Mullets, Man Buns, Madonna

Many apologies for not being a diligent poster. I’m too busy riding my bike, reading “news” articles on Buzzfeed, watching music video, taking naps, and being a Peace Corps Volunteer. If you follow me on Instagram, which you should, you probably noticed I went to Bali. My dad thinks he’s hilarious and said, “nice mugshot, car” in regard to the #hungover #selfie I posted on the last day of the trip. That was the point dad! Bali is a magical place full of beef cake Australian men in tanks, board shorts, and flipflops. The beaches are gorg and I was able to get a plate! of! bacon! After a loooooong time without the meat of the gods, I ordered my own personal pile of pork and inhaled it the second I could. Numerous Beyonces/Chers/Madonnas/Harry Styles/all the divas performed a rendition of Hallelujah in my head as I licked the grease from my (probably) unwashed hands. I don’t even care that you’re all judging me right now.

That was just one of many truly spiritual moments. The most profound experience of my life occurred in a club when a Drag Queen performed a choreographed/lip synced song and dance routine to Madonna’s “Frozen”. Something about 90s Madonna just gets me emotionally (most likely because it reminds me of my older sisters) and her performance is something I will never forget. It came with real lit candles balancing on her palms and dramatic floor length sleeves. I distinctly remember yelling “The flourish with which you whip those sleeves!” at her as I attempted to follow her through the throng of Indonesian and foreign men who had no interest in me. The only way my night could have been better was if she had chosen to lip sync “Power of Goodbye” instead, but then I might have passed out on that crowded dance floor. 

In more current and pressing news, as many of you read on FB, I now am werking a mullet. I was itching (literally and figuratively) to get a new do, but nothing drastic. Think Kendall Jenner with a side part. I just wanted some more layers and a short trim for my long beautiful brown healthy hair (I’m not being egotistical, just ~*~*nostalgic*~*~). I should have known better and there were many signs it was a baaaaaad idea.

First sign: I walked across the street and asked for the “stylist” at the “salon”, but she was taking a nap. This was my earliest chance to jump ship, but I stupidly didn’t listen to the higher being screaming at me from the heavens.

Second sign: The lady didn’t want to wash my long beautiful brown healthy MERMAID hair (once again, nostalgia) before cutting it?????????? I had to request to be taken to the sink, bent over, and partially drowned while she yelled at me about marriage and babies and indoor aerobic exercises.

Third sign: She had a cape, but didn’t think it was necessary for me to wear it. Let the gross sweaty white girl be even more gross and wet!

Fourth sign: She also didn’t think it was necessary to brush my hair, part it, section it, or ANYTHING really before she picked up a razor and just started hacking away at it like Hitchcock’s Psycho. Cue screeching music.

When I put my glasses back on (yes, I was blind for most of the horrific procedure), I wanted to cry and call all of my sisters so they could tell me what to do. This was made even worse when the stylist took her own hair down from its bedazzled scrunchy prison and said something along the lines of “Look, we have the same hair.” She’s in her 50s, I’m in my 20s … Let the deep dark depression ensue. She tried to do even more to my hair, but I essentially threw money at her and ran home, my rat tail mullet in a sick wet little ponytail that I imagine only truck drivers with CB radios have. T

he only positives about a mullet right now is washing my hair much less of an ordeal, I’m clean more often, and it’s much cooler temperature wise. Sometimes I like to think I’m fashioning myself after Kristen Stewart or other androgynous celebs on purpose just to make myself feel better. I should post a picture, but I have yet to take one and I don’t really want to. Maybe I will in the near future on Instagram when I can get someone to snap a pic. Sorry to be lame, but (Justin Timberlake voice) cry me a river.

The following will be random thoughts that have no real correlation to anything and probably aren’t even that interesting, but I’m obsessed so.

• Kelly Rowland named her new son Titan Jewell. When I told my dear friend he said, “That’s weird, my dick has the same name!” (if you google “beyonce shadow” a picture of Kelly and Solange show up HILARIOUS)
• Instagram keeps on suggesting I follow Gwyneth Pooptrow.     -_____________- I’m annoyed about that.
• I have a desperate need to follow celebrity children, especially those blessed with genes from two celeb parents. Most of my instagramming is spent looking for these children and being pissed at people, like Miranda Kerr, who refuse to appease me.
• One Direction’s new album came out this week. Listen to it illegally or buy it! I don’t care! Just don’t feel the need to tell me all of your music elitist purist bullshit. If you really don’t feel the need to listen to a quality album from a successfulband, I suggest you turn the volume up on your public radio station that will inevitably have an old white man discussing ISIS, Ebola, and the GOP. Maybe there will be a distant clarinet tooting along.
• I bought a pet bird. It doesn’t do much but back flips in huge cage I bought for it, but I’m entertained andtaking care of it gives me something to do for at least a few minutes a day. The most fun I have is looking for cicadas, beetles, and other huge bugs to give Abu-abu (bird’s name, grey in Bahasa Indonesia) and watching it torture the bugs for a while. I’m morbid! Love me!
• I didn’t have a great time teaching yesterday, and my students in the last class could tell I was a bit down. On the count of three, they sang something like “LA LA LA WE LOVE CARLY, WE LOVE CARLY, WE LOVE CARLY LA LA LA!” to the tune of “London Bridges Falling Down”. Those weren’t the exact words, but they definitely repeated their love for me over and over and over again. Though that love maybe fictitious, it was incredibly sweet of them to sing me a little pick me up.
• Harry has the most beautiful bun I’ve ever seen. I’m so enamored with this cute little non-binary trash ball angel. He also rocked some french braids. Swooooooooooooooooooooon.

Until next time… Here‘s my fourth favorite Madonna song.

All babies look like Renée Zellweger pushed against a glass window.

I’m struggling to come to terms with Joan Rivers’ death, let alone put my thoughts into words that can honor her, but I was listening to Bananarama’s song “Cruel Summer” to commemorate the end of summer in America while feeling indifferent about my perpetual one here for the next two years, and it seems more appropriate now than ever. Joan, leaving me here on my own. It’s a cruel summer indeed.

Thank you, Joan, for being a bad ass bitch without any fucks to give. Your attitude was refreshing and a source of inspiration for people all over the world. I’ll cherish your comments on Gwyneth Paltrow, and pretty much every relevant celebrity from the last 20 years, until I too am six feet under. Many people think Joan was unjustifiably mean. She wasn’t, and if you’re really offended by her commentary on the lives of the richest and most famous people in the world, go do something useful or smoke a damn cigarette and get over it.  Who cares if she hated Brittany Murphy’s dress at the premier of Uptown Girls in 2003 (I actually have no idea if this is true, I made it up)? Laugh and move on. She never meant for anyone to take her joke about North West being ugly and needing a wax seriously. Nor did she really think Anne Hathaway resembled a horse (but I certainly do! More specifically, an anime horse). Life kinda sucks at times and the world can be a mean place, Joan poked fun at it and wanted us to laugh. Read this quote from the legend herself:

“When I say, ‘No, this is wrong,’ people say: ‘See? She is a bitch. She is a c—.’ If I were a man, they’d say: ‘So brilliant. He’s tough, but he’s right.’ Nobody ever says to me, ‘You’re right.’”

Joan, you were absolutely right and a pioneer for women and comedians. Because of you, people like Sarah Silverman, Louis C.K., Ricky Gervais, Chris Rock, Chelsea Handler, etc. (sooooo many men) can say whatever the hell they want and make millions doing so. You were progressive and current, always, regardless of your age. Joan knew more about current pop culture than most 20-somethings I know (maybe this is because 20-somethings LOOOOOOOVE to think they are above literally keeping up with the Kardashians, this is a topic I don’t even want to touch right now) and was always on her A game, even after the debacle with Johnny Carson and her husband’s suicide.

In the 90s, Joan essentially created a whole new genre of entertainment, Red Carpet Commentary, when she told Julia Roberts “I hate your dress!” to Julia’s face in 1994. Because of this, red carpets are now an exciting and unpredictable forum for avidly discussing fashion and celebrity culture, all while fostering water cooler moments for those who enjoy them (PSA: Red carpets and award shows are my fucking Superbowl, and don’t you dare demean them). Her show Fashion Police with Kelly Osbourne, Giuliana Rancic, and George Kotsiopoulos, was always hilarious and gave me, my sisters, and other family members something to watch and talk about other than each other or Kendall Jenner’s budding modeling career (thanks Ray Jay!). I’ll never forget her joke about Jennifer Love Hewitt that went something like “If she’s a Ghost Whisperer, why doesn’t she hear the ghost behind her yelling ‘You…look…like…SHIT!’” Another one of my favorites, from the last episode of Fashion Police I watched, was on Gwen Stefani’s pink jumpsuit:”This is more pink than Tom Cruise saw in all three of his marriages.”When I can get a proper drink, I’ll raise my glass to you Joan and throw back five more in your honor. My new motto is “WWJoanD?” because life is too short to give a damn about what other people think or take yourself too seriously.

Before I discuss how I feel about site, I need to mention something about “Cruel Summer”. While filming the music video, the group went to a local New York pub where, instead of eating as planned, they did vials of coke with some blue collar workers. “That was our lunch. When you watch that video, we look really tired and miserable in the scenes we shot before lunch, and then the after-lunch shots are all euphoric and manic,” said one of the Bananarama members. After reading this, I obviously spent the next 45 minutes creating a timeline of the day based on their behavior in the video.

I’m relatively happy at site. There are times when I get annoyed, but if my biggest problem/complaint is that I’m doted on and taken care of too much, then I have it pretty easy. Creepy Teacher no longer sends me Coldplay lyrics via Facebook chat. Instead, he sings to me in person and asks me if I’m a fan. I was approximately 10 years ago in the pre-Gwyneth stages of Chris Martin’s life, but all good things come to an end AKA Apple and their album X&Y happened.

I caught Ibu sleeping on cement again. She managed to sleep through my screams after I saw a rat in the ceiling as I was going #2.

 

A little while ago I was in a parade and after my picture was taken for the 56465046512312th time, I finally started taking pictures of the people taking mine. They are probably pissed their pictures of the white girl suck, but I don’t care!

 

In closing, watch Joan’s best TMZ moments.

Its all Anthony Bourdain’s fault

I fell in love with Anthony Bourdain when I was a teenager watching No Reservations and I’m kind of ashamed it’s taken me so long to read his book Kitchen Confidential (a must read, by the way). He’s one of my many inspirations to travel and do other not so good things, like drink too much when I can and have a leisurely cigarette with friends. I ventured down the rabbit hole that is The Internet and found these pictures of a young Bourdain. If this bedraggled 1970s youth can be a food mogul, travel god, and bad ass icon for millions, then no dream is out of reach. Maybe one day my dreams of being somewhat famous only to have access to major celebrity events (like the Emmy’s/GoldenGlobes/Oscars) can also become a reality!!!!!!!!!!! I doubt it!!!!!!!!!! I’ll just have to marry well or hope one of my friends becomes a D-list celeb (I’m looking at you Jenna or Robin or Danny or Roger).That being said, if I ever get the chance to try out for RuPaul’s Drag Race, I know what I’m wearing and who I’ll hire as my makeup artist. Last weekend I traveled to Blitar for a friend’s wedding. The intention was never to be in the wedding, but that’s what happened. I’m thankful for the experience and opportunity, but never again will I agree to 

wear a corset and 5 lbs of makeup in the Indonesian heat just so I can shake hands with hundreds of people passing through the entrance. I was so excited for a break from greeting people that I waddled as fast as possible to the food tables the first chance I had. I got some grub, ate a plate, and went back for seconds. On my way to get a very unnecessary plate of food, a woman grabbed me and made me dance with her while the man with her pointed a professional TV camera directly at my uncomfortable, alarmed, sweaty, chubby face. I tried to mimic her motions, but my go to when doing any kind of dance that isn’t something you’d see in a Nicki Minaj music video is to do what the movie Bride and Prejudice taught me: pat the dog and screw in a lightbulb.

It’s moments like this that make me wonder if facial expressions are universally understood. Did that woman know I kind of wanted to crouch down into the fetal (or mandi/going to the bathroom!) position and die? Could she see my painful grimace of a smile or was she too distracted by the false eyelashes falling of my face? Were my obvious facial cries for help/to be left alone the reason she was laughing so much? I’ll never discover the answers to these questions, but I do know that I avoided that woman and her cameraman friend the rest of the day.

I’m finally teaching students! I create my own lesson plans and execute them to the best of my ability! My counterparts are still wary of my methods, but they’re just going to have to deal with my *~*~*~*style*~*~*~* of teaching (part of the Peace Corps mission here is to improve Indonesian Teachers’ teaching) because I don’t really agree with their ineffective and kind of not helpful ways of teaching English. I don’t understand why you would teach kids how to “show care” in English when they are explicitly asking you for a basic vocabulary lesson. Whatever, I have my work cut out for me. One of my favorite things to do while teaching is to incorporate music and movement as much as possible. The students love it and they’re actually excited to learn English for once. I swear I’m not just looking for an excuse to proselytize Indonesian youths with my music library (maybe I am??????). I played a little “What Makes You Beautiful” to begin my first lesson because I finally had the power to do so. I HAVE THE POWER!!!!!!!!! They loved it, obviously, and I continued to play bubblegum pop music white men love to scoff at for the times in class when the students were working on their assignments. Allah willing, maybe I can actually be an effective teacher and not just a DJ for the next two years. 

My mother sent me a package from home last week. I love everything she sent me, but the Folger’s coffee is truly a godsend. I’ve yet to brew any since I don’t have a French press, but I like to huff it when I watch Fashion Police or Project Runway or Bad Girls Club. It’s a reminder of home and gives me some comfort when everything is SO INDONESIAN and so overwhelming and so foreign. Thanks mom! This is a hint to the rest of you to send me a damn package (just kidding! not really!).

Me. I am Carly…The Elusive Chanteuse.

Remember the teacher that was sending me Coldplay lyrics via Facebook chat? Today he asked me if I believe in magic. At first I thought he said mating, and I was instantly offended/appalled/creeped out, but then he got another teacher to clarify his statement. “He wants to know if you believe in magic? Do you Miss Charly?” I tried my best to keep a straight face, but coming from the tiny man that asked me about starfucking and has a thing for the words of Chris Martin, I couldn’t help but laugh. I eventually told him I only believe in facts and logic just so he would quit bothering me. I had important things to do, like read about Mariah Carey’s recent split from her producer of over 20 years, Jermaine Dupri. Turns out her 14th studio album “Me. I am Mariah…The Elusive Chanteuse” didn’t do so well. SHOCKING, I KNOW. Last time one of Mariah’s “things” completely sucked (I was going to say bombed, but … sensitivity and TOO SOON) was when the soundtrack to her equally awful movie Glitter was released on September 11th. She actually blamed the non-existent album sales on one of the worst happenings on American soil ever (?). The movie, which was released on September 21st, didn’t fare any better and I doubt the release date had anything to do with it. Face the music, Mariah, the only thing that is elusive is your fan base and the reasons behind your PR marriage to Nick Cannon. I do want to thank her for giving the world “All I want for Christmas is You” and “Obsessed”, two of the greatest songs ever created.  I actually got into a cab in Surabaya and kind of harassed the driver for listening to “When You Believe” by Mariah and Whitney Houston (RIP) from The Prince of Egypt. I asked him “Did you buy ‘Me. I am Mariah…The Elusive Chanteuse’?” He said “Iyah” only because he had no idea what the white girl in the front seat next to him was yelling about. The next song was ABBA’s “Fernando” and I completely lost all control of my body/mind (side note: other encounters with Indonesian cab drivers include me lying about my age to appeal to him (I don’t remember why) and buying another one McDonald’s after we made him go to the drive-thru after karaoke (I’m trash)). 

I don’t ever enjoy commenting on death, but Lauren Bacall passed away last week, one day after Robin Williams. I’m “sad” about his death, but I was never a fan of any of his movies really (sorry?) and now you all probably think I’m a heartless person. Sorry if I’m not moved enough to post an “RIP” facebook status about the death of a man I never knew or met in real life. I guarantee he will get a tearjerking montage at all the award shows next year. Back to Lauren Bacall. Girl, your eyebrows will continue to inspire me and other eyebrow aficionados the world over for years to come, as will your deep, sultry voice and bad ass attitude.

Mission #balibody is under way, meaning I wake up every morning and hate myself so much that I feel the need to put on my leopard print tennis shoes and make a complete fool of myself. I would love to put a GoPro on my bike and point it at my face just so you can see it contort in pain as I struggle with the tiniest hills. I love my site, but the roads here are nothing up UP and DOWN and UP and DOWN (repeat into infinity). While riding my bike, I often almost kill myself because I do stupid things, but at least I wear a helmet now. However, it would have done me no good when I almost rode my bike over a cliff/ravine thing in the forest. I can picture myself now, just waiting to die at the bottom because of my broken limbs, thanking Allah I wore my Peace Corps issued helmet so that I could be fully conscious for the end of my life. 

Aside from bike riding, I do workout videos in my room and jump rope in front of the house. The jump rope would be a great purchase if I was like 8 years old, but I’m a slightly overweight 23 year old with a thing for boy bands and being generally annoying. Therefore, I’m pretty sure my village thinks an overgrown child has invaded them and is going to indoctrinate their teenagers to like free sex before marriage. At least a few people in my village seem to like me, such as my Christian neighbor WHO HAS A PET DOG. I try to act like I want to speak English with him because he’s quite good at speaking my native tongue, but I think he knows I only venture into his driveway when I want to play with Mochi. I don’t really care because that Chihuahua is the best gift Allah has given me since arriving at site (Mariah at the left demonstrating how I go to the bathroom every day and Mochi to the right). 

(One more story about Mariah’s new album because I can’t resist. I think she’s kind of fascinating. The album title is based on a self-portrait she did when she was like 3. Apparently she wrote “Me. I am Mariah”. So deep, so poetic, so influential, so MARIAH.)

Now re-read this and take a shot every time I’m self-deprecating or say “Mariah”. Thank me later. 

For the love of denim, anyone but Katie Holmes.

If you’re living under a rock (or function like a normal human), you probably didn’t notice that both Glamour and Marie Claire feature denim-on-denim as the hottest fall trend that shouldn’t be missed. I don’t know where the editors of these publications have been for the past FOREVER, but I’m pretty sure denim-on-denim shouldn’t be considered a trend, but a basic staple of pretty much every sensible woman’s wardrobe (think leather jackets, ankle boots, boyfriend jeans). I’m a little bitter about the Glamour cover, too, because Katie Holmes is the Queen of Vanilla, the mother of the elusive Suri Cruise, occasional Broadway show pony, former wife (and PR stunt/beard) of Tom Cruise, and blah love interest in the 90s. I’m convinced cameras only follow Katie Holmes now because everyone wants to know what Suri is up to, so let’s not give Katie the honor of “breaking the news” about denim to middle American women who frequent gossip websites (ME) or check out lines at Target. Whatever, over it.

Maybe my sisters and I are alone in our affinity for all things denim (within reason and different washes, of course), but I’m 100% certain I’ve seen plenty of all denim outfits at every farmer’s market I’ve ever attended. A girl has to look casual, but put together and fashionable, when perusing organic strawberries with a dark roast fair trade coffee in one hand and a rescued dog or a (hopefully) silent baby in the other. I’m suddenly having flashbacks to suburban Chicagoland and college, when all the women I encountered who weren’t in yoga pants from Lululemon were weirdly and elegantly rugged on weekends. The Eddie Bauer section of their wardrobe was clearly reserved for Saturdays when they wanted to enjoy their children and the great outdoors of downtown Naperville. I’ve never looked elegant in denim, probably just sloppy and sweaty, but there was a time my denim 50 cent (the price, not the rapper, man, legend, and mogul) garage sale shirt was the only thing in my closet that fit me aside from my size 14 Faded Glory Walmart jeans. Even when I felt incredibly sad and overwhelmed by “life” and what to do after college, denim and tequila were always there for me no matter how chubby I was.

Nothing of note has happened at school yet because there’s absolutely NOTHING going on. To better illustrate this fact, on the first day a teacher was clipping her toenails. I was minding my own business and staring into space, probably contemplating the beauty of McKayla Maroney’s flawless vault at the 2012 London Olympics, when I heard the unmistakable clinking noise of nail clippers. I stupidly turned my head in wonder only to be assaulted by the sight of a teacher contorting her body awkwardly to get at her feet. The worst part about the entire situation was the pile of toenails she decided to create on the table in front of me. Instead of doing anything, like moving, I sent out a mass text to all my friends so they too would want to vomit.

On the second day of school, a teacher asked me “who are your daddys?” after grilling me about my non-existent love life. Whoa, believe it or not, I’m single and have no plans on getting married or having children any time soon. Also, I asked a room of girls if they liked Justin Bieber. They said, “NO! He’s girly!” and threw up limp wrists. I have no comment.

Today, the third day of school, one of the creepier teachers felt the need to sneak up behind me numerous times and breathe/whisper/be annoying in my ear. I might have been into it (lies, I would never be into that kind of behavior from anyone) if he didn’t look like a small child with multiple sets of vampire teeth, but he really crossed a line when he said, “Is it Starbucks or Starfuck?” with an awful look on his tiny face. I put my hand up and in the best Bahasa Indonesia I could muster told him I was not comfortable. Oh, I forgot to mention that he’s been sending me Coldplay lyrics via Facebook chat on my fake account. I ignored it, obviously, and he keeps on mentioning them and wanting me to respond. Maybe I could send him angry Eminem lyrics about killing someone, but I’m too lazy to do that. I’m going to try to handle the situation myself. If I can’t I will have to say something to my counterpart because I’m not putting up with a weird co-worker/stalker thing for two more years.

PS. I feel overly critical whenever I write and I promise I’m not as hateful as I seem in print/online/whatever. I just don’t feel the need to vent about things I love or really enjoy here. I’ll try to say something positive (like how much I love my closest PC volunteers), but when I wake up from afternoon naps with drool on my face and children staring at me through the window I’m only thinking negatively, and mostly about myself. So … sorry? But not really because this is my therapeutic space. My next post will be about my existential experience during my Banging Birthday Beach Bash and some other funny thingz from the past few weeks. Insha’Allah.

Forever single because of One Direction/Harry Styles.

Before I dive into what I actually want to talk about, here’s a picture of Ibu sleeping peacefully on a cement floor. There are four empty beds in this house and my family always chooses to sleep on the floor. I don’t understand at all, but it does give me the opportunity to document their sleeping habits, so whatever. I missed the best photo op earlier when Bapak was literally swaddled like a baby Jesus with only part of his face visible through the blanket. When I ran back to my room to grab a camera he woke up. Still swaddled, he asked me what I was doing. I didn’t know what to say so I just made a guttural noise with a non-committal gesture and ran away.

I’m not even lying when I say that I considered not joining the Peace Corps because that meant I would have to miss One Direction’s two concerts at Soldier Field in Chicago, one of them being the same day as Liam’s birthday (August 29th). I feel like a shitty dumb person for admitting that, but very few things trump my loyalty to 1D. But all is remedied now and I won’t hate myself forever because….I BOUGHT TICKETS TO ONE DIRECTION’S CONCERT IN JAKARTA!!!!!!!!! OH MY GOD!!!!!!!!!!! I’M STILL GONNA HATE MYSELF PROBABLY!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I woke up this morning and had flashbacks to exactly one year ago when I was dancing/flailing/screaming/elbowing pre-teens in the face at their concert (me and general admission lawn seat do not mix because I do not eff around when ungrateful children have better seats than me). Then I remembered that I still didn’t have tickets for their upcoming concert. I sent out an SOS tweet to all the Indonesian 1D fans and they delivered. I’ve never been happier to type out my credit card information. My dear PCV friend Shannon agreed to go with me. What an angel. She has no idea what she’s getting herself into.

The concert I went to last year comes to me in bits and pieces because I genuinely blacked out, either from happiness or drunkenness, but most likely a combination of both. I remember I had to wear my ex-roommate’s ex-boyfriend’s tank top that I “accidentally” stole because I was so fat nothing else in my closet fit me. That was unfortunate, but a highlight was when I saw the angel sent from above that is Harry Styles for the first time with my own two eyes. I literally crumbled to the ground and fell on my knees into the fetal position, all while my blood curdling screams sounded something like “HARRRRY HARRRY HAAAAAAAAAARRRY” because I’m horrible excuse for a person with minimal control of my emotions on a good day. Before the concert started, I tried talking to a family with small children sitting next to me. I wasn’t well received, and not even halfway through the concert they were nowhere to be seen. I think they wanted to get away from the crazy drunk girl thrusting her hips and changing the lyrics of “Rock Me” to something else. I even cried when Harry Styles said he loved Giordano’s deep dish pizza because I ALSO love Giordano’s deep dish pizza. What a coincidence. (Here’s a picture of Harry when he was my date for my last night in Chicago before Indonesia.)

I get a lot of flak from people for my undying love and devotion to 1D. I think this stems from ignorance and misogyny. Have you noticed that anything teenage girls are passionate about is discredited as being meaningless and stupid? Women’s interests in general are treated this way,
but there is no demographic that is more criticized than young women (which is interesting considering they have a lot of buying power). One Direction, believe it or not, is actually talented and wrote 12 of the 16 songs on their newest and best album!!!! Shocking, I know!!!! The list goes on with anything young girls set their sights on, past and present. Hate his personal life or whatever, but Justin Bieber is talented whether you want to admit it or not. Young girls loved The Beatles and screamed for them much like I did for One Direction, but only when white men noticed The Beatles were they lauded as being one of the greatest musical acts of all time (This happens with pretty much everything that’s considered “great” and “awesome”). Teenage boys are not criticized at all or made to feel unimportant because of their interests. We can thank the patriarchy for that. It’s incredibly frustrating being told that what I love is flippant and not important because it is to me and millions of people all over the world. I don’t think anyone should be written off until they’re given a chance, but especially not my precious cupcake cherub baby Harry Styles.

That got a little heavy, sorry, but not really because it’s a weight I’ve been carrying. Every day from now until that concert is a countdown. If anything is getting me down, I will just think about singing “Strong” at the same time as Louis Tomlinson eventually. I gave a 15 minute speech today in Bahasa Indonesia to a couple hundred students today, but I was so happy about the tickets I didn’t even realize how ridiculous it was for me to do so completely unprepared. I’m done talking about this, I just want to look at pictures of Harry’s ponytail.

 

Lauren’s Shadow: Lo Bosworth

I metaphorically stumbled upon this article about Lo, who is famous for being the boring person on both Laguna Beach and The Hills, and her Independence Week diet. It’s tone is meant to be mocking and rip her a new one, but I don’t think the writer is even close to being mean or disparaging enough to give Lo the ribbing her high-class lifestyle, writing, and diet really deserve. I’ll try my best to fix Jezebel’s mistakes.

July 3rd: I get off the train at Bridgehampton starving, and go to Townline BBQ and order almost everything on the menu. My friends and I end up with two pulled-pork sandwiches, two pieces of cornbread, one piece of corn, half a pound of beef short ribs, 14 chicken wings (that’s two orders), and three deep-fried pieces of mac and cheese. Everything is consumed. All the foods. All the foods! It’s also the first time I’ve eaten a chicken wing in my life. My friend demanded I dip it in the provided ranch dressing and I complied.

I have a few questions about this. How do you go to a BBQ joint and only order ONE piece of cornbread between what is probably a group of 15? I can guarantee Lo was there with way more than a few other people, making the amount of food ordered gross and tiny and I don’t even want to think about how I would murder more than two orders of wings right now. WHO’S NEVER EATEN CHICKEN WINGS?????????? I guess Lo is too highbrow for deliciousness smothered in even more deliciousness. Whatever, I’m more alarmed at the fact that she dipped the lone chicken wing in ranch dressing, not blue cheese. GTFO of here with that Lo. I bet you put a drop of dressing on the wing and nibbled at it like a baby rabbit would eat a piece of limp lettuce. I’m confused by the meaning of “three deep-fried piece of mac and cheese”. Three noodles? Three dollops? Either way, I’m over Lo already.

July 4th: I’ve made a Flag Cake (my tenth year in a row), and I’ve modified the recipe this year to include Greek yogurt in both the batter and frosting. The result is a moist cake — lower calorie, but with an equally delicious sugary exterior. I offer my friend the first slice and end up finishing it for her.

As a fan of Greek yogurt that does sound delish (and low calorie!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (please read this in the most awful mocking voice you can!!!!!!!!)), but come on, at least eat a whole piece. Her wording is everything. She’s telling us she only had a few bites and called it quits on the rest of the cake. Such a shame. Your neo-colonial murderous country deserves more calorie intake than that.

July 5th: I make the executive decision to put some additional fresh food into my body for the first time in what feels like days. We head to Seth Levine’s new spot,the Seawater Grill at Gurney’s Inn. I ate here once before and am happy to return, the food feeling schmancy and light, molecular yet comfortable. I delight in ordering off of the appetizer menu when I dine out. The raw fish really steals the show here, but the tuna-tartare tacos are a favorite, and the yellowtail crudo is fresh and light.

I never want to see or hear the word “molecular” used for describing food ever again. I would love some raw fish right now considering I haven’t had anything but rice and deep fried everything for approximately four months now (drinking game: drink any time Lo says fresh, light, or the name of a seafood).Audrina Ceiling Eyes Patridge is having none of it.

 

July 6th: Lunch is salad samplers from Loaves&Fishes, off Old Montauk Highway: two chicken meatballs in a tomato sauce, delightful fresh peas, and a quinoa, carrot, and chives salad. Everyone is suddenly going ga-ga over Loaves&Fishes. I’m charmed and full, but not convinced.

I’m not convinced Lo has done anything of note aside from being Lauren’s desperate shadow since 2004.

July 7th: I rise early. I feel mediocre. No longer exhausted, still deprived of my normal diet of fresh fruit and veggies and daily seafood. I drink a Kombucha, what I feel to be the cure for everything, and take a very long stroll along the West Side Highway to begin my Monday.

My eyes are rolled so far into the back of my head right now. I’m going to apply this same sentence structure to what I did today:

“I rise in the middle of the morning. I feel like the piece of shit I really am. No longer happy, still questioning my purpose in being here. I drink instant coffee, what I feel is the equivalent of drinking dirt, and take a very long nap two hours later because there’s nothing else to do.”

July 8th: Then, it’s oyster, oyster, oyster time. I slurp down six from Montauk with two options of mignonette sauce to choose from, along with cocktail sauce and lemon. Of course, they’re fantastic. Onto uni toast. Holy. Moly. Uni. Toast. Gently placed on a slice of pretzel bread and topped with mustard oil and pickled green apple and chives, the sea urchin stuns me into a dreamlike state — a reminder that if executed skillfully food truly is a universal language of love. If you have anything at ZZ’s, it must be the uni toast or the live scallop, with pistachios and brown butter. Or the parrotfish, watermelon, and coriander ceviche. Or another cocktail, which I do (two more times). One of the best meals I’ve eaten in New York City to date.

The more obscure the name of a restaurant, the more it should be avoided, particularly for individuals with a limited cash flow. Montauk? ZZ’s? It seems like the most normal places to eat these days are named after a white dude. Paul’s (the best place in the entire world, btw), Bill’s, and Oliver’s are the restaurants people frequent back home, unless they’re looking for great Mexican food because then everything starts with “La” or “Los” or “El” (I took a screenshot of Katherine Keener drinking a marg in Hamlet 2, it just felt right).

I’m not quite sure why I felt so much hatred towards Lo and life today. The sky was grey all day and school starts again tomorrow, so maybe that’s why? Or maybe living so meagerly here (within reason, I’m not destitute) makes me hate American excess and the lifestyles of those I love most, real and fake celebrities? I am nervous for school though because I still have no idea what I’m doing. Every time I show up at school I just wander around and try to look like I’m on a mission instead of just floundering about. I’m hoping I can iron out a schedule and avoid conversations about Indonesian vs. American food because that’s all people seem to want to talk about. I tried to find a good video of Lo, but she’s so boring that I just decided to insert a fan video of Justin Bobby and Audrina’s “love” during The Hills because awful fan made videos are a guilty pleasure of mine.

“You think I’m an ignorant savage,” said Pocahotness

My mother’s instagram account is now solely dedicated to taking pictures of a volleyball in different places. In my absence back home, this volleyball now represents me. What started as a joke from my dad after he was inspired by Castaway (and a bit of the Travelocity Traveling Gnome or Amelie, I’m not sure which) is now a full-fledged “thing” my parents do. I wouldn’t be surprised if I’m tagged as the volleyball in a family photo. Bless my parents for carrying that ball to actual events where it isn’t appropriate to do so. Sometimes I wonder why I’m crazy, but then I remember that I’m the spawn of those two so it makes sense.

In an effort to get a #balibody for the ID8 Bali trip this fall, I’m trying to convince myself to actually achieve a goal and workout. In June I attempted to do yoga, but watching and listening to waifey white women in spandex who live off of green tea and tofu in their Pinterest apartments isn’t my thing. Today I ran 25 feet down the driveway and was tired so I just walked for an hour, which is better than watching another five episodes of The Osbournes (see Ozzy in a neckbrace watching Shindler’s list, Jack lounging). I walked through the forest near my house and though the foliage is completely different from that of John Smith’s New World, I still put on my Pocahontas soundtrack and flounced about like I was an Indian Princess. The educated person in me hates the

romanticized narrative that history has created about Native Americans and the English Colonists (interesting/ironic that a shitty thing to do or be has the word COLON in it), but I forget all of that whenever “Colors of the Wind” comes on. Disney has a way of making the quasi-genocide of an indigenous population seem not horrific with a cute raccoon and an interracial, completely unrealistic romance (girl, you should have married Kocoum).

Pocahontas will always be one of my favorite movies for the music (and Grandmother Willow), but also because it reminds me of my sister Emily. When she was 16 and I was 9 we would sing the most popular Pocahontas songs in her car every morning on the way to school. Her radio was broken so we didn’t even have background music to help us. My other sister Kaytee took the bus every day because she couldn’t stand our voices, which was fine because we didn’t really want her in the car anyway. A few years ago for Halloween Emily made her own Pocahontas dress while her husband was John Smith. Kaytee, knowing Emily’s costume was Pocahontas, showed up as “Pocahotness”, which is completely ridiculous. Of all the costumes in the world, she chose to appropriate a culture and attempt to steal her sister’s thunder all in one night.

I stopped by my uncle’s house once I was done playing make believe. I went under the guise of wanting to say “hi”, but really I just wanted to play with their beautiful cow in the backyard.

Post-cow play date, I made the huge mistake of walking past my school. I tried to run past, but some teachers called me over and I had to act like I was a new born baby. Like, “Oh hi, what are you doing here? I didn’t know anything was going on today?”. We awkwardly conversed and when one of the teachers said something that I didn’t understand I asked for clarification. The only teacher who speaks English replies, “He says you have a lot of acne” and proceeded to point at her cheeks as if I wasn’t aware of the giant red marks all over mine. I couldn’t control my face or my voice or any of my body language and in the meanest way possible I loudly responded, “Oooooooooooooh yeeaaaaaaaaah, I knoooooooow. Thaaaaaaaaaaanks.” In retrospect, this is probably the worst thing I could have done, but whatever. It’s a cultural exchange a
nd Americans prefer to talk about people behind their backs.

I just found out, along with the rest of the world that Ryan Gosling is having a baby with the real life goddess Eva Mendez. Women all over the Western world are collectively crying and shaking their fists in anger as if Ryan would ever leave Eva for someone who regularly shops the clearance racks. Get real. Besides, they should be excited to see Ryan toting around what is guaranteed to be the most beautiful organic vegan gluten-free (perhaps genderless if they want to go that route) baby we’ve seen in recent years. Maybe they will even support Jessica Alba’s new business venture (because acting clearly wasn’t working out for her) The Honest Company, a one-stop online shop for all things natural and baby. Good for you, Jessica. Lure all those upper-class moms in with your visions of eco-friendly grandeur.

Side note: I’ve never been a huge fan of Ryan Gosling. He’s aesthetically pleasing and the Feminist Ryan Gosling meme was funny 3 years ago (aka not anymore).

Another side note: Ethnic identities aside, what if Ryan and Eva are the modern day Pocahontas and John? I can see it and would wholeheartedly support a remake. Ryan is a much better John Smith than Mel Gibson, even if it was just his voice, could ever be. Let’s forget 2005’s The New World starring a 14 year old and Colin Farrell happened.

 

I gave up on participating in Ramadan after I was told by my friend and fellow PCV, Camille, that I’m reckless for a multitude of reasons.

• During my brief Ramadan stint, I wasn’t drinking water on top of not eating. I’m dumb and going cold turkey on everything is really bad for you. I was very sick and dehydrated and didn’t realize it.
• Even though I’m supposed to sleep with a mosquito net, I have yet to set mine up and will probably only do so when forced. I know Malaria is scary, but I can’t be tamed and don’t want to sleep under a cage.
• More often than not I ride my bike without a helmet. I need to wear one 100% of the time, especially considering the number of times I’ve fallen, the traffic, and road conditions, but I just cannot get over how stupid I look (dumb of me because everything I do is stupid from an Indonesian perspective).
• I hitchhike when I’m too lazy to walk or ride my bike somewhere. It’s really easy and I’m never scared. People are more than happy to haul this damsel in distress anywhere she needs to go.
• I’m teaching myself how to climb coconut trees. So far I just flail my body around tree trunks while my family rolls their eyes at their embarrassing white chubby surrogate daughter. If I do get some kind of foothold I just slide down and repeat the process.
• There are other habits I have that are dangerous, I just can’t think of them right now or they have not yet been brought to my attention.

I remembered that I made this picture in MS paint the first day at site because there was nothing else to do. My co-teacher told me a story about her being attacked by birds as a little girl. I tried to recreate it, but I got lazy so now it looks like she’s praying or something. Allah willed it.

In other news, I was scrolling through Facebook and stumbled upon this masterpiece.

The funniest part about it isn’t the fact that he wasted 14 years in a bunker. Read the caption. He’s “most impressed with KFC’s ‘Double Down.” Is he this how he’s coping with making a huge mistake? KFC runs late at night? I heard other gems while listening to the radio snippet (listen and read here), such as:

• “I performed plays with pillows.” (?????????)
• “Angela’s Ashes? I can just recite it to you. I know it all by heart.”
• “First off, you have to understand that 15 years by yourself in windowless bunker in your backyard is a very long time to be by yourself.” (Duuuuuuuuh)
• “I had basically wasted 15 years of my life.” (Yeah, you have no idea what Kimye stands for, what a tragedy).
• “You know what I’m really excited about? Pizza Hut now has a pizza with a hot dog in the crust.” (The evolution of American gluttony and excess in a nutshell)

I remember Y2K very vividly because Walmart was an even bigger nightmare than usual. There were women wearing crew neck sweatshirts with white turtlenecks underneath fighting over rolls of Scotts toilet paper like it was Quilted Northern. Even as a 10 year old I hated going to Walmart because my mom seemed to know everyone and half of the people were my grade school teachers.All I wanted to do was look at J14 or Seventeen magazine, but instead I had to awkwardly stand  there with my short hair cut and have people question my gender. One time this lady wearing a visor at Sam’s Club was passing out samples to my family. She looked at me and said, “little boys last” and continued to pass out samples to everyone else. When I finally got mine, my dad solemnly said, “she’s a girl” and walked away. He could have said something earlier, but I think he was secretly glad he got to eat his sample first. To this day I’m still a little salty about the situation and continue to harbor a deep-seated anger towards people who choose to wear visors.

Here’s a picture of my neighbor baby holding a box of fireworks/sprinklers. I’m starting a photo series of babies holding things they shouldn’t. Like lighters, cigarettes, knives, sharp sticks, etc. I already have one of a baby pushing her lighter on to patrons at a juice stand. I should probably take these objects away from them, but where’s the fun in that? I’m so deprived of it in the village so I’ll take what I can get.

And, while I’m on the subject of pictures being taken of people, sometimes I wish I was from New York just so I could be featured on “Humans of New York”. I find it to be sooooooo pretentious, but I can’t help the fact that I want to be one of those people (and I’m obsessed with their micro fashion posts of small children). I would just walk around the city in an outfit fresh from Urban Outfitters (something Vanessa Hudgens would wear with less cultural appropriation, see below)

and look around forlornly in hopes of HONY snapping my picture and asking me a really deep philosophical question. The most recent question posed was “What’s your best quality?” I would have to say my ability to recall the most mundane information about any celebrity. This skill is only useful when I’m playing Taboo or a similar game with my sisters because they’re the only people that know just as much if not more than I do. Some HONY subjects just tell an obscure story no one cares about (some of the stories are entertaining, but most just make my eyes roll because of the way they’re presented as being so insightful). Off the top of my head I think my story would be an anecdote from my time as a retail worker. Like, “the worst time of my life was when I earned minimum wage arguing with +50 year old women who had Velcro shoes and lipstick on their yellow teeth about why their coupons weren’t working” or “one time this lady was buying an $80 pink and orange Jessica Simpson purse. She just so happened to be wearing a pink and orange velour jumpsuit and I said, ‘this matches your sweatpants’ by accident. She took it as a compliment and proceeded to tell me about her upcoming retirement cruise. I had never questioned the purpose of life more than I had at that moment (see the bag in question to the right).”

Paris Hilton released a song yesterday entitled “Come Alive” and of course I’ve read just about every news article associated with its release. I don’t understand all the hate, she’s doing her thing and it isn’t hurting anyone else (unlike Israel, the state is receiving less bad press for their attacks in the Palestinian territories and making themselves the victim per usual, thanks for that AIPAC). So what if its auto-tuned? Get over it? You don’t have to listen to it? I can guarantee if a man of Paris Hilton’s status were to release a similar song no one would care and the criticism would be nonexistent. Smells like a misogynistic double standard to me.

I’m going to attempt a jaunt around the village now. Let’s see how many times I’m asked “where are you going?” or “where are you from?”. If I’m lucky I’ll have a HONY moment and someone will ask to take my picture.

“Sorry, I’m fat.”

I’m a pretty self-conscious and insecure individual. Most of this is self-inflicted because I do very little to help myself appearance wise. I rarely put forth any effort, especially when I’m constantly sweating buckets on the most densely populated island in the world. I’m hyper aware of my appearance in Indonesia and it sucks. At least I can blend-in in America and maybe be considered “dressy” for not wearing pajamas, which is a completely asinine thing to say, but for some ungodly reason, people still think it is appropriate to wear pajamas (most likely featuring an outdated cartoon character, like Winnie the Pooh decorated with grease stains) outside the house. A lot of middle to upper class white women have mastered the new “pajama outside the house” look: gym clothes. They’ve upgraded from sweatpants to skin tight black spandex with an accent color. If the lady is really fancy, a tight zip up matches her pants and shoes and the whole ensemble was purchased at Lululemon. I just want to whisper in their ears, “You’re not fooling anyone, I don’t believe you’re working out when I see you in the snack isle at Target.” I would congratulate myself with a boxed wine and Nexflix for the rest of the night.

Indonesia is not built for giant white people (aka me), plain and simple. There is nothing convenient about being 5 ft 9 in a country where the average person’s eyes are even with my boobs. That’s not to mention my girth/width/whatever in certain areas, which makes trying to fit into an already full angkot (a van that serves as Indonesia’s public transportation) an even more daunting task when I have to slot my butt into a space only a six month old baby could comfortably sit. I had to take a becak ride the other day and I said, “sorry, I’m fat” a million times because the driver had to get out and push me up a hill on a busy road (the below picture is not from the becak ride in question, but it is an embarrassing picture my co-teacher took of me). I was absolutely mortified. There are a few times when I’m not crippled by my insecurities, like when my host family says I’m beautiful. This feeling is fleeting though because my Bapak will then point at my acne and say something completely unnecessary.

There are people my size and larger in Indonesia, plenty of them. They can be seen easily amongst the sea of old women at any given market in Indonesia. But even then, they’re better at maneuvering around a place they’ve lived their whole life. I can’t function in America when my passengers seat in a car isn’t reclined just right so I can sleep during the five minutes it takes to get to my destination. With this in mind, I’m going to admit that I don’t function successfully or thrive in this country. I survive from one mishap to the next, most of them due to miscommunication and my own stupidity for agreeing to do things. Just this morning after eating breakfast at 3:30 in the morning, my family asked me if I wanted to go on a walk. Three hours later at 7:00 I was still walking in my house dress (aka my PAJAMAS) without a bra or underwear through the middle of town. I would have preferred a pair of saggy stained sweatpants that all the girls in college wore on a daily basis.

While I’m on the subject of hot messes, there’s an update on how our favorite Crowne Plaza resident is holding up years later. She’s a pill popping drunkard that orders room service with her houseboy to cure hangovers so she can watch the Price is Right. That’s my kind of girl. The Real Housewives of New York wish they were Eloise. While Eloise is having the time of her life, Countess LuAnn de Lesseps is still trying to convince people she’s the epitome of elegance and poise. This music video, in my opinion, is just a cry for help from someone that regrets naming her son Noel (pronounced No-El, another name for Christmas or the Joan Baez album). She also wrote a book titled Class with the Countess: How to Live with Elegance and Flair. Puh-leeeeeeze.

I just got off Skype with my mother and she was complaining about telemarketers calling the house selling bathtubs with doors (first-world problems of AARP members). Then she offered to turn the computer so we could watch Judy Judy or the Real Housewives together. Bless her.