a (Bread) Basket Case

I write this entry with my dried wrinkled old lady kind of hands. A side effect that would occur if you wash your hands as often as I am. I washed them religiously because I have a phobia over the gorific condition of Indonesian paper bills, which is unfortunate since I have to be in physical contact with them quite often at work. In order to write effectively, I have utilized a large paper clip to keep my bangs from disturbing my 10/20 vision. Yes, it's only a 10/20 because my left eye is constantly twitching at the moment, something is wrong with left soft lens. I tried to take it off and put it back on, but it still is uncomfortable. I neither have my glasses nor the soft lens case with me, so I guess it would look as if I'm trying to flirt with every becak and bemo drivers that I definitely would honk on my way home.

You might ask, why do I still write with all of these preventive conditions? That's because today is Thursday and my To Do List has notified me that on Thursday I have to write something ... anything on this blog. Yes, with this entry, I have officially written at least (or should I say precisely) once a week in the last 3 weeks. Hooray Self! With such milestone, I'm giving self a pat on the back and a permit to wolf down some tasty fatty ice cream tonight.

Speaking of the act of wolfing down (nice segue, eh), last Saturday, mother and I went to a decent restaurant to wolf down some excellent meat and they served us a bread basket while we wait. It had 1 focaccia, 2 sesame breadsticks and 2 poppy seed breadsticks (cheapskate!). After we sent the focaccia to a visit down our digestive systems, my focus was transfixed to the poppy seed breadstick and how there were so many poppy seeds on the breadstick! They were like the bountiful stars in the sky, and I just had to ... just had to peel all of them off of the breadstick. Mother was actually sweeping the leftover breadcrumbs off from the table cloth as I was doing this, so the cleanfreak side of her was horrified on my doing, "Meme, don't make a mess!". "Ow, on the contrary mother, mess is not my intention. I'm actually purifying this innocent breadstick from the ugly black poppy seeds that has prevented us from seeing the beautiful, glossy, clean surface of this perfectly baked breadstick!". Mother's face as I could hazily remember was wearing something along this expression: -____________-

Anyway, after I'm done with the mission, and admiring the beautiful glossy clean surface of the breadstick, I saw the candle right next to the bread basket, and I asked mother, "Mother, what would it be like if I place the tip of this breadstick to the flaming candle?". Mother's reply was short, "Just don't!". Unfortunately, the inquisitive side of me had to find out the answer or else I would get a terrible heartburn. Several seconds later, the tip of the breadstick started to blackened, followed with the arrival of a distinguished smell to mother's olfactory sensory reception, which immediately got post-mailed to her neural system and processed and categorized in her panicky brain as quite an alarming situation that she hastily commanded her voice generator agent to deliver the following message: "Abort, abort, my looney crazy daughter, do you want us to get kicked out of this restaurant?!?".

I laughed out loud and stopped my experiment. The smell still lingered and I asked mother jokingly, "Mother, do you know what this smell reminds me of?". Mother answered in a deadpan manner, "Your homemade caramel popcorn?". "Ouch!" I was going to joke and say it reminded me of all of my baking experiment, but it's no longer funny if the zinger doesn't come from myself! I guess I totally deserved it.

A yoke to bear

My hair, my effing hair. A bastard creature whose goal in life is to torture and humiliate me, to slam me down to the abyss of self loathing. The beast is happiest and liveliest when a visual recorder is being pointed to its direction. Aware that its present state is going to be immortalized, it is quick in action, doing one of its 101 complicated dance moves with the sole aim to become as unruly and hideous as possible, just in time before the click click click sound is traversing to my eardrums. Any hair product won't do, it is practically immunized from all these self-claimed beast tamer products available on earth. Every picture of me is a sad testament of how I have lost another battle with the monster nesting on top of my head. Oh well, everyone has his own yoke to bear. I'll just have to accept the fact that mine has chosen to locate itself at a strategic spot ... with prime visibility.



P.S: Yes, I am exaggerating. Of course I don't hate myself or my hair ... much.