Not Everyone’s A Critic
The Judges of Masterchef Indonesia. Surprisingly watchable!
Everyone is a foodie now. It can’t be helped, amidst all the cooking shows and cooking competitions on TV. Not to mention, there are really, if not tremendously good-looking, then at least intriguingly prickly, celebrity chefs making regular appearances. I remember a time when “spaghetti” was the only pasta that existed in Surabaya. You could only find it in the only branch of Wendy’s and later on, Pizza Hut. That was then. There are amateur cooks preparing pesto sauce out there now. Isn’t it amazing how far we have progressed?
It has become a habit of everyone in my family to have an opinion about every dish we put in our mouths. By “an opinion”, I mean “a lengthy analysis of what ingredients go into the dish and what the chef has done to them to create it”. After we identify the elements and the process, then we will proceed to comparing it with the more traditional, common versions of the dish and how this one differs. Then finally, we will get to what we think about the taste. Naturally, I’m not as good at the analysis part as my mother and my aunts, lacking their expertise and experience, but I do have a sensitive palate (somewhat too sensitive, perhaps). Still, I did not realize that it was not normal behaviour. My friends in Canada did it, my family do it, the few girls I regularly hang out with in this city make a habit of it, but we are the exception, not the norm.
Anton Ego says, "You are not worthy of the title 'critic'!"
Just last week, I took my friends (not the food detectives, mind you) to a burger place that I love. I tasted their order and the appetizer and began launching into the usual comments. “Crispy but a little tough. The dipping sauce is too sweet, needs more acidity.” And so on. Then, one of my friends, immediately asked, “How can you tell? You either like the food, or not. That’s all the opinion I have.” A lightbulb just went on in my head. Like it? Or not? Without pointing out why it’s good or crap? Why, it had never crossed my mind before. Of course, I should’ve figured that this friend would have such an opinion. She pretty much dunks everything in ketchup.
The point that I’m taking away out of this revelation is this: know your audience. If it were a bunch of foodies poking and prodding every little garnish on the plate, then feel free to dissect all the flavor elements, however minute and esoteric they might be. Otherwise, keep your wise-ass comments to yourself. And not just about food, this applies to pretty much any subject one can show off about. Men, we get that you like your cars, your sports and your gadgets, but we’re not interested in the engine size of the new Honda or the transfer price of Carlos Tevez or why your Android phone is better than my iPhone. Girls, you’re no better, with your dissection of Hermes bags, beauty treatments, and clothing stores. I can handle all of these talks and dish them out too but I’m pretty much known as a pompous, condescending know-it-all so I don’t have this problem. Still, maybe I’ll tone it down just a notch. Lighten up a bit.
Not bloody likely, eh?
Just Call Me Mac
When I was seven or eight, my aunt bought a new television. This was early 90s, so it was a regular, 29-inch, black tube. I was there when they installed their TV in the living room and I stayed another hour setting it up and hooking it to their Laser Disc (shut up, it was the 90s) player. I also showed them the buttons on the remote, which ones were for volume, channels, etc. A few months later, they got a new air conditioner. Guess who was there to teach them how to use the remote? Me. It was no surprise that my lovely uncle (who has since passed, bless his soul) christened me, “McGyver”.
Genius!
In case you’re not old enough to remember him or weren’t there for his awesome TV show, MacGyver was this guy who could use everyday tools to get him out of any sticky situation, such as defusing bombs and catching bad guys. Even with a semi-mullet hair, he looked amazing. The actor, Richard Dean Anderson, was last seen in Stargate and a few episodes of Fairly Legal.
Cut to now. Nobody calls me MacGyver anymore but I was still the go-to person when it comes to electronic devices around the house. Starting from my roommate who wouldn’t replace a broken light bulb to my mother this morning (6.30 am!), who was wondering why our fax machine kept making a high-pitched noise. For this same reason, I’ve also become hateful whenever anyone in my family buys a new electronic device. I’ll be the one stuck with setting it up and teaching them how to use it.
If it’s an Apple device, I don’t mind. It’s quite simple to use and it’s almost always amazing. Such is the case with the iPod, iPhone, and the iPad we currently have in our household. TVs and DVD players are easy, as well as appliances such as fridge and the washing machine. I draw the line at audio equipment, though, and I am not proficient with digital cameras. Switching modes and changing basic options are fine, but don’t ask me to explain white balance and all that mumbo-jumbo. Another thing I will not (and to be honest, can not) deal with is BlackBerry. It is terribly not user-friendly and while I might be able to figure things out with some research time, I don’t want to waste my time doing that just so they, the new owners, can use that brick of a communication device well. You made your bed when you chose that thing, so you’d better lie in it and teach yourself how to post your latest self-portrait on your status.
There’s really no secret in mastering a new gadget/appliance. The first thing you have to do is READ THE MANUAL. It’s the book-thingy that comes in the box along with the wires and the Styrofoam, see? This step alone should take care most of your needs. There are pictures and steps and detailed explanations and troubleshooting scenarios that cover the most obvious things (example: There’s no picture on my TV, solution: check that the power cable is plugged in). If you do feel the need to expand your knowledge beyond the basic features and truly utilize your new gadget’s strengths, then do some research. Use the Internet, or better yet, experiment. Press some buttons, scroll down the list…your gadget won’t blow up. And if things go wrong, there’s the reset button. Or the store you bought it from.
Of course, I am happy to help with your minor technical problems (I’m no engineer, remember?) but sometimes sheer laziness can annoy me. Guess who’s in charge of all the antivirus programs, updating the applications, and changing the wallpapers on the computers at home? All me. Granted, I have the time and I have the interest but it would be nice if there were someone else who could deal with it once in a while.
But, uh, if you want to start calling me MacGyver, I won’t mind.
Dark Days Are Upon Us
Yes, you guessed right. I’ve crawled into that black-as-night cave inside my mind, where nothing positive and wholesome lingers. It feels like all the energy and excitement have been sapped out of my life. At first, it was the endless bout of cold, which still hasn’t released its grip on me.Once I went off the medicine, though, not much has changed. The worst part: I feel sleepy at 10 p.m. Ten? That is unacceptable! That is the appropriate sleeping hour for respectable people with serious, nine-to-five jobs, not someone like me.
Once I fall asleep, though, things do not get better. My dreams are more vivid than ever and keeping me occupied even after I wake up. I’ve become obsessed with interpreting them. The other day, for some reason, I was fixated with the number ’7′ in my dream. I can’t remember why now, but I found myself wondering about the number all day long. Today, it was all about a piece of lost luggage. Yes, I had a dream where I was traveling by train and lost a suitcase. Apparently, according to this website, it represents “lost identity”. Guess what? For once, this new-age mumbo-jumbo makes sense. I do feel kinda lost.
Normally, I resort to the various forms of entertainment at my disposal to distract myself from sinking further into the abyss of depression. Guess what? None of them worked. The all-mighty cable TV have failed me. The biggest thing they’ve got on now, is, surprise, surprise, American Idol. Don’t they get that I stopped caring about the show…six seasons ago? And all those reality shows. Ugh. How many more versions of trashy dumb girls and their even dumber men does the public need to see, anyway? As for the other shows…Well, Glee had a shining moment with their “Born This Way” episode last week but they’ve somehow screwed up the return of Kristin Chenoweth in this week’s episode and diminished her role. You should be ashamed, Ryan Murphy. That boozy blonde is my favorite guest star. I was temporarily lifted with the premiere of Mad Men Season 4, but within two episodes, I realized something. That show has a lot of good things going for it, but uplifting and positive? No, Sir, it is truly not.
So, since the small screen has failed me, the logical option would be to turn to the bigger screen. Oops. No longer a viable option, remember? Since my good-for-nothing government decided to increase taxes on imported movies, the cinemas have been loaded with substandard films or reruns of the old and forgotten bombs that were somehow passed over when they were first released…two years ago. Or, perhaps, I could show support for the local film industry by checking out a nationally produced motion picture. Let’s see…what are my choices? Crap horror, crap horror featuring American porn star, crap horror, unfunny romcom, and the third part of a so-so trilogy about teenage girls’ virginity. Pass.
Cute cover...
Well, what about the written word? Surely, if there’s any form of art capable of curing the ennui, it could be found in reading. Not so. Apart from my brilliant re-reading of Beginner’s Greek, I haven’t found any good books lately. I’m reading Candace Bushnell’s young-adult attempt of Carrie Bradshaw’s life, The Carrie Diaries, and I am so underwhelmed. Maybe it’s just my mood, maybe it’s my general lack of interest in young adult stories that don’t have explosions or adventures in them. The other thing I’m reading is a spy novel, which is brilliant and factual, but paced so slowly that I can’t get attached to it. Without my Vanity Fair (Katy Perry’s on the cover!), there’s nothing else to tide me over other than a Scrooge McDuck comic book. And you thought I was pathetic, right? Proved you wrong, didn’t I?
In conclusion, the only refuge there is to be found is in real life. Namely, things that are real and people who are not characters dreamed up by workaholic writers cooped up in a dark den somewhere. Food usually helps, in the form of chocolate and/or salty chips. Salty chips are still not an option due to my cold, and chocolate hasn’t been successful thus far, not even the dark 70% kind. Ice-cream and fro-yo are also out of the question in this matter. And it’s not that I have no appetite; I do get hungry a lot. I just don’t have a craving of any kind. Frustrating.
People? Well, they are the ones that have failed me most. They’ve frustrated me, bored me to no end, irked me in so many ways, and driven me to the edge. It’s not entirely their fault, perhaps, but in this mood, I am loath to think that it’s my fault. Sometimes I wonder if more company would make me feel better (in the sense that someone cares about me) or worse (as in ‘I wish they’d leave me alone’). I didn’t choose to be this depressed. I don’t want to stay gloomy this long. I don’t know what will help, though.
Sigh...
I’ve heard that hugs can help. Then again, I can’t promise I won’t snap at you if you attempt to give me one.
The Delusional Food Critic
My interest in food began only recently. I didn’t start cooking, develop a refined palate (ha ha) or pay any mind at all to the subject until Vancouver. Prior to that, I had been content with my non-sophisticated, no-fuss, kid-friendly preferences in food. Which is a major waste of talent, I realize now. Don’t get me wrong; I’m still a crappy cook with an odd fear of heat (childhood trauma brought on by a kettle) and an inhuman obsession of following recipes to the letter. Yet, beneath this pathetic exterior lies a wealth of potential.
First of all, I have a great nose. It is a nose Chinese grandmothers greatly approve of: large, rounded, and luck-bringing. The ample-sized nostrils that come with this schnoz enable me to sniff all sorts of things that people don’t notice, from the dusty stale of old (perhaps expired) rice noodles to the subtle undercurrent of nutmeg in my favorite soup. This nose is probably why I am so hooked on the scent of baking bread and roast coffee. As we know, smell is major component of taste. Which brings us to my next point.
Bane of My Palate
My roommate could testify (under oath, if necessary) that I am the best taster she’s ever known. The discerning palate that I possess can identify what’s missing from any dish. Funnily enough, the same tongue that’s helped perfect many a plate has also been accused of being too sensitive. To quote a colleague’s cruel words, “a baby’s tongue”. All because I cannot consume spicy food or anything that’s too hot temperature-wise, both of which are main components of the regional foods. I would love to be able to, understand that. It’s just not pretty when you see me eat something hot. When I eat tom yam soup, I get serious coughs. The slightest taste of chili makes my nose water and my body perspire. In an effort to defend myself, I think of my tongue, again, as “sensitive” and I choose not to dull my palate by inundating it with intense heat. My palate adores flavor, from rich to subtle and with the right training, I too will be able to identify the ingredients of a dish merely by tasting it.
Another thing I’m equipped with is knowledge. Or at least, an all-consuming desire to learn all there is to know about food (read:my typical curiosity). In the years I lived in Canada, I spent thousands of hours watching Food Network, reading numerous books on gastronomy and helped my roommate cook things. Needless to say, I also ate out quite a lot (not in fancy places), analyzing and discussing the dishes in detail. Obviously, even if you put all these things together, it doesn’t sound like much. Not like I actually went to a cooking school or learned from a master chef or my mother. Then again, I found myself recognizing obscure (to my friends) items in menus, informing friends how a dish is cooked and just what the heck is that black thing on the bread. Somehow, I managed to absorb all the information thrown at me. Either I have a knack for it, or it’s my usual “I-pick-up-useless-details” thing.
I Didn't Go Here, of course
All the knowledge, however, has brought me nothing but trouble. Sure, it’s awesome for showing off but mostly, it’s made me a snob. Example: “This brownie is made of what? COOKING chocolate? Pass. It’s STEAMED? Aw, hell, no, I ain’t eating that.”
One time, I was eating out a French Bistro (sorta) with a group of friends, Greg (not his real name), pointed out a funny-sounding dessert. “What is this tole-tole thing?”. Everyone else chortled; ‘tole’ in Javanese means a boy. I was horrified. The waitress was standing by our table, probably judging us. Suddenly, I hated Greg for being such a hick. So I pronounced the dessert, “profiterole” correctly with (in my mind, at least) the distinct French inner ‘r’. I also explained what it really was: lovely choux pastry balls. Greg is one of my closest friends but right then and there, I was looking down on him. Like he was an uncivilized barbarian. What, I realize now, gave me the right to think that way? Douche!
This is A Profiterole. Click image for Recipe
Other times, I would be finding faults whenever I eat out. Sample comments:
- “They call this a souffle? It rises, all right, just not to an acceptable level”
- “Beer-batter? Must be a really cheap brand because the fish refuses to stick to the batter.”
"Poached? More Like an Underdone Sunny Side Up"
Yes, I’ve developed standards and become condescending douchebag as a result. I’m only steps away from telling the wait staff my REAL opinions.
Ruth's Memoir from the NY Times Days
In sum, I still have what it takes to be a good cook. I’ve mostly given up on that, though, and become more interested in writing about the subject instead. I’ve been reading Ruth Reichl‘s books and she’s truly inspired me on how good food writing can be. Of course, she’s been cooking since she was five and traveled around the world. She was the restaurant critic of the New York Times! I’m still galaxies away from her standards. I should start small, like get my brother to stop pouring chilli sauce into the lemon pasta that I cook. He thinks it adds “flavor”. Sigh.
The Quest For Wi-Fi
If you’ve been following my Facebook (let’s face it, you haven’t), I have wireless internet connection at home now, reigniting my desire to blog more regularly. That being said, the process to getting that connection was not easy at all. The following is a quick recap.
- Nagged a techie friend to buy me a router (thanks, Q!)
- Rushed through dinner to install router
- Figured out where the wires were supposed to go and plugged them in
- Followed instructions on the manual (because, when has a manual ever failed me?)
- Got stumped on one of the steps (“What type of connection do you use?”)
- Tried the third option, but forgot username and password
- Called ISP to get username and password; turns out I had it all along
- Entered the information to no success (wireless worked fine, but not connected to the internet)
- Tried an alternative method of installing router (online, not through the CD)
- Tried all types of connections (Automatic and Static IP)
- Called other friends with routers. One had no clue, other didn’t reply. Some help.
- Unplugged wire from router, replugged into PC
- Looked up solutions online; found several
- Snapped at my brother, who was wondering why I was still in my work clothes at 9 pm
- My brother had the smarts to leave me alone
- Tried the solutions, no dice
- Decided to give up, returned internet setup to normal
- Internet wouldn’t work; cursed liberally
- Called the ISP
- A technician came the next day to set everything up
To think that I figured out the password and the name of the wi-fi connection before I set anything up.
Once Upon A Time…
The Movie "His Girl Friday". A masterpiece.
Here’s the deal: I love all things old. I watch black-and-white films when I’m blue. When I travel, I want to see historic places. The jazz I listen to is old standards and Ella Fitzgerald. Any TV show based on a period in a past I will watch obsessively, from Mad Men to Jane Austen. Seriously, I am only steps away from going to a Renaissance Fair. That is, if such a thing exists out here.
Don’t worry, I’m not insane enough to want to go back to the “good old days” without proper sanitation, the Internet, or civil rights. It’s just the hopeless romantic in me who longs to reminisce about the best bits of past life. Perhaps it’s merely an avenue to escape the dreariness of modern life and the dispassion of modern interpersonal communication. Forgive the crazy talk. I miss academic writing.
Anyway, is it so wrong, what I do? I’ve been accused of having a taste that is way too old (and I’m not that young anymore) but I can’t be the only one, right? In fact, there are definitely some things that should come back. Especially articulation and eloquence.
Do you text message, by any chance? It is the most prevalent form of communication these days, and also, the crudest by far. In it, we employ abbreviations and acronyms that are impossible to comprehend unless you’re a 13-year-old girl. I do this as well, a little too often perhaps, simply because it’s practical. Yet, I refuse to do it the way that every one in this godforsaken country does. My message mostly consists of coherent words, untarnished by unfamiliar and unnatural words that should never exist in a dictionary. Correction, they’re not real words. Plus, I can’t understand them anyway. Call me old and uptight. I love language, it is the thing that separates us from chimps and gorillas. To strangle it is to insult human intelligence.
The Bitter Reality
In contrast, people used to be quite literate many years ago. Pick any black-and-white movie. You’ll be amazed at how wonderful the script is. Despite the simplistic story (unless it’s a Hitchcock), you will (or should, anyway) be stunned by the almost melodic quality of the dialogues. Even when the characters speak at a million words a minute and their accents always seem to sound more Brit than American, it is always breathtaking. In comparison, modern entertainment is only considered edgy if it’s on cable and loaded with so many four-letter words that people keep score of the number. Films only become box-office darlings if they contain expensive visual effects, irrelevant nudity, toilet humor, and cut-off limbs. The “artsy” movies with all the big words go to die on the bottom the list after they win an award or two that people have never heard of and could care less about.
Here’s another relic: letters. Used to be that our grandparents express their feelings for each other through long-winded written accounts delivered via snail mail (whoever came up with that horrid term?). Kids don’t even write to Santa anymore! Writing letters was a huge part of people’s lives back then and as letters go out of fashion, so has the necessity of being literate. And fountain pens.
Santa can be reached via Internet now
Even in music, the decline in artistry is glaring. With the exception of Broadway musicals and a few gifted songwriters, the quality of lyrics in popular songs have mostly gone down the drain. It used to be that what passed as a great love song goes something like this:
You must remember this/A kiss is just a kiss/A sigh is just a sigh/The fundamental things apply/As time goes by
(From the legendary “As Time Goes By”, the memorable soundtrack of “Casablanca”)
In 2010, R&B genius, Usher, had a string of hits. One of them has this delightful chorus: I wanna make love in this club/in this club/in this club. The other is this: Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh my God. How about his protege, the biggest breakout act of the decade (perhaps), Justin Bieber. His record-breaking hit, as I’m sure you’re all aware (and sick of already), is called “Baby” where the word is repeated more often than is legal. Quite a bit of contrast, don’t you think?
I could also remind you of an English poet by the name of Shakespeare. He was rather good with words, wasn’t he?
Now, I’m not asking that we all be wordsmiths or playwrights. I merely wish that we appreciate language better. Let’s begin with the simple things. Read a classic. Heck, read something for a start. Keep a diary. Start a blog. Listen, really listen to the great classic songs. Do whatever feels natural to you.
In retrospect, this kind of rant is probably why I can’t get a boyfriend. Snob.
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.
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.
Start!
I got the job. After five weeks worth of training, many nerve-racking presentations, and plenty of laughters later, I did it.
Oddly, it all feels anticlimactic. I’m not saying that I knew for sure that the job was mine. I only found out halfway through the training that I was one of the top 3 candidates. Having no experience, I hardly felt confident at all. Maybe it has to do with the incredibly small amount of money they’re going to pay me. Or not. It’s a first job. A part-time too, nothing more. I’ll have time to do other things when I’m not working. Or not do them. Whatever. No, it feels anticlimactic because this means that I will actually have to work. Training has been so fun because I was a student for most of the time. I was only a teacher when I was presenting. Now, I have to present at least six times a week. Great.
But it’s a beginning. Maybe now I can have more friends. Hopefully I won’t feel so out of place anymore. I called my ex-roommate in Canada the other day and you wouldn’t believe how much I suddenly missed Vancouver and my life there. She told me about her new apartment (small, ridiculously expensive, and no cable yet) and my thoughts immediately went to our apartment (dark, small kitchen, and sparsely decorated). She said that Vancouver was getting cold, my mind recalled the falling leaves and the misty rain in autumn. She mentioned her graduation date and memories of my university came back to me (depressing, stressful, and cold). Aren’t I the most attentive, thoughtful friend?
On the bright side, it’s holiday out here in Indonesia! Starting pretty much from today (Friday), most businesses are closed until the 6th. It’s our version of Christmas holiday. Along with my overbearing family, I will be staying in a villa for three days starting from the 1st. Everyone is going to play poker (with money) and I’m going to watch while enjoying the cool mountain air away from the suffocating heat of Surabaya.
Happy holidays!
PS: I cannot believe I missed Grey’s Anatomy Season 5 premiere. Especially because it sounds so damn good.
I’m Alive
My absence has undoubtedly been noticed. A month, after all, is too long to go without any sort of news, particularly if the last news you received was rather depressing. Fear not, though. I have not chosen the path of the desperately despaired. I am still very much alive. To make up for all the lost time, I will be posting a series of stories over the next few days. Mostly about the arrival of my large and eccentric extended family to Indonesia.
So what of me? Well, I still have not found a job. To be honest, I wasn’t trying that hard before. I was in my procrastination mode, despite all the grief I’ve been receiving from everyone I know. If not the employment thing, it’s the Canada thing. See, I received my work permit, which only lasts till April next year. Every single relative I have is telling me to go back because “this is such a rare opportunity. When are you going back to Vancouver?”. Typical answer: We’ll see. What I actually think: I don’t think so. Why? Timing. If my timing had been better, I would have extended my passport before I applied for the work permit and would have got the full three-year period I am due. Maybe it would make a difference. Then again, maybe not. Especially now that airlines have reduced baggage restrictions. I am so sick and tired of having to take that annual journey by plane. No more.
How’s the gym thing going for me? Well, I want to say terrible but honestly it hasn’t been that bad. Sure, there are plenty of times when I want to kick my trainer in the balls and tell him to…well, you get it, but I’ve lost two kgs and an unbelievable amount of inches around the waist. All in one month. That does not mean that I like to work out now. Because that will never happen. Proof? I still curse and swear in silent every damn session. Further proof? After each session, there’s always a part of my body that hurts. Plus, the gym still looks like the twilight zone for me. There’s a belly dancing class there. A belly dancing class, for Christ’s sakes. Who are these people?
Speaking of health, I’ve kicked my allergies. You know, the whole sneezing and runny nose thing that I used to have every time I come home. It just takes some getting used to the filthy air of Surabaya. On the other hand, every one has got the flu. My brother has the scariest coughs I’ve ever heard, coupled with so many wheezy breaths it sounds like he has asthma. My dad also has the flu. My cousin’s adorable kids are always coughing or sneezing. Yet, I still stand tall. Untouched by viruses.
So yes, I have adjusted. But that doesn’t mean I’ve fully accepted life in Surabaya. I haven’t got in touch with most of my friends. I saw one in the gym just last week (to my horror) and she asked me why I hadn’t told anyone that I was coming back. I’m not ready yet. There are still so many things of Vancouver that I miss. The TV, the clean air, the skytrain, and most of all, my dear dear friends. Sorry if I’ve caused you concern. I will try harder to stay in touch.
PS: S, (which does not mean that you’re anything like Serena van der Woodsen or that I’m Gossip Girl or whatever other dumb self-centered thoughts you usually have),
I showed our friends the pictures and they all said that indeed your cheeks are rounder and you look chubbier.
PPS: I have not lost my evil sense of humor, have I?
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