Tuesday, December 25, 2012

Doomsday Cheese Crackers

And so the world did not end on the 21st of December 2012 as famously predicted by the Mayans. For the past couple of years, the entire world was busy churning up theories and predictions as to what is going to happen come December 21st. Many (millions actually) suddenly got scared and started anticipating in fear, which if you ask me is stupidly humane.

I mean here we are, getting all terrified about the pending doomsday by taking what the Mayans predicted ages ago. The Mayans were human beings, not gods. Human beings are incapable of even exercising peace amongst themselves, let alone predicting the future.

And then there are those who go to the media and talk about how the signs of doomsday is already here. Why wait all these while before slowly picking out the signs? I think the first sign that the world was going to end was when Paris Hilton and Kim Kardashian bought a handheld camcorder. Where were the Mayans then?

Let's also not forget those fools who were out to buy truckloads of food supplies and sustenance for the coming apocalypse. What were they thinking? That what, come doomsday, the world would obliterate into nothingness and only their family and themselves would be left in the basement of their home munching on Ritz Cheese Crackers? And until when?

And even if they can survive on Ritz Cheese Crackers all their life (I can), they are going to be alone in this world, and literally too. These thoughts weren't whirling inside their head while queuing at the check out counter?

The day before the supposed doomsday, Star, Mel, Steve and myself were at Starbucks discussing about the last thing we would want to do before the world ends. Neither of us actually believed that the world was going to end the day after but it makes sense and its fun to discriminate and judge each other based on their last wishes. That's what friends do.

The last thing I would want to do before the world ends is to go to my mum's place and ask for forgiveness," Melanie started the ball rolling.

"So emotional?" Steve asked.

"I want my mum to feel my breasts and know how much hard work is being put to produce these babies," Melanie said, touching her man made inflated chest.

"Melanie stop touching yourself in public, people will call the cops," I scolded her.

"Steve what about you?" Melanie asked.

"I just want to spend and have a good dinner with both of parents," Steve said smiling.

"Since when did the two of you become sentimental. It doesn't suit you both," Star replied, running her fingers through her hair.

"Harry? And please don't say something boring and predictable," Star continued.

"But my life is boring and predictable. Oh I don't know, maybe just sit at home and watch DVDs until my entire house crumbled upon me?" I answered.

"Seriously? DVDs? Until the world ends?" Star retorted.

"It beats having my mum touch my chest or having dinner with her, god forbid," I tried to justify.

There was an awkward silence on the table. So apparently my life is not only boring and predictable; it is pathetic too.

"You guys deserve to die with those believers. Because I want to have an orgy with five different men at one time right before the world ends," Star shared.

"We are talking about something that we have never done before Star," I smiled.


Concrete Facelift

It has been almost a month and soon, my newly renovated and refurbished house would be ready for my mum, Harold and me. Steve told me that the new house interior looks "smashing". He uses the word "smashing" to describe Kim Kardashian's ass so I'm not putting my hopes high up.

My mum though has been calling me incessantly, asking me whether I have seen the new interior or whether Steve have shown me any pictures of the newly renovated flat and it is really getting on my nerves.

"Have you seen the new interior? Is it nice? Is everything happening as per planned? Did he turn the balcony into a Balinese haven?" my mum chatted away on the phone two days ago.

"You're the one who left all the designing job to him and you personally asked him to keep it as as a secret and then tell you on the day itself and now this?" I replied condescendingly.

"I'm just too excited. I don't think I am capable of living anywhere else except my own home!" my mum wailed dramatically over the phone.

"Why? Is Aunt Sally feeding your dog food?" I joked.

"Worse! You know how she is a health freak and takes care of what she eats and her diet and she cooks nothing but bland soup day after day. I try my best not to eat outside or bringing food back home because I don't want to hurt her feelings or make her offended but I cannot take another dinner of tasteless chicken soup without thinking like I just had an appendix surgery," my mum continued.

"So drama," I whispered...audibly.

"Have you talked to Harold recently? I can't seem to contact home the past few days," my mum asked worriedly.

"I haven't, but I guess he's still alive so please don't worry," I replied.

"Everything is a joke to you! I got to go now, I'm making laksa today and before your Aunt Sally throws away my coconut milk and asks me to use low fat milk instead, I better get it done and settled before she comes back," my mum childishly groaned.

"What is wrong about eating healthily?" I asked.

"Why? You want to eat laksa with low fat milk?" my mum asked.

I kept quiet. In my family, there is no such thing as "eating healthily". My mum says that when we die, our deeds are not defined by the number of times we substitute coconut milk when making laksa gravy or using trans fat-free butter instead of Golden Churn Butter when making pineapple tarts so we don't need to go easy on the unhealthy stuff. That's the thing that makes food taste like...food. Once my mum substituted coconut milk for low fat milk when making curry.

That curry was untouched for the next three days.

"I would rather die instantly of a heart attack than dying a slow and painful death for not being able to eat what the hell I want," my mum would always say. Yes, my mum is THAT kind of mother who uses phrases such as "What the hell?" to her children. If she is hoping mad and you're in luck, you might hear, "What the fuck?!"

Thankfully though, we are all genetically slim and blessed with a high metabolism rate so our "unhealthy eating lifestyle" is not easily detected, at least by the naked eye. I know, our insides are probably going to fail on us any time during our next Carbonara dinner.

"And please show me anything that Steve shares with you," my mum reminded me before putting down the phone.

In all honesty though, all that talk about the newly renovated house with my mum have sort of rubbed on me. I find myself getting slightly excited about the prospect of unlocking the door to my flat and being surprised by the new facelift in interior.

I remembered clearly telling Steve a month ago that I had wanted my room to be spacious, modern with a hint of rustic. White walls, bare concrete flooring with wood furniture. Blinds (no curtains please) and huge spotlights. I'm certain Steve would do a great job but one can't help but anticipate in slight eagerness for the end result.

"Are you going to show me any pictures? May I see it, if there's any?" I asked Steve yesterday during dinner.

"Is your house a museum? Am I a tourist? Why the hell would I take pictures of it? I am an interior designer, not a Singaporean at Universal Studios," Steve replied, mouth full of pasta.

Sometimes I wonder why I'm snarky and razor sharp 24/7. it is because of people around me who are bona fide assholes.

Thursday, December 20, 2012

The "F" Word

When it comes to women and the "F" word, there will never be the end of it. I know, we have revisited many mentions in this blog about girls and their undying fascination (and many a times, fear) with the word "Fat" but this is a different story and subject altogether. This is about skinny girls, girls who are in shape, who can find one numeral dress sizes in Topshop but go on and on and on with the vomit inducing sigh that is, "Oh! I'm so fat!"

This group of girls are neither bulimics nor do they suffer from an acute case of weight dysphoria. This group of girls, according to Star are called "Unappreciative Cunts". Lately I have been seeing a lot of these..."Unappreciative Cunts" and they really know how to make your skin crawl with disgust.

Just this afternoon, Star and I were at Karen Miller trying to find a nice dress for her cousin's wedding this Sunday and she nearly got into a fight with one of the Unappreciative Cunts who was also shopping in the same store. And yes, I am going to use Unappreciative Cunts for quite a while from now on because it just has got a nice ring to it.

So anyways as usual Star would pick out about four to five dresses and then we would together judge the dresses based on FF; fuckability factor. The dress that has the highest fuckability potential would be purchased. Star came out wearing this one shouldered red sheath dress when the girl in the fitting room beside hers also came out at the same time.

She was thin, skinny by most standards, not more than a size 2 and she was wearing this sparkly knee length black dress. She went out at the same time with Star and raised her coice really loudly at her friend who was standing about five feet away from me, "Oh God! I'm so fat! Look at me, like a pig!"

That went on for another two more times and by the fourth black outfit, the girl looked around and still said the same thing, "God, I'm fat in this!"

Star looked at her, gave a disgusted look, rolled her eyes, and walked towards me.

"Don't! Just don't say anything. And that is a six and a half on the fuckability scale," I whispered to her, touching the hem of the cream dress she was wearing.

"I swear if she screams one more time saying that she's fat, I WILL SAY SOMETHING!" Star whispered through gritted teeth.

As if on cue, that same girl screamed again, "I look damn horrible in this! I am going to change I am so fat!"

Star immediately turned around and looked at the girl and sharply said, "Sugar?"

I covered my face with both of my palms and all I could remember mumbling was, "Here we go..."

"Honey, you're not fat. Susan Boyle is fat. Elizabeth Taylor in the 1980s is fat. And you're neither of those. THAT, and black is a slimming colour sweetheart. So quit saying you're fat, cause you're not. And I would hate it if there is actually a real plus sized girl in this store right now listening to you ramble on about how fat you are, imagine how she would feel," Star said firmly.

And you would think that would be the end of it. But hell no, the girl actually rudely replied, "And who asked for your opinion?"

I know right? Even I went "Noooooo" inside.

"You piece of unappreciative cunt. It was not an opinion. It was a warning. Stop trying to attract attention by screaming away that you are fat hoping someone will come and say to you that you are not. Which in this case I did, and you want to be a total cunt about it?"

"What did you call me?" the girl flicked her hair angrily.

"A cunt," Star replied and went back into the changing room. The girl's face was red with anger.

Star went out of the changing room about three minutes later and said, "Let's just go to BCBG, my tits can't breathe at the sight of cheap attention seekers!"

Just now during dinner with Melanie and Steve, Star regaled the entire story much to their amusement.

Melanie said, "Damn, I guess I would never know how it feels like to be fat. I eat way too much and yet I don't gain any weight!"

"That's because deep inside you still have a metabolism rate of a grown man Mel shut up!" Star snapped.

Wednesday, December 19, 2012

Prayers For Bobby

I am possibly the last person on the face of the earth that has not watched the Emmy nominated Lifetime movie Prayers For Bobby. Well I was, until yesterday. And it totally changed my life.

Steve got back early yesterday from work and he had no plans after that so we stayed at home and ordered pizza. I wasn't ready to be assaulted with another viewing of Burlesque and thankfully, so was Steve. So there we were, three large pizzas (pepperoni, meat lovers and spicy chicken) in front of us, a large bottle of coke, chips and we have nothing to watch. We stared at each other.

"Come on Steve, make a decision on what movie to watch," I said, munching on Lays sour cream and onion chips.

"I'm a bad decision maker," Steve replied flatly.

"We've watched your entire DVD collection. Let's go on YouTube and see what five movies are there to watch," I suggested.

"That's so middle class, always up for a free movie," Steve mocked jokingly.

"You got a better higher upper class suggestion?"

"Fine!" Steve rolled his eyes and switched on his Macbook and attached a cable from the Macbook to this gigantic flat screen HD television.

"Okay now what?" Steve said after logging in on YouTube.

"Hmm, let's work something sad, I'm in the mood for it," I recommended.

"Please don't cry and wipe your middle class tears on my Lanvin pillowcase," Steve laughed.

"That's like asking Steve to fly economy. Highly impossible. I WILL cry. And I WILL wipe my middle class tears on your Lanvin pillowcase, unfortunately. If it is a really sad movie, mucous included," I curtly replied.

Steve suggested that we watch Prayers For Bobby because one of his friends recommended the movie to him a couple of years ago but he never got around to watching the film because, oh I don't know, he was probably busy watching Miss Aguilera howling in her underwear all these while. I immediately agreed because I too have been busy (doing what I can't think of) and have never gotten the opportunity to watch it.

And thankfully for us, Prayers For Bobby is in youTube, in HD no less.

FOr those of you readers who have not watched it, I urge you to. I think it is one of the defining movies one can experience in his/her lifetime. Prayers For Bobby is a story about Mary Griffith, a staunch and devout Christian whose son Bobby, is gay. She tries to change him and in turn he became depressed and jumped off a bridge and got hit by an 18 wheeler truck and died instantly. The movie also shows how Mary came to terms with her son's homosexuality and thus came the famous quote, "I now know why God didn't heal Bobby. It is because...there was nothing wrong with him!"

Let's just put it out there. I am a wuss. The biggest kind there is. I think all of you definitely knows that face. I mean, I've possibly seen the worst sappy movies and when I think there is no more tears left in my eye ducts, they wring it all out of my eyes.

When Prayers For Bobby was at the final scene, and Sigourney Weaver, who played Mary was in a court and breaking down and talking about her lack of understanding of the LGBT community and how her ignorance caused her son's death, Steve turned to me and screamed, "Shut up! You're wheezing it's fucking irritating!"

I really couldn't help it. And yes, just for asking me to shut up, I did what he has always hated me doing; I wiped my tears on his Lanvin pillowcase, mucous included.

Saturday, December 15, 2012

Scream And Shout

Star is a shitty drinker. Let's just put it out there. Three Sex On The Beach and Star would dance with any man, even if he has a mask on his face and a gun in his hand. Five Sex On The Beach and Star would dance on a bar top. Seven Sex On The Beach and Star would lift her blouse and show her tits to any man who says to her, "Nice rack!" Add the eighth glass and she starts puking all over the place.

Last night, Star had three Sex On The BEach, two tequila shots, four Jaggerbombs, a lychee martini, a Screwdriver and two vodka tonics. Why? Because yesterday was Ladies Night and it's half price for all drinks. Bu the sixth drink, I actually asked if she was thirsty and bought for her a bottle of Evian; to which she said, "What am I? Sixteen? I can handle my drinks, I'm totally in control! Woohoo!"

And I said, "Okay", rolled my eyes and adjusted her shoulder strap because Miss-In-Control didn't even notice that one of her shoulder straps is off her shoulder.


I was alone in the club accompanying her (you are free to judge me) as Steve was down with fever and Melanie had work; one of her regular customers, this disgusting beer bellied Russian businessman who according to Melanie smelled of stale cheese, was in town.

"He's a total knucklehead in bed. But he pays me extra, A LOT extra and I'm willing to put up with a flaccid penis than seeing Star puke all over the place at the end of the day," Melanie said over the phone in a conference call with Star and me that afternoon.

"So says the tranny who flashed her new vagina at us during New Year's two years ago," Star spat over the phone.

I told Star to stop reminding me of that fateful episode and planting an image the I cannot erase for the entire week.

So there I was, alone with Star and trying to make sure she didn't puke on a random party goer at the end of the night. That's the least I could do, I had no plans on that night and I didn't want to receive any phone calls at three in the morning to bail her ass out for smashing a bottle over a girl's head for stealing her spot at the podium so I obliged.

She was drinking her seventh drink when "Scream and Shout" came on the speakers and she screamed, "Oh my god that's my jam! I'm so Britney right now!"

"You're not Britney Spears," I said.

"I am Britney fucking Spears! Woohoo!" she swung her head wildly to the left and right.

"No you're not. And you just hit the girl beside you with your hairflip of death," I reiterated and grabbed her arms.

"I am! And I'm gonna work that pole at the podium like my life depended on it!" she said, pushing my hand away and went up the podium and started gyrating around it like a hooker and the rent's due.

A random guy suddenly came up beside me and asked, "Is that your girlfriend?"

I shook my head and smiled politely.

"Man, she's hot and wild! What's her name?" he asked, drinking his beer.

"Britney Fucking Spears," I said. He gave me a weird look and walked away to his group of guy friends.

Around the podium was a growing group of clubbers who just stopped dancing altogether and was now looking at Star gyrating on the pole; a couple of boys wolf whistled and Star showed them the middle finger.

Two hours later, after finishing the thirteenth drink, I decided that it was time to go home. By then Star was barefoot and was singing "Scream and Shout" loudly, very loudly. I was holding her right arm so that she doesn't fall off balance and my other hand was carrying her YSL tributes.

"Shut up!" I hushed her.

We made a quick trip to 7-Eleven to buy her another bottle of Evian. Upon payment I asked the cashier to give me an extra plastic bag.

"Why do you need an extra plastic bag..." Star slurred.

"In case you puke in the cab later," I said pushing the glass door open.

"I so am not!" she laughed incoherently.

We were in the cab and Star tapped my thigh three times. I immediately opened the plastic bag and Star crouched down and proceeded to vomit out all of her insides. I wind down the windows and the cab driver said sternly, "Please be careful and don't dirty the taxi."

Star raised her head and said, "Uncle, I am Britney Spears and I can buy you and the cab so shut the fuck up and let me puke!"


Monday, December 10, 2012

Shampoo Boy

Having a friend who is also a hairdresser means that you get to save a great deal of money on hair cutting. Trust and a sense of sensitivity also play a part; you don't want to anger your best friend and have him or her fuck up your hair and making you look like a calefare from The Flintstones. I must also add that Melanie gives the best head massages and stop it, I meant my real head that's connected to my neck.

Sometimes when I have a headache or my head is throbbing because I couldn't sleep the night before, I would just pop by Melanie's salon for a wash and blow. I don't even need an immediate haircut. I just need her magic fingers to massage my head and everything would go away. Sometimes without any self-restraint going on, I would burp in the middle of the head massage because she massages a certain nerve.

"Shut up! You disgusting pig. I'm just giving you head and it's only starting to froth a little, I have not even started the blowing yet and you've already started burping," Melanie would teasingly scold.

Oh come on, her job presented itself with puns after puns.

"People are staring," I would always reply.

The only thing I dislike about going to have my frequent (sometimes free) head massage and haircut at Melanie's salon is that she likes to set me up with her regular customers who happen to be in the salon at the same time. I find that weirdly distracting and let's face it, highly embarrassing.

Here, you have your best friend foaming up your hair with shampoo and you're having a time of your life, for that little ten minutes and then suddenly she pulls your hair and goes, "Harry, that's the dude I was telling you about. He just broke up with his boyfriend, shall I hook you both up?"

Most of the times I would yell and scream, "Fuck, that hurts!" and sometimes, when my threshold for pain is a lot higher for that day, I would just roll my eyes and say, "Since he is such a catch, why don't you have him instead? And massage my hair properly bitch thanks."

And god knows how long these random dudes actually spend inside a salon, primping and texturing and layering and colouring and treatment and then actual haircut and then another wash and blow and by the time they make the payment, I would have finished two Bollywood movies back to back. 

But Melanie being Melanie, she would work her way through to get me to stay in her salon, sometimes for an entire shift. She's lucky I am a writer in profession and I work from home because honestly, nobody has time for that kind of shit. And out of respect, as I would always tell her, please stop trying to matchmake me with her frequent customers.

Melanie wouldn't have any of it. Yesterday during one of those random hair massages that I went for in her salon, she did it again. This time it was the new shampoo boy.

"Harry, meet Neil. He is our new shampoo boy and he is studying psychology part time," Melanie smiled sheepishly, like she is the one being matched made.

"Hello," I politely said to Neil. The boy just nodded his head, his face red. 

Welcome to the world of Melanie Matchmaking.

"Neil, you can shampoo Harry's hair first," Melanie said winking (I know, like a fucking pimp).

"No, it's okay I much prefer Melanie to shampoo my hair...right Melanie?" I said, smiling through gritted teeth.


"The shop is empty, don't give me that bullcrap, I am not letting a random dude shampoo my hair just because it amuses you to see me getting uncomfortably hooked up with random shampoo dudes Mel! You shampoo my hair right this instant or I am never coming back!" I whispered harshly at Melanie.

Melanie rolled her eyes and said, "At this rate, you will never get laid."

"I will get laid, when you're trying to wash the shampoo of my hair later," I replied curtly.

Oh How Cute!

"Do you know or have seen any ugly babies before in your life?" Star asked out of the blue during supper three days ago.

"Steve?" she asked. Steve shook his head vehemently.

"Mel?" she continued asking.

"Aren't all babies supposed to be cute? In a baby kinda way?" Melanie replied, face scrunched up.

"And before you ask me, yes I do believe in the existence of ugly babies but no, I have not had the rotten opportunity to witness it with my own eyes," I said without any prompting from Star whatsoever.

Something must be up.

"Why the sudden question? Something must be up," Steve said, taking the words right out of my head.

"Nothing..." Star's voice went soft.

"Oh please, what is it about? Just share!" Melanie goaded.

"No, nothing. It's someone else's kid. That would be mean," Star smiled weakly, obviously trying hard to be virtuous or morally upright; which I don't know.

"Star being thoughtful and sensitive doesn't suit you one bit," I said, in the most condescending tone I could possibly muster.

"Fine!" Star said, raising her arms.

"That's my girl," I teased. Star kicked my legs from under the table. Hard.

"There is this colleague of mine who just gave birth to a baby girl and she can't stop showing pictures of her baby to me at work. I thought the assault would end when I am at home, safe within the four walls of my room. But I was wrong. I log on Facebook and Instagram and that damn baby face floods my news feed. And she keeps sending this annoying mass messages with a link to some cute baby contest one after the other. And have I told you that the baby is ugly? Yes, it is UGLY! I have never seen such a hairy baby in my entire life. It's like this furball with a scary ugly face attached to it. How do I tell her that she needs to stop building mental images inside my head that i bring to my dreams without sounding like an asshole?" Star rattled on.

A heavy sigh followed afterwards. You could tell she kept it for too long and needed that release to make herself feel better.

"Oh I can so imagine how traumatizing it is for you to continue lying through your teeth everyday and go on saying things like "Oh how cute!" and "That's adorable!" every time she shoves her baby's photo in your face," Melanie said.

"It can't be that ugly. I think you're just exaggerating," Steve added.

Star quickly fished out her phone from her Celine tote and logged on to Facebook, face intent. She covered her phone screen and told us, "You guys ready?"

Star uncovered her phone screen and Melanie's eyes widened and Steve actually yelped a little.

"Eeeuw what is that?" Melanie commented, a pained expression on her face.

"Okay I take back my words, that is one ugly looking baby. What happened? It's like one of those black magic gone wrong things. Oh shit, I feel bad now for your colleague," Steve said.

On my part, I actually wasn't as shocked at the grotesqueness of the baby but at the fact that I am using the word grotesque to describe a baby. This is so wrong on so many levels but let's just say that Star's not going to be the only one who is going to be having nightmares from that day on.

Saturday, December 8, 2012

Dan The Man

Of late, Star has been wearing rather conservative clothes. Normally, you can find Star only in short dresses, tight skirts, slits and bottom hugging pants, sometimes underwear optional. But for the last five meet ups, she is always seen sporting a loose silk tunic and regular pencil skirt; a normal office attire for a HR manager but absolutely mild for Star. Star, bless her soul, has stopped wearing anything that shows her tits and that is worrying to me.

"What is up with you and silk tunics? Your office implemented a ban on tit show or what?" Steve asked just now over dinner.

"What is wrong with me wearing a silk tunic?" Star stared incredulously at Steve.

"I don't know, I am surprised you even own something remotely mmm, conservative in your wardrobe!" Steve laughed.

"Is it wrong if I suddenly want to wear something decent and modest once in a while?!" Star gasped.

"Stop being dramatic, it doesn't suit you. Come on, out with it, who is the new hottie in the office?" Melanie asked flatly, obvious to the reason behind this new change in Star.

"Fine, his name is Dan and he is literally sex on a stick. Oh my god I can lick him until he is dry to the bones. He is our new regional manager and he is single and he smells of Bulgari Men 24/7 and he is so fuckable. He speaks fluent French unlike that pretentious cunt Lisa and whenever he goes "Fou, fou, fou, fou" at one of our French bosses I always imagine him saying, "Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me". And he stays at the condo opposite my block!" Star squealed like a schoolgirl.

"How the hell do you know where he stays and whether he is single or not?" I asked, mildly disgusted and afraid at Star's almost stalkish persona.

"Hello, I am the HR manager, I was the one who interviewed him and read his CV and his background. I am not a stalker if that's what you're thinking. I asked him whether he is ready to commit into this job because he will need to travel. He says no, he is not married and I asked him if he has a girlfriend and he said doesn't have a girlfriend, so there's your answer," Star smiled.

"I am sure asking whether someone has a girlfriend is NOT a proper interview question," Steve muttered.

"And he could be lying about the girlfriend status," I shrugged my shoulders.

"I go home with him every other day because we stay near each other. It has been two weeks, no sign of any girlfriend whatsoever. No calls, no nothing. He goes straight after work everyday and goes to play squash with the boys in my office every weekend," Star said.

"He must be a boring person. People who play squash are very boring," Melanie said.

"He is not! He is funny and he is very interesting, though he is a bit shy," Star replied defensively.

"So why the cover up? Shouldn't you be showing the goods?" Steve asked.

"Ah, the way to getting a man's attention is not only by showing your tits. It is the act of concealing and making them imagine that is far more sexy and foolproof. Why do you think I choose to cover up but only with silk tunics? Because when I sit down and it's freezing in the office, my nipples will get hard and it will show. And then I will purposely go to his office to talk about a new place to go eat and I swear to god, he will stare at my tits nine out of ten times," Star smiled coyly.

"Wow...that it too much information," I said, repulsed.

"And just when I thought you wore something decent because you've changed and decided to be the office tramp, you have to prove me wrong...so very wrong," Melanie said.

"Oh please, don't try to be all decent with me now, I know you filthy pigs just want to know when I will get the chance to sleep with him," Star smiled.

"That's true actually, keep me updated," Steve excitedly said.

I punched Steve on his right arm. Man, the lengths Star would go to get laid. I heard she got the silk tunics from Marks and Spencers, and knowing Star, she would rather lick the back of the shoe than be found shopping for clothes at Marks and Spencers. Well, even I am curious as to how fuckable this Dan dude really is.

Labels And Slangs

I am the last person you should ask for to rectify a certain slang, code name, abbreviation and more often than not, a stereotypical and damaging label. I was the last boy in school to know what is the real meaning of MILF. I was already seventeen. A shame much more deeper than being caught naked in the boys changing room listening to Samantha Mumba on loudspeaker.

The boys kept talking about it for a good portion of my secondary school life and I thought they were just making fun of people with a lisp who cannot pronounce milk properly. I was seventeen when my curiosity got the better of me and I typed out the word "MILF" on google. I will never forget that day. A week after that I would also find out the meaning of DILF and GILF (let's not even go there).

So naturally in conversations, you would mostly find me asking, "Wait, what does that mean?" And yesterday was no exception. The usual four (Steve, Melanie, Star and I) were out for lunch and listening to Melanie's seemingly endless stories about her customers. Apparently you tend to share a lot more problems with your hairdresser than your own spouse, or psychiatrist for that matter, judging from the loopy confessions and conversations that Melanie's customers share with her while getting their hair done.

"I'm telling you guys, relationship nowadays, be it straight ones or gay ones are all filled and plagues with the same problems. I have this customer, this cute British expat who is a total rice queen, always comes in with one problem or the other and all involving his various boyfriends. i lost count as to how many infidelity stories he has shared with me over these past few months," Melanie shared.

"Wait, what does the mean?" I asked, naturally.

"What?" Melanie asked back.

"Rice..something," I muttered.

"Oh rice queen! That's a term used to describe a Caucasian man who likes and goes after Asian boys. You mean you don't know?" Melanie laughed.

"If I knew, I wouldn't ask," I rolled my eyes.

"It's a gay slang and I'm surprised Steve and you never talk about this," Melanie said, looking at Steve who in turn dropped his jaws dramatically.

"Steve and I talk about other things that does not necessarily revolve around Caucasian men who lusts after Asian men. But why "Rice Queen", since we're at it," I asked.

"Because the staple food of most Asians is rice. And any self respecting gay man is a queen," Melanie shrugged.

"What if the Asian dude is on a no carb diet?" I asked again.

Steve snorted and broke out in a soft giggle.

"What?" Melanie shook her head.

"What if the Asian dude is on a no carb diet? Does that still make the white dude a "Rice Queen"? As if being homosexual itself and its many degrading and alienating tags and slangs is not enough, now it needs to get racial too?" I said.

There was an awkward silence at the lunch table.

"Relax, I am just asking. You didn't invent the slang so why the awkward silence?" I laughed.

"Rice queen has got a nice ring to it I must say. Imagine if it's something else. Like "Kway Teow Princess" or "Bee Hoon Duchess", how?" Star suddenly quipped.

I am thankful for friends like STar. And Bee Hoon Duchess is so going to be my new Skype nickname.

Wednesday, December 5, 2012

Miss Azure

Star's company always have an annual staff retreat and this year, her company is sending all 140 of them to Bali for an all expense paid holiday; three days and two nights of mingling around with people that you meet every other goddamn day. But that fact didn't dampened Star's mood one bit; in fact she seems rather ecstatic and utterly excited for the Bali staff retreat next week.

"I'm going to take part in the beauty pageant organized by my company over there! Fifteen of the prettiest girl from my company will compete to be Miss Azure (her company's name) and I think I've got a pretty good chance of winning it," Star squealed during dinner yesterday.

"Winning a company beauty pageant is like being the prettiest girl in Mediacorp; it don't mean much," I said.

"Thanks for the support asshole," Star retorted.

"How is letting the male coworkers in your company see and ogle at their 15 female colleagues parading in a bikini no less an enriching retreat activity? What kind of sick Brazzers inspired shit is this?" Steve asked.

"Like I care. They can ogle at me for all I care. Why do you think I wear so little all the time? It get's cold in the office and sometimes I don't wear a bra so my nipples will say hello to the boys," Star smiled.

"I hope there is an age restriction for this Mizz Azure shit. Because the last thing I want to see on your holiday photos post Bali is a group shot of all the girls in a bikini and three of them have old saggy tits that touches their knees. I would feel sorry for them," Melanie warned, pointing her steak knife at Star.

"Don't point at people with your steak knife, I find it highly unsettling," Steve said.

"You mean like this?!" Melanie pointed the steak knife at Steve, psycho style.

Steve actually went a bit white.

"I hope you enjoy your company retreat though and update your FB and Instagram diligently thank you. I want to know and see everything," Melanie told Star.

"Are they going to have Manhunt also? A Mr Azure, cause I don't think I will be able to handle that," I teased.

"Tsk!" Star rolled her eyes.

"I hope you win though. All that hair and tits should at least get an honourary mention," Steve said.

"I hope so too. I am going to wear my white two piece and this vintage gown I bought last year for the evening gown section. It's cream in colour and backless," Star shared.

"Right up your alley," I retorted.

Star threw her napkin in my face.

"Is that Lisa from French hell joining too?" Melanie asked.

Those of you who have read my blog from the beginning would be acquainted with Lisa, the pretentious piece of pseudo French-lifestyle-imbibing Singaporean who got on Star's nerves because of Starbucks Butter Croissants and Fifty Shades Of Grey. It is pretty hilarious and if you all have the time, go and click on my "Lisa From French Hell" blog post in the archives.

"Duh! She obviously thinks she is pretty," Star flicked her tresses.

"Hide her gown or something," Steve joked.

"And oh god I just remembered that there is a talent round. And you know what she is going to do? A Malay dance. Malay Fucking Dance. Makes you wonder where all her "French" roots disappear right?" Star snarled.

"That's fucking disgusting," Melanie shook her head.

"Guys, what should I do for the talent round? Quick! Suggestions!" Star cried.

"It's not the talent on stage on stage that is going to make you win honey, it is the talent off stage that is going to seal the deal," Steve winked.

"I am not going to give blowjobs to seven of the judges over at Bali," Star rolled her eyes.

Sunday, December 2, 2012

Live In Problems

They say you never really know someone until you move in and stay with them. "They", whoever they are cannot be more right. You know how some couples are so in love with each other and they get married and move in together and then suddenly they drive each other crazy with their habits?

Toilet seat always up, wet towels on the bed, shoes inside the house, ashtray all over the place, whites are not separated from the coloreds, sink is not wiped dry, legs on table, smoking on the sofa, wrong hangers for the wrong clothes and the list goes on and on until someone screams, "You're a pig!"

I am not trying to say that Steve is driving me crazy but rather it has been the exact opposite. Living with him for the past three days have been nothing short of a revelation. Or maybe he is just on his best behaviour to get into my good books. But whatever it is, it's good. And come to think of it, Steve is too honest of a person to even try to lie his way through life, even for a mere three days.

Being Steve's guest instantly made me a mini celebrity in his house. Everything is being fussed to suit my needs, right from head to toe. I wake up to a breakfast spread every single morning without fail for the past three mornings. In my house, breakfast is bread, butter, jam and plain water. Orange juice if you are lucky. And you have my mother pointing out her fingers at me menacingly saying, "I have wiped the tables twice this morning so I don't want to see any breadcrumbs on the table!"

"Then why serve breads in the first place?" I said.

And as of one year ago, I altogether stopped having breakfast for that very same reason. At Steve's house, breakfast is orange juice, hot coffee and tea, bread, peanut butter, croissants (from god knows where), scrambled eggs, jams and marmalades, sausages, ham, cereal (plain and frosted) and a maid standing by the table at your service. That is breakfast...for two.

"Who is going to finish this all up? I can't finish it all, it's too much," I whispered.

"My helpers need to eat breakfast too, no?" Steve said.

"Right," I said, biting into my toast.

The thing that I found out about Steve that as a friend, I find heartwarming is that he sees himself as an equal to others, even his helpers. Especially his helpers if I may add. He washes his own dishes, makes his won bed and even washes his own clothes. He says it is because he doesn't trust anybody with his clothes but I think he just doesn't want to further tire his helpers.

Many a times he would tell his three Indonesian helpers, "It's okay Bibik, I'll do it, you go upstairs and rest." This would be followed by a little scuffle between maid and young master (he hates it when I tease and call him that) to complete the task and he would always win, with hard insistence.

"They are here to help me with the household chores, not take care of me. I can take care of myself," Steve said yesterday over dinner. Steve felt like eating KFC so he ordered for everyone in the house.

The only thing that bothers me about living with Steve is his dangerous obsession with Christina Aguilera. He blasts Ms Aguilera all night long. That is one whole night of shrills and growls and screams and it does not help that my room is supposedly haunted. I mean that is just down right inviting them to come in.

Just now, Melanie and Star came over after work with 5 boxes of pizzas. It is our monthly ritual, movie night at Steve's because a) he has a huge room that he converted into a mini theater, complete with cushions and sofas and beanie bags and an overhead projector and a state of the art sound system and b) because of reason a).

Steve promptly took out a Burlesque DVD and Melanie said, "We've watched that before remember? And if you want to see Cher in tights, I can do it for you, same thing."

Steve said that he would treat all of us dinner the next day and suddenly Burlesque was playing on the screen. I know, I have cheap friends.

"Noooo," I cried helplessly. The past three days have been hours and hours of Christina Aguilera screaming her poor little lungs out in the house and I wasn't prepared to have her (bless her soul) violate my eardrums on our monthly movie night.

"She's so goo," Steve said staring at the screen, fanboy mode on. Ms Aguilera was in this black bra and fishnet stockings and gyrating and screaming away as usual.

"Whoever whose loved ones are in a comatose right now should pay Christina to sing beside them. They will wake up even before she starts the chorus. Trust me, it'll work," I rolled my eyes and lied down on the beanie bag, intending to snooze than watching Burlesque.