To Kiss Or Not To Kiss

What is the greatest sport on earth? Some say "football". Some say "tennis". Jakartans say "bus chasing".⁽¹⁾ The rest of the world says "soccer". (Actually, they say "football", too...but they mean "soccer").

While I say: "kissing". Yes, kissing is the greatest sport on earth. Allow me to explain just a few of the reasons.

Kissing is the most versatile sport around. There are so many types of kisses to choose from, at least one for just about any occasion. There is the quick peck on the cheek kiss, the peck on each cheek kiss, the peck on your nephew's cheek kiss while grabbing the other cheek flab with your hand, the wildly passionate kiss, the elegant kiss on the hand, the dreaded kiss of death, the "Hey you! Kiss this!", and even the Indonesian raisins which called "Kismis" (founded, no doubt, by early Indonesian pioneer kissers).

Kissing is easy to transport. It really doesn't matter where you are. You can kiss: at the school, in the boardroom, in the space shuttle, even in North Pole from June through September.

Kissing requires so little equipment, which means you can do it even when not prepared for the occasion, and even when you have to travel light. This makes it the ideal participation sport for businessmen, world travelers and marsupial groupies.

Kissing always livens things up. Try this: the next time you are in an oh-so-booooring meeting that seems to last oh-so-foreeeeever, why not just kiss somebody. Go ahead; try it. See how it livens things up?

Kissing is legal in most earth-bound countries. Rumors are circulating that kissing will even be legalized soon on Mars, Jupiter and in Iraq.

Kissing is 100% biodegradable, so when you kiss somebody, you help the environment.

Kissing is safe to do in a moving vehicle, as long as you are not driving.

Kissing is non toxic...unless you kiss somebody who has just swallowed a bottle of Baygon. Even so, kissing is still safe, as long as you do not use your mouth.

Kissing is non-fattening. This is perhaps the best news of all, because dieters now have something to keep their mouths busy while not eating, and smokers can quit smoking without having to chew candies until they a) need to diet or b) induce diabetes.

Kissing is organic, low in sodium, preservative-free, low in saturated fats and does not contain dozens of delicious ingredients that cannot be pronounced, like javelchromopntheoremicherbicidic acid.

Most kisses are not tested on animals, but who am I to stifle your sense of adventure?

You can kiss just about everyone: your boyfriend, your aunt, your wife, your veterinarian, the guard of the Rhinoceros Preservation Park of Bengkulu and your pet aardvark. Don't try kissing them all at the same time, though...especially not your boyfriend and your wife.

Kissing meets the toughest safety regulations of any national or international sporting organization. Kissing has a tremendous safety record, except for the occasional locked braces. But a quick call for a local plumber fixes that problem.

The only recorded deaths involving kissing are by third parties, usually wives, husbands, spurned lovers and other spectators who somehow get past security and storm onto the racing line like that well-dressed gentleman at the F1 race.

I do NOT recommend "extreme kissing". For instance, don't kiss an on-duty garbage truck; it is considered dangerous. Don't kiss a metal fence-post in sub-zero weather; readers in northern climates know exactly what I mean. Don't kiss any electrical outlets.

Are you paying attention? This one is important. Don't kiss the vacuum cleaner if you want to retain all your vital organs. It's OK to kiss sandpaper, just don't use your tongue. Don't kiss a chainsaw; we feel this one is self-explanatory. And don't kiss your office manager while on duty.

But overall, kissing is so damn great. Why don't you give a shot at me? And you'll see what I mean. No, I'm not talking to you guys! Pretty girls only.
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⁽¹⁾ Burns more calories than 10K marathon race. The competition itself is fierce. Anyone is qualify as the contestant. There are no age, sex, or physical limitation. The winner is whoever gets into the bus intact.

... ... &#%*@%#@&*#^ ... ...

It a sad truth: being a blogger means that when you have nothing to write you write it anyway. I'll be honest. It'd probably be better if I put a word search here. It's just when I sat down to write a post, I couldn't remember what I wanted to write about. So away I plug, charging fearlessly into the vast blank reaches of my empty imagination to search it.

*Staring at the computer screen*

Shoot, nothing pops up in my brain. Maybe I should make a different approach.

*Staring at the computer screen turned on*

It's ALIVE! It's ALIVE! MMUUAHAHAHAAAA...

I know I wanted to write something. I just couldn't remember it. I couldn't find which part of my brain that holds the memory about what I'm going to write. But brain memory loss is nothing new for me. It began when I was born. Try as I might, I just can't remember being born. This strikes me as strange. Birth is arguably the most momentous and triumphant event in a person's life. It's the reason I am alive. It is my coming out party. People even celebrate the anniversary of my birth every year by giving gifts or throwing heart-attack-inducing surprise parties. But strangely, none of the birthday celebrations have helped me remember my birth. Even stranger is that people who could have no memory of my birth, such as my girlfiends, keep celebrating it.

Perhaps the cause of memory loss is trauma. We block out from our memory traumatic events. Like birth, for instance. Imagine being squeezed through a steel toilet paper tube with mucus and blood and other assorted "ooey gooey" stuff, with something resembling an alien tentacle protruding from where your bellybutton is supposed to be.

Sure, birth was my highest moment of triumph, but I am in no hurry to repeat it. I prefer to retire while I am still at the top of your game. Women, on the other hand, are the top notch of this game as many continues to improve themselves.

I rarely able to remember names either. No, meeting people is not a traumatic moments. I just can't seem to attach them to faces, which I hear is a common problem. Like many people, my brain-glue was recalled for factory defects. I should have opened that recall notice when it arrived.

One memory game you can play to help attach names to faces is pin-the-name-on-the-donkey. This works great for people with defective brain-glue, because it uses ins instead of glue. I suggest you do this in your mind, not in the actual reception room. Many people object to having things pinned to their faces, and a few might even object to being called donkeys. Most importantly, you could be in violation of local safety ordinances, especially if you use a stapler.

Another common strategy many people use to remember names is to repeat the person's name several times. However, I think that sounds silly.

"And who are you?"

"It's Dinda."

"Hi Dinda, how are you?"

"Just great. How's your girlfriend?"

"Dinda, I don't have anyone listed on my relationship status yet. How about you?"

"I don't have either."

"I see, Dinda. What I can't see is why such an indulgent beautiful girl like you don't have a boyfriend?"

"I'm waiting for the right guy to ask me out. By the way, why do you keep repeating my name?"

"Me, Dinda? Repeating your name? Ah, you must be kidding, Dinda. And who's your friend here, Dinda?

"She's Nadya."

"Hi Nadya, are you single too?"

Perhaps meeting people is less traumatic than being born. At least I do remember meeting people, and not always waking up in a cold sweat. And I DO remember their names. And I DO remember their faces, especially if they're super duper cute and sexy. And I even remember a few of their birthdays. But try as I might, I don't remember any of them being born.

Now, what was I going to write about? I just can't remember. So, while you wait on the edge of your seat, I present what should have been here all along: a word search.

Can you find the hidden word? (Hint: "feline.")

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Extreme Lack Of Sleep

Before I decided moving in to Jakarta, I knew it wouldn't be easy as it said. But that's not the main reason why I suffer from what I called: extreme weariness.

In purpose of tightening my budget, I currently registered as a regular occupant of my cousins house. For that I have to accept certain conditions, in which one of them is: sharing room with my sophisticated niece, Mira⁽¹⁾.

When a normal seven years old girl wakes up at 5:22 a.m., she sneaks downstairs and, with well-honed stealth shared only by jungle-cat predators, she quietly proceeds to adorn the kitchen with dirty dishes and spilled batter. However, my roomie is just NOT a normal seven years old. She does not do anything quietly – especially not forget to leave some bruises after stompping on me at 5:22 a.m. Which she did this morning ... again. And that leads to these symptoms:

Grumpiness. Let's face it, after several nights of minimum sleep, people really get on edge. Just like me, plus the pain I had to suffer every morning. We're like Tasmanian devils fighting over a black-pepper steak. Then before you know it, our conversation could develop into such an intelligently sophisticated dialogues as:

"Are, too."

"Am not"

"Are, too."

"Am not."

"Says who?"

"Says me."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Bhrhrthrpt."

Clumsiness. Which means it is probably unwise to stand at the top of the stairs while distracted by an argument with her or ... or ... oh no, WAAAAHH ... boom... OUCH! ... bump... YIKES! ... crash.

Well, at least I'm not at the top of the stairs any longer. I suppose it could have been worse. I could have been carrying a bucket of razor blades soaking in nitric acid.

Poor judgment. Which often can lead to really, really, really bad decisions. The kind that keeps you up all night worrying if you should have hired a repairman to fix the air-conditioner instead of asking Mira to read the Troubleshooting section on the guide book.

All this staying up all night worrying is perfectly in sync with the extreme weariness I agonized. They say you better start the day with joy, I say how could that be? I never had a decent sleep. Thanks to the barbarian...

Luckily, I rarely had a chance to drove my way to the office by myself. C'mon, with all these tiredness, being behind the wheel would most likely plays out like this:

Level one, grumpiness. "Hey. Who do you think you are? You don't own the road. My car got here first. Get outta my way!"

Level two, poor judgment. "Oops. Maybe I shouldn't have pulled so tight in front of that truck. Hey! Why's that guy hitting the brakes so hard?"

Level three, clumsiness. "Yikes! I'm gonna hit that electric pole."

Level four, more poor judgment. "Yes! I missed the pole. I missed the pole. I missed the ..." CRASH!

Level five, more grumpiness. "Hey. Who do you think you are? You don't own this living room window. My car got here first. Get outta my way!"

Level six, a black eye and many broken bones.

Sleep is important. We all know that, but too many of us figure we'll catch up on our sleep sometime in the future. In the meantime, there are alternatives. Don't drive. Move into a house with no stairs. Sell your kids, in this case, the barbarian one. And above all, don't carry a bucket of razor blades soaking in nitric acid.

*Yawn*

I think it's time for a rest. Thank God Mira is always sleeping when I got home late. Hopefully she didn't find those roller-shoes to stomp on me for.

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⁽¹⁾ To get a picture of her, she's the resemblance of Elmyra from Warner Bros' Tiny Toons and Darla from Disney & Pixar's Finding Nemo.

When Phone Says "Cheese"

It's getting frenzy. You'll find people having it everywhere you go. Be it at school, malls, even restrooms. I'm talking about camera phones. Yup, a digital camera inside a cell phone. Often shape as phone but could take some pictures, which reduces the fun of making calls inside toilet knowing the other end could see your butt naked if you accidently press the wrong button. With MMS⁽¹⁾ in hand, that awful thing is possible.

Some high-end cell phones even took shape as digital cameras. So don't be fooled seeing someone talking to a camera by him/herself. And when it comes to the high-end products, the capabilities they had is as complex as our mother in-law. You know how useless they'll be but you couldn't just throw them away. Let me tell you the time when my cousin had a baby the other day. She came three weeks early in the middle of the night, but I could hardly wait to get the hospital the next day to see her.

I was trying to remember everything her mother in-law wanted me to take, the picture album with pictures from the baby shower that I had intended to take before the baby came, but didn't. In the hospital, I realized that I had forgotten the most important thing - my camera.

Not to worry, says her mother in-law, she has a camera phone! She knew that thing would come in good for something one of these days. "But, you can't take good pictures," I nagged. "Well, you don't have any other choice," she retorted. Good point.

So where was this camera phone? I needed a picture of this precious child to send to the relatives. First picture, she cut off the top of her head. I knew she couldn't take pictures. Second try was a picture of her finger. Several more shots that didn't come out but were not her fault because "she moved." She finally managed to make a decent picture. But in the end, it's me who had to take all the pictures because I'm afraid my new niece would look like an alien from planet Wee-wee.

Then comes this problem, the phone hanged and then successfully off. Naturally, the stupid phone would pick this very moment in time to go haywire. We try to re-charge the phone but for no use, the phone won't turn on. She then shook it up a bit, of course, nothing happened. "I'll go to the phone center tonight and get it checked," she said. The phone center couldn't fix it either, naturally, so the company is sending a new phone. The picture is supposedly still on the computer chip, but I doubt that we will ever see those picture I've taken.

All that technology, and I still don't have a picture. I have a feeling that if I depend solely on her camera phone, the baby will probably be in college before I get one.

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⁽¹⁾ Multimedia Messaging Service, which by now still stands for Medieval Messaging Service.

Sophisticated Girl

This morning I woke up in the same way as I always had in the past days: getting stompped! Now this is one problem when living with a 7 years old child who think that trampling on human being is an every morning ritual. In my case, I was lucky enough that she didn't wear her roller-shoe. Not because she didn't mean to, but because I manage to hide them. I won't be surprised if she then become an aggressive oppressor in the future, but lets just hope not.

Mira, the name of my in-laws niece, had thoughts way ahead girls on her age. One day I cought her drawing on her picture book.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"What do you think I'm doing?"
"Drawing?"
"No, I'm cooking these crayons. Of course I'm drawing!"
"Oh," disturbed by her straight answer, I tried a different approach, "is it a mushroom you're drawing?"
"No, a penis."
"Ah."

I wonder what they tought at school these days.

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UPDATE

I'm afraid she's a flashy as well, since she likes running around naked. It won't be long to find her fooling around with guys with a pair of candles and leather suits. Now that would be horrible.