On How to Survive a Bad Hair Cut

I had a haircut yesterday. It must have been pretty bad since mother changed her stance on my hair style from the previous intense dislike to an honest pity and empathy. For a good hour or two, she went on and on about how stupid the hair stylist is, and since it was she who suggested me to have a haircut at that place, she was in a full guilt mood. All I could think of was how can I squeeze out this guilt of her to my full advantage. People, I am now one step closer to my around the world trip, yay!

It was also such a fun time to listen to her attempts to make me feel better about my hair:

Mom: Me, try to sweep your bangs to the side. You look like an idiot with your bangs on the front.
Me: Uhm, thanks mother, but I don't think the haircut permits me to do that.

Mom: You know Me, you could have your elementary school haircut right now, and looks exactly the same.
Me: Okay, let me get this right, are you trying to tell me that I look like how I was in my elementary school years, which was 15-20 years ago? The time when you made me have that super short boyish cut? Mother, ... I think you may be right.

I'm somewhat surprised that I am not as distressed about my haircut as much as my mother is. One reason is probably because I have now resigned to the fact that I would never have a good haircut. That and also I am in a reminiscing mood lately and the bad haircut reminds me of the worst hairdo that I've ever had, which also happens to coincide with the most vivid memory I have of my grandmother a.k.a my dearest Bobo.

Bobo is the only grandparent I've ever known, but her enormous personality and character drains me from the the need of getting acquainted with my other grandparents. She was such a dominant and prominent figure, someone who I simultaneously love, revere, fear, and admire. A true beauty, a collector of tons of friends and fans, an independent and free willed being, a lover of life, and a survivor of a hard knock life.

Of course when I was a child, my feeling of her was less complex and more singularly defined by fear. Bobo believed in the fear system to discipline the young spoiled kids, and as a young spoiled kid, I was only permitted to know her as a stern evil grandma whose delight was to spank me whenever I do something wrong in her eyes. A suggestion to visit Bobo's house would usually followed by my intense groan of angst and a mental preparation note of list of things to do and not to do to remain alive and bruiseless after the visit. Do compliment her dishes regardless whether you like it or not, do sit straight, do not forget to kiss Bobo in both cheeks, and do not ever ever say that you want to go home.

Funny, I don't even have any recollection of Bobo spanking me. I do have a memory of mother hitting me so hard with a long plastic ruler. The ruler became 2 shorter versions of itself and I ended up crying so hard, not because of the physical pain, which wasn't that much, but more for feeling pity for my poor unloved self. Yet still, I can't conjure up any memory of Bobo doing any physical harms upon me.

Anyway, back to the glorious ugly hairstyle. It was my ninth birthday, and a party was to be held at Kentucky Fried Chicken that evening. My relatives and my school friends and teachers were going to be there. I don't think I was particularly excited about it. Never much a fan of party even when I was a kid. I remember it to be a Sunday, Bobo visited our house after church, and she decided that my hair needed to be a little bit on the glamorous side for the party. So I was told to sit in front of her, facing the TV, while she skillfully combed and parted my hair to 20-30 small square areas. For each section, she would fold my hair to the back and tied them with a rubber band, not a hair band mind you, but the regular industrial rubber band. In short, she was giving me a temporary perm. I was too afraid to refuse, and my cry of help look to my mother was only replied with a knowing and sorry look.

The nap I was told to have by Bobo that afternoon was full of discomfort, the only way I would not feel any crushing pain on my skull was if I placed my face on the pillow, and sadly that position could not last long since one still requires some breathing to remain alive.

Finally, an hour and a half to the party, those rubber bands were one by one yanked away from my head. Along with the process were the extraction of many strands of my hair and several drops of tears induced by the pain.

The result was a jumble of unruly curly hair on top of my head, pointing to every possible directions. After a few puffing and shaping movements by Bobo, I finally looked somewhat presentable and if I wanted to, I would have been able to blend in real well to the gathering of housewives in our neighborhood. To add to my misery, mother put a decorative hair clip on top of my puffy hair, the hair clip has, glued on top of it, a mini rattan hat with a circling of red ribbon and a few flowers on the right side. To finish it of, she smeared a bright red lipstick on my lips.

When we arrived at KFC, I almost cried when I realized that my curly puffy hair, my small hat, and my cherry red lips made me not unlike the clown of my own birthday party, sans the rainbow hair color thankfully, mine was still uniformly black. I was doing the whole emo thing, hating the world and everything that lived in it, but then I caught the look of my Bobo, a wee bit tired, but full of smile and laughter, what a beautiful sight that was. The young me could not articulate the warm feeling that I immediately felt afterward. Looking back, it must have been a glimpse of understanding that there were more important things in this world than how my hair looks, and that Bobo's well intention and the resulted happiness for contributing to her granddaughter's birthday party was more important than anything else at that moment. That's when I said to heck with it, put on my smile, and went on with the party. And that's also why I would go on with life and wouldn't kill myself after every bad haircut that I have and would have in the future.

P.S: Not looking at the mirror helps as well.

Lebaran Break!

Time to list down my accomplishment while holed up at home this Lebaran:

Movies:
> Aruitemo, aruitemo
> Adventureland
> The Boat that Rocked
> Rachel Getting Married
> Zodiac

Comedy:
> George Carlin - Back In Town
> George Carlin - Complaints and Grievances
> George Carlin - Life Is Worth Losing
> George Carlin - It's Bad For Ya

Books:
> The Shock Doctrine: The Rise of Disaster Capitalism (Naomi Klein)
> The Periodic Table (Primo Levi)
> Housekeeping: A Novel (Marilynne Robinson)

Music:
> The Kinks, The Kinks, The Kinks!!!

Icy & Warm Treats:
> Chocolate Ovaltine Sherbet
> Orange & Passion Fruit Sorbet
> Glazed Lemon Bread

I want my break back!

The Chronicle of Peyo's Pineapple Upside Down Cake

First of all, let me clarify that although the title of this post indicate a unique chronicle of this thing called Pineapple Upside Down Cake, in truth, the subject can really be replaced with an X variable, where X is any baking goodies that I have put into existence in this world. (*)

Having clarified that, let me begin the tale. It begins with a moment of boredom at work, followed by the act of browsing the army of sites and blogs that I have kept handy for this very reason. Since I was feeling hungry and trying to refuse the impulse of junk food consumption (always a losing war), I tried to suppress the hunger pangs by looking around some food blogs (now you see why). My favorite food blog has always been simplyrecipes, and while I was there, I found the recipe for this Pineapple Upside Down Cake. There were many comments on it which registered to mind as a worthy recipe to try.

On the weekly grocery to Bonnet (the bestest grocery store ever), self would usually boldly march ahead and buy the ingredients for the cake using only her memory as guidance. Self ended up buying a Pineapple.

Next would be the brewing step. During this step I would brew enough will and motivation to actually move self's behind from the comfort of bed and bake the cake. This step varies in length and duration, sometimes it would take weeks or months or years, but for this particular instance, the process was accelerated to only a mere week, all thanks to the help of dearest mother and her progressively vile questioning as to why there is a pineapple inside her fridge and would someone please do anything with it before it gets rotten?!?

It was Saturday evening, the weather seemed permissible for baking, I checked the recipe again and realized that I was still lacking few necessary ingredients. Another drive to Bonnet was a must. The trip left me tired and in need of rest. I spent the night watching movie with friends and decided to hit the bed early to prepare for the long day ahead.

Sunday morning, skipping church, I felt happy and energized. I went down to the kitchen, played Lou Reed and started preparing all of the ingredients. This is probably my most favorite part of the process, I love listening to the music while doing busywork. My mind would drift back and forth between the music, the lyrics, and how many mL 3/4 cup is. This works best in the kitchen and doesn't work at all at work, what's with the yelling from the next desk asking me to turn down the crappy music.

Once I get to the part of cutting the pineapple, I realized that the fellow has decided to give up waiting on me and move on with its decomposition process. Need to hide evidence from mother!!, was all I could think of. And thus, self again bought a pineapple at Bonnet. Returning home, mother was already back from church. I tip toed my way to place the pineapple in the fridge and was thankfully not caught in the act. Success!!

Not long after, mother ordered me to drive her around to do some errands. That's mother, never knowing the definition of rest, her joy comes when she can cross an item from her never ending to do list.

After errands, lunch, a nap and a movie, I finally ready to make the cake. It's Grace Potter and the Nocturnals time now, what a great voice. The caramel making process was fun and bubbly and after few whisk, mix and blend, I dumped everything in the pan, shoved it in the oven, and squatted in front of the oven, eagerly try to notice every tiny bit details of the cake's progress to bloom and its color transformation to the beautiful golden brown.

About 15 minutes later, realizing that my static squatting position didn't exactly look elegant nor lady like (instead, chimpanze like), I dragged a chair, sat next to the oven, and tried my best to glue my inquisitive staring to what looks like a jumble of letters in my book. During this time is when I noticed how gigantic the cake is and how it doesn't bode well with the fact that our household occupants are not particularly fond of dessert. I hope the cake turns out good, cause I sure need to give this thing to other people, I prayed. Yes, I pray a sincere prayer too sometimes.

As I placed the pineapple upside down cake to the plate and observed the gloriously amber colored caramel topping, I felt horrified knowing that this is going to be one obscenely sweet cake. I sliced a small slice and gave father and mother a test.

Me: Is it good, papa?
Father: Good! *with the nod of approval that I love*
Me: Mother?
Mother: Uhm, how exactly does this cake suppose to taste like?
Me: Well mother, my assumption is ... exactly as you taste it.
Mother: It's ... good. Very moist ... and sweet. Like the cakes at the hotel.
Me: You mean the ones that you dislike because you can smell and taste the milk? The ones that you are afraid to eat because of the huge sugar, butter, and dairy content in it? (**)
Mother: Yeah *grin*
Me: Right, I tried to tone down the sweetness, but it's also still way too sweet for me to.

Total household consumption roughly amounted to 2 small slices and a bite. We ended up distributed the rest to my 2 aunts, a friend, and Bik Yah and the gang.

Bik Yah then said, Goodness, why did you bake the cake if you're not going to eat it. You might as well had a nap. An astute point as always. Who knows? It's possibly just to witness those magical moment when the ugly dough turns into a beautiful cake. Or, it's just an excuse so I can hum a few songs in the kitchen.



(*): The formula in the beginning isn't complete. There is an exception to the rule when X = Y, where Y is my Achilles heels, my Kryptonite, also called the sinfully awesomelicious chocolate chip cookies.

(**): Mother may claim that she doesn't like dessert or any dairy products, but she sure can chug down ice cream or any chocolate dessert.

Brought to you by Telkom Vision Internet

Thank you dear Telkom Vision Internet for your quirky internet connection. Your funky modem hasn't stopped blinking accompanying my lonely night. Lonely because your internet has decided to take some rest tonight, just like in the past week or two. What was I thinking really. Such fool I was to even think that your main job is to provide me, your paying customer, with a stable and - if it's not too much to ask - a somewhat fast connection.

But hey, at the very least, sometimes, when you're in the right mood, you would bless me with a burst of connection to the whole wide world.

"Oh, thank you Telkom Vision Internet!".
"Indeed, you should be really grateful, human. But three minutes is enough! Now back to your job of admiring the interpretive dance of my modem light."

Negotiation would not do. I tried to bargain a connection on the evening while he could rest during morning, afternoon, and night, but I guess it just doesn't fit his sleeping schedule. I was so desperate, I even tried to scare him with a possible destruction of his property. I looked sternly at his modem while transmitting strong signals of desire to crash and burn the damn thing. He called my bluff and also reprimanded me for calling his modem 'a damn thing'.

Having watched Oprah, I know that in this stressful situation, I should take deep long breaths. So I did. Deep long inhale, deep long exhale. After a couple deep breathings, it seemed that my little Zen time has shown its result. An enlightenment. Yes people, I'm that good. It is very obvious now that it is just tough love afterall. This wise and knowing Telkom Vision Internet has decided that I have wasted too much of my precious time in this world doing useless activities and he actually cares enough to put a stop to this. Graciously, he cut me off from my means to slack off, all for the better good of yours truly.

And so here I am now being productive. Only because of him that I am now writing a thoughtful post to my bare blog. Such rarity. And after this, I would spend the night by learning some life lessons from the movie(s), and I think I shall help the income of that little pastry shop by consuming its calorie laden pastry. And maybe, I would for once put more attention to my health and bid goodnight a little bit earlier. So there you have it, thanks to Telkom Vision Internet, instead of spending the night away checking my facebook and various useless blogs, I will create a piece of literature, dwell in the philosophy of life, give the much needed boost to the economy, and take better care of my health.



(Uhm, something doesn't feel quite right, but I don't know what that is. Maybe I should spend more time to meditate on this, but my movie is waiting, so maybe next time ... and oh, the internet is up anyway.)

Pak San

'Pak San doesn't walk. He runs.', my aunt observed.

And all of us nodded in unison.

Pak San was 59 years of age, but he didn't look any older than 45. Inhabitating a small figure and possessing a super human agility, Pak San did everything fast and efficient and still managed to give running commentaries to whatever conversation we had. Sometimes he even did it in Chinese. This, of course, annoyed my late grandma terribly. Here were her grandchildren, all clueless in their own grandmother tongue, and yet this driver could speak it oh so effortlessly.

Pak San had worked for my aunt for 18 years. He was my aunt's Bik Yah. Someone who had worked too long and known us too well, that he had grown to care about us, and us about him. Care enough that we would accommodate his all-knowing attitude and his quirky acts. In short, he was part of our extended family.

It was tragic and suddened. Two motorcycle riders did thoughtless acts. Double-lane crossing on his part, a fast and careless riding on another. They performed brain operation twice on him to reduce the blood cloth, but it was too late and too little. My aunt couldn't hold the tears, her eyes were swollen for days.

We all visited him at the hospital. He was already in a deep comma. They placed him in a ward of people who were just waiting for their time to exit the stage. 'At this point, there is nothing else that we can do. We hope you, family members and friends, can accompany the patient in his last moment', the doctor said. There were some painful moaning in the room, some crying, but mainly just blank hopeless stares. At one moment, there was quietness in the room before it was broken with the laughs of the young staff interns. Apparently someone just delivered one funny joke. I felt suffocated. I hate hospital.

After 5 days of comma, Pak San left all of us. 'At least he didn't feel any pain', we tried to cheer each other up. He was buried the next day, and life goes on for the rest of us.

I received an SMS a few days after, 'Thanks for the mangoes. They are very sweet. I'm eating them now while sobbing a bit remembering Pak San, hiks ...'.

My aunt is quite the jokester, and the visual of my aunt crying while eating mangoes made my mother and I smiled and saddened both at the same time.

Rest in peace, Pak San, and thank you for everything.

Foundation

Me: Wow, JK and Wiranto don't look good in this poster. They look abnormally dark.

Mom: Yeah, you're right. Most probably color profiling problem during the printing process.

Me: And not to mention a bad Photoshop work.

Mom: They seem to have some sort of brick-ish red blush applied to them.

Me: I can't believe they approved to have these posters planted across the city, and worse, the whole nation!

Mom: Compare it with the SBY and Boediono poster over there.

Me: Great smiles with pleasing light brown skin color.

Mom: I think they applied some foundation before they have their photos taken.

Me: Maybe that's the key to win the election.

Mom: What?

Me: Foundation.

Mom: I hope so.


My mom rocks!