My brother, again, I start my blog with reference to my (inferior) genetic predecessor. Perhaps this is a start of a truly disturbing pattern. One where, against my wishes, I gravitate towards blogging everytime my brother offhandedly mentions it. Humph. I'm a busy person. I have many truly important mind-boggling, earth shattering things I I must do.
At least that's what I told him, in my best British accent. Which I shamefully admit, is not very good at all. I lack practice! Unfortunately, somehow when a female reaches the big second decade of her life, bold red lines are drawn across many items on the list of Acceptable Things To Do. Snorting, burping and farting is no longer "funny" and in fact is highly socially unacceptable. Making crude Singh jokes, passed on to you by your Punjabi friends during the days of your youth, along with graphic hand-waving illustrations are also no longer socially acceptable.
Sip not slurp.
Showing your raised middle finger, even in jest, is highly inappropriate.
Spewing spit on people while you talk is no longer cause for good humored jeering but instead results silent shocked looks of terror.
You cannot make fun of your parents.
You cannot tilt your head up, tongue stuck out, while it is snowing.
Walk, don't run.
Never flare your nostrils in public.
Our sense of humor deserts us with age. Things that are hilarious are now juvenile, and one day, when we are in our 70s and we realize that nothing is more beautiful and powerful in this world than humor, and we start embracing it again, our children will gasp and sadly shake their heads and commit us into a funny farm with all the other senile (or completely sane?) artifacts of humanity.
Why am I talking about this? This is of course another prime example of my genetically inherited affinity for digression and incoherence. One should only have to be present when my family is together to understand. Each individual carries on a conversation with oneself, thinking that he/she is the wittiest, most charming and intelligent being on the face of the earth.
Ladidah.
Eccentrics.
All of us. If I were the Prime Minister of Malaysia, I would prevent my immediate family members from reproducing. Oh think of the reprecussions!! Everyone knows that population growth is exponential!! If both of us (me and my brother, of whom both are still unattached... coincidence? I think not...) reproduced, why then, in a few years, there will be a whole village of self absorbed kooky neurotics!!! Which would make for very interesting family reunions.
So my family reunion of sorts is coming up. I'm excited. Then again I'm also mentally bracing myself for the unescapable barrage of wince-inducing explosive arguments about money, money, money, or the lack thereof. I propose, to my darling brother, a covert operation of sorts. Anytime the topic of conversation strays towards potentially sensitive issues, the one still in full charge of his/her senses, shall immediately start singing, with gusto, " My Favourite Things" from the Sound of Music. Raindrops and roses and whiskers on kittens. Bright copper kettles... and warm woolen mittens. Preferably, if not in full view of the public, the singing party shall accompany loud, purposely off-keyed singing, with energetic hand actions signalling raindrops and kittens. And maybe skipping. One should always skip when singing happy diddly di songs from the sound of music.
Thus avoiding long drawn out and painful arguments which always leaves everyone battered, bruised and oh-so miserable.
Yes.
That is what we shall do.
At least that's what I told him, in my best British accent. Which I shamefully admit, is not very good at all. I lack practice! Unfortunately, somehow when a female reaches the big second decade of her life, bold red lines are drawn across many items on the list of Acceptable Things To Do. Snorting, burping and farting is no longer "funny" and in fact is highly socially unacceptable. Making crude Singh jokes, passed on to you by your Punjabi friends during the days of your youth, along with graphic hand-waving illustrations are also no longer socially acceptable.
Sip not slurp.
Showing your raised middle finger, even in jest, is highly inappropriate.
Spewing spit on people while you talk is no longer cause for good humored jeering but instead results silent shocked looks of terror.
You cannot make fun of your parents.
You cannot tilt your head up, tongue stuck out, while it is snowing.
Walk, don't run.
Never flare your nostrils in public.
Our sense of humor deserts us with age. Things that are hilarious are now juvenile, and one day, when we are in our 70s and we realize that nothing is more beautiful and powerful in this world than humor, and we start embracing it again, our children will gasp and sadly shake their heads and commit us into a funny farm with all the other senile (or completely sane?) artifacts of humanity.
Why am I talking about this? This is of course another prime example of my genetically inherited affinity for digression and incoherence. One should only have to be present when my family is together to understand. Each individual carries on a conversation with oneself, thinking that he/she is the wittiest, most charming and intelligent being on the face of the earth.
Ladidah.
Eccentrics.
All of us. If I were the Prime Minister of Malaysia, I would prevent my immediate family members from reproducing. Oh think of the reprecussions!! Everyone knows that population growth is exponential!! If both of us (me and my brother, of whom both are still unattached... coincidence? I think not...) reproduced, why then, in a few years, there will be a whole village of self absorbed kooky neurotics!!! Which would make for very interesting family reunions.
So my family reunion of sorts is coming up. I'm excited. Then again I'm also mentally bracing myself for the unescapable barrage of wince-inducing explosive arguments about money, money, money, or the lack thereof. I propose, to my darling brother, a covert operation of sorts. Anytime the topic of conversation strays towards potentially sensitive issues, the one still in full charge of his/her senses, shall immediately start singing, with gusto, " My Favourite Things" from the Sound of Music. Raindrops and roses and whiskers on kittens. Bright copper kettles... and warm woolen mittens. Preferably, if not in full view of the public, the singing party shall accompany loud, purposely off-keyed singing, with energetic hand actions signalling raindrops and kittens. And maybe skipping. One should always skip when singing happy diddly di songs from the sound of music.
Thus avoiding long drawn out and painful arguments which always leaves everyone battered, bruised and oh-so miserable.
Yes.
That is what we shall do.
