Plastic Reigns Supreme.

The Perfect Woman? Image taken from RealDoll On a friend’s recommendation, I recently got myself a copy of this month’s Marie Claire (even though it is not one of those magazines that I would normally purchase on a monthly basis). After I had reached home and settled comfortably on my bed, I unwrapped the magazine, turned it over, flipped open the back cover and read the article on the last page. It was written by a 30-something singleton, April Kuan, on Malaysian men’s tendency to prize physical assets over everything else when it comes to women. She lamented over how difficult it is for a single woman in this country to find a man on the same piece of land who could look beyond physical imperfections. Even as I was reading the last paragraph, I thought to myself: How spot-on! My sentiments exactly! While I was doing the dating rounds in the UK, I had never once worried about not being pretty/sexy enough to snag a man. Somehow, the men there generally don’t seem to care much about your physical attributes or other superficialities such as your age or your origins. Somehow, the thought that I might not be good-looking enough to date a particular someone had never crossed my mind. I remember having a huge culture shock when I came home. But after a while, I thought to myself: Hey, nothing’s changed. Things have always been this way over here. Malaysian men do regard the aesthetic qualities of a woman as the most important thing. Our boys have yet to evolve from this type of mentality. I know so many wonderful, intelligent women with tonnes of personality who would like to date, but have yet to meet willing suitors. What they lack in physical perfection, they more than make up with their tremendous inner beauty. On the other hand, I also happen to know plenty of women who leave a lot to be desired in terms of personality, character, attitude and/or intelligence, but have no problems getting a man. No prizes for guessing how well these women score in the looks department. Some even come with long-suffering boyfriends who still hang around despite countless emotional and mental abuse. What’s that I hear? Not all of them are like that? I’m just being a bitter, over-generalising cow? Sure, we’ve heard and read about those men who are supposedly pro-personality. But I have yet to meet one in the flesh (Have you?) that I’m beginning to suspect that they are just fictitious characters cooked up and marketed widely by the opposite sex to give women like us false hopes, aside from as a feeble attempt to salvage their reputation, that is. Seriously, do any of you know anyone like that? Because I sure as hell would like to know where to find them – and I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one here who’s interested to know. Oh, come on guys. Be honest. Between Amber Chia and Adibah Noor, don’t tell me you’d pick the latter. Even the physically-defective ones would want an Amber Chia as a partner. An example closer to home: my brother got engaged 3 months after meeting his wife, and tied the knot a month after. He never had a girlfriend before, so you could imagine my shock when out of the blue, my mother called to tell me that he was getting married. I had never met her before – I didn’t even know of her existence – so I asked my brother what she was like, what made him choose her as his life partner. He only had this to offer: “Because she’s beautiful.” What, I said. Beautiful as a person? Is she nice? “I don’t know. I don’t know her well ... well, not yet, anyway. But she’s certainly very pretty!” My palm was really itching to slap him to his senses right there and then, but alas, miles of ocean and land that separated us at that moment saved him from such a harsh fate, so I slapped my forehead instead. My brother. My very own flesh and blood – a real-life specimen of the very thing I hate most about the typical Malaysian man. This notion is further reinforced recently during a teh-tarik session with the usual suspects late last Saturday. It started with a chat about the movie I had just watched earlier, ‘Lars and the Real Doll’, about how a man had found a substitute for a girlfriend in a life-sized sex toy named Bianca. So, at the end of our little discussion, I had posed this question to them: Real Doll or Real Women? A, W, K & J eagerly jumped into it: “Real Dolls are hot! Have you seen the size of those bazookas? And they are supposed to feel like real flesh, too. I mean, just imagine: boobs that will never sag and stay in shape, no matter what you do to them.” “Eh, brader, don’t forget ah – a pussy that stays tight.” “Aaaannnd, get this: you don’t have to worry about getting her pregnant, ever. So you can do her all you want and don’t even need to worry about condoms and all that shit.” “Ya lor. The best thing is, they don’t nag, complain or answer back, and they will never say ‘No’!” They all broke into a raucous laughter. But, I said. What about personality and all that? You mean, you’d rather date a dumb piece of silicone than a real woman who could stimulate more than just your loins? “Haiyah. Very high-maintenance lah those types of women. A smart woman you have to keep up with her intellectually, otherwise she’d get bored with you in no time. A real woman you have to wine and dine, fulfil their demands, etc etc. Very leceh lah. Too much effort. A Real Doll will always be ready, willing and able – you can hump her anytime you want and how many times you like. You don’t even need to speak to her. You don’t have to pay her, impress her, woo her, keep her happy. She won’t complain if you use her as a cum bucket. Happy ever after, see?” The rest nodded in agreement with a smug, victorious smile plastered over their faces. I didn’t know which was more disturbing: the fact that my friends would rather choose an inanimate object over a human being, or that one of them had actually referred to a sex toy as a ‘she’. I told them that they’re pathetic. I also told them that this just proved what’s been known for a fact all along. That men on this side of the world do have a ridiculous approach when it comes to women they choose to be with. It is all, and has always been, about looks, looks, looks. No matter how much some of them deny it (just so they don’t seem like a shallow jerk, perhaps?). It doesn’t matter if the woman can’t string a simple sentence together, or has the personality of a plank of wood, or is nastier than herpes. As long as she looks good, she will have no problems whatsoever reeling them in. Basically, if you’re hot, nothing else matters. Not to the men, at least. And they say we are picky - that that’s the reason why there are so many single women in Malaysia these days. I mean, if this is all we’ve got, what hope is there? My mother gave out this gem of an observation when I had asked for her opinion on it once: “Orang lelaki ni, pentingkan martol dia aje. Biar dia tak makan, janji martol dia makan. Tu sebab bila pilih pompuan, pilih yang muda, yang lawa aje.” (Men think with their dicks. It’s alright if he doesn’t eat, as long as his dick gets some. That’s why they tend to go for the young, pretty ones). I rest my case. Who am I to argue with my mother?

Eternal Sunshine of the Restless Mind.

Memories burnt are lessons forgotten. The title was bizarre. The sypnosis was intriguing. So, in the wee hours of a Sunday morning, I sat down in front of the telly and watched ‘Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind’. The movie was as bizarre as its title, but a good one nevertheless. One that is both funny and sad (but not overly dramatic) at the same time. One that makes you ponder on its subject matter. What if you could have a choice of erasing some of your memories, particularly those connected to somebody who had mattered greatly to you – would you have it done? After the movie had ended and the telly had been switched off, I sat for while in the dark contemplating this. I thought about all the things that had happened in the past, things which were painful to remember, things which had ended on an unpleasant note. Would I have them erased? Yes, it may make the process of moving on easier, but is it all worth it in the end? I tried to imagine the outcome should I choose to do that. Enveloped in blissful ignorance, would I be happier? So I sat and I sat ... ... and I thought and I thought ... ... and decided that no, I don’t think having them erased would be the best option. Yes, there are certain things that I’d rather not happen, or remember, but I’d like to think that they all played a part in the emergence of a stronger, wiser and calmer person. You remember things, you learn from them; for each failure, there is a lesson to be learnt. You learn not to make the same mistake again by remembering what happened the last time you did it. You learn what to do and what not to do today by yesterdays’ examples. You had your heart broken, you learn to be more wary and careful in future affairs. You suffered through a humiliating ordeal, you develop a thicker skin which makes you more immune to similar future occurrences. You got burnt quite bad, you learn to hold your head up high and move on. They’re all part and parcel of the person you have become today. Experiences are essential in one’s personal growth, towards becoming a better human being. Besides, memories, no matter how painful, make you feel alive, make you feel human. I would imagine that I’d feel quite hollow without those memories. Furthermore, at the end of the day, they are all you’ve got to hold on to, good or bad.

The Rack Whisperer.

In-your-face: Jennifer Love Hugetits shouts out, "Hello boys!" A friend had once told me how hot he thinks Jennifer Love Hewitt is. Angelina Jolie, Eva Mendes, Charlize Theron - those, I can understand. But Jennifer Love Hewitt? Frankly, I don’t get it. I find her a bit annoying even. She’s always so cutesy and skippy and cheery and bubbly; every time I see her on screen, I get this strong urge to destroy something beyond recognition, preferably something just as cutesy and skippy and cheery and bubbly. And I have always wondered at her ability to stay the same no matter what character she plays, and at her hair’s ability to stay perfectly in place no matter what the situation. But this afternoon, I decided to give her (and my friend) the benefit of the doubt and watched ‘The Ghost Whisperer’, in the hope of seeing something that I might have entirely missed before. I mean, this friend of mine is not exactly the shallow type, so I thought: there might be something there after all. So I watched the show this afternoon, and I could clearly see her appeal. Yes, there was definitely something there, alright. Not just one, mind, but two of them. They were hard to miss, because they took centre stage without fail in almost every scene. Her prominent rack display proves to be the biggest (please excuse the intended pun) star of the show. Turns out that she’s not just cutesy and skippy and cheery and bubbly, but also extremely bouncy. I swear, you men are so bloody transparent. The whole lot of you. (And yes, I still think it’s a stupid show.)

The State of My Love(less) Affair.

A party of one can be just as fun, if not more. A well-meaning friend had recently tried to set me up on a blind date with somebody whom she thought would be ‘perfect’ for me, to which I had politely declined. “But you haven’t even met him yet! He’s cultured, intelligent, articulate and absolutely lovely! Give him a chance lah! Give yourself a chance!” I asked her what she had meant by that last sentence. “You haven’t been dating for God knows how long. Don’t you think it’s time that you let somebody in once again?” But why? Why do I need to? How is it going to enhance my life? “I’m just worried for you. I just want to see you happy. You deserve to be happy.” I simply had to laugh at this point. What makes you think I am not lah? Do I look miserable to you? I’m perfectly fine just the way it is. You don’t see me moping about just because I don’t have a boyfriend, do you? Besides, let’s not waste another poor guy’s time. He’s not going to get anything out of this. I then suggested that she go ask another friend instead, someone who might find her dream guy in the one she tried to set me up with. Someone who is actually looking. For you uninitiated lot out there, I have friends who are more concerned about the state of my (non-existent) love life than I ever will be. But as far as I’m concerned, my love life has been nothing but one big joke so far. Sure, I’ve dated quite a few, but I had only ever been in a relationship with a handful. There was that fuckwit with hands like an octopus’ tentacles. He dumped me for the town’s slut after I turned down his overzealous sexual advances for the umpteenth time (His infamous parting words: “You are seriously making me ill from all these pent-up sexual frustrations!” Hah. One could only wish.) There was that Axl Rose lookalike who was the sweetest person I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing, who had met his fate in an accident 2 months into our relationship. Then, there was that member of a (now-defunct) boyband, whose celebrity status I wasn’t aware of when I first started dating him. As soon as I found out about it, though, I had quickly planned my escape route – purely for the reason of not wanting to find my pugly mug splashed across some daily tabloid one fine day. Besides, I’m allergic to boybands. Finally, there was The One Who Nearly Became Mr. pugly, whom I had left after a serious reconsideration and an attack of cold feet. To this day, I still don’t know what exactly had possessed me to say ‘Yes’ to him in the first place. It must’ve seemed like a pretty good idea then. In all my romantic relationships so far, I wouldn’t exactly say that there was an element of ‘love’ involved, though, at least not on my part. Sure, I cared about them a great deal then, but it was more like the sort of affection you have towards your very good friends. None of the set-one’s-heart-aflutter-when-one-thinks-about-the-other type that is so typically associated with this thing called ‘love’. In fact, if you were to ask me what love is, I don’t think I would be able to answer. I don’t think I know for sure. Well, not the romantic type, anyway. I think the closest I’ve felt to ‘love’ only happened twice so far, once with The One Who Never Was, and the other quite recently. Both times, the same situation applied: it started off quite promising ... and then it simply died on me. Just like that. A lot like premature ejaculation, except perhaps more frustrating (and there’s no remedy for it). The most recent one was the most intense (for me) so far as everything had happened against the odds. Despite myself, despite my adamant proclamation and conviction that love is for everyone but me, I find myself slowly yet surely falling for him – he with all his flaws. Despite my long-held belief that there’s no one out there whom I would want to spend the rest of my life with, I find myself going: “Hey, you’re different. I don’t mind having you around for life. Hell, I would love to have you around for life!” And despite him not being my usual ‘type’ (i.e. tall, of athletic build and outgoing), I find myself turned on by him nevertheless – before, I had never thought that I would fancy someone with a pot belly, not in a million years. But alas, he’s made it clear time and again that I’m nothing more than just a random acquaintance in his life. No one significant. While he was constantly on my mind day after day, I never once made an appearance in his. I’m not about to throw myself at him and plead and beg for his love – you can’t make somebody love you, besides, that’s just not my style – so I took that as a cue for me to close the doors and refocus on other things, things that had once mattered most in my life. Letting go did hurt enormously, but hey, I shouldn’t be surprised anymore. I should even expect such an outcome what with an indisputable track record so far of things not turning out the way I want the more I hope for it. So, you see, so far, love has been nothing to me but a mere mirage. It had looked like something was there from a distance, but as I got closer, I found that nothing was there in the first place. Can you blame me for being cynical? Yes, love could be a wonderful thing, but unrequited love is a different story altogether. It sucks. Big Time. So, to all my concerned friends out there, please note that the current status is: Single but Not Available. The point of this entry is not to gather sympathy from anyone, so please, spare me the cooing, reassuring remarks. I don’t want anyone feeling sorry for me, because I’m not - it’s not like a major disaster or anything. It’s for the purpose of self-reflection, and also to set the record straight with some of my friends out there, once and for all. Stop worrying about me. I have come to accept the fact that some people are destined to go through life alone, so there’s really no point in fretting over it, is there? Please don’t say that there’ll be someone else, or that I have yet to meet the right person, because I very much doubt it, not at this stage of my life. It’s been far too long a ‘wait’, so I’ll take it as a hint that perhaps for me, things are never meant to be, ever. So while I appreciate your efforts in trying to ‘make me happy’, I assure you, it’s OK. I’ll be OK. I promise. So why shouldn’t you be? There is more to life than a man’s love, and there are 1001 far better things to do than to wallow in self-pity. Besides, there are far more important things to worry about than the state of one’s love(less) life.

Tit Talk.

Care for a ripe pair, anyone? Image courtesy of ScottoGrotto My friend and I were queuing up for our movie tickets last week, when we overheard an amusing conversation going on behind us (Caution: 18SX material ahead): “Eh, Tina, aku risau lah.” (Tina, I’m worried) “Apsal?” (Why?) “Tembikai aku ni, apsal tak besar-besar ah? Dari dulu aku tengok macam ni je. Tak syok ah.” (It’s my melons. Why aren’t they growing any bigger? They’ve always been this size. It’s no fun.) “Hmm.” “Eh, Tina, kau tau tak macam mana nak besarkan benda alah ni? Macam mana ah? Ada pil ke, krim apa2 ke aku boleh cuba try?” (Do you know how to make them bigger? Is there a pill or a cream that I can try?) “Alah, apa nak susah-susah? Suruh je boyfriend kau kerjakan tembikai kau selalu. Bila dah selalu kena ramas, kena hisap, besar lah dia. Tengok macam aku punya ni.” (Why go through all that trouble? Just ask your boyfriend to play with them often. Once they are regularly fondled and sucked on, they will become bigger. Just look at mine.) “Hisyh. Tak mau lah aku. Apa lah engkau ni. Ada ke …” (No, thank you. What kind of a suggestion is that?) “Tu lah engkau. Nama je duduk KL, tapi macam anak dara pingitan. Hal biasalah tu beb.” (That’s the problem with you. You live in KL, yet you are so chaste. That’s normal.) (A fit of giggles.) My friend and I looked at each other, not exactly sure what to make of that. I stole a glance at the girls behind me, and thought that they looked pretty young – young enough to be in their teens. After paying for our tickets, we headed for the snack bar for some popcorn & drinks. “Eh, betul ke what she said tadi? (Is it true what she said?) Can it give a woman bigger boobs?” my friend asked while we were waiting for our orders. Apsal, you nak try it on your girlfriend ke? (Why, are thinking of trying it on your girlfriend?) “Tak la. Curious je to know if it’s true or just dongeng.” (No, just curious to know if it’s true or just a myth.) Beats me, I said. But that’s not the first time I’ve heard about it. “Wah, kalau orang lain pun ada cakap macam tu, there must be some truth in it lah jugak, ye tak?” (If others are saying the same thing, there must be some truth in it after all, don’t you think?) I shrugged. I don’t know. I don’t see any logic in that claim, though. “Hey, you used to be quite flat-chested kan? Macam mana boleh besar macam ni sekarang ah? You punya pun sebab dah kena kerjakan ke?” (Hey, you used to be quite flat-chested, didn’t you? How do they become this big now? Have yours been played with, too?) I replied with a swat on his head with the day’s newspaper, killing his sniggers right away.

Bagging It.

Never judge a handbag by its size. A friend once said to me that one of the universe’s greatest mysteries is a woman’s handbag. How could she fit so much into such a little space? Why does she have to carry so much stuff in the first place? He told me that it is one of his favourite things to go to a woman and ask her for something – a plaster, a stationery item, a kitchen sink, anything; somehow watching a woman rummage into her bag and pull out the requested item provides an endless source of amusement for him. He said it’s like watching a magic show – the part where the magician pulls a variety of unthinkable stuff out of his hat. Yes, my friend really needs to find himself a new hobby and perhaps get a life too while he’s at it, but I can relate somehow. I remember how I loved to rummage through my mother’s handbag when I was little. Her handbag was to me a little wonderland in its own right – a treasure trove of sorts. I had found sweets, chocolates, toys, books, magazines - even a kitten once, in her bid to cheer me up when I was down with chicken pox. But seriously folks, why do we women feel the need to lug around so much stuff with us? Do we really need all those stuff or is it because women are generally hoarders by nature? Ask a man to show you the stuff he carries around with him, and he would most likely empty the contents of his trouser pocket to you. Even if he does carry a bag of sorts, the contents are less likely to be as ‘complicated’ as that of a woman’s. As much as I try to be fuss-free, even I myself find the contents of my bag baffling sometimes. I sometimes find myself wondering at some of the items I fish out of it, with one of the following questions running through my mind as I scrutinise the said item: a) How did that get in there? b) What is this doing in there? c) How long has it been in there? The Fabulous Drama Diva has recently tagged me (see how I link this week’s entry to the tag that I owe her? Aren’t I cleverrr?), asking me to empty out the contents of my handbag and list them down here. What I always carry with me is not exactly a handbag, but rather a sling bag from the Japanese store, Muji, bought 7 years ago in London, which still serves me well. It’s sleek, yet I can cram all sorts of nonsense into it without it bursting at the seams. So, lo and behold, the contents of my bag (as of 7 April 2008): A small make-up bag containing one black mascara, one navy eyeliner, a blusher, a compact powder, a compact mirror and 2 lip glosses; my wallet; my mobile phone; my digital camera; a packet of tissues; a piece of rose quartz; a Hot Wheels toy car; 2 notebooks; a note pad; a pad of Post-It notes; a pack of facial blotters; 3 pens; 5 sets of keys; a foldable brolly; a couple of CDs; 2 pen drives; an MP3 player; baby wipes; sunglasses; my work tag; painkillers; glasses (for driving in unfamiliar areas); a packet of Polo mints; a bracelet; a metal spoon; a couple of recently-paid bills; a tube of hand cream; a tube of lip balm; a couple of sanitary pads; a pair of spare undies; a small bottle of bath gel; a small bag of kitty biscuits a namecard holder; random bits of paper. I know I probably have way too much in there than I would probably ever need, but try as I might on countless times to pare them down to the barest essentials, I find myself piling the ‘unnecessary’ stuff back on in no time. There were times when I’d even feel naked and ill-equipped if my bag feels lighter than usual. I don’t know. Maybe I am a hoarder. But at least I know I’m well-prepared in case of emergencies – not just mine, but others’, too.

Mangled Accent.

What la you ... kacau me want to sleep only! I was having teh tarik recently with an old mate of mine at our usual haunt, when he stopped mid-conversation and looked at me as if he’d seen me for the first time. “Hey, your accent. You’ve lost it.” What accent? You dreaming ah, brader? “Your accent lah. Your thick British accent tu. Sudah hilang wor! (It’s gone!)” Goodness, I said. Was it THAT bad ke? “Bad? Pfft! I still remember the first time I spoke to you on the phone. I thought which sesat gwailo lah ini (I thought it was some lost Caucasian). And you sounded so sultry pulak tu on the phone. Gagap I dibuatnya! (You made me stutter!)” Yes, I said. Actually, you’re not the first to comment on my so-called ‘sultry phone voice’. I’ve even had some poor sods claiming they had fallen in love with me over the phone. And then, they met me in person. And with that, their fantasies extinguished. Like a bonfire in a hurricane. Someone even suggested that I become a phone-sex operator - a job which, in his serious opinion, I would be most suited for. But I digress. We’re not here to discuss my potential/talents as a phone-sex operator. We’re here to discuss how my speech had evolved over the years. Having been born and raised in the city, communicating in English has always been like second nature to me. I used the language all the time, sometimes even more than my mother tongue. I even went through a pretentious phase where I insisted on inflicting on everyone’s eardrums that certain brand of English seemingly favoured by many Malaysians, the one with the strange American twang (thanks to American movies and tv series/sitcoms which were oh-so-cool at that time). So when I went overseas, I guess it was only expected that I would pick up the native accent and adopt it as if it were my own. Slangs and all. When I came back home for good 5 years ago, I have been told by some that they had felt intimidated and nervous talking to me. They told me that they would basically sweat their armpits out whenever they had to communicate with me, because I talked too fast and my English was ‘too proper’ – they had a hard time trying to catch up with my speech. It was an unconscious behaviour on my part, of course. I didn’t do it to show off; it was more out of habit than anything else. I was interacting and communicating with the locals in their different dialects all the time on a daily basis - more so during my working years there – that it sort of carried over when I returned home as I was so used to it, but thinking back now, I could’ve imagined how pretentious and ‘mengada’ I must’ve sounded to some back then. It still makes me cringe whenever I think about it. I can still put on the accent, but these days, I prefer to use it sparingly. Besides, Manglish is more fun. It’s such an expressive, unique language filled with so much warmth; never has a language sounded so animated. Plus, there are certain words that you just can’t find the equivalent for in any other language, no matter how hard you try; somehow they just lack the punch when uttered in English – words such as chi-bye, aiyoh and pundek. Some more ah, so LCLY one if a Malaysian talk English got slang one – like siao only like dat!