The Scribbly One

Too hilarious. Watch this. I did - three times! (Warning: mild sexual content)

You know you’re growing old when you start browsing furniture catalogs, imagining your dream house and becoming excited over purchasing new bedlinen. I’ve stayed in many places over the years and never cared much about the trappings, but nowadays I wish for a cosy place of my own with mahogany furniture!

If I had my way, I’d have built-in cabinets and wardrobes in all the bedrooms (to reduce the need for dusting on top of cupboards), a library or study room where my books shall be displayed in all their glory in glass-panelled bookshelves, couches in rich maroon or midnight blue, and a sound-proof room for my precious piano.

Unfortunately, this dream is a long way off from becoming reality. Real-estate prices in Petaling Jaya are insane. My only hope is to marry a rich husband. (Or find a sugar daddy. But you didn’t hear me say that!)

Married couples. Whenever I see a lady with a man who is rather overly large and/or has, uh, a pronounced beer belly, I always wonder how on earth they manage to have sex. I get these mental pictures of him flattening her like a pancake or smothering all the breath out of her.

Of course, there are always other positions, but heck, I think most married couples still do the missionary. Not that I know anything about it, of course. I just find it hard to envision them excitedly experimenting. He, especially, looks too comfortable and self-satisfied to go out of his way to try anything out of the ordinary. It’s a gross generalisation based on his appearance, I know, but I can’t help it!

When I see couples allowing their children to sleep in the master bedroom with them, I also wonder how on earth they ever manage to have sex. I think I have sex on the brain.

For some reason, I woke up this morning with the song Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polka Dot Bikini playing in my head. I don’t know why, since I’ve never even owned a bikini, much less desired to wear one.

Maybe it had something to do with the Little Mermaid-like dream I was having - something about me luring a girl out to sea so the little mermaid sitting on the rock by the shore could take her place. (I never said my dream made sense.) But as far as I know, in the dream I was just a disembodied voice, so don’t ask me how the bikini fits in.

I’ve decided that visual porn is boring. Nothing much ever happens; the characters simply keep on doing the same thing over and over again for ten straight minutes. I want to tell them to cut to the chase. Enough with all the “uh”s and “ah”s and “oh”s already. They sound like they’re constipated, in labour, or suffering from severe asthma.

This state of affairs should not surprise me, since I’ve always preferred reading to watching. I don’t have a “rule” about reading the book before seeing the movie adaptation, but generally much is lost when a story is on screen compared to when it’s on paper.

When I read, I get to see the whole scene in my mind’s eye, detail by detail. I get to delve into the hearts and minds of the characters and identify with what they feel, discover what they are thinking. I get to watch the interaction between the characters, pick up their little characteristic gestures and mannerisms, look for the nuances in each scene.

On screen, the viewer tends to miss much of that. Each frame lasts for only a split second, then is gone forever. There is no way the viewer will be able to capture and digest everything contained in that split second before things move relentlessly on. Besides, on screen you don’t get the benefit of being told specifics like, “he smiled snidely”. You have to figure out for yourself what kind of smile the character is flashing. And, since it all occurs so fast, even if you recognise a snide smile for what it is, you have no time to savour the implications of that smile. The things it hints at. What it might possibly mean for the other characters.

In a way, movies always seem to me the ultimate form of entertainment. Essentially, the viewer plonks him- or herself down in front of the screen and exclaims, “Entertain me!” There is no need to do anything else. Certainly no need for thought processes or flights of imagination.

While one might argue that there’s no need for a great deal of imagination anyway where porn is concerned, I still find porn movies extremely boring. Give me erotica instead any day.

Sometimes I look at couples and think, OMG, if she could find someone, I definitely can. There’s hope for me yet! Or, What does she have that I don’t? Why is it someone like her can find a husband when I can’t?

Here’s a secret: Women always check out other women. They’re competition.

I once told a male friend that when we women see a plain woman with a handsome hunk, we think, “He’s probably with her because she’s rich.”

If the woman is pretty, we think, “She probably doesn’t have two brain cells to rub together.”

If it turns out that she’s pretty and intelligent, we think, “She’s probably a bitch.”

If she happens to be pretty, intelligent, and nice, we lament, “That’s not fair!”

My male friend was horrified. Poor naïve sod…

I recently discovered that I cannot clean fish. It’s not the ick factor, mind you. I totally dig scooping out the entrails and trying to identify what’s what. It’s just that my poor hands can’t take it.

Yes, I am cursed with the dreaded Delicate Skin Syndrome. I can’t even wash my hands with soap - I have to use some special soap-free concoction from the pharmacy, that costs ten times the price of normal soap. And of course I have to shower with the same stuff.

Even dish-washing becomes complicated. I have to glove my hands as if I’m about to perform intricate surgery on the helpless little dishes. If they die, nobody will even know I was the culprit, because I leave behind no fingerprints. Of course, there’s always DNA these days… darn.

Problems crop up when I go to someone else’s house. I can’t leave the cups or plates or whatnot on the table, it wouldn’t be polite. Oh, I know people always say, “Just leave it there! I’ll take care of it later!” But if they’re anything like me, what they’re really saying is, “I have to say that because I’m the host, but I really wish you would do it and save me the trouble of having to clean up after your fat ass!”

But my soft fair hands aren’t supposed to get anywhere near those plebeian dish-washing detergents. So what do I do? I replace the plates on the table and sink back into my chair with a faux air of reluctance, knowing that I’m coming across as a lazy slob.

At the same time, the dispassionate commentator that lives inside my head (the one who’s a cousin to one of those ESPN sports commentators) announces, “And once again she narrowly escapes the horrors of dish-washing!” And I’m too pleased with myself to care about anything else. Because, you see, washing dishes is close to #1 on the list of Things I Won’t Do If I Can Help It.