Rants & Raves of Jasmine's Fiction

Strip, Baby!

No I have not taken up pole dancing as a hobby, nor have I gone to a Chippendale’s club.  I went for a bikini Brazilian wax at a new salon yesterday evening and the place is called Strip.  Very apt if you ask me.

It does everything that my regular spa doesn’t do – manicures, pedicures and of course waxing.  Oh joy I can deforest as well as get my digits blinged out.  Sorry, was that overshare?

Well TOO BAD!  There’s more to come!  :P

The place is decked out kinda urban warehouse like; cement floors, concrete ceiling and lots of aluminum and backed with eletronica lounge music.  All in all, not too bad.  I sign in to the friendly receptionist, and she calls my waxer over.  And this girl (who looks like she’s tweaked on some industrial strength uppers or about 7 cups of coffee) prances over like a hyperactive cheerleader and very cheerily introduces herself to me.

I’m getting a wee bit freaked.  Not about the waxing.  About tweaker waxer girl.

She leads me into a very clean small room and in her same tweaked out voice in fast forward she instructs me to “remove all my bottoms and towel up on the bench.”  Still beaming dementedly, she skips out and closes the door to “give me privacy”. 

Right, she’ll be seeing my nether regions in about 20 seconds but she still leaves to give me privacy.  *boggle*

I do as I’m told and she cavorts back in with latex gloves on.  Ceremoniously folding back the towel I had on, she does a quick examination of my bikini area.  Then flashing me a HUGE grin she tells me, “wah, your hair down there veri fine, hor?”

I’m like……………………………………………… Uh I guess I’ll take your word for it.

Then grin still firmly in place, she proceeds to tell me that since I’m so uh, ‘fine haired’ she can use the regular vanilla FLAVOURED wax on me and there’ll be no need to break out the stronger chocolate variety.  Er, okay.

Then she asks while pointing to a poster, “So ALL OFF or I wax a design for you?”

What designs can you wax your nether regions to then?  Well, there’s:

The Landing Strip;  The Triangle;  The Down Arrow; The Up Arrow;  The T;  or you can get other shapes like a Lightning Bolt or a Heart.

Then, tweaker waxer girl looks at my bikini area again and announces happily that I can get a Heart because my “veri fine hair down there alreadi growing in a heart shape so veri perfect.”

>.<

I’ve been waxing for a LONG time but this is the VERY FIRST time in my LIFE that I’ve had THIS much CONVERSATION with my bikini waxer!!!  I mean, it’s easy for her!  She’s NOT NAKED from the waist down!!!

So I point to a design (not telling which one I picked, geeze that’s private!) and she cheerfully begins ripping stuff off.  And yes, it does hurt.  But I’m a regular so it really only hurts just a smidgen.  Nothing you’d scream about.

One thing I’ll say about tweaker waxer girl though – once she started she was very professional, very neat and very FAST.  It was over in less than 12 minutes. 

HOWEVER, she kept up her fast forward conversation, even pausing for a couple of times for a few seconds to admire my nails and to whisper conspiratorially to me about one of her male clients:

“Wah, I got shock!  LIKE MONKEY!!!  5 hour you know I did for him full bodi wax!  Arm, leg, back, chest, tummi, ‘down there’ and then summore have to trim for him first his hair so veri LONG!”

LOL.  I guess there are benefits to having a talkative waxer.  Lots of stories to blog about.

So.  If you’re in my area and would like to try out a new stripperama, this is the place to be.  Drop me a line for Strip’s contact details.  If you dare.  And ask for Jackie.  That’s the tweaker waxer girl.

Pretty In Pink

Pink- its my new obsession
Pink its not even a question,
Pink, on the lips of your lover, cause
Pink is the love you discover

Pink as the bing on your cherry
Pink cause you are so very
Pink its the colour of passion
Cause today it just goes with the fashion

-Steven Tyler

Pink Alert people!  If you eyes have problems adjusting to the font colour for the day, I’d suggest that you suck it up and deal with it because I have to on a daily basis.

No I’m not talking about La Vie En Rose (looking at life through rose tinted glasses; meaning everything is perfect).  I’m talking about men in pink clothes.  From pink shirts to pink tights, I’m about ready to scream (or retch) at the next guy I see wearing said rosy hue.

So why the pink obsession today?  I was talking to my British/Swedish/Chinese mate James on MSN and I commented on his title.  “THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS METROSEXUAL!  THERE IS ONLY GAY!”

You know what? I agree with him.  I used to tell my ‘metrosexual’ mates who would primp for hours in front of the mirror (ever tried fighting for bathroom space with said girly-boys with more hair and facial products than I do?) that they aren’t metrosexual.  They are gay-but-doesn’t-know-it-yet. 

James just laughed and replied:

“Well I’m just fed up going out with friends who wear pink t-shirts.  They are not even in casual pink.  It’s the really bright IN YOUR FACE pink.  I’m like, dude.  You look gay.”

Jasz:

“They are British boys.  Most of them are closet homos anyway.”  (To Justin and crew, you know I love all you fags!  No matter how much in denial you girly-boys are!)

James:

“I KNOW!  AND I HATE EXPLAINING TO CHICKS THAT MY FRIENDS AREN’T GAY!”

Jasz:

“Eh don’t bother.  The more chicks think that your mates are gay means more for you to pick up.  I just usually tell my pink dressed mates ‘honey, it ain’t cool to walk around looking like you got run over by a truck with a load of Barbie dye.  I swear.  It’s faggy.’”

James:

“You should tell it to my friends, they reckon the pink gets them girls.  I say - New Year’s eve, there’s me at a table chatting up some girl and her sister, and there are my friends, getting kicked out by the bouncers!”

Jasz:

“Just tell your mates that they are fags that are so far in the closet, they are discovering Narnia.”

---

Okay, I just want to clear the fact that I have no problems with gay people.  I have a lot of close mates who are gay and I love them all.  I love the colour pink too. Just like Lost; he wants the bright pink PSP with the blinged out pink Hello Kitty wallpaper motif.  I’m not ranting about them.

I’m ranting about the pretentious Beckham wanker wannabes, with their pseudo Mohawks, their diamond earrings and their upturned collar pink shirts.  AARGHHHHH!  And don’t give me the argument that it takes a real man to wear pink. I know it does.  These real men are also very upfront about their sexual preferences as well. And these men, don’t like girls.  Get over yourself.

Okay.  I’m done.  Back to black now.

Happy New Year to one and all!

Halloween Hallucination

Dear readers, Jasmine has been very sick.    Fever, sore throat, dizzy spells and nausea was the centre of my life for the past 4 days.   And guess what?  Halloween came and went leaving me with nothing more than drug induced hallucinations.

 

Sigh.  I missed Halloween.  The folks in this here fine country don't really celebrate All Hallows Eve, but some do try to make an effort.  Although they are mostly in the money making business but still, I will very fondly recall my Star Wars costume wearing days.

 

Yes you heard me right; Star Wars.

You may laugh and you may bite my bagel buns.

But right now I'm not talking about the candy filled version of Trick or Treating.   I'm talking industrial strength antibiotics, sandpaper and brain frying temperatures in a centrifuge machine.   Did I also mention the vomit? 

Be warned, what you will see in this blog is not for the faint hearted.   Please fasten your seatbelts and keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times.

Welcome to Jasmine's House of Horrors.

Imagine a world where

NORMAL

is a very edible delicacy.  The beasties are hungry and restless and they prowl the streets in search for fresh blood.  I was walking along when I saw across the street a whole bunch of 'em snarling at me like rabid dogs.   I run for my life. 

Harajuku girls were chasing me down the streets with staple guns, each and every freak trying to make me a pincushion.  I skidded around the corner and EEK!

Here was another knot of ghosties, all prepared to skewer me into shish-kebab with their pointed fingernails.   Zombies covered in blood scratched.  Demented Elvis Presley look-alikes swiveled their hips.   Blue haired girls covered in paint and feathers howled.

 

Breathless from running, I turned into a bar for cover.  As the freaky horde stampeded by, I breathed again.  But even that was short lived.

Inside the dive, there were more freaks!  Men, but all dressed as women.   Not the pretty lady-boys mind you. The hairy, ugly, fat and smelly variety.

I was trapped. 

I turned to the window and I spot a superhero!  Wonder Woman will save me…

Oh no wait…  AAH SHE’S ONE OF THEM!!!

---

Cold sweat.  That’s all I have to say about that.  Be afraid people.  Be VERY afraid.

The Name Game

Shakespeare once wrote:  “What’s in a name?  That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.  It is nor hand, nor foot, nor arm, nor face, nor any other part belonging to a man.  O, be some other name!”

I’m sure some of us can identify.  Ever thought your parents were nuts when you were old enough to understand the significance of your name?  Ever been the butt of your schoolmates’ jeering rhymes with your moniker?  Ever get tired of correcting/explaining to people about your handle?

Having been bequeathed with a unique last name, I know all about the problems that come with it.  I’m proud of my name now but it wasn’t always so before…  But at least I wasn’t on the receiving end of some of the more, uhm, child abusive names…  I mean, what parent in their right mind would name their son Percival?  Like my friend who introduced himself to me with “call me Dick!  Its short for Almerick but you can call me Dick.”  (I swear till this day I cannot call him Dick to his face without laughing!)

Some parents are evil!  My mother’s former classmate from her school years has an obsession with Native American Indian names and he though it would be amusing to name his son as such.  And the result?  His poor son’s legal name is Flying Dragon.  I’ve seen the birth certificate.  It’s true.

I went to school with a girl named Babycia and a guy named Yam Bucket.  My dad has a friend who’s name is Satan.  In college I hung out with these two jokers named Kok Ken and Kok Pink.  I have a friend who dated this guy called Ansem, as in Handsome without the H.

And lets not forget those with the easily nickname-able names; my friend Mark Darryl Seaton who, no surprise ends up with Mark Devil Satan.  I have a mate named Amos and his nickname is “Cookie”.   And I must not forget my dear friend Carmen Kismet Oh the “Raisin-Girl”.  (For those of you who have no idea why, the Malay word for raisin is ‘kismis’.)  You think that’s bad?  Her father’s name is Bunny Oh!

Of course some parents come up with creative ways to name their children; like my sister’s colleague whose name is Dawn and her sister’s name is Eve.  And Mark “Devil Satan’s” cousins Swan and her brother Hawk.  (Okay their real names are Swan Sim and Soo Hawk but still…)  My former piano teacher’s name is Rocky, his brother Stony and his sister Pebbles.  I also know of four sisters who are Yvette, Yvonne, Yveline and Yvlaine.

We have no power over our names but what would happen if you do?  Would you pick a name that ‘suits you’ or would you self appoint yourself something bizarre and outlandish?  (Don’t laugh, I know of someone with the self appointed name of Thoorak.)  Or would you marry someone and change your last name?  My sister knows of a girl whose name is

Crystal

.  Nice and normal right?  She ended up marrying a guy whose last name is Chandelier.  Match made in heaven if you ask me.

So what’s in a name?  Don’t ask me.  I have enough problems of my own.

Fashion

Looking at the recent international crowds at the Formula 1 events that happened this past weekend, I find that in Kuala Lumpur there are a lot of local girls that seem to be trying desperately to convey an artistic message via the clothes they wear.  Though exactly WHAT that message IS I have no idea.  The foreign girls however, seeming to enjoy the glorious warm tropical weather express themselves in other fashion ways with the clothes they DON’T wear. 

It’s fashion hell.  I’ve officially maxed out too many credit cards, spent too many hours traipsing through the malls and street markets and boutiques and I’m being punished for my transgressions by being banished to fashion hell.  I swear!  Most of the time I just want to ask these girls, “do you prefer fashion victim, or ensembly challenged?” My male mates always ask me, “hey you’re a girl, explain why that chick is wearing that?”  And most of the time, I’m stumped for a reply.  Y’see, to the guys the WOMAN is a pretty part, not the clothes.

Unlike my mates, I ‘get’ fashion.  I’m all for the art and drama behind haute couture and the craftsmanship of the darling designer labels with its hefty price tags.  What I don’t ‘get’ is the wearing of designer logos for the sake of the logos.  Might as well wear a sandwich board with the logo of your preferred fashion house emblazoned on it.  Oh I wear my Prada and my Bally boots, and my Versace jeans and my Calvin Klein undergarments like every other cosmopolitan girl but there’s something very wrong to see a girl festooned with her LV EVERYTHING from her hair tie, earrings, sunglasses, necklace, neck scarf, brooch, blouse, belt, purse, handbag, iPod cover, cellphone casing, skirt, stockings, socks & shoes...  That is just…  Criminal.  That girl probably spent the gross national budget of a very small country outfitting herself.  For the day.  See.  That kind of artistic fashion message I don’t get.

Honestly though, that LV fashionista (that’s what they call ‘em nowadays – it’s a nicer term that fashion victim) is probably a damn slight better than some of the girls I saw recently.  The foreign girls seem to be quite fond of the strapless, braless, backless and generally fearless outfits – jiggle fests is a common occurrence.  Something I do not need to see ever again in my lifetime!  Did I also mention the super low cut pants that seem to require a daily bikini wax and when they turn around you are smacked with the whale tail or worse – the plumber’s crack!

Local girls are no better – I’ve seen some girls with neon green leg warmers (why leg warmers in a country that doesn’t go below 27 degrees Celsius I have no freaking idea) - worn together with day-glo tights, pink/red/black/yellow tartan skirts, ripped purple/orange/brown t-shirts with their ratty mismatched undergarments peeking through and a multitude of rings, bracelets, scarves, belts and hair clips and multicolour scrunchies all worn at the same time!  HELLO??? 

And ugh, do NOT get me started on the many many many girls with the bleached blond hair!  Or the visible panty lines!  Worse - visible saggy, ratty, granny knickers panty lines under tight white pants!!!  G-strings sticking out a mile high like a demented beacon!  Glitter eyeshadow smeared so far up her scalp that you wonder where her forehead went...  Platform boots so high you need a crane lift to wear.  Then there's the 'sexy clubbing clothes' that make me wanna scream, "oy, there's a transvestite in King's Cross that would like 'her' clothes back!"  That’s enough to make my nose bleed!

And I swear to GOD, if I ever find out who made those clingy, frilly, short skirts in sizes large enough to be worn by…  beached whales…  I will take a BIG stick and beat you till the candy comes out!