watching Penelope Cruz and Nicole Kidman squeeze into those tiny dresses at the Oscars, then The Biggest Loser, i was fired up to work off that hotdog i had for dinner. i don’t mind that i’m all alone in the gym on a squeaky treadmill – it allows me to watch the Oscars again and gives me mind-blowing freedom to fart whenever i want and not look around confused, pretending it wasn’t me.
i take back what i said, that guys who wear shades in clubs aren’t cool. Djimon Hounsou’s an exception. he’s cool in my books, shades or no shades in the Kodak Theater, clothes on or off (yes, please), he’s cool and he’s haa.. haaa.. sssssss.. hawt. he took over Keanu on my List of Men to Stalk Then Marry after i saw him run like a dream in The Four Feathers. then i fell asleep halfway watching one of the feathers drop, waking up only when i heard his low, rumbling voice.
i love alpha males. primal, grunting cavemen with a club in one hand and a dead wild boar dripping in blood in the other. Djimon looks just like the kinda guy who can tell his woman to fuckin’ shut up and sit down with a deep-throat grunt while he barbeques the wild boar. or in today’s terms, drop takeaway Chinese on the countertop then have unimaginably wild, loud sex on the chaise longue that would blush many a neighbour’s cheek.
i’ve got my own caveman at home so Djimon gets only two paragraphs of undying adoration (instead of two lengthy posts like i would have ten years ago) cos like Joy who visited last week says, “dali… you’ve changed.”
me, changed? how?
we wouldn’t have gotten into a discussion of how i’ve changed if not for the fact that both our asses were itching and Joy was especially keen to go clubbing.
“clubbing, Joy? here? but they all play techno disguised as house,” as we’d witnessed at Trilogy, Madinat Jumeirah on House night. Trilogy rocks though, we can never have open air rooftop dance floors like that in Singapore cos it’s too darn hot, too humid and the government would be too afraid to let its only natural resource, its youth, fling themselves off the rooftop when drunk because that is the activity of choice of any bored Singaporean on any given Friday night.
there are hip-hop and r & b nights, but you gotta be a night animal to know who’s playing what and where when someone asks you out of the blue. i’m only a nocturnal beast who feasts through the night, guffawing at Ellen DeGeneres and don’t fancy clubbing here (though everyone else you’ve heard from might have told ya how the partying here is absolutely fantastico) and i haven’t memorised TimeOutDubai. her tour guide found out that it was hip-hop night at Boudoir and suggested we go there, except he insisted it was Budwaar when i’d spelled B-O-U-D-O-I-R. just to prove a point, he even wrote down Budwaar on a napkin and asked “and what is this?”
fine, Ali The All-Knowing and Great Speller, you win, Booodooowwaaaaar.
the music was excellent with the best hip-hop mix ever and definitely far too loud (our ears were still ringing two days after). but after an hour of subsisting on only ginger ales and rude clubbers, you do get annoyed. especially when five different people point to five different directions when you ask for the ladies’. i turned to Joy and said “i’m uncomfortable, i don’t like it here.”
i felt like i was out of my element.
“you’ve changed. i think it’s married life.”
“what! noooo, being married has got nothing to do with it.”
i don’t like people sticking hands across our faces, then laughing at Joy when she protests after it’d gone overboard. i don’t like strangers taking pictures of Joy dancing like she’s an Asian ho for hire. i don’t like four men standing around just staring at us dancing. i don’t like that we were packed like sardines and i only saw one way out.
i did like the wooden toilets though. and the chicks were mostly hot (till the lights came on at 0300) and friendly.
we left and went to a latin club next door, except it wasn’t latin save for the one song the DJ slipped in between the other hip-hop numbers. there were 15 people in a place that could pack in at least 250 while Boudoir had packed 250 people in a place for 15. and i had a great time here. except for that guy who kept clinging on to us. Joy finally understood what i’d been talking about before when he kept asking for my number even after i’d divulged that my husband is a high-ranking member of the Yakuza.
before leaving, Joy declared something to the effect of “men here are pigs.”
it’s been heartwarming having Joy and her family in town. i shamelessly adopted them as my family and i’d been declared an anak pungut (literally, child picked off a street = adopted child). felt like a travel-again tourist in Dubai, even roamed through enormous malls in calf-high boots which is something i’d never do if i were shopping at the Mall of the Emirates on my own. but then again, Joy was able to remain upright most of the time on her 4″ wedges during the desert safari.
on the desert safari, i learnt the hard way that quadbiking is not for those afraid of heights and have hearts as small as chicken livers. but i’ve no regrets trying it out then flinging myself unwillingly and unglamorously off a toy on wheels in front of the cute tour guide.
i especially loved seeing stiff Singaporean Chinese men trying to bellydance in the middle of the desert.
we had such a blast that i was in high spirits all the way through, even till the last day when we hadn’t showered in the morning to catch the 1200 checkout time. it was the first time i went out without showering and it felt like a dirty, little secret. when the tour guide from Singapore announced that the airport bus had arrived, i was still upbeat and walked everyone to the bus.
when i started crying unexpectedly as i hugged everybody, and kissed Joy 17 times while assuring her, “it’s ok, it’s (the mascara) waterproof”, that’s when i knew, dali, you’re homesick.
it’s time to go home.