L.M. Valiram's Blog, page 2

2016 – I LOVED YOU AND I HAVE TO SAY SO…

How did it go for you?

Don’t tell me. It sucked eh?

Ok so I won’t deny it. It was a year filled with many surprises. And most of those surprises were rather unpleasant.

We mourned the deaths of many a celebrity. I won’t pretend to be devastated by some of these deaths because really I am not a Star Wars fan. Don’t get me wrong, I do have a sense of, “Oh no, another artist gone,” but am I absolutely upset? Nope.

I did love George Micheal. I loved Wham. I had posters of him up on my wall and I cried to Careless Whisper, I fantasized about waking George up before he went went, I knew all the words to Last Christmas. I grew up with him, literally, WITH HIM. He was on the cassette tapes in my tape recorder, he was on the radio in my room, he was in the clubs I went to, he was on my walls, he was in my thoughts (please don’t ask me to elaborate on the said thoughts, I’m a married woman you know).

And when I found out about his sexuality, I felt like I’d been kicked in the gut because  even though the “thoughts” no longer feature (they haven’t in the last er…lets say couple of decades), it made me sad that I don’t stand a chance at all.

So when news of George passing came, I was sad because he was such a big part of my coming of age.

That said, would I call 2016 a bad year? Nope, not for me and I am not being insensitive, please put your swords and daggers away.

You see, I asked myself, when was the last time I thought about George? Quite frankly, I can’t even remember. Do I play his songs? Every now and then. But that’s it you see. I am happy he made those songs. He gave us his music, left us his voice. I am not sad, I am grateful.

We also lost Umberto Eco, the accomplished Italian author who wrote, in my opinion, a masterpiece, “The Name Of The Rose”

And Prince, ouch, Prince. Does hurt to think about that.

Of course there were many more. But this post will go on forever if I start to list them.

From a global perspective too, there were many shifts. Brexit. How the hell did that even happen? And before we tried to begin to understand the implications of it, we were left saddling in our hands good old Mr Trump. I feverishly prayed for him not to win. But then I remembered I live across the world and what happens in America although affects me here and there, is it enough to depress me?

Nope.

I realized that the goings on around me were bleak, yes. But then there were far more things to be happy about in the year than not.

What? Are you crazy? – I hear you ask.

Most certainly not.

See, if I think about all the other things that could go wrong and didn’t, then you will agree that there really isn’t much to be sad about. All in all, it was a good year.

I had 365 days of fairly good health. I did gain a couple of kilos over Christmas but really that was my own doing (the chocolates were sooooo gooood).

My family members and myself travelled a fair bit. We took trains, planes, cars and much more and we all arrived our destinations of choice safely.

I ate well. I had more than enough to eat. No wait, I ate too much really. You get my point.

I interacted with great people, met inspiring mentors who motivated me to push harder and move faster.

I was never short of money. By the way, did you know that up to 80% of the world population lives on less than $10 a day?

My home was safe, we were all well protected by some very brave people who stand guard at the gates of my apartment block.

I got to see the sunrise numerous times in 2016, and each time it felt like the first. And I saw flowers. And smiles, plenty of them. And my kids. And my extended family. And I also saw a centipede! Yes, it is weird..I like centipedes, not like really, they’re just intriguing.

Again, if I list all the things I am grateful for, this post will go on forever. Suffice to say that even as I recall the many magical moments I had in 2016, I find myself smiling till it hurts.

I bet if you thought about all the good times you had, you would be smiling too.

Me and a friend were just chatting one time, years ago, and I said to her nonchalantly, “The world is a crazy place. Just look at all the bad out there.”

She wrinkled her brows and asked me with honest-to-god confusion, “What are you talking about?”

I replied, “Don’t you see all the ugliness? Can’t you see what’s happening, what people are doing these days?”

She thought about it for a moment and then finally replied, “You know what, I don’t. I really don’t. I think I am too focussed on the good stuff happening. Keeps me busy.”

Since that day, she has become my best friend. And in all the years I have known her, I have tried my very best to adjust my focus too. I am not always successful but on the evening of december 31st, when I sat with myself for a few minutes to review the year, I managed to keep myself busy with the goodness. And for that I thank her.

Goodbye 2016. You were kind to me. Welcome, 2017 my new mate! We have never met before but I can’t wait to get to know you.

 

Short Story : Unhappily Ever After

Scott Huntington loved his wife. Well, sort of. It didn’t matter because either way, he was going to have to kill her.

On an ordinary day, Scott would have wolfed down the perfectly prepared, succulent and tender slab of sirloin. But this was neither an ordinary day nor an ordinary dinner date. He chewed on each bite with great difficulty and the damned blobs of meat doused in rich creamy béarnaise sauce just wouldn’t slide down his parched throat. All he could think about was what he was planning to do.

It was his first and he hoped, last murder. He was quite flustered although he did a fine job of concealing it. The only giveaway would have been his difficulty in maintaining conversation, which wasn’t reason enough for Laura to become suspicious because these days they hardly spoke any more. He had planned it all out well and gone over every step in his head a million times. He hadn’t left any tracks. He was sure of that.

Their waiter appeared, a stocky and polite Argentinian man no older than the soon-to-be murderer.

“Is everything okay? Can I get you some peppercorn sauce for that?”

“No, thank you.”

“And Madam, how is the lamb?”

“Oh it is lovely, compliments to the chef.”

“Thank you Madam. Let me know if you need anything else.”

Then silence returned, heightened by the peculiar quietude of the always-overbooked restaurant. Hardly any tables were occupied. Scott was relieved though, and welcomed it as a sign that the forces above were in favor of his decision. Lord knew he didn’t want to do it, he really didn’t, but he was compelled to and therefore there would be no sin.

On the contrary, he had been kind enough to suggest Laura’s favourite restaurant for her final meal. It was a bad choice of day though, their anniversary, he didn’t feel nice about that but what could he do, time was of the essence. Coldplay alternated with Sade in the background. The aroma of freshly seared beef, burnt garlic and rich intense sauces filled the upmarket steakhouse.

He sliced a sliver of baked and buttered potato. She still hadn’t brought up the divorce. He’d been waiting all evening, expecting her to tell him that she was planning to call it quits. But it hadn’t happened yet. Surely she hadn’t changed her mind. He flinched slightly at the possibility. Maybe he shouldn’t kill her after all. But it was too late for that. He had already seen her in the eye of his mind a thousand times; lying rigid and motionless, void of breath and colour. He couldn’t imagine it ending any other way and could not afford to take the risk of leaving her alive. It was all completely her fault that she would die young, he thought. Because now that he knew that she was planning to leave him, he was compelled to act. Pity. Thirty-two was no age to go.

Her phone vibrated. Laura paused from eating and glanced at the screen. She picked it up, read her message and replaced it on the table face down. His blood boiled. Could it be the lawyer? No, he was being paranoid, not at this hour surely.

She arranged the silver cutlery on her plate indicating the end of her meal. Anytime now she would stand up, he thought. She always went to the ladies after she ate, to freshen her lipstick and powder her nose. Her vanity would be the end of her. He placed his hand over his thigh, feeling through the fabric of his trousers for the little bottle. It was right there, just like the ten other times he’d checked.

She stood up, pulled her fitted dress down at the thighs to adjust it, “I’ll be right back.”

“Sure.”

She turned and strode toward the back of the dining hall. He couldn’t help but admire her flawless figure, slender at the waist, rounded at the hips and that perfect posture that twice a week of yoga had given her. She was no doubt a beautiful woman. In that fitted red dress she looked good enough to eat. When they’d first started dating he couldn’t keep his hands off her. They had sex morning, noon and night. After they married four years ago, things started to go downhill.

Now there was only one way for this sordid marriage to end; on his terms. He would beat her to it; he’d be the one walking away victorious. Although watching her disappear into the corridor, he felt a familiar ache between his legs. One more session of sensational sex, one last goodbye would have been satisfying.

He surveyed his surroundings. She’d be gone for no more than a few minutes and that is all the time he had. The scattered diners seemed sufficiently engrossed in their own company and the only waiter in sight had his back turned and was attending a table far enough away.

Hands shaking, Scott pulled out the bottle from his pocket, uncapped it and poured a generous stream of clear liquid into Laura’s glass of Aniello Malbec. The solution became one with the wine, not in the least affecting its deep shade of ruby. Satisfied, he returned the bottle and lid, not bothering to cap it back on, into his trousers and let out the breath he had been unconsciously holding.

His palms turned damp and his heart began to race. Now he would have to execute the rest of his plan quickly and steer the rest of the evening with immaculate precision.

When Laura returned to the table, just as he’d expected, she looked refreshed. He had already had the plates cleared.

She looked at him with surprise, “You’ve finished?”

“I couldn’t get through it all. I’m stuffed. Dessert?”

He knew she never ate dessert at night and that she would want to leave as soon as the meal was over because she had yoga the following morning.

“Not after that rich meal. We can go. I have an early start tomorrow. Call for the bill.”

“Already paid. Finish your wine.”

Her brows furrowed, “Why did you offer dessert if you’ve already paid?”

“I was being polite. It is after all, our anniversary.” He raised his glass, an offering of peace.

She hesitated, her face a mask of light confusion, then picked up her glass.

“To better times ahead,” he said.

They clinked glasses and downed their wine. The countdown had begun.

 

The sky was dark as slate and icy November winds stung his face. Bundled in their thick jackets, mist leaving their breath, they walked the few steps to where his BMW was parked. He beeped the key to unlock the car and moved toward the driver’s side. Laura followed him and held out her palm.

“I feel like driving,” she stated.

The fluttering in his stomach accelerated into a storm. He had to think fast and couldn’t afford to stand there and argue. The meds would start kicking in any time now and if he didn’t come up with something good he would be riding shotgun alongside her to both their deaths.

“We can’t go around Piccadilly, horrendous traffic. We will have to go through Sackville. I drove through there yesterday, road works. Cars were moving at snail’s pace. Either way it is going to be a drawn out ride. You rest or answer your emails. I’ll get us home.”

She stood there, contemplating, a look of uncertainty in her eyes. Finally she turned and walked around to the passenger’s side of the car. Scott wasted no time. He jumped into the driver’s seat and brought the engine to life. He took a wrong turn on purpose avoiding Sackville. It was smooth earlier this morning and she’d become suspicious. She didn’t notice, she was busy with her phone. Less than a minute later, the phone fell out of her hands and she slumped back, head dangling like a rag doll.

Scott stepped on the gas. He knew the efficacy of the dose he had administered would last at least six hours but he could take no chances. If he did everything right, tomorrow he would be a rich man.

When they arrived at their three-storey house in the upper class residential area of Central London, Laura was still unconscious. Scott parked in their basement garage, almost knocking into her Mercedes. He turned off the engine and hurried around the vehicle to carry her out. Laura had had the underground basement built and the elevator installed when she bought the property.

He lifted her up without much effort; one arm under her well defined shoulders and the other beneath the back of her knees. She was of petite build and he a strong, muscled man who ran five kilometers every weekday and trained with weights regularly. The only time Scott skipped exercise was when he had a fever. And that didn’t happen often. He silently congratulated himself on the fruits of his discipline.

The doors of the elevator opened at the second floor leading straight into the master bedroom. Scott placed Laura down on the carpeted foot of their four poster bed. He went into to the closet, grabbed the Egyptian cotton white bath towels Laura had recently purchased from Selfridges and wished she’d chosen a darker color.

He spread them out, double layer, lengthwise on the parquet flooring of the closet. He then carried her and placed her body on top of them. She was alive and blissfully asleep.

They were both still in their winter coats and beads of sweat rolled down the sides of his face. He considered getting Laura out of her coat but dispelled the thought quickly. Of course the bullet would penetrate the coat, wouldn’t it?

The closet was twelve feet by eight. On one side hung Laura’s dresses, her coats and trousers, her exquisite evening gowns sought out from the most popular designers in Europe. On the left, parallel to her clothes was Scott’s section; his suits, shirts, jeans, shoes, ties and belts. Built in was also a chest of drawers where he kept his chargers, socks, scarves and other knick-knacks. The bottom drawer was where he kept his revolver, one he had bought from the black market after the attempted robbery at their home two years earlier.

He opened the drawer which he kept unlocked for ease of reach should there ever be an urgent threat on their lives.

It was empty.

“Looking for something Scottie?”

He turned, pulse slamming in his ears. She was sitting upright, a defiant and victorious smile plastered across her red lips. The barrel of the gun pointed squarely between his eyes.

****

The shots had torn through the quiet of the elite neighborhood, woken up the neighbors and pretty soon the police were banging down the doors of 25 Oakwood Street. Ambulance sirens blared through the streets not long after.

Laura’s head throbbed. The interrogation room was too brightly lit with more tube lights than necessary. The only furniture was a wooden desk and two metal chairs of the foldable variety. Laura sat on one and on the other, the detective sat across from her.

“Tell me what happened.”

“I shot him.” Laura said as though stating the plainest of facts.

Detective Jones drew a long breath in and then exhaled slowly. “We know that Mrs. Huntington. What we do not know is why.”

“I was protecting myself.” Laura said, barely above a whisper.

“There are no signs of a struggle and you bear no wounds from self defense. Can you please tell me exactly what occurred earlier this evening? Take me through it in as much detail as you can.”

Laura spent the next few minutes in silence, three consecutive gunshots still ringing in her ears.

Detective Jones leaned closer, checking her face for signs of presence. “Mrs. Huntington?”

“I was going to present him with divorce papers, I hadn’t told him yet. I wanted to keep my intentions from him till I gathered more proof. But he knew.” Here Laura paused and corrected herself. “He found out.”

“How?”

“He was cheating on me. I have known for a time but I never confronted him because I had no evidence. It was just a hunch. So I hired a private investigator to follow him around. The PI came back with photographs of them in bars, in restaurants, in clubs, in the park. There were room reservations in his name at the hotel right below my office.” Tears streamed like rain over her cheeks. Her voice rose. “He was a nobody, a nothing when I found him. I gave him money, a home, a car, a life he never imagined possible. And betrayal is what he gave me in return. The bastard was fucking a whore right under my nose.”

“That is no reason to kill, Mrs. Huntington. It is not self defense.”

“He tried to poison me and then shoot me!” Hurt laced her voice. Saying the words out loud felt like a million daggers piercing through her heart. Laura still couldn’t believe Scott was capable of murder. But she had to believe it because the intended victim was none other than her.

“Do you have any proof? How do you know that was what he was planning?”

“He knew that I wanted out. He knew what was coming. He saw the email from my lawyer. He knew I wouldn’t give him a penny, I would fight him till the end. He also knew that aside from my company, house and cars, I was going to be worth a lot more. And he wanted it. I started to see a different side to him a year into our marriage. He married me only to secure his own future, to live the good life.”

“Tell me about this email.”

“Three weeks ago I lost my uncle to cancer. We went to the funeral, Scott and I. He was a very rich man, he made his fortune from trading steel. He was also an art enthusiast. I shared that passion with him. Rather, he inculcated in me an appreciation for fine art. He was a widower and childless and used to treat me as his daughter. His collection is worth well over ten million pounds. My lawyer emailed me the week after we returned from the funeral to inform me that he’d left me the collection in his will. In the same email my lawyer asked me if I was sure I wanted to proceed with preparing the papers for the divorce.”

“And?”

Laura gazed listlessly at the blank wall.

“And?” Detective Jones repeated.

“And he saw the email. He knew. I know he knew because I had my laptop open, I was replying to the lawyer when my phone rang. It was my friend Maryanne. I hadn’t spoken to her in weeks. She is going through a rough time, her mother is very ill. I stepped outside into the terrace while speaking to her. Scott was working out in the gym in the basement. When I came back inside I could hear the shower. He was back. I rushed to shut my laptop and hoped he hadn’t seen any of it. That was when I saw a ring of water beside my computer. He always makes himself a cup of coffee after his workouts, the caffeine helps with the metabolism he says. He’d been there, he’d read everything, and he’d placed his cup of coffee there, scrolled my screen and read it all.”

“Mrs. Huntington, I sympathize with you. I can imagine how difficult all of this must have been for you. But none of this adds up to attempted murder.”

“I received a call from the PI the next morning. Scott had been to see a doctor but the address wasn’t that of our regular GP. He’d been to see someone I had never heard of. Scott never gets sick and he seemed perfectly healthy to me. So I snooped around the house to find any receipts or medicines. What I found instead was a small bottle of liquid Rohypnol. That’s a date-rape drug, ten times stronger than Valium.”

The detective shifted in his chair. “I know what it is Mrs. Huntington. We come across it with a lot of scumbags who have tried or succeeded to use it on unsuspecting women.”

“I couldn’t fathom why a drug like that would be in his drawer, right beside his revolver. But slowly, it came together in my head. He was planning to do away with me altogether. That way I would be dead but we would still be married and as my husband he would inherit everything. I emptied the bottle of its contents, washed it and replaced it with water. I returned it where I found it and checked the drawer several times a day, everyday. I knew if it went missing, my time was near. This morning it was gone but the gun was still there. I understood then that he planned to drug me at dinner and bring me home to finish me off.”

Detective Jones looked pensive, digesting all of this information.

“He thought he would kill me and take away everything I have worked so hard for. But now that he’s dead, I never have to worry about him again.”

Just then, there was a knock at the door. A uniformed officer entered and approached Detective Jones. He bent and whispered something in Detective Jones’ ear.

After he’d left, Detective Jones stood up and addressed Laura. “There was a weak pulse, he was almost dead from the loss of blood but they managed to save him. Mr. Huntington is somewhat conscious now. He is asking to speak with you.”

I’m Getting Published

And so with shaking hands and chattering teeth I’ve arrived at the decision to publish my manuscript. I have been sitting on it and procrastinating for a terribly long time. But now my resolve is firm.

It is difficult to describe the heady cocktail of fear, dread, anxiety, elation and euphoria that washes over me every time I think of seeing my name in print on the glossy cover of a paperback novel. It is a dream I dared not dream and yet here I am, hastening it’s path, shoving it into the corridors of reality like an over enthusiastic parent pushing their croaky child into the school choir.

Perhaps having faced my biggest fears has given me the courage to apprehend the smaller ones.

I feared writing the first chapter but I did.

I feared I would not finish but I did.

I feared showing it to strangers but I did.

I feared I would not deal well with rejection but I did.

I feared I would not like my own work but I did.

I have a lot of friends, know a lot of people. That is indeed a blessing  but it can also be a very intimidating thing when you are about to get published. So I ask myself, after investing all the time and effort, am I ready to face the wrath of bitter reviews, suicidal critiques, snickering “friends”, pathetic sales?

I hate to say it but the answer is yes.

Why? Because if my normal pattern is anything to go by, the higher the stakes, the more fun I am going to have. You see, it could go the other way. Maybe the book is not bad and people like it. Of course, I am under no illusions that I will be the next Rowling or Grisham. But maybe I will be readable. Maybe it won’t be all bad. And for that small chance, for that sliver of hope, I am willing to risk it.

What’s it about, Lavina?  People keep asking me that. I always answer with one word. Fiction. A layer of confusion forms on their faces as they try and construct the next question. Usually it is something like : Oh, so it is not humor?

Nope.

At this point many look disappointed. Some become disinterested, smile politely and stray toward the crudités. But then there are a precious few who ask: “When is it out? I would love to read it!”

That is when I break into a goofy smile that lasts all day.

I have always believed success and failure are nothing more than experiences. They don’t define me, they only teach me.

So yep, here I am, working on cover design, formatting and other boring things. I don’t have an agent and there are a lot of details to look into as a self published author. The book should be out in the next couple of months.

What’s it called? Part Star Part Dust.

Does it suck? I don’t know. I sure hope not. But I hope you will buy a copy to find out.

I will be posting an excerpt on my blog soon. Till then, do read something else  to whet your appeitite

Coming Full Circle

You must remember those days too; when you believed you could change the world, when the stars were only an arm’s length away, when dreams were a preview of reality, when your mind was so innocent that the possibility of failure never even occurred to you.

Those days, lodged in the sweet spot between being a child and turning into an adult, I saw the simple truths of my own being. I knew what I liked and what I didn’t. I knew the kind of friends I wanted and the kind of company I wanted to keep, who to stay away from and who to confide in. It was easy to do all this because no explanation was needed. We were kids and we said as we thought, did as we wished.

Somewhere along the passage of time, while I wasn’t looking, I grew up. I assure you it wasn’t voluntary. And it wasn’t sudden either. It was a slow sneaky process that although occurred in my presence, caught me unawares.

I cannot remember the day my dreams vanished, or when I stopped saying what I thought, or at which point I stopped believing in myself. I have spent a lot of time trying to remember the exact day on which I started judging myself, or doubting my capabilities.

Because if I can pinpoint it, I will be able to remember the exact moment I forgot my first love; writing.

Last weekend, while rummaging through my draws looking for an empty folder to stow away my first manuscript, I stumbled upon some objects from many moons ago. They brought back memories of the person I was and the person I wished to be.

When did I forget? Was it when I got my first non-writing job selling mobile phones door to door? Was it when I started my first business? Was it when I became a wife or mother? Was it when I opened my first store?

I forgot. For twenty years, I forgot.

It started when I won the second prize in an essay contest in my school. I had enjoyed writing the essay so much that I decided I was going to be a writer when I grew up. I hadn’t even completed the last paper for my O Levels when I landed my first job. I had called the local newspaper (there was no google and I had to get the phone number from the yellow pages, yep, I am that old) and asked to speak with the editor. The receptionist asked who was calling and I told her exactly these words:

“I am going to be a famous writer and I need a job,”

She paused and then left me to hold for a very a long time. Looking back I am sure she didn’t understand what I had said because if she had, she would not have transferred my call so easily. It was a stroke of luck.

On came a gruff voice. “This is Mike Simms, News Editor. Can I help you?”

And me with my sixteen-year-old cocksure confidence replied, “I would like a job at your newspaper.”

Now, let me just tell you that I uttered these words as though I was doing him a favor by offering my services.

He laughed. “How old are you?”

“Sixteen.” I announced with pride. Come on, you’ve been there. It is very cool to not be fifteen.

“Aren’t you form fivers sitting your O Levels right now?”

“Yes.”

“So you haven’t even completed your studies?”

“Almost. My last paper is this Friday.”

He laughed very loudly, I remember this because I had to move the phone away from my ear.

“I’m going to pass you over to my assistant who will get your details. Why don’t you come see me Monday.”

The interview went great. For me at least. No iota of my being had any self doubt whatsoever. He asked me a ton of questions. I was well read so I could answer them all. Mr Mike Simms, bless his soul, was so tickled by my arrogance that he had me start the next day as Editorial Assistant.

I did some freelance along the way, wrote for a couple of magazines. And then quit because I realized that writing and reporting are two separate things. I wanted to go back to school and do my degree. (which I didn’t complete because I was very distracted and lost interest)

Twenty five years and many other things later, I have gone back to my first love. This time I am not confident. I am not certain I know everything there is to know. I do not see myself as God’s gift to news or literature.

Instead I am realistic, I am an amateur. The road ahead is long. I have come back as a learner, as a disciple of the greats, as an empty vessel that longs to be filled. Picking up where I left off, this year I signed up to do my Bachelor’s with an Honors in Creative Writing. In four years I will graduate. I will have a degree. And you can bet I will be bragging about it.

But more importantly, I will continue to write. For better or for worse. Because excellence is not a prerequisite, passion is. I don’t have to be great, or famous, or successful at it. I just have to love it enough.

I have come full circle, crawling, albeit slowly to my first love. And here I share with you some of the glory of my past, my few moments of fame and success. They are meaningless scraps to most , lost in archives and fraying at the edges, but to me they mean the world. They are proof that I love today what I have loved from the very beginning.

 

Bradxit and why men can’t keep their pants up

 

He has done this to us twice now.

I remember the days of Brennifer. Oh gosh when I heard they got married angels played harps in my heart and rainbows appeared above, fairies skittered about and nothing, absolutely nothing was impossible.

Yes, fairy tales did come true. The perfect prince marrying the perfect princess. They would have the perfect home with a perfect roof and a perfect garden. Their little perfect blonde children would run around in their perfect little dresses and buttoned up shirts. Sigh.

And then…CRASH…along came Ms Jolie. I never liked her. Yes I know she has some lofty labels at the UN, she has done a lot of work for refugee children and all of that. But she broke up Brennifer and that was not on. Rachael did not deserve this!!!!

So my perfect prince was not so perfect after all. The adulterer hooked up with a vixen and now we had Brangelina to deal with. I didn’t care anymore. No matter how many third world countries they visited and how many adopted children they added to their big old mansion, for me it was over. There was no chance in hell he could win back my love. Brad was history. And if he ever called (I have sent him my number) I would have told him so.

Now look what has happened to their “union” – I know, I know, people speak of karma and say Angelina got what she deserved, but I bear no ill will to either of them. Sure my heart snickers a little (along with Jennifer’s. High five, girl) But more importantly, this break up has invoked some deep contemplation in me. What I have been thinking about is this: Why do we seem to hear more stories of cheating by men rather then women? I mean, are we getting a biased narrative? Is the media projecting men as cheaters and shouting out their affairs while women’s liaisons are not reported at all? Or are men really inclined to cheat more than women? Could they be physiologically wired that way? Does it have to do with a sense of entitlement? Is it a social conditioning?

What the hell is going on with all these horny men? They need help! And we, the women, clearly the more intelligent of the species must jump to their rescue.

Taking it upon myself as a social service, I have decided to investigate this most intriguing problem in the hopes that even if I cannot find some logical solution, at least I will be able to create some banter for us to indulge in. So here is a list of your most burning questions and my methodical, precise and scientific (well, some are) answers.

1. Do men cheat more than women?  

There are a bunch of different statistics here, all of which are quite surprising. Some studies show men and women cheat at the same rate but for different reasons. Women cheat because they are looking for connectedness and emotional satisfaction but for men cheating is linked to feelings of self assurance and physical gratification. Some studies even go as far as to show that women are more inclined to be emotionally infidel, ie. develop romantic emotional bonds without necessarily crossing sexual boundaries.

Emotionally, it is possible to have feelings for more than one person at a time but when man and woman decide to marry, the agreement is to remain loyal emotionally, physically and romantically to the spouse alone.

2. Are men wired to cheat?

Biological evidence (i.e., research on biology and reproduction) indicates that long-term monogamy is difficult for humans, both men and women, to achieve—NOT impossible, but difficult. So if you’re in a marriage and you’re not cheating, you’re doing fabulously well! And if you mucked up, well….blame it on Darwin.

3. Is marriage really supposed to be forever?

Look, the vows speak for themselves. For better or for worse, in sickness and in health, till death do us apart. You’ve read the contract and signed off on the terms, you clicked “I Agree” and keyed in your personal details so you know what the conditions are. That said, every individual is different and it is subjective, each situation is unique. There are so many reasons to stay but there may well be as many reasons to leave. The jury is out on this one.

4. How tall is Brad Pitt?

Brad Pitt is 5 feet 11 inches. He has weighed between 160-185 lbs. He is also known to grow a stubble from time to time (sizzle sizzle)

On a separate note, Leonardo DiCaprio is 6 feet tall. Weird huh? Didn’t you always think he looks kind of short?

5. Did he really cheat on her though?

So here is what we have. My esteemed sources (TMZ, US Weekly, E, People) have passed their verdict. He did. But the other woman has posted an ultrasound image of her blobby baby in the soup of her womb saying she is preggers and implying she is happily married. It is worthwhile to note though that she DID NOT DENY being with Brad. And that baby…hmmmm..let’s see if it is born with the same dreamy eyes and that gorgeous naughty smile.

6. Can you be the next one to marry Brad Pitt?

There is only one answer to this question: IT DEPENDS. Bloody hell what does it depend on, I hear you scream. Calm down, I am going to tell you. Look, it is really very simple. If he actually did cheat on Angelina and the tabloids are true, then hey, what is to stop him from leaving this one for you. We are all worthy of his filthy attention. That is, if you want to go out with a cheating lying snake – which by the way he may very well not be. But he did cheat on Jennifer so yeah, you decide if you will still have him.

7. What’s gonna happen to all these Asian kids they brought back?

This is a tough one. I know this Hollywood couple meant well. But don’t you think it would be very confusing for those poor kids? First, you are yellow or brown or whatever and you end up with blonde parents that are not your real parents. Then you wake up in a mansion in Hollywood with the paparazzi on your arse 24/7. Then to top it all off, your Poppa wants to leave your Momma for a hotter new Momma. So now, they have their real parents back in their own country, these two new movie star parents that brought them back to “give them a better life” and a new Momma who says she is pregnant with someone else’s baby. That totals to five parents and an unlimited free supply of assorted siblings not unlike the Quality Street box of toffees I loved as a kid. There were so many varieties and I always ate too many and they always gave me a stomach ache.

8. Who is this lady he is supposed to have done it with?

She is French. Enough said.

Men, if you are reading this I hope you enjoyed it. Please keep your pants up. A commitment is a commitment. Don’t be a wimp, remember that a pretty face gets old but a good woman lasts forever.

Women, I bet you didn’t know you cheated as much as you do. And hey, if Brad calls you please tell him I said Hi.

p.s.- my views are my own and don’t reflect yours so relax and don’t give me grief about being sexist or racist or whatever. If you no like you no read please.

Weight and Beauty – A Rant

 

I was well over two hundred pounds when I decided to make a change in lifestyle. I couldn’t walk for very long, I was lethargic, I wasn’t sleeping well at all. I don’t think I wanted the weight to go as badly as I wanted to feel better. I wanted to feel my age. I was only thirty three.

So there I was, a young mother of two, on the first day that both my children were away at school, looking at gym membership plans. I settled on the first fitness centre I visited, either because I was that desperate or because of the size of the biceps of the salesman. With twinkling eyes he smiled as my credit card approval beeped on the machine and the receipt rolled out. Then he winked at me and my podgy knees went weak. “You will lose it. Piece of cake,” he said.

Wait, did he just mention cake?

I fought the sugary creamy demons in my mind, cursed the dirty desires of my tongue, slapped the blubbery fat on my hips and kept walking past the bakery, the donut kiosk, the pretzel place, straight into the elevator. I jumped into the car and heaved a sigh of relief.

I can do this,, I thought. The pregnancies are over, the cravings are over, the nursing is over. There is no excuse to eat wrong.

And so that afternoon, armed with my shiny new gym membership card and enough money in my wallet, I went shopping. This was war and I needed the gear. Loud music played in the background, I think it was Eminem (is that how you spell it?) and I resisted the urge to start dancing. I took a look around. There were cute little pink tops slashed off at the torso (nope, CANNOT wear that), clingy lycra bicycle pants (LYCRA! NO!), colorful shorter-than-my-mother-can-ever-handle shorts. I eyeballed the sizes without touching the clothes, hmmm, I could probably get an arm or maybe a thigh through any one of these sweet little doll clothes.

The shoppers and the sales assistants eyed me. They looked at ALL of me. They stared as though I was a stray cat that had wandered into their home. Ok, maybe I didn’t look fit, and maybe I should not have been holding a scoop of Haagen Daz Belgian Chocolate ice cream on a cone. But my diet was starting the next day. Really.

Anyway, determined to do what I was there to do, after many moments of hesitation, I approached one sales woman, only because she was heavily set too.

Yes, they did sell extra large. Sure, I will bring it out for you, she beamed. Sorry we only display small and medium, it has more “hanging appeal”

I waited nervously, hiding behind racks of caps and bags and bands. She emerged holding a pair of tights. She threw me a gaze, one of regret and perhaps a little compassion. I don’t think it will fit madam. Would you like to try?

I prayed hard that my phone ring that very moment, or that she be summoned by a supervisor, or that the earth open up and swallow me. If I said yes and did try and it didn’t fit, wouldn’t that add to my humiliation? And if I said no and left, wouldn’t that be an acceptance that I was a lost cause?

So I said the only thing I could think of to save the little dignity I had left. “I’ll take it.”

The next morning I slipped on an old pair of tracks and a loose t-shirt, my husband’s. I took in the drabby sight of myself in the mirror.

I can do this. I can make a change.

I had had an apple for breakfast that day, green, no less. And lunch was already planned. Steamed vegetables with a side of brown toast, no butter thank you. This was it. Even though I looked like a bus. I would do this.

So I enter the double story fitness centre, my card rings like it is supposed to when I swipe it at the turnstiles and there I was. In the gym. This was the beginning. I looked around, fear gripped me like the devil in hell. Men and women, young and old, at least five sizes smaller than me (you guessed it, they were ALL in lycra), flooded the cardio machines. Big burly men were lifting barbells the size of a small country, heaving and panting. Skinny young women ran (RAN!) on the treadmills, their slim figures hopping, their elegant little ponytails bobbing up and down.

I stood alone, hypnotized by the techno music and the rotations of the pedals on spinning bikes. Where to start? Shall I go home? Was this even for me? My stomach growled. Perhaps a sandwich would help right about now….No….you can do this.

My trainer appeared, a young man with pep in his step and a smile on his lips.

“Ready?”

“Not really” I mumbled.

“Don’t stress, we wont be doing all of this, let’s start with a few stretches. Let’s get you all warmed up.”

I dragged my feet behind him and did everything he said; some light walking, a little bit of weights, some stretching and some deep breathing exercises. All in all, it wasn’t as bad I had anticipated.

I went back the next day, and the next, and the next.

I am happy to report that with the help of my capable trainer and a good diet plan, I lost fifty pounds in six months. Some of that weight has been coming and going in the last ten years, but I have since bought a treadmill and a stairmaster. The treadmill sits in my balcony and the stairmaster is in my living room in front of the TV. I do not use either to hang towels. I use them to exercise, at least four times a week.

And this is why what Ms Dani Mathers did upsets me so much. If people with perfect bodies only understood what it takes for people like me to make that choice, if they only knew what it is to grow up obese and ill informed, if they only knew the kind of courage it takes to take the first step, they would realize that doing what she did is not only mean, it is an insult to every effort and every act of self discipline I have ever undertaken.

I don’t buy cake unless it is an occasion anymore, but even if I did, I don’t see why a woman, just because she is outwardly beautiful feels she has the right to stand in judgment of my body.

I do believe that beauty is more than skin deep. I know so because I have seen beauty in the wrinkles around my mother’s eyes, I have seen it in the laughter of a child, I have seen it in the acts of courage of our heroes, I have seen it in the whispers of prayers in a temple and church, I have seen it in the spirit of the brave, in the intelligence of our inventors, in the perfect words of a beautiful book.

Most of all, I have seen it in myself.

So Miss Playboy or whatever else you may be, please, for the love of God, don’t go around clicking naked pictures of people that may not be as fit as you at the gym, let them be who they are. Because they may just be better than you. After all, no amount of fat can take away what they carry in their souls. And I can bet my bottom dollar that the things they carry are a thousand fold more beautiful than you could ever hope to.

 

 

Flash Fiction/Short Story: The Pillow

The Pillow

Tonight she lies alone on this bed. For the nineteen years that she has slept in it, never has it felt this hard. Now that he is gone, she notices that it is not a warm bed. It is unwelcoming. No position is comfortable. She lies on her side and her thigh cramps. She turns and lies on her back and her neck hurts. Above her the fan spins, slowly, lazily. It was never much good, never did what it was supposed to, especially when they made love. They would have to open the windows those nights. The breeze would rush in, the sheer white flimsy curtains would dance and play, his taut back would be cold under her fingers.

She turns the other way, the weight of her desolate body sinking deeper into the bed. Is sorrow dense and heavy? Because she can feel every inch of her own skin, every ounce of her flesh, every cell untouched and unloved. She was weightless when he was here beside her. She was ethereal then.

She reaches out for his pillow. He forgot to take it with him when he left. It has known him longer than she has. He would wrap his arm around it and rest his cheek on it. Then he would fall asleep. It knows his dreams.

It is lumpy and worn, hollow in places, like their relationship was. She runs her hands over it and she can feel the unevenness, the absolute non symmetry of it. She lowers her face and inhales its scent deeply. It is him. Twenty years worth of him in this unruly misshapen thing.

It smells of his aftershave, musky and manly. She picks up a hint of his soap, the bar he used instead of liquid. He is the only person she knows of who still uses a bar of soap, only because it is less wasteful.

He used to say nothing should ever be wasted. She can’t help but think of the years she has given him, did they count? Years that are meaningless now, lost forever.

When Good Books Go On Sale

Last week I went shopping. And it was the kind of shopping that makes my heart race, my body shake and my eyes shimmer. You guessed it. Books. Much is to be said about the strange phenomenon of wonderful literature finding its way to makeshift shelves and tables in warehouse sales.

As a book lover, I live for these sales. But as an aspiring writer, I cannot help but worry. Anyone who has tried to put pen to paper and made any kind of half decent attempt at writing to be published, knows that it is one of the hardest vocations ever.

That blank page. Oh that blank page. How it taunts and tortures. Minutes tick away, then hours, sometimes days before a thought, a word, a whiff of inspiration arises from the recesses of hopelessness and makes itself known, demanding to be written. Only then does the writing begin.

Alas, it is but the first drop in the ocean. Sentences have to be constructed. Coherent ones, no less. Plots must come together. Scenes must have goals. Dialogue must flow naturally. Characters must come alive. Settings must be created. Something must come out of nothing. Magic must happen and it must happen with beauty.

When one finally arrives, sleepless, spent and exhausted, months or years or even decades later at the final page of the coveted novel, one is clutching nothing but a lump of clay; the dreaded first draft. The draft that is littered with typos and grammatical inconsistencies, plot holes and flat characters. Either the wretched thing is too long or too short. And it is almost always, ugly as sin.

So the unfortunate soul returns, tail between legs, humbled but determined to the writing table. The real work begins. The cutting and patching, shaping and slicing, adding and removing. A forever later, perhaps there is a second draft that is worthy enough for another pair of eyes to read. Then comes the third draft, the fourth, the fifth. On and on it goes till the writer can finally bear to read the damn thing without having the pressing need to jump off the balcony.

This is only the creative process. Let alone the business of finding an agent and getting published. The odds of this happening ranges anywhere between  0.1 to 1 percent depending who in the industry you ask.

So there you have it. Years spent with no guarantee of any kind of publication.

When I shopped at this sale, I paid US$2 each for everything from Jane Austen to Umberto Eco. Have you read them? Dear god, the prose is priceless, it is miraculous, it is life changing, it is meditative, it is….it is… It is genius.

It does not add up. The blood, the sweat, the tears, all to produce something that is pleasurable to the reader, all available for US$2.

As a writer it worries me that I can pay less for a book by literary geniuses like Gustave Flaubert than for my daily latte. I start to wonder why I choose to write knowing that my work is likely to be lost in the thousands of unread and unpublished manuscripts languishing in the deleted folders of agents’ inboxes. And if by some stroke of luck, I find someone who has enough conviction in my work to take it to the finish line and have it published, I would be lucky to see it sold for more than a couple of dollars.

Knowing this, why then, why on earth then, do I bother to write?

Because there is nothing else I rather do. Except read. And now that I have acquired these new beauties for my bookshelf, excuse me while I go disappear in a story. For it is the only joy I know.