Your discontentment is deafening.

Door slammers scare me. It's these people who can't really voice out their discontentment and choose to express in the form of door slamming. Or cup slamming on whatever available surface. Feet stompers, even at the age of 60. Handbag chuckers. I worry about Handbag Chuckers. Surely you are worried about the contents of your purse? Something sounds broken in there. Or maybe you had premeditated this whole chucking routine and had filled your handbag with glass shards from that bathroom mirror that you had smacked down on your dresser this morning.

I understand aggression. Coming from a person who is so angry with the world for reasons from one end of the spectrum to the other - I understand anger. Just fucking voice it out.

Why is it that whenever I try to partake in this whole Door Slamming business, I get my fingers trapped and I'm left on the other side of the slammed door with tears in my eyes and feeling like a twat? Am I not made to slam doors with elegance? The last time I tried to slam a door, I ended up with my bedroom slipper left behind on the other side and said slipper stopped the door from slamming shut. I opened the door again with Jaz staring at me, smiling, and I felt like a blooming arsehole and I had to yell out a resounding string of vulgarities at the door, door handle, door jamb, slipper and then decided I might as well cuss out the carpeted floor, just so that each and every bit of the doorway got the same treatment.

My experience with slamming doors have never been pretty so I am guessing that is why my development in the Art of Slamming Doors is sadly stunted. When I slammed a door back home then to express my teenage frustration of not being able to sleep over at a mate's, I get greeted with my bedroom door being kicked back open a mere seconds away and since it was only a short time I had slammed it shut, it ended with the door being kicked open INTO me, followed by the terrifying presence of My Mother. If I had stomped up the stairs, and since we lived in Singapore where stairs were made of concrete and not shoddy, wooden floorboards like most houses here in England, I had to put in extra effort to make that stomping noise. We also do not wear our shoes in our houses, so we had no Doc Martens or even shitty foam-soled sandals to help us out. And with all that extra effort, I still got chased up the floor by Mother, had my waist-length hair then yanked back, followed by a slap.

So you see, I didn't get that opportunity to explore the many dramatic avenues of expressing myself. I had to make do with either sucking it up or screaming into a pillow after collapsing onto my bed Bollywood-style. Now as an adult, I feel a resentment for Door Slammers.

Since I can't slam doors with such flourish, I will proceed to slam Door Slammers. You lot are pussies. What are you trying to convey when you slam doors? If you are pissed off at me, tell me about it. Don't slam your cups down on kitchen counters if you are not happy. Chuck the cup in my face and let's have a proper punch up. Let's beat the fuck out of each other. Let us yell at each other until we are blue in the face. Tell me what is not right in your world.

I am so used with people telling that they are pissed off with me until I don't do silent treatment very well. I would just assume that whatever is wrong in your world, it is not me.

I think I am turning into my mother because now when a door is slammed in my presence, I instantly feel the urge to kick the door down and yell 'WHAT! WHAT! NOT HAPPY?! WHAT! DO YOU WANT TO DIE IN MY HANDS TONIGHT?! WHAT!'

What kids?

I just got back spending a little under a week with Jaz's kids. Oh, how I love spending time with teenagers and their constantly yelling, moaning, under-the-breath cussings and louder-than-loud accusations of which sibling is the bigger idiot. Then there are times when teenage aggression turns to the animals. It's always funny when a child is getting told off by a parent and then said child turns to a purely innocent animal and then yells at the animal for no fucking reason and say 'Dave, stop looking at me!'. Makes me look at Jaz's ex and try to telepathically tell her what a fucking trooper she is. She is. If I tell my child to listen and then the child yells back 'NO, YOU listen' my guess is a certain palm is going to make sharp contact with a certain face. But hey, that is just me. I support the slapping of insolent children. No, really. Sometimes talking rationally will not do. Seriously. Just lock them in the cupboard under the stairs. Might make a wizard or a witch, or anything interesting and useful, out of them.

Christmas is around the corner. Can't you tell? Christmas, moany children, shortage of money and getting hit by hail on the way to the shops to get your children the presents that they will not appreciate a mere two days later. Last year, Jaz's youngest was on the bloody Wii the whole blooming Christmas day and whines when someone tries to persuade her to turn the telly off so that we could watch some Christmassy garbage on the telly. I kept telling her that she needed a rest or her arms were going to pop off but no, she loved her Wii and OOOOH more games to be explored on Wii Resort. Or something. Was it Wii Resort? I think so. Then she proceeded to pass out on the settee and then woke up with the achiest pair of arms known to a child not in the child slavery business. Moan, whinge, cry, moan. No thanks for the Wii. Wii remote discarded in between the settee cushions. Got sat on. A month later would be stepped on, no doubt, before finally being misplaced long after it was forgotten about altogether.

The eldest son got a PS3 where he spent more of his teenage time in his dark, teenage-boy-smelling bedroom on shooter games that breed aggression, came out when a level had beaten him 18 times in a row, resurfaced only to demand new games, snacks and what time dinner would be dished out. Occasionally, he would hint someone to run his bath.

The eldest girl got a laptop which later on had a whole can of whole up-end on it.

I saw a status on Facebook with someone saying 'I am glad I don't have to go out and buy toys for kids'. I'm thinking, 'Wow, you are lucky if you can find a kid that actually wants toys now.' or 'I'd like to meet a kid who wants toys'. Do they still want toys? The last time I talked to a child, the child said she wanted a fucking iPhone 4S. No, listen to me, you are a child so ask for a fucking doll. A stupid Barbie or that equally stupid bear that you can change its clothes depending on the season. Whatever happened to those girls who wanted a baby doll and a pram to go along with it? Do those type of girls still exist? Why is it that every child I meet now wants an electronic device of sorts? Why must it be plugged it or charged for a half a day before it can even be fun?

You know what I want for Christmas?

A book. Mockingjay by Suzanne Collins. I want to know what bloody happens now in that third book. I am also looking forward to Hollywood slaughtering that good book to hell and back. And an iPod with a no-bleed pair of earphones so that I can read and drown out all the fucking Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad! and shit.

And Jaz's ex should have her bath run for her with sinful bath bombs and Bailey's Hazelnut after. Jaz? He should be the mediator by yelling 'You are ALL fucking idiots!'

They are lovely kids. When they are, without realizing it, being nice to each other and not trying to out-cuss each other in the name of sibling rivalry. Like each and every other children, really. Like myself and my brother, in fact. But we got punched for kicking shit up.

But still... I love them. And I do end up being that person that say stupid shit like, 'Awwww, I know, mate. Siblings are like that. Come here, give me a hug and brush my hair.'

Embarrassing.

His bloody fault.

It is half 4 in the fucking morning.

A few hours ago, not too long before he spontaneously passed mid-way through a conversation, he looked at me, through the eyes of someone on the brink of a mental break-down from sheer physical exhaustion, and said , 'Have you gotten bigger lately?'

Balls of fucking steel. BALLS OF FUCKING STEEL.

Earlier today while I was getting ready to go out with him, he had passed by me, stopped and casually squeezed my left breast and looked at me dead in the eye. 'Did you find a lump in there?'

'Have you got socks in there?' He asked.

Have I WHAT?

'You know, you watched that video of that bird stuffing socks in her bra and you tried it the next day, remember?' He smirked.

I was taking the fucking piss! Just to see you roar with laughter when we shagged and socks fell out.

Do you not know what your Missus' real tits feel like?

So today, for the second time I really looked at him.

'I have dropped two sizes. I can still fit in my Pre-Charlie clothes, plus room to move in it,' I answered calmly. 'What the FUCK are you ON!?'

I was saying this with a hairbrush knotted in my fucking hair and the bloody puppy kept trying to go for it and catching me in the chin with her chompers.

'I am going to donate you to the less fortunate this Christmas, Stevie, if you don't fucking SIT! Fuck off! SIT! Good girl. Now go bite the fuck out of your toy. Go on.'

'I don't know... You just look... Big to me these days,' he replied.

'Since when?!'

Yank, yank, curses, fucking yank again on the hairbrush.

'This is your fucking doing this stupid hair. I want to cut it short again!'

'But you fucking moaned when your hair was short and you just fucking said you are going to get bloody extensions because it's not long enough. What the fuck are YOU on?'

That was true. He was right. Back to yanking.

'So which part am I bigger then?'

'I don't know, Baby. All over.'

'Are you having a laugh? I have fucking lost weight. I have dropped sizes. My tits have shrunken and look at how sad they are! LOOK.'

'Maybe I am seeing things wrong...'

'Have you, after all this time been under the illusion that you have been shagging the clothes-horse?'

He laughed. Oh how he roared with laughter.

'You're beautiful, my baby. Really. The most beautiful woman alive.'

I went on and on about what a cockless comeback that was and how I expected more of him but when I turned to look at him, he was cuddling Stevie and Stevie was cuddling her Daddy with that fucking manky rope that she had bloody pissed on in her mouth still.

So, it is his bloody fault that I am now watching Youtube tutorials of Pilates.

Okay well maybe I just want to slim my thighs a bit just so that they can stop rubbing against each other and make the weirdest of noises when I have tights on.

He got me a Stevie.

Ever since losing Charlie at 7 months at the end of June, I have been whinging, incessantly and maybe understandably so. I can be found in the Toddler clothes area of Tesco when I should be choosing Cauliflowers. I can be found fiddling with buttons of baby Parkas and go slightly misty-eyed, before saying 'Fuck it!' and scare a few mothers around me in the process.

We have been trying. In fact, last month I was late by a week and I was, to put it simply, fucking excited. I casually bought a pregnancy test kit and chucked it in the basket along with my Vaseline pot of awesomeness lip balm, a few panty liners, a bottle of Aussie conditioners and went to pay. It was when Jaz stepped up to the counter to pay for it that he saw it and he looked at me. And I saw Fear. It took me back to that time when the midwife said there was no heartbeat. It was that look there. This man who is about to pay for my pantyliners is scared.

We went back and I pissed on a stick and sat on the bed after I pissed on the stick.

The stick told me, in Parseltongue, 'Yoooooou aaaaaare pregnaaaaant aaaaaas per theeee window riiiiiight theeeeeere.' I was happy. I was over the roof.

Jaz left the room and I didn't see him for over an hour. I was happy. Then I was sad. Then I was angry. Then I was scared. Then I played with Josh's dog and her puppies and I was alright. Then he came back in. By then I wasn't happy to tell him the news any more. I just wanted to sit and play with puppies and not look at him. He sat next to me and asked, 'So you're pregnant then, yeah?' That made me flinch then. I will never get that joy of being pregnant, will I? We will always be plagued by fucking fear. Fuck him for being a bloke and not knowing the right things to say. Fuck him for not knowing that I really wanted that scene in my head where we both jump up for joy and kiss each other silly. Fuck him for making this such a sombre scene. So I said, 'Yeah. The piss stick said so. But hey, me having a child won't tie you to me forever. I can fuck off back home and raise my child on my own. I don't need you and your stupid face like that.'

See, I will always be a stupid, fucking, petulant child who suffers from verbal diarrhoea.

That resulted in him walking out again, spending hours away from me. Hours with his music, away from me, possibly spinning his decks chanting 'Fuck her, insensitive fucking cow.' over and over again.

He came back in and I said Sorry, and he said What are you sorry for, silly? and that just means 'I am glad you are sorry but I am a Zen Buddhist and stuff and I'm cool like that so I'll just watch you be sorry and stuff and learn from your mistakes. Ohhhhhhhmmmm.'

Then we kissed and made up and he gave me a half of his Snickers bar. He's a chocoholic and that act spoke volumes.

Then he told me that he wasn't trying to be a prick and that he was just scared. I said I am just as scared too. It wasn't as though my life ambitions were to keep having stillborns. It wasn't like I woke up every morning saying 'Oh wow, wouldn't it be nice to go to my own kid's funeral today?'. It wasn't like when I discovered I was pregnant I said 'Oh yes, I can't wait for this to die either.' Forgive me for being morbid, but that was exactly it. I have to say it as it is, don't I? No point pussy-footing around the man who had seen everything of me.

But then, a week later, I started getting my period. Was the piss-stick broken? I should sue Superdrugs for getting my hopes up. It was broken, wasn't it? Doesn't help that we were spending the week with Jaz's kids and I had to keep sneaking to the loo to just fucking weep and tell him, 'I think I'm broken, you know. How can we shag so much and not get pregnant? I think I'm broken.' And then he said, 'Maybe I'm broken.' and we spent hours arguing who is broken. No me, nooooo me. Naaaaah, me! I win! I'm broken.

Maybe I miscarried? I'm broken.

When we got back from spending time with the kids, we came back, he took one of Josh's puppy and said, 'This is ours, yeah?'

He got me a Stevie.

Maybe it's his way of saying, 'Okay, we're both broken. Let's try to not break this puppy, okay?'

Look at her face, my little demon. Look at my fucking fake lashes. Look at her face, my little Stevie. My little bipolar little shit who has gone through pairs of fucking sandals in the space of weeks. She smells gorgeous. She smells of that bottle of baby oil that she up-ended on herself when she head-butted the dresser repeatedly.

I'm teaching her commands in Parseltongue these days.

Ssssssstevieeeeeee, ssssssssit you little sssssssshit. 

Cartoon Characters From My Youth

Yay, Listrographs! Another one from Kate Takes 5.

I do sometimes watch the garbage that children watch today and miss my own childhood and the days where cartoons only come up during specific timeslots and not the whole day on one channel, or ten, for the children to watch the whole day and scream the whole day, whenever you attempt to switch the channel to something less annoying. Oh, the days without cable. The days without hundreds of channel listings for five-six people to argue about.

But well... Time has progressed eh. And whatever stupid clichés people can think of that make most unacceptable things somewhat acceptable.

1.  Arthur 

I loved Arthur. Do you know who this Arthur kid was? I loved the theme song to bits. Even today, at the age of 25, I still find myself humming this when I am hoovering or doing the dishes. I still don't know what exact animal him and his family are. Gerbils? Guinea Pigs? Hamsters? Rats? ... Non-shelled Armadillos? Fuck knows, but I still love him and his happy theme song. 

     2.  The Magic School Bus

It was because of Ms. Frizzle that all Science teachers around that time were deemed shit and uncool. Why bother attending classes when we can sit at home and watch all of our recorded Magic School Bus episodes on VHS? Why? 

   3. Jem

Ooooh, Jem! Oh, Bratz, you offspring of equally sad Barbies, you. You haven't got the ounce of attitude these girls had. 

    4. Thundercats

Ho boy... Was I frothing at the mouth when I found out a bunch of artists had come together to do a re-make of this cartoon early this year. 

   5. Care Bears

 So mindlessly cute and stupid, I couldn't resist in what I was hoping during the years I was mindlessly cute... And stupid. 

You can still hear the words 'Oy, fuck off. I AM Funshine! Go for Brave Heart or whatever. That one that wasn't even a bear!' come out of my mouth. 

We never grow up. Maybe we just don't want to. 

Why I'm thankful this Thanksgiving.

I am thankful that England does not do Thanksgiving. I am thankful for Google for explaining the reasons behind the holiday, because I am an ignorant Non-American like that.

Holidays and festivities in this day and age really have got little to nothing to do with religions and with each holiday that I spend with Jaz and his kids I am reminded of the fact that these kids couldn't care less about the significance of the days except for the promise of sweets and sneaky swigs of alcoholic drinks for the teenagers when the adults are pissed and have passed out on the living room settee. They don't care that Easter Sunday is the day to mark the Resurrection of Christ in the 4th Century when it was actually, originally a Pagan holiday to celebrate Ostara, named after the Teutonic Goddess of Spring and Fertility Eostra. The name Easter was derived from the Goddess Eostra and therefore the eggs were symbolic of the fertility that the Goddess brings. Really, I prefer this to that of the Christianity point of view. If we are going to with fiction, might as well go the whole bloody way.

Yes, the kids do not care about the origins of Easter and neither do they care about the Greek Mythology side of it. They just want to know where the hell in the garden Dad will be chucking the last bit of clue. They have got to find it quick before the Sun melts the chocolate, if it is possible for anything to melt when forced to face the wrath of The English Sun. From the price of the chocolate eggs at Morrison's, Tesco's, Budgen's, ASDA, no one seemed to give a shit about the real reason behind the holiday either. They just want to rob parents off their money and induce Type II Diabetes in children, just so that they can post self-righteous posters in the town centre about fat kids and WHY ARE YOU LETTING THIS HAPPEN TO YOUR KIDS, PARENTS?

The same can be said for bonfire night, or Guy Fawkes' night. Do the children know who this Guy Fawkes' person is? With Google at their fingertips they are too busy looking up the lyrics to Rihanna's songs, guitar tabs for Chop Suey, or Youtube tutorials on How To Stuff Your Bra With Socks. They don't know and when asked it is usually answered with 'It was something to do with the Parliament House, innit? Like, something to do with bangers and fireworks, innit?'. Or something to that extent. Innit? They just want to take 50 quid off their parents and go to Londis round the corner and buy 50 Pounds worth of bangers and fireworks that they will randomly let loose in their back garden weeks after bonfire night until you jump when you're trying to eat your dinner. Crisps, soft drinks, lollies, booze and that random unattended kid that looked suspiciously pissed in that corner there.

What about Halloween, then? We spend the whole of our children's lives telling them to not accept sweets from strangers and then on that one night, we doll them up in all sorts of vulgar outfits and tell them to go out on that cold, Autumn night, clad in nothing but a tutu, a corset and devil's horns, at the age of 10, to get some sweeties. What is Halloween, I asked one of Jaz's girls? 'It's because the Americans do it, innit?' They come home, up-end their baskets filled with Monster Heads and even money because some poor random old English woman opened her door and had to be reminded yet again, year after year since Halloween was brought to England, that she either had to give them sweets, or money so that they can buy sweets or they will set fire to a bag of dog shit outside her door. Because children these days are raised to believe that it is all right for them to demand such things off strangers. Never mind that the whole act itself could be a catalyst to something that ends in tears for the children. And if the kids get told off, the parents would come steaming in and exchange a few harsh words with that person that don't wish to have anything to do with them fucking kids outside on the streets, off their faces on a sugar rush and yanking each other's devil's tails off. I'm just going to sit here and wonder how on earth am I going to get the faux-spiderweb, cotton-wooly shit off the carpets when all is forgotten the day after.

Christmas? What about Baby Jesus? Oy, who gives a shit about Baby Jesus anymore now, innit? I want my fucking JLS concert ticket. Never mind that I have been behaving like a spoiled little shit for the whole of the year and I punch my siblings regularly but it's your duty to get me something for Christmas because you're my parent, innit? No, you're not my child so you can fuck right off. One whole bloody day and half getting Christmas dinner done and the table is set but all they want to do is steal their siblings' presents because theirs weren't as good. A few strands of hair ripped, new jumpers torn, a few uncalled for Fucks and a few swift hard slaps at the dinner table and the Christmas mood is all fucked. Is this our last supper yet? Then you'd look at the family dog, happily chewing on his Christmas bone while watching the Christmas special on the telly, you wonder... Why?

So, I am thankful that we don't do Thanksgiving here. Thankful that there is not more festivities-induced garbage on the telly. Thankful that we just have to deal with Christmas and then spend the next few months yelling at our kids when they want a bag of sweets at the shop because we are fucking skint and go fucking suck on your stupid iPod then, you thankless little shit. Thankful that we don't have to obligingly buy sweets for the kids for Thanksgiving just to 'Spruce it up for the kids' and then spend hours yelling at them to bloody go to bed already. Thankful that we won't have to deal with friends of our teenagers who magically turn up wherever food and booze run free and then spend the next morning screaming 'Who the fuck sicked up ON the washing line?'

We always spend the day after so fucking angry that we forgot the day before was meant to be something so fun and joyous. With that, I am thankful there is one less shit to face.

I am thankful that those aren't my kids that kick shit up. I am thankful.

Hot enough?

Okay, here comes my confession: Sometimes I put so much chilli and pepper into my own plate of food in order to either scare people from dipping their spoon or fork into it or so make them choke half to death as a punishment for cross-contamination. It is not as though I am botching up my own plate of food to the point where even I can't enjoy it. I love my heat. I love it. If my plate of food is not spicy, it makes me sad. It makes me wonder what is the point of eating at all. But that is just me and my tastebuds and maybe my upbringing. Us Malays, we LOVE our heat. In fact, when a kid starts to eat proper chilli-infested food, that is when said kid is considered a Grown Up. Then again, it might only be my family and their fucked up set of standards.

When I say Chilli, I mean Chilli. Not Thai Sweet Chilli Sauce which is so sweet it should be considered a dessert sauce.

I am not going to go into one of those food documentary-type blog now. All am saying is, it pisses me off so much when people poke their cutleries into my food and expect it to be alright. I don't care what your social status or upbringing is - That is just not on. I don't want to be One Of Those People who moans about it when people poke into my food but I am. Even if I don't actually audibly moan. I might look at my lap and pull a face or turn to look at Jaz, pretending to look into his eyes across lovingly but what I was trying to tell him telepathically was 'What a fucking CUNT'. He knows. He would look like he was checking out the ceilings but what he was doing was half-way rolling his eyes, telepathically replying to me 'I know right!'. But poking into my plate is never as bad as poking into Jaz's plate of food, seeing that he is a Vegetarian and you poking your Omnivorous Cutleries into his Herbivorous one was just really fucking bang out of bloody order. Don't look at me hoping I would understand when he pushes his plate aside and walks away from the dinner table altogether. I'm a wuss in the sense that I will tolerate it, try to not pull a face or audibly tut but I will spend a few good hours moaning about it when we're away from said offender. I just don't like it. It pushes me to the point where I would actually turn into a child and cry. It's MY food and no one dips into MY plate. Unless of course, I was being very generous and I want to share my food, and this only happens amongst good friends or a person I have actually exchanged bodily fluids with.

I don't know... Is it upbringing? If I were to poke my finger into my mom's plate, seeing that we eat with our hands and not really cutleries unless it's a bowl of soup, I would get instantly slapped with the other hand that was not used for eating. I would get bawled at, be called a pig, have her finger point accusingly at my own plate of food and be questioned if I was in any way underfed until I have to touch her food, in the space of 5 seconds. Maybe I should start doing that at dinner parties. Had my younger brother touched my plate or stolen a piece of broccoli off my plate, there would be a punch-up and an ambulance would have been called. Was it manners my parents tried to teach us? We got slapped for chewing with our mouths open to the point where the face was so sore you ended up eating the rest of your face like a Mongoloid because your facial muscles would not function after said slap. My brother got kicked at a McDonald's when he was 4 for crying, because Mom did not get him the Happy Meal that he wanted, and I swear, he ended up under the table that was three tables next to us. I was shitting myself too much to even laugh but I was in awe of the superpower that was Mom. Yes, you can say she's one vicious, hard fucker, my Mom, but she knew what she was doing. She was raising two kids that possibly had the best table manners.

Last week, I was out at a social gathering and I had a bottle of Crabbie's Alcoholic Ginger Beer with me. Crabbie's can I be your spokesperson, because that was the lushest thing ever? So yes, I was out with my Crabbie's and a friend of mine asked me what it was. So I said, 'Crabbie's Alcoholic Ginger Beer' and she pointed to it and asked 'Oh, I've never had that.' and at that point, in my head I was thinking 'Well, yes that is fucking sad for you, you pathetic mortal.' and then she continued staring. I knew by then that I have to pass some to her and try to not gag at the thought that we will exchanging spit. I passed it to her, she took a swig. And fucking spat back into the bottle. SPAT. And said...

"Oh, it's Ginger-y. I don't like Ginger."


Really? Taking the fucking piss? I just said, "Oh haha. Sorry I failed to mention that it IS ginger. Looking that it IS ginger beer and all. But hey, nice top you've got there." And by that point I have pictured, in my mind, bashing my bottle of Crabbie's at the neck, and ramming the sharp broken bits into her jugular. Don't fuck with me when I'm riding on a Crabbie's buzz, woman.

Then I went to the bin, aimed and chucked my bottle with an unnecessary force until it clangs. Because I am such a petulant child like that. Some shit flew out of the bin and stuck to me but it was all right, I had made my point. I was not happy. MY CRABBIE'S.