A 'Shred' of truth perhaps?

My cluttered desk at work had long been crying for attention.

So a caving-in me decided to clean up my (desk) act today.

Taking a deep breath, I made a half-hearted dive into the large pile of paper that had accumulated over the better part of the last two months, and which had clearly been shrieking their lungs out at me.

Several minutes later, at first dazed by the volume of paper that stood accusingly in front of me, I had bundled them all neatly into three piles – important, not so important (but still to be retained), and to-be-shredded. Depositing the first two piles safely in my commodious work-drawer, I heaved the last to the gleaming white shredder that still hummed happily on account of a colleague’s presentation that had to be re-worded to suit a manager's whimsical mood.

I inserted a part of my bundle into it; the machine greedily sucked in the paper. Its appetite was insatiable – lapping up paper after paper gleefully.

The analogy to some people with insatiable appetites was unmistakable.

Ironically, the machine that was invented with the intention to protect one’s privacy, resembles those people most who love to intrude into yours. Your privacy, I mean. You answer one irreverent question with an equally irreverent answer, hoping it would shut them up. Fat chance! By some twisted, dim-witted logic, they take your answering for encouragement – and then follows that grueling episode of being subjected to the Scotland-Yard-meets-NYPD rigorous cross-questioning round. The string of questions that these Nosy Parkers pose even infringes into your time with your loved ones – leaving you sore, frowning, crotchety, and not really the sunniest sunflower in the garden.

There are those who, like shredders, insist on ‘destroying’ all around them – such souls destroy all sanity, sanctity, felicity in their relationships, making the sorry bum who’s in a relationship with them, look up at the star-studded sky, hoping to wish upon a shooting star…

Sometimes the humming sound of a shredder is almost like that of that person who whines (to you) in that utterly-wretched bleat about the meaninglessness of his /her life, and who insists on your complete, undivided attention while narrating sotto voce about the many troubles that plague them.

Such people moan, groan, drone.

The works.

That one time when you clicked your tongue in sympathy listening to the ‘plagued’ soul, now costs you aplenty, ‘cos he / she now adeptly downloads troubles into your (un)willing ears. The icing on the cake – by some cruel hand of fate, they could be from some quarter of someone dear to you. So while the ‘moaning’ experience is a cathartic one for them, you are plainly itching to do some serious acupuncture damage to some part of their body.

And when such people take on the form of creepy, lousy, thick-skinned and thick-headed, semi-educated, wannabe clones, who make you want to wish that you had taken that weekend course in anger management and / or how to cope with imbeciles, what can I say but…

Tie those shoelaces, and brace yourself for the 100-meter sprint.

A run with higher stakes.

'Cos at the end of it, it is not a ribboned medal that would be your prize.

But peace of mind.

Amen.

The Have-Nose-Will-Dig Syndrome

A couple of days back, while TOOMA* and I were (im)patiently waiting for the traffic signal to turn green, we chanced to espy the woman sitting at the wheel of the car on our left.

With one dexterous finger, she wove in and out of her nose like the way a seasoned archaeologist spades in an excavation ground, convinced that his quest to unearth the highly sought after treasure chest was about to come to an end.

Except that instead of the mandatory applause and admiring looks, the lady in question got an amused look from TOOMA who proceeded to mock-ape her shovelling act, and an extended ‘Ewwww’ from me.

Such was the reaction her activity elicited.

She is not alone - probably joined by thousands who have absolutely no qualms in digging out those boogers from within their nose, in full view of anyone looking in their direction.

Talk about having no inhibitions.

In the midst of a pondering spell, they carelessly take out some ‘booty,’ play with it, and with the same kind of nonchalance, toss it. Talking over the phone, they lovingly scrape their itching noses. While sitting in the bus, they unselfconsciously do some serious digging action.

Oblivious to the gagging sounds you are making, and your saucer eyes that threaten to pop from their sockets any minute.

Do they think that their greenish-brown boogers (okay okay – I get the drift, let me not get into specifics here) are loose cannon balls that need to be hurled into the vicinity of two meters?

Or do they harbour a fondness for playing with the aforementioned slimy glob between their index finger and thumb?

Eitherwhichways, a loud, consistent ‘Blech’ is all that they get from me.

Tapping into science, I found that the term for digging up that loot from your nose using your fingers, is called rhinotillexis - people who do so compulsively are called rhinotillexomaniacs. The next line is ickier - there are some who actually, take it out from their nose, and uhmmm...put it into their mouths – mucophagy they call it. Are you retching yet?

And then you have the Austrian Doctor, Friedrich Bischinger, who strongly campaigns for mucophagy in children, declaring that doing so helps them in fortifying their immunity. *wrinkling nose*

I wonder what’s next – a socially-acceptable talent round of very very public farting and belching?

Or perhaps sneezing / depositng phlegm from a choked throat into other people’s dinner plates at snooty restaurants?

*TOOMA-The Object Of My Affection

Post-mortem cosmetic surgery? Over my Dead Body!

I’ve never really given a thought of how I would look after I kick the bucket, people staring at how my crows’ feet bore testimony to a life well-spent in crinkling with laughter and merriment. Or how my stiff hands that held the little posy of violets did not have French-manicured nails.

Maybe because know I would get cremated, and not have a priest reading at my memorial service what an irreparable loss my demise would be to the entire world, and what a great soul I was; while my loved ones wiped their eyes, lovingly placed those wreaths of white chrysanthemums at my head, sprinkle some soil into the casket that contains my stiff body, and walked away consoling each other, united in their moment of grief.

The very idea of me lying all by myself in a white shroud, my body shrunk by death, is enough to make even narcissistic me banish all thoughts of glamour from my mind whatsoever.

And replace it with a cold feeling of mind-numbing terror, little beads of perspiration trickling down my neck...

But seems like there is an entire group of people who have!

Toyed with the idea of perfecting their smile / hairdo / makeup.

Who are not necrophobic like me. And who take an inordinate interest in getting that perfect arch, an extra collagen pump in the lips (for good measure), and removing those blessed fine lines.

The difference is that they would like to get the above jobs done on them after they have left the world of the living.

So what do they do? Leave behind neat bundles with their attorneys or their family to make the final settlement (pun intended)!

Beats me.

They have even coined a fancy term for it - Post-mortem cosmetic surgery.

Spooky?
Eerie?
Quirky?
Or plain bizarre?

You decide.

Random images / pics / signs that caught my eye

1. Too many drunk morons cause mayhem on the roads. Making this sign a mandatory one on them roads might just discourage them from getting behind the wheels after having had a drink too many.

2. Tired of that twitching frown that makes an appearance on your face when that bimbo / jerk is around? Ahem ahem! 'Enuff said. *chortle*

3. A woman and her bag are inseparable. Unless of course you count surgery.

4. To all the people who drone and look like there's no stopping them, help is at hand!

5. Now who should I dedicate this 'touching' card to? I can think of at least three contenders...

A Tale of Two Teeth

That half the time models walk the ramp at Paris and Milan, and the other half peep at you from mascara-ed eyelashes and / or smoky eyes from overpriced fashion glossies, you’d think the least they could do was smile.

But no. A smirk is probably the best you can get. And that is good. Considering that their faces usually bear a condescending, supercilious mask, almost as if the very thought of genetically inferior ‘masses’ turning the pages of a fashion mag to ogle at them, is repulsive enough for that patronizing look to be plastered permanently on their chiselled features.

Sometimes on a good day, they pose with a half smile, lips slightly parted, two teeth visible, staring at you insolently, as you sigh envyingly, admiring the high cheekbones that have been bronzed to perfection.

That half smile only makes you more anxious about your own status and attitude, as you uneasily look at the clothes / accessories / makeup they model, and make a mental note to pick them or something to that effect the next time your happy feet hit the mall.

That all the plastic you used that month makes a re-appearance in the form of a tidy outstanding sum that you have to shell from your measly salary, is but obvious.

As is the scowl that doesn’t leave your face for the rest of the month.

I don’t think not reading the magazines is a solution.

But then, what else is?