I have been thinking hard to write something that is mentally, morally, or spiritually challenged, but world peace articles wouldn’t attract visitors as much as boobs threads (and those who know me know that I’m an attention and traffic seeker), and as an architect-slash-project manager I don’t think I am capable to adopt a patronizing attitude and lecture others about poverty or politics. Plus I’m too shallow and I think talking about fashion would be much more fun!

I know that most girls in Indonesia are brand-crazy. And just like Louis Vuitton and Gucci, some girls are very into Burberry, although not as crazy as Japanese an Korean (A recent survey conducted by MyVoice into high-class brand found that Burberry was also the most owned high-class brand in Japan). The famous English brand, which was founded in 1856, has a distinctive plaid pattern that has become one of its most widely copied trademarks. Queen Elizabeth and Prince Charles have granted the company Royal Warrants (which means the royal family has been loyally shopping there).

Sadly though, and this is something that customers outside UK do not know, during the 1970s, the brand became popular with the British football casual cult, leading to it to being associated with chavs, hooligans and members of football firms by the 1990s. The brand became a national joke, particularly when actress Danniella Westbrook was photographed with her young daughter wearing matching Burberry (picture on the left courtesy of The Sun). In 2005, the BBC reported that “pubs and clubs across the country began to ban customers who dressed in the label“.

Burberry has certainly been damaged by its walk on the “chav” side. So they have tried to repair the damage by removing checked baseball caps from sale and reduced the visibility of their distinctive pattern. However, the British market represents only a small part of total sales. And when Angela Ahrendts took over the company as the CEO, the brand which almost become a laughing stock in their own backyard has made a dramatic turnaround, claiming the success of the sale of £450 wellies, an £11,000 alligator skin handbag and a £3,000 chevron coat worn by Sarah Jessica Parker in Sex and the City - the Movie. At a time when less-glamorous high street rivals are laying off staff, Burberry said it had sold “several hundreds” of its £11,000 Warrior handbag since January. Sales of men’s coats in Britain have been “sensational”, while shoe sales have more than doubled, led by a wellington boot showcased on the catwalk at fashion shows last autumn. Pre-tax profits in the past year are up by 14 per cent to £206 million on sales of almost £1 billion. (burberry car picture is borrowed from here).

However, generally people in UK avoid to buy Burberry’s classic pattern and go for something more subtle. Only those outside UK are after its distinctive pattern which can be found everywhere from sunglasses to key ring. So next time if you’re thinking about buying something from Burberry, don’t go for something like this…

Or this…. (picture courtesy of BBC).

Or this (unless you’re baby Suri Cruise)….

And definitely don’t go for something like like this! (I mean, wearing tights or leggings is already bad enough but this is sooo wrong in so many levels! Picture borrowed from here).

Instead, opt for something like this:

The most famous Burberry product is trench coat. It was invented by Thomas Burberry who submitted a design for an army officer’s raincoat in 1901. I always thought Burberry has only one model of their classic trench coat, but apparently there are many! (Click here to find out more). You wouldn’t know it’s from Burberry unless you stand close enough to read the label engraved on each button.

But since Indonesia is a tropical country, wearing trench coat will be considered strange, although I am sure there people who are brave enough to embrace the trend without thinking about the appropriate climate. So maybe something like this?

Following Tree and my late night chat we came up with boobs post which inspired Tree to tag others (see Tree’s extensive list of ‘infected bloggers’ here) as part of his world domination plan. Those who were tagged cannot help but post something about boobs. Those who weren’t tagged silently took part anyway - too shy to announce their participation but maybe secretly hoping to be noticed by us, I don’t know - and before we knew it the boob post became a hit in Indonesian blogosphere.

I have done mine which basically reveals that women are fascinated by our - and other women’s - breasts. But if only guys knew how far women would go to maximize their assets, they won’t just believe what they ’see’ until they see and feel them up close and personal!

Women are equipped with many tools which help us to support our breasts. Small cup? Get a padded bra. Sagging boobs? Get a lifter. No cleavage? Get a push-up. Revealing dress? Get invisible bra.

If only men knew…

Bra

clipped from www.ebrasetc.com

In 1863, Luman L Chapman patented a corset substitute with breast puffs and shoulder-brace straps that tied in back. The first bra was born. Then in 1893, Marie Tucek patented the “Breast Supporter” - the first garment similar to the modern-day bra that used shoulder straps with a hook-and-eye closure to support the breasts in pockets of fabric.

In 1904, the Charles R. DeBevoise Company first labeled a woman’s bra-like garment a ‘brassiere’. It was a actually a lightly boned camisole that helped stabilize the breasts

1863	1904 Brassiere

By 1907, the term “brassiere” began to show up in high profile women’s magazines and eventually, around 1912, it appeared in the Oxford English Dictionary.

Now bra comes in different shape, color, style, and most importantly, function. There are push-up, demi-cup, full-cup, racerback, low back, strapless, wireless, backless, seamless, and many more (guys, now you understand why women need big closet!). There are bras designed for supersmall to superbig cup (brand like Bravissimo, for example, specialised in cup D to K women). There are bras specially fo teenagers (those in Indonesia called miniset), for maternity and nursing, for sport, and of course, for nothing but enticing men.

Almost 8 out of 10 women, however, wear the wrong size bra. I’ve got a friend who thought she was a C cup whilst I know for sure that she is much bigger than that, she could easily be DD or even E!  Click here to find out more about how to find the correct and perfect bra.

Silicone Bra

Not really ordinary bra like we normally know because it is made of silicone. This revolutionary, self-adhesive, silicone bra that looks, feels and bounces like real breasts is backless and strapless, making it invisible under clothing. Many but not all brands have this. Those who look for breast support that will remain invisible when worn with a special dress that has a low back, or wide off set shoulders, or is cut to reveal far more underarm and shoulder than the everyday bra can accommodate without revealing unsightly straps, usually go for this type.

Personally I don’t recommend this silicone bra unless you go to an air-conditioned event where you just sit nicely and clap, like Oscar or gala dinner. If you go to somewhere warm and dance away, it will peel off! I had my almost-embarrassed incident when I was out in Jakarta. It was hot at the dance floor and I was sweaty, dancing with a very gorgeous guy when suddenly I felt my ‘bra’ was peeling off of my breasts. I quickly ducked away, hands on chest, flew to toilet, leaving the guy stunned and puzzled why I suddenly left him. I managed to reach the toilet safely to take them off, but since I only carried one of those tiny clutches which held nothing but keys and mobile phone, I had to tuck my precious silicone cups in…. the back pocket of my jeans - and voila, I had a J-Lo bump! I was lucky though, I can’t imagine what I would have said if the thing slid away from my top and fell on the floor! (Picture borrowed from Frederick’s of Hollywood).

Nipple Cover

Much safer than silicone bra, but doesn’t give any support to breasts - so it is only recommended to those who are brave enough to go commando and have a good shape pair of breasts! It is the answer of many my halter neck-plunging neckline dress. The only downside is when you get home and face your man who will see those tapes and will shriek in horror: “What the hell is that??”

Those who think the picture above is boring probably could try something else like different model and color, like this picture on the left (borrowed from here).

Enhancer

There are many types of enhancer. There is gel inserts which will boosting up cup size (say from AA to DD) like picture on the right (stolen from here). These gel inserts are commonly known as ‘chicken fillet’ because they look, shape, and feel like… chicken fillet. Their jobs are similar to padded bras.

And there is what they call “adhesive cleavage push-up” which job is to create cleavage under the barest strapless and low plunge styles, like picture on the left (again, borrowed from Frederick’s of Hollywood).

Last but not least, I just found out what I myself call ‘boobs lifter’ which will help those sad sagging boobs back to their perky form. You have to heck on this video to find out more about how it works, it’s amazing! Personally I won’t need it just now, but who knows, in 20 years….

Just like what I said earlier, you cannot believe what you see until you see and feel them up close and personal. With all above tools to help women to achieve their perfect breasts form, there’s nothing you can do except embracing your luck, like lucky dip. Even celebrities cheat and the image that you see and visualize in your head is not always real! Look at this stunning Tyra Banks picture and see what her real breasts look like…

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.

Sometimes I am so gullible and oblivious. I thought every blogger is just like me, who writes about IT, or making money online, or writes about their daft, boring daily activities, or about cooking, or kids, or fashion. Or politics. I didn’t realise there are bloggers who write about sex.

That until last night I watched a program called Sex in The Noughties: The Sex Blog Girls. The program was aired in 2007 but was re-aired again. I watched it when it was about to finish, but I picked up one blogger who blogs about - what else - sex, anonymously. The blog, Girl With A One-Track Mind, is written by a girl under a pseudonym, Abby Lee, who worked in the film industry, lived in London and got laid a hell of a lot. It  started at the beginning of 2004, where there were only 20 million bloggers around the world (compares to now, which is 112 millions). After 6 months, people were googling for it at a rate that was measurable by the minute. The blog get 250,000 readers a month, won Best British or Irish Blog at the 2006 Bloggies, was published as a book with the same title, Girl With A One-Track Mind.

Several weeks a go I found out that the show Secret Diary of A Call Girl series, a British TV drama starring Billie Piper, aired by ITV2, is actually based on the blog called Belle De Jour: Diary of London Call Girl. I hardly watch British TV shows, so even though the show has been aired for quite sometime now, I wasn’t paying attention too much. The blog itself started in 2003, and is meant to be a diary of a high-class prostitute living and working in London. Soon it was being mentioned by others on the web and it came to the attention of the print media. In December 2003 a newspaper [The Guardian] awarded Belle the first prize in its annual competition for the best-written blog.

Abby Lee enjoyed her anonymity before The Sunday Times revealed her true identity 2 years a go, just 3 days after the publication of her book. Now everbody knows her real name, and as she said:

It might have been more than two years since I lost my anonymity but I still get a little thrown when someone I’ve never met before greets me by saying, “Oh I know who you are, I’ve been reading your blog from the early days,” and then mentions a memorable post from way back that they particularly enjoyed reading. Knowing the exact post they reference, I then blush and mumble and revert to a default position of shyness whilst attempting to change the subject onto something that doesn’t involve me, someone else’s fingers, or my very wet knickers.

On the interview Abby said that she thought she could have her blog published and maintain her anonymity at the same time.

I guess I was lulled into a false sense of security regarding my anonymity because I knew that Belle de Jour was hounded by the press, and still managed to keep her identity private. Whilst I may have a high-traffic blog, and a book detailing my sexual adventures in the shops, I’m not a prostitute like her, so why, I figured, would anyone really be interested in whom I am?

But life is not that bad for Abby Lee. After her book deal (rumoured to be six-figures), she is now busy attending conferences and being interviewed by media.

Belle, on the other hand, has sparked speculation in the media as to her real identity. Whether Belle really was a call girl, and whether her diary entries are based on fact or are entirely fictitious. Times Online has published at least 5 articles about Belle and her somewhat ‘true’ identity. Belle, however maintains that she is who she is. Now she is a regular columnist in The Sunday Telegraph, maintaining her anonymity (I wonder how it works, though, even though she could keep a distance with the newspaper by communicating everything online, she still has to get her cheque under her real name, right?). With that TV show under her belt now, she must be the queen of sex blogger.

Another blogger mentioned by the Sex in The Noughties: The Sex Blog Girls show was Bitchy Jones, who maintains a blog called Bitchy Jones’s Diary. She is, as she said in her blog, is a sexually dominant, and want to be a boss in bed. She, however, doesn’t do dominatrix for money. She talked about the interview and her choice to be anonymous in one of her posts:

I’m anonymous because it’s easier for me to be real that way. It easier to tell the truth in the dark. But I’d hate to think I was fooling anyone or making them think I was ashamed of what I am. And some days I think it’s political. That anonymous female sex blogging challenges ideas about women and sex and media on a quite basic level. That a woman – normally – is not allowed to have opinions about sex without revealing her body. Without making her body commercially available. (Like Abby Lee - quite clearly - was forced by the media to be a body.) It’s challenging all on it’s own to be a bodiless sexual mind rather than a mindless sexual body.

Just like what I posted here and here, I said that I don’t really care whether the blogger is anonymous or not. Being a responsible one is more important. I don’t respect vicious attacks without justification that seem aimed at shredding a person’s reputation. It doesn’t matter whether we write about IT, or making money online, or write about daft, boring daily activities, or about cooking, or kids, or fashion. Or politics. Or sex…

PS: do you notice that the image in ITV2’s Secret Diary of A Call Girl website is similar to my blog header?

Warning: the post contains large amount of vanity which could lead to migraine, nausea, or even diarrhea. You have been warned.

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Too much love will kill you, according to Queen. In my case, it didn’t kill me, but it’s enough to hurt me. Literally, mentally, and physically.

Yesterday I had an appointment with other ladies. I was in between-hair wash day, and sporting a new, much shorter hairdo, which sadly will look like a lump if it is not styled, I had no other choice but to pull it into a ponytail, but I thought it would be brilliant to tease the roots to have some volume at the crown, similar like picture on the left.

I was proud of the result of my own creation, but I didn’t have much time to admire my own reflection in the mirror because I was running late. Since the weather has become unpredictable again, I couldn’t wear my sandals so I grabbed the closest pair of shoes, which look similar to the picture on the right - except mine are plain black - and headed into the town. Pay attention to the shoes because they were going to play a big part soon in this story.

On my way there, I kept checking on myself in the row of parked car windows. Yes, here comes the vanity part. I was shamelessly admiring my work of art on my own head.

The shoes, I must say, felt quite high. But I was super confident because 1) I am very used to high heels, I could walk on 14 cm high stilettos better than on ballerina flat shoes, 2) I have worn the shoes in London, where I had to walk a lot, chasing buses and tubes, which for me a testament that the shoes are good for walking, and 3) they are wedges, which, theoretically, give more support than spikey heels.

Feeling like I was in my element, I crossed the road hurriedly and turned to Union Street, which bans off-street parking. Since I couldn’t check myself on the car windows, I glanced on each shop, pretending I was looking into their displays, but actually I was looking at my reflection in the window. I just passed Starbucks, and suddenly, in split second, I tripped over!

I successfully was on my hands and knees, and OH! they hurt like hell because they just met the cold pavement. Just like any other part of the town, the sidewalk in Union Street area is not completely flat, and I didn’t realise the particular block I stepped on was not the same height as the other ones. And because I didn’t pay attention to what’s in front of me and was too busy looking at my reflection in the mirror, I twisted my ankle, lost my balance altogether, and found myself plunging forward and kissed the ground.

There were lots of people around me when it happened. All of them were staring at me, wondering if I was drunk and how the hell I could fell down on a rather flat pavement! I couldn’t savour the pain because the embarrassment took over quickly and I had to get away from the spot, pronto! So red-faced, I got up quickly with rather wobbly knees and walked away.

I, of course, blame it on the shoes.

This isn’t the first I fell down in public. In Fall From Grace I fell down a fire staircase and my bottom landed on a concrete steps on the process. Not only that I did it in front of my team - whom I was supposed to lead and had to be a role model for - but the reason why I miscalculated my steps was because the cute French guy who was climbing the staircase gave me a smile when we brushed shoulders in a narrow flight seconds before that!! I was grateful though, that I didn’t flash my G-string and kept my skirt intact and I didn’t break my poor black stilettos.

Moral of the story: if you were that vain like me, make sure you wear proper shoes!

Related article: Fall From Grace (1)

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This particular woman drove me mad almost two years ago. Her twisted mind and even more twisted words were really upsetting, and I had to remind myself that she is married to someone I care about, to calm myself down.

That argument is never settled. I kept insisting that she was involved in a matter that was totally unrelated to her and she didn’t show a respect to me and my family. I told her to mind her own business and stop messing with people’s life, especially those whom she doesn’t know. She doesn’t even have my mobile number for God’s sake, she hadn’t seen me for years before this issue came up, so how could she think she could preach me about things she didn’t even understand? But when her replies came, they became more bizarre every time. She is not a type of person who has structured braincells and since I was too busy even to get some descent sleep, after replying 3 or 5 crazy text messages I decided to quit arguing. It was useless. I didn’t have time and energy, and I didn’t want to jump into her labyrinth of mind, where I couldn’t decipher where the reality ended and where the fantasy began.

But as far as I concern, my case with her was with her and to her only. What I didn’t expect was that the other two couldn’t see it as clearly as I did.

We were close back then, especially the first months when I was just back from Sydney and started working in Jakarta. The first one taught me how to ride a city bus and ojek, and I brought her a bottle of her favorite perfume when I landed. I sometimes took them for a meal (always settled the bills, something they never returned and thought it was normal and my ‘duty’). The second one begged me to help her when she was about to finish her study and needed a place for internship. I asked my boss and because it was me asking, he said yes, and she became an intern for several months. She got her first job through my colleague, and for a while I was proud of her.

But we have grown apart, which I think is normal. I am older then them, we lived miles apart, we circulated in totally different crowds and totally different social circles, so we hardly bumped into another. Everybody has their own life, so when we lost touch, I didn’t particularly pay attention to it. I have tried, but it was difficult since it was always a one-sided attempt. Since my last job sent me all over Asia, I didn’t have much spare time; and because they didn’t try to keep in touch either, they’re easy to be slipped out of my mind. Last contact was made when I was already in Scotland, when the first buzzed me through Yahoo! messenger and told me she was expecting a baby. I congratulated her, felt really happy for her because she told me beforehand that she really wanted to have one. Then a strange thing happened a while later. She wrote about her pregnancy experience in our communal blog, and I commented there, where I also told her that I just experienced a miscarriage, so I hoped she took a good care of herself and the baby. She never replied my comment, and although I wondered why (and kinda hoped she showed some attention), I decided that it wasn’t a big deal. Her posting strangely was her first and last.

There were other several small things which annoyed me, even before the argument arose (like when one of them left a comment on my Friendster blog and preached about how to be better - which was odd considering (without bragging) that I am much more than her in every aspect, and her comment was so annoying I decided to delete it), but I have managed to ignored them so far. Now I start wondering whether they decide not to like me anymore because I had an outdated argument with their family member, or because the whole family issue between her and the rest of everybody. It annoys me more because whatever issue I had with her, was between us. The other two were not involved. I never expected smart ladies like them let themselves dragged into this stupid issue. I never expected brilliant women like them cannot separate themselves apart and logically tell her that this is not their business. My patience is thinning fast.

The last issue really pissed me off, because I did it with a good intention, that no matter what they’re still my family, that I show my respect to them. I tried to show that my issue with her doesn’t bother my relationship with the rest of them. Alas, I found out that one of them made a fuss over nothing, that she didn’t look at beyond my good intention, that she didn’t realize how busy I am (she didn’t even care to say hi, let alone offers a help. Come to think about it, I don’t think she knows whether I’m in Scotland or Indonesia, that’s how attentive she is), that she only looked at herself. So I decided that this is the time to end it.

I wish I could be wiser and more patience. But life is complicated and I have other more important things and people to think about.

The book is closed. Enough.

Note:
The original article was posted on Thursday, 20 March 2008. In regards to those who has requested me to remove the family reference, this article is rephrased, although I try not to go too far from where I stand and believe.

After the article is published as of today, I will remove all comments generated from the previous post respectively by tomorrow, because I don’t think they reflect my new one. All of you, however, are free to post new comments as usual. I never apply comment’s screening process, but I don’t tolerate abusive and dirty words.

I know since the original article was posted last Thursday, there are at least 4 reactions posted in other blogger’s pages. I do not wish them to do what I do here, nor would I start name callings in other bloggers’ pages, as some of them do. I will never jump into some bloggers’ pages (who talk about totally different things) and make degrading comments about other bloggers, just because we have had disagreement about something, somewhere else. It’s childish. But I believe all people are good at judging others’ characters, and they eventually will form their own opinion about each blogger.

By repost this article, it does not mean that I am easy to be bullied. It’s them who dragged their families as reference first, so when the information was out open loudly to public I thought it should be okay for me to use it as a point of reference. Obviously not. But I really do respect their wish, as I would have done the same thing too (and hope people will take my complaint seriously too, if it happens).

As I have mentioned to those who sent me private responds by emails, I never intend this post to be nasty, offensive, or abusive. I regret that the post generated nasty and harsh comments as well, and in return, has made most of people to choose to stay away from it. It should have been an interesting discussion.
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I read Unspun’s clipped article, originally from BaliBlog, regarding what (tourist? foreigners? cheap?) men perceive about Javanese girls. At first I didn’t jump into the discussion, since what Baliblog described about Javanese women was beyond degrading and not worthy to entitle my opinions.

But then the discussion was turned into how women (in general, not only Javanese) are treated by men in Indonesia. Two of the participants, Oigal and Rob, pointed out that Indonesian women are subject of snide remarks by local men because they are simply seen with Caucasians.

clipped from theunspunblog.com

12 Oigal

So what are the Indonesian men getting so upset about ? It’s exactly the way a significant portion of men (Majority?) treat women in Indonesia.

The snide comments, winks and whispers.

I was out yesterday with my wife (Indonesian) and we had the misfortune to be at place where a herd of government types turned up in their shiny new cars and arrogant tax payer funded glory. Sure enough, it was only a matter of time before one of the little pr*cks made a snide remark about my wife (and mother of three children) in bahasa to the laugher of his mates.

He made two mistakes, one …I speak bahasa, two.. my wife nor I am are short of words or courage when it cames to dealing with anjing. Was an ugly scene tho and he did decline my forceful offer to deal with it like men..cowards all..
Better still was the look on his wife’s face, as the character flaws of her husband was expalined to her by my better half.

clipped from theunspunblog.com

13 Rob

Oigal…

Straight shooter as always! That is why I read your blog!
I did not know you were married to a local. I guess I have learned something new about you today and you are not as anonymous as you were yesterday!

I agree there is a double standard here and the way that some Indonesian men treat their women it is hardly any wonder there are increasing numbers of Indonesian women seeking out other nationalities to become their other half.

Rather than confront the real issues, the general misogyny of some Indonesian men towards their women, it is all that much easier for Indonesian men to label Indonesian women with foreigners as prostitutes (the term of preference that I have foundmost use is “whore”).

I finally jumped into the discussion, stating that I have never experienced such thing in Jakarta, Bali, or in my hometown. Regardless of what I wear or don’t wear. I have never been labeled as a whore just because there is another human being walking next to me who looks slightly different from, but usually much taller than, me. And I couldn’t recall if my friends ever receive it either.

But I know that at some points, most of, if not all, (Indonesian) women have experienced (a) harassment(s) by local men. I myself was being physically harassed at least twice when I was younger, and it shattered my confident for a long time. And when I was working in a construction industry, I had to face the construction labours (a.k.a tukang) on a daily basis, and although most of them were very polite and nice, there were several occasions (usually when the project just started and they did not know who I was) where few of them whistled or made snide remarks when I entered the site. Usually I asked who did it - and never got the answer but a coward silence - and warned everyone in the room that they will be kicked out if they did it again. Other occasion was more serious (especially when they guy was holding an electric drill and twice bigger than me, and clearly held a misogynist belief), but so far I still could handle it without having to stomp my feet or say something rude back.

Although I never experience to receive a xenophobic treatment because I am seen walking with non-Indonesians, it does happen in Indonesia - and I am sure it does happen in everywhere else in the world too.

But then I see that the discussion is leaning towards local-men-are-jerk stereotype accusations. Oigal went further by embracing the holier than thou mode, posted an article that Kartini must be turning upside down in her grave. Although he didn’t mention that his fingers are pointed to local men in his post, his comments in Unpun’s clearly showed it.

Trouble is the base issue has little to do with “Bules”* but more to do with the insecure, offensive behaviour of a significant number of men to women in Indonesia.
Sexism reigns supreme from blatantly sex job advertisements which dictate age, weight and compulsory picture to behaviour that would earn a slap in the face (or legal action) in most other countries.

Clearly Oigal has never tried to apply to work in Singapore Airlines. Or being rejected to work as a casual staff in a clothing store in Sydney, where the store manager bluntly said they were “looking for an Australian staff, so piss off“. Discrimination happens everywhere, but only Indonesians are stupid enough to have everything printed so obvious, while other countries have their government guiding the equal opportunity (or so they say) for everyone.

I honestly am disappointed. I read Oigal’s blog regularly and I think he’s a refreshingly odd, bitter and funny at the same time. But now he seems just… angry about everything, and his holier than thou mode indicates there is a hidden superiority feeling towards everything and everyone, hence he surely was more right than anyone else. This reminds me of an Australian guy who was asking for a flat-white in a nice restaurant, and just because the staff did not understand, as the term flat-white is not common, he got instantly angry. I got annoyed, because I knew that he couldn’t behave such way in his home country. If you are being rude to the staff, you could end up at the other side of the restaurant.

But one thing that is not openly discussed at Unspun’s was that when the participants were ranting about how Indonesian women receive bad treatments from their local men, they do not mention that some expat/foreigners/bule/Caucacian treat Indonesian women without respect too!

At Unspun’s I gave several examples. One is an old Caucasian guy, who pinched my bum when I was trying to go to toilet in a very crowded bar. I screamed and threatened to kill him and the look on his face showed that he was very shock, probably because he could get away with it most of the time. Not this time. He apologized many times and was even more embarrassed to find out that I’m his co-worker’s friend. Later I found out his name is John (I don’t know his last name, but if I did, I’d gladly print it here in bold letters). So he’s embarrassed because 1) I protested and 2) I know his co-workers. Which means he would have done it thousand times with barmaids who couldn’t protest.

The other one was when I was in a bar/restaurant with Melly having dinner. The guy that I know vaguely was there with his friend and we were the only customers on a quiet night. By 8.00 PM they got really drunk and were getting louder, singing on top of their lungs, and kept asking the barmaids to turn the volume up, to the point we couldn’t handle the conversation normally. Politely I asked the barmaid to turn the volume down, and she did it. Poor lady, this old Briton went ballistic and screamed and swore with his dirty mouth, saying that he contributed so-so millions every month to this bar so he was entitled to do what he wanted. Melly and I left because we didn’t want to make any scene and we didn’t want to make the staff more scared to handle those guys. The friend, months later, came to Stuart’s leaving party and exposed himself to other ladies when he was drunk and must be dragged home.

And then there is another Kiwi guy who we label as Mr.Octopus because his habit of groping anybody who comes with a skirt. He ends up marrying a girl who is as young as his grand daughter.

With so many bad experiences, should I hate all Caucasian/westerners/bule/expat? No. Do I think all of them are sleazy bastard? No. Because I know that not ALL are like that.

I like reading Rob’s blog too, but I also cannot fathom that he thinks Indonesian women choose to be with Caucasian/Westerners because we receive bad treatments from Indonesian men. And here I am, thinking that it’s about inexplicable attraction. Surely you can’t control whom you are going to fall in love with? Maybe yesterday with an Indonesian, today with an Australian, tomorrow with an Arabian, and next year with an African!

I had been with Indonesian men, and just because I had bad experiences with them did not make me swear off Indonesian men forever. It did make me swear off men altogether, actually, for a while. The fact that I am married to a Caucasian doesn’t mean that I did not have bad experience with Caucasian either.

Stereotypical accusation is dangerous. And I honestly think that those expats with local wives can be more sensible and decently admit that Caucasians are as bad when it comes to degrading remarks towards women. It’s what jerks do. And as I mentioned before, a jerk is a jerk. Whether he’s white, brown, or yellow. Whether he’s a satpam (security guard) or a CEO. Whether he’s Indonesian or Caucasian.

Now I want to know your opinions as the other Indonesian female bloggers:

1. Do you receive different treatments from Indonesian vs. Caucasian men?
2. Have you been verbally abused by Indonesian men?
3. Have you been verbally abused by Caucasian men?
4. If you have a Caucasian partner, did you specifically target the race as your potential other-half? Why?

Would love to hear more stories re. these hot issues!

Further reading:
Caucasian vs. Indonesian Men (2)
Bule (Caucasian) Guy Dating Indonesian Girl

My previous post sparked lots of heavy comments. First came Oigal, who said I was nasty and too personal. He asked me to remove my reference regarding his family from my blog.

I did reply to his comment, saying that I was in rush to go to funeral (and it was Good Friday for goodness sake), I will come back with a proper response after I have time reading all the comments from him and Rob at Unspun, and after reading Rob and his posts altogether. They are lots of them, and I should take time to read them all, otherwise I would be accused to having quoted them wrongly, again.

After lots of engagements since yesterday, I came back home and found out Unspun has clipped my last posting, and yes, Oigal and Rob have posted new articles respectively. Without giving me a chance to rephrase my previous sentences which they found offensive and are too close to home.

Shame. I do not mind at all to remove the personal reference as they wish. And no, I don’t mean to have my posting labeled as nasty, abusive or offensive. I simply want everyone to understand that it works both sides, (and finally everyone seems to agree) that a jerk is a jerk regardless race, skin colour, or profession.
But if I need to rephrase my so-called offensive and nasty sentences, they’ve got to be done under my term, and my time. It’s my blog anyway.

So give me some time, will you. Take a deep breath and stop being too emotional.

Will be back soon. And by soon I mean not in 3 minutes as Oigal expected. Some people do have life outside blogging, after all.

Over and out.

Further reading:
Caucasian vs. Indonesian Men (modified)
Bule (Caucasian) Guy Dating Indonesian Girl

I have landed on a blog written by an Malaysian expat who now lives in Jakarta. Some of her articles tickled me and I just realized that is how people see us, Indonesians. One that makes me smile is to read her amazement to see the ladies who go to shopping malls with big hair and dangerously high heels, and they look like they are ready to go to a gala dinner rather than buying detergent or having coffee with friends.

I couldn’t agree more. God forbid if Indonesian matrons turn up with unwashed hair, or a pair of flip-flops - unless they are a bejeweled pair - or without make-up, even on weekends or at the shop’s closing time. It’s better if they are accessorized with designer handbags and shoes, at least one nanny for each kid (one to push the trolley, one to to carry all the shopping bags, and one to hold the kid), and sometimes dutiful husbands who sit down patiently, while the matrons are trying on the just-in-for-summer shoes at Jimmy Choo.

Don’t think that having big hair and looking glamorous doesn’t take big a effort. It does indeed. To apply make-up oh-so-beautifully, these women will take beauty classes, provided by make-up brands in 5 star hotels (I attended one, and the biggest spender actually won a designer handbag worth USD 1,500!). To obtain the big hairdo with slight curl from shoulders down, they have to secure a place with a hairstylist which takes at least one hour of washing, blow-drying, curling, leaving-the-hair-for-1o minutes while getting the feet massaged as well as manicure and pedicure, then styling (I know some people actually never wash their hair at home, every two days they go to their hairdressers to get their hair done). Walking in at least 7-cm heels also takes years of practice, despite kicking them under the desk and substitute them with an ugly pair of slippers for 8 working hours. Spending hours flicking magazines is actually a deep research to make sure they wear the most popular, up-to-date clothes, although it won’t help reducing the amount of time spent to actually finding those clothes. It’s all big effort, even if that means they will end up looking all the same, and there is no difference between night and day look.

Back to the glamorous look at the shopping mall phenomenon. The Malaysian lady doesn’t understand that to Indonesians, going to shopping malls is not about shopping. Shopping malls are places to see and to be seen, places for recreation (this explains why they usually have lobbies with gigantic water features or clock, and people just sit around and watch the time goes by), places for meetings, eatings, watching movie, reading books, getting pampered, getting slimmed down, and even serve as places to be healthy as fitness centers and dentists move there too. Some even stretch beyond 10 PM and provide clubs and bars. In summary, for Indonesians, shopping malls are the center of the universe. Even we could get our computer fixed or car washed there too. With acute traffic jams around Jakarta, shopping malls must provide all services they could think of to make the customers happy.

With all the services they provide, we could spend hours at the shopping malls without the need to get out, because everything we need is there. So, there is a