Singapore Sling

"Love sees sharply, hatred sees even more sharp. But Jealousy sees the sharpest of all, for it is love and hate at the same time."

-Arab Proverb-

I admit ... I have cursed a whole nation for the actions of one evil creature. I originally wanted to name this post "Singaporean Slut" ... but you all know I never use her real name, even in real life. And since I've just come back from Singapore (shock, horror, it's TRUE!) - my first visit in a decade, I've decided to eat some humble pie, and admit I may have overeacted. Just a bit ...

I don't hate Singapore, as such. It's just the SingaporeanS that I cannot (couldn't?) stand. You see ...

#1 - I had never met a nice Singaporean.

#2 - All the Singaporeans I did meet were highly competitive and always always had to outdo the Malaysian. This constant "I must prove I'm better than a mere Malaysian."

#3 - Malaysia was just generally, the nicer of the two nations. In Singaporean speak, that just meant we were the stupid doormats and were meant to be walked all over.

You see ... I guess the (Singaporean) Slut walked all over me. People ask me why I don't hate Rex. (I don't.) They tell me my anger should be directed at him, not the poor innocent girl whose only fault it was that she fell in love with a boy, who fell right back in love with her. How dare I, the discarded Ex, persona non grata, stand in the way?

Are Rex and the Slut still together? I have no idea. I don't want to know.If they are, I would be upset, and if they aren't, I would hope. Both spell doom for this Vixen, so you'd agree, I'm better off not knowing.

The reason I detest her so much is because she showed no respect for our relationship. Rex and I were deliriously happy ... until she came into the picture. We started bickering, at first, then it escalated into fully fledged rows. I'd never heard him so much as raise his voice with me, but when it came to her, he'd shout, he'd rage, he'd sulk ... this one time we were arguing on Picadilly Circus (right there in full view of everyone), and I swear I thought he was going to hit me. He never did, of course - but I thought he was going to - he was that mad. All because of her.

Women are always smarter then men. We always know, often before the man does. Call it women's intuition. Men take a lot longer to cotton on ... and they only ever think with their other head. The moment I saw the Slut look at my Rex, I knew she wanted him. She took one look at our happiness with each other, the fact that this tall, cultured, educated, okay, I admit it - rich, English man, seemed to be in love with me, a mere Malaysian, she thought, hmph, he can do better. He can be with a Singaporean.

He could be with her.

And even more disturbingly, I began to notice how he was with her. It was different from how he was with any other girl. It wasn't me being psychotically jealous, as he accused me. A subconcious part of me noted that it was like how he used to be with me ... in our early days. You see, I knew what was happening, right before my eyes, and I was powerless to stop it.

Soon after she moved in, whenever I left the halls where we lived, she'd be there in our room, in an instant. Stupid me, I even tried to be friendly at first. She did not say two words to me, but always complained to Rex that I was a moody bitch to her. He told me to try harder. How the poor girl was shy. That she, unlike me, couldn't make friends as easily. Take her under your wing, he said, introduce her to people. Help her settle in. After all, she was almost my countryman.

No, you dolt, she was most certainly NOT.

Oh, she knew how to play the game. I'd come home to find seemingly insignificant, little gifts in our room. Sometimes, just a bit of Rex's favourite chocolate, or cheesecake, which he has a weakness for. Silly little cards and trinkets that may not mean anything to anyone but the Girlfriend i.e ce moi. I thought it was a complete violation, and of course, it pissed me off up to no end.

Rex, silly fool, thought she was being nice.

One day, clear out of the blue, barely days after we signed the papers for our joint bank account, he just announced. "I think we should break up." (thankfully, I still had the papers.) Just like that. No explanations, no emotions.

Like always, we had woken up that morning in the same bed. I didn't have a clue how things were any different. Sure we were fighting so much more than usual, but we loved each other, I thought. It was a mere bump in the road. We'd get over it. Rex even made me coffee, like he had done almost all our mornings together.

It was the sweetest thing. Once, I had mused about how I didn't miss much about home ... except the fact I had to, bleary-eyed, make myself my own cup of coffee before I was barely awake. I didn't even realise he was listening ... but after that, I never had to make coffee again.

I wish he had known how much that one simple act he did for me, all our days together, had meant so much to me. But I never told him, and perhaps, I'm even guilty of taking it for granted.

Unlike a lot of people whose relationship ends, I remember our last kiss. Painfully well. We were having lunch under a tree in Hyde Park. It was a beautiful sunny spring day, and I was feeling happy. I remember it, because he did not kiss me back. It sent alarm bells clanging, but he shrugged off my queries. He also dropped my hand and walked off ahead of me, never again saying another word until "I think we should break-up."

After those fateful words, I left in a flurry of tears and remonstrations. But he did not blink. Those once gentle hazel eyes, always loving and kind, were cold and void of emotion. It absolutely terrified me how in an instant, the closest person to me in the whole world, had become a stranger. I just could not understand it.

I never saw the person I once knew, the man I fell in love with, again.

I came back, two hours later, after calming down, and thinking we should at least talk about it ... but he wasn't in our room. As I opened the door to the corridor, I heard him laughing.

Laughing, as if he did not have a care in the world. My world had fallen apart, my heart ripped in two, but he was laughing. How easily he had talked about forever, about how he did not believe in love until me, about how "we share a bond some never know in this lifetime". How we were soulmates.

Laughing, with her.

So let me have my hatred, for I'm not left with much else. I don't blame the nation, for some reason, I don't blame him ... but I blame her. I hope what they say about karma is true.

It comes around.

Beer Buffoon

Bloody arrogance of man!

This is why I am still single. I meet the most capricious male characters and the road taken always ends in the same way. I should learn from my past experiences, unfortunately, as Dickens (Emily!) said – that damned thing called hope seems to spring eternal.

Whenever will I learn?

Now there’s this guy I’d been seeing socially … in that non-romantic, totally platonic way. We twenty something KL-lites are often out and about after all - particularly the single ones! He was just one of these guys that I meet once in a bit but recently, I have seen a lot of him. It was always in a group, always just friendly.

Nothing more, nothing less.

Unfortunately, it’s hit me again why Malaysian men don’t get the difference between "friendly" and "flirty." Readers be warned, as an Malaysian myself, I feel qualified to make such racist statements! I will, however, issue a disclaimer. I realise there are exceptions to this rule. I know some lovely, down-to-earth Malaysian men (the Don for one). However, there is a reason why I always seem to date European men – my countrymen always always seem to let me down in this incredibly predictable stereotypical way! (that and the fact that white guys have the height advantage.)

Back to this new guy. We have loads in common, and at the face of it, I can see why he’d be labelled as "my type". One dead giveaway is the height. (of course!) Definitely above 5’10". Check. He’s funny, he’s intelligent, witty and charming. (Predictably, only when he can be bothered.) When we’re out, we have a laugh – and as a major plus point, the boy can move. (dancing, you perverts! Mind out of the gutter, please!)

When we met, Ash (so nick named after his disgusting, life-threatening habit) was all smiles and charm itself. I’m well accustomed to just being well liked as a friend, a buddy – that gal-pal every guy has. Its my own fault, I suppose - I like watching sport, I can talk intelligently about football, I’m happy to sit up in clouds of smoke with the boys as they drink and carry out drunken conversation … more importantly, I’m their window into the female psyche. I’m happy to share my thoughts, I listen to their queries/problems and give them my opinion/advice the best I can.

Everybody’s best friend, and nobody’s girlfriend, has been my lot in life. I’ve long accepted this fact. There are far worse things in life than to be liked and wanted to be friended by men, right?

So whenever we went out, I never once thought this guy fancied me. I’m far too used to having attention from guys who only ever wanted to be platonic friends. I’m well used to men laughing at my jokes, interested in my life, calling me for long, long conversation or nights out that never crossed over to romance. My teenage heartbreaks are all testament to this fact. I’d already been there and done that and certainly, bought the t-shirt. I know when a guy fancies me … and this was not it.

At least not yet.

So while I entertained Ash whenever he was flirty (it was only polite!) … I was at that very comfortable neutral place where I wasn’t bothered either way. If he wanted something more and pursued it, I was happy to give it a try. If he only ever wanted to remain friends, then hey – I’m absolutely fine with that too.

You all understand that I did not like (not romantically at least) this guy – yet, right?

He (predictably) didn’t.

After last night, I’m not sure I ever want to see this arrogant tosser ever again. I was asked to go out again in a group that involved Ash. As far as I knew, things were cool. We’d gone out the last time, had a great night – no awkwardness nothing.

Yet soon after I’d walked into the club, I’d realised all was not well. Ash barely greeted me, let alone looked me in the eye. He sat at the opposite end of our table, as far away from me as possible, like I had some kind of disease. I did not mind it/think about it much in the beginning. I had other people to meet, to chat to and drinks to get down me. Thankfully, I had my partner in crime, Aoirish with me. Nothing’s a bore when a drunken Irishwoman is around!

It soon became apparent to me that Ash was busy trying to chat up another girl. One with this permanent look of discontent who kept shooting me and Aoirish the dirtiest of looks. All Frizzy did was barely entertain Ash, let alone anyone else, preferring to chug away at her cigarette. (Ah, a match made in fume-heaven!) Perhaps I should take a leaf out of her book. If I looked disgruntled, sat on my own, with my arms wrapped around me, looking sour and dissatisfied with the world, men would see it as a challenge and come running.

What did this Vixen do you ask? Had a laugh, thank you very much. I wasn’t the kind who’d ruin a good night because a man was being a prat. Aoirish was far more angry than I was. I think she took it personally as she’d spend half the night last time trying to convince me he was into me.

Ah, Aoirish, listen to the voice of experience. I love you for thinking I’m hot and irresistible, but I know better. Nevertheless, there was no stopping her that night. With the added incentive of vodka, emotions on her part were running high. She fumed (no pun intended!) at Ash’s blatant rudeness, and despite my protestations to leave well alone, she soon went to find out what the matter was.

She came back rolling her eyes. Apparently, she got the feeling Ash thought my Irish friend was coming on to him! What bloody arrogance of man, eh!

He should be so lucky. No thank you, not me, and not my mate.

I guess it was also possible that he thought I’d sent her there to suss out the scene for me. He’d made it a point to tell her how he liked Frizzy, a girl he’d only met that night. To add insult to injury, she (Frizzy) barely had a personality, let alone looks. I’m being a bitch because she was a bitch to me. I have claws too … though I don’t unsheathe them much!

Later not one, but two of his friends come over to find out if I liked him!!! And proceeded to give me advice on how to "get" him. I didn’t know where to put my face! And I cannot believe this man is nearly 30, but acts like he’d never graduated kindergarten!

Oh, the cheek of that moron. I cannot believe the sheer temerity and arrogance! And how should I stand up for myself, to tell them what I feel? No one asked me!!! Everybody just made bloody assumptions. And since they were all his friends, no one thought to even ask.

Who should be more embarrassed, do you think? This arrogant swine who thinks just because a girl looks at him sideways and smiles at him one time too many, she’s madly in love with him?

Or was it me who had to be embarrassed? My only fault it was is to be my naturally friendly self! This seems to be something Malaysian men in particular have a hard time understanding. Apparently, I should be aloof, play hard to get, not try and make them feel comfortable, and make small talk.

I give up! I will not apologise for just being myself. They can like it or lump it, and I’m certainly not going to waste my time with such Neanderthals.

Whisky Wilderness

The Return to the Wild

"Let us eat and drink; for tomorrow we die"

~ Isaiah 22:13 (Old Testament)

It was straight out of an episode of the Simple Life. City girl takes on kampung life. (I hope I didn't embarass myself too much!) After an encounter with a really good old friend, I suddenly found myself speeding down the North-South Highway with no end in sight last Friday. But as I was with a bunch of drunken boys for a weekend that promised a grand old time – I was hardly complaining.

Okay, the little-known town of Muar (little known to me, the bona-fide KL-lite and city girl to the bone) was in sight. I’d known the Don (as we really did call him) since our first year of University. He was the main man, the centre of everybody’s universe that kept the whole jing-bang gang of us together. We had come from across the globe – Malaysia, Kenya, Oman, Egypt, Tanzania, and yes, there was even one sole English representative. Initially, we did not have much to bind us together.

The Don soon took care of that. He’d gathered us together in his tiny kitchen, serving up platter after platter of mouth-watering dishes. (I still blame him for my extra 10 kilos I gained at university. I have yet to lose it!) True, we had to wait for "dinner" – he’d only start to cook when we arrived (booze in tow)! Often, we’d have to wait till the wee hours of the morning to actually partake in the feast.

But what a feast it was!

We’ve come a long way from those endless nights where the only thing we had to worry about was if the bottles were going to last the night. Death, family circumstance, financial woes, work worries, relationship pains have all settled in since, but in my one weekend with him and his friends, I learnt that despite it all, nothing dampens the human spirit.

He’s a true inspiration. His friends and family welcomed me with open arms. I was amazed at such warmth and ready acceptance. But that just goes to prove what a guy he was, and his well deserved good reputation. There’s nothing anyone wouldn’t do for him, for there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for them. We all owe him, in some way – for brightening our lives as he did. I only hope that no one ever lets him down, for he deserves nothing less than 100% loyalty.

We’d reached Muar in record time. My father was freaked … a normally 2 and a half hour drive took barely 90 minutes. I was slightly freaked too. Never had I even seen the speedometer go past 120, let alone 180. The Ford Explorer was absolutely FLYING. And it didn’t help that what was between the driver and the front passenger seat was a six-pack. All I could do was shut my eyes and pray.

I broke my long-held vow of never getting into a car where the driver was drinking. Thankfully, I survived. I will not be doing that again anytime soon. (And will not apologise for it!) Drinking whisky makes driving risky! For all my so called "wild ways"- as I'd frequently been accused of by my more sober and grown-up friends, I never felt more a dull bore as I did this weekend! Those boys put me to shame!

There were two other boys on this trip – mates of the Don, who despite not (really) knowing me before, were my instant protectors and big brother stand-ins. There was nothing they wouldn’t do for me – taking me all over Muar to see the sights, buying me anything they thought I may like, ensuring I was kept happy and well.

I was. It was a weekend orgy of food and drink and as the Irish would say – great craic (fun/laughter). We never stopped eating, and took breaks only to pour yet another drink. I let down the "Muar Gang" by barely having a couple of glasses, when they were opening bottle after bottle. I’m more of a vino/vodka girl when all they had was whisky. And I’m only 5’2". I can’t eat a hell of a lot … and didn’t exactly do the massive amounts of food they had justice.

But I had a brilliant time. You know what they also say … whisky makes you frisky! We created such havoc in the streets of Muar with all our drunken carousing. I had not had that much of carefree free-wheeling fun in far too long. Thank goodness there’s still room in our almost-thirty lives for such reckless cavorting! I doubt Muar town will be forgetting our visit anytime soon. I sincerely hope the friendships forged this weekend will last.

The Don flits in and out of our lives, but I rest safe in the knowledge that all I have to do is call.

The only (slight) mar would have been Liverpool barely salvaging a draw with Everton, and my poor Crouchy not really performing. (Okay, I’ll admit it; Peter Crouch at 6’9", is far too tall for me.) However, the weekend thrashing of the Spurs more than made up for it. I’m not a United supporter, but Rex lives and breathes Tottenham Hotspurs. Knowing he’d be in the depths of despair and it would be the Singaporean Slut who'd have to deal with his sulks and guaranteed surly mood makes me feel a great deal better about the whole thing!