…lost: the moment between hating and liking WINE

For the love of wine...(cred: wiki)

 Excuse me, I’ve lost something. It’s an important memory I’ve misplaced. Locating it could mean discovering the basis of all human nature, or being an addict. If you’re drunk, this is the perfect moment to ponder your chosen vice.

I wonder, have you seen the moment in life when I transformed from wine-hater to thinking there’s nothing better in this world than a full-bodied red? I know. You’ve just realised you lost it too.

Maybe we can look together.

Most of us remember our first sip of wine (with the exception of those with parents who used alcohol to induce screaming-baby-sleep-comas). It was disgusting – bitter and vinegary – and made you want to spit (unless you were, as mentioned, an alcoholic baby).  And then it all fast fowards through blurry nights and sloppy hangovers. And suddenly, as you put down the glass of wine in your hand, you realise you ADORE wine. That’s more than mere love.

But when did the changeover happen? When was that exact point where a conversation like this should have happened:

“Wow. Oh my gawd! The last glass of wine I had was disgusting. I HATED it. But this. Oh My GOD! This glass is amazing! Wine is amazing. YOU are all so AMAZING. I love you guy(sh)…and I love thish.. thish glassh of wine in my hand.”

More importantly. Why did you keep drinking it when you hated it?

What does this fact of human nature tell us? I hated coffee too. I remember the first time I stole a sip from my mother’s cup.  I couldn’t resist the temptation seeing ground beans smelt so damn delicious.

It tasted like dirt. Really dirty, dirt. You know what I’m taking about – we’ve all tasted dirt.

Now I anticipate mornings by the mere thought of coffee.

Hello? What? Did I subject myself to torture by drinking something I hated until I loved it? I must have, because I can find no other explanation for transforming from coffee-hater into don’t-talk-to-me-before-coffee-addict.

My bite is worse than my bark before coffee. And I will bite.

And cigarettes. The first cigarette I smoked was the result of a friend who forced me (she was on a teenage mission to start the world smoking due to her profound passion for cigarettes – I kid you not). I took a small puff… and yelled ‘HALLELUJAH’ (inside my head).

As a smoke-induced cough forcibly tried to remove a lung, I was gloriously happy that the disgusting, expensive, and uncool addiction that is smoking will not be added to my list of addictions.

Sure. That didn’t last. Two years later, I was puffing away like those kool kids on Grease. Why…WHEN? Maybe I was forcing down a cigarette with the coffee I hated. Now I have another addiction I have to kick. Sigh.

I took this perplexing problem to the streets for consultation. And by streets, I mean a table full of friends who were smoking and drinking wine at that very moment. It seemed appropriate. They told me not to be so deep.

But we did get philosophical, as you do after three bottles of wine. We decided it was the following:

Step A: taking hated substance awakens a deep-seeded desire we were unaware of, proving our body is perceptible to addictive substances before our brain catches on. You could chuck in chocolate, vodka, gin, or whisky (which I haven’t yet learnt to love, but aspire to be someone who orders whisky, no ice. Aim high, mum says). Don’t get me started about smelly cheeses.

Step B: we force it a few more time due to social pressure (yes, drinking straight from a bourbon bottle at the age of 16 while sitting in a gutter will have its consequences). The deep-seeded desire spasms your hand to grab another glass, even though you choke on it as it slips down your throat. You are a puppet to it.

Step C: The deep-seeded desire we were unaware of travels from somewhere below our stomachs (where else would it live?) and fixates itself in our minds. It drives you for more. You LOVE it. GIVE ME MORE NOW!

Is it that we can’t say no, even to ourselves?

We were strong once. But those years were lost with childhood.

And you thought you were in control.

P.S. If you find my lost memories, please post them with fragile written on the box. Many thanks.

…women’s world domination for International Women’s Day

Yippee! It's International Women's Day (www.internationalwomensday.com)

The trade-off from centuries of inequality and oppression is a day designated just for women. Yippee (with a crooked hand-held flag).

Personally, I had no idea today was International Women’s Day (yes you can say IWD). The onus of my lack of knowledge could fall on me. Or perhaps they should sack their PR. Did you know about it? It’s been around for 100 years.

Now, I could go fetch my feminist alter ego and bitch complain about women’s struggle in the workplace, the lack of cuddles from my boss, and why there isn’t a damn chocolate machine that spits out free candy on PMS days! But I’m unemployed, so my office-politics rage is a little low.

The problem of un-awareness could easily be resolved, however, if women were given reign of the world on International Women’s Day. We could give it a catchy slogan like ‘Women Rule the World Day’ or ‘Women World Domination Day’. WWDD has a ring to it, don’t you think?

And if you won’t stop bitching about it, we would at least wear black leather and studs as a compromise, so nobody should be complaining.

Black leather for WWDD International Women's Day (credit: www.fightersgeneration.com)

By the way, USA celebrates IWD for a whole month.

Think about it:

• When political tensions rise and leaders get frustrated, women would quickly diffuse potential war crises by yelling ‘I just can’t deal with you right now’ and storm off.
• When men say ‘Honey, I can’t find the nuclear warheads and terrorist bombers’… we would say ‘if I come in there and find it!’ and point out that it was right in front of their faces the whole time.
• 

  If I come in there and find it....!! (image via Wikipedia)
• We could control global tensions with an evil look alone.
• Women’s obsessions with diets would decrease food budgets, essentially solving world hunger with all the leftovers.
• Women would check credit-card statements and balance banks’ check books, so they know exactly when an $80,000,000,000 expenditure didn’t end up as a present for them. Crisis solved.
• ‘Time outs’ would be allowed in congress. The ‘T’ hand shape is an international signal, so translation wouldn’t be needed.
• Our experience of inequality would ensure our commitment to being fair: men would also get PMS sick leave.

The lack my awareness does highlight a simple truth, however. As I sit here enjoying my voting rights and being let off my kitchen-chain, I forget the hardships and protests of women who fought before me.

To them, I sincerely thank you.

...why I will not cry or update my Facebook status for WHITNEY HOUSTON

Whitney Houston (Photo credit: asterix611)

I’ve never cried for a celebrity. Hopefully, one day I will – when I’m so ridiculously famous that I call all my celebrity buddies by personalised nicknames and loosing them is like loosing my subscription to Weekly Magazine (or other tabloids that will feature me regularly). I’ll be the one walking down Hollywood Boulevard, calling out  “Hey Brad P. Daddy”, “TomKitten”, “Justin-lizard-in-your-pants” and “Puffy-puff-puff-puff-D”. You know, famous stuff.

But for now, I admit to finding no reason to cry. Or update my Facebook status about how much I’m crying, as per the latest trend. While everybody around me makes tissue-towers, I sit here a little dry (take that as you will).

Please don’t think I’m a heartless bitch. I resent the tag-on adjective ‘heartless’ – after all, I cried at the ending of The Little Mermaid when I was six.

I think it’s sad when anybody dies, even animals. I can’t squash a mosquito for the guilt of murder (ok, and for the whole ‘don’t-know-who’s-blood’ factor). Don’t even get me started about ants. The sight of death stabs at our own mortality, and brings to focus the passing of life and the concept of our ‘souls’. Who are we really crying for, anyway?

But it is tragic when a person close to you passes away and loosing them feels like you are, in fact, heart-less. Then I cry buckets.

Like most people, I knew Whitney like the back of my hand. Do you even know what the back of your hand looks like? Me neither.

So, while I will join followers commiserating the untimely death of a wonderful vocalist, a leader for black women singers, and an icon in the music industry, I will not cry for Whitney Houston:

1. Because the people who really knew her are crying tears for all of us.
2. Because I am not one of those people who really knew her. In fact, I never met her. Also, I didn’t buy her last CD.
3. Natural vocals are no longer a requirement in the music industry. It will go on.
4. Britney Spears is still alive.
5. Because her death reinforced a very important life lesson we often choose to ignore: do not mix medication with alcohol.
6. She died before her comeback had a chance to crash. Leave while you’re still on a high (too soon?).
7. I didn’t cry for Princess Diana, Steve Jobs and Other Famous People. I prefer to remain non-discriminative.
8. Because all top rock stars are meant to die from drug overdoses. Now she can happily rest in the Hall of Fame with Elvis, Morrison, Cobain,  Hendrix, Joplin, Winehouse and Jackson. I wish I was invited to that party.
9. Because I can’t cry on cue, unless onion induced. And I hate cutting onions.
10. Because life goes on after death. If Bobby Brown still managed to host a concert just hours after Whitney’s death, then I think it’s safe to say we’re allowed to assume our normal, meaningless lives. Just as long as you make a tribute, as did Clive Davis at his pre-Grammy party that raged on while police investigated Houston’s hotel room and her body was still in the building. Move on folks – is the message I’m getting from her friends.
11. The coveted “The Voice” title is back up for grabs. And I think I’m in with a chance (what with computer enhancement and all).
12.  ‘I will Always Love you’ has been on repeat for the last…twenty years. I need a break.
13. Dolly Parton wants her song back * (she did not confirm this fact).
14. Because Whitney paved the way for pop. I can’t say I appreciate how that turned out.
15. Because she was late to a dinner honoring Nelson Mandela. And he did stuff for a whole bunch of people, not just singers.
16. I’m too angry to cry. I was late setting up a memorial page and missed out cashing in.
17. I’m upset because I don’t know why I wasn’t invited to the funeral.

I will celebrate her life, however, for everything she taught us about dating men: hanging with bad boys only leads to trouble… and raging parties, copious drugs, and crippling fame. Who would want any of that anyway?

Thanks Whitney, for the little bit of something you gave us all.

...your Monday morning HOROSCOPE

Your horoscope for Monday:

You will be unproductive at work. Your mind will be too unfocused to care.

This will improve by Wednesday, when you experience a brief period of health and well-being before a download spiral on Thursday or Friday night.

You will experience a flair of creativity in the morning, as you attempt to explain your behaviour to a superior. You will encounter disbelief.

Be wary of stories that require long-term commitment. Blaming incessant puking on a pretend pregnancy will not bode well for future prospects, particularly if you are male.

You will be surprised mid-morning. Avoid sleeping at your desk or in the office bathroom if you wish it to be a nice surprise. Steer clear of any work colleagues associated with management or the hiring/firing department.

Procrastination is highly likely. In order to optimise your productivity capacity, spend your afternoon reviving old friendships on social media sites. It will be your best option for achieving anything today.

Lucky day: Wednesday – take advantage of the small window of opportunity before it disappears into another drunken demise.

Mood: unapproachable, erratic.

Love: wait three days to find out if your Saturday-night affair turns into something more. Stalking is not encouraged except in the form of social media.

Health and Wellness: your idea to consume a greasy burger and fries will not resolve your nausea. You will work hard in the afternoon to keep it down.

Lucky number: 2 (the number of days it will take you to recover).

Single socks are good for nothing (image: wikipedia)

Dear Sock Monster,

Hi. We both know you’re not going to read this. Either because you don’t exist, or you’re too busy munching all my socks.

I’ll get to the point, then. I’m pissed at you. I’ve just finished a load and realised you’ve stolen my expensive, designer sock. I only had the one pair, you know. How am I going to impress my date with classy taste? If I don’t get laid tomorrow night, I blame you entirely. And don’t tell me I’m out of my league.

I’ve had enough of your erratic behaviour. I’ve got so many single socks, I almost believed the leftovers were mating and producing one-of-a-kind offspring. Almost. But I know it was you.

I tried to fool you by buying all the same socks. Ha! But I’m still always left with an odd number. Why couldn’t you just leave it alone? I bet your childhood was real twisted.

Ok, I’m sorry, that was mean. But, can’t you satisfy your sadistic sock fantasies on the old and hole-y ones? Or at least, any of the ones that my deranged ex-lover keeps leaving here to give him an excuse to come back? Given what happened the last time, I thought you’d be the first one to want to get rid of him. That is, if you live in the washing machine.

All I’m asking for is a bit of respect. There are many children in the world who don’t even have a single sock to wear. And by my count, you’ve got at least 19. That’s just greedy. Think of the children.

I give you three days before I call the police. Or a lawyer. Or at least my mum.

Whatever. I know where you live.

P.S. I know it was you who ripped that hole in my sweater.

...'tis the season to commercialise the LEAP YEAR

It's a lucky Leap Year for ladies (image: wikipedia)

Have you organised your Leap Year Party? Of course with colourful party hats and a banner shouting ‘Happy Leap Year” across your lounge room wall! Oh.

You didn’t. That’s a shame.

Leap Years are highly underrated. February 29^thshould be encased in mystic and magic. It’s the day our planet realigns to the sun and seasons and ladies are allowed to propose by tradition. And we all know, technically speaking, that leap year babies age 4-times slower than normal human beings. What can we expect from a day that doesn’t really exist?

Primary school children can tell you how a Leap Year is calculated. It’s the solution to the extra .242 that’s left flying around time-space, waiting to be used up when the calendar allows it. And so, as 2012 is divisible by four and four hundred (as the Gregorian algorithm dictates), it’s time to celebrate another Leap Year. HAPPY LEAP YEAR!!!!!

With modernity knocking at our doors, and scientists trying to dispute Einstein’s theory, perhaps the Leap Year should be adapted to suit our self-indulging culture. What’s in it for us anyway?

Maybe the extra .242 should be based on a flexible accumulation theory. People can be free to choose when they take their Leap Year day.

“Boss?”

“Yeh?”

“I won’t be able to come in today. It’s my leap-year day”.

“Oh. Happy Leap Year then.”

“Thanks.”

And of course, you could accumulate your Leap Years over a lifetime. You could wait until you’ve accumulated enough Leap Years to take a week’s holiday. It would only take 20 years.

In failing to get government and business support, the very least we could do is commercialise it. Considering the commercial state of Christmas and Valentine’s Day, I’m surprised the Leap Year has been neglected. People don’t even throw ‘Leap Year Parties’.

Therefore, the following rules are in order:

• A Leap Year now equals the hype/status/importance of New Year – only four times as massive due to its rarity of occurrence. Someone get some fireworks!
• Start adopting stock celebratory phrases when identifying with a Leap Year. “Hip hip hooray, it’s a leap year day’, “ Happy loopy Leap Year!” or “Leap Leap hooray” would be appropriate.
• Any wishes made on Leap Year Day will come true (starting from…now). Just make a wish while holding one finger on a toad, licking bat’s blood, and jumping over a lazy dog. If it doesn’t come true, try again in four years.
• Get drunk. Really drunk.
• The traditional Leap Year’s dinner must involve takeaway that amounts to a week of calories.
• Gift giving is forbidden (as if we need another holiday forcing us to buy gifts) Instead, tell everybody what you don’t like about them.
• What happens on Leap Year, stays in Leap Year.

If you’re interested in Leap Year party decorations, I’m sell you some. I came prepared.