Gila bule ibu

Oh, how I constantly transgress language and cultural norms. Or in other words - I often act a bit dickish, and dickish embarrassing things always seem to happen to me.

Julian and Teddy get name coffees - as in, wherever we go, the barista sweetly carves their names into the coffee crema. However, I am yet to receive such honour. Perhaps because when the server asks me, ‘apa kabar?’ (how are you?) - I panic, and shout ‘PANAS LATTE! HOT! TAKEAWAY! BESAR!’ and try to give them 3, 000, 000 instead of 30, 000 rupiah. I’m surprised I do not get a coffee with ‘gila’ (crazy) written on top.

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I went to get a massage at a fancy place and a friend decided to come along. They put us in the couples massage room which made us feel a touch dubious and I started to worry about plus plus. We put our robes on and dutifully awaited our fate. My masseuse had me take off my robe while my friend’s masseuse insisted she stay fully clothed which continued the bizarre tone. My massuese commenced with a brutal assault upon my person, digging and gouging so hard that I had flashbacks to labour pain. Given my friend was in the room, I did not make a sound, but proceeded to die internally. At the merciful end, I felt traumatised and abused and therefore tipped an oddly large amount. My friend confirmed that her massage had been so soft she barely felt a thing, and as we walked out, my she laughingly pointed out the huge, purple bruises already forming all over my arms.

A few days later, I had to go to the doctor about my sore wrist. He glanced suspiciously at my arms and asked how I had received such florid bruising, and I could tell by his face he found my response ‘a masseuse did it to me’ to be weak. He then asked how my son got the bruises on his face, and indeed he had them from ‘walking into a door’. He then had to inspect my wrist, which was covered in burns ‘from the oven’. The doctor got a sickly look on his face as he clearly thought me a domestic abuse victim and I dissolved in inappropriate laughter.  

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The cable television repairman said to me, ‘the boy is big, just like his mother,’.

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But the worst sort of happenings are like the time I asked my driver to hold my coffee, but he thought I bought it for him. Chuffed, he put it in the driver's cup holder. Worse, I realised this and then when seated in the car, reached through and I took it back.

WHAT SORT OF PERSON DOES THAT? Me apparently.