Paedophobia

There are many kinds of serious disorders and phobias that I cannot understand.

Androphobia: fear for men.

Gynephobia: fear for women.

I take pity on those people. Who could have feared creatures of socialization?

Chrometophobia: Fear of money.

Who in the world is afraid of money?

I have always thought these phobias are ridiculous and illogically based. But I know someone who is afraid of one thing – so afraid that he breaks down in nausea and cold sweat whenever that thing happens to be around him.

My husband. He fears babies.

Yes, tiny little creatures with pink skin and peachy lips. The living crawling cuties in diapers, with skins smelling of the subtlest aroma of powder. The wailing kiddos in cotton pajamas, not knowing how to speak, nor hurt anybody. Babies. The kinds women love to coo at and get involved in a series of cheek pinching activities. Harmless, adorable, babies.

I do not understand how he can despise such creatures, yet be afraid of them. I try to get into his head, I really do, but I cannot see why. Everytime he spots a baby in the safe crook of the mother’s arms, he begins sweating uncomfortably. He squirms and does not stand still, until I whack him in the shoulders and he shoots me a look of annoyance.

“Get a grip,” I tell him calmly, and watch him sweat some more until the baby is gone.

“The thing is, I cannot understand how a baby works,” he says to me this one time, when I ask him how unbelievably silly he can act in front of a baby – albeit a sleeping one. He skittishly shakes his head and makes a face.

“A baby is not a machine, darling,” I reply, trying to be as rational as possible.

“I know, but I cannot understand how to communicate with them. I wish I could know what they are thinking.”

“Speaking babies,” I am unable to stop myself to forget my sarcasm. “They will be scarier than babies that cry and do nothing.”

He makes yet another face and does not bring up the subject ever again.

But of course, such a thing is inevitable. He prevents himself from going to baby-bash parties. He refuses to attend first birthdays and instead sends wine with handwritten cards. These he can do, until I find myself shrieking in the bathroom, my hands clutching the thin plastic strip dipped in urine, showing two clear reddish lines.

I wish I can show you his face when he reacts to the news.

“Ummmmm.”

I wait for a more enthusiastic response, but he does not elicit more. He hugs me, and I cry joyful sobs into his chest.

**

These months go like a fast blur. He helps me redecorate the house, paints the walls a neutral color of beige and yellow, tolerating my morning sickness and the cravings for spicy takoyaki rolls in the middle of the night. He makes love to me tenderly and kisses me on the forehead every so often, but he is afraid of touching my tummy. He holds me at arm’s length, always being extra careful, often remembering his fear even in the brink of a moment’s pleasure.

“This is utterly ridiculous,” I scream at him, one morning when I am feeling especially cranky. “This is like fearing a chicken before it is hatching its eggs!”

He shakes his head at me, probably too used to my hot-tempered tantrums by now. But he finds a way to ignore my complaints, and still acts as if I were a porcelain going to crack in the slightest touch. Moreover, he is still avoiding my stomach. It is bulging and stretching beneath my nylon shirt, already the size of a basketball with the navel bumping the smoothness.

“I just want to be touched,” I plead when this has turned beyond unbelievable. “I just want you to be happy for this baby. For us.”

“You know how I feel about babies,” he argues. “And I am happy for us, I do.”

“Your actions say otherwise,” I say, fired up with anger. “How long are you going to avoid us, until the baby turns thirty?”

That is probably the meanest thing I have ever said to him, but still he does not say anything. He looks apologetic. I forgive him for a moment, but as I inch closer to cuddle him, he jerks back involuntarily at the touch of my belly to his skin, and I get upset all over again.

“See you when the baby is thirty,” I tell him before I slam the front door closed.

He occasionally offers to shop for baby stuffs with me, especially when the delivery month is near. I have a hunch the baby is going to be a girl, so I buy more pink blouses than the pale blues reserved for boys. My husband does not think he can handle even thinking of a baby being born, let alone pick outfits for it. So I take my best friend and my mother shopping.

“He’s going to get over it,” my best friend sootes reassuringly.

“How is he going to be a good father if he is afraid of being one?” my mother shoots a comment from the back of the car. My best friend and I eye each other. Taking them together on one shopping trip turns out to be a not-so-good idea.

He does not often check out the nursery either. I spend most of my time there, humming a soft melody to myself as I hung the colorful plastics in animal shapes all over the place. I stick glow-in-the-dark stickers and stars of the galaxy on the wall, so my baby can see a full sky looming over it and makes it feel safe. I line up a fashion show’s worth of baby clothes so it can be fashionable, basing the collections on colors and seasons of the year. I place hardcover books with children’s posters right beside the plush toys, and little pillows on the small bed right by the window.

It is when I am doing all these I find him standing by the door, his face owns the softest expression I have seen him have.

“Come in,” I whisper, holding out my hand so he will make his way inside.

He shakes his head slowly. “I’d rather stay here.”

“And be a stranger? Come on.” I urge him, and this time he takes a tentative step.

“It looks amazing. A kid is going to pop out and stay here for a hell of a long time.”

I smile. “The kid can stay forever if she wants.”

“She?”

“I like to call her a she. I want her to be named Grace, if she’s a girl. Or Joy.”

“Grace? Joy?” he laughs. “I thought you wanted a more stylish name.”

I hide a smile. “I thought of Mercedes and Jodie, alright. But I think Grace is a perfectly humble, stylish name.”

“Good.”

We stay there, my head on his shoulder as we sit cross-legged together by the littlest bed in the world, made for a baby to stay and be loved.

**

The kid comes faster than everyone predicted. My water breaks just as I am fixing myself a bowl of macaroni and cheese, and when I glance down, clear liquid is trickling down my legs, making its way to the floor. I scream and panick and know that my husband is the first person that should learn of this, even though he is the last person who will whoop with joy.

He comes running down wearing his lopsided glasses, his blue pajamas still wrinkled with sleep.

“What? What?” he shouts, forgetting that he always speaks sleepily in the morning. “It’s before six. What? What?”

And he sees me in a state of panic. He sees my nightgown drenched. He sees the stricken look of my face, and pure joy in my eyes. He goes to start the car.

The way to the hospital is short and quick. I am ushered by a nurse to a pale-walled room. It scares me, but I am not that afraid. He squeezes my hands and smiles nervously, and I nod.

He watches as the baby fights its way down my womb, out to the world. He watches as he flails his tiny fist in the air, crying on the top of its lungs as it breathes the first breath of air.

A daughter.

“How did you know?” he asks, his breath puffy.

“Just a hunch.” I smile, but my cheeks are stained with salty tears and sweat. I cannot stop, and he looks across the room at his wife and his daughter, but he is unable to hold us together.

**

For the first few days he still hasn’t held our baby properly. He stays as far back as possible, being the last person to play with her, always the one volunteering to take baby pictures just so he does not have to be in them.

“I really don’t wish you’re so afraid of her,” I glance at him sadly. “I don’t want her to grow up without a father to love her properly.”

“I’m sorry,” is all he says.

“I need reasons.” There are times when I am more stubborn, demanding something more than he can give. “Tell me why you can’t touch them. Tell me why you don’t want to hold them.”

“I told you before,” he starts getting frustrated. “The smell of baby powder makes me want to throw up. Holding a crying baby and touching a diaper make me ultimately helpless. I want to sock the tiny little thing in a basket and never see it again, but that is just how my phobia makes me feel.”

“Don’t you want to.. love her?”

He pulls me closer and lays his curly head on my lap. Heavy, warms tears soak to my thighs. “I want to. I do.”

“You can’t love your daughter from a distance,” I say.

The tears keep seeping down to my skin, along with my own.

**

“She makes me feel uneasy,” he points at Grace, who is sitting on her pink stroller, watching us eat. “What is a baby supposed to eat, anyway?”

“She’s the cutest thing in the world.” I coo her and she gurgles with a happy smile.

My husband shivers, a reaction I despise. “Look at her black bug-eyes,” he thrusts another finget at her. “She’s following our every move. It’s like she can understand what we’re all saying and doing, but none of what she does makes sense.”

“She is a baby, not an alien,” I reply patiently, permanently beginning to feel like having to take care of two kids.

Grace starts to whimper. My husband looks at her, probably willing for her not to start tearing up, which she does exactly.

“Great.” He pushes his chair and leaves the room, leaving me with dirty plates and a baby that refuses to stop crying.

**

I come down with a fever not so long after. The house is a riot of noise and chaotic mess. I wear a cotton mask around my face, my skin is burning and breaking cold sweat, my hands shake all the time and I feel like fire is being shoved down my throat.

“Rest, rest,” my mother keeps saying as she dusts off dirt from my bookshelves and cater for Grace. “Where is your husband anyway? You need to rest and he needs a sprinkle of reality.”

I suppress a groan and try to get some sleep.

I am awaken by a loud wail later that evening. Dinner is still uncooked except for cold porridge on the fridge, Grace is still unfed without her regular bottle of milk, and I am still not getting better. I climb down the stairs, slowly making my way to the nursery to find Grace.

My husband is there, standing by her bed. I stop and watch him, uncertain if I should interrupt the moment. He seems unsure whether he should pat the hysterical child’s head or stick a plastic nipple full of milk to her mouth to calm her down. At first he lets out a finger to trail the hairlines of the child, but lets go and moves back as soon as Grace reaches out to grab his finger. He stands still for a very long time, until he scoops down and takes Grace with one sweeping movement. His hands tremble and he makes the usual noises as he tells himself to calm down and be brave.

The kid must have felt the surface of her father’s cool skin when they touch. I am not even sure how he feels when for the very first time, he strokes the velvety skin of his daughter’s without hesitation. He brings her closer and lets her nuzzle his neck, until he relaxes his awkward pose and kisses her on the cheek. She quiets down almost instantly.

I smile. There is no need to wait until Grace is thirty. There is still plenty of hope left for him.

**

Sang lelaki

Lelaki itu selalu mengikutiku dengan ekor matanya, dan ketika ia memicing, aku tahu bahwa dia sedang berusaha menilaiku. Ingin menimbang apakah keputusanku ini benar, dan ketika ia menghela nafas aku tahu dia sedang kecewa. Merelakan, namun kecewa.

Dia menemukanku sedang mengetuk-ngetuk pintu kayu rumahnya di tengah hujan lebat sebelum subuh. Dia tidak mengeluh sama sekali, segera membuka pintu yang berderit karena lapuk, dan menarikku ke dalam walau jejakku mengotori lantainya dengan lumpur dan bercak hujan yang sudah bercampur peluh. Dilihatnya perutku yang sudah membesar, dan walau dia mengesah, lelaki itu menghangatkanku di dekat perapian dan memberikan secangkir teh tawar panas kesukaanku. Aku berbaring di kasur sempitnya malam itu, dan dia sendiri tertidur di pojokan di atas kayu keras. Kuperhatikan semalaman suntuk lelaki itu tidak mendengkur, sebuah tanda tidurnya tidak nyenyak.

Dia menerimaku kembali di rumah ini. Membiarkanku memasak, mencuci dan membersihkan, sesuatu yang tidak pandai dilakukan oleh seorang lelaki renta macam dia. Dia menyerahkan bundelan uang kertas kumal untukku berbelanja, juga receh-receh yang ditabungkannya dalam toples kaca untuk keperluan mendadak. Aku tidak reti mengucapkan terima kasih kepadanya, dan dia pun tidak pernah memintanya dan menunggu untuk mendengarkannya.

Tentu saja, keberadaan kami berdua dalam satu rumah tidak bisa dibilang nyaman. Dulu kami pernah tinggal di sana bersama seseorang yang kini sudah meninggal. Kini kami berdua, bertiga jika menghitung janin yang bersarang dalam perutku. Entah hingga kapan kami bisa bertahan hidup seperti ini. Aku pasrah, kapan saja aku siap hengkang seandainya dia memintaku pergi. Tapi aku tahu, dia tidak akan pernah mengusirku. Selalu aku yang beranjak pergi dari sini dengan sekoper penuh barangku, tanpa perintah darinya, hanya egoku yang berontak semau hati.

Entah siapa yang menghangat lebih dulu, tapi kami punya cara tersendiri untuk berkomunikasi. Dia mengelus perutku dan bersenandung sumbang untuk calon bayi di dalam sana. Tidak pernah lagi dia menghujat sang ayah yang konon dianggapnya tidak lebih dari sampah. Aku pun tidak pernah lagi mengungkitnya, bahkan tidak dalam hati. Aku tidak ingin anakku berbagi pikiran kotor yang sama denganku, tidak ingin dia mengetahui seberapa besar dendam yang lama terpendam.

Ketika anakku akan lahir dia adalah orang pertama yang mendengarku merintih kesakitan di kamar mandi. Digedornya pintu dan diteriakkan namaku berulang-ulang. Seandainya aku tidak membuka pintu itu dengan genggaman tangan yang sudah memutih, aku yakin dia pasti akan mendobraknya sampai pecah. Lelaki itu membopongku dengan langkah tertatih. Walau dia terengah mencoba memanggil taksi di luar sana, aku merasa sangat aman dalam pelukannya, teringat pada belasan tahun lalu ketika ia memelukku dengan polah yang sama. Kini sudut-sudut matanya sudah berkerut, lebih karena lelah daripada karena usia, dan bau tubuhnya pun masih sama, sedikit campuran asap, kayu manis dan tembakau.

“Sabar ya, sebentar lagi.”

Lelaki itu masih sempat mengutarakan beberapa patah untuk menenangkanku, tapi terkejut ketika bagian kemejanya basah. Seorang lelaki biasanya menjadi panik ketika melihat seorang wanita menangis, dan dari dulu dia selalu kikuk jika berurusan dengan air mata.

“Sabar ya, sebentar lagi.”

Lelaki itu mengulang perkataannya sekali lagi, dan aku mengangguk. Kami akan baik-baik saja. Dia ada di sini, dan aku akan baik-baik saja.

“Terima kasih, Ayah,” aku mencengkeram bagian lengan kemejanya, dan bayiku memberikan satu tendangan terakhir untuk menandakan bahwa sudah waktunya ia pun bertemu dengan sang lelaki.

**

Kenangan Abu-Abu di Koran Pikiran Rakyat 27 Mei 2008

Thanks to Mbak Galuh, novel saya Kenangan Abu-Abu masuk review buku di kolom Belia di koran Pikiran Rakyat 27 Mei 2008 kemarin :D

Artikelnya belum sempat di-scan, dan di web www.pikiranrakyat.com belum bisa tercari, nanti kalau sudah ada saya taruh di sini :)

Georgia Cries

Georgia is six. She likes flowers, the whooshing sound of the wind whenever I rock her with a swing – back and forth, back and forth, like a lullaby that does not have to end. She likes the trickle of water from the pipe – going tap, tap, tap to touch the aluminium sink. She is fond of butterflies, but mostly dragonflies, she says they resemble fairies with glittery wings. She loves the colors of the world – moth brown for the lovely earth, hyacinth blue for the sky, and the freckles in a sunflower’s heart. She pays amazing details to everything, and expects nothing in return.

My sister Georgia likes to smile with all her teeth barred, although she has not grown all of them. The widest smile I have ever seen in a person, also the most genuine. She hardly cries, she does not lose her temper, she is patient and talkative. My sister Georgia, the sunniest girl on earth.

That is why it is strange that she starts banging her fist on the wall lately. She has tantrums that begin with bad dreams and a screaming fit that pierces through the quietness of the night. She no longer smiles, very so often a tear streaks her face and she does not stop for a long, long time. Our mother does her usual ways of calming her down – hot cocoa with roasted marshmallows by the fire, a fairy tale from a hardbound children’s book, a goldfish from the night fair, or a pretty hairclip made of burnt copper. None of it works. Our stepfather yells impatiently from his room at the attic upstairs, and that is always when Georgia finally stops.

“I have a secret, Russ.” She tells me one night as I stay on the lower side of the bunk bed just so I can hear her breathe steadily in her sleep. She is not moving, so I have thought she is already asleep. “I am not sure if I should tell you.”

“You know you can tell me everything,” I reply.

“I know,” she whispers, and does not say anything else.

**

The tantrums get worse. She cries loudly at night and refuses to eat her food. Our mother sighs and helps her get dressed every morning, making sure she eats at least a little bit of something. Before going to school this morning, mother pats on our heads and tells me something important, “Take care of your little sister, Russel darling.” I nod, and we ride our bikes to school.

But that sentence ends up being the last I will hear from my mother. When I get home that afternoon, I find Georgia screaming hysterically in the lap of one of the neighbor’s, who is trying to calm her down. Men dressed in brown uniforms gather in our yard, voices buzzing as they tell each other secrets.

“What happened?” I ask, feeling weird.

And then I see her. A body wrapped in white linen blanket, ushered with a straight board bed.

“She burned herself. There was nothin’ left of her,” I hear somebody says, but I am not sure who. “She might’ve wanted to kill herself for a long, long time.”

Georgia gives another wail, suppressed by tears. My stepfather stands watching the corpse being taken away, his face an impassive expression without a flicker of emotion, but I think I see sadness glistens his eyes for a while.

And then it is gone, empty just like how the rest of us feels.

**

“I saw him, Russ,” Georgia says to me three days later, as she bends down to listen to ladybugs’ steps on the edge of a flower petal. “I saw what he did with the fire.”

“Who?” I ask, used to her little anecdotes and strange speech. She often talks about anything, also about nothing. The best thing is to sort out her meaning of words.

”I can’t tell you yet.” She folds her legs underneath her and glances at me with sad, sad eyes. “I miss mother, Russ.”

“I know,” I kiss her on the temple and smell the sweat. “I miss her too.”

**

A week later Georgia finally stops her newly found habits of screaming and crying. Instead, she clings to me almost every moment, clutching the hem of my shirt and trailing my steps wherever I go. Selfish as a ten-year old boy can be, sometimes I wish she is not there when I play with my friends. I do not want her to sit by me when I fish on the river bank, I do not wish to share my new kite that soars in the sky, I do not wish for her to feel the same thrill when I dash downhill and wrestle my best friends as a game.

But she is always there.

“Why are you following me?” I ask her.

“I want to stay here with you.”

“I’ll be home by supper.”

“No.”

“Leave me alone, Georgia,” that is the first harsh thing I have ever said to her since our mother dies. “Please,” I add, so she does not cry.

“I am scared, Russ.”

“What are you scared of?” I challenge, beginning to get annoyed. John is calling me a good distance away, wanting me to hurry up and join him. “One hour. I promise I will be back by an hour.”

I leave her before she can say another word, and disappear in the tracks of the forest so she cannot follow me. A game of hunt is for boys, and sometimes she embarrasses me.

“Come on, Russel. You can live without your sister for a few hours,” they like to mock me so. And it is true. They are right.

**

By the time I step on the front porch, it is already late. Dusk has hit climax and now the sky is dark grey with little golden stars. I sit on the wooden stairs, fingering dust with my sweaty fingers. It is unusually quiet here. The light is turned off so unusual darkness lingers.

I stand up, brush the dirt off my pants, and open the door. The creaking sound makes me nervous.

I walk to the kitchen to find food. I know there is soup on the stove and some slices of bread with butter on the table. But again, it is unusually quiet. I cannot hear the usual scratches of Georgia’s crayons or the low sound of television.

What I see brings terror to my heart. Little footsteps tainted with dried blood makes their trails to the backyard. Golden curls are scattered with the mess, and I recognize Georgia’s paper doll she names Leia, laying motionlessly beside a body of a little girl. She is very still, I am not even certain she is breathing. She is not laying on her back, but her head is tilted to one side. I see the emptiest expression on her face, her mouth a perfect O as if she has been screaming, with tear stains on her blood-smeared cheeks. Her blue smock dress is filthy with sand, earth and blood. The skin of her arms bruised and blistered, with such torture I feel myself gasping. And her little feet – one has a missing shoe, another.. missing a toe.

The sound of the drop of an axe makes me look up, surprised that there is another person in the dimly lit room with me. The scent of fishy blood suddenly makes me sick, but I can still see him. My stepfather stands with both hands soaked in blood, the expression on his face shocked, as if he cannot believe what he has done.

**

I remember what Georgia has said, then.

“I have a secret, Russ.

I saw what he did.

I saw him.”

**

Review Kenangan Abu-abu dari Intan

Intan adalah salah satu network-ku di Multiply, senangnya ketika Intan masuk guestbook blogku dan komentar tentang Kenangan Abu-Abu..

Waktu liat cover dan penerbitnya...agak-agak skeptik. Belum lagi ceritanya tentang a bunch of anak SMU... Secara eike udah tuir begini kan bo.. hehehe

Tapi ternyata dari sekian banyak buku yang sedang gue baca, dan saat ini menumpuk di samping tempat tidur gue.... Buku ini yang paling gak bisa ditaro dan ngangenin dan akhirnya selesai gue baca duluan.

Dari kalimat pertama udah berhasil membangun aura melankolie gitu bacanya, apalagi pas udah masuk ke konfliknya, makin mengharu-biru dan menggemaskan. Ceritanya enak, ringan dibaca dan bikin kita rileks. Yang mengagetkan ini buku yang terasa pass banget nemenin gue melepas lelah setelah seharian kerja dan mengantar gue tidur dengan relaksnya setiap malam.

Yang paling bikin gue suka sama buku ini adalah gaya bahasanya yang sehari-hari banget dan gak dibuat-buat. Trus, semua karakternya kuat. Kejadiannya juga gak beda jauh sama kejadian di kehidupan nyata kita. Everyday life banget deh.

Untuk review penuhnya bisa mampir ke blog Intan di http://intange.multiply.com

Thanks, Intan!

Hasil Bedah Buku di UIN (22 Mei 2008)

Tadi siang saya pergi ke kampus UIN yang lebar dan asri (ada banyak bazar untuk memperingati anniversary-nya dua hari yang lalu). Saya berhenti di lantai 2 gedung teater tempat fakultas Dakwah dan Komunikasi jurusan Jurnalistik (wow, dari dulu ingin sekali belajar jurnalisme). Di sana saya disambut beberapa teman di sana, Mbak Ummu selaku moderator yang sangat ramah dan humoris, lalu ada Mbak Rina dan masih banyak lagi.

Yang menjadi pembicara hari ini ada empat orang termasuk saya. Yang lain adalah Rachmania Arunita sebagai penulis, penulis skenario dan sutradara Lost in Love, juga Bapak Aries R Prima selaku editor AKOER dan Bapak Edi Effendi sang dosen jurnalistik yang eksentrik dan menyenangkan.

Acara dimulai dengan biodata masing-masing pembicara dan sinopsis singkat kedua buku yang akan dibahas. Lalu dilempar ke opini mengenai penerbitan dan penulisan buku oleh kedua senior kita, kemudian Bapak Edi (yang senang dipanggil Pak'E), bercerita sedikit mengenai pengalamannya menulis. Bapak Edi sudah berkecimpung sebagai sastrawan sekaligus penulis puisi dan cerpen di Kompas, dan mendapat beasiswa menulis di LA bersama Seno Gumira. Saya senang sekali karena mendapat banyak insights dan kritik mengenai novel saya.

Novel Lost in Love dikritik sebagai kekurangan deskripsi ruang dan waktu - baik tempat, karakter maupun detail. Seperti yang dibilang Windry di reviewnya. Saya juga mendengar curhat Nia sebagai sutradara dan juga dari sisi penulis - sangat kagum melihat gaya bicaranya yang rileks dan laid back, sedangkan saya gugup dan kacau hehehe.

Novel Kenangan Abu-abu sendiri dikritik karena pengembangan karakternya yang kurang konsisten, juga saya akui. Karakter Freya, Gia dan Moses agak serupa dalam cara penulisannya, sedangkan seharusnya tidak begitu. Walau begitu, Pak Edi memuji cara pembukaan novel yang cukup cerdas, walau tidak terbawa sampai akhir.

Setelah sesi tanya jawab dan curhat colongan Nia dan Pak Edi, kami foto bareng, tanda tangan novel dan ngobrol sebentar sebelum saya meluncur pulang. Fiuh, lega dan senang bisa ketemu teman-teman sekalian!

A dream

Is it possible that a dream leaves you really hurt and confused?
After all, it is just a dream.
It does not touch you.
It does not do anything to you.

But it does.
it does.

My greatest pleasure is....

.... ketika ada teman-teman yang mengimel atau memberitahu saya kalau mereka sangat menyukai novel saya.

.... ketika teman-teman mengkritik novel saya dengan saran yang membangun, karena mereka ingin supaya saya lebih baik lagi.

.... when my novel makes your day!

BIG THANK YOU!

Baru saja..

Saya memprogram pendulum merah saya yang baru tiba dari Donna (thanks, Donna, you're the best). Pendulum itu kini bisa menunjukkan 'yes', 'no', dan 'i am not sure' atau 'maybe'. Pendulum itu bisa jadi sahabat kecil saya, walau saya janjit tidak akan sepenuhnya bergantung padanya.

Pendulum itu kini bergantung di ujung pergelangan tangan saya, merah berkilau dengan pendar yang sederhana. Sama seperti sebuah charm bintang keberuntungan yang kini menggantung di pergelangan kaki saya.

Ah, saya suka sekali dengan perhiasan simpel, terutama yang ada bintangnya.
:( too bad I lost my best Perlinis star bracelet.

(movie) What Happens in Vegas

I expected some laughter, some romance, and that's it. Nothing more.

I got a whole lot more.

This movie might be one of the best romantic comedies this season, I think. It's much better and funnier than others I have watched such as 27 Dresses, which is forgettable. For one thing, I like Ashton Kutcher since A Lot Like Love, and Cameron Diaz is brilliant (yes she manages to look gorgeous for 1.5 hours straight). The movie is funny, romantic, and even very refreshing. A woman sitting alone beside me was cracking up big time during the whole screening.

The plot is slightly draggy but I think it's still okay :) very entertaining! 7.5/10.

(movie) Little Women

Just watched this version on HBO, for the very first time. I'm touched! At first I wasn't so sure about the characters - Claire Danes as Beth and Winona Ryder as Jo.. but they looked perfect! Especially young Kirsten Dunst, she played her part as Amy to such fabulousness. It's just that older version of Amy did not live up to expectations, she lost all the flavors of young Amy who was naive but mature and selfish.

The movie makes me teary and smiling. However there are flaws here and there.. some scenes are just too fast. The relationship between Laurie and Amy in the end is very sudden, and they do not seem to have enough chemistry (again, young Amy and Laurie have much more chemistry).

Still, such a beautiful movie.

Rating: 8.5/10

(movie) Karate Kid II

Again, watched it in HBO. Pretty interesting, even though the last action part was almost not believable. I wish Daniel was not always beaten up before suddenly winning all the time. It's the 80s, I know, but still..

(movie) Nanny McPhee

I have watched this movie twice and I still love it. There is something charming about a stern, magical nanny and seven naughty but adorable kids, and their distressed father who has lost a beloved wife, and a scullery maid who's in love with him.

Enchanting tale, beautiful ending, great actors and actresses. Emma Thompson is a very talented woman - she wrote the script and acted it out to such perfection. Based on the book Nanny Matilda.

8.5/10 stars.

Sakit (lagi)

Padahal udah kena flu 2 bulan yang lalu - sekarang kena lagi, sama BERATNYA.

Jadwal pulang pagi adalah:

- Tidur dua jam minimal, dan gak bangun-bangun sampai dibangunkan Mama karena mau pesan makanan. Saking pusingnya dan belum mengumpulkan nyawa, akhirnya tersebut nama 'chicken teriyaki' yang saya sebenernya kurang doyan. Untung terselamatkan dan diganti 'creme udon' - menu barunya Zenbu. Isinya udon ala fettucine dengan saus pasta dan udang - cumi - sprinkles of tobiko on top. Delicious? Not really. Mendingan kari ayam atau okonomiyaki lain kali.

Tidurnya begitu nyenyak sampai saya gak denger apa-apa lagi, dan pas bangun proses sadarnya hampir lima belas menit, rasanya kayak kepala dipukul pakai palu. Mungkin itu yang namanya sakit. I've been overexhausted for 2 weeks.

- Makan sambil nonton Amazing Race Asia 1. Rooting for Andrew and Syeon and Sandy and Francesca. Sayang neither won.

- Makan obat. Nonton Sixteen Candles sambil makan buah dan minum teh anti panas dalam, wrapped in old pajamas and shorties. Mmmm. Bliss, even though my nose and throat are killing me. It's nice to watch an old vintage chick flick once in a while dan saya suka Molly Ringwald. Film Pretty in Pink lebih bagus, ah.

- Window shopping 2 jam online. Gile. Keranjingan nyari tas ransel dan blus batik, akibatnya jadi begini deh :P nah, sehabis ini mau tidur nyenyak.

You Belong to Me

Lately I have a craving to listen to this song pretty badly, till I finally re-downloaded the whole song this afternoon. I think it's very mellow, and I adore the Jason Wade (Lifehouse) version than Michael Buble's.

See the pyramids along the Nile
Watch the sunrise from the tropic isle
Just remember darling all the while
You belong to me

See the market place in old Algiers
Send me photographs and souvenirs
Just remember when a dream appears
You belong to me

And I'll be so alone without you
Maybe you'll be lonesome, too

Fly the ocean in a silver plane
See the jungle when it's wet with rain
Just remember 'til you're home again
You belong to me

And I'll be so alone without you
Maybe you'll be lonesome, too

Fly the ocean in a silver plane
See the jungle when it's wet with rain
Just remember 'til you're home again
You belong to me

-a story that's mine-

Confession time.

Saya sudah hampir setahun kena writer's block. Mandek total. Macet. Lampu merah. Kadang jalan sedikit-sedikit, lalu berhenti lagi.

Kenapa?

Saya juga gak tau. Mungkin karena heboh-hebohnya mengerjakan proyek sebelumnya: kenangan abu-abu dan Ai, lantas saya kehilangan segala kemampuan menulis saya. Sedikit berlebihan but almost true, unfortunately. Inspirasi terus berlari-lari tapi saya masih belum bisa menuangkannya dalam kata-kata tanpa harus berhenti kagok selama beberapa minggu, lalu kehilangan selera untuk melanjutkannya sama sekali.

Masih ada sekitar 5 half-projects yang setengah jalan di tangan saya sekarang. Salah satunya adalah kolaborasi bersama teman-teman, dan ide ceritanya begitu saya sukai namun masih belum saya kuasai. However, I feel like that story is mine. I can still do it. Yang perlu saya lakukan hanya menunggu sedikit lagi.. sampai saya kembali jatuh cinta pada karakter dan segalanya mengenainya.

(movie) Karate Kid

I watched this last Thursday on HBO. This movie was a hit even before I was born, and at first I thought it was just a corny movie.

The movie starts with a young Daniel moving from New Jersey to a sunny city of palms, sunshine and blond girls. He meets a beautiful girl Ali while playing on the beach, but Ali's ex boyfriend Johnny seems to have a different idea in mind and starts a series of bullying toward the poor boy. Daniel is often helped by Mr. Miyagi, a Japanese man living in his apartment building, who is fond of bonsai and karate. He becomes his master and challenges the dojo Johnny trains in for a tournament deal.

Shortly put, Daniel trains in an unconventional way, asked by Mr. Miyagi to paint fences, wash cars, and learns balance on the edge of a boat. However, his training proves to be successful when Daniel actually wins the tournament, despite being wounded on the leg.

A fun family movie to watch. I wish the karate scenes are more well developed and realistic though. I think I strongly prefer watching good kick-ass moves than some hesitant and poorly made karate kicks.

A good movie for its time. Definitely will watch the second and third installments. 7 stars out of 10.