The sad thing about living alone, working too much, getting paid too little and lacking a social life as a result (if it's not sad enough) is that you often end up eating out alone because you have noone to unwind with after a long stressful day.
For a local in a highly UN-individualistic country like Indonesia, eating out alone is taboo. You grew up there, you were taught to take care of your family and friends, you have no language or cultural barrier, so you should have friends and there's no reason for you to eat alone. And like any other taboos, eating alone is damaging in many ways.
What if you run into a bunch of college friends who are having a reunion? "Awww, I'm sorry," they'd say. "If we knew that you were around, we would've invited you." You make other people feel sorry for eating together while you eat alone, and guilty for not having guessed that you'd be in that area that evening.
Even if you don't run into anyone you know, you're still liable to become an object of pity. The long-term stable couple in the next table who have nothing to talk about to even get thru the appetizer might try to come up with a chronological account and possibly a psychoanalysis on why you are at the restaurant, alone. "I think she just came back from her boyfriend's funeral and wanted to be alone," one of them would speculate. "Nah, she must have been a victim of child-abuse who can't make friends with anyone," the other would guess. Both concluded that they should be thankful that their lives are not as miserable as yours.
Even if there's no one else at the restaurant, eating alone could be damaging. You lose your power to complain at bad food and service. They'd assume that solo eaters are single and it's just too easy to dismiss your complaint as the typical behavior of a bitter over-aged single woman who presumably have character flaws. "Don't take it personally," a waitress would tell the one you scolded. "She's just, you know, an old spinster. It's not you, it's her."
Of course they wouldn't bother to think that this may be just a one-off thing and that you do have a life sometimes. Why would they anyway? As the person breaking the norm, its your responsibility to minimize the negative perception.
As a veteran loner, here's what I'd suggest:
- pretend to be a foreigner (remember, the stigma only applies to locals): bring a Jakarta map, speak broken Bahasa and hide your Blackberry
- act like a cool intellectual person with the fuck-the-world attitude: wear shorts, torn t-shirt and the $1 swallow-brand flipflop; conspicuously read good books with eccentric-sounding titles like "The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test" and avoid Eat, Pray and Love at all costs.
Well yea, it's kind of sad, but by doing that, at least you get to eat good food whenever you want it.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Kvetch #8: A Taxi Passenger's Predicament
I still don't understand why the taxi driver who drove me home tonight had to tell me all the tragedy in his life only because I started a small talk about how the taxi ordering system works. This is really unfair. I treated him with respect, but in return, he put me into a big dilemma.
On one hand, he had violated my rights not to hear the details of a stranger's financial condition and his wife's medical history. On the other hand, he had - intentionally or not - put me in a situation where I would feel like a heartless bitch if I exercised my rights and did not respond to him.
And seriously, he said he couldn't share his problems with anyone because they wouldn't understand. What made him think that a stranger who simply needed a taxi ride home would? Plus, how can I know that he did not tell the same story to all of his passengers just to get some pity money?
Anyway, I finally decided to ignore him and told him in the end that I hoped things would get better. But to alleviate my guilt, I told the story to some friends to see if they'd do the same had they been in my taxi. Luckily a lot of my friends have the same level of moral standard as me. In dilemmatic situations like this, they always feed my id and praise me for being "logical" or "practical". These are the same people who fully support my idea to volunteer for the Mentawai tsunami victims so that I can work on my tan while padding my resume and looking adventurous on Facebook.
Oh well, objectively speaking, I really did not have the obligation to sympathize with him. It is everyone's responsibility to build their own network of emotional support or a medium to channel their frustation (like I'm doing with this "kvetch").
Of course saying this doesn't make me look like a great person, but at least, I have made a good enough case not to be called a heartless bitch for what I did (or didn't do).
On one hand, he had violated my rights not to hear the details of a stranger's financial condition and his wife's medical history. On the other hand, he had - intentionally or not - put me in a situation where I would feel like a heartless bitch if I exercised my rights and did not respond to him.
And seriously, he said he couldn't share his problems with anyone because they wouldn't understand. What made him think that a stranger who simply needed a taxi ride home would? Plus, how can I know that he did not tell the same story to all of his passengers just to get some pity money?
Anyway, I finally decided to ignore him and told him in the end that I hoped things would get better. But to alleviate my guilt, I told the story to some friends to see if they'd do the same had they been in my taxi. Luckily a lot of my friends have the same level of moral standard as me. In dilemmatic situations like this, they always feed my id and praise me for being "logical" or "practical". These are the same people who fully support my idea to volunteer for the Mentawai tsunami victims so that I can work on my tan while padding my resume and looking adventurous on Facebook.
Oh well, objectively speaking, I really did not have the obligation to sympathize with him. It is everyone's responsibility to build their own network of emotional support or a medium to channel their frustation (like I'm doing with this "kvetch").
Of course saying this doesn't make me look like a great person, but at least, I have made a good enough case not to be called a heartless bitch for what I did (or didn't do).
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
On Being an Indonesian
As an Indonesian, I have never felt more insecure about my nationality than in my own country.
In my interaction with the international community here, I just have to put up with the way these people react when they find out that underneath my deceivingly Oriental look, I am in fact an Indonesian.
In other countries like the U.S., at least I may get a diversity credit for being an Indonesian. I may be the first Indonesian they’ve seen in their lives and it’s really cool because now they can pin down one more place on their map of “where my friends are from.” But here? God, I am just one of the two f'ing hundred f'ing fifty million locals who, thanks to the action of some people, are thought to be preying on them. Even the Asian fetishists are tired of meeting yet another local girl.
Those who had guessed from the beginning that I’m an Indonesian would just keep their distance from me, afraid that I might start pulling their pants and kissing their glorious expatriate ass for a chance to practice English or marry them and live in the EU. Those who thought that I was a Taiwanese, Japanese, etc, would tell me that I shouldn’t go to this place and that place because they attract the locals, but once they found out that I am myself a local, they would be ashamed as hell and never talked to me the same way anymore (if they ever talk to me again at all). Those who ask where I am from, would swallow their saliva upon hearing the answer and say, “ah interesting, I gotta talk to my friend over there.”
Ok, I have to admit that some foreigners are nice, especially the newcomers. They still think it’s cool to be friends with the local people, so they take pictures with me (or of me) and post them on their Facebook to show off to their friends back home.
But then again, the same people also take pictures of becak drivers, fishermen, street kids, and post them on their Facebook. What am I? A tourist attraction?
Anyway, all joking aside, there is always an exception to every rule. Even in the land of reverse-discrimination, I still meet some international folks who are intelligent and open-minded enough to accept that not all locals are the same, like the 20 people whom Yuki and I traveled with to Pulau Seribu this past weekend.
And all joking aside, I do miss New York, the place where you can tell people you’re Indonesian and most people won’t have any prejudice about you (because they don’t know where it is). It’s the place where I could befriend a random half-Jewish/Japanese girl on the subway and later got introduced to her Turkish and Japanese Peruvian roommate; it’s the place where a Greek girl who got annoyed by my housewarming party could become one of my closest friends and later introduced me and my Hong Kongese roommate to her American and Taiwanese roommates.
Finally, all racial jokes and kvetch aside, I do really miss New York. If I ever had the chance to come back there, I would hang on to it for life and never let it go. Those of you who are there, please do not take your New York life for granted. You may have to learn the hard way that the expensive real estate, the stinky bums on the subway and the annoying tourists are the comparatively small price that you have to pay for such an amazing life. Please wish the kvetch-er luck. Hope I will be back in New York this September!
In my interaction with the international community here, I just have to put up with the way these people react when they find out that underneath my deceivingly Oriental look, I am in fact an Indonesian.
In other countries like the U.S., at least I may get a diversity credit for being an Indonesian. I may be the first Indonesian they’ve seen in their lives and it’s really cool because now they can pin down one more place on their map of “where my friends are from.” But here? God, I am just one of the two f'ing hundred f'ing fifty million locals who, thanks to the action of some people, are thought to be preying on them. Even the Asian fetishists are tired of meeting yet another local girl.
Those who had guessed from the beginning that I’m an Indonesian would just keep their distance from me, afraid that I might start pulling their pants and kissing their glorious expatriate ass for a chance to practice English or marry them and live in the EU. Those who thought that I was a Taiwanese, Japanese, etc, would tell me that I shouldn’t go to this place and that place because they attract the locals, but once they found out that I am myself a local, they would be ashamed as hell and never talked to me the same way anymore (if they ever talk to me again at all). Those who ask where I am from, would swallow their saliva upon hearing the answer and say, “ah interesting, I gotta talk to my friend over there.”
Ok, I have to admit that some foreigners are nice, especially the newcomers. They still think it’s cool to be friends with the local people, so they take pictures with me (or of me) and post them on their Facebook to show off to their friends back home.
But then again, the same people also take pictures of becak drivers, fishermen, street kids, and post them on their Facebook. What am I? A tourist attraction?
Anyway, all joking aside, there is always an exception to every rule. Even in the land of reverse-discrimination, I still meet some international folks who are intelligent and open-minded enough to accept that not all locals are the same, like the 20 people whom Yuki and I traveled with to Pulau Seribu this past weekend.
And all joking aside, I do miss New York, the place where you can tell people you’re Indonesian and most people won’t have any prejudice about you (because they don’t know where it is). It’s the place where I could befriend a random half-Jewish/Japanese girl on the subway and later got introduced to her Turkish and Japanese Peruvian roommate; it’s the place where a Greek girl who got annoyed by my housewarming party could become one of my closest friends and later introduced me and my Hong Kongese roommate to her American and Taiwanese roommates.
Finally, all racial jokes and kvetch aside, I do really miss New York. If I ever had the chance to come back there, I would hang on to it for life and never let it go. Those of you who are there, please do not take your New York life for granted. You may have to learn the hard way that the expensive real estate, the stinky bums on the subway and the annoying tourists are the comparatively small price that you have to pay for such an amazing life. Please wish the kvetch-er luck. Hope I will be back in New York this September!
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Because I Care About You
One thing that I hate about conversing with a family member is that, throughout the entire conversation, they could tell you really shitty things about you just to dump out their own bitterness toward the world, and they could justify themselves by saying “I say this because I care about you."
For example, they could call you an idiot (and many variations of it). But if you give them a clear hint that you disagree and are not happy with their statements, they’d tell you “I said this because you’re my relative and I care about you.”
Sometimes they’d use the maids or drivers as an example to make their point. “You see, I wouldn’t call the maids an idiot. Why? Because they’re not my relatives. I don’t care about them.”
“Everything I told you today is well-meant,” they’d continue.
First, that made me want to switch place with the maid. Second, that made me try to think of what good intention could there be behind discouraging someone and calling her an idiot. The only thing I could come up with was that they don’t want me to have a skewed sense of self so that I won’t be disappointed when I find out for myself that I really am an idiot.
If that's the case, I wonder if it’s actually better for them to show their love by letting the idiot continue to have an inflated sense of self and cheer her up if she does get disappointed. After all, who knows that I’m not in fact an idiot? Maybe I'm a notch above idiot - a moron? You never know.
One day they would probably ask me to eat fresh turd, and say “I want you to know that life is full of shit. I want you to take it now so that one day when you actually have to take some shit you’ll know how it tastes like and won’t be disappointed.”
And of course, “I do this because I care about you.”
For example, they could call you an idiot (and many variations of it). But if you give them a clear hint that you disagree and are not happy with their statements, they’d tell you “I said this because you’re my relative and I care about you.”
Sometimes they’d use the maids or drivers as an example to make their point. “You see, I wouldn’t call the maids an idiot. Why? Because they’re not my relatives. I don’t care about them.”
“Everything I told you today is well-meant,” they’d continue.
First, that made me want to switch place with the maid. Second, that made me try to think of what good intention could there be behind discouraging someone and calling her an idiot. The only thing I could come up with was that they don’t want me to have a skewed sense of self so that I won’t be disappointed when I find out for myself that I really am an idiot.
If that's the case, I wonder if it’s actually better for them to show their love by letting the idiot continue to have an inflated sense of self and cheer her up if she does get disappointed. After all, who knows that I’m not in fact an idiot? Maybe I'm a notch above idiot - a moron? You never know.
One day they would probably ask me to eat fresh turd, and say “I want you to know that life is full of shit. I want you to take it now so that one day when you actually have to take some shit you’ll know how it tastes like and won’t be disappointed.”
And of course, “I do this because I care about you.”
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
The Great Bathroom Quandary
One thing that I hate about working in a female-dominated office is that you rarely have the ladies room all for yourself.
Not that I am so hi-maintenance that I don't want to share the bathroom with others. But there are things you do in the bathroom that feel natural when you are alone, but a horror when there are people witnessing it in some ways, be it through hearing, smelling, or worse, sight (i.e. they see who's doing it).
Well, most girls in the office don’t seem to have the problem that I have. But again, they are all pretty. Actions committed by beautiful people are always forgiven. Sometimes they are justified or even glorified. Say a pretty girl accidentally farts when she is laughing, most people would just think it’s cute. Or depending on how she reacts, people may even start thinking that farting in public is HOT. But the same action committed by a fat ugly girl? Nuh oh! That’s your own private dooms day buddy!
Going back to the bathroom quandary, sometimes if I’m lucky, the other occupant(s) are already about to leave when I enter the bathroom. When that happens, I would wait til they leave while pretending to wipe the toilet seat, then once they leave I rush to finish my business quickly before anyone else comes in.
On not so lucky days, another person enters the bathroom the same time I do or just right before I get there. When that happens, I cross my fingers hoping that they will get out quickly so that I can do my business privately afterwards. But unfortunately, it’s rarely the case. There’s the girl who washes her hands for a good two minutes (citing the therapeutic effects of soaking in hot water). There’s the girl who always fixes her make-up. And of course, the friendly new girl who talks to whoever else is in the bathroom. You are already on the edge, and these people are still outside.
There’s also the situation when I think I am lucky but really am not. I get the entire restroom all for myself and do my business in peace. But as I wash my hands, somebody comes in, says hi to me, and goes straight to the stall that I’ve just used. Ugh, is it just me who can smell it? Or other people can too?
But nothing beats the two times when I enter the bathroom, it is already stinky like bathrooms in China, but when I am about to leave, somebody enters the bathroom and sees that I am the last person to use it. It really wasn't me, but how would I explain this? Tell her "umm, that wasn't me btw, I swear"? Some people get the benefits of the doubt, but I wouldn't be so confident that I am one of those people. Within seconds, all the sacrifice that I made, including pausing all activities when people come in, is nullified by the hard proof that I am there, leaving behind a gas chamber. All the work that I've done to manage my reputation is destroyed by a mistake that I did not even commit.
But oh well, life is never fair and life goes on. Back at my desk, my boss is already there waiting to grill me on why the client only got 7 copies of the new brochure sample instead of 8. Obviously, there are other things to worry about than your bathroom reputation.
Not that I am so hi-maintenance that I don't want to share the bathroom with others. But there are things you do in the bathroom that feel natural when you are alone, but a horror when there are people witnessing it in some ways, be it through hearing, smelling, or worse, sight (i.e. they see who's doing it).
Well, most girls in the office don’t seem to have the problem that I have. But again, they are all pretty. Actions committed by beautiful people are always forgiven. Sometimes they are justified or even glorified. Say a pretty girl accidentally farts when she is laughing, most people would just think it’s cute. Or depending on how she reacts, people may even start thinking that farting in public is HOT. But the same action committed by a fat ugly girl? Nuh oh! That’s your own private dooms day buddy!
Going back to the bathroom quandary, sometimes if I’m lucky, the other occupant(s) are already about to leave when I enter the bathroom. When that happens, I would wait til they leave while pretending to wipe the toilet seat, then once they leave I rush to finish my business quickly before anyone else comes in.
On not so lucky days, another person enters the bathroom the same time I do or just right before I get there. When that happens, I cross my fingers hoping that they will get out quickly so that I can do my business privately afterwards. But unfortunately, it’s rarely the case. There’s the girl who washes her hands for a good two minutes (citing the therapeutic effects of soaking in hot water). There’s the girl who always fixes her make-up. And of course, the friendly new girl who talks to whoever else is in the bathroom. You are already on the edge, and these people are still outside.
There’s also the situation when I think I am lucky but really am not. I get the entire restroom all for myself and do my business in peace. But as I wash my hands, somebody comes in, says hi to me, and goes straight to the stall that I’ve just used. Ugh, is it just me who can smell it? Or other people can too?
But nothing beats the two times when I enter the bathroom, it is already stinky like bathrooms in China, but when I am about to leave, somebody enters the bathroom and sees that I am the last person to use it. It really wasn't me, but how would I explain this? Tell her "umm, that wasn't me btw, I swear"? Some people get the benefits of the doubt, but I wouldn't be so confident that I am one of those people. Within seconds, all the sacrifice that I made, including pausing all activities when people come in, is nullified by the hard proof that I am there, leaving behind a gas chamber. All the work that I've done to manage my reputation is destroyed by a mistake that I did not even commit.
But oh well, life is never fair and life goes on. Back at my desk, my boss is already there waiting to grill me on why the client only got 7 copies of the new brochure sample instead of 8. Obviously, there are other things to worry about than your bathroom reputation.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
You Look Awesome at My Expense
I hate it when a non-native English speaker who speaks flawless English begins her presentation with a disclaimer like “pardon my Swenglish/Danglish/Finglish" or "English is not my first language, so forgive me if I make mistakes.” I especially hate it when the person in question is a tall, blonde and model-esque Scandinavian beauty.
Most likely, the roomful of ignorant Americans would go “awww, how cute,” lower their expectations, and be blown away by how un-Swenglish/Danglish/Finglish her language is.
Not only does she unfairly gain herself an extra thumb up by lowering people’s expectation, but she’s also downgrading another non-native English speaker in the room whose English is worse but did not give the same warning (how tacky would it be for me to follow suit and tell the audiences to “pardon my Indolish?”)
When it comes my turn to present, they probably think, who’s this ugly Asian shmuck with the thick accent. She should be the one making the disclaimer.
Most likely, the roomful of ignorant Americans would go “awww, how cute,” lower their expectations, and be blown away by how un-Swenglish/Danglish/Finglish her language is.
Not only does she unfairly gain herself an extra thumb up by lowering people’s expectation, but she’s also downgrading another non-native English speaker in the room whose English is worse but did not give the same warning (how tacky would it be for me to follow suit and tell the audiences to “pardon my Indolish?”)
When it comes my turn to present, they probably think, who’s this ugly Asian shmuck with the thick accent. She should be the one making the disclaimer.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Jew-ophilia
So, after my last kvetch about my Jewish mom, some people were kind enough to ask how my obsession with Jewish stuff began (you have no idea how much I love listening to myself talking about this!). In recounting all the things that happened between when the Jewish fever bug first bit me and today, when I am a full blown Jew-ophile, I came up with a brilliant theory that describes how the condition develops over time.
Stage 1 - appreciation of all things Jewish:
1. You are thirsty for knowledge of Jewish stuff. You’d rather read very trivial Jewish news like “Lesbian Jewish couple celebrate adopted daughter’s Bat Mitzvah” than breaking news about a deadly pandemic attacking your neighborhood.
2. You have affinity toward every and any Jewish person. You just feel that instant click as soon as you find out that the person is Jewish, even though an hour before you wish this person would get the hell outta your face (well, as you get more experience, you’ll realize that NOT all Jewish people are created equal).
3. You start to appreciate New York.. because it is the Jewish capital of the world.
Stage 2 - identity confusion:
4. You want to dress up as a Hasidic Jew or an Upper East Side Jewish nana (grandma) for Halloween.
5. You get offended when your friends describe Jewish people as stingy, sleazy or just plain annoying – as if they are talking about your dead close relative.
6. You sprinkle Yiddish words and old Jewish adage in conversations. "Oy, I wish I had the chutzpah" or "Listen, the optimist sees the bagel, the pessimist sees the hole."
7. You think depression is hip. You ask your doctor to prescribe Xanax, Prozac or Valium because you want to emulate a Jewish American Princess (JAP).
8. You are convinced that you have a familial obligation to marry a doctor or a lawyer and so you read the NY Times wedding announcements regularly to examine how couples with the last names --berg, --man and Cohen first met.
Stage 3 – enlightenment:
9. After years of telling your friends every Jewish joke that you've learned (among other unimportant information), you realize that no one shares your enthusiasm for Jewish stuff, and you start questioning yourself.
10. You come to accept that you’re nuts, but try to convince people that you’re not the only one. And so you post a Facebook note that may pass as an American Psychological Association (APA) symptom checklist, hoping that people would think that Jew-ophilia is a common condition that could happen to anyone.
Stage 1 - appreciation of all things Jewish:
1. You are thirsty for knowledge of Jewish stuff. You’d rather read very trivial Jewish news like “Lesbian Jewish couple celebrate adopted daughter’s Bat Mitzvah” than breaking news about a deadly pandemic attacking your neighborhood.
2. You have affinity toward every and any Jewish person. You just feel that instant click as soon as you find out that the person is Jewish, even though an hour before you wish this person would get the hell outta your face (well, as you get more experience, you’ll realize that NOT all Jewish people are created equal).
3. You start to appreciate New York.. because it is the Jewish capital of the world.
Stage 2 - identity confusion:
4. You want to dress up as a Hasidic Jew or an Upper East Side Jewish nana (grandma) for Halloween.
5. You get offended when your friends describe Jewish people as stingy, sleazy or just plain annoying – as if they are talking about your dead close relative.
6. You sprinkle Yiddish words and old Jewish adage in conversations. "Oy, I wish I had the chutzpah" or "Listen, the optimist sees the bagel, the pessimist sees the hole."
7. You think depression is hip. You ask your doctor to prescribe Xanax, Prozac or Valium because you want to emulate a Jewish American Princess (JAP).
8. You are convinced that you have a familial obligation to marry a doctor or a lawyer and so you read the NY Times wedding announcements regularly to examine how couples with the last names --berg, --man and Cohen first met.
Stage 3 – enlightenment:
9. After years of telling your friends every Jewish joke that you've learned (among other unimportant information), you realize that no one shares your enthusiasm for Jewish stuff, and you start questioning yourself.
10. You come to accept that you’re nuts, but try to convince people that you’re not the only one. And so you post a Facebook note that may pass as an American Psychological Association (APA) symptom checklist, hoping that people would think that Jew-ophilia is a common condition that could happen to anyone.
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