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.
Showing posts with label Mom. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mom. Show all posts
On How to Survive a Bad Hair Cut
Thursday, October 22, 2009
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.
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.
The Chronicle of Peyo's Pineapple Upside Down Cake
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
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.
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.
Foundation
Friday, June 12, 2009
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!
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!
E!
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Mom: So, are you sure we're going to make it?
Me: Mother, we're 3 minutes away from the gas station. I'm 100% sure we'll make it.
Mom: I've never been in this situation before. The needle is pointing at E! You know what it means? The gas tank is empty!
Me: Relax mother, the red warning light hasn't blinked at all. I've been in a situation where the red light blinked probably 3 or more times before I managed to fill the gas.
Mom: What? You waited until the red light blinked 3 times? Wouldn't the car just die after 3 blinks? I really can't understand you and your sisters. Always wait to do stuff until the last minute!
Me: Mother, you should be happy that I've been in this kind of situation. You know, it is often in this kind of situation that I remember God and regain my faith.
Mom: Haha, very funny. Seriously though, I never could do stuff at the last minute, I will be too worried about it, it will consume all my thoughts, and I will end up doing it at once so I could move on to do better things.
Me: But mother, don't you see, it's all your fault.
Mom: What? How could it be my fault?
Me: You know the saying ... the fruits don't fall far from the tree. And with the 100% rate of this laziness trait appearing at your daughters, it is obvious that the root of the problem is in the parents.
Mom: But, I'm exactly the opposite of you and your sisters!
Me: Well, it's father's fault then. And assuming that it's not genetic, you two were the one who raised us up during our formative years. So, genetically or environmentally, the blame is still on you, my dear mother.
Mom: Sigh ...
And here's one reason why I don't think I'm ready for motherhood, ... the fruits don't fall far from the tree!
Me: Mother, we're 3 minutes away from the gas station. I'm 100% sure we'll make it.
Mom: I've never been in this situation before. The needle is pointing at E! You know what it means? The gas tank is empty!
Me: Relax mother, the red warning light hasn't blinked at all. I've been in a situation where the red light blinked probably 3 or more times before I managed to fill the gas.
Mom: What? You waited until the red light blinked 3 times? Wouldn't the car just die after 3 blinks? I really can't understand you and your sisters. Always wait to do stuff until the last minute!
Me: Mother, you should be happy that I've been in this kind of situation. You know, it is often in this kind of situation that I remember God and regain my faith.
Mom: Haha, very funny. Seriously though, I never could do stuff at the last minute, I will be too worried about it, it will consume all my thoughts, and I will end up doing it at once so I could move on to do better things.
Me: But mother, don't you see, it's all your fault.
Mom: What? How could it be my fault?
Me: You know the saying ... the fruits don't fall far from the tree. And with the 100% rate of this laziness trait appearing at your daughters, it is obvious that the root of the problem is in the parents.
Mom: But, I'm exactly the opposite of you and your sisters!
Me: Well, it's father's fault then. And assuming that it's not genetic, you two were the one who raised us up during our formative years. So, genetically or environmentally, the blame is still on you, my dear mother.
Mom: Sigh ...
And here's one reason why I don't think I'm ready for motherhood, ... the fruits don't fall far from the tree!
6 years old
Monday, November 24, 2008
This weekend, my mom and I went to Giant hypermarket for some grocery shopping. Why? Because we are Indonesians and Giant has told us that Giant is the place to shop for Indonesians (Giant: Tempat Berbelanja orang Indonesia).
It didn't hit me until I was there that this was a big mistake. Usually we go to Bonnet, a nice medium sized supermarket nearby our house, filled with all things we need and some things we may want. Hypermarket such as Giant introduces its visitors to a bazillion of things that we never think we need or want. There were more aisles to explore and my mom seemed to determine to get to know each aisles and the products it offered.
After 30 minutes and 2 aisles later, I got all fidgety and decided to wander around the place myself. As always is the case, I gravitated toward my favorite aisle, the snack aisle.
The pile of snacks on my hands went higher and higher and it became harder for me to see my surroundings. So, I decided that I had enough of snacks to last for a week and started to look for my mom's grocery cart. That's called self-control people!
While I was on my way, I overheard a little discussion between a mother and her 6-year-old little boy.
As I walked passed the mother and the boy, the boy looked at me and my pile of treasures longingly. I pretended that I wasn't aware of the vehement envious stare while I inadvertently released a small snicker.
As soon as I realized that I was schadenfreude*-ing over the misery of a little boy, I felt very bad.
This is not such a bad conclusion since I'm in no way near of being a mother. First, I need to find a boyfriend, and manage to fool him to marry me. I also need to convince my mother of the ridiculousness of a big wedding. Not to mention finding the perfect house equipped with a large TV and awesome sounding speakers. A big and beautiful book and CD cabinet is a must. And last but not least, a fast computer with TeraBytes storage capacity and high speed internet. What was I talking about again? Oh yeah, motherhood and babies.
I finally found my mother held captured at the stationary aisle. I put all of my snacks inside the cart and sat and waited. Another 45 minutes have passed, and I started to get hungry. It's one o'clock pm.
That's when it dawned on me. Not only that I'm not ready for a motherhood, I'm still, at present, acting like a 6 years old myself.
Well done self. Well done.
Note:
*Schadenfreude: enjoyment obtained from the troubles of others.
It didn't hit me until I was there that this was a big mistake. Usually we go to Bonnet, a nice medium sized supermarket nearby our house, filled with all things we need and some things we may want. Hypermarket such as Giant introduces its visitors to a bazillion of things that we never think we need or want. There were more aisles to explore and my mom seemed to determine to get to know each aisles and the products it offered.
Aisle 1: Hello, may I offer you a nice new set of spoons with a reduced price? Or how about this salad bowl that will surely become the talk of the guest?
Mom: You know Me (my nickname), I think we need extra spoons. And look at that beautiful salad bowl!
Aisle 2: Good afternoon Mam, can I introduce you to this efficient and modern 2 piece drawer? And how about a rattan basket that will look good at every room in your house?
Mom: Me, hold on! Check out this cute drawer. Oh, the rattan basket is nice too, don't you think?
After 30 minutes and 2 aisles later, I got all fidgety and decided to wander around the place myself. As always is the case, I gravitated toward my favorite aisle, the snack aisle.
Hmm, snacks. Let's see, let's have some Chitato potato chips. What flavors should I have? Why don't we just grab one each peyo? Great idea self! BBQ, Roasted Chicken, Cheese, and Plain. Nyum.
What else, what else? Well hello Chiki! Only chocolate flavor but that will do. And oh, Chic-Choc Chocolate Biscuit Balls, heavenly! And don't forget, when you're on a break, you need Kit Kat! Let's grab several of those since I'm on a break a lot of times. And my oh my, they have Beng-Beng Peanut Butter! Slurpilicious!
The pile of snacks on my hands went higher and higher and it became harder for me to see my surroundings. So, I decided that I had enough of snacks to last for a week and started to look for my mom's grocery cart. That's called self-control people!
While I was on my way, I overheard a little discussion between a mother and her 6-year-old little boy.
Kiddo: Mom, can I have Jet-Z please? I want the plastic toy inside of it! Please, mommy, please?
Mom: No kiddo, you'll get sore throat. Plus, you'll get bored with the toys and leave it scattered all over the house.
Kiddo: Mom, how about this Panda Bear cookies? Can I have this, my dear Mommy?
Mom: No kiddo, no snacks for now, it's raining season and I don't want you to get sick.
Kiddo: *pouting* Mommmyyyyyyyyyy .....
As I walked passed the mother and the boy, the boy looked at me and my pile of treasures longingly. I pretended that I wasn't aware of the vehement envious stare while I inadvertently released a small snicker.
Poor sucker, you'll need to wait at least 10 years before you can have your own unprohibited snack binge.
As soon as I realized that I was schadenfreude*-ing over the misery of a little boy, I felt very bad.
Maybe I'm not ready for motherhood as yet.
This is not such a bad conclusion since I'm in no way near of being a mother. First, I need to find a boyfriend, and manage to fool him to marry me. I also need to convince my mother of the ridiculousness of a big wedding. Not to mention finding the perfect house equipped with a large TV and awesome sounding speakers. A big and beautiful book and CD cabinet is a must. And last but not least, a fast computer with TeraBytes storage capacity and high speed internet. What was I talking about again? Oh yeah, motherhood and babies.
I finally found my mother held captured at the stationary aisle. I put all of my snacks inside the cart and sat and waited. Another 45 minutes have passed, and I started to get hungry. It's one o'clock pm.
Me: Mom, could you please hurry up? I'm hungry...
Mom: But I've only visited a few aisles.
Me: Well mom, if you had spent less time at each aisle, we would have visited every inch of this building by now.
Mom: Just a minute Me, I need to buy some oatmeal, frying oil, bread, milk, shampoo, .... *the list goes on*
Me: Oh my gosh, Mommyyyyyyyyyy .... *pouting*
That's when it dawned on me. Not only that I'm not ready for a motherhood, I'm still, at present, acting like a 6 years old myself.
Well done self. Well done.
Note:
*Schadenfreude: enjoyment obtained from the troubles of others.
Who am I?
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Hasn't everyone asked this question at some point in their lives?
Who am I? Where is my place in this world? What is the purpose of my life?
Well, thankfully for my sisters and I, we have our beloved mother who seems to know exactly who we are. In fact, she knows us very well, that she can give a succinct yet thorough description of each of us to any strangers with willing ears.
Meeting a client at a wedding?
Meeting an old friend at a funeral?
Meeting a distant relative at a family gathering?
So it goes, my mom has an elevator pitch for each one of her children. Mine is the most boring one sadly. Usually the following conversation follows:
Regardless where the direction of the conversation goes, my mom already has answers ready for any questions thrown to her. Any questions but one.
Bam! You can see her face expression changes from a glowing pride to a worried concern.
Short with no explanation. So atypical of her. This translates to a code yellow for me.
Alert peyo, the forbidden topic has been touched and discussed. Be careful with what you say and do.
As if this isn't already bad enough, some of these strangers manage to hit my mom's central nerves when they start to takeover the bragging business.
Tongue tied, my mom usually manages to mumble some insincere reply.
When this happens, it only translates to one thing for me.
CODE RED ALERT! CODE RED ALERT! Stay away from the dangerous object. Keep a safe distance until danger has subsided. This may take 3-7 days, depending on the level of radiation. Do not attempt to trigger anything that may cause unwanted reaction and extended regrets.
So anyway, it seems that, no matter who you are, through the lens of Chinese Indonesian community, the only thing that matters is your marriage status.
If you're married, you're a worthy human being. If you're still single, well Missy, you're nothing but a worthless junk.
Such is the hard case of life.
Who am I? Where is my place in this world? What is the purpose of my life?
Well, thankfully for my sisters and I, we have our beloved mother who seems to know exactly who we are. In fact, she knows us very well, that she can give a succinct yet thorough description of each of us to any strangers with willing ears.
Meeting a client at a wedding?
The little one? Oh, she's studying abroad at states now. She majors in animation. She never had any formal study at art before, but she managed to get into a Top 10 art school in U.S. What can I say, she loves to draw since she was a kid.
Meeting an old friend at a funeral?
Well, my oldest daughter is in the states now. She received her PhD from Princeton. Now she's taking a postdoc at Harvard, Boston. Yes, she's very smart. She's always been no.1 at school since kindergarten.
Meeting a distant relative at a family gathering?
Oh, hi, this is my second daughter (pointing at me). She used to study at Madison. After she graduated, she worked for 2 years in Minneapolis. She went back last year to accompany us.
So it goes, my mom has an elevator pitch for each one of her children. Mine is the most boring one sadly. Usually the following conversation follows:
Stranger: Madison, Minneapolis? Where are those?
Me: They're near Chicago.
Stranger: Ahhh, Chicago, yes, yes. So, why did you go back? Isn't it nicer there?
Me: Ha... Ha... Ha... *awkward* Actually, no, I think both US and Indonesia are nice.
Mom: Well, my other children are in the states now, so she went back to be with us.
Stranger: Ah, yes, yes, of course.
Regardless where the direction of the conversation goes, my mom already has answers ready for any questions thrown to her. Any questions but one.
So, how many of your daughters have gotten married?
Bam! You can see her face expression changes from a glowing pride to a worried concern.
None yet.
Short with no explanation. So atypical of her. This translates to a code yellow for me.
Alert peyo, the forbidden topic has been touched and discussed. Be careful with what you say and do.
As if this isn't already bad enough, some of these strangers manage to hit my mom's central nerves when they start to takeover the bragging business.
Ah, I see. All of my children have gotten married. The last one got married 3 months ago. I'm so relieved now, no more burden. Now I can just relax and play with my grandchildren.
Tongue tied, my mom usually manages to mumble some insincere reply.
Ah yes... that's very nice... Congratulations.
When this happens, it only translates to one thing for me.
CODE RED ALERT! CODE RED ALERT! Stay away from the dangerous object. Keep a safe distance until danger has subsided. This may take 3-7 days, depending on the level of radiation. Do not attempt to trigger anything that may cause unwanted reaction and extended regrets.
So anyway, it seems that, no matter who you are, through the lens of Chinese Indonesian community, the only thing that matters is your marriage status.
If you're married, you're a worthy human being. If you're still single, well Missy, you're nothing but a worthless junk.
Such is the hard case of life.
Maybe she would value a robot more than a daughter ...
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Conversation during lunch:
Late Saturday afternoon at work:
I swear this happens all the time. Imagine the psychological impact it has on me! Maybe I should consider seeing a shrink. Hmm, it might be hard to find one in Surabaya, and I definitely don't want to be placed at Menur instead.
Note: Menur, a shorthand for Rumah Sakit Jiwa Menur (Menur Mental Assylum), a place where they throw people with mental illnesses in Surabaya.
So, the question is: Is it just my mom, or is this a common thing for moms?
Mom: So, should we cook bistik (Dutch: biefsteak, English: beefsteak) or chicken soup for dad?
Me: Chicken Soup!
Mom: Oh, but I've already asked Bik Yah to buy the ingredients for bistik.
Me: ... so, why did you even ask?
Late Saturday afternoon at work:
Mom: Me (my nickname), if you want to leave early from work that's ok.
Me: No, that's ok, it's almost closing hour anyway.
Mom: That's ok, just leave early, or do you want to go to Bonnet first and do the grocery?
Me: No, I want to go out and take pictures after work.
Mom: But, it's cloudy outside. So, Bonnet? *grinning*
Me: *sigh* Fine...
I swear this happens all the time. Imagine the psychological impact it has on me! Maybe I should consider seeing a shrink. Hmm, it might be hard to find one in Surabaya, and I definitely don't want to be placed at Menur instead.
Note: Menur, a shorthand for Rumah Sakit Jiwa Menur (Menur Mental Assylum), a place where they throw people with mental illnesses in Surabaya.
So, the question is: Is it just my mom, or is this a common thing for moms?
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