Baby-lon

Babies are an evil lot, they are. They're all connivingly round, soft and sqooshable; a vicious ploy, a clever disguise, to have all grown-ups running circles around their chubby little digits.

They exploit that 'adorable card' handed out to them at birth, and send out telepathic messages to all adult-kind that suppresses their ability to talk straight.
It's true. Just pop out a baby in the middle of a boxing ring and Evander Hollyfield will be on his knees in a second, coochie-cooing mindlessly as though in a trance. Presidential-hopefuls kiss babies not to appear more human to the public, but rather to earn the afore-mentioned babies' favour (refer The Godfather).

And what lies beneath that deceitful veneer?
A little monster that pukes, poops and bawls. Not necessarily in that order, at no definite place, and most certainly not restricted to Godly hours. When they wake you up for that 2am feeding/diaper-change, that mournful weeping you hear is actually code for 'I am your master!'
They kick up a fuss at dinner-time because they can, and they magically 'unload' the very minute you've strapped on a fresh diaper; knowing all along that a well-timed, one-toothed giggle will serve to erase any memory of that puree-splattered wall, or those now-shredded documents.

I'm not a mother (in case you're wondering worriedly at the passion with which I indulge)...but I have been exposed to a period of nanny'ing for a couple of months two years ago. Yes...two years ago. And yet I haven't forgotten..

All hail those mummies who manage to walk out of this daily battle with the smile of a martyr, and all limbs intact. Sleepless nights and months of accumulated fatigue are selflessly pushed aside for the little creatures they call their own.

And this bit's just the beginning!


HAPPY MOTHERS DAY EVERYONE! :)



Cheers.

Reunion of a Different Kind

To say that I was a 'bookworm', would be the understatement of the decade. At one point (i'm almost afraid to profess), I was one of those uber-geeky kids who'd always have a book in hand, having the 'audacity' to read even when on a social call.

I couldn't help it. It's been engraved in me for as long as I can remember. I couldn't give a damn about how I could make my pinafore-uniform seem cooler, just as long as Anne (of Green Gables)would beat Gilbert to the Avery Prize. Enid Blyton was my Beyonce, and a visit to the bookstore was too magical for my little dweeby-self to express. The school day revolved around my English class; racing to the end of the reading list, and having the freedom to express my opinion onto a piece of paper was the greatest high of all.

Then along came high school, university, a social life, and the internet. Not necessarily in that order but each carrying equal damage.

I found that I had less time to read, and more time to check-on my face book page. I'd drop a decent novel in deference to a last-minute shopping expedition. Kareoke night trumped Ayn Rand,and embarrassingly on more than one occassion I stood up Tolstoy for Hugh Jackman.

Even when I was at a stage when I really didn't have much to do, my pile of unread books would pile higher. I'd still visit the book fair like I have done religiously ever since it's inception...and I'd still sneak in a secret whiff of each new title I buy before I read it. But somehow I'd only really find time when I didn't want to think of a particular something that was bothering me, or on a Thursday night when I had no plans, or when the internet at home went bust. But deep down I knew I still wanted that floor-to-ceiling library more than than that Chanel tribute bag.

But of late...I had got hold of a novel. One of those your eyes just couldn't peel away from, and your fingers had a will of their own. I carried it in my handbag, and would sneak in a page / chapter or two during lunch breaks, at hospital waiting rooms, even in a moving vehicle.

And it all came back to me, in that comforting heady rush that only fond memories can conjure.
It's true what they say about old habits dying hard. They might be in a coma for a few years, but you'll be at their bedside everyday until they wake up..speaking to them, re-assuring them that all hope is not lost. Yes, it's rather creepy of me to personify a hobby as a dying person, but i'm hoping my poetic license will save me from being strait-jacketed straight (get it?) to the loony bin.

It's like your best girlfriend y'know? The moment some new, buff man comes into your life, aformentioned bestie is chucked aside. But as soon as you're the one chucked, bestie's shoulder is right there waiting for you...no matter how hurt she was all along.

Now when i'm off for a mall-trawl, my Magrudy's (book store) points-card sits comfy in it's little niche inside my wallet, along with my Grazia discount card. I've re-kindled the habit of exchanging titles with other avid readers, and have accumulated quite a collection of cosmopolitan bookmarks (Hello nerdville!). Don't quite know if i'll put off a good dosh-session with the girls, for a pick at the pages just yet though!


If you love something, let it go. If it comes back to show, that's how you know eh?



Cheers.

Of Pocketed Passions and Silent Sufferings

One of the many attributes that make us human beings highest in the hierarchy, is probably the ability and variance with which we express emotion.

Identical twins can have the exact tendencies in every aspect of their lives, but in the way they handle pain, for example. One might choose to mourn out loud, expelling heartbreaking sobs that melt the heartstrings of just about anyone made to listen. The other might decide to withhold on vocalization, preferring instead to suffer alone. Silently, and drawing as little attention to herself as is possible; hoping that noone else will suspect and interfere.

We walk down the same streets everyday; meet new people, meet old people. Cuss at a swerving taxi-driver, and indifferently order our regular cuppa from the local cafe. For all you know, that cabbie was fervently rushing home on hearing the news of a new addition to his family. For all you know, the barrista that just handed you your skim-latte had just ended his 10-year marriage the night before. For all you know, your colleague in the adjacent cubicle is suppressing a victory dance deserving of his team's victory.
The pensive chap to your right at the bus-stop probably just got laid-off, and the guy smoking profusely on your left probably just got laid.
The woman you're kneeling / sitting next to at mosque / church, is praying as hard as you are. Is she a mother begging for her son's safe return? A battered wife beseeching for guidance? Or a daughter, hoping against all hope that her father recovers?

Everyone's got a cloud above their head, hovering and following them every single minute of every day; some with a silver lining, and some without. We grieve, we rejoice. We mourn the loss of a loved one, or replay the freshness of a new relationship. Our friends and family, our closest confidantes might know...but those strangers you happen to bump into on your way out of the elevator, or those familiar-but-can't-quite-place faces you smile a polite acknowledgement; they have no idea. Just like you have no clue.


Indifference is welcoming sometimes; it's non-claustrophobic, non-judgemental, and non-pitying.
Beacuse your burden is burden enough. And because you just can't pretend with yet another person that you feel their pain, when in truth you're just glad you're not them. We're gluttons in times of glory, and selfish in times of anguish.


Not because we're terrible people. But just because we're human.

Talk of Troubled Times

The one thing we owe to all this recession schmesession is the potential it has for conversation.


We all love to complain. And once the signal turns green, we can launch into a series of anecdotes, 'tsk tsk' at the downfall of the dollar, and list out the names of close friends / relatives affected by the splurge of job cuts.

An awkward date can turn into a conversation smooth enough to rival one of 007's chat-up lines. Over coffee, the men attempt to predict when the economy will finally revive, the Stepford's fret over whether or not their husbands will be able to gift them this Spring's Gucci, and mother's exchange figures of their children's friends who've had to drop out of school.

It's a food fight of buzzwords like 'slump' and 'lay-offs.' It's a horror movie with villanous bonus-dispensing CEO's and victimized Merril Lynch'ers. Everyone's heard of the 'R' word, and even a 5-year-old could point out that the Credit Crunch is not a new Nestle' product.

Frankly i'm tired. Tired of every new subject I bring up stubbornly retracting back to the 'current economic situation.'
I'd like to be able to talk about the weather, without having someone point out that the recent rainfall is a reflection of the gloom of the markets. Convocation ceremonies are clouded over with whispers of 'It's a shame. What a terrible time to graduate.' The joy of a new addition to the family is quashed by the worry of up-keep. Even the secure individuals live a wary existence, just waiting for the metaphorical axe to fall.

Sometimes I find myself actually believing that we have a soft spot for all this gloom and doom. We love the drama it brings, the stories we have to tell, and for some perverse reason we're kinda fond of the fear of the unknown. Maybe we're just tired of the monotony of routine, the safety net of a secure existence.

And I just dedicated an entire post to the subject I claim to be whinging about. Proof enough.


The human psyche..go figure.


Cheers (?)

That Gut Feeling

When we're put in a situation that requires us to choose..say between right and wrong, yes or no, with or without cheese..we often tend to think too hard. Be it the simplest of choices or the matter-of-life-and-death decisions, we try and weigh out the pros and cons, get a second opinion or even toss a coin.

But how many times have we relied on that coin to help come to a conclusion only for us to toss again. 'Let's just do best out of three.'
Because sometimes you don't need to think so hard. Turns out the answer's at the tip of your tongue..regurgitated from your gut. We ought to give more credit to that gut feeling people keep going on about.

You know how hard it is to seperate cotton if you pull really hard, but when you just tug at it lightly the pieces seperate with cushiony ease? Maybe we're not supposed to try so hard. Maybe sometimes the answer's just there..waiting for you to look up and take notice.

And when asked why you chose this rather than that, you can't explain it. It just feels right.

Fearing Regret / Regretting Fear

In my opinion, the scariest thing in the whole world is the fear of the unknown.

It's like you're hanging off a cliff in pitch black...not knowing whether to let go, or hang on until help arrives. Because for all you know, the floor could be littered with jagged rocks waiting to rip you to pieces as soon as you loose grip. On the other hand, there could be a strategically placed collection of puffy cushions...arranged to make sure you feel no pain when you fall.

Do you take the risk? Do you have nothing to lose?

Most rational fears boil down to this one thing...not knowing what's going to happen next. You're terrified of heights because just about anything could happen while you're up there. Take that moment of realization when you've taken a wrong turn into unexplored territory for instance, or that chill when face-to-face with an aggressor. If you had been pre-warned that the assailant was going to first aim for face, you'd know to stick up your hand and protect it. And if you had a map in hand, you'd discover where exactly you were, and figure out the easiest route to get you back on track.

But what when you don't? What when you don't have that manual that defines which part fits into outlet B. When you don't have the blurg to a book that tells you what's inside? Or when you don't have a recipe, but just the ingredients. What do you do then?

You're scared shitless that you've made the wrong decision. That after taking a right at the fork, you realize that you should have taken the left one all along.

And after that?
I suppose we could regret. Swear at the circumstances. Blame the sun for falling in your eyes even. Or we could make it work for us.

I just saw this documentary, where this one man in a war-torn country decided to take a new route to walk to work one day. Less than halfway through his trek, he tripped on a rock, fell on a landmine, and lost his arms for good. He spoke of his remorse. How for the first few years he lived every day regretting having ever taken that alternative route.
But now this man...he writes with his feet. He wakes up each morning, brushes his teeth and puts on his clothes everyday...using just his feet.

It's a terrible thing to afflict anyone sure...but I feel that sometimes shit happens to strong people, to serve as inspiration for the not so strong. Just like we follow the lives of Hollywood personas, the struggling and torn turn to others as messed up for guidance, reassurance and faith.

So that maybe one day they too can let go of their regret, move on, and be ready to make a decision again with fear as fresh and raw as the previous one.

Easier said than done of course. But this is just me, and my curiosity getting the better of me; rying to find a loophole in the document labelled 'Unfair.'

The Way the Cookie Crumbles

I've always loved fortune cookies. Ever since I was that fat kid who'd pig out on chinese food (sad, but true), I'd wait for the end of the meal to the part they served up those absurdly shaped biscuits. I'd pick the one I thought held my fortune, and believe with all my heart that that cookie was meant for just me.

I still love those darned cookies. But now that i'm aware that the odds of someone else getting my fortune is quite likely, the magic's gone. Also the fact that all the cookie ever tells you is what you already know...only in a more mysterious-seeming way.
I recall my last one stating that: "He who rushes, does not walk with dignity." It sounds so sensai'ish when you first read it, but it's not long before you realize the diplomat in that biscuit.


One thing I never was into was horoscopes. I never understood the thrill of living each day to see if that daily prediction came true. I never did give a hoot that I'm a Libran, neither have I shown any form of excitement when encountering another(trust me I know people who do).

What I don't understand is how perfectly intelligent human beings can reach out for that page religiously each morning, and believe that whatever stated is what's to be in store for the day. Do you not realize that a gazillion other Scorpio(n?)s are opening up to that same page, reading the exact same thing, and again coming to the conclusion that they're ready for the day. Beacuse now they know what to expect.
In that case, all pisces' are to expect to meet a tall, dark stranger at noon today. Or expect a surprise visitor at the break of dawn. Sorry..but I don't buy it.

The scary bit, is that some are so drawn into this prediction hype that they come to sub-conciously make their prediction happen. In his/her head that surprise visitor could even be the grocery boy delivering his/her order earlier than expected. Or afore-mentioned tall, dark stranger could just turn out to be a cardboard cut-out of Will Smith.


What is it that attracts us so magnetically to needing to know what's in store for us? Sort of like a friend leaking out the end of a perfectly good movie, (or even a terrible one at that), don't horoscopes, fortune-tellers, etc. threathen to do just that?
Maybe it's just human nature to be lured to the unknown..the intrigue of the mysterious. Sort of like a real-life game of cluedo.

Eitherway, I'm starting to understand how curiosity killed that infamous cat.


Cheers.