I just got back from my London trip and have not had a chance to blogwalking until today, and I found out that I am tagged by Rima to reveal the 10 Things I hate about myself. So far I’ve got 5 London-related things and I’d post them now, and the rest of the 5 things will have to wait until I find things that I really, really hate about myself!

1. I hate the fact that I have to pay something that is not worthy

Every time I tell people that I went to The Ivy, people couldn’t believe it. The place is famous for being so hard to get into and the we could wait for weeks, even months, to get a table, unless you’re Victoria Beckham. The paparazzi are often camped outside waiting to snatch a shot of celebrities. So we thought we were lucky to be able to eat at one of the most prestigious restaurants in London.

But it was horrendous. Everyone from the doorman - who wore a penguin suit and a magician hat - to the waiters were snotty. The lamb gave me stomach ache for the whole next day and I lost 1 kilo as an instant result (tip: if you want to lose weight, go to the Ivy and ask for their virus contaminated lamb). When the bill came each of us grudgingly forked out the notes from our purses, intentionally left no tip. If only we realised that we are not obliged to pay the service charge, we would have asked them to scrap it off of our bill. I had to pay the food that I can’t remember how it tasted (sans the stomach bug) that cost the same as two-persons-dinner-plus-Barolo-wine-at-Scusa Jakarta.

But it will be a good story to tell.

A bloody expensive good story.

2. I hate the fact that sometimes I am so tensed

After the second dinner on Saturday we had to walk to Soho and the girls saw rickshaws passed by and decided to ride them. “Come, on,” they said, “it would be fun!”. I shook my head and said I’d rather walk. I couldn’t imagine myself arriving at the bar with a rickshaw. But everybody jumped in and I had no choice. It’s nine girls in three rickshaws and everybody was laughing and screaming and most of the time I wanted to bury my head and hoped that no one saw me - which was silly since no one knows me in London! - especially when the three cute rickshaw drivers decided to race against each other. But before we arrived I realise that this was fun and I shouldn’t be embarrassed, it’s a silly funny thing we do and why did I care whether I arrive with a rickshaw or by foot at the bar?

3. I hate the fact that I like nice things and those nice things are usually expensive

Some people can go shopping everyday and come back with lots of junks that will go out of date in a matter of months. I’d rather buy one thing at a time that I could wear forever. Sadly the “one thing” thing usually cost me several months salary. I keep saying it’s silly, that I’m just another victim of brand-brainwash and glitzy glossy adverts, but just looking at the fine works and luxurious small details and I’m melted again. I held Marc Jacobs bag and wondered if I do really need a black bag. I stroked the Louboutin pumps, thinking whether I should pay £400 for a pair of shoes. I spent three hours on the furniture department at Harrods, touching, caressing, absorbing every single detail, brand, material, finishes, joins, installation method, and of course, price.

4. I hate myself when I’m taking things too easily

Just because I have been to London doesn’t mean I remember everything. But I was too cocky, probably because I’ve spent so much time looking at the London map, or talking about London, or especially because I got home safe from Heathrow without making any mistake. So left the map at home, and jumped into the tube and headed to the city. Only to realise that after hours of walking back and forth Oxford Street, I couldn’t find the bloody Bond Street station to go back home. My map in iphone wasn’t reliable, it worked sometimes but most of the time it didn’t, so I asked the security guard at Banana Republic (which is not in Oxford Street) and he was babbling about there’s no such Bond Street station (huh?) but he knows that Bond Street exists.  He pointed at a direction in the air and I walked towards it, and found the station. The next day I forgot about the map again, but I stopped by at the local newsagent and bought one. Stupid.

5. I hate being a subject of lust by an old man

And it happens a lot. I was stopped once in the middle of the street in Aberdeen by a man old enough to be my great grandfather, and after praising the sun he said I was the most beautiful creature he’d seen. He then asked if I’m married and whether my husband was offshore, and how unlucky he was being too late to meet me. With so many gorgeous men living in London, I thought at least this time there will be one normal young bloke who would flirt with me. Alas, the garden keeper at Kensington Palace, when feeding the cute squirrels, turned to me and asked where I’m from. When I said Scotland he was surprised and wondered why I live there. I told him I’m married to a Scotsman and he said I should’ve married a Welsh instead. He’s, of course, from Wales. Pushing 70 and feeding squirrels. Bye! (note to self: should check if I install some old man magnet on my head).

The guy at the Ivy was a bit younger, albeit the white hair. We were leaving the restaurant and passing his table. He looked directly at my barely covered chest and when realised I caught him, he looked back at me and grinned widely without showing any shame at all. The poor blond woman next to him didn’t realise that her man’s eyes were wandering. Ugh.

That’s it so far. I can’t promise you I’d be back with another 5, but I’m trying….

The new fireplace was just installed and I’ve been playing with the fire since. The flame is bright orange inside the stainless steel frame, makes the room warm and cozy. It’s wild outside, the trees are dancing and the leaves are struggling to glue themselves to the branches. It is only 13 degrees but everybody is grumpy and feeling cold and longing for the sun. The clock will change this weekend and the darkness will fall sooner and longer.

Winter is coming.

But I’m still brave enough to wear my open-toes sandals. Anja looked at my feet today and asked if I wasn’t feeling cold. She’s Dutch and sensible. I am stupid and would sacrifice my toes in the name of fashion.

It’s my last day meeting my girlfriends because I have to catch an early flight tomorrow for a weekend with the other ladies, parties, gossiping, shopping, talking about boobs, and stuff. Tree would have liked it (he starts the new trend, now everybody blogs about boobs now).

I can’t remember if the pornography laws bans us from talking, writing or even thinking about boobs. I just had a glass of white wine and am not caring about anything but my new fireplace and frozen toes. Rob has a nice picture of Davina in bikini whilst talking about pornography laws and got lots of comments consequently. I wonder if I would get the same buzz if I put the picture of half naked George Clooney up.

Everywhere I turn, most people don’t agree with the law. So I was surprised to receive an email asking for participation to support it. It even asked me and the other readers to sign the petition. And told us that all along we are too stupid to understand the reason behind it, and gave a lengthy explanation about what it means. I cannot resist the temptation to send a reply and change the title from ’support’ to ‘reject’ and gave a link to The Jakarta Post. I sat back and waited for the kettle to whistle for another cup of coffee. Soon enough a new email came, saying that - more or less - “everything that we fight for will be judged by God Almighty; should there be any perplexity we shall surrender the matter back to God through prayer, and the truth is inside our heart”.

Booby hell.

I don’t see the connection between God and the pornography laws. Except those who are smart enough to produce such bills are those who are playing God and most likely the ones who, morally, need to be examined. See the problem is, those who sit in the parliament are such dirty bastards they think everybody is like them, making amateur sex video or asking for female companies on every transaction (I have heard so many stories about this and it becomes a common practice everywhere up to the sickening degree). There are many more urgent and serious matters to be taken care of. But talking about bikinis and fondling boobies of course are much more interesting and sexy rather than thinking how to adjust the oil price.

I might have to burn all my bikinis. Can’t wear them in London. Can’t wear them in Bali next January. Maybe we’d just stop in Singapore as you can turn up with hot pants or ball gown and no one cares. I don’t know if Oji still sells knock-off porn DVDs at Menteng, he’s disappeared when they refurbished the area a while a go.

In the mean time, my frozen toes needs some attention. I need them intact because I’d proudly display them with my jeweled sandals this weekend, even though the weather forecast states it would be 3-8 degrees, and raining, in London.

I’d be back next Tuesday. Hopefully my toes are still with me.

JUST as some women date only prison inmates, so there are those who yearn above all for Englishmen, with their exotic customs and their reputation for making even banal remarks sound like brilliant repartee. For example my friend D* who has dated men from all over the world and now focuses on finding a Mr. Brit. So far she is quite persistent and consistent, although not always successful. She despises Australian after a bad break-up with her last proper boyfriend and swears off Ozzy dudes forever. She doesn’t like American because they’re too forward. British men, she says, are gentle and caring and honest. But rather than some random dates, she hasn’t had secured any Brits yet. I guess maybe, despite her own pushy characters, in between Mr. Darcy with his sexy accents and Hugh Grant with his killer smile, there are other qualities in British men that, probably after spending a couple months with him, would not be amusing anymore.

The British are renowned for their stiff upper lip: politeness, failure to speak out, and not demonstrating their feelings. Reluctance to display emotion in the face of extreme misfortune or extreme good fortune is the first key element of British cool (or coldness). To some, this quality could be more than just an annoying charm.

The tabloid The Sun was the first one reported that Madonna and Guy Ritchie’s marriage are doomed. The newspaper claimed that the marriage began sliding towards divorce after her hubby’s unsympathetic reaction when she tumbled from a horse. Apparently, when she has been through a traumatic, possibly life-threatening experience as she broke four ribs, her collar bone, scapula and her left knuckle in the accident, Guy’s reaction wasn’t something she expected. Instead of lavishing her with love and attention, Guy approached the whole thing in what she now calls, ‘A very British way’.

When it comes to relationships, even the website UKStudentLife.Com warns their readers that “British men (and women) do not always talk openly about their emotions, especially when they do not know you well already” and “some men prefer not to kiss or hold hands in public, because they think it is more polite to show affection only in private”. Although I believe Madonna realises this since she has successfully adopted English accent and English husband, but as the Italian’s blood runs through her veins, she definitely couldn’t stand it after seven and half years.

Now Madonna blames her man’s “no-nonsense” approach to their marriage on his British public school upbringing. She says he was “typical of emotionally-stunted British men” and refuses to ever date another Brit. The pal said: “Madonna’s convinced British men are light years behind Americans when it comes to emotional honesty and sophistication.”

There are certain things British men like to believe about themselves, according to The Guardian, and one of them is that, while British women take them for granted, women of all other nations find them irresistible (as proved by Hugh Grant in Four Weddings and Notting Hill); and that they could almost definitely take Hugh Grant in a fight; and that the fabled Brit ’stiff upper lip’ has evolved to the point where nothing could induce them to ‘turn on the waterworks’. This, many British men feel, is something they have over the ‘hysterical’ Italians, ‘namby-pamby’ French, and those pathetic hippy Americans weeping and hugging each other on ‘Iron Man’ bonding weekends.

It might be true. A friend recently went out with an American and she told me how sweet the guy was, and when I asked her what she meant by “sweet”, she said he wooed her by talking sweet nothing in her ear. I, on the other hand, after adopting British (sorry, Scottish) man, almost couldn’t stop myself for saying “that’s rubbish” to her. I might have never been a girl who believes in extravaganza emotional show or probably have been brainwashed by the aloof and distant manner charm of Pride and Prejudice’s Mr. Darcy and Bridget Jones’s Mark Darcy.

The New York Times, in attempt to understand British charm finally cited that deep down, English men — for all their suavity and charm — really don’t like women. ”There’s a nervousness about being with women,” said Cindy Blake, an American novelist living in London who has had two English husbands. ”There’s a feeling men have that women are going to ruin their fun and their lives and chain them indoors, and make them do things they don’t want to do, and not let them do things they do want to do. The idea of being alone with a woman is too scary because then they might have to deal — or to talk about themselves,” she continued.

Leah McLaren, a Canadian who was posted in London, was so fed up with British men she wrote on her column about British men that set off a small international incident:

• Many went to boarding school at an early age, thus forfeiting essential affection from their mothers, leaving them all but incapable of intimacy with women.
• Many drink too much, leaving them all but incapable of intimacy with women.
• They are repressed homosexuals.
• They simply don’t like women.

The New york Times also quoted actress Heather Graham, who accused British men of spending too much time in the pub. Well it might be true, because The Punchbowl Pub was at the root of a lot of Madonna and Guy Ritchie’s rows. Madonna was furious about the amount of time Guy would spend there with his London mates. She hated him eating pies and chips there instead of coming home to her micro-biotic diet of steamed fish and pulses (I could understand her first reason, but expecting him to eat steamed fish everyday? Come on).

But if you are still longing for Mr. Darcy, the website eHow.com gives a guide (although very vague) on what you should do, although it seems like the guide is intended for American girls who think London is an exotic place:

1. Love the good manners and polite behavior of British gentlemen. Don’t assume they want you to act completely the same way. British men are used to very uptight British women and love the wildness of American girls.
2. Expect to be called “duckie,” “sweetie,” “dear” and other nicknames that might be offensive to you if an American man called you these same names. These are normal and accepted signs of affection from a British date.
3. Look forward to seeing the wild side of your British date once you visit his apartment to “see his etchings.” British men are reserved in public but love affection and romance in private.
4. Appreciate the fact that British men are loyal. They do enjoy flirting and looking at other women, but even if they stray, it’s not because they don’t care for you. British men want relationships to last, especially with American women, whom they feel are sexy and more fun to be with than British women.

And here’s I have found so far which might be helpful for you:

1. British people have different sense of humour which might mystify other nations, but the men are very into toilet and dirty jokes. I guess because the whole nation is so repressed, the only outlet is only through jokes. You don’t need to pretend that you understand that because believe me, you won’t.
2. Even though he likes you or has become your soul mate for years, expect him to stand at arm’s length, literally, away from you, hardly touch you, in social gatherings. It’s his way to respect your personal space. And his.
3. Understand that even though they won’t get emotional over anything, they will cry over football match. Don’t make joke about that, because they won’t see the funny side of it. Football is more important than life and death.
4. I can’t help with Ms. McLaren’s claim that many are repressed homosexuals (is it because so many men wearing pink shirt in London?). All I can say is I have seen my husband with his ‘boyfriends’ and despite the amount of time they spend together doing playstation/Xbox/Wii competition, playing cards, golfing and going away for weekend, it looks harmless. They need to get together to drink and talk bollocks, just like us girls need our girlie time to talk about things that boys won’t understand.

Maybe D* should realises that dating a British man requires a different tactic: if she can laugh at his joke, appreciate his Yorkshire pudding, go dutch, be ok for receiving text messages asking for a snog, she’ll be fine. I will get back to you when she’s successful!

It started with late night discussions with Treespotter, although I don’t remember how we came up with the idea because usually we talk about politics, poverty, or world peace. All I remember is we have to post one entry together at the same time, and we agree to post something about breasts, but we haven’t been able to synchronize our schedules and the draft has been in my draft box for a couple of weeks, and I kind of forgot it, until…

… A friend circulated a photo of our friend who is suspected underwent a breast surgery to several of us, all girls, and soon everybody had something to say about her, or her breasts.

So I guess I’d just post what I think then.

I am never quite sure why men are so fascinated by women’s breasts. No, not fascinated, more hypnotised. We go out and see girls with their plunging neckline tops, showing just a little bit of cleavage, and all men’s heads turn 360 degree just to peek at those views. The lower the neckline the longer time men take to stare at the pair hidden underneath the top.

But actually we don’t even need to work hard to show them. Have them all covered and men still stare at them, especially when we wear tight tops.  Or have a tiny part of them incidentally peeping out when we wear buttoned-up shirt and the gap between buttons spread and show the center of the bra, especially from the side view, and men still crane their necks to get a peek (this was a constant argument  between me and jealous boyfriend(s) in college and I had to always have the safety pin tagged between buttons and this was probably the only time I ever wished to have smaller breasts!). Or, if they spy even the slightest hint of nipple, regardless of the fullness of flesh of the surrounding neighborhood, they’re happy as clams (I remember all my friends went crazy over Jennifer Aniston in Friends, and if girls went crazy about her hairstyle, men did because she always seemed to forget to wear bra which cover her nipples, even when she wore a jumper). The point is, whether we hide or show our breasts, men still stare.

I asked several guys why they always act like it is the first time they see a pair of breasts, ever, in every situation possible. Their answer is simple, because they just do.

Actually, the answer to this question is almost unbelievably simple; We like them because they are there, and we don’t have them. Not to say that we want to have breasts of our own, so much as we just have this uncontrollable urge to fondle yours.

But perhaps men don’t realise that women are as obsessed as men about breasts., although not up to the state of wanting to fondle stranger’s breasts. But yes, we are obsessed with our own breasts and also with others women’s breasts. We frequently compare ourselves with other women and wonder if our breasts measure up - literally - because our culture in general has created such a fixation on women’s breasts that a large portion of women’s sexual identity is founded in their breasts.  If we see a woman walking by with a nice pair of breasts, we instantly wonder - either innocently or with a little bit of jealousy - whether they are real or fake, or whether she’s got that nice bra from La Perla that makes her breasts look perkier.

We are also obsessed with them because we can dress them up with millions of choices of bra models, colors, materials, and brands. Not to mention nipple rings, or bra jewelry. And of course, we use our breasts for personal gain, like showing excessive cleavage to get served faster, or better yet, free drinks, at bars.

Even though we like to tease men’s imagination by showing a bit of cleavage, I don’t think  anyone wishes to be referred  to as just a pair of boobs. A friend went to my wedding wearing very daring dress that drew everybody’s attention to her breasts, and soon after that when people talk about her, they indicate her by holding their hands in front of their chests about half meter away in form of cups, indicating her large breasts, and say something like, “Hey, where is your friend?” (hands signal). I find their gesture annoying and childish because to me she is more than just a pair of boobs, she is sweet, and funny, not to mention gorgeous; but  men now fail to see all those qualities because their eyes and mind will be forever fixed on her boobs. So the challenge would be showing the cleavage without spill the imagination, being sexy without being the sex object, tasteful but teasing, more Scarlett Johannson and less Pamela Anderson. Damn, it’s hard to be a woman!

My friend’s forwarded photo still gets comment from us after 2 days. The girl-with-fake-breasts in the picture has been our topic since probably 2 years a go when her tops suddenly became too tight and her cups went from A to - I’m not sure but I suspect - E.  We talk endlessly about how different they look now (we compare before and after photo), how they feel if we touch them (since none of us has fake boobs), whether the surgery hurt, where she had it, how much it cost, and what they will look like when she is wrinkly and old. We even scrutinize all pictures of hers, trying to find some evidence which show her boobs are indeed fake. We also asked the ex boyfriend to dish us some dirty secrets (and as a perfect gentleman, he refused to reveal anything).

She is one of the example of growing number of Indonesian women who spend more and more money on breast implants, breast enlargement pills or creams, silly equipment, and other cosmetic procedures to increase the size of their breasts. It’s because many of us think that larger breasts will give us a sense of empowerment and boost up our sexiness and confidence.

Well, most of the times when the-girl-with-fake-boobs wears non-existent top, she draws attention from both men and women (men wanting to touch them, and women wanting to scratch them, haha!). But, as cliche as it sounds, the new inflated boobs doesn’t fix her insecurity and doesn’t give her empowerment she is longing for. In other words, it doesn’t change her character and personality. She is still single (and moaning about being single), floating from one bar to another, hopping from one city to the next, looking for Mr. Right. She has tons of Mr. Right Now, but hasn’t been successful of finding a guy who wants to see her beyond her breasts. On the other hand, like I pointed out to my friends, at least two of them are happy-flat-chested girls. They still get tons of male’s attention despite their cup sizes. They’re happily admit they have small breasts, and although they wish to have bigger boobs, they don’t plan to having them enlarged. They still wear low neckline tops, proudly parading their assets.

So what’s the whole point of talking about this?

No point, really. Didn’t I just say that we are as obsessed as men if it comes to breasts? I guess the lengthy post is a proof.

Less than two weeks and I’m off to London for girl’s weekend trip. This would be an interesting meet-up because I only know Nikki who’s originally from here but now resides in Assen, and will be meeting others from Assen and one from Oman! So we could call it an international girl’s trip with jam-packed schedule of shopping, drinking and dining, everything that screams expensive and posh. We would be having dinner at The Ivy - a place that guarantees celebrities’ exposure so who knows you’d see my picture on the next edition of OK! or Hello grinning next to Madonna - and Bambou, and drinks at The Soho and Purple Bar. Those places must be booked waaaay in advanced (I think even I am not allowed to enter Purple Bar unless invited by guest who stays there, that’s how snobbish posh they are!).

But before that, I had to be a host for this month’s arisan, and this is why I got pissed off on Friday.

Arisan (a-ree-san) is a monthly social gathering between friends and relatives who chip in money to be won in turns through a lucky draw. The one that I am involved at the moment is my very first participation on such event. It’s initialised by some Indonesian ladies who live in Aberdeen as a way of meeting others, share gossips, and (I think, most importantly to many of them), try out Indonesian food. At first I joined with such a high spirit because it’s a useful for me to meet other people and expand my network.

The such gathering usually takes place at the member’s house. It has an unwritten rule that whoever wins the draw will be the host for the next month. The winner is expected to provide some meals too, even though usually everybody will turn up with something and we’d have a big selection of everything.

I did win last month draw, so inevitably, consequently, I would be the host for this month. I have given a heads up that I would be away to London at the end of the month so we need to do it beforehand. I have also mentioned that since our place is not suitable for young mothers who will bring buggies (prams/strollers) and their children (our place is on the third floor), I will host it in Stuart’s grandma’s place, who’s more than delighted with the prospect of a bunch little people running around her house. She also has a huge back garden so children can investigate the nature. She even promises to make us some of her famous pancakes. I came up with 17th as the date and sent the information to several members whose numbers I’ve got.

The replies came that several of them are still back in Indonesia for holiday, so they will miss the event. Some will be away for midterm school holiday, so they wonder if we could do it before 17th. And some said they’re not comfortable with the venue suggestion. Some suggested to meet up in town (although when I said that grandma’s place is right in the city center, 5 minutes walk and we’d reach Union Street, no one responded). One suggested her place instead, but I think since I’m the host, I should take the responsibility to provide it this time.

No matter hard I assured them, that the Gran is not a scary old woman carrying broomstick all around the house chasing shadow, or a grumpy old lady who will be annoyed by the noise we would make, that she would enjoy having lots of people around her, apparently, they already judged that the place, even though none of them have ever set their foot in it let alone meet the Gran, makes them uncomfortable. They will never understand that she’d probably sit down in the middle of us and enjoy the whole scene (she’s like the female version of Don Corleone) and that she will have a great time questioning each of them (and will remember every detail more than I would!). If you see the picture, it was the Gran last year in Italy. She was 93 in the picture (she just celebrated her 94th birthday in June), complete with trendy sunglasses and borrowed Poggio. Tell me if you ever meet a 94-year-old woman who could work on the computer, reads emails regularly, and does webcam chatting? Yeah, the Gran kicks a**, but she’s also very sweet and funny, and there is no reason for these young Indonesian ladies to be afraid of her unless they’re drug smugglers. But they still say no.

So with the disagreement over the date and the venue, I gave in, and suggested to move it earlier to next Tuesday and I also suggested the place, Woodbank. The place is a recreational centre, owned and run by a large oil & gas company for its staffs and families, but is open for public as well for the hotel and cafe/restaurant parts. It’s not far from the city center, it’s quiet so we can have our own privacy and less likely to be kicked out if we only order one cup of coffee for the entire afternoon, it has an outdoor playground for children, so I think the place is perfect. From the picture, you can see that it’s gorgeous, right?

But I got replies that majority doesn’t want to go to Woodbank and insist that the arisan is to be held on another member’s house.

And I thought I was the hostess!

I was insulted, first because they rejected both venues I proposed without any obvious reason, and second because they didn’t even bother to ask me (a.k.a this month’s host) whether I was ok if we move it to somebody else’s house. They decided to go on with it, just like that. Where is their manner? I feel like I am being punished because my place is not suitable for children (since I don’t have my own children, I could just ignore this potential issue and host it in my place, and let those young mothers climb up the staircases carrying their buggies and children and spend the rest of the afternoon worrying their kids might fall over the steps!), but despite all the effort I have tried to think about everyone’s comfort and to provide the best alternative, they still decide it’s not enough. The strange thing is this type gathering is not a crazy or uncontrolled one. It’s very brief as many of them must pick their kids up from nurseries or schools in the afternoon, and there is no loud music, alcohol or drugs involved, let alone a young stud as a prize - like some gatherings I’ve heard in Jakarta - to be taken home and er… utilised by the winner,  there is no stuff for sale (some arisans in Indonesia practically become mobile shops with ladies selling everything, from handbags to diamonds) so there is no danger of someone gets out of the house broke. We’d just basically move from one plate to another and do the “ooh” and “aah” over others’ kids. We might gossip about something or someone, but that’s it. So why they’re afraid to have it held at the Gran’s or at Woodbank, I have no idea!

Well, sod it.

Lesson learned. This would be my first and last gathering, when the period ends in December I wouldn’t extend my participation. I will continue what I have to do and fulfill my duty - whatever that is - but I don’t want to have anything to do with the gathering/arisan/whatever the name is anymore.

Now I’d rather spending my time worrying over the dress I should wear for The Ivy. Who knows I might bump into Daniel Craig this time…

I just got my new pair of eyeglasses. The old one has been with me for about 5 years: the lenses’ protective coating has been peeled off, the Gucci logo on the right side is missing, but so far I didn’t feel that I had to change my glasses since I’m wearing contact lenses more and only put my glasses on back before bed time.

But six months after my last trip to the optician, they sent me a letter, saying that since I’m a regular contact lenses user, I have to go back there to ensure my eyes are healthy. The optician, after performing several checks on my eyes claimed they are a bit dry, so she suggests me not to wear my contacts for more than 12 hours per day, especially with the type of coloured lenses I bought from Indonesia. That’s when I decided to wear my glasses more often.

Hence the new glasses.

Mister husband saw me wearing the new glasses when he went home and found me sitting nicely on the sofa, watching TV.

After complementing my new glasses and how cute I look with them, he then said, “You look like Sarah Palin.”

I beg your pardon?

He saw my expression changed, and quickly said that what he meant was that I looked sexy. And the lookie-likey was meant to be a compliment. Because Sarah Palin is sexy.

Huh?

He wondered why I didn’t look happy with the compliment he gave. Well, darling, I guess:

1. First, because she’s much older than me, almost 11 years older! No woman likes to be compared with older women, even if they are Sophia Loren or Brigitte Bardot. Or your own mother (I’ve got that a lot, people approach us and say we really look similar {thank you}, and she looks more like my sister than my mother {mum: delighted. me: but she’s 22 years older than me!!}).
2. Second, it’s not common to compare your spouse’s look with a politician’s. Celebrity, yes (but please refer to number 1 before choosing  someone as a comparison point. Angelina Jolie is most welcome). But politician, no.
3. Third, my glasses are different from hers (see the very first picture? I’ve got exactly the same pair as the advert).
4. Last but not least, I don’t think Sarah Palin is sexy. Not in a million years.

But she won Miss Alaska Pageant, he said (she actually finished the third). Ergo, she’s sexy.

Hmm. Well maybe, 20 years ago. But today she looks like a sweet, regular suburban soccer mom. Don’t get me wrong, I think she’s pretty. But not sexy.

Do you think she is sexy?

Post Script 10 October 2008: Apparently a blogbuddy wrote a very similar post in her blog about the same time I posted this entry. Read about her being compared to Sarah Palin’s voice here.

Today has been a very busy day. And although I was able to read most emails through my iphone, I couldn’t check my blog(s) until 10 PM tonight. By the time I opened this blog, I had lots of comments to responds to. And since Monday is my ‘major blogwalking’ day, which means I visit all blogs in my blogroll to check the updates (few of them are updated frequently - I visit them more often - but some are only updated once in a week, if that, and that’s why I do whole blogwalking on one day just to make sure I don’t miss any of my blogger friends’ blog updates), I had to stay a bit longer than usual.

Anyway, back to my somewhat overwhelming comments, it’s almost midnight and I just finished responding all comments. Which left me wondering, and I hope you don’t mind answering my questions:

• How often do you check your blog (to see if someone leaves comment on the post or on the shoutbox, or to check if your stat or technorati rank is increasing, to see who just visited by checking your mybloglog or blogcatalog, etc).
• Do you wait until you get more many comments on your entry or you respond each comment directly?
• How often do you blogwalking?
• Do you blogwalk to each of blog on your blogroll? My blogroll isn’t that big (less than 100 blogs listed there) and it’s already time consuming. But some bloggers can have thousands of blogs listed on their blogroll. That’s why I am wondering.
• How do you keep tracking on other bloggers’ blog? Do you subscribe their RSS readers or do you prefer to visit their blogs directly?
• Do you always leave comment on each new post? If not, why?
• When you leave comment(s), do you go back again sometime later to see if the blog owner has responded? How important is it to have your comment responded?

Hope my questions can trigger some interesting discussion. Beddy time now!

Cheerio!

I haven’t written about Scottish food for a quite long time. Not because I am sulking when some blogger alluded me as blog traffic seeker by posting unworthy thread like food, but because I haven’t tried something new for a long time.

But since the weather is wild outside, and it’s the first time we have the heater on for almost a day, I am longing for something hot, like soup.

Cullen skink would be perfect for this kind of situation. This traditional Scottish soup is rich, thick, creamy, and smoky. Yes, the main characteristic of cullen skink is its smokiness, which comes from its basic ingredient, Finnan haddie. The first element (of the name) refers to the town of Cullen in Moray, skink is a Scots word for a shin, knuckle or hough of beef which has developed the secondary meaning of a soup, especially one made from these. The word skink is ultimately derived from Middle Dutch schenke “shin, hough”.

The soup is often served as a starter at formal Scottish dinners and is very easy to make - although I never do it myself since dear husband doesn’t eat seafood (I know, he’s weird). To learn about the recipe, click here:

• Nick Nairn’s recipe from BBC food (Nick Nairn is celebrity chef {no idea what it means! A chef who also is a celebrity? A celebrity who is a chef?} who became the youngest chef to win a Michelin star in Scotland, and owns a successful cooking school).
• Rampant Scotland
• Scottish Recipes

Of course, if we are lazy, we can always buy it straight from the tin (I can practically hear Alison and Stuart’s grandma’s gasps). But certainly it doesn’t taste the same. One downside though, since it is creamy, it will fill you up fast and spoil your taste for main course, so just make sure you have big stomach to digest it and your main course.

Further reading:

• Cranachan Is…
• Deep Fried Mars Bar
• Haggis, Black Pudding, White Pudding
• Irn Bru
• Shortbread, Oatcake and Rowie
• Sticky Toffee Pudding
• Tunnock’s Teacake and Tablet

It is supposed to be a birthday present for Mister Husband, who has requested it 2 weeks in advanced. We went to the game shop and bought it, and left it at the spare bedroom. He wasn’t to touch it until his birthday. For two weeks, he kept talking about it, counting the days to his birthday.

When the day came, we were in Carnoustie for the weekend, and he was so anxious to go back home to try it on. We arrived in the afternoon, and he went straight to the spare bedroom, grabbed the box, tore the package open, and started installing it. He ignored the tea I made for him. But there was a technical problem, the appearance was in black and white. After spending the whole night trying to fix it, he gave in.

He came back from work the next day, knowing what to do, since he had consulted the problem to several colleagues who have purchased the same thing. He didn’t bother to change his work clothes, and spent almost 30 minutes behind the TV, playing around with the plugs and cables. Then, voila! It worked!

It’s wii time!

Wii (pronounced as the English pronoun we, IPA: /wi?/) is a home video game console released by Nintendo. A distinguishing feature of the console is its wireless controller, the Wii Remote, which can be used as a handheld pointing device and detect movement in three dimensions. It’s much more cooler than Xbox360 (which dear hubby also has) or Playstation3, since we have to practically move according to the game we play.

He tried tennis first. After played the game for 15 minutes he was covered in sweat. He asked me to try it on. I refused. He thought because I wasn’t interested in it, but I told him I am easily addicted to any game, and I have to be careful. I and my housemates used to have an old communal playstation when we lived in Sydney, and sometimes I skipped classes because I couldn’t stop playing! After a while I finally tried it too, and got my a** kicked by him. Of course he was delighted, he’s as competitive as me.

His friends came round to test the console last Thursday and everybody was instantly hooked. Craig lent us his Guitar Hero and everybody had their Slash’s moment. The boys also spent a lot of time creating their ID in wii, choosing the best eyes, hair, nose, even dress colour features. I didn’t realise they took it seriously, and they could be that vain.

I can sense the danger, but I’m helpless. And when last Saturday dear husband said he had to meet a friend for a beer, I deliberately chose to stay home. He set it up for me and left. Five hours later he came back and found me still playing. He gently took the control away from me and urged me to stop.

That was last Saturday, and after three days my right arm still hurts like hell and my neck and shoulders are stiff after playing tennis. My triceps are sore after playing bowling. I haven’t even tried baseball and golf. I am coming down with the flu now, probably because the weather has been weird too.

He came back with Chinese food and Wii Fit, which is always out of stock everywhere and cannot be pre-ordered (the Wii Fit, not the Chinese, I mean). We had been looking for it since we bought the wii package the first time, and he got lucky when he stopped by at the Blockbuster and they had only 1 on display. We did the balance test and BMI test (mine is good but after a month back from Indonesia and stuff myself with chocolate and chips during meal times, I have gained 2 kilos!). I tried yoga and he tried muscle training.

Now I’m hooked. I even had a dream last night, playing tennis against the computer.

Oh no!!