Twenties ARE Fun

I thought it would be the new house. Or the career frustration. Maybe the Emmy Awards. That wonderful wedding in Jakarta. But no. It took a Sophie Kinsella book to stir me out of my too-lazy-to-blog phase. And who can blame me? It is a GREAT book.

Ever since I read the first Shopaholic book many years ago, I knew I had come across something really special. I’ve read all Sophie Kinsella’s books (except for the ones she wrote under her real name, Madeleine Wickham) and decided that my personal favourite was ‘Shopaholic Ties the Knots’, the third book in the series. That’s one where Becky (said Shopaholic in the title) has to choose between a grand wedding at the Plaza Hotel or a tacky yet charming one in her hometown in Surrey. I know. This kind of nonsense only happens to Becky. Every other book, though very funny, features characters that are, well, too shallow and/or incompetent to be true. Sue me for wanting a degree of realism in a chicklit.

Twenties Girl, however, is in a class of its own. Story-wise, it sounds like the plot of a Woody Allen movie, the one with Scarlett Johansson. Which one? Oh right, there’s more than one. ‘Scoop’! That’s the title. In the film, Scarlett’s character, while assisting a magician (Woody Allen) in his stage show, is visited by a reporter’s ghost who tells her that a millionaire (Hugh Jackman) has murdered him. Now, no one is murdered in the book, but there is a ghost. A highly annoying one, who, by the end of the story, will win your heart.

The main character, Lara Lington (perhaps inspired by the Superman saga, this “LL” initial?), is in a very bad state. Her boyfriend of many years has dumped her, her best friend/business partner has run off to Goa, leaving their headhunting business in shambles. In the midst of all this, she has to attend her great-aunt’s funeral, a 105-year-old named Sadie, whom she had never met before. Then, out of the blue, Sadie’s ghost (who appears in her prime age of 23), begins to haunt Lara and Lara alone, demanding the return of her necklace. And so begins the roller-coaster journey, with the requisite love interests (an American businessman and Lara’s ex), makeover tips, a too-easy-to-hate nemesis (Lara’s millionaire/motivational guru uncle), and as can be expected of Sophie Kinsella, hilarious antics that can somehow be applied to career advancement.

Granted, the theme of story is classic: the life-changing twist. It could be a brain tumor (Queen Latifah’s the Last Holiday), a morally questionable client (Miss Pettigrew Lives for A Day), or the narrator in your head warning of your imminent demise (Stranger than Fiction). The point is, it forces you to reevaluate your life. And Sadie’s ghost, adorably carefree and gifted in persistence, does this to Lara in several horrible but amusing ways. The give and take relationship between them, facilitated by Sadie’s banshee screams, is the main attraction of the book. There is perfect chemistry between them, not the kind that chick flick best friends have, but the kind that police partners do (Dare I say Bones here?). Of course, some of the secondary characters can be a tad grating (Lara’s Paris-Hilton-like cousin for one. Her name is DIAMANTE, for God’s sake) but it serves to up the level of humor. Other little details, however, are genius. The uncle’s coffee-shop empire, a machinery even more nauseating than Starbucks, is a great example of this. His motivational maxim is another. For once in a Kinsella book, I didn’t find myself jumping ahead and figuring out the entire plot halfway through. Not that I couldn’t, mind you. I just couldn’t be bothered. The book was THAT good. Predictable? Didn’t even notice.

Then, there is another thing that draws me to the book. It’s the classic reference. I am never happier than when I catch a black-and-white screwball on TV, or a delightful song and dance musical. I’m simply obsessed with the classic film era. Granted, my obsession revolves around the 40s and 50s but the 20s are just as great for me. And Sadie is the perfect embodiment of that decade. Gorgeous, unapologetic, and independent. So different from Lara, burdened by (to Sadie) the bizarre modern customs. As I imagined Sadie’s voice, so perfectly British with that melodic movie star drawl, I knew I’d lost. This book would forever be a favorite of mine. This is the Sophie Kinsella book that I know, I just instinctively know, would be as perfect on the screen as it is on page. If whoever bought the film rights could just do it properly, that is. We no longer have Sydney Pollack (who revived Audrey Hepburn’s Sabrina in 1993) to do it for us, but there’s yet hope.

Or as Sadie would say, “Tally Ho!”

Guess Who’s Back?

One hour ago, this blogger has decided that she will return to WordPress and that grande old dame of hobbies: blogging. She will once again shamelessly lambast the cultural mishaps, champion an unheard of independent film, point out the grammatical mistakes of the ignorant, and romanticize on everything ancient and creaky. Yes, she is back.

Maybe she will be better this time around. Perhaps the long absence has reminded her that she is the person who needs this blog the most. Who knows, she might even introduce a new category or two. She certainly has a lot of ideas swirling in her mind. Why, several reviews are already in shape for the next week.

First of all, she should drop the third-person reference.

So, my dear folks, I hereby announce that I am back. Brace yourselves.

Shopaholic: The Movie

I was fourteen when I first read ‘Confessions of A Shopaholic’. It changed my life forever.

Okay, so maybe I was fifteen. And it didn’t really change my life dramatically or anything. It only made me aware of ‘chicklit’s or the fact that you could make a living writing in that honest/humorous/outrageously consumeristic voice. But what kind of opening paragraph would that be? The editors at the old days of newspapers would be so ashamed if I had started off with this paragraph as a lead instead.

But, as usual, we’ve gone way off topic. Yes, I can hardly sympathize with Becky (that’s the character’s name in Shopaholic) given that I don’t really care about fashion. Yes, I only picked it up because the synopsis at the back of the book said that Becky was a financial journalist, not because of her shopping predicaments. True, I have often thought to myself (and mentioned to other people) that Becky was such a raging idiot. But, like Luke Brandon (Becky’s beau in the book), and the millions of loyal readers, I couldn’t help but fall in love with her. Which is why I’m writing this review the minute I finish watching the movie adaptation.

First, a little background. The Shopaholic series, written by Sophie Kinsella (not her real name), is an incredibly successful franchise about Becky Bloomwood, a Brit shopaholic who, over the course of five books (that I know of), changes careers, moves between New York and London, falls in love, gets married, goes around the world and has a baby. Oh, she also has typically annoying but very much loving parents, in addition to an awesome best friend and a perfect man. But most importantly, Becky shops. For anything, at any place, and at any price. The book, as I’ve mentioned, is hugely succesful. HUGE. Millions of fans, all of them waiting anxiously when they heard about a film adaptation. Myself included. So what happened?

Story-wise, it is a respectable attempt at combining the first two books. Of course, it is especially condensed for an American audience. Becky (Isla Fisher) is now American, living in New York, while dreaming of working for a fashion magazine (more on that later). She loves to shop too much, enough to be chased around by a debt collector and keep an emergency credit card in a block of ice inside her freezer. She spins outrageous tales to cover up her debt problems. And, she is constantly in denial about her problem. When a job opportunity at Alette, the coveted glossy fashion magazine, slips past Becky (and into the hands of one Alicia Bitchlonglegs), she takes the opportunity to work in Successful Savings under the supervision of one yummy Luke Brandon (Hugh Dancy). In this very unlikely place, she finds a promising career and man. That is, until her debts catch up with her.

To everyone who has read the book, the plot comes as no surprise (but odd). To anyone who has seen a chick flick, it will be a no-brainer. For a person who has read the books, seen hundreds of romcoms, and replayed The Devil Wears Prada at least four times (hint: me), the plot is, well, disappointing. It is atrocious enough that Becky becomes an American, why does she also have to obsessed with the publishing world as well? Enough with the Prada copycats already. Shopaholic got famous way before Prada was even published. Where, o Hollywood producers, is your integrity? Have some respect for the original.

That said, I don’t think it’s a bad movie at all. It features some of the most hilarious tidbits from the books, and wraps up the stories nicely, even if the timeline seems a little too apace compared to the original. The cast is brilliant. Isla might be Australian, and she might be tiny (in addition to being pregnant during the filming), but I believe her as Becky. She is perfectly ditzy and absolutely lovable. Coincidentally, I’ve always pictured Becky as a redhead (casting directors and I think alike on this one). Hugh Dancy has some chemistry with Isla and is generally charming. But I’m sorry, he’s not Luke enough. Luke Brandon is, in my mind, a taller, younger, and British version of George Clooney. Well, at least, they didn’t make Hugh American. Joan Cusack and John Goodman as Becky’s parents? Hilarious. A tad too young, but hilarious. Just the right amount of goofy. Krysten Ritter is not how I imagined Suze would be, but I’ve always liked her since Gilmore Girls and it’s not really her fault that her character doesn’t get more time with Becky. Kristin Scott Thomas does a great job as the French fashion editor (oh, that accent!). Then again, I’m not sure we really do need another Miranda Priestly.

Meet Becky!

Shopaholic is a lot of fun, that’s for sure. The fashion is, I guess, exciting if you care about that sort of thing. Best part? It’s funny as hell. However, I do feel that the filmmakers did too much. Why mess around with a winning material? Yes, there is the need to adapt to the times of crisis and the American viewers, but it doesn’t have to be that obvious. In short, the movie is just a fraction of who Becky Bloomwood really is. It is merely a teaser of the wonderful world that Sophie Kinsella paints in her books. If you’ve never read the book and you see the film, you’ll think “Plot? Totally Prada. Fashion? Straight out of Sex and The City”, when there really is so much more. Shopaholic is the Holy Grail of chicklits. So, please, if you haven’t already, pick up the book. And when you do, you’ll know what I mean.

PS: Don’t you at least want to know what Alicia bitchlonglegs did to deserve such a colorful nickname? Find out in the books.

Reunited

I’ve been absent. The last time I actually posted something was the general election, months ago. And that was not a particularly good one. Not as well-researched or well-written as I would have liked it to be. For that, and the prolonged lack of action here in this blog that I promised repeatedly to nurture, I should apologize to you. If I still have any readers left, that is. But there’s someone I should apologize to before that: myself.

Yes, surprise, surprise, I wrote this blog, first and foremost, for myself. It was supposed to be my one way to practice writing, to develop any sense of style. After all, if I do love writing so much, I should have something to show for it. And since I’ve been stubbornly unable to produce a completed story of any kind in years, I figured a blog would be perfect for the time being. It is personal, and I can add as much snark or unnecessary long musings as I like without worrying what people might think about it. Okay, without worrying too much (you know how insecure I can be). For the most part, this blog has served its purpose quite well (and entertained you, I hope, in the process). Until last year.

Can you guess why I practically stopped writing? I promised you I would because I knew that I wasn’t keen on e-mailing you all about how I was doing but I didn’t. I was ashamed of myself. I felt like I had nothing significant to write about. See, most of my friends (you guys) did something when they came out of college. Or even before that. They found excellent jobs, started awesome business ventures, got engaged/married, got scholarships abroad, had babies…You’ve made something out of your lives. Me? Yeah, well, you already know the drill. Got a so-so job with so-so pay, mostly unmotivated to develop my skills or further my knowledge, still can’t drive, still single, still haven’t lost enough weight. God, just reading this pathetic list is enough to depress myself. But, there is something even worse amidst all this horror: I’ve stopped writing. Now, that is a truly bad sign.

I’ve always believed that the best way to know me is through what I write. Somewhere among the wordy sentences, the undisguised sarcasm, and the fervent adoration for everything classic and New York is my personality. Or at least the person I have the potential to be. In person, I’m just about as unappealing as a one-day old sashimi. I can hardly look people in the eyes during a conversation, let alone be charming enough to attract someone new. That’s just not who I am. When I write, however, I am at my best. I can be sophisticated, confident, witty, outwardly cruel or indiscriminately loving. It is a way for me to live out the life I’ve always wanted, to be the person I want to be. And, for a tiny moment, writing can help me escape the nothingness that my life has become.

Of course, there’s an underlying factor of my ‘too-depressed-to-write’ syndrome (and no, it is not my inherent laziness or my still bad internet connection): I’ve been largely uninspired. In case you haven’t noticed, I am easily influenced by whatever it is I’ve been reading recently (or watching on TV) and it definitely shows in my writing. If I’ve been reading Jane Austen, I’ll write in lengthy circular sentences inflected by expressions that are British in nature. After reading a Meg Cabot, I become incredibly funny and dramatic. With each issue of Vanity Fair, comes a smart, well-researched article about the latest issue in the entertainment/media world. The occasional chicklit might cause me to obsess a little on friendships (and brands). And then, there is my favorite type of book: the inspirational. This is the kind of book that lights up a fire in my cold keyboard-tapping hands. Generally, it is based in New York (though not always), can be either biographical or fiction, and more often than not, features brilliant, elegant turns of phrase. James Collins’s Beginner Greek is an example. Kathleen Flinn’s adventure in Le Cordon Bleu Paris is another. Call me a chicken, I haven’t found an inspirational book in a year. I’ve reread some of the old ones, but mostly stayed away from them. Hence, these fingers are idle and content with playing NDS. Until tonight, that is. Bored out of my mind, I picked up a tiny book called ‘Metropolis Found’.

Metropolis Found is a book that celebrated the 25th anniversary of New York Is Book Country, a book festival that takes place in the city every year. The book contains submissions (poems,short stories, memoirs, etc) from celebrated authors who have been asked to write something about their love affair with books and/or the city. You can only imagine how I felt when I discovered this book in the bargain bin. Love at first sight. Tonight, after going through half of the book, my head is filled with vivid images of childhood memories in New York, with sadness and triumph regarding the 9/11, with laughter (thanks Meg Cabot), and most of all, with love. For the city, but more importantly, for writing. So yes, the book has rekindled that spark.

Election Blues

Only last year, we witnessed the triumph (well, at least to some) of democracy when Barack Obama won the Presidential Election. Even the most hardened cynics had a cause to feel optimistic about the future, if only for a second. Logically, the happy feeling would extend to the upcoming Indonesian election (which is, as I started writing this, happening tomorrow). So far, however, I’ve only managed to think of the whole thing as a big fat joke. Let me tell you why.

The election system is a nightmare. On every level imagineable. We have three things to do: vote for our representative in DPRD (which is similar to the city council, I think), our rep in DPR (House of Representatives) and also DPD (which, frankly, I have no idea what it is). For the first two things, you can just vote for the political party or the individual running for the party. For the DPD thingy, you must vote for the individual since they are not running for any one party. Confused? Don’t worry, it gets worse. There are forty-four different political parties (don’t ask me to name them;  you’re lucky if I can mention ten) so you can imagine the size of the so-called paper on which you have to vote. Paper? Yes, we are voting manually, on three sheets of paper the size of  a broadsheet newspaper. But the confusion doesn’t end there. In an Indonesian election, we’ve always voted by stabbing or piercing the paper. Pick a party or a person and stab their photo or name. Somehow, the idiots up in the Election Commission have decided to use a new system: ticking. However, they are making a compromise to the naysayers by allowing people to either tick, strike through, cross, or even stab the paper, as long as they do in the right space. Never call us Indonesians undemocratic.

With such a haphazard system, it’s no brainer that everything would go wrong. The election committee is far from prepared. Only days prior to the election, the newspapers were filled with headlines about the mess that is the list of registered voters. Let’s skip over the fact that you are a registered voter whether you want to or not (the requirement is that you have an ID card which is another must in this democratic country), let’s talk about the sheer incompetence of the commission. How is it possible that a 4-year-old is registered to vote? Or a person who has been dead for 10 years? A lot of people are simply registered twice. A lot more people, who are of age and eligible, are not registered. Some of the voting papers were misplaced. Boxes of papers meant for one province were sent to another island altogether. The local committee members, in charge of the election process, have no idea how to count the votes at the end of the day.

So, how did it all go down? As expected. Close to 50% of voters didn’t show up, or simply didn’t vote properly. The process took longer, much longer than expected, because voters were uneducated of the process. Apparently it took 5 minutes just to fold the voting paper back, prolonging the suffering even further. But it was nothing compared to the aftermath of the election. After a month, the counting has not been completed. This, after installing a supposedly sophisticated program that cost us hundreds of billions (tens of millions in dollars). Results came in late, almost two weeks to the election center, even from big cities. One big political party after another claimed that there had been offenses and crimes committed during the election. Witnesses were not properly compensated for their time. Bribes were abundant.

But let’s save that for another post. It is long enough already.

If you are still interested and curious about the election, here are some links to keep you informed:

• IFES, an international nonprofit that covers democratic processes all over the world keeps an excellent list of news stories on this topic
• Wikipedia naturally has an entry on the subject, including a list of all the parties
• The Jakarta Post website as the leading English newspaper in Indonesia is an excellent place to search

Holiday Fever

When you live in Indonesia, a country with only two seasons and hardly anything ever changes, time seems to pass really quickly. It’s been almost six months since I left Vancouver. As per usual, I still miss it. This particular week, however, that feeling has been unusually stronger.

I haven’t noticed it lately that it’s almost Christmas time. It may have to do with the fact that I hardly ever go out and that this is a Moslem country. If I were still in Canada, I would’ve been thinking of Christmas gifts since the end of October. The decorations at the malls and the commercials on TV would’ve made sure of that. Not here though.

Still, two weeks ago, I wandered into a mall that I’d only been to twice before (because it’s quite far from where I live) and I walked into a huge fair of (fake) Christmas trees. And singing Santas inside (fake) snow-producing boxlike machines. And a Santa statue doing “Heil Hitler” (watch Studio 60 for explanation). And the melancholy soon set in. Regardless of the fact that the trees don’t smell like pine trees and the snow is probably made of cotton. And that it’s probably 34 degrees outside. It’s the Holiday Season. It’s my favorite time of year.

Then, the weather followed suit. It has been cloudy for most of the week. The rains vary from the mild to the violent, but there have been lots and lots of rainfall. Making it more conducive for me to get lost in my sad, sentimental thoughts. Suddenly work seems more exhausting than ever. It might have to do with the fact that after the midterms,it’s kinda obvious that my students are not doingvery well, or that I’m a horrible teacher or both. Then again, I’ve been receiving three different kinds of criticism so far. So it might’ve been my fault after all. Why did I think I could teach anyone anything, anyway? I don’t even have the patience to…well, do anything that requires patience. Like waiting. For anything.

On top of everything, I’ve never been more lonely in my life. Especially after I re-watched Sex and the City: The Movie. It made me miss my Vancouver friends, with whom I feel like I had some kind of adult relationship. The few friends I still keep in touch here are, well, busy. They work normal hours while I work nights. Making it rather difficult to catch up and hang out. And when we do meet, it feels like we’re still in high school. Different topics of conversation, but it feels like nothing much has changed. Just a few days ago, I actually went to a high-school event. Two, actually. Both were competition I used to participate in. One was kinda work obligation, the other…well,I don’t know why I went. To recapture my glory days? Because I don’t have a clue what I want to do? God, it really feels weird.

As a final proof that my mood is completely shitty, I offer you concrete evidence. Last week, I saw two movies (courtesy of my fellow movie-buff boss): the Dark Knight and P.S. I Love You. Wanna know what I think of those movies? The Dark Knight is too long, a little too sad, and a bit of a letdown. Whereas P.S. I Love You turned out to be better than what I expected and kinda romantic. See? Those of you who know me would never expect me to think like this. Ever. I am officially screwed up. The final nail in the coffin? ABC cancelled Pushing Daisies. They should’ve axed Private Practice, instead (sorry Addison, it’s not you,it’s your show).

So, yes, I’ve never missed my Canada life more. Even if Christmas is nothing more than a commercialized semi-religious holiday. Even if it never actually snowed on Christmas when I was there. It’s still, to quote the song,”the most wonderful time of the year”. Not a day goes by that I don’t miss my ex-roommates (all of you who had the misfortune of having to share a living space with me, but especially my latest one, Cil), my big sisters, and the little ones (those younger than me but still very near and dear to my heart, aka my torture victims).

Now,if you’ll excuse me, I have to vent the rest of my sad thoughts into my other writings. Like a suicide note. Or that novel I’m supposed to be working on in my spare time. Whichever one, I don’t care.

Abstinence

One month without internet access. I seriously didn’t think that I would’ve survived that. But I did. It started out when my dad received our monthly phone bills. The one line that we used for DSL connection turned out to cost us almost $700 in September (approximately at least, who knows how strong the Dollar is to our puny Rupiah). Ridiculous. Normally, it would be around $20. So, out of guilt, I skimped on the internet. And I was fine.

Until I saw that I had 218 messages in my e-mail inbox. And I still have three more addresses I haven’t checked. I haven’t logged into my Facebook & Friendster accounts either. Not to mention all the hot news and film trailers I haven’t even heard of, let alone committed to deep memory. I used to be a database of these little bits. Now I have to go to my cousin’s house across the street to get CNN on cable. My dears, I have become an ignoramus. A willing one, too, at that. The horror.

Of course, the so-called abstinence was made possible by the extenuating circumstances in my life. You see, I have a job now. Non-demanding and rather flexible, but a paying one nonetheless. The pay is a little better than what I imagined (thank God) and the co-workers are pretty awesome. The students grow on you. Really. Apart from the job, I’ve also acquired some DVDs from a great source (thanks Nu!). DVDs of TV series, of course, mostly those which I really really love. In fact, they have kept me occupied whenever I’m not working. Or working out (I am a whiz with words, don’t you agree?). If only I had cable this very day so I could at least get a glimpse of Grey’s Anatomy season 5. It sounds really great from what I can read on TWOP. I wonder if Pushing Daisies is on cable here. Hmm….

Then, there’s the car. Yup. The cutest little car a girl could ever wish for. Well, okay, not the cutest ever, but certainly cute enough for someone who didn’t pay for it. I’m taking driving lessons now and am very terrified at the thought. Driving is surprisingly easy. Driving safe without ever denting your car, though, is another matter entirely. Particularly with my kind of mentality. You wouldn’t like me when I panic behind the wheel. Especially if you’re driving in front of, behind, or in any proximity to me. Not at all. One advice: Run. Run if you see me on the street.

On the other hand, I am quite happy. I guess I’ve realized that things are going to change for good around me. I’ve begun socializing again. No one told me how hard it’d be to re-connect with your old friends, even if you were very very close to them at one point. Too much has already changed. Well, okay, they have changed. Some of them may have gotten married and pregnant. Most of them have acquired respectable, actually difficult and demanding jobs and boyfriends/girlfriends. While you’re still floating aimlessly and glad to have a job at all. Things have been especially hard without my single best friend around. She’s in China now, that traitor. I really can’t wait for her return.

Social occasions aside, I still have plenty of things to keep me busy. There’s my abandoned writing (which I will get to tonight, I swear). There’s my unfinished new house (which is looking more and more beautiful and expensive, by the way). There’s the pile of books I borrow weekly from my equally novel-obssessed cousin (one’s already finished). There’s my boss who is the ultimate geek (a movie buff and a comic enthusiast all in one) and lends me most of his eclectic DVD collection willingly. And then, there’s the weather. The beautiful, cloudy, stuffy, sometimes rainy sky of Surabaya. With all the thunderstorms and power outages the season brings. Did I mention I missed Indonesian rains? Tropical. Fierce. A real rain.

But now I have a pile of homework I have to mark. From junior high kids who wrote about their exciting life experiences in past tense. Sigh. The proofreader in me is very happy but the indecisive Libra in me hates giving arbitrary marks.

Plus, Quantum of Solace is opening tomorrow. Take that, North America! (Btw, have you voted today, Americans?)

A New Page

I survived my first week of work. Which is, frankly, better than my earlier expectations. Teaching turns out to be something that I could like. In fact, so far, I love it. Even that annoying little kid who seems to think that pronouncing some words incorrectly doesn’t matter (Guess what, kid, if I’m your teacher, it matters). Maybe it’s just the idealism in me speaking out. Maybe because it’s something new and different. Maybe it’s because I haven’t got the bad class yet, with troublemakers as students. We’ll see.

Of course not everything went on smoothly. After all, this is me you’re talking about. Me, the clumsiest person alive. On my first day,after hectically preparing my material (read: copying my friend’s notes), I entered my first class full of junior high kids. Believe me, they look small. The first order at my place of work, besides introductions, has always been the handing out of books and pens. I left the pens in the faculty room. No problem. I went back and got them. Then we started the lesson. There were some misunderstandings with some kids who weren’t registered yet. The receptionist even had to come up because the kid I sent downstairs didn’t seem to understand what I was saying. God. Then, halfway in the lesson, I realized I left the printed sheets behind, which I needed for the activity. Off I went to the faculty room. The lesson finally ended. But my problems did not. One kid saw that her friend had a bookmark/calendar and was wondering if she could have one too. Guess what? I left that in the faculty room too. What a day, huh?

The second class was with adults. So things were a lot easier and went a lot smoother. This time I had made sure that I had everything I needed, even if it meant carrying tons of paper, a CD, a pile of books, pens, and boardmarkers. Oh, and also a big poster. Those I carried with me to my class downstairs. When I arrived at the class, there was no one there. I thought to myself, “Well, I’m a little early”. Then I consulted my attendance list. Guess what? I was in the wrong classroom. I went back up,lugging all that stuff with me again.

The rest of the week has been easier. Of course, I still need some adjusting to the pace and mechanism of the place. But like I said, I love it. So far.

But I still hate that little kid.

Fitness Update

I thought I’d entertain you with some bits from my experience at the gym. After three months (with a personal trainer, no less), I’ve seen and learnt things. Heard ridiculous things too. Oh well, let’s get down to it.

My first day at the gym, when the marketing girl (dressed in a mini-skirt) showed me around the place, I was mortified. I’m sure I’ve told you this before but I still feel the need to repeat it. Mortified. With the loud techno music playing in the background, the dim lighting all around, and the sweaty, mostly attractive crowd showing off their muscles all around, I was overwhelmed. And mortified, of course. Then she showed me the locker room, full of half-dressed women, the steam room and the sauna room. Oh, and the showers. Which I haven’t used too often. Yes, I am that big of a prude. Next she took me to the RPM class. What place is this, I thought ? A room full of stationary bikes? I could already imagine the non-human drill sergeant up front, pushing everyone to pedal faster. COME ON, YOU LAZY FATTIES! YOU USELESS WORMS! IS THIS ALL YOU’RE CAPABLE OF? PUSH A LITTLE FURTHER!

Well, at least that’s how I imagined it. There was also a yoga room. Which was very private and serene. I am sure I would: a) fall asleep there or b) embarrass myself because I couldn’t bend my joints far enough to please the New-Age contortionist leading the ritual. Last, but not least, there’s the multifunction room. They use it for various aerobic classes. Some of the classes are, rather, ahem, innovative. My favorite is the belly dancing class. The participants, middle-aged women wearing scanty clothes and the requirement bells around their waists, were quite fun to watch. More fun to watch was the male instructor whose slender figure hides some very flexible muscles.

I overhear a lot of conversations in the gym. Once, the wife of a Congressman was lifting weights right next to me. She was talking to another woman about the recent campaigning frenzy that she embarked on. Most gym-goers, I noticed, either knew each other quite well or the trainers. A lot of them made jokes with mine, at least.

The concept of my gym is frankly ridiculous. Let’s put aside the fact that the gym is housed in a MALL (full of temptations for everyone, especially the food). The mirrors all over the place, I kinda get, since most people who go there are there for superficial reasons. The TV channels are geared to the same purpose. They play, I believe, four to five channels on the TVs spread across the Cardio area. People can sweat on their treadmills while watching two music channels, and two sports channels. Pretty reasonable, right? What about the Fashion TV? Does it make sense at all? Is it supposed to make us aspire to the skinny, skinny models portrayed in their 24-hour fashion shows?

Oh, and then, there’s the music. Ah, yes. I’d sincerely like to know how the music is arranged. On a good day, you’ll get a mix of decent Alternative and even some hip-hop. There are also times when the song is more than two years old (gasp!). Sadly, the most common song choice is techno or house music. Eurgh. Nothing quite prepared me, though, for Paris Hilton. The moment I heard her voice, my aching muscles actually felt even more painful. As if working out weren’t enough of a nightmare for me, there’s Paris Hilton to make my life even worse.

My Bland Holiday

Unlike my last post about my holiday, this one is a lot less of a nightmare. And a lot less interesting too. It consists of me sitting around and eating in a villa up in the mountains. Seriously.

My parents had the week off because well, so did the rest of the country. It was Islamic New Year and Indonesians celebrate it with a gusto. Banks closed down for a week and everyone went home to their hometowns. When I say everyone, I mean everyone. Being a country with 250 million people, I’d say that’s a problem. In any case, my parents were an absolute nuisance for the first two days of the holiday. They were at home. All the time. God. I was so relieved when we finally left on Wednesday.

Now, someone in my family had the genius idea that if we leave on the Wednesday the 1st, which was the New Year’s Day, traffic wouldn’t be so bad because everyone else had left already. Not so. Thank God it only delayed us 30-45 minutes. When we arrived at the villa, I was so tired.

The villa was lovely. High up in the mountains, surrounded by vegetable gardens, and filled with plenty of rooms. It was much colder than Surabaya, thank God. All I wanted to do was relax. The rest of my family seemed bent on eating and gambling.

Ah, yes, the tried and true tradition of holiday gambling. Whenever there was a national holiday and my relatives could get away together, there would be poker and there would be money. My brother is a recent participant but he’s pretty good at it. My cousins and aunts hate him a little for that. This time, there was less gambling but a lot more eating.

Between my three aunts and my mom, they cooked enough food for a week. Luckily, most of us could eat twice the normal portion. I incurred my Mom’s wrath soon after we went back to the city as a result. Maybe it’s because I only ate and never exercised there. Hmmm, I wonder. I remember the gambling and hours of playing Nintendo DS (my cousin’s), but not much else.