Rants & Raves of Jasmine's Fiction

Scritch Scratch!

LORD ALMIGHTY.  I itch to high heaven.

You know how people say the severity of the itch is proportional to the reach?  I am thanking GOD at this very moment that I’m flexible. Unfortunately I’m a nail biter so the lack of fingernails is really hindering my relief. AND I think I’m about to develop RSI from repeating the [scritch scritch scritch] motion.

No you perverts.  I’m not talking about an itch I can’t scratch, or anything of the sexual kind. I’m talking about massive anaphylactic shock allergic reaction.

Folks, I’ve broken out in rash of the unbelievably itchy & inflamed sort.  And it’s covering some serious body real estate. I’m talking like I just rolled naked in a bikini in a VAT of poison ivy.

Seriously.  I’m about a square inch of skin away from going insane. As this is being written I’m in the hospital getting animal grade antihistamines intravenously fed into my body to counteract this irritation. 

BTW, this is AFTER I’ve swallowed 1080mg of Fexofenadine and liberally smeared an ENTIRE tube of hydrocortisone cream over every itchy surface of skin. That includes my eyeballs.

I’m gonna bet 10 bucks that within the next 10 minutes I will be screaming for the nurse to bring me a frigging wire brush so that I may scour off all the offending skin.

What triggered this off?  One doctor thinks its something I ate. Another doctor thinks its something I’m taking.  I don’t care either way.  I just want this itch to go away. I’m getting the heeby-jeebies just looking at myself.

But right now? I need an extra set of hands. With fingernails.  Someone come help me. Eh on second though, scratch that nevermind. Contrary to popular belief I can indeed scratch my own arse.  And every other itchy surface.  AARGH!

Sweets From The Sweet

You all know about my closet cowering over the 14^th day of the 2^nd month. It really wasn’t all that bad I have to say.  After all, my closet is filled with nice clothes and all my lovely shoes and the lavender smells are all really nice and calming.

I crawled out for air recently to find that although I went into hiding, people still managed to find a way to remember me.  Here’s a quick list of thoughts I received:

-         4 cards

-         15 flowers

-         8 boxes of chocolates

-         2 teddy bears

-         1 dead mouse

-         1 death threat

-         2 rave reviews

-         1 hate mail

Not too bad I reckon!  My favourite has to be the dead mouse. It was hugged and squeezed and it was named George.  Don’t ask.  Just accept it.  I now have to open my anthrax filled hate mail.  Happy ValenSwine’s Day everyone!

FIRE IN THE HOLE!

For The Love Of Commercialism

It’s February.  That Dreaded Day is fast approaching.  If I could cower in the darkness of my closet till the day after I’d be a happy person.

Why?  Because I hate commercialism in all its money-grubbing glory.  Because I’m a cynical, cold hearted & callous bitch and I hate all that is mushy, fluffy and Hallmark-worthy.  Because every year I try my darn hardest to Ctrl-Alt-Del That Dreaded Day but inevitably some busybody will remind me by asking me if I have plans.  Because I think that bloody flipping Cherub should get its asexual genitals blown away by my Smith & Wesson 12-gauge shotgun.  Because I can feel nausea creeping up my oesophageal tube every time I see those little red hearts and roses.  Quick, someone give me a sick bag.

Oh don’t worry; I’m like that with anniversaries too.  I don’t see a point of making ONE day such a big issue.  I mean, what is ONE day out of 365?  EVERYDAY is special, or at the very least everyday should be special.  True it’s a lot effort but it shouldn’t matter if truly love a person right?

According to every posh restaurant, every florist and every gift shop out there, love is not enough.  You MUST spend the equivalent of your kidney, spleen and first born in order to ‘make the proper statement of love’.  This is commercialism at its zenith folks.

I saw bouquets of red roses (numbers ranging from 1 stem to 1 million) for sale when I was out at the shops recently.  I cannot sit at a restaurant without them pushing their special menu at me.  I cannot walk into a music shop or flip on my radio without getting my eardrums assaulted by gag worthy ‘love dedications’ and sappy love songs.  I can’t even roam the mall without being accosted to make public declaration of love to someone special, to buy a matchy-matchy couple t-shirts / watches / fragrances, or to sign up for the special package to take lovey-dovey couple pictures or get matching pedi-manis or even join a dating service! 

Yes a Dating Service!  God forbid that you are alone on That Dreaded Day. You will forever be reminded of much of a L-O-S-E-R you are.  But have no fear!  There are special events organised for single (and desperate) folks where you buy a ticket and they would computer match you up with another person and send both of you on a ‘mass date’ with about 60 other single, desperate & computer matched people.

AARRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHH!!!

I hate it.  I hate it all.  I’m having so much trouble trying to finish this blog it’s not even funny.  I’m not kidding.  This blog has taken me 2 days and counting.  It’s kinda hard to type while cowering in my closet. 

Dearest readers, I am not angry and bitter.  I’m all for the sentiment behind the day.  I just hate commercialism and the mass belief that we have to buy into all this materialistic bullshit to prove God-knows-what to God-knows-whom.

Love should not be about how much you can spend, how creative or outrageous you can get or how much sex you can have.  Love should be about cherishing every moment you spend, the memories you make and laughter you share, the care you give.  And why should love be only about the couples?  Love is universal whether you are single or attached, alone or surrounded by people, for friend & family alike.

With that being said, I’m signing off to continue my closet cowering.  Someone come get me when it’s all over.

To Kid Or Not To Kid

I was looking through the gossip section of the MSN website and there’s a whole bunch of articles out there regarding celebrities and their offspring.  You know the usual – Brittney and her driving with her baby on her lap, Madonna with the controversy over her adopted daughter, Angelina allegedly saying that she loves her two adopted kids more than her birth child…  Oh and who can forget Whacko Jacko and the baby dangle?

It kinda got me thinking…  Do I really want kids???

With my big Three-Uh-Oh day looming closer and closer I will admit that I can hear my biological clock ticking away like a time bomb. Sure as the sun rises, I will also periodically get some busybody reminding me “you are not getting any younger, you’re too picky about men, settle down and make babies quick” or “the best age to have kids is at 22” or my favourite “your eggs will dry up when you hit 30!”

But you know what?  Ticking biological explosives aside, I’m actually in no hurry to ‘settle down and make babies.’  Kids are expen$ive!  Don’t believe me?  Diapers, baby formula, clothes that will be outgrown in months, toys, paediatric bills – and then when they grow older it gets worse!  There’s now more clothes, more food, music/swimming/dance lessons, Cub Scout contributions, Christmas concert costumes…  Oh lets not forget college education, insurance policies, allowances, cars… Its neverending!!!

Also we need to face facts.  There’s this thing called karma.  I was an AWFUL child: 

-         I was HORRIBLE at mealtimes – picky, throwing up, running around…

-         I jumped off the roof into the swimming pool

-         I tried to set my sister on fire (among other horrors)

-         I had the motivation of a sea slug when it came to homework & housework

-         I got sick frequently – chicken pox, measles, you name it

-         I got teeth knocked out - both mine and other people

-         I got into a million fights – and that number is not an exaggeration

-         I killed rabbits

-         I started a school mafia – many schoolmates & their lunch money will attest to this

-         I actually succeeded in setting the school science labs on fire - twice

-         I got thrown into lockup – don’t ask

-         etc

My mother went completely grey before she was 40 and she cannot look back at my childhood without downing at least 4 Tylenol tablets.  If I had kids, mine will be worse.  Karma will kick my arse.

Then there’s also the inherent belief that I will inevitably and irreparably fuck ‘em up.  I’m already doing that to my nephews and nieces and all my mates’ ankle biters:

-         I know it’s blasphemous but I insert Bigfoot & faeries into bible readings to make it more ‘interesting’.

-         I convinced my niece that her dad’s fart is the sound of the rare ‘barking spider’ they have infesting their house.

-         I implanted the idea that house lizards eat humans to my sister when she was a wee lassie.  You can read about that here.

-         My nephew still thinks that jellyfish are plastic bags come to life from nuclear radiation in the ocean; and he’s now terrified of swimming in the ocean because he truly believes that it will turn him into a sea monkey.

-         I got my mate’s son into trouble for fighting in school when I taught him how to throw a punch and do wrist and ankle locks.

-         I waited till we were deep on a forest trail before freaking out my Cub Scout troop when I casually mentioned that leeches will wriggle through their eyes, ears, noses & mouths to suck out their brains.  LOL.

-         I constantly let small children believe that Hamburgers come from Hamsters; that frog spawn taste like jello; that garden snails have chocolate fillings; and human hair has a flossing benefit when you add it liberally to your meals.

I don’t think I should continue.  The list of horrors is quite extensive.  My students constantly tell me I’m a freak.  Believe me; I will scar the little tykes for life.  There will be need for therapy.

Don’t get me wrong people.  I’m actually really good with children.  Honest.  I babysat constantly, I’m a schoolteacher & a Cub Scout leader and I used to run the childcare programme at church.  So despite the fact that I don’t really like them all that much, I can hold my own, even when they cry or have soiled their diapers.  I’m also relatively tolerant of the little midgets in public spaces.  I don’t subscribe to the “leave your kids at home” prissy self-centred school of thought.

HOWEVER…

I’m actually only really tolerant of the well behaved ones.  I don’t mind the crying and the wailing and I can even understand the tantrum throwing ones.  They don’t know any better.

It’s the rampaging, shrieking, food throwing, chair kicking, spawn of Satan behaviour that will drive me to sterilisation.  Actually, the thing that pisses me off more has to be the indifferent parent.  You know - the ones that feign ignorance; or don’t bother to exercise any parental control whatsoever; or the ones that are so blinded by the fact that just because it’s their own kids therefore they can do no wrong.

There is nothing I hate more than to have my airplane/theatre chair constantly being kicked by a petulant child who wouldn’t stop inappropriately asking questions at the top of their voices and their parents just pretend that they don’t know what’s going on.

Or at a posh restaurant where the child turns into Satan’s howling minion but the parents just let them froth at the mouth, too engrossed in their fillet mignon to care.  For crying out loud!  Take your child outside and perform whatever exorcism your religion or paediatrician say works best!

I think it was at the Star Wars exhibition where all the original models used in the actual films that were painstakingly shipped from George Lucas’ Skywalker Ranch were on display that I finally realised that I DON’T WANT KIDS.  Mind you non Star Wars fans, a lot of these displays are over 30 years old and are irreplaceable.  I watched in horror as a 2 year old itchy-fingered child climbed the barrier AND the display cases to pound her little fists on the 8 foot star destroyer while her parents SAT uncaring nearby.  GAH.

So after all that – I know for sure I don’t want kids.  I may change my mind eventually when I turn 40 or 45 but I have a feeling that I may end up adopting.  Besides, with all the pharmaceuticals I've consumed, procreating may result in glow-in-the-dark offspring.  And that is NOT cool.

Balling The Issue

I went for my martial art class over the weekend and we were talking about self defence.  I remember arguing with my brothers-in-arms that one of the best male disarming techniques a girl has against any man would be the Spear, Grab, Twist & Pull.  I’m sure I don’t need to elaborate on where said technique should be applied to.

After a lot of cringing and involuntary knee closures, the boys were telling me that as a female (regardless of the butch factor), one really has NO IDEA what it feels like to have two extremely sensitive appendages dangling rather precariously off one’s nether region AND how much it really fucking hurts to have your jewels get whacked.

I admit it.  I really have no idea.  I’ve seen a man vomit all over himself after I Jackie Chan-ed his dingle-dangles.  I’ve been to tournaments where inevitably someone would pass out from a bone-crushing kick to the crotch.  I watch World Cup football where people stop devastating goal kicks with their huevos.  But I really have no clue. 

I also don’t understand the male need to scratch that general area constantly!  Some of my mates tell me that it’s an unconscious tic of sorts.  Others tell me that they are just checking to make sure that their buddies are still there. (?!?!?)

Honestly though gentlemen, if you do need to readjust or give in to the primal urge to claw your baubles, do it in PRIVATE.  Private as in, alone behind closed doors.  Not IN YOUR PRIVATES!!!

There is nothing more repulsive than to [scritch] watch a guy hustle [scritch] his testicles [scritch] yeah [scritch] aahhh [scritch scritch] oh… yeah [scritch scritch scritch].  PLEASE!!!

So why the bally bits?  My friend who works at a country club, recently had the most odious task to write a very sensitive letter to 3 club members (no pun intended) who were caught on several occasions brazenly shaving their balls together in the steam room of the men’s locker, après golf.

My friend is currently in tears and in trauma over the matter over how to delicately write the letter without mentioning hairy balls yet making the point loud and clear.  I’ve opted to help her out but I’m not sure if she will actually use my letter as I may be a bit too… well… Ballsy.  Pun definitely intended.

---

Dear Harry, Dick & Tom:

It has recently come to the attention of the administrative staff that the three of you have, on several occasions been observed by other members to be shaving your arse cracks and ball sacs in the steam room of the men’s lockers.

Please be advised that ball shaving is NOT permitted in our public facilities.  We would like to firmly suggest that you gentlemen relocate the grooming of your nether regions to a more suitable locale. Unless of course the appeal of the public steam room is that you enjoy massively oversharing the camaraderie of your fellow ball-shavers and prefer to complete the act of baldifying your nuts in the company of others?

Is it that you need your friends to tell you if you missed a spot?  Perhaps your fellow members of the Smooth Testes Club can step in and get those hard to reach areas for you; like the perineum, which we understand can be difficult to see while you’re bending over at the waist with your left leg thrown up over your shoulder.

Please note that we, the administrative staff understand your plight.  None of us enjoy hairy goat testicles either.  We also understand that the three of you are fine, young heartthrobs whose entire reputations rest upon the immaculate hairlessness of your entire bodies. 

We are aware that you cannot be expected to be out in public with a hirsute pubic region because the moment you remove your designer denims for the first time in front of your chosen lady for the night she will be horrified at your ungroomed gonads and your reputations will be ruined forever.  Seriously.  We do get this.

However, dear sirs, we need to highlight that the complaints were made by members over the age of 70.  They were horrified to witness your activities in the steam room.  One of them is now in intensive care.

We urge you to please try to be sensitive and respectful to your elder members, as they come from a different generation where men not only did not assist in the shaving of their friends’ balls, they didn’t shave their own either.  It is unheard of to them and if any of you have watched retro porn flicks where all the stars sport massive bushes, you would know this to be true.

These elderly gentlemen do not know that times have changed since the days of tumbleweed pubes.  They do not understand this newfangled nonsense of metrosexuality and Brazilian wax jobs on either sex.

Please refrain from barging your way into our office to scream at us.  We already know what you young and hairless men have to put up with in that steam room and we apologise.  We feel your suffering at having to look at 70-80 year old men spread eagled, displaying their trinkets and practically tea-bagging the floor when they hobble arthritically from steam room to shower.

We also agree that it is extremely hypocritical for these elderly gentlemen - with decades worth of hair accumulation in an area that the unfortunate male pattern baldness does not affect, not to mention the fact that their sagging sacs are the size of grapefruits and strongly resemble an electrocuted dandelion gone to seed – to have a right to complain about you three just trying to clean things up.

We are really sorry but please, shave your damn balls at home so that we don’t have to listen to Sol Grundy and Ivan Kovacevic say the word ‘testicles’ to us ever again.

Yours Sincerely,

The Administrative Staff of Posh Country Club

P/S:  Why not try laser hair removal?  That will make ball shaving obsolete.

---

You know what?  I thank God everyday that my ovaries exactly where they are.  I relish in the fact that I can do leg splits and the catwalk and wear tight pants without needing to adjust what’s in my knickers every 2 seconds or go into a falsetto tone of voice.  I guess from now on I’ll take your fragile little lefties & righties into consideration before making any more spear-grab-twist-&-pull comments.  Or I’ll just flick ‘em really hard for you.  Or crack out the cold wax kit.  MUAhAHaHahAh!

When Pigs Fly

I was on the flight from

Bangkok

to

Singapore

recently and I was very pleasantly surprised (I will apologise for my leftover mindset from living in Islamic countries) to find out that Singapore Airlines serves… PORK!!!

I swear.  The pretty flight attendant was staring at me very expectantly for a couple of minutes while I gaped at the choice of food. “Ma’am?  Would you like the chicken with noodles, the fish with rice or the pork with mashed potatoes?”

Note:  For those of you who do not know me please understand that I don’t eat chicken but I will however do backflips and cartwheels for mashed potatoes and pork. Mmmmm. Pork.

You might also like to note that on most occasions I would rather DIE than eat airline food but the choice of PORK! And MASHED POTATOES!  On the same plate!!!  OMG it was too good to pass up.  I think when I came to my senses I almost shouted in excitement that I wanted the pork.

Of course I HAD to be seated next to a Muslim man.

Before you people call me out for being a racist bitch, I’m gonna backtrack a bit and tell you about the massive eye roll I got from my neighbour when I rocked up with my headphones and hand luggage. He took one look at me, rolled his eyes to his mate at the window seat next to him and muttered something.  I ignored him and tried to stow my hand carry.

That’s when I realised that there was no space in the overhead compartments!  Those two bozos had hogged up not one, not two, but THREE luggage racks. How do I know this?  It was filled with identical plastic baggies, 2 of which were on my seat due to the lack of space above.

Great.

Long story short, I ended up having to stow my bag about 8 compartments away from my seat, and the two idiots did not like the fact that they had to sit next to a girl. I kept hearing snide comments in Indonesian no less.  Fortunately (or unfortunately) I happen to be relatively fluent in Indonesian and I caught quite a fair bit of bashing despite having the Pussycat Dolls purring in my earphones.  Sigh.

Anyway back to my pork and mashed potatoes. My neighbour had requested his halal (kosher) meal and when I did the “PORK” shout to the flight attendant, he was not happy.  First a girl, now she is going to eat pork?  (Not like he’s so virtuous, the dumb beer swilling bastard!)

I was half tempted to slurp as MESSILY as I could and wiping my mouth with my sleeve closest to him and very casually resting my pork laced limb on the arm rest.  I had been winning the Arm-Restling war but what’s not to like about a bit of piggy leverage eh? I didn’t do it of course.  Tolerance is a virtue after all.

Hah tolerance.  That’s another story but I shall save that for another day. Like, when pigs fly.  In the meantime, I shall think back to my pork and mashed potatoes and drool.