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Posts Tagged ‘Affair’

The Last Laugh

Whatever feelings I have, hatred has no place in me. I don’t hate. Especially you. Because you, just like hatred, have no place in my heart. You’re not worth it. Not a thing. For something cheap – cheaper than a shower cap – you are not even worth my hatred.

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My feelings are my choice. You can’t make me feel what I choose to feel. You  are not the reason for my feeling the way I am feeling. You are too small and insignificant. You are a joke you make and you are a joke you play upon yourself.

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And now, who’s laughing?

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Change Change Changed

The last visit to Calgary, for me, was between November 2006 and January 2007. So this visit, over three years later is to see a changed woman. A changed-for-the-much-better woman who now knows how to take. I am done giving.

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So give me, Questa è Enida, a big applaud… tuan-tuan, puan-puan sidang pembaca sekalian. Yes, termasuklah Puan Shower Cap yang membaca. Ahak ahak! Sepertilah tidak ku tahu ya?

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I was young and stupid too, once. But I was done being stupid at 26. I suppose some people just began being. Bah!

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Swing, Tiger, Swing!

I read this a little while ago and could not help but to agree with the writer. While I have less vim in love with the supposedly better sex, I do keep my faith in love… for myself. Oh I am so in love with myself I could just kiss my own you know what.

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Swing, Tiger, swing!


I couldn’t care less what other people are doing with their genitalia, but it seems that the only subject people want to discuss these days when they’re out having drinks is Tiger Woods’ infidelity.

Now, when the news of Tiger’s multiple affairs first hit the press, I was shocked. That is to say, I was “shocked” in the Casablancian sense of, “I’m shocked, shocked to find out that gambling is going on in here!”

Of course someone like Tiger Woods would be ****ing around like an over-sexed rabbit.

There are a lot of commonly-held beliefs that I simply can’t subscribe to. Global Warming, for instance (that’s the biggest scam ever perpetrated on the human race). Or that OJ Simpson killed his wife. But most importantly, I don’t believe in monogamy.

When I say I don’t believe in monogamy, I mean: I don’t believe it is natural; I don’t believe it is possible; I don’t believe it exists; and I don’t believe it is a good idea. I believe that the very idea of monogamy is anti-life, anti-pleasure and anti-human. After all, only 3 per cent of the Earth’s 4,000 mammal species are monogamous (and homo sapien isn’t, according to the anthropologists, one of them.)

There is no doubt in my mind that the only people who manage fidelity are those who are too plain, too uninteresting or too fat to have any other option. I reckon it’s pretty easy to be faithful if no one ever wants to give you an opportunity to be otherwise. Just like it’s pretty easy for us not to fly around the skies, since we don’t have wings and hollow bones and the like. But if we did have those handy accoutrements, I believe we’d be flying about all the time.

Women desire him, so, yes of course someone like Tiger Woods would be ****ing around like an over-sexed rabbit.

Because he can. Like yummy Bill Clinton could. And delicious JFK could. And – oh my – all those gorgeous footballers! And Angelina!

And anyone who can and doesn’t, is a damn fool in my opinion. Because it is the plain, uninteresting and fat ones who created the stupid Monogamy Rule in the first place, so the rest of us couldn’t have more fun than they were having. Therefore, it’s clearly an absurd idea to follow their jealousy-motivated rule. I say: let’s have a lot more fun than them – let’s take all the fun life can give us.

Pamela Druckerman, who went on a round-the-world tour of cheating for her book Lust in Translation, found Russians to be some of the world’s worst cheaters. She couldn’t find anyone in Russia who had been faithful. Good on us, I say. And yet another excellent reason to live in Moscow.

Personally, I’ve always been a serial non-monogamist. I’ve “cheated” (the word “cheat” says it all. Listen to the teary sullenness of the accusation through your remembered eight-year-old ears: “You’re cheating!” But you weren’t, were you? You were simply better) countless times on every single boyfriend and husband I’ve had. I’m not a one-man job and Tiger’s obviously not a one-woman job.

But now poor Tiger has been forced to enter a sex rehab clinic.

Apparently he’s doing yoga for about three hours a day in order to learn how to suppress his sexual urges.

But I doubt yoga can turn him into a tiny anglerfish (the only true monogamous creature on this planet). Hence I say: Good luck with all that, Woods.

I used to be like Tiger. I used to feel guilty, hate myself and regret my passionate wet/hard nights stolen on the sly. But, having realised a long ago that regret is a waste of time, the only thing I regret now is regret.

No. That’s a lie. I regret one other thing.

I’m having my publicist send this column to Tiger Woods c/o of the Sex Addicts Clinic where he’s been admitted.

I regret not having Tiger’s big, black … Well, figure it out yourself.

Thus: Mr. Woods is cordially invited to spend some time in Moscow. We can take care of him and show him a good time, can’t we? I mean, we’ve got: Faberge eggs. Cafe Pushkin. Snow. Vodka and Soviet Champagne. Me. And all the beautiful Russian women a man could want. And you know, we’ve got golf too.

*** rehab – and everything else you can. Tiger: come to Moscow.

xxoo

DD
Deidre Dare
Moscow News

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Curang

Charge me. Go ahead. Go ahead and charge me. I am guilty. I admit my indecency.

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It has been going on for a while now. Two, maybe three weeks. And I… I can’t contain it any longer. I can’t bear the the burden of not telling anyone about it anymore. Three weeks may be short for some, but it’s too long for my cheating heart to stand the pretense.

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I don’t know why I am pouring it out on this blog. Perhaps I am most honest in my writing. All I am asking for now, since you are reading… is your understanding that I am just a human. And oh, I could not resist the temptation.

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With this, I confess, that I have been cheating on my husband. The last three weeks I’ve been hanging my bra on another man’s hanger! Yes, I have. It is my bra. And it is his hanger. He designed it. That’s what he does. He designs. And it was this entry that started our hanging affair. Between Oklahoma City and Moscow.

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This other man and I have been having two or three emails going back and forth between us, discussing what to do with his hangers and my bras – in a secrecy that we both understand even in silence, even from a distance. I think he’s the man for me bras.

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To Jimmy (not his actual name), please accept my apologies. I didn’t mean to hang my dirty laundry bra on your hanger here for the whole world to see. But I am so excited! And I think I like it, I like it! I’m about to lose control here.

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When you do get the design patented and commercially manufactured in the states, please don’t forget to send me a box of 25 hangers. I’ve just spent hours visiting Victoria Secret in Stockholm and bought 75 new imaginary bras to keep us ‘hanging on’.

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Oh Jimmy Asmaraku, what a movie!

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Postlude:

25 of Jimmy’s bra hangers will hang 100 bras and will keep a boob job a no-job. I like it, Jimmy. I like it!

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Glossary for Jimmy:

curang = unfaithful

(Bahasa Malaysia is my mother tongue.)

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Temptation

After what happened in my menage some time ago… I have been thinking a lot about being faithful. What to be careful with, and what being faithful is really about. I have been asking myself questions like you wouldn’t believe.

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Like, is looking at another man and undoing his pelikat in my mind a betrayal to the one I commit suicide my life to? Is enjoying a lengthy conversation on what I wear underneath my saree cosidered cheating on my other half? Is daydreaming of my Abang Ramlee nibbling singing in my ear while I sit on his lap cleaning ikan bilis a sin?

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Regardless, I must admit… that I have been tempted. The temptation is still tempting and it is tempting me as I am writing, and you are reading. Though I am tempted to make a confession here, I doubt that now is an appropriate time.

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Let me get myself sorted, let me take myself home from Stockholm and get myself stuck at home first. In the meantime, all I can say is that my faith has not been full. I am sorry. I have been having an affair with temptation.

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Does + Doesn’t = Isn’t

What usually feels good, but doesn’t feel right… is usually not right.

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Yes.
Just like those relationships that boost your esteem, your energy, your ‘steam’, and whatever that can be boosted or busted. If they feel good, but have to be kept secret… they have to be ended.

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Simple.

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I’ll see you next month, tomorrow… luv!

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Can I?

If I am to be blamed for finding what I wasn’t looking for, then if you ever asked why I looked… I would just give you the answer all fools have given, “Because it’s there and because I can.”  The pictures, that is.

 

If I choose to feel the pain this time and be hurt by what I wasn’t supposed to see, then if you ever asked why I kept picking at the scab… I would unashamedly be that human left with no strength and say, “Because it’s there and because I can.” The wound, that is.

 

If I am cornered, left to deal with this emotion no one dares to call it anything else but anger, then if you ever asked why I couldn’t just forget it and move on… I would with no pride say, “Because it’s there and because I can.” The past, that is.

 

And if I just let me be that weak foolish human being unable to move forward, pulled back by painful reminders I didn’t know I was supposed to avoid… then let me make my mistakes. Because I am just a human. Because mistakes are there and I can make them.

 

I don’t hate many people. But because I am just a human today, I hate you. You keep making nothing but the same mistakes. I don’t hate many things either. But because I saw what wasn’t meant for me to see, I hate your mistakes. They keep bringing nothing but pain. (I called them lessons before, those mistakes. But I wasn’t human then.)

 

If you ever cared enough to ask why the hate now, I would just say, “Because it’s there, and I can choose to either live it or leave it.” The pain, that is.

 

 

 

I have not learned my lessons well, have I?
Maybe I should just walk away.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The Shower Cap Tragedy

Had you come to me before July last year wanting me to talk about shower caps trivially, I would have. I could have. As trivial as shower caps could be. And as trivial as telling you that my favorite and trusted ones are those available at Watsons pharmacies. Thick, polka-dotted, and come in two’s.

 

And those Watsons shower caps were exactly the ones I got for Be’s colleague who had asked him to get in Malaysia (as she was on the Russian island where shower caps were nowhere to be found). Up until the end of July 2008, shower caps were not too personal to me. Sure! I drove to Watsons KLCC to get the colleague those precious shower caps.

 

But came August 2008, life taught me many lessons I could not have trivialized. Even shower caps taught me one:

 

  • That if one’s husband comes home telling the wife that a female colleague had asked him to get her (kirim) some shower caps, what may be going on between the husband and the colleague is nothing trivial.

 

Nothing is more personal than a shower cap but a thinking cap.

 

 

“What you do with your thoughts is entirely up to you.”
– Anonymous

 

 

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Hoots In Boots

I started this entry with a title, which is not usual.  I mean, my style is… ramblings first, titles last. And that unusual title was a title of Shania Twain’s song that usually comes to my mind when I see a pair of boots. I changed my mind and changed the title so to avoid questions of unusual nature, as the title I originally started this entry with was Whose Bed Have Your Boots Been Under.

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See what I mean? But then again, the boots in question have been under my bed. My very own boots and my very own bed. Winter just started, unsupposedly. And I had been in a tropical country where wearing boots is just for pussies in style. So the boots have been under the proverbial bed of roses.

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Anyway, after just being wetted by cold rain this past week, the snow finally came back. And walking Kitreena to school has been made a tad more challenging if I insisted on staying in those suede Scholl shoes of mine. So the boots I got for a pretty good deal in Spring came in handy… or shall I say footy?

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For the love of me footsies, I had to crawl under the bed yesterday to get the boots in question out of the questions. The crawling part, later, proved to be the easiest and the most fun of it all – I didn’t know putting on a pair of boots can be such a workout. I think I lost at least 400 calories putting on each boot yesterday (not to mention, my temper!)

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The first boot was the killer. I could not get my foot all the way in! I tried it with the sock on, of course. And when the foot just would not slide in – even after putting all the 58kg push on it – I noticed that the sock was rubbing tightly against the boot lining. Fine! Sock off, then!

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I was about to lose the rest of the 400 calories, putting another try on the 58kg push, ready to strangle myself, kick my butt, scream on the top of my lungs if not hooting like the unhappiest owl and howling like the hungriest wolf, spit my green phlegm and swear at this Bloodyvostok winter in Moscow, when  I wiggled my toes and… uh?

“What is this ball of crumpled paper still doing in me bootsie?”

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Did I tell you they were a brand-spanking-kicking-butt new pair of boots?

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Over A Year

A few have asked why I am sounding like I am not over it. I have a big smile everytime I am asked, though. Do I really sound like I am not over it? Like I am still angry about it, like I am reheating it, gearing up for a big burn, burst or bomb or something? Well, if that is how I am sounding to you, you obviously don’t know me well. You have not seen how I dealt with anger.

 

Those who know me well, know… that silence is always The Resort I check my anger in. Which has been, with this anger for what happened about a year ago now. When I was driving from Nikko Hotel to Ampang to ask Mrs. X to face me, I was determined that it was her who needed to see me. She needed to see that this face, this person, this Enida comes with a heart. Enida’s heart can break just like hers can. The only difference was, she was not worth the heartbreak. She could bark and bite, and oh she’s got teeth alright, but she could not break my heart!

 

And I was going to give her the message of closure that 10 years earlier, the man was head over heels with me too… and I did not take him away from anyone. He was a free man. We did not build our marriage on the foundation of lies, mess and heartbreaks. The 10 years we had were the happy years until his job took him away from his family, and until childbearing and childrearing took me away from me. But when I got there, and when I was at her gate, my anger subsided. I was overwhelmed with the energy from my decision of courage.

 

I am not angry now, no. I am simply telling you a story from my side of the gate. And telling this story takes courage, not anger. You must be mistaken me for somebody else.

 

 
This is the face Mrs. X had to face - the picture taken on the very day I went to her gate. Now, is this an angry face? :)

This was the face she had to face that day.
This picture was taken on the very day I went to her gate.
Now, does this look like a face of anger?
🙂

 

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