dried cum", she would always say.

"She obviously have not been to many Malay weddings in her life. I love going to Malay weddings and see the confused looks that I get from the Makciks", Melanie added. "Once, there was this Makcik, bless her soul, whoever she was, but she came up to me and scratched her head asking if I was a transgendered woman. I said yes and she started laughing and hugging me saying that I looked like Naomi Campbell. Isn't that lovely?" Melanie continued.

"How is that a compliment?" Star typed.

"Shut up Star. All I am trying to say is there are more open minded Malay Makciks than you think. Maybe that's why there is a lot of Malay gay boys around!" Melanie reasoned.

"That's racist", Star said.

"And homophobic", I added. "Star, please print screen this conversation and alert the authorities. Miss Amy needs a partner in crime", I teased.

"Oh please do guys. I am just dying to be famous, for whatever reason there is. I want to be called The Tranny Tyrant."

I logged off Skype immediately.

Soon after Melanie what sapped me a picture of her holding a kitchen knife. She also texted, "The Tranny Tyrant is here to cute your balls off. nobody logs off Skype without telling The Tranny Tyrant. The Tranny Tyrant is coming for you!"

She's not even famous yet and she has started to speak in third person. Your call Miss Amy.

Thursday, October 4, 2012

Career This

"I hate kids", Melanie said yesterday over dinner.

"Whats new?" Star replied, occupied with dissecting her crayfish.

"I hate kids so much that I don't want any in the future. I can't and won't have any of those things inside me for nine months", Melanie rolled her eyes.

"Are we forgetting something here? Am I the only one here who have to keep reminding you that genetically you're male?" I exclaimed, frustrated.

"Harry, am I the only here who have to keep reminding you that if you have nothing good to say, to shut the fuck up?" Melanie answered, kicking my leg. "And aren't you going to fan my self importance by asking me what happened to me and why I hated kids?"

"Why?" Star and I asked in unison.

Apparently Melanie's 8 year old nephew had a Career Day at school, where kids bring one of their family members of any profession and they come to class and share with the kids the nature of their job and what do they do for a living? The idea seems fun and harmless, but the thing is, Melanie is a hairdresser by day, and is a social escort in her free time. "First of all, I have to wake up at bloody six o'clock to get ready and then I have to find something appropriate to wear. I am not wearing a bandage dress by itself in front of 8 year olds. There are adults around too. So I wore a blazer over my Hervé Léger, to you know, look more appropriate."

"Wtf?! The kids sitting down on the floor can still see your man made pussy. Mel!" Star scolded.

"I pity the kids. They will be thoroughly confused by the time you come up front? So what does your Aunt really do Sam? She is talking about day jobs and night jobs. And is she your aunt or your uncle?" I teased.

"Which is exactly where I am getting at. So there I was, and I side swept my hair so that my face will look softer and people won't suspect anything. I even rehearsed in my baby voice the night before. I don't want my nephew to be taunted and bullied in school after I did my talk, that would kill me. The teacher, who is this pretty lady whom they all call Miss Rara, which I think is inappropriate name to have but that is not the point. The point here is, when it was my turn, I walked up to the front of the class and even before I could introduce myself, this boy sitting beside my nephew pointed his dirty little finger me and shouted, "Shemale!!"

Star and I laughed so hard the whole restaurant turned to us. Star kept banging the table and was nearing to having an asthma attack and Melanie just sighed, "I mean, how can an 8 year old possibly know the word shemale? What kind of a sick fuck is raising him? The kids didn't get it so they kept quiet but the adults who were present started giggling in their seats, like ignorant assholes Singaporeans are. And I didn't want my nephew reputation to be on the line here so you know what I said, and it's stupid and I should have prayed to the lord first before saying anything back even though the lord doesn't recognize me anymore but all I remembered was feeling so fucking angry so I said, "I am a hairdresser and I carry scissors with me all the time and I will fucking cut your mouth if you ever call me that again.""

"NOOOOO!!!! You didn't say the F word in front of a group of 8 year olds, WITH ADULTS AROUND?!" Star said.

"Like I care. And this kid's father was there and he was a doctor and he tried to confront me after class about scolding his kid in public and I told him, "I have been around too many doctors to know the good and the bad ones and you happen to give me a shitty vibe." And then I walked away. My nephew told me just now that his friends all think I am awesome. Which I am, and even though I couldn't bring myself to fully be normal in a social setting, it's heartening to know that 8 year olds think of me not as a man or a woman, but as an awesome human being."

Wednesday, October 3, 2012

American Ego

By now the news of the new line up of American Idol judges must have been made known to all of you. We have dog whisperer divaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa Mariah Carey, hair weave extraordinaire Nicki (Nicky? I don't now. I'm too lazy to google up this ho's real name. I have better things to do) and boring ass Keith Urban. No really, Keith Urban has a personality of a plank of wood. Even Nicole Kidman, in all her botoxed glory is frowning at his boring ass.

Melanie who is a fan of the show was rather perturbed at the fact that Nicki Minaj was chosen as a judge on a singing reality show. When asked why the unhappiness over Nicki being a judge Melanie only said, "She raps."

"I mean, Mariah. Fine, she can sing in decibels that only dogs can hear so by credit she is a super singer." Melanie continued. I told Melanie that it would be funny to see Mariah Carey in a leotard and a cape with a huge S on her tits, superhero super singer. "You know Harry sometimes I just want to slap you but I don't want to dirty my hands." Star told me that Melanie is just PMSing and I told Star to shut the hell up. Melanie is biologically male.

"And so I was more than happy to have Mariah Carey as judge. She is a Diva after all and she can out sing any of the contestants and isn't that the whole idea of being a judge? That you are superior than the sorry ass fresh faced contestants who cry in between sharing their oh-so-sad life? But Nicki Minaj. Bitch raps."

"It takes talent to rap Mel", Star rebutted.

"You put me in a weave for twenty four hours and trust me, when the itch sets in, I will be rapping like a motherfucking nigga on acid." I told Melanie that in some countries she could get arrested for sprouting out what she just did. "Oh please, there is no niggas in Singapore. The drug peddling Nigerians don't count. All we have are poseurs who wear baggy clothes and go to Butter Factory and raise their hands on the dance floor like they're dope as shit. They look like they have Parkinsons."

"Mel, I didn't know that you go to Butter Factory." Star said.

"CAN WE NOT DEVIATE FROM THE TOPIC PLEASE? This is my favourite show we are talking about!" Mel screeched. I texted Star from under the table, "Must she shout in public all the time? It's embarrassing." Star texted me back, "I will keep this message and use to it to blackmail you in the future." Cunt.

"Nicki Minaj is so full of herself and coming from me, that is saying a lot." Melanie said.

"Well so is Mariah Carey!" Star rebutted, again.

"But Mariah Carey deserves to be full of herself. She deserves every single penny she earns. She has got the talent to back it up. Writing rap lyrics? Star, you give me cocaine at 10 in the morning and I'll rap to you about the security guard at my condo." That poor security guard.

"Fine, what are your thoughts about Keith Urban then? He is a country superstar. He deserves to be on that table right?" Star asked.

Melanie rolled her eyes and said, "I don't see what Nicole Kidman sees in him. So boring." Love is blind, I told Melanie. "Today I really don't mind dirtying my hands Harry. Don't make me."

Monday, October 1, 2012

A Starry Problem

My ears are red from a rather charged telephone conversation with Star. See, Star has three biggest pet peeves and today, she was assaulted by her pet peeves one after the other. Here was what went down:

1) Body Odour In Public

Star went out to work early today. She has a habit of changing her clothes to work at the very last minute and that only means that she is late for work every other day. The only reason why she keeps her job is because she sleeps with her manager and no, I'm not shitting you. Star IS that office tramp who gets to keep her job with a tardy working attitude because she gives her manager a blow job every fortnight. Anyway, where was I? Yes, so after much effort, Star managed to get up an hour earlier to get ready for work, so she can "postpone a blow job by a fortnight". Her words, not mine.

"I decided to take the train instead of the bus because SMRT can afford to screw up and they give late excuse letters for us to give to our employers, unlike SBS. So off I went. As usual, by the time it was 7:15 in the morning, the train was packed and I had to squeeze in and stand in my six inch Tributes throughout the half an hour journey, WHICH I didn't mind. It is either I stand for thirty minutes in six inch heels or squat for five minutes in front of a six incher. My choice really and I chose the former. So there I was...Harry stop laughing! So two minutes later, when I was just easing into my stoned mood, entered this dude and god did he smell! I actually muttered "Fuck" under my breath. And you know I don't curse in public."

I rolled my eyes.

"I know you are rolling your eyes, but Harry I never smelt that kind of odour before. It was vile. It was like a cacophony of rat carcass, dried cum, blue cheese and sweaty feet. I swore to god that if he ever stood beside me, I will die. And you know god hates sluts so he CAME AND STOOD BESIDE ME. I was like, "Fuck it, I'm outta here." So I alighted the train and waited for the next one. Bad idea. Nobody gave way at the entrance and I couldn't ease myself in and I was back to square one; late for work. That was pet peeve one. And my day was spoiled."

2) People Who Take Too Long At The ATM

"I remembered that I needed to pay Trish a hundred bucks. She bought for me this slimming tea which didn't work Harry. All I did was shit and fart all day long. I was like this walking Methane chamber. With tits. But you know me, when she asked I was like, "Oh I lost two kilograms in a week!" Truth is I lost two kilograms because I had this amazing workout cum fuck session with this dude which I will tell you some other time. So god damn it I had no change in my wallet. I was already ten minutes late for work but I don't want Trish to give me the dirty look at work. I already told her I was going to pay her for the last four days. I made a detour at the building beside my workplace and there was this lady at the ATM. I was like, "Okay, no queue. Phew." But bitch had other plans. She kept looking at the horizontal mirror, at me and at first I smiled. I don't understand. Why would people spend more than five minutes at the ATM? She spent, and I kid you not, TWENTY minutes at the ATM, paying god knows what bills. She even topped up her ezlink! And all throughout she was looking at me by the mirror like I WAS THE CAUSE OF HER DISTRESS. The fourth time she looked I actually spat, "What?! I'm not going to rob you!" And she was like, "Wait ah, wait ah!"

3) Talking In The Cinema

"Work was shitty. I had to give another blow job. For obvious reasons. And when we were done he was like, "Shall we watch a movie after work?" That slimy bastard. And I said yes. Why? Because a, I have no morals and b, I needed to unwind. It was this new Anne Hathaway movie and I forgot the title, but the point is, we were in this cinema just watching this movie and I was really irritated at the chain of events that happened in the day and I just needed to let Anne's alabaster skin soothe me and this bloody wanker of a manager kept trying to hold my hands in the cinema like I'm his fucking girlfriend. I kept eating my popcorn and I was so upset when it was finished. Now my stomach is bloated and I have to hold his hand. But that's not the worst thing that happened to me that day, oh no. This couple behind me started yapping away loudly. The girl was like, "You know, after this she is going to fall sick. And then right, and then right, and then right." So I turned and stared at her and seethed, "And then I will fucking break your neck and your boyfriend's if you open your mouth and say one more word. My boyfriend here is a black belt in Taekwondo, and he will kick your fucking mouth so bad, you will wish you didn't talk in the first place." The boyfriend was such a pussy and he kept saying, "Sorry, sorry..." But my manager wasn't pleased at all and he totally didn't talk to me on the way back and now I could potentially lose my job and I can only whore out so much so help me Harry!

I put down the phone, switched it off, and started typing this. She just wrote on my FB wall, "YOU COCKSUCKER." This is the same girl who said she never cursed in public. Gotta love Star.