Georgetterox

I still couldn’t believe why I prefered this place today.

Recently I always spent money for hedonism that only directly drove me drunk of fully-filled and coming home with the getting-thinner-wallet.

So finally this weekend I decide to do something more useful, such as leaving to the symposium, as I used to do at the times when I’d just been graduated and still been an intellectual unemployee.

LOL.. it’s always been a joke of unemployment, those who don’t have a permanent job must’ve been applying for master school, or wandering around workshops.

Because they wish for the certificates that they’ll award, will be able for they wave inside the CV’s, so the bosses of the H&R department will give them jobs at their companies.

Me, have other motivations of attending symposiums, beside the material intention of getting the certificate, I also wanna do culinary tour, by tasting the meal that made by the chefs of the hotel.

Oh, and also the other insult intentions, coz I wish I could meet my old fellas at the venue, and watched out for the ex-boyfriends whom I heard being the event organizer.

Wait a minute, is it about upgrading the knowledge or about reunion?

Forget about my shrimp-behind-the-rock intention about my attending in the symposium.

Well, as I stepped in the venue, I’m astonished to see the crowd.

It’s hard for me to find a comfy seat, coz the crowd drives me hardly walking on the aisle.

As the participants get the name tag, I realize immediately that the EO didn’t write the participants’ in the name tag, though I’ve registered long ago so they could write my beautiful name at my name tag.

And what drives me down, that they don’t just unwrote my name at the name tag, but they also didn’t write my name in the certificate. They gave me a blank certificate.

And they had me filled my own name in the blanks!

I looked around. OK, I found a few of my fellas at the audiences seats.

A man sat down by me, that finally I found out that was a fresh-graduated obstetrician, nagging about the audience’s overcrowded.

It was worse than snakes queueing for rice at the Eid Mubarak.

Why didn’t the event organizer anticipate of the overcrowds?

They’ve noticed that the ballroom only had 200 of capacity, so why did they sell the ticket to 350 seats?

I just could guess that the EO must be needing a lot of money and that made themselves selling extra seats.

But what annoyed my snobbish eyes, that mostly the participants were still diploma.

I couldn’t resist myself of seeing their childish attitudes, pursuing free-lunch, free-pen, arguing about having the most forward seats, but along the symposium they just..fell asleep!

Or even worse, gossiping with their colleagues.

I was disappoint that the EO made this forum for diplomas and bachelors at once.

I get it now why the bachelors are arrogant, including me, who mind about sitting next to the skanky diplomas. It feels like, getting inside the nest of crickets.

The symposium is so terrible.

I could just say one word: unclassified.

It’s truly that I’ve made a big mistake.

I should’ve just stayed inside my hedonism world.

My blog a few months ago, Ain’t Legallizing Sex, interested a dad who sent me an e-mail then. That was because I wrote that I preferred buying my own gudeg than got paid lunch by a man who wasn’t good in bed.

As the dad asked me how I found out that someone was good in bed, I just answered that I’d like to know if he snored or not.

A snoring guy doesn’t just interrupt his own airway, but he also bothered us as his sleepover partner coz he made us insomnia.

It correlates, a snoring guy shouldn’t be good in bed, he’s even worse. Well, my hunks snore a lot, and I watched them myself while they were sleeping.

For my own welfare, I was gonna ask them to see a therapist, but we were separated earlier. None, my separations weren’t coz they snore, by the way.

Wait a minute, why the hell am I preaching about snoring guy?

I should stop talking more than the main topic.

OK, so a few days ago, a major came to my policlinic complained that some fluid has leaked from a hole near his passing way. Eww.

I opened up his legs widely and I found an abscess between his butts.

I was gonna picture it, so you can see what it’s like.

But then I remembered that some of my readers hate seeing butts with pus.

Especially those who become the groupies of anti-pornography act.

Oh yes, and those whose vomit center are hypersensitive.

This Major’s medical records is really thick, I’m upset to see it coz it’s tousled.

The Major has consulted here for ten years, and he’s subscribed perianal fistula, drove him to three times of surgery.

I wonder how a man couldn’t be bored to have perianal abscess for many times.

This Major came over with his adjutant. I asked him where his wife was.

He said that she was at home (geez, Sir, which lady hangs out at the pub at eleven a.m?).

But if I was her, I might be lazy of accompanying my husband to consult for an abscess near his passing way, again. It must be embarrassing.

But I wasn’t shocked that the Major has an abscess, even a fistula.

Perianal abscess is popular among those people who don’t take shower hygienicly, especially the Major looks after a lot of fungi on his butts.

“Is it itchy, Sir?” I asked. The butts, I meant.

“No, it isn’t, Doc,” said the Major sharply.

Good, the Major  made friends well with the fungi.

So what connects this abscess story with the prologue above?

I’d like to say that judging people in the bed is the most objective method at judging people, beside in the lunch time. Does he snore? Does he walk in sleep?

Does he snatch our blanket for himself?

Is his body clean of panu (panu is a disease that found a lot in tropical regions, usually named Pityriasis versicolor), even fistula at the butts?

See, we can find out then whether we’re safe from insomnia, whether we’re free from worry that our husband will walk across the street by closing his eyes, whether we’re free from common cold, and whether we’re free from shame of being communicated of panu.

Then we just need to decide if we need to spend the rest of our life with him or not.

Get them whose good in bed. “Don’t ever buy cats in sack bag.”

They told me, jogging is the most healthiest and the cheapest sport.

So once upon a time my brother-in-law asked me out to his parents’ mansion, on foot.

That’s the date that I directly refused at all.

The problem was, his parents’ place was two kilometers away.

What the hell that along the way were a lot of trees and I had a beautiful umbrella, but absolutely I didn’t wanna walk on foot at 11 a.m!

I told my brother-in-law that he was so snob enough to ask me walking on foot with him.

He did it coz his skin was fair, so he wasn’t afraid to be dark.

He didn’t get it that I’d been trying hard to whiten my skin, and now he just asked me to walk him home, what an insensitive man.

Then he told me, that beautiful is white is a wrong myth.

They must withdrawn those whitener products  so all the girls don’t get stupid just because they wanna be fair. He said that the good skin is the healthy skin, not the fair skin.

“I said, the good skin is the skin which is healthy and fair!”

I know, my brother-in-law just recampaigned what they wrote in the newspapers.

They said, whitener products at the market nowadays are too much and almost all of the girls who visit the dermatology clinic complaint that their skin aren’t fair enough.

It makes them don’t feel pretty enough and get frustrated.

But I think, the journalists who write it must be insensitive men.

That kinda people don’t fit enough to be journalist, but they fit more being lawyers.

This is the causa. Imagine if your skin is dark.

You can’t walk by the street at night coz you can be crashed by a vehicle that doesn’t see you walking coz your skin is as dark as the sky.

It’s hard for you to get a job coz the candidate of the boss who reads your CV for the first time can’t recognize in your photo, which one is the face, which one is the hair, coz the color is same (except if you pose by laughing, coz your teeth must be viewed).

At your wedding, the light-guy install the blitz bedazzling and your face is gleaming when they take your photo. We’ve learnt at the fifth grade, that dark color reflects the light.

See, now you understand how this dark skin ruins our life.

So, please stop believing that white skin myth is wrong.

Fair skin really brings the blessing through our lives,  so don’t boycott the whitener products.

And who says that jogging is the healthiest and cheapest sport?

If jogging darkens your skin, make a car crashes you at night, troubles you for getting job, and ruins your wedding photo, it’ll make reparation fee for our lives become expensive and invite the stress, won’t it?

If I analyze it more, then I realize that it’s all because of roti cane.

Roti cane is a kinda bread made from mix-dough of flour and egg.

I usually buy the bread at supermarket and fry it myself at home, then I dish it hot on the table.

I cook it once a week, can’t be more often coz I use a lotta butter, that potentially give all of the eaters high risk for hypercholesterolemia and depend on statin for the rest of their lives.

My family loves having roti cane by hanging on at the front of tv, and all of us are addicted.

My cousin, Rythe, as usual not her real name, 26, lives in Bogor, can’t buy roti cane as cheap as I do.

So once upon an afternoon, me and her stop at a shop near my house for buying roti cane.

I mean, so Rythe can fry it herselves at her home, so right after this she’ll direct go home to Bogor with her car.

Outta the shop, me and Rythe run on the way to the train station.

It’s a wrong diction, coz at the truth, we can’t run on the way, we just can crawl.

The way to the station is jammed, we can’t move.

Me, who knows Bandung very well, lead Rythe’s husband drive their car by some big lanes, and pray for the damn public cars which love jamming awkwardly don’t block my way.

Meanwhile Rythe is called all the minutes, so the four of us (my sista’s also in the car) still haven’t shown up at the station.

Rythe’s Mom is leaving by train to Surabaya tonight, at half seven. Rythe hasn’t said goodbye to her Mom.

She thought that she could say goodbye at the station, and she could stop at my shop before for getting roti cane, and she’ll leave the station for Bogor immediately. What a good plan, I used to think so, too.

But I never thought that Bandung is really this crowded, and the distance from my house to the station can’t be reached in just an hour. This is Sunday, everybody leaves their home for having fun.

This is July, the summer holiday has just begun and the cars from outside the city accumulate at Bandung for joining the fun. That’s not a good combination. No wonder the traffic is jammed this much!

We arrive at the parking of the station, and I ask Rythe download her bag for money to get into the platform (I don’t wanna wait for the change, not in the situation of CITO for the train). Rythe’s husband and my sista look around for parking.

Right after he parks the car, I jump out the car and run to the counter.

From the loudspeaker I hear that the train to Surabaya is leaving in five minutes.

Panic, I pilfer the queue and ask the attendant for four tickets of platform.

Rythe, her husband, and my sista, catch me and we go through the platform.

Four of us run across the lines for Rythe’s mom’s train.

In the middle of the running I keep shouting, “RANGGA!”

Not chasing Rangga at Ada Apa dengan Cinta. I mean Rythe’s mom’s train that about to leave names Turangga.

The bell is ringing. The train is moving.

I find Rythe’s mom’s wagon (thank God I bought the ticket, so I remember the numbers of the wagon and Rythe’s mom’s seat), and we can pilfer the security and find Rythe’s mom. We kiss her hand and we say goodbye.

Rythe even can drop a sack of roti cane on her seat.

I’m the one who firstly get down from the train, followed by the others, then we wave to the window.

It’s hard to me for breathe coz I’ve been running along the station.

A lady next to me, who seems having her daughter for leaving, asks, “Is that your mother who’s leaving, Ma’am?”

I look aside and get shocked. “Uh? What?” Then I realize that she spoke to me. I say, “Oh, non, Ma’am. That’s my aunt.”

And at the moment I realize, the four of us have just spent an hour really hard on the street for pursuing a train.

We could’ve been lost in the labyrinth lanes, my cousin-in-law could’ve had an accident coz he drove the car really wild, and me and Rythe could’ve been slipped coz we ran on the station floor that suffused by the leaky oils.

It’s all just because we wanna say goodbye to our parent.

How much it matters for saying goodbye to the parents!

When will the parents pray you much if it’s not when we kissed their hands?

And very stupid that we’ve wasted our quality time and we almost arrive late at the station.

I swear, it’s all really coz we just defend the roti cane!

He told me, at that place, I could find the Pretty Woman.

I did find everything that I could find right there: Erin Bronkovich, the Queen, even Little Mermaid, but I couldn’t find the Pretty Woman.

I was down and I asked the pimp, “Hey, could da hell you find me a Pretty Woman, please?”

The pimp asked me back, “What else what d’ya want, T’?” I said that I didn’t want anything else.

The pimp got out of my face, then a few times later he returned. “No Pretty Woman right here, T’. But I could get you Ocean’s Thirteen or Pursuit of A Happiness.”

I was upset and got away. I wanted Julia Roberts, but he gave me George Clooney!

My brother wondered why I really love Pretty Woman, though Julia played terribly there, even at Erin Bronkovich she was still much better.

It must’ve been coz the gurlz love the last scene of Pretty Woman, where Richard Gere picked up Julia on his white Limo and climbed the emergency stairs. Wrong reason, I said.

I love the scene of last Friday, when Julia spent the whole day with Gere, ride around the city alone, walked around the fountain at the park, read a book by lying down at the midday, had some coffee in the café, and ride home where Julia slept over Gere’s shoulder at night at the back-seat of the car.

My traditional mind says that all romantic pictures must be like that, and I want it that way.

Which is impossible to come true, coz at my town, there’s no fountain on the park that pretty enough to view and hang out at (coz there’s a lotta garbage in the pool), it’s impossible to lay down at the park at the midday (this is a tropical country, for God’s sake, my skin can’t be darker than this!), coffee drives me dizzy, and my baby doesn’t wanna sit on the back-seat coz he trusts nobody to drive his own car.

Wait a minute, I don’t write this blog to talk about why I love Pretty Woman.

I’m upset coz it’s hard for me to find Pretty Woman at the pirated-DVD-market.

The DVD’-s are displayed very tightly laterally, so it’s hard for me to read the titles.

There are a lotta new titles, but I prefer the old ones. Once I find an old one, I find Grease. Please!

“These plagiators must rehearse their marketings.

Or the fanz not gonna come here except the heads are dizzy and the shoppaholic minds are being wild.”

I wanna complaint to the DVD piraters!

·   Why must they display the DVD’-s tightly? It’s hard for me to find the title I’m looking for.

I wish that they put the catalogue at the main entry, so I don’t need to search it in each racks.

·   Why do they just sell the new titles?

Moviemaniacs love to collect old pictures such as Gone with the Wind, Speed, and Sailormoon. They’re legendaries!

·   Why do they display the XXX covers next to the aerobic video?

Now each time I do exercise by watching Jane Fonda, my nephew assumes that I’m learning of Kama Sutra.

·   Why don’t they sell any Indonesian title?

We’re brave enough of pirating Ocean’s 13,  but we’re afraid of pirating Tiga Hari untuk Selamanya.

Is it coz Nicholas Saputra is cuter than Brad Pitt, then we don’t wanna ruin Nick’s face with such as a cheap saturation?

·   Why don’t they often put Italian subtitles?

The effective way for me for learning foreign languages is only by watching DVD’-s.

At least: Ti Amo, Hakuna Matata, Dos Vidagna, Yippie Ky-Yay Mother F*cker…